She could do it. She could end this little turd. The world wouldn’t give a shit. Jiji would be free. The idea took hold, laying down roots in her mind and soul. One hit. Really hard. That’s all it would take.
A car horn beeped loudly, followed by whoops and catcalls about big tits from the drunk men inside, jolting Rey back to reality. She glanced around, but the car had driven on. There were a handful of people aimlessly wandering along the pavements. All witnesses, should she actually kill the prick at her feet. Rey exhaled loudly, breathing out the notion of murder—no matter how justified.
Sidestepping an unconscious Jason, Rey dragged Jiji into the foyer, then into the lift which lurched up to the third floor. They sauntered down the orange-carpeted corridor to their shared room. A flash of the key card and the door popped open. Rey dropped Jiji onto the bed.
Jiji lay there, exactly as she had been dumped, arms and legs awkward. A drunken moan escaped her lips.
Rey sighed heavily and pulled at Jiji’s limbs to straighten her out. Sleeping that way would have just been painful. As Jiji twisted onto her back, her top rode high, revealing more discoloration around her midriff. Rey touched it lightly, her fingertips barely glancing the bruises. Jiji instinctively pulled down her clothes, covering herself again. A slurred complaint came, but it was unintelligible.
“What am I gonna do with you?” Rey whispered.
Surprisingly, Jiji answered. Half asleep. Probably only half aware. “We’re ... not all as strong ... as you, Rey.” She then snorted and rolled onto her side.
Rey sat on the edge of the bed for a while, not speaking.
No one was as strong as she was.
Strength took discipline and logic. She’d let her guard down once and hurt Michael. Destroyed something good. Most people had no sense of self-reflection. They couldn’t see themselves for what they were. Rey was strong, but she wasn’t a good person. The poor handling of her marriage to Michael had been the turning point. Her event horizon. Anger bubbled under the surface, ready to pour out at the slightest provocation. She managed to keep a calm facade in her professional life. People admired her at work and her academic achievements, but Rey knew what she was: a monster. Cold and calculating—a sociopath, hiding in plain sight. Was that a bad thing? If she focused her anger on assholes like Jason Hill, maybe she could be a force for good.
Only a monster can do bad things for the right reasons.
Oslo, Norway, 2016
The metro ride didn’t take too long. Rey moved with determination, knowing these steps were penultimate to her victory and escape. Once on that flight, she was home free. She walked through the market square, half expecting a wall of police officers to block her path, but there was only a throng of citizens clamping their coats closed against a chill that would not abate. Rey mused on whether she had brought the cold with her to Norway, and whether the warmth would return once she’d left. While not God-fearing, Rey held a tiny prayer that she would leave the evil behind in this place—just as she’d planned.
She reached the steps to the front door, dashed up and into the foyer, then hovered, mulling over what she was to do next. A young person with oversized spectacles, and pixie-cut hair, wearing cord trousers and a brown cardigan, called out from behind the reception desk. The name badge simply read Dakota. They looked up, pushed the specs onto their nose and studied Rey’s disheveled appearance.
“Kan jeg hjlpe deg?” Dakota said.
“No, no I’m fine,” Rey said, eyeing Dakota shrewdly. She pounded up several flights of stairs and entered a horribly carpeted corridor.
She checked the passage for other signs of life. When Rey was satisfied she was alone, she slipped her hand into the deep pot of a plant standing by the window for the hidden spare keycard. Her fingers felt through the moist soil. Nothing.
Shit, they best not have found it. She’d have to go back to reception for a new one, and that would complicate things. She dug a little deeper and sighed in relief as the familiar thin plastic shape brushed her fingertips. Rey dug it out.
The lock peeped once, and Rey pushed into the room, which had already been cleaned by the hostel staff. That was okay—her bag was locked with a combination.
With considerable effort, Rey lowered to the floor, reached under the bed, and slid out her small red suitcase. A thin layer of dust had already collected on top. She fiddled with the combination lock, then popped open the case. A quick rifle through revealed everything was in order. A change of clothes, travel documents, an extraordinarily expensive wig made from real human hair dyed flame red and, of course, a few chocolate bars to snack on.
Rey slumped onto the bed and let out a long sigh—one she felt as if she’d been holding since all this began. It was finally done. The last one was dead. The cop chasing her was either dead from his heart attack or hospitalized.
A small smile slid across Rey’s lips but slipped away. Got to get moving. She checked her watch. The flight was only a few hours away. Rey rubbed her bald head, the smooth skin a painful reminder of the hair she once had, then jerked into action. She struggled her skinny frame from her clothes, all elbows and knees it seemed, then headed to the shower.
The water ran hot, steam filling the bathroom and billowing out into the rest of the hotel room. Rey’s skin tightened as the water cascaded over her shoulders. It had been forever since she could clean herself of the street grime and the stench of her victims. Still, no matter how much free hotel shower gel she slathered on, the metallic scent of blood had taken residence in her nose and refused to vacate.
Rey patted herself down with a towel to absorb as much of the water running down her thin body as possible, then wiped a stripe through the condensation in the mirror. She stared at her face and watched her features fade as the steam formed once more. Would it be so easy to disappear now? Could she blend into society and live a normal life? Talk to other people as they whined about their annoying little lives and their silly little burdens—all the while knowing in her own head she’d murdered men. Bludgeoned them to death and gotten away with it. The police had been so close and still not been able to catch her.
Adrenaline trickled into her bloodstream and Rey felt her atrophied limbs come to life. This was the only thing to make her feel anything without the aid of a song—murder. Was she now addicted to vengeance? The thought of going home to her son filled her with undeniable joy, but she equally dreaded the mundane.
But, then, why didn’t she feel free?
A loud bang from the room downstairs sent a wave through the bathroom floor. Shouting followed, muffled but deep. Men’s voices. Rey’s eyes widened.
No, not now. Too soon.
She scrambled from the bathroom, slipping on the wet tiled floor. The sink broke her fall, but the force of landing on her elbows jarred her shoulder. Rey winced, holding the injured joint, and padded naked into the bedroom.
The shouting died down.
Rey grabbed her clothes and pulled them on, though they stuck to her wet skin, making the whole ordeal take far too much time. She pulled on the short boots without bothering with socks and slipped into the black leather jacket. Finally, and quite out of breath, Rey pulled on the wig and stood for a moment, staring into the small mirror. A quick adjustment, then Rey scooped up her travel documents and headed for the window.
Even with the window pulled completely inward, the resulting gap was small. Rey put one boot on the desk and hauled herself up. Below was the back of the hostel where overflowing garbage bins sat on a cobbled street, concealed from view. There were no cops on this side, which had been a calculated risk. But since there was no fire escape running on the outside of the building, it was an unlikely exit route.
Rey breathed a sigh of relief and then didn’t inhale, her focus now on the part of the escape plan she dreaded having to execute—jumping. Rey despised heights. Murder was easy, but staring down at the stone below made her feel numb—a sensation that crawled up her legs and into her stomach. An odd feeling,
to Rey’s mind, being terrified and equally having the intense desire to launch herself off the ledge.
Rey grabbed up her bag, and passport, then cautiously slipped her slight body through the gap and eased herself onto the ledge that was no more than a couple of inches wide. Her stomach roiled and vision blurred. If she got this wrong, she’d probably break her spine on the edge of the garbage bin or smash her skull on the road.
Rey took a deep breath, fixed her stare on her target—the largest garbage bin some three feet wide and five feet long—and pushed off. The short fall was just that, short. No time to brace for impact or curl into a ball. She crashed feet-first into the rubbish-filled container.
There was little in the way of padding.
Rey yelped as her ankle twisted beneath her, and she fell back against the metal.
For a moment, Rey laid there, her wig askew on her head, ankle and already injured hip throbbing. She knew as soon as she put weight on her leg she would be in anguish. There was no time to stay still, though, now that the cops were already there.
Rey adjusted her wig, then grabbed the rim of the container and pulled herself upright, careful not to put any weight on her injured leg. A brief scan of the street confirmed no cops were anywhere behind the hostel. With considerable effort, Rey pushed up and straightened her elbows so that she now hovered above the floor of the bin like a gymnast. She swung her good leg over the edge and rolled over the top, then dropped down the outside.
Though she landed on her good foot, the impact alone sent a shudder through her that reignited the anguish in the torn ligament of her other leg. Rey stifled a yelp, one hand clasped to her mouth.
“Fuck, that hurts.”
Another scan of the street for good measure. Nothing.
Rey patted herself down, brushing away as much of the debris, dust, and dirt from the garbage. The wig felt off, so she again adjusted it for a better fit and hoped that it looked passable. Back straight and jaw locked, Rey took a step forward. The electric stab of pain shot through her ankle and straight into her hip, causing another muffled scream.
“C’mon, Rey. Deal with it, you’re almost home,” she whispered through clenched teeth.
She steeled herself once more, and slowly placed pressure on her bad leg. Her ankle burned and Rey grimaced, but she kept putting weight on her limb. A quick skip and she was on her good foot.
Okay, she thought, so I can walk.
Each step made her want to cry, but Rey hobbled on. With every painful move forward, she gritted her teeth and added just a little more weight so that by the time she’d emerged from the alley, her limp was barely noticeable. At least, that’s what she hoped.
A police car was parked out front of the hostel, a single officer leaning on the bonnet. He didn’t seem too alert. Rey searched for concealed cops. There didn’t appear to be any. If this were really the case, then Rey knew they weren’t there for her as the King Kubb Killer. For that, they would likely have brought SWAT or something. No, this was a small outfit. Probably not even for the boys in Tøyen. This visit was probably for the assault on the doctor.
Rey huffed out a breath through her nose. Time to go.
As boldly as she could, Rey stepped from the shadows and marched toward the other side of the street. The cop fixed his gaze on Rey. Without breaking character, Rey kept walking, sticking to her mission to get out of the market square and onto the metro. In her periphery, the officer checked something in his hand, then glanced back at her.
Rey’s heart pounded harder.
Come on rent-a-cop. Let it go.
The officer stood from the car’s hood and took another step closer to her.
Rey pushed on, now having decided it was probably better to actually pass quite closely by the officer and be nonchalant about it.
The young policeman kept his gaze on Rey as she approached, and it made both her cheeks and her ankle burn hot. Now, within ten feet of him, he could get a really good look. She offered a sweet smile but was sure it looked more like a horrible grimace. The kind of bad flirtation when too drunk in a bar.
The officer smiled back. “Hvordan er dagen din?”
Shit, think, Rey. Quick! “God, takk,” Rey said, praying to anyone who’d listen that she’d said the right thing.
The officer doffed his hat and sat back on the bonnet of his vehicle.
Rey bobbed her head in response and kept walking.
Once out of the main square, Rey darted into an alley and slumped against a wall, panting hard, heart drumming out a baseline. Her vision speckled and ankle burning, she huffed out a controlled breath and closed her eyes.
“Get it together.”
Rey checked the time. She’d taken too long in the shower. Her plan to use the metro, to slip into the crowd, was not an option now. Rey needed to make her flight.
Rain began to fall, but it was so cold it would likely soon transform to sleet or even snow. Rey pushed off the wall and hobbled to the end of the alleyway, which opened out into another little square of cobblestones and brightly colored buildings. There at the curb, letting out a passenger, was a Mercedes with a white taxi light shining like a halo on the roof.
Rey shuffled forward and reached for the door just as another woman did. She gave Rey a scathing stare and muttered something in Norwegian.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Rey said, stepping back with her head low. The movement was enough to let the wig slip from her head. Rey grabbed it up, feigning embarrassment.
The woman inhaled sharply and backed away two paces, her gestures offering Rey the ride.
Rey thanked her profusely, readjusted her wig, and climbed into the back of the car.
“Airport,” she said. “Quickly please.”
The cab pulled away, passing a caravan of news vehicles tearing toward the hotel.
Oslo, Norway, 2016
Arne stood in front of the hostel, his police-issue weapon holstered beneath his long coat, heart beating out an erratic rhythm. It was the first time he’d taken his gun into the field for as long as he could remember. He’d never really felt he needed it before. His detective status gave him some immunity, even against murderers. The benefits of living in a Nordic country. This wasn’t America.
Today, he wasn’t so confident.
Georgina Thompson was different. She was out to kill men just like him—in fact, he was sure she’d come to kill him. Ironically, his heart attack had probably spared his life. The question was: spared it for what? His career was all but over now. Even when they caught this psycho, he’d have to ‘fess up about how they found her. What would be left after that? Perhaps his reprieve was to make amends somehow. With his job gone, the only thing he had left, what was the point in holding on to anything? Even hate. Aslaug, after more than a decade, deserved an apology. One that would likely be thrown in his face, but an apology all the same.
It really hadn’t occurred to him that he hadn’t apologized. His father never had, because wives were supposed to support their husbands, the heads of households. Arne’d been angry and hurt for so long, based on this assumption. He’d believed he was mad at her for driving him to do what he had. In retrospect, and under the harsh spotlight of his recent near demise, it was clear he’d been angry at himself.
Aslaug, of course, hated him. And then there was Clara. Maybe, just maybe, he could salvage something there. He could bring Bamse to her home and tell her how sorry he was and how much he loved her. If he was lucky, she’d invite him in and forgive him. A lump formed in his throat and hope drained from his heart.
Wishful thinking. She probably hated him even more than Aslaug.
Still, apologies were all that Huakaas had left now.
“Huakaas?”
Arne glanced up at his partner.
“You ready to do this?” Huus asked.
Huakaas nodded, though his chest hurt, and his legs were rubbery. He’d catch this bitch if it killed him. Which it actually might. Followed by Huus and two police officers, a third le
ft by the squad car, Huakaas marched into the lobby. A startled receptionist leaped to their feet. Arne eyed their name badge, then flashed his own credentials.
“My name is Detective Huakaas, this is Detective Huus,” he said.
“I called you about one of your guests, Georgina Thompson,” Huus interjected.
“Oh, yes,” Dakota replied.
“We’d like to see her room. We have a warrant.” Another flash of paperwork the person clearly didn’t have time to read.
“Sure, the first floor. I’ll let you in,” the receptionist said.
A moment later, Dakota had created a new keycard to the room and was leading Huakaas and Huus up the stairs. A few paces down the corridor and they stood in front of the door.
Dakota knocked. “Hello, Ms. Thompson?”
No answer.
“Shall I open it?” the young person replied.
“Wait,” Huus said, then put his ear to the door. “You hear that?”
Arne frowned and leaned in closer. Sure enough, there was a voice. Someone was speaking. It was quiet, but there. Huakaas unholstered his pistol. “Give me the key,” he said to Dakota.
“I’m sorry, hostel policy. I need to be the one—”
Arne glared at the receptionist, who then sheepishly handed over the keycard.
Huus, his firearm in hand, gave Huakaas a nod.
The card was touched to the sensor and the lock clicked open.
Huus shoved the door, his gun pointed into the room. “This is the police!”
Arne and Huus waited, weapons ready, letting the room breathe.
No movement.
Cautiously they shuffled in and swept the environment, their guns trained.
Empty.
“Fuck it all to hell,” Arne said, lowering his pistol, which felt like a lead weight in his hand.
“What the hell is that music?” Huus asked, then stomped over to the desk at the window where a small MP3 player sat docked into a set of speakers. A single track played on repeat. That was what they’d heard through the door.
A Time For Monsters Page 16
