Nine, Ten ... Never sleep again (Rebekka Franck #5)

  "Julie, go upstairs and start packing your things. We have to go back to Karrebaeksminde," I said.

  Peter approached me. "Hey, what's going on?"

  "We're leaving. It's my dad. He's in the hospital. He fell and hurt his head. We have to get back."

  Peter clenched his jaw. "Now?" He asked. I could tell he was restraining his anger. "Does it have to be right now? I mean we were just finding each other as a family here. We were having a moment."

  "Are you insane?" I asked. "My dad hurt himself. I have to be there. He had a stroke."

  "I hear you loud and clear there, Rebekka. But I'm asking does it really have to be like RIGHT now?"

  Peter was looking at me in a strange way and yelling certain words, making him sound like a crazy person.

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean there is always some sort of emergency with you, isn't there? Couldn't we, for once, just NOT run to it? Couldn't we, for once, let someone else handle it?"

  "No. Peter it’s my dad we're talking about here …"

  "Yes, and yesterday it was your ex-boyfriend we were talking about here," Peter said imitating my voice. "When is it going to stop, huh?"

  "It’s my dad," Peter. "This is more important than anything else, than anyone else, even you, Peter."

  Peter's head tilted from side to side while he stared at me with manic eyes. "More important than anyone, even you Peter," he repeated, mocking me.

  "What's going on here, Peter? What is this?"

  Peter looked at me grinning, then lifted his hand and slapped me across the face so hard I fell to the floor. He was still smiling when I looked up at him holding a hand to my hurting cheek.

  "THIS is what is going on here, Rebekka. I'll tell you what is going on here. You're not going anywhere. You're staying here with me. That's what's going on. I'm taking back control."

  "Taking back control, what the hell are you talking about Peter?"

  "What the hell are you talking about Peter," he copied me.

  My heart was racing and my face hurt badly. I felt so confused. Julie came down the stairs. "Mommy? What's going on? Daddy?"

  Peter turned on his heels and smiled at Julie. "Oh nothing sweetie. Your mom and I are just discussing a little matter. Nothing to worry about. Just go back to your room and unpack. We're all staying here."

  "Julie," I yelled. "We need to get out of here."

  Peter turned quickly and looked at me. "And just how do you suppose you'll be able to do that, huh? There is a raging storm outside and there is no way you'll make it to the other side in that tiny boat of ours … if you make it that far."

  I stood up. Peter grabbed my arm and held me tight. "Peter. You're hurting me."

  "Well that's kind of the point, Rebekka."

  "Mom?" Julie sounded scared.

  "Go to your room Julie," Peter said. "I'll be up to tuck you right in."

  "But … it's not nighttime yet?"

  "Just GO!"

  Julie stormed back up the stairs with a whimper, while Peter tightened his grip on my arm. Then he started pulling me towards the stairs as well.

  "What are you doing Peter?"

  "I have something to show you, dear Rebekka. Something I've been wanting to show to you for a very long time."

  54

  August 2012

  Anna was looking at herself in the mirror of the hotel bathroom. In the room next door, she could hear Michael chatting with the woman he had just picked up in the bar downstairs after his dinner in the restaurant. Now they were going at it and she recognized his moans and dirty talk from back when she had been with him. Sex with Michael had always been rough and she didn't miss it one bit. She looked at the iPad, then wrote something in the chat room.

  Love the thrill of waiting.

  I know, Andreyer wrote back. It's the anticipation, the expectation of what is about to happen that is so exiting. But not as exiting as the actual kill. Enjoy it Bill.

  I will.

  Anna looked up from the iPad and at her own reflection. She was wearing green surgical attire, the same uniform the doctors at the hospital used when operating on a patient. She had stolen that and a mask, along with the equipment she had in her briefcase from the hospital where she worked as a nurse. She opened the briefcase and looked at the various scalpels, the syringe filled with the sedative drug. This time she had chosen a drug that would leave the patient sedated, but still conscious. She wanted him to see everything, but not be able to move. As a nurse anesthetist, she knew everything there was to know about sedative drugs and which ones to use. It was also very easy to get a hold of them.

  Almost too easy.

  Anna listened to the voices behind the wall, waiting for them to be done with the sexual act. It was always the same. They would have sex and then the woman would leave. They never spent the night. It was perfect.

  Cheating bastards.

  Listening to Michael's voice through the wall only made her anger rise. Oh how she loathed this man. More than anything in this world, she hated everything about him. But that only made her revenge that much sweeter, didn't it?

  Anna closed the briefcase as she heard the door to the room next door close. She looked at herself one last time.

  Showtime.

  She walked out into the hallway, then found the dry erase marker and pushed it into the bottom of the lock with a little smile, thinking of Valdemar. Destiny's cruel irony had laughed at her once, now she was the one laughing back. It was kind of ironic that it was Valdemar's invention that now helped her avenge his death.

  She walked inside and found Michael sleeping in the bed. He was snoring slightly and she watched him for a few seconds, before she found the injection needle and emptied it into his arm. The poke to his skin woke him up. Michael gasped and stared at her. At first scared and confused, then relaxed.

  "Anna?" he asked.

  She nodded, then pulled the mask down so he could see her better. She wanted him to see her, to face her and realize what he had done and what she was now going to do to him.

  "What are you doing here?" He asked when he realized where he was. "Why are you here?" He tried to sit up in the bed, but his arms refused to cooperate. "What is this?" He said and saw the syringe in Anna's hand. "What have you done to me?"

  "I have sedated you Michael. Now you can't move."

  "But … but …" If he was trying to get up again, Anna could no longer see it. She imagined he was and the frustration going through his mind right now. And she enjoyed it.

  "What do you want from me? Why have you done this to me?"

  Anna tilted her head and smiled. "I'm taking your heart, Michael. It's okay. You never used it anyway."

  55

  August 2012

  Peter dragged me up the stairs. I followed unwillingly, but for the sake of my daughter, I thought I'd better obey. Besides, Peter was right. There was no way we would be able to get out of here in this storm. And there was no way anyone would come here. Not even Mrs. Holm. We were stuck. Isolated. And worst of all, my dad was in the hospital and I had no idea how he was doing, whether he was going to survive or not.

  "Peter, why are you doing this to us?" I asked.

  He slapped me once again across the face with a grin. "Because I can."

  Then he dragged me up another set of stairs. "Where are you taking me? I don't want to get up there."

  "Go."

  I did as he said and climbed up the small set of stairs that seemed to get narrower and narrower the higher we got. "What's up here, Peter?"

  "My studio," he said and pushed me through an old wooden door.

  "What about Julie? She might be scared."

  "Julie is fine. She's staying in her room. Now go," he said and pushed me inside a huge room under the roof. It was light and very open. If it wasn't for what met me there, I would have thought it was a nice place to be. I got up and looked around, feeling like I was in some sort of torture chamber. The walls were plastered with pictures of people in pain
. Dead bodies swimming in tanks with some strange liquid, body parts everywhere and organs in jars.

  "What's all this?" I asked.

  "Isn't it glorious? It's my exhibition," Peter said.

  "What do you mean, exhibition? What is all this?"

  "They are all masterpieces. Contributions from killers all over the country. They send me either their first kill or parts of it or some other sort of contribution. I, in return, help them kill and not get caught. I'm sort of a consultant. Soon all of this is going to be an exhibition. Won't be open to the public naturally, only for the inaugurated. And the ticket prices are, naturally, going to be sky high. I think killers from all over the world would want to come here and see this, don't you? It might even give them new ideas. Be inspirational."

  I stared at Peter completely freaked out. What kind of a monster was he?

  "Look at this one," he said and pointed. "He's new. I haven't prepared him properly yet."

  I looked at the sign underneath the body in an open body bag. "Martin Damsgaard," I read out loud. I looked at Peter. "That's the guy who had his liver removed and died from it. You stole his body? Why Peter?"

  "It was given to me by the one who killed him. I helped him to be a killer and he contributed with his first kill. He will bring in another contribution later this week. You see, all the organs he stole from people weren't being sold on the black market. No, he lost his son last year and has the remains of the body in his freezer at home. He's replacing the boy's internal organs one by one and placing new, fresh ones in. The body was in the ground for almost a year when he dug him out and took him home. So, naturally, a lot had decomposed by then. Now he is building him again and, soon, he will deliver him to me. It's going to look great here, don't you think?"

  "I … I have no idea what to think, Peter."

  "Oh, you have got to see this one as well. You're going to love this." Peter grabbed my arm and dragged me through what he referred to as his exhibition. I felt nauseated and fought the urge to throw up. Peter stopped in front of a body that had been stabbed to death with what looked like five knives going through his chest. I thought I had seen this somewhere before, but couldn't recall where.

  "This is the Michael Oestergaard exhibition," Peter said. "You remember him, don't you?"

  "The what?"

  "Michael Oestergaard. You know the guy who killed using the glove from the Freddy Krueger movies? Remember him? Most unfortunate that you had to have him put away. This was his first kill using the glove. Just to try it out and get past that first kill with it. The guy meant nothing to him. It was random. Just to know how the glove worked, you know. I helped him with all of his kills. I came up with the idea of using the glove from back then. Neat right?"

  "You know Michael Oestergaard?"

  "We went to the same boarding school. You know, Herlufsholm?"

  "Oh my god. You've been … I can't believe it … you've been … have you been behind this, behind him and others? Pulling the strings like they were puppets?"

  "Well, that is giving me way too much credit, dearie, but yes, they come to me for advice and I give it to them. I am, after all, a true expert in killing."

  "I had no idea you were that insane. Peter, this is so sick."

  "Oh thank you. You're flattering me. This one over here, I believe you know that one as well."

  "The Christian Lonstedt contribution," I said.

  "His first too."

  "Let me guess the next belongs to Bjarne Larsen from Arnakke?"

  "I'm afraid that one worked on his own. Him and that kid of his. Genius with the polonium, though. Couldn't have come up with it better myself. I only wish I had some of his here. But can't have them all, can we?"

  "I guess not," I said and looked in direction of the door. Peter had shut it, but I didn't know if it was locked. I had to find a way out and get Julie out with me. Until then, I had to just please Peter and pretend I wasn't frightened to death.

  "But I do have one from Allan Witt. Several as a matter of fact, but I only kept the one. He had a tendency to eat his victims and send the remains to me. I did, however, really badly want the princess, but he never gave me that. So I killed him. He was worthless in the end anyway. Went completely insane," Peter said and chuckled.

  "Oh my God, the chat room," I said. "You're Thomas De Quincey, aren't you? You ordered me killed, didn't you?"

  Peter shrugged with a smile. "Guilty as charged. Nice name, don't you think? He wrote the essay On Murder Considered as One of the Fine Arts in 1827. He wrote about the Society for the Encouragement of Murder and that's how I got my idea. De Quincey wrote that the members of this secret gentlemen's club profess to be curious in homicide, amateurs and dilettanti in the various modes of carnage, and, in short, Murder-Fanciers. Every fresh atrocity of that class which the police annals of Europe bring up, they meet and criticize as they would a picture, statue, or other work of art."

  "But Peter, his essay was satirical. It’s fiction. It's a joke."

  "I know that," Peter said. "But he gave me the idea. Once I was back from Iraq, I missed the action, I missed the war, so I kept going back either to Iraq or Afghanistan, but I was never quite satisfied. It just wasn't as fun when it was war, you know. I needed something new, so that's how I came up with my own club for killer artists like me."

  "Artists? What the hell are you talking about?"

  "The art of killing of course." Peter paused and looked around. "Do try and keep up here, Rebekka. I hate having to repeat things."

  I remained shocked and speechless.

  "Oh, you need to see this as well," he said with pride. "This is what I think will make people want to come from all over the world."

  Peter grabbed my arm and dragged me again. I followed him fearing what would come next.

  "This one is quite impressive," he said. "Look at all the gold on the caskets."

  "Is that the remains of the two kings? You are the one who stole the dead kings from the churches?"

  "Yes. They're perfect for my purpose. You see both of them were murdered. The murder of Erik Klipping is still unsolved to this day. Fits right into my exhibition, I figured."

  I shook my head, not understanding how I had not seen how insane Peter really had become. He had fooled us all, hadn't he? Pretending to have changed when, in fact, it was much worse than any nightmare I could have imagined.

  "Oh and the last part. The best part, well, for me at least, since it's my contribution," Peter said and dragged me again.

  "It's empty Peter. There is nothing there," I said and stared at the vacant wall.

  "Yes, but imagine the entire wall plastered with photos of someone who knows they are about to die, and then slowly dying … documented with a picture each minute of their dying hours. Wouldn't that be neat? I don't think the world has ever seen that before. Read the sign."

  I looked at the wall again and found the small metal plate. My heart stopped as I read it.

  Rebekka Franck's dying minutes.

  56

  August 2012

  "What the hell is this Anna? What are you going to do? What do you mean you'll take my heart?"

  Anna looked at the man she had once loved and smiled. "I meant just what I said, Michael. See, I have been collecting new organs for our son, and all I need is a new heart."

  "But … but Valdemar is dead?" I don't understand."

  "I dug him up. I wanted to be with him. Do you have any idea how much I miss him every day of my life, do you Michael?"

  "N … No."

  "Where were you, Michael?" Anna asked.

  "Where was I … when? Anna, I really don't think you're well …"

  Anna leaned in over Michael's numb body. He was still naked. She looked into his eyes and shook her head slowly. "Where were you when he died, Michael?"

  "I … I don't know. How am I supposed to know?" Michael said with a shivering voice.

  "How are you supposed to know? Well, any normal father who cared would know exactly
where he was at the moment his son died. I know where I was, Michael. I was right next to him. I had given him a part of my one lung, but it wasn't enough. I begged the doctor to take more, to take whatever my son needed, but he refused. It would kill me, he said and he wasn't allowed to do that. Can you imagine, Michael sitting there holding him in your arms while he draws his last breath? Huh? Can you? No, of course you can't, 'cause you WEREN'T there, were you? Did you look into his big beautiful eyes and tell him how sorry you were that you couldn't save him, did you? No you didn't. But I did, Michael. I held him with these arms, these two arms while he slowly died. And then I screamed, Michael. I screamed and cried in anger because, if anyone deserved to live, it was him. Because I knew he could have lived, if only his dad hadn't been such a BASTARD."

  Anna was crying now and lifted the scalpel into the light to make sure Michael saw it. His eyes grew wide. "Anna, I … I …"

  "It's too late, Michael. There is nothing you can say to bring him back to me. He was my everything, Michael. He was all I had and now … now I'm alone. Alone with my shame, alone with my guilt that I couldn't save my only son. Where were you, Michael? Were you with your new family? With your new son?"

  "I … I don't kno …"

  "Of course you don't. Because you don't care, do you? And then, what happens next? I call his dad's office to let him know that his son died and when the funeral is." Anna fought her tears and anger. She spoke through gritted teeth. "You didn't even show up for the funeral, Michael. You just had your secretary send a flower arrangement."

  "I was out of town."

  "Doing what, Michael? Selling your new product? Selling the new game that saved your company and saved your job, huh? And tell me, Michael, what is the name of that game, huh? The game you're now making millions off of? The game you pretend is yours?"

  A shadow crossed Michael's face.

  "What's the name of it, Michael?" Anna yelled.

  "Mindskill," Michael said with a low voice.

  "Mindskill, huh? Now, is that a coincidence? Your son created a game with the exact same name. It couldn't, by any chance, be the same game, now could it? NO you would never just steal it, would you? You would at least give him the credit and maybe send a check to his mother every now and then since it has become such a huge success, am I right? How could you, Michael? You know that all he ever wanted was for you to accept him, for you to see how smart he was and for you to love him despite his handicap. Why couldn't you just do that? Everything he ever did, he did to make you proud, to make you finally see him. You couldn't even give him the credit for having invented the game could you?"