Sohlberg and the Gift (11 page)

Trying as hard as he could Sohlberg could not calculate the ages of the decrepit man and woman. He couldn’t tell if they were in their 60s or 80s. But one thing was obvious and certain: both grandparents had been aged—ravaged—by a life of hard living pickled in tobacco and alcohol. Sohlberg thought it was a miracle that Astrid Isaksen and her healthy peaches-and-cream complexion could survive this den of nicotine and 90-proof grain alcohol.

“Thanks for letting me come visit you. I wanted to talk about—”

“I’m dying,” said the grandfather who spoke in the strange solitary soliloquy of the dying. He seemed to hear conversations from other people who were not in the room or in this dimension.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“They never told us at the navy shipyards. Just fix this or that. Or . . . clean this and that. Yes sir! . . . Aye aye captain! . . . No one told us about the asbestos. Just pretty words about serving King and Country. What a fraud.

“Where’s my King now that I need him?

“Where’s my Country when it should’ve protected me from the asbestos?

“Where were my Olav and Harald the Fifths?

“What good are these kings?

“They just want me and other chumps to bow down and stare at them in their pretty uniforms at their parades and their weddings and their funerals. Mind you . . . no royals . . . no majesties will be attending my funeral . . . will they? . . . Any chance?”

“No,” said Sohlberg. “None.”

Herr Isaksen turned and looked at Sohlberg for a long time before he said:

“This . . . they call it lung cancer. But it’s just another name for pain. In pain we come into the world . . . pain is what we leave behind. They call this lung cancer terminal . . . but so is life.”

Sohlberg turned when the dying man pointed at an empty spot at Sohlberg’s right.

“Anne-Sophie! . . . You’re here at last. Inspector . . . do you know my little Annie? . . . I actually look forward to dying . . . except for leaving Mama behind. Yes! . . . I look forward to my cremation. Going up and flying away in that pure blue flame. Burn me blue baby. Burn me blue.”

The monologue for the dead and the living lapsed as suddenly as it began. A serene fog misted Isaksen’s eyes which eventually closed shut.

While Isaksen slept the fitful sleep of the dying Sohlberg had to admit that the Viking ancestors had it right: burn the body on a fiery boat pyre; free the soul; let it sail away on a new journey into the eternities—The Great Beyond.

Time passed. Eventually Sohlberg cleared his throat and said:

“Herr Isaksen . . . I came to talk about your granddaughter Astrid Isaksen.”

“What? . . . Who?”

“Your granddaughter . . . Astrid Isaksen.”

“She’s a feisty one. Just like her mother. She’s got a good head on her shoulders. She’ll do well.”

“Tell me about her parents.”

“Parents? No one gives you an instruction manual . . . do they? . . . Even if you got one it always turns out you did everything wrong. Too late then to do anything about it. Don’t you understand? . . . I ran out of time. If I could only do it all over again. Time! . . . I need time. I never had enough time with my daughter . . . oh my beautiful dead daughter.”

Sohlberg looked away from the sobbing man and softly said, “Yes.”

“It’s too late. Too damn late.
Too little too late
. Put that on my tombstone.”

“Astrid came to see me this past Monday. She told me some incredible things . . . she said that her father—”

“Father? . . . He’s no father. No sir. Just donated some D.N.A. That’s all he did. That dirty rotten bastard of Jakob Gansum ruined everything. He ruined my daughter ever since they was kids. Got her to stealing. Lying. Knocks her up . . . and knocks her around! Wouldn’t leave her . . . wouldn’t marry her. Gets her into drugs. Ruined. All ruined.”

“Gansum is a dog,” interjected the grandmother. “Slept around all the time behind her back. Gave her no love but herpes and more.” She pointed at the liquor bottles and the IV line. “Do you think we were always like this?

“No. We were fine people once. Good family. That Jakob Gansum . . . the snake slides inside our paradise. He comes to destroy . . . to ruin.
You don’t have to be a murderer to kill a family
. You can do it slowly . . . over time . . . break hearts with insults and deceptions . . . lies and letdowns . . . hopes dashed over and over. . . . One disappointment after the other. . . it all adds up.”

Sohlberg was about to ask a question but the grandmother raised her hand.

“Let me give you an example of how you kill off a family. Jakob Gansum was always in and out of our lives . . . in and out of my daughter’s life . . . in and out . . . same goes for Astrid. Gone for years and years. Then out of the blue he writes here and she gets the letter that weekend and she opens it because we were at the hospital. If we had been here I would’ve burned the letter and she would’ve never known more about him.”

“Burn it,” yelled the grandfather. “Astrid should’ve never read his lies . . . his insanities. He’s responsible for all this. Might as well have killed our daughter.”

“He did,” said the grandmother. “Broke her heart. He broke her.”

Sholberg looked around. “Is Astrid here?”

“No,” said the grandmother. “She’s staying with one of her school girlfriends. The family’s real nice. They were going to the movies and didn’t want her coming up here so late . . . especially with the storm. We’ll see her next weekend.”

“Who are you?” yelled the grandfather who studied the politiinspektør as if he had just stepped into the room.

“I’m with the police . . . I’m Chief Inspector Sohlberg.”

“Police? . . . Lot of good you’re doing showing up now. For so many years we wondered why Jakob Gansum had never been arrested for his thefts and drug deals and fencing stolen property and plenty of other crimes. Of course we later found out that he’s an informant. A snitch. That’s why you police would never arrest him. He was
your
man.”

“I wanted to ask you about—”

“About what? You have nothing to ask me. No sir. I’m the one who has something to ask you. Is that understood?”

“Yes . . . that’s okay if you have questions. But I want you to tell me if—”

“I’ll tell you but first tell me this . . . why did my daughter have to die so young?”

“I . . . I don’t know.”

“Lot of good you are,” said the grandfather. “But what I most need is time. Time! It’s time that I need. More time! Don’t you understand? Right now . . . I’m running out of time.”

“We’re all running out of time,” added the grandmother. “It’s the one thing we just don’t have in this world.”

A deep hacking cough attacked the grandfather.

“Everything hurts! . . . Oh my God . . . it hurts . . . it’s eating through my spine. . . .” A litany of complaints followed in the obsessive and egotistical manner of the aged and the sick and the dying.

Sohlberg realized that he would glean nothing more from the grandparents for his investigation. The Isaksen house was a house of grief and anger and dying. Nothing would be shared here other than pain and grief and anger. Nothing would change in this house until both grandparents reunited with their dead daughter.

“I must be going. Thank you for your time.”

The frigid but fresh air was a welcome relief. The lengthening shadows from the pine trees reminded Sohlberg that he still had miles to go in the investigation. He accepted the fact that not all interviews yield the desired results. Dead ends and false starts are part and parcel of detective work. More than anything the shivering detective wanted to get back home to think about the Janne Eide case and read his favorite books and enjoy Fru Sohlberg’s company in the warmth and shelter of their home.

Astrid Isaksen.

What did you get me into?

What did I let you get me into?

Chapter 6/Seks

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 7, OR

FIVE DAYS AFTER THE DAY

I would very much like to go with you and help you. Teach you.

No thanks. I think killing is something you need to do alone. And learn on your own.

I’d teach you all the tricks. How to get in and out fast. Invisible. Like the wind.

I don’t want fast. I want slow. I want to enjoy every minute of every hour of every day I’m slicing and dicing her.

We’d be good together. The Troubadour and The Falconer.

No. You’d want to do it all by yourself. You can’t control yourself.

I have control. How do you think I snuffed out fifty and three.

Fifty and three.

Each one better than the last.

You told me you only done two.

Two that I got caught on. That’s all they have on me. That’s all the police think I did. Fools.

I want to do this on my own.

Tell you what. I’ll let you share with one of mine.

No. I got a one-track mind. And that track only ends at the station called She Is Dead.

You need me. I’ll show you how to find her.

I’ll find her. Sooner or later.

No you won’t. That’s why you will sooner or later come to me and ask me. . . . You’ll beg me to help you.

We’ll see. Help is on the way.

The letter.

Yes.

A man can’t hang all his hopes on one letter.

Sometimes a man has to hope against all hope.

You really are crazy.

That’s rich. You’re the one who cut that little girl to pieces and ate part of her. You sewed up the remaining parts.

I wanted to see if she’d live. You know. Some doctor could later sew her back together. They do it for fingers and hands and arms and legs and feet. Don’t they.

Buddy. There ain’t no doctor in the world who can reattach a human body.

Well now. Sometimes a man has to hope against all hope.

~ ~ ~

Sunday morning at the Sohlberg household typically involved him getting up at nine or so to read one of the books that he had been reading the night before. At ten he would make an omelette for Fru Sohlberg and spend the rest of the morning reading newspapers and magazines with her. But that Sunday at 7:00 A.M. Sohlberg showered and dressed as quietly as he could.

“So you’re leaving,” said Fru Sohlberg while she cast him an accusatory eye from her side of the bed. “Will you be back by dinner?”

“I hope so.”

“But Sunday is
my
time . . . you have no crime scene to go to . . . right?”