What Never Happens (27 page)

It was nearly midnight.

It was as if the mere thought that it was close to bedtime made her wake up. She had yawned and dozed the whole day, but as soon as it was dark, it was impossible for her to get any rest. Her anxiety had been justified in the first couple of weeks after she’d given birth; she thought of Kristiane every time she saw the baby. She remembered the strange baby with eyes that never looked at anything or anyone. When Ragnhild was feeding, Johanne was reminded of the listless little bundle that didn’t want to eat, with fists that were always balled and lips that turned blue when she had one of her breathless, alien crying fits.

But Ragnhild was healthy. She screamed and was a glutton, she waved her arms and legs around and slept as she should. There was nothing wrong with her.

But healthy children could also die. Suddenly, without reason or explanation.

“I need help,” Johanne thought to herself and picked up a binder. “You can go crazy if you don’t get enough sleep. I don’t smoke, I barely drink. I have to pull myself together. She’s not going to die. I won’t find her lifeless and limp in bed. She uses a pacifier and sleeps on her back. Like they said she should.”

Adam had given up. When he went to bed, he didn’t ask anymore if she was coming. Sometimes he got up at night, sat with her for a while on the sofa, yawning, and then went back to bed.

“Something’s wrong,” Johanne thought. “Not with Ragnhild. There’s nothing wrong with her. But there’s something that isn’t right. Someone is playing with us. Coincidences like that don’t happen. It’s too close to be a coincidence.”

She turned the pages in the binder about the three murders, but without any real interest. The dividers were red. She resolutely ripped out the pages about Fiona Helle. Then she regretted it and tried to put them back in. And didn’t manage. The holes were torn. She went to grab some tape from a drawer in the kitchen. With dogged determination, she set about repairing the damage she’d done, but then she threw the tape on the floor and put her face in her hands.

“I can’t take anymore. There’s someone out there.”

Aloud, she hissed with clenched teeth, “Pull yourself together. Get a grip, Johanne.”

“I agree,” Adam said.

He was up again. Without saying another word, he went into the kitchen. The smell of coffee spread through the apartment, and Johanne closed her eyes. Adam could stay awake and be on guard. If only she could keep Ragnhild in bed beside her, she was sure she would sleep then. But the baby might die if she let her sleep with them. That’s what the latest research had shown. She’d read about it in all the publications on her bedside table, medical periodicals and magazines for concerned parents. Ragnhild had to sleep on her own, and Johanne had to stay awake and watch over her, because there was someone out there, someone who wanted to harm them.

She fell asleep.

“I fell asleep!”

She got a fright when he tried to put a blanket over her.

“Just go back to sleep,” he whispered.

“No. Awake now.”

“You need help.”

“No.”

“The risk of crib death is not—”

“Don’t say that word!”

“Strictly speaking, the risk isn’t over until Ragnhild is two,” Adam said dryly.

He sat down heavily beside her. There was only one cup of coffee on the table, and he pushed it away when she reached for it.

“And you damn well can’t stay awake every night for two years!”

“I’ve discovered something,” she said.

“Well, I would be very happy to hear about it in the morning,” he said and ran a hand over his hair, still unused to the short cut. “When the children have gone to bed and there is still a decent amount of time left in the day.”

She pulled the mug over. He shook his head and lay back in the sofa in resignation. She drank. He closed his eyes.

“This series of killings has absurd similarities to something else,” she started, hesitant, tentative, “Something that I . . .”

The sofa was full of Adam. His arms were resting along the back of the sofa, and his legs were wide apart. His head fell back with his mouth open, as if he was fast asleep.

“Stop it,” she said. “I know you’re awake.”

He opened his eyes. He squinted at the ceiling. But didn’t say a word.

“A lecture,” Johanne said quickly and drank some more coffee.

“What?”

“I heard about these murders in a lecture. Thirteen years ago.”

He struggled to sit up properly.

“You heard about these murders thirteen years ago,” he repeated, his voice expressionless. “Right.”

“Not the actual murders, obviously.”

“I guessed that.”

His voice was alert now.

“But ones that were very similar,” she finished.

“Could I get my coffee back, honey?”

He smiled reassuringly, as if she wasn’t all there and needed to be grounded in reality by a normal, simple act. She got up, keeping the cup firmly in her hands.

“I was at Lina’s yesterday,” she said. “That computer of ours is—”

“I know,” he interrupted. “I promised I’d get it fixed. One of the boys at work . . . It’s just that . . .”

“I went on a kind of sentimental journey, if you like. Only it wasn’t that sentimental.”

Three defined furrows appeared in his brow as he leaned forward.

“What d’you mean?”

“For a long time, I’ve had a nagging feeling that there’s something familiar about the cases. The murders of Fiona Helle, Victoria Heinerback, and Vegard Krogh. I just wasn’t able to grasp it. The feeling, that is. The memory. But it had to be something that . . .”

She took a sip of coffee. The steam clung to her face.

“Something what?”

“It had to be something that I’d come across in Washington. Or Quantico. It was very distant. So . . . forgotten and long ago. And I was right. I didn’t need to look very far. When I saw . . . Just a picture of . . . Forget it.”

She tucked her hair behind her ear and didn’t want to let go of the warmth from the mug of coffee. She clutched the cup in both hands and turned her back on Adam.

“My darling.”

“Sit down.”

“Okay,” he said reluctantly.

“All I needed to see was the picture of the academy,” she said so quietly that he had trouble hearing. “Then I remembered. I remembered the class. I remembered the long days, the tiring, demanding, fun . . .”

She approached her reflection in the window, as if it was easier to talk to herself.

“Now I even know which lecture series it was, Behavioral Science. Warren amused us with a lecture he called ‘Proportional Retribution.’”

For a moment, Adam thought he saw the reflection smile.

“Amused us,” she repeated. “That was actually what he did. We laughed. Everyone laughed when Warren wanted us to laugh. It was toward the end of June. Almost summer break. It was warm. Very humid and warm. The air-conditioning in the auditorium was broken. We were sweating. But not Warren. He always seemed so cool—in every sense.”

Slowly she turned around. She lowered her cup. It was empty and hung from her finger by the handle.

“I expend so much effort trying to forget,” she said without looking at him. “Maybe it isn’t that strange that I found it so hard to remember. Although . . .”

Her eyes filled up. She leaned her head back to prevent the tears from running down her face. Adam started to get up again.

“Don’t,” she said harshly.

She smiled suddenly through the tears and wiped her left eye lightly with the back of her hand.

“The lecture was about revenge, people with a strong sense of ‘eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth,’” she said. “About criminals with an exaggerated need for the punishment to fit the crime. At least symbolically. Warren loved things like that. He loved anything that was violent. Clear. Exaggerated.”

“Sit down, Johanne.”

He patted the cushion next to him on the sofa.

“No, I’d rather stand. I have to tell you this. While I still have the energy to do it. Or rather”—another fleeting, thin smile—“when I don’t have the energy not to,” she added.

“To be honest, I have no idea what you’re talking about, Johanne.”

“He told us about five cases,” she continued as if she hadn’t heard him. “One was . . . It was about one of those eccentrics you only find in the States. A slightly twisted, intellectual type. With green fingers. He had a beautiful garden, which he protected, tooth and nail. I can’t remember how he made a living, but he must have had money, because the garden was the jewel of the neighborhood. Then a neighbor sued him over a boundary dispute. The neighbor claimed that the fence was a few yards too far into his property, and the court ruled in his favor, after having put the case through several rounds in the judicial system. I don’t remember all the details. The point is that . . .”

She froze, with the tip of her tongue on her lips and her head cocked.

“Did you hear something?”

“No. Can’t you . . .”

She swallowed and sighed deeply before carrying on.

“The point is that the neighbor was found dead just after the final judgment. His tongue had been cut out and was lying in a folded envelope, made from the cover of
House & Garden
. A magazine. About—”

“Houses and gardens,” said Adam, exasperated. “Can you please sit down? You’re freezing. Come here.”

“Are you listening?”

“Yes, but—”

“His tongue had been cut out! And beautifully wrapped! The most banal, vulgar symbol—”

“I am sure,” he interjected in a quiet voice, “that there are examples of bodies that have been dismembered in that way all over the world, Johanne. Without it having anything to do with the death of Fiona Helle. You said it yourself, it was a long time ago and you don’t remember all—”

“The worst thing is that I do remember,” she burst out. “I remember everything now. Please try to understand, Adam! Don’t you know how . . . hard it is to force yourself to remember something that you have desperately tried to forget? How . . . how much it hurts to—”

“It’s difficult for me to understand something I don’t know about,” Adam retorted and immediately regretted it. “I mean . . . I can see that it’s painful for you. That’s not difficult to—”

“Don’t push it,” she almost screamed. “I will never, ever talk about what happened. I’m just trying to explain to you why this story got hidden. It’s so painfully close to—”

He got up. He grabbed her by the wrists and felt how thin she had become. Her watch, which had been too tight to wear in the last months of pregnancy, was now in danger of slipping off her wrist. Without any resistance, she let him hold her. He stroked her back. He could feel the sharp vertebrae through her sweater.

“You need to start eating,” he said with his face buried in her lifeless and matted hair. “You need to eat and sleep, Johanne.”

“And you need to listen to me,” she cried. “Can’t you just listen to my story? Without asking what . . . Without mixing everything . . .”

With a sudden angry movement, she straightened up and put her hands on his chest.

“Can’t you just stop asking about things that are my business, and my business alone? Can’t you forget that and just listen to what I’m saying?”

“It’s difficult. At some point you’re going to have to—”

“Never. Okay? Never. You promised not—”

“We were getting married the next day, Johanne. I was scared that you’d cancel the whole wedding if I didn’t go along with your demands. It’s different now.”

“Nothing is different.”

“Yes it is. We’re married. We’ve got children. You’re about to . . . You’re upset, Johanne. You’re suffering because of something you refuse to let me in on. And I won’t accept that.”

“You have to.”

He let go of her. They stood there for a while, close but not touching. He was nearly a head taller than her. Johanne lifted her face. There was a darkness in her eyes that he didn’t recognize, and his heart started to race when for a moment he saw something that he thought might resemble . . . hate.

“Johanne,” he whispered.

“I love you,” she said quietly. “But you have to let it lie. Maybe one day I will be able to tell you about what happened between Warren and me. But not now. Not for a long time, Adam. I have spent the last few weeks trying to find my way back to that memory, and it’s been a tough journey. I can’t take any more. I want to leave it behind. To come back. To my life here. To you and the children. Us.”

“Of course,” he said in a hoarse voice. His heart was still pounding.

“But I took a story back with me that I really need to tell. I put a lid on the rest. And it will be there for a long time, maybe forever. But you must . . . you have to listen to what I have to say.”

He swallowed and nodded.

“Shall we sit down?” he said, his voice still raw.

“Don’t be like that,” Johanne said and stroked his cropped head. “Can’t you—”

“You frightened me,” he said, keeping his eyes locked on hers.

They were normal again. Friendly. Johanne’s own normal, friendly eyes.

“I didn’t mean to.”

“Can we sit down?”

“Can you please stop—”

“What?”

“I’m sorry that I frightened you. But you don’t need to treat me as if I’m a casual guest.”

For a moment her eyes were hostile. Not full of hate, as he had felt before, but aggressive and hostile.

“Bullshit,” he said and smiled. “Okay, let’s just drop you and . . . you and Warren. Now tell me the rest.”

He got another cup and poured them both coffee, then sat down on the sofa and patted the cushion beside him.

“Come on,” he said with strained cheerfulness.

“Are you sure?” she asked and took the fresh cup of coffee without sitting down.

“Absolutely.”

His smile still hadn’t reached his eyes.

“Okay,” she said slowly. “The other case was a small-town murder in California. Or . . . yes, it was California. A local politician was literally suffocated with Bible quotations. Nailed to the wall with his mouth full of wet paper. Pages from the poor bastard’s own Bible.”

Johanne’s eyes wandered around the room, as if she needed to find comfort in the security and familiarity it offered before she could continue. Darkness enveloped the house like an insulating cape. It was so quiet that Adam thought he could hear the whirring of his own thoughts. They were careening around in his head, confused and unstructured. What was this? What kind of absurd story was she telling him? How could three murders in Norway in 2004 be connected to a repressed and forgotten lecture in the States thirteen years ago?