Phantom (58 page)

The priest walked past a gravestone, saw on it the remains of something white in the moonlight, as if someone had written in chalk and then erased it. It was the gravestone of Askild Cato Rud. Also known as Askild Øregod. From time immemorial the rule had been that the lease of graves expired after a generation, unless an extension was paid for—a privilege reserved for the rich. But for reasons unknown the grave of the poverty-stricken Askild Cato Rud had been preserved. And once it was really old, it had been protected. Perhaps there had been an optimistic hope that it could become a site of special interest: a gravestone from east Oslo’s poorest district, where the unfortunate’s relatives were able to afford only a small stone and—since the stonemason was paid per letter—only the initials before the surname and the dates, no text beneath. One authority had even insisted the correct surname was Ruud, and they had saved themselves a bit there as well.
So there was this myth that Askild Øregod still walked abroad. But it had never had much wind in its sails. Askild Øregod had been forgotten and left—quite literally—to rest in peace.

As the priest went to close the cemetery gate behind him a figure slipped out of the shadows by the wall. The priest automatically stiffened.

“Have mercy,” rasped a voice. And a large, open hand was thrust forward.

The priest looked into the face beneath the hat. It was an old face with rutted landscape, a robust nose, large ears and two surprisingly clear, blue, innocent eyes. Yes, innocent. That was precisely what the priest thought after giving the poor man a twenty-krone coin and continuing on his way home. The innocent blue eyes of a newborn baby that needs no forgiveness for sins as yet. He could put that in tomorrow’s sermon.

We’re at the end now, Dad
.

I’m sitting here, with Oleg standing over me. He’s holding the Odessa gun with both hands, hanging on for dear life. Holding tight and shouting. He’s gone totally apeshit. “Where is she? Where’s Irene? Tell me, or else … or else …”

“Or else what, dopehead? You aren’t capable of using the gun anyway. You don’t have it in you, Oleg. You’re one of the good guys. Come on—relax, and we’ll share the fix. OK?”

“Like hell I will. Not until you’ve told me where she is.”

“Will I get the whole fix, then?”

“Half. It’s my last.”

“Deal. Put the gun down first.”

The idiot did as I said. Very flat learning curve. Tricked as easily as the first time on the way out of the Judas Priest concert. He bent down, put the weird gun on the floor in front of him. I saw the lever on the side was set for
C,
which meant it would fire salvos. The slightest pressure on the trigger and …

“So where is she?” he asked, getting up
.

And now, now that I didn’t have the muzzle pointing at me any longer, I could feel it coming. The fury. He’d threatened me. Just like my foster father. And if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s being threatened. So instead of peddling the nice version—she’s at a secret rehab center in Denmark, isolated, can’t be contacted by friends who might get her back on drugs, blah, blah, blah—I twisted the knife. I had to. Bad blood
flows through my veins, Dad, so keep your mouth shut. What’s left of my blood, that is, because most of it’s on the kitchen floor. But I twisted the knife like the idiot I am
.

“I sold her,” I said. “For a few grams of violin.”

“What?”

“I sold her to a German at Oslo Central. Don’t know his name or where he lives. Munich, maybe. He’s probably sitting in his flat in Munich with a pal and they’re both being sucked off by Irene, with her little mouth. And she’s as high as a kite and doesn’t know which dick is which because all she can think of is her true love. And his name is—”

Oleg stood openmouthed, blinking and blinking. Looking as stupid as when he gave me the five hundred after the concert. I spread my arms like some fricking magician
.

“Violin!”

Oleg kept blinking, so shocked that he didn’t react when I launched myself at the gun
.

Or so I thought
.

Because I’d forgotten something
.

He’d followed me that time. He’d known he wasn’t going to get to taste any meth. He had certain skills. He could read people’s thoughts, too. At least a thief’s
.

I should have known. I should have settled for half a dose. He reached the gun before me. Might have just brushed the trigger. It was set on
C.
I saw his shocked face before I hit the floor. Heard everything go quiet. Heard him crouch over me. Heard a low, whining drone, like an engine idling, like he wanted to cry but couldn’t. Then he walked slowly to the end of the kitchen. A true druggie does things in a certain sequence. He put the syringe next to me. Even asked if we should share. Sounded good, but I couldn’t talk anymore. Only listen. And I listened to his slow, heavy footsteps on the stairs as he left. And I was alone. More alone than ever
.

The church bells have stopped chiming
.

I suppose I’ve told the story
.

It doesn’t hurt so much now
.

Are you there, Dad?

Are you there, Rufus? Have you been waiting for me?

Anyway, I remember something the old man said. Death sets the soul free. Sets the fricking soul free. Does it? Damned if I know. We’ll see
.

Audun Beckstrøm and Curt A. Lier for help with general police work. Torgeir Eira, EB Marine, with diving. Are Myklebust and Orgkrim Oslo with narcotics. Pål Kolstø,
Russia
. Ole Thomas Bjerknes and Ann Kristin Hoff Johansen,
Investigative Methods
. Nicolai Lilin,
Siberian Education
. Berit Nøkleby,
Karl A. Martinsen’s Life and Career
. Dag Fjeldstad with Russian. Eva Stenlund with Swedish. Lars Petter Sveen with dialect. Kjell Erik Strømslag with pharmacy. Tor Honningsvåg with aviation. Jøgen Vik with cemeteries. Morten Gåskjønli with anatomy. Øystein Eikeland and Thomas Halle-Velle with medicine. Birgitta Blomen with psychology. Odd Cato Kristiansen with Oslo by night. Kristin Clemet with Oslo City Council. Kristin Gjerde with horses. Julie Simonsen with typing. Thanks to everyone at Aschehoug Publishing House and Salomonsson Agency.

Jo Nesbø’s books, translated into forty languages, have sold more than eight million copies worldwide. His previous Harry Hole novels include
The Redbreast, Nemesis, The Devil’s Star
, and
The Snowman
, and he is the author of
The Headhunters
and several children’s books. He has received the Glass Key Award for best Nordic crime novel. He is also a musician, songwriter, and economist and lives in Oslo.

Headhunters
· 978-0-307-94869-4

The Leopard
· 978-0-307-95877-8

The Snowman
· 978-0-307-59957-5

Visit Jo Nesbø:
www.jonesbo.com

For more information, please visit
www.aaknopf.com