Henrik shook his head while the man smiled at him, showing a row of pearly white teeth in his brown face.
Why does the Danish population refuse to see that all those people only come here to destroy our nation from the inside? First they will be elected for parliament, then they will build their ugly, noisy mosques and make us stop having Christmas because it is offensive to them and soon no one will eat pork anymore and the brown-skinned will be in charge. That is what is going to happen and it has already started, hasn't it? They are already complaining about the Christmas trees and the pork served in schools. And the Danes are stupid enough to listen and then they change it in order to not offend the growing Muslim community. Meanwhile, they have their meetings where they declare death to the Danish population behind our backs. It should be illegal to be this freaking stupid!
"So where are we going?" the brown-skinned man with the turban asked. The taxi didn't smell as bad as Henrik had expected it to.
Henrik looked at his phone and felt the anger rise inside of him again. He wanted to crush the phone between his fingers.
Home? Are you going home? Back to Roskilde and a woman who doesn't care about you?
"Where to?" the taxi-driver asked again.
His calmness irritated Henrik. Probably Buddhist or something stupid. Henrik felt like screaming. He restrained himself and made a decision.
"Take me back to Brabrand. To Hotel Kragen. I have some unfinished business there."
"As you wish," the taxi driver said and started the car.
Henrik found his wife in the contact information on his phone and looked at it. Should he text her? Let her know he was out of the hospital? Nah, she didn't even care that he was in there in the first place, did she? No she would have visited or at least called. Henrik looked at the photo on his phone showing his wife and son. Didn't he mean anything to them?
As the taxi drove out of Aarhus and into the countryside, Henrik opened Facebook. There were a ton of messages for him on his wall from colleagues and acquaintances wishing him well and telling him they saw him on TV and how awful it was what had happened to him. Most of them told him to let them know if there was anything they could do for him.
"Bah," Henrik said out loud. It was so easy to show sympathy on Facebook without meaning anything by it.
Henrik found his wife's Facebook page and scrolled on her wall, reading all the messages and updates. On the day he had been admitted to the hospital, she had changed her status from married to single. Her status today was a quote from one of her favorite TV shows, Sex and the City. “Men cheat for the same reason that dogs lick their balls … because they can.”
Henrik felt infuriated and threw the phone on the seat next to him with a groan. The taxi driver looked at him in the rearview mirror.
"Everything all right?" He said with his stupid foreign accent that made Henrik even angrier.
"Yes, everything is all right," he said imitating him rolling on the r like he had done.
So she had guessed that he was with a woman that night. Big deal.
The taxi came to a stop and Henrik paid the man and got out. With much discomfort, he walked inside the lobby. Luckily, there were no journalists there. Henrik had feared they would still be there, but they had probably moved on. The man behind the counter gasped when he recognized Henrik's face.
"Let me get the owner on the phone," he said.
"No. No. I'm not here to talk to the owner. I need to talk to someone in the bar. Could you help me find who the bartender was that night?"
"S … ssure," the clerk stuttered. "That would be Arne. Let me find him for you. One moment, please."
Henrik nodded and held on to the counter. At the hospital, they had told him he would experience pain for the next couple of days, but it was perfectly normal. There was nothing about this pain that seemed normal to Henrik. He sighed and looked around. Eyes were watching him, scrutinizing him, and when he turned to look at them, they looked away. So I'm the freak now, huh? I'm the freaking talk of this small town?
"Here is the gentleman who wishes to speak to you."
Henrik heard the voice behind him and turned around. A man, whom he recognized as the bartender who had waited on them that night, looked back at him. He reached out his hand. "I'm so sorry, sir. For what happened that night."
"Good," Henrik said. He closed his eyes as a wave of pain rolled in over him.
"Are you alright sir? Should we call for help?"
"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 hear 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. Mayb
e 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."