"No. No. No help please. I'm fine. The doctor at the hospital said it was perfectly normal to have some pain. Besides, I don't care. I just want to find whoever did this to me."
"At least sit down, sir," the clerk said and helped Henrik to a chair.
"Don't fuss around me," Henrik growled and removed the clerk's hand from his arm. The way he held him made him feel like an old man or a cripple. And no one treated him like a cripple. Henrik was a man at his best age. He was many things. He was handsome, he was charming and had a way with the ladies, but he wasn't pathetic. He didn't need people's help. "I hate fussing."
The clerk stepped back. "Sorry, sir. I didn't mean to …"
"Well, you did." Henrik sat in the chair. It felt good to rest a little. He looked up at the bartender. "I want to know who she was," he said. "I want to know everything you know about the girl."
"Very well sir. But I do believe I told everything to the police."
Henrik looked into the bartender's eyes. So that's how Janni knew. The police had told her? Asked her if she knew? Had they no respect for people's privacy?
Henrik's hands were shaking in anger. The clerk and bartender saw it on his face. There was no way this girl was going to get away with ruining his life like this. Once he found her, she was getting what she had coming to her.
And it wasn't going to be pretty.
Henrik looked at the bartender. "What have you got? I need to know everything. If you give me what I need, I'll consider not pressing charges against the hotel."
18
August 2012
The next morning after breakfast, my phone rang while I was doing a puzzle on the floor with Julie. The display told me it was my editor Jens-Ole. I got up and walked out of the room before I picked it up.
"Rebekka," I said.
"I know you're on vacation, I know you need time with your family to get your marriage fixed and all that. Believe me, I know that and I have tried everything to find another solution, but the thing is … we need you," Jens-Ole said. "Desperately."
I would be lying if I said there wasn't a part of me that was happy to hear I was needed. I loved my work and I loved that I was so good at it.
"You're still in Brabrand, right?"
"Yes."
"You've heard about the guy who had his kidney stolen, right?" Jens-Ole asked.
"Sure did."
"Did you hear about the second guy?"
My heart dropped. There had been a second one? "No. I have been trying to stay out of it … it doesn't matter. What happened?"
"Same story. Guy at a hotel is attacked at night, cleaning lady finds him next morning, dead in the bathtub, missing his liver. It's gone, someone had removed it while he was sedated, according to the police."
"But he was killed? The first guy survived, right?"
"Yeah they only took his kidney. You have two of those, but only one liver. In both cases, they had their bodies covered in ice cubes. Police say they are certain they're looking for the same guy. Someone who knows a lot about surgery. They say the cuts are very professionally made with a scalpel and all the right equipment and all."
"Creepy. So the person they're looking for might be a doctor?" I asked. There was something about this story that gave me the chills. The thought of people being sedated and having their organs stolen without their knowledge freaked me out.
"Maybe. Someone with expertise in the area at least."
"So what do you want from me?" I asked.
"The second case was close to where you're at too. It was in Hasle. That's only about ten minutes by car from where you're staying, I think. Hotel Bellevue."
"So what is it you want me to do?" I asked, thinking I had no idea how to tell Peter about this without him getting angry. He never understood having a career, providing for your family. He came from a very rich background and always had the money he needed for anything. He never had to actually work for a living. Not that I ever envied him his childhood and upbringing that, for the most part, took place at a boarding school away from his parents. But still. He never wanted to make a career for himself since there was no reason to do so. I had to do my best, always, or I was out. A journalist was never better than her last story. It was as simple as that.
"I want you to go to Hasle and make a report from there. Talk to the people working there, preferably the cleaning lady who found the body. Talk to people around, in the streets or whatever and find out if they're scared. Try to figure out what the police are doing about this. Could it be a gang of some sort? Eastern Europeans stealing our organs at night and selling them on the black Russian market? What? What are we talking about here? Could they do this anywhere? In people's private homes? We have had many cases of home invasions where Eastern Europeans break into houses in the middle of the night and beat people up with baseball bats, killing people for only a couple of hundred kroner. Are they going to take their organs next? Is it a new trend in organized crime that we should be afraid of? What are they doing about it? I don't want to wake up one morning having something missing from inside of me."
"Okay, okay. I get the picture." I said.
"That's my girl. We need this. We're the only newspaper not writing anything about this story. It's embarrassing. The bosses are mad at me. They want you on this story. You're our best man, or woman. If you do it, I'll even throw in an extra week of vacation. Take any week off this fall. Be with your family then. I promise I won't disturb you this time. I'll throw away your number. Just give me my story."
"Got it," I said.
"Great. By the way I have informed Sune and he's on his way. He'll meet you in Hasle."
19
August 2012
Thomas De Quincey was typing on his laptop with a grin. Bill Durgin had struck again and the story was all over the media now. And even better, this time Bill had actually killed his victim, just like Thomas had wanted him to. Removing an organ and letting the victim survive was fun, yes, but very risky. Bill had wanted to just remove a part of the liver, since the liver then would regenerate itself as it did in people donating parts of their liver to a family member who needed a new liver. But Thomas had put his foot down. He wanted Bill to move on, to make his first kill. And he had succeeded.
I removed it all as you told me to. He died slowly, Bill wrote.
Excellent. You did well, Thomas wrote. How did it feel?
Better than expected. I think I actually enjoyed it a little. He deserved what he got, the bastard.
Wonderful. Now you have taken it to the next step. The first kill is always the hardest, but also the sweetest. From now on, you'll have no trouble killing again, Thomas wrote. What about your contribution? Have you given it more thought?
I have and he's yours, Bill wrote without hesitating. It pleased Thomas immensely. There was nothing better than obedient followers.
Oh how pleased I am to hear that. There is nothing like the first kill that should be savored and remembered. I'll make sure to immortalize what you have done. Your masterpiece is safe with me.
What do I need to do? Bill wrote.
Nothing. I'll send my guy to pick him up. Don't worry. I'll take care of everything. Just you worry about your next move. You need to strike while the iron is hot. The entire country is looking at you and focusing on your art right now. This is your moment … your fifteen minutes of fame. Enjoy it.
I will.
Thomas logged off, then closed the lid of the computer and clapped his hands with joy. He looked at himself in the mirror hanging on the wall.
"You're a genius, Thomas."
He smiled at his own reflection. This last couple of months had been so exciting, he could barely keep it inside. He wanted to scream and yell and laugh. He could hardly believe his life’s work was almost done. His masterpiece was almost ready for the world to see. It was a dream that came true. The work of a genius. That's what they would all say, wasn't it? He was going to write himself into the history books. Future generations would hea
r about him in school and his name would be whispered in the darkness of the night when children told their scary stories. He would be a myth, a legend. And people would fear his name like they feared Jack the Ripper or Ted Bundy. Oh, but he would be so much bigger than them.
"But it's not time to celebrate yet," he told his own reflection. "Your work is not done." Thomas shook his head.
No, he was still missing the most vital part of all. The last and most important part. The part he desired the most for personal reasons. The final revenge over the woman who broke his heart. No not just broke it, tore it apart, ripped it from his chest and stepped on it afterwards.
His last and final piece was the body of Rebekka Franck.
Thomas smiled widely again. This time he was going to succeed. This time there was nothing in the way. Using Allan Witt had been a bad idea, and Thomas was actually happy that it hadn't succeeded. It was unfulfilling to have someone else do it for you, when it's your revenge, when it's you who want to do it.
Thomas gritted his teeth thinking about her. He clenched his fist and hit it into the wall behind the mirror. Then he laughed manically. He turned and grabbed the camera on the counter. He had it all planned out. With the camera, he was going to document his actions. He was going to take a picture every minute until she drew her last and final breath. Documenting the pain he inflicted upon her, documenting the distress a person experienced right before she died. It had never been done before. It was perfect. The work of a true artist, they would say.
An artist willing to go all the way for his art.
20
August 2012
I sat with the phone in my hand for a little while after hanging up, not knowing how to handle this. Then I decided to just do it. I walked back in with Julie.
"Work?" she asked.
I smiled. "You know me a little too well, don't you?"
She shrugged. "It's okay, Mommy. I know you love your job."
I stared at my daughter. My beautiful and suddenly so very grown-up daughter. I kneeled next to her and hugged her. "My boss is giving me another week off instead of the days I'm spending on this, and I thought that maybe I'll take it when you have your fall break in October. Maybe we could go somewhere far away where they can't get a hold of me and make me work. Maybe we'll go to Spain or France? What do you say?"
Julie looked up at me. "That sounds really nice, Mommy. I'd like that. Maybe Tobias could come as well?"
I froze. "Tobias?"
"Yes. I really miss him. Don't you miss Sune?"
Children and their bluntness. Just bursting it all out without thinking. Just saying what everybody else is thinking or won't admit they're thinking. I nodded. "Yes, sweetie. I miss him."
"Good," she said.
"I thought you liked that mommy was back with daddy?" I asked.
"I do. I love it Mommy. But I liked Sune too. And I looove Tobias. You know that. We're going to get married. We already planned that."
"Wow that was early."
"Yeah, but first I have to finish college. Tobias wants to be an astronaut, so he needs to get a space education first and that takes a long time, I think. He won't be home much since he'll be flying out in space a lot, but I can take care of the kids. We might fight a little over him always being away, but we'll make it work. I'll have my clinic at my house so I can be home a lot."
"Your clinic? What kind of clinic is that?" I asked trying hard not to laugh.
"My dog hospital, of course. I'll be a vet. But only for dogs. I don't like cats. Maybe I'll treat a tiger if they bring him to me. But only baby tigers since they're not scary. They are really cute."
I chuckled. "Boy you have you entire life all figured out, don't you?"
"Yes, Mommy." Julie looked deep into my eyes. "You should figure your life out too."
I looked at her, astonished and slightly surprised as well. From children and drunk people you hear the truth, was a Danish saying. Was that what this was? Her speaking the truth I refused to admit to myself?
The door opened and Peter entered. "What do you guys say we have some lunch?" he asked. I looked at him. He froze when our eyes met.
"Mommy's going to work," Julie said.
Peter sighed. "Really?"
"Yeah, I'm sorry. They just called. They need me to do the story about the kidney-guy. There has been another case in Hasle not far from here. Also in a hotel. They want me to cover the story. I'm sorry. They gave me another week off this fall instead. I thought maybe we could …"
Peter lifted his hand and stopped me. "And I guess that photographer boyfriend of yours is going too, am I right?"
"Peter. Don't start … This is my job. This is what it is like to be a journalist. You have to be available when they need you, when a story breaks. That's just the way it is. If they can't count on me, they'll let me go. I'll never get the career I want."
"Then don't," Peter said.
"I can't just forget all about my career. I have bills to pay, I have a daughter to provide for."
"Not if you're with me. I can provide for the both of you, you know that as well as I do."
"You know that is not what I want."
"What? To be a family?"
"Come on. That's not fair."
"Why not? If you gave up that so-called career of yours, you could stay home and be a mother and a wife and I would support all of us. We could travel all over the world if that was what you wanted. I'd give you everything."
I exhaled and shook my head. "Yes Peter I do believe you'd give me the world. I know you'd give me anything money could buy. But money doesn't buy happiness. And working makes me happy. Like it or not, I'm going."
I grabbed my bag and put my iPad in it along with my notepad and phone. Then I took my jacket from the closet in the hall. I kissed Julie and held her tight.
"It's okay, Mommy. It really is." Then she whispered in my ear. "Can't wait for Spain."
Peter followed me to the door. I turned and looked at him. I stroked his cheek gently. He hadn't shaved since we got there. Stubble looked great on him. His hair was getting gray on the sides.
"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I'll be back tonight."
Peter sighed and held on to my wrist, then kissed it. He leaned over and kissed my lips. The warmth from his kiss made me almost regret I was going.
"See you later," he said.
21
September 2001
She bought him a bike. He had been asking for one ever since he was four and his dad asked the question:
How will he ever ride a bike?
It had tormented Valdemar ever since and his mother knew that, but up until this day she had refused to buy him a bike just because he wanted to impress his dad. The fact was, it was impossible for the boy to ride a bike and it was way too dangerous. He would only get hurt and his dad would be less impressed than ever.
It was a bad idea.
At least that was what she thought until the day she finally gave in to the boy's pressure. Every afternoon when they walked home from school, Valdemar would stop in front of the bicycle store and glare at the many bikes. There was one, especially, that held his attention. It was blue, sparkling blue with a wide seat and, most importantly of all, it looked exactly like the other kids' bikes. It wasn't made for handicapped boys. It wasn't different.
So one afternoon, Anna finally gave in to those big, pleading eyes. She bought the bike while the storeowner looked at her strangely.
"He won't be able to ride it, you know," he said.
Anna looked at the boy who refused to listen to sayings like these. The same boy who had taught himself to use a spoon, who had rebuilt their house by adding things everywhere so he wouldn't need anyone's help with anything, the boy whose life up until now had been a study in engineering.
Then she smiled. "Oh, he will," she said. "He'll find a way."
"Suit yourself," the storeowner said.
Never had Anna seen her boy as proud as when they brought it home and she placed
it in the garage where Valdemar wanted it. Now he was working on something in there that he didn't want her to see until it was done, he told her and she was waiting in the living room, biting her nails, wondering what he had come up with. Worrying that his dad would be angry or let him down once again.
Michael stayed away from the house more and more. Often a week would pass by where they didn't see him. He was on the road, working, meeting clients he told her if she asked. But the trips were getting more and more often now and Anna started wondering what he was doing all this time. Staying in hotels? Eating alone in restaurants? It was no secret he didn't enjoy being at home anymore. He hadn't enjoyed it ever since Valdemar was born.
Anna sighed and hid her face in her hands. She missed him so much. For six years now she had been on her own with this. She had been alone, abandoned, having to make all the decisions herself, and raising Valdemar on her own trying hard to protect him from getting hurt by his father's resentment towards him. It was heartbreaking and wore on her strength. The constant worrying about her boy had made her old. Her body was skinny, her breasts hanging. Her hair had turned white overnight, right before Valdemar's first birthday. It was the constant worrying, the doctor said. It happened from time to time.
"At least you won't have to worry about the greys popping up one after another like most people," he had told her to cheer her up.
"But I look like an old woman. At the age of thirty?"
"I think you're beautiful," the doctor had told her and Anna had blushed. It had been a long time since anyone had told her she was beautiful.
While waiting in the living room for whatever wonder her boy had now come up with, she grabbed her long white hair and looked at it. It wasn't too bad. At least she had learned to live with it, just as she had learned to live with the fact that her husband was never going to accept their son and his handicap. He saw it as a failure, like she had failed him as a wife for giving him a son with no arms.
"If only he could see what I see," she mumbled, as she heard the door to the garage open and Valdemar call for her to come.