When the Devil Holds the Candle (17 page)

His head began shaking faintly. Then he started coughing helplessly, and a gurgling sound came from his throat. His eyes rolled back into his head. And I thought:
Now he's going to die right before my eyes.
And that would have been terrible, but at the same time, it would have been beautiful and magnificent and agonizing. But he didn't die. I plucked at the scarf with two fingers and pulled it down.

***

The resemblance to Andreas was striking. Nicolai Winther was about fifty, tall and slender, with a beak of a nose and eyes that were set deep and close together beneath delicate eyebrows. His hair was long and curly.

"What's he got himself into? Don't you know anything?" He fumbled with the buttons on his jacket, twisting them around and around so that at any moment they might scatter all over the room.

"No. Unfortunately. But there's no reason to believe that anything has happened to him. Sometimes we all need an escape. A little time for ourselves that we don't feel obligated to explain to the whole world. It happens all the time, and Andreas is an adult. But his mother is worried, and it's our job to serve the people."

That was quite a little speech, Skarre thought, taking a deep breath.

"Two days," Winther said. "What the hell have they got into?"

"They? You mean Zipp?"

"Who else?"

"I should remind you that Zipp is at home. He doesn't know anything."

Winther had a coughing fit, interspersed with snorts of laughter. "Don't come here and tell me stories like that. Those two are inseparable."

"Well, yes," Skarre agreed. "It's true they were together on September first, too. But they parted company around midnight, and no one has seen Andreas since then."

Winther tried to relax. "I'm sure he's crossed the line. I've been expecting it."

"What do you mean by that?" Skarre pricked up his ears.

"Something was bound to happen sooner or later. I have always known it."

"How could you know that?"

"Because..." He stared at the floor. "Because there's something about Andreas. Just something. I don't know what it is. He has no ambition."

He walked a few paces away. "It's hard to explain. You don't have any children?"

He looked at Skarre's youthful face.

"No. As you can see, I'm just a kid," he said with a smile, which made Winther grin, quite amiably.

"You've talked to his mother. I suppose you've had an earful."

"She's very worried," Skarre said loyally.

"And unprepared. I've been telling her for a long time. He's a strange boy. I hope to God he hasn't got mixed up with drugs or anything like that. If he's just off on a drinking binge, that's fine. He's probably drunk. Have you checked the hospitals and places like that?"

"That's always the first thing we do. There's quite simply no trace of him. Of course, we're expecting him to turn up at any moment, but to be on the safe side, we want to talk to everyone who is connected with him. When you say that he's different, what do you mean by that?"

Winther thought long and hard. At last he said, "No, what I mean is ... it all started out so well. We had a handsome and healthy boy, and we gave him everything a boy should have—all the opportunities. And he grew up the way most boys do. He was never sick, he never misbehaved or was difficult to deal with. He did well at school, although he wasn't brilliant. But he has no plans or goals in life. He never shows any enthusiasm for anything. Never shows any enthusiasm," he muttered, as if astonished at his own words.

"He's never been interested in cars or bikes or the other things most boys care about. He seems quite content to sit around with Zipp. Andreas has no interests at all. Nothing seems to make an impression on him."

He rubbed at his gaunt jaw with a rough hand. "And you know what?" He stared at Skarre. "That scares me. What's going to become of him?"

Skarre had never heard anyone deliver such a frank and nonidealistic description of his own child before. And Winther wasn't doing it out of malice; he simply felt flummoxed by something beyond his understanding.

"He walks around half asleep, but I have the feeling that something is ticking away inside him, lying dormant. Or maybe that's just wishful thinking."

They were both silent for a while. Skarre tried to place Andreas in some sort of category, but he couldn't find one.

"Are you and Andreas close?"

Winther walked to the window.

"He doesn't let anyone get close."

"What about Zipp?"

"I'm surprised that he chose Zipp—Andreas is far and away his superior. Zipp is forever running to keep up. I wonder if he needs him for some reason."

Skarre made a few notes.

"I don't really know him," Winther went on. "He's my son, but I don't really know him. Sometimes I think there's no one inside him to know."

He said this with his eyes lowered, as if he felt ashamed.

He sat down, rested his chin on his hands and fixed his gaze on Skarre's knees.

"Surely he must have some interests," Skarre said in a feeble attempt to offer some form of consolation.

"He watches a lot of videos. In fact, I think he watches the same one over and over again. It's some kind of futuristic film. Don't you find that sick?"

"Not at all," Skarre said. "Haven't you heard about the man in London who goes to see
Cats
every single Saturday and has done so for eight years now?"

Winther answered with a grave, crooked smile. "I'll have to take your word for that. But otherwise, I suppose that Andreas does have some interest in music. Not singing or playing himself, just listening to it. And not live music, either. Recorded music, on his stereo: a little more bass here, a little less treble there. Special speaker cones. Gold cables. Things like that. Maybe it's not really the music."

"Sound," Skarre ventured. "He's intrigued by sound?"

"Is that something that can intrigue a person?"

"Of course. It's a science."

"But he's not passionate about it," Winther said. "Just interested. He has a job and earns his wages, but he never has any money. He shares what he makes with Zipp. Why in heaven's name would he do that?"

"Because he's a good friend?"

Winther looked at him in surprise.

"So what do you have in mind when you say that Andreas might have got mixed up in something?" Skarre said.

Winther closed his eyes. "What do I mean? Well, that whatever has been ticking inside him has finally exploded."

He smiled at his own melodramatic words.

"As far as you know, has he ever been involved in anything criminal?"

"I have a feeling that he's tried a thing or two, together with Zipp."

"What gives you that feeling?"

"I just have it; it's the kind of thing you can sense with your own child. I've told his mother about it, but she doesn't want to listen. She wants proof."

"So would we, but we're talking about a good-looking, well-functioning young man," Skarre said. "Someone who gets up each day and goes to work and spends his free time with a close friend. And someone who has a clean record, because I have to admit that we checked on that right away. So it's hard to see what the problem could be."

Skarre had been prepared for almost anything. But not for what Winther said next.

"I'm going to tell you something." Winther stood up. "Maybe you won't think it's so strange, but you don't have children. Having children flings you into a whole other world, and I'm not exaggerating. Not having children, you live in a different reality from the one I live in."

"All right, I'll grant you that," Skarre murmured.

"I didn't think much about it when it happened, but I've been thinking about it just now. Every time Andreas had to go to the doctor or dentist to get an injection, or a tooth filled—the kinds of things that children need all the time—we'd be ready for a fuss, thought that he would be scared. That he would scream or shout or at least be a little nervous. But he never was. He didn't care. He would say 'All right,' and off we'd go. And he would sit there as prim as a preacher while the dentist drilled or the doctor gave him a shot. He never made a sound. And I was proud of him: I thought he was so brave. But now, when I think back, it seems rather ... abnormal."

You didn't get the son you wanted,
Skarre thought.
No one ever does. My father didn't, either.
Skarre remembered the fateful day he had gone to see his father. He'd knocked three times on the heavy door of his office, gone in, clasped his hands behind his back, and said in the calmest voice he could muster that he didn't want to study theology; he wanted to enroll at the Police Training College. And he was certain to get in, because he had excellent grades and was in first-rate physical condition. Then he had stood there wearing a mental bulletproof vest, steeling himself for what would follow, the devastating response. First his father speared him with a furious gaze. Then his voice stabbed at Skarre's chest like a knife, and in two minutes he had completely flayed him, picked him clean. His father's despair had felt like boiling water against his raw flesh: He wouldn't accuse him of anything or try to persuade him to change his mind, but he was perfectly entitled, he pointed out, to express his boundless disappointment. Then he had got up
and left. Later, he'd asked Skarre to forgive him. Since his son had made up his mind, he would of course support him, provided he became the best police officer he could possibly be. The memory prompted a sad smile.

"You need to put pressure on Zipp," Winther said urgently. "He obviously knows something. And since he's not admitting it, it must be something serious. Something they did. Do you understand?"

"Yes. I do understand, and I believe you. We'll keep working on the case. We'll use this as a starting point."

After he left, Skarre thought about the promise he had made to Winther. At the same time he was seized with a strong feeling that something very serious might have happened to Andreas after all.

***

I screamed a loud, piercing scream that echoed through the cellar. He stared at me, then tried to say something, but I turned and scrambled up the steps, knocking into the wire of the light-bulb, which began swinging back and forth. The circle of light swept over the cellar. I slammed the trapdoor shut, ran to the front door and opened it, trying to calm down. I stood on the steps for a moment, gasping, then, as calmly as I could, I walked down the gravel path to the back garden. I didn't understand. Why was this happening to me? The flowers had begun to wither. I was withering, too; I could hardly keep my knees from buckling. I was looking for something to keep my hands busy, some simple task, when I caught sight of the chair. One of the patio chairs—under the kitchen window! I stood there dumbfounded, trying to understand what it was doing there. Who had been standing on it, looking in? A horrible possibility occurred to me: there were two of them. Originally, there had been two! The other one must have waited in the garden and carried the
chair over to the window. I thought I was going to faint. But then I thought, No, it must have been the one in the cellar who had stood there, looking inside before making his attack. I picked up the chair and carried it with some difficulty up the two steps into the gazebo. If there had been two of them, and the other one had waited in the garden and knew that his friend was still in the house, he would have come to the door a long time ago. I tried to force my body to stay calm, but my feet began to tremble, and the trembling spread upward. I was shaking with indignation. I went back inside and stomped hard on the kitchen floor. In a fury, I lifted up the trapdoor and shrieked down the stairs at him.

"I don't own a thing! Just some old silverware! Why did you come here?"

"I don't know," he sobbed.

Crying was too much of a strain for his injured body, and his tears dried up. I stood there for a moment, looking down at him. He seemed so pitiful, so small and alone. I was sniffling, unable to control my emotions, and that frightened me. I usually have control of things, and now I felt as if I were breaking up. Even so, I went down again and sat next to him. I picked up the glass of water and held it out.

"Can't do it," he muttered desperately.

"You must. Otherwise you'll die."

He howled in despair, but I hardened my nerves and pressed the glass to his lips. He opened his mouth and I poured in the water. He coughed violently again, spraying water into my face.

"Can't do it," he sobbed.

"I'll arrange things so someone finds you," I said dully.

"Do it now!" he coughed. "What are you waiting for?"

I swallowed hard. At that moment I felt thoroughly ashamed.

"I thought you were dead."

He didn't reply. Not a muscle in his body moved. To think that anyone could lie so still! I'm not an evil person. But something had entered my house that I couldn't control. I live alone. There was no one to help me. For an eternity I sat on the cellar steps with my forehead resting on my knees. Not a sound from below. The only thing I noticed was the smell of mold and potatoes and dust. But later I heard a rushing in my ears that was very faint at first, but grew louder. As if someone had turned over an hourglass. The sand had started running through.

Skarre's curls always attracted attention. This time it was a teenage girl at the newsstand who was staring at him. To no avail, because he was preoccupied with other matters. Winther was right, of course. Zipp was hiding something. The certainty of this was as strong in him as his faith in God. What was it that Sejer had said? People always have some reason to keep quiet, and it doesn't even have to be a very good reason. At the same time, he understood the seriousness of the situation. This was no jaunt on the ferry to Denmark. He was jolted out of his train of thought as the line moved forward. He was fourth. In front of him stood an older woman wearing a brown coat. When he looked over her shoulder, he could see into her shopping cart. It always amused him to look at other people's shopping. He would come to some funny conclusions based on what they were buying. This woman had a baby bottle made of clear plastic, antiseptic and cotton balls, three bottles of bleach, and a lantern for tea candles from the hardware section. Didn't she need any food? He craned his neck and looked at other carts. Usually there was a sense of order, things that naturally belonged together, such as a gallon of milk, a loaf of bread, coffee, and frozen cutlets. Or a case of beer, two bags of chips, a copy of
We Men
magazine, and a pack of cigarettes. Or diapers, jars of baby food, toilet paper, and bananas. But the items in the cart in front of him seemed somewhat chaotic. He was having fun. He stared at the nubbly fabric of her coat. Now she was moving forward again, with a good grip on her cart. She was of average height, stout and heavy. Since he could only see her from the back, it was difficult to say whether she was in her fifties or her sixties. Her hair was gray and permed into tight, neat curls. She wore short boots with thick heels. He wondered about the baby bottle; it must be for a grandchild. He looked into his own cart, which contained onions, paprika, rice, a quart bottle of Coke, three newspapers, and a bag of Seigmenn jelly beans. He patted his pocket to check that he had cigarettes. Maybe he should get a pack of Magic too, from the stock lined up behind the checkout counter—maybe while staring deep into the eyes of the woman cashier, he'd say: "Imagine, I nearly forgot the most important thing of all!" It was a game he played. Skarre moved forward. The woman in the brown coat put her shopping on the conveyer belt, paid, and packed everything into a bag. Not a word spoken, not even a "please" or a "thank you." She didn't look the cashier in the eye; she seemed wrapped in her own world. Then she disappeared through the doors. Skarre caught sight of something at the end of the counter. She had forgotten the baby bottle.