Redemption aka A Conspiracy of Faith

40

He was not happy. Not happy at all.

Almost two days and nights had passed since the accident, and according to the radio one of the injured women was now making progress. The other one was still in critical condition, but the report didn’t specify who was pulling through and who wasn’t.

Whichever way around it was, he couldn’t put off his counterstrike any longer.

The day before, he had gathered information on a new potential family and had then considered driving to Isabel’s house in Viborg to perform a break-in in which her computer would be stolen. But what good would it do if she had already passed on what she knew to her brother?

And then there was the issue of how much Rachel knew. Had Isabel told her everything?

Of course she had.

He had to get rid of the women. He knew that now.

He turned his gaze to the sky. Always this eternal struggle between him and God. Ever since he was a boy.

Why couldn’t He leave him in peace?

He collected his thoughts, switched on the computer, and found the number of the Trauma Center of the Rigshospital. He got through to an imperious secretary who gave him little to go on.

Both women had been moved to Intensive Care, that much she knew.

He sat for a moment staring at his notepad.

Intensive Care Unit: ITA 4131.

Phone 35 45 41 31.

Three tiny pieces of information, vital to him, fatal to others. It was as simple as that, no matter who might be watching him from on high.

He Googled the number of the department and found its homepage almost at the top of his search.

It was a tidy site. As clean and clinical as the Rigshospital itself. One click on Practical Information, another on Information for Families.pdf, and a brochure appeared on his screen containing everything he needed to know.

He scrolled through the document.

There was a shift change between three thirty and four P.M. That was when he would strike. When they were most unawares.

This unbelievably helpful brochure also told him that the presence of relatives and loved ones could be a source of great comfort and support to the patient. So from now on he was a relative. He would buy flowers. Flowers were always a comfort. And he would be sure to wear the right expression, so everyone would know how deeply affected he was.

He read on, and it got better. Relatives and close friends of any patient admitted to the unit were welcome at anytime.

Close friends, and at anytime!

He thought for a moment. It would be best if he pretended to be a close friend. That would be harder to check. A close friend and confidant of Rachel. Someone from her congregation. He would put on a friendly, innocuous mid-Jutland accent to justify him staying so long. Just as long as he needed. After all, he had come a long way.

All this and more he gleaned from the Intensive Care Unit’s presentation. He found out where he could make tea and coffee and learned that doctors were available for consultation during the daytime. There were photos showing the layout of the rooms and how they were equipped and precise information about IV apparatus and monitoring equipment.

He studied the photos of the monitors and knew he had to make sure he killed quickly and vanished immediately. The very instant a patient expired in a unit like this, every piece of equipment in the room would go haywire. Staff in the observation center would be alerted as soon as it happened. They would be there in no time, initiating the resuscitation attempt within seconds. These people were professionals, as indeed they should be.

So not only did he need to kill quickly, he also had to kill in such a way as to eliminate the possibility of resuscitation and, most important, to raise no suspicion that the cause of death was anything but natural.

He spent half an hour in front of the mirror. Drawing lines on his brow, fixing a new hairpiece, changing the appearance of his eyes.

When he had finished, he considered the results with satisfaction. Here was a man stricken with grief. A man in late middle age, with glasses, graying hair, and pallid skin. A far cry from the real him.

He opened his medicine cabinet, pulled out a drawer, and took out four small, plastic packages. Ordinary syringes of the kind anyone could purchase without prescription in any pharmacy. Ordinary needles like the ones thousands of drug addicts jabbed into their veins every day with society’s full blessing.

It was all he needed.

A syringe filled with air, a needle inserted into a vein. Death would come quickly. And he would be able to move from one room to the next and do away with them both before the alarms went off.

It was a matter of timing.

He was looking for Intensive Care, department 4131. There were directional signs and a lift straight to the door, so it seemed. The department number indicated entrance, floor, and section. At least, that’s what it said in the hospital’s official directory information.

Entrance 4, Floor 13, Section 1. But apparently the lift only went as far as Floor 7.

He looked at his watch. The shift change was approaching, so there was no time to waste.

He slipped past a pair of the walking wounded and found the information desk at the main entrance. The man behind the glass appeared to have come down in the world, but he was both efficient and friendly.

“No, that would be Entrance 41, Floor 3, Section 1. Take the lift from Entrance 3 over there.”

He pointed, then wrote it down in pen on a photocopied location map that he shoved through the hatch for good measure. Patient admitted to Department…, it said, followed by the correct combination of numbers.

Perfect directions to the crime scene. Thanks for the help.

He stepped out of the lift on the third floor and followed the signs that took him straight to the unit. Double doors with white curtains led inside. If he hadn’t known better, he might have thought it was a funeral parlor.

He smiled. In a way, it was.

If the level of activity inside matched that in the corridor, where not a soul was to be seen and empty shopping carts lined the wall, it would suit him well.

He pulled the cord to open the doors.

The unit seemed at first glance to be bigger than it actually was. He had not anticipated much going on, imagining instead deep concentration and quiet industry. But it wasn’t like that at all. Not at the moment, anyway.

Perhaps he hadn’t chosen his time quite as well as he had thought.

He passed two small seating areas for visitors and headed straight for reception. A colorful arch that would make anyone stop.

The secretary nodded to say she would be with him in a second.

He glanced around.

Doctors and nurses milled about. Some were in with their patients; others sat at computer screens in small anterooms outside each patient room. Others strode purposefully up and down the corridor.

Maybe it was on account of the shift change, he thought to himself.

“Is this a bad time?” he asked the secretary in a broad Jutland accent.

She glanced at her watch and then looked up at him with a friendly expression. “Perhaps not the best. Who would you be looking for?”

Concern appeared in his face, exactly as he had practiced at home. “I’m a friend of Rachel Krogh,” he said.

She tipped her head inquiringly. “Rachel? We’ve no Rachel here. Do you mean Lisa Krogh?” She looked down at her screen. “Lisa Karin Krogh, it says here.”

What the hell had he been thinking? Rachel was the name she used in her congregation, not her real name. He knew that.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Lisa, of course. We belong to the same congregation, you see. We use biblical names there. Lisa’s is Rachel.”

The secretary’s expression changed, though almost imperceptibly. Didn’t she believe him, or was it merely an aversion to things religious? Was she going to ask for some ID?

“I know Isabel Jønsson too,” he added, before she got ideas. “The three of us are friends. They were brought in together, as far as I gather from your colleagues downstairs at the Trauma Center. Would that be correct?”

She nodded. A rather clenched smile, but a smile nonetheless.

“That’s correct, yes. You’ll find them both in there.” She pointed to a room and told him the number.

The same room. It couldn’t be better.

“You’ll have to wait, though, I’m afraid. Isabel Jønsson’s being transferred to another unit. A doctor and some of the nurses are getting her ready. And she’s got another visitor waiting at the moment, so could I ask you not to go in until he leaves? We prefer if there’s only one lot in at a time.” She indicated the seating area closest to the exit. “He’s sitting along there. Perhaps you know each other.”

Disconcerting information.

He turned quickly to look. True enough, a man was sitting on his own with his arms folded. A man in a police uniform. Isabel’s brother. There could be little doubt: the same high cheekbones, the same-shaped face, the same nose. This wasn’t good at all.

He looked at the secretary with a hopeful expression. “Has Isabel been making progress?”

“As far as I know, yes. We don’t normally move people on to other departments unless they’re improving.”

As far as she knew. She knew perfectly well, of course she did. What she didn’t know was when the move would happen, but apparently it was imminent.

Most inconvenient. And her brother here to boot.

“May I go in to Rachel? Is she awake? Lisa, I mean.”

She shook her head. “I’m afraid Ms. Krogh is still very much unconscious.”

He bent forward slightly. “But Isabel would be conscious?” he asked quietly.

“I’m not actually sure, to be honest. Try asking the nurse over there.” She pointed toward a blond, rather weary-looking woman on her way along the corridor with some medical records under her arm. The secretary turned to a new visitor who had now appeared at the counter. His audience was over.

“Excuse me.” He stopped the nurse in her tracks, his arm aloft. Mette Frigaard-Rasmussen, her badge read. “I don’t suppose you could tell me if Isabel Jønsson is conscious? Would it be possible to see her?”

Maybe she wasn’t her patient. Maybe it wasn’t her shift. Maybe it wasn’t her day. Or maybe she was just too exhausted to do anything else but peer at him through the narrow slits of her eyes and reply through equally narrow lips.

“Isabel Jønsson? Erm…” She stared into space for a moment. “Yes, she’s conscious, but heavily sedated. Her jaw’s fractured, so she can’t actually speak. She’s not communicating at all at the moment, but it’ll come.”

She mustered all her strength to raise a smile. He thanked her and let her get on with the rest of what was obviously a demanding day.

Isabel wasn’t communicating. Good news at last. Now he had to take advantage.

He pressed his lips together resolutely, slipped away from the waiting area, and proceeded farther along the corridor. Soon he would need to get away fast. His preference was for the lifts outside, as if nothing untoward had happened. But if other alternatives existed, he needed to know what they were.

He passed several rooms in which lives hung in the balance and doctors and nurses worked calmly and diligently. In the observation center, a group of people in white coats sat staring at computer screens, talking softly among themselves. Everything under control.

An auxiliary walked past him and seemed to wonder for a moment what he might be doing there. But they exchanged smiles, and the man continued along the corridor.

There were colors on the walls. Bright, intense paintings. Stained glass. Emanating life. Death was unwelcome here.

He rounded a red-painted corner and discovered a second corridor running parallel to the one from which he had come, row upon row of what seemed to be small rooms for staff on its left side. Nameplates outside the doors indicated who occupied them. He looked to the right, expecting to end up at reception again if he continued in that direction. But the route seemed to have been blocked off. However, there was a lift. Another possible escape hatch.

He noticed a white coat hanging by the open door of a room full of linen and various boxes of equipment stacked on shelves. Probably both it and the linen had been left for the laundry.

He slipped inside, grabbed the coat, and put it over his arm, waiting a moment before heading back toward reception.

On the way, he nodded to the same auxiliary as before, then patted his jacket pocket to make sure the syringes were there.

Of course they were.

He sat down on a blue sofa in the first and smaller of the two seating areas. The policeman in the other area appeared not to notice him. Five minutes later, the officer stood up and went to the reception desk. Two doctors and a couple of auxiliaries had just left the room in which his sister lay. New faces were beginning to appear among the staff, distributing themselves into their respective places.

The shift change was in full swing.

The policeman sent an inquiring look in the direction of the secretary. She nodded back. It would be all right now. Isabel Jønsson’s brother could go in.

He followed the man with his eyes and saw him disappear into the room. Before long, a porter would come to move the man’s sister. Not the best circumstances for what he needed to do.

If Isabel was well enough to be moved, he would have to kill her first. There might not be time for the second job.

And time was of the essence. He would have to get the brother out of there as soon as possible, no matter the risk. The prospect of approaching the man didn’t appeal to him at all. Perhaps Isabel had told him everything. That’s what she had said. Perhaps the brother knew too much. He would at least have to cover his face in the man’s presence.

He waited until the secretary began to gather her things together and vacate her chair for her replacement.

He put on the coat.

Now was the time.

At first, he failed to recognize the two women. But in the corner sat the policeman, talking to his sister, holding her hand.

So the woman nearest the door in that snarl of masks and tubes and IV equipment was Rachel.

Behind her was a high-tech wall of machines and monitors emitting flashes of light and beeping sounds. Her face was almost entirely covered, her body likewise, the blanket not quite hiding the suggestion of severe injury and irreparable damage.

He looked across at Isabel and her brother. “What happened, Isabel?” the brother had just asked.

Then he squeezed between the wall and Rachel’s bed and leaned forward.

“I’m sorry, but we shall have to send you out again, Mr. Jønsson,” he said, bending over Rachel and drawing open her eyelids as though to examine the dilation of her pupils. She was certainly unconscious.

“Isabel’s going to be transferred now,” he went on. “Perhaps you might like to visit the cafeteria in the meantime. We’ll be sure to let you know where Isabel’s been moved to when you come back. Say, in about half an hour?”

He heard the man get to his feet with a few short, parting words to his sister. A man used to obeying orders.

He gave the policeman a nod, his face turned aside as the man left the room. Then he stood for a moment, considering the woman lying in front of him. It seemed unlikely she would ever pose him any threat.

And at that very moment, Rachel opened her eyes and stared at him as though fully conscious. Stared at him with her empty gaze, and yet so intensely that he found it hard to wrest himself away. Then her eyes closed once more. He stood motionless to see whether it would happen again. It didn’t. Probably it was just some kind of reflex. He listened to the beeping of her monitors. Her heart rate had definitely increased during the minute that had passed since he entered the room.

Then he turned to Isabel, whose chest now rose and sank at diminishing intervals. She knew he was there. She had recognized his voice, but what good would it do her? Her jaw was immobilized and her eyes bandaged. She lay hooked up to IV apparatus and monitoring equipment, though with no tubes in her mouth, no respirator. Soon she would be able to speak. Her life was no longer in danger.

Ironic, to say the least, he thought to himself, that all these positive life signs were to be the death of her. He stepped toward her, his eyes already seeking out a suitable vein in her arm.

He took the first syringe from his pocket. Tore the packaging from the needle and joined the two parts together. Then he drew out the plunger, filling the syringe with air.

“You should have contented yourself with what you got from me, Isabel,” he said, noting that her breathing and heart rate now increased again.

Not good, he thought, going around her bed, pushing the support pillow away from her arm. Her reactions would be registered in the observation center.

“Relax, Isabel,” he said. “I won’t harm you. I’ve come to say the children will be safe. I’ll look after them. When you’re better, I’ll send you a message saying where they are. Believe me, it was about money, that’s all. I’m no killer. That’s what I came to tell you.”

He saw that her breathing remained heavy, but her heart rate slowed. Good.

Then he looked up at Rachel’s monitors. The beeps were coming thick and fast now. All of a sudden, her heart seemed to have gone berserk.

Hurry, he told himself.

He took a tight grip on Isabel’s arm, found a pulsating vein, and jabbed in the needle. It slid in as easy as could be.

Isabel didn’t flinch. Most likely she was so doped up he could have stuck it right through her arm without any noticeable reaction.

He tried to depress the plunger of the syringe, but it wouldn’t budge. He must have missed the vein.

He withdrew the needle and jabbed again. This time, Isabel gave a start. Now she knew what he was doing, that he meant her harm. Her heart rate shot up once more. He pressed down on the plunger, and again it refused to move. Fuck. He would have to find a new vein.

And then the door opened.

“What’s going on here?” a nurse cried, her eyes darting from Rachel’s monitors to this unfamiliar man in a white coat, with a needle pointed at Isabel’s arm.

He dropped the syringe into his pocket and was in motion before the woman realized what was happening. The blow to her throat was delivered sharply and with great force, causing her to fall to the floor in front of the open door.

“Attend to her. She’s collapsed. Overexertion, by the looks of it,” he barked at the nurse who came running from the observation center to check the danger signals from the two women’s monitors. Within seconds, the whole unit was an anthill. People in white swarmed forth, gathering at the door of the room as he stole away toward the lifts.

It was a disaster. Twice now the seconds had ticked in Isabel’s favor. Ten seconds more and he would have hit a good vein and pumped it full of air. Ten seconds. Ten fucking seconds. All it took to fuck everything up.

Behind him came the sound of hectic cries as the doors shut in his wake. Outside in the lift area, an emaciated man with dark blotches under his eyes sat waiting for some message from the Department of Plastic Surgery. The man nodded in acknowledgment at the sight of his smock. Such was the effect of a white coat in a hospital.

He pushed the lift button, glancing around to locate the fire stairs as the doors opened. He nodded to other white coats and a couple of sad-faced visitors as he stepped inside, making straight for the rear wall so no one would notice his missing name tag.

On the ground floor, he almost bumped into Isabel’s brother outside the lift. Apparently, this was as far as he had got.

The two men with whom he was speaking looked suspiciously like colleagues. Maybe not the little Arab, but the Dane at least. They looked concerned.

He knew how they felt. Fuck.

Outside in the open air, he looked up and saw an air ambulance approaching the roof of the main building. Next delivery of problems to the Trauma Center.

Keep them coming, he thought to himself. The more emergencies they had to deal with, the fewer resources would be left to attend to the two women whose presence there he had precipitated.

He removed his coat only when he reached the shadow of the trees in the parking area where he’d left his car.

He tossed the hairpiece onto the backseat.