While her siblings tended to the small gathering of people, Rey had snuck back to the family home and broken in. The will might not have said she could have any keepsakes or memories, but Rey was damned if she’d walk away with nothing. She’d rifled through her mom’s belongings looking for a specific set of earrings and matching necklace. Rey had bought them with money she’d been given when she had been sent to a camp one summer. The camp had been free, but the money was so Rey could buy sweets and chocolate—just as the other kids would—at the local tuck shop. Rey had used the cash to buy the cheap jewelry, from H. Samuels, complete with sparkly fake sapphires and faux diamonds. The gift had been meant to be a sort of protective ward or amulet while she was away.
As Rey dug through the drawers, she’d come across her mom’s chemotherapy pills buried under socks. Holding the little white bottle had kick-started the realization that breast cancer was hereditary, which had thrown Rey, once again, into a panicked spiral. Her mom was truly gone, far too young, and Rey would likely face the same fate. All the while, Joe lived on. Rey had fled, never having found the precious jewelry.
“Poor girl,” the nurse said. That one sounded genuine.
“Hmm,” Jiji replied.
“Look, I’ll leave you with her for a while. She’s still sleeping.” The nurse seemed to want to escape the horror story that was Rey’s life.
A shuffle of scrubs indicated the nurse had left.
The room was silent for a while, save the peeping of the heart monitor.
“I know yer awake, Rey,” Jiji said.
Rey didn’t move, hoping if she just maintained the façade, Jiji would go away.
Jiji sighed.
Rey heard her take a seat next to the bed.
“Look, if ya don’t wanna speak to me, I get it, right. You’ve been through a helluva lot. But I’m here for ya. I ain’t goin’ anywhere. Ya hear me?”
Rey’s chest cramped, pain pulsating out from deep within. Jiji had always been there, stuck to Rey’s ship like a barnacle. Was she a help or a hindrance? Yes, she was there when things went to shit, but she also had a big mouth and seemed to have no qualms about opening it at the most inopportune moments. Then, of course, there was the string of abusive boyfriends—constant reminders of Rey’s past. Jiji should just leave and get out of Rey’s life, for both their sakes.
“I know you like music,” Jiji continued. “I heard this today. On P!nk’s new album right? Weird when you find a perfect song, just at the right time, ya know? Of course, ya do. Anyway.” Jiji slipped headphones over Rey’s ears. “For you. It’s called ‘The Great Escape.’”
Piano notes rang out slowly for a couple of bars before P!nk’s famously scratchy, blues-tainted voice filled Rey’s head. Immediately, her heart stuttered. From the opening line to the end, the song was perfect. There were few songs like that, where every lyric, every word, truly resonated. Often it was only a verse, maybe two. But this one, this song, was perfection. A heartbreaking ballad describing a woman talking to her depressed, suicidal friend—how she understands that while everyone else just wants to smooth over the pain and pretend it doesn’t exist, she’ll just stand by her side no matter what. And even when her friend has shut herself off from the world and is ready to end it all, the woman won’t let her make the great escape. Because in the end, all that made her friend hurt, all that anguish and experience, would one day save her life.
Rey could hardly breathe, her fight to hold on to her resolve and keep Jiji—keep everyone—away, fading. She was alone and afraid, and for all her strength she couldn’t do it by herself anymore. Rey choked a sob.
Jiji said nothing, climbed onto the creaky gurney with Rey, and pulled her close.
“I love you,” Jiji whispered.
Rey just cried and cried, until she ran out of air and tears.
Oslo, Norway, 2016
Rey swayed in the cube-like restroom as the airplane hit a small patch of turbulence. She clutched the sink with one hand and the open bottle of Xeloda with the other. She’d been in there for fifteen minutes already and was sure there’d be a queue outside. Rey peered inside the white bottle. “You’ve served your purpose,” she said.
An ache deep within her replied. Rey knew she should have ditched the chemo much earlier, but it was hard to let go. Those tiny, chalky, oval tabs were the last piece of her mom. Ditching them here was tantamount to flushing her mother into a chemical toilet to be dumped over the sea.
Her mom had been through a different kind of hell. As a child, Rey had always considered her mom brave for taking the brunt of Joe’s abuse. She’d also been very strict, ensuring that Rey and her siblings didn’t step so far out of line as to antagonize their father and incur his wrath. More than that, she’d given them everything she had—her time and energy and love. Perhaps, in the end, it had been too much giving. By the time Rey had been an adult, pregnant, suicidal, and thirty-two, her mother had no more to give. No more protection, no more advice. So, she’d told Rey to get a professional.
It had been devastating to be rejected. Thrown away. They’d stopped speaking.
And then Rey’s mom had died before they could reconcile, leaving yet another hole in Rey’s soul that couldn’t be patched or sewn together. Rey had told herself that the murders of the abusive men were as much for her mother as they were for herself. Then again, her mom was dead and could take no solace in it. Dead was dead. There was no afterlife. Rey felt the familiar panic that came with contemplating her demise. It crept over her and soaked into her gut. She shook her head and clenched her jaw.
Got to let it all go, Rey.
Bottom lip firmly gripped between her teeth, Rey tipped the container. The tablets rattled on the metal of the empty toilet bowl. She closed the toilet lid and pressed the flat button on the wall. A full second delay was followed by a powerful sucking sound and final gurgle. The chemo was gone.
“Bye, Mum,” she said.
Now fixed on her reflection, Rey pulled off the wig and rubbed at her bald head. The skin was pimpled and sore. She’d never worn a wig before. The whole point of the chemo had been to reduce the chance of her hair being left at a scene, and of course to remove her fingerprints. Capecitabine, in large enough doses, had been known to make the fingertips smooth in some patients. It had been a long shot, but it had worked on her. The added benefit was being able to play the sympathy card. People were afraid of sickness, and almost always kept their distance.
Rey sucked in a determined breath, slid the wig back on—adjusted it for fit—then exhaled slowly and unlocked the bathroom door. As predicted, three sour-faced people waited. Rey squeezed past them, then meandered to her seat next to the aisle. There was only one other person in her row; an elderly lady who had been determined to have her seat right next to Rey, rather than take any of the four free places. Rey shuffled, eyeing the other places herself. She maneuvered to make her escape when the old woman spoke up.
“Holiday?” she said.
“I’m sorry?” Rey replied, hovering an inch above the seat.
“I was visiting my son. He moved out there for work.”
“You sound American.”
“Chicago,” the old woman said.
Rey eyed the skinny woman with purplish curled hair, a full face of makeup, clutching a leather bag that must have been as old as she was. “You flew from Chicago to Oslo?”
The woman gave a big dentured smile. “Of course! I’m so proud of him. He’s such a good boy. Grew up in Fuller Park, who would have guessed he’d be living the good life in Europe.”
The geography and social structure of Chicago was not within Rey’s wheelhouse of knowledge, but from the context it would seem Fuller Park was a bad neighborhood. So, Rey nodded and sat properly, now realizing she wasn’t escaping any time soon.
“That’s multiple flights for you,” she said.
“Three each way.” The old lady beamed.
Rey guessed her neighbor’s age to be at least seventy.
&n
bsp; “That’s a big effort on your part.” There was genuine surprise in Rey’s voice. She’d never really known family to make so much effort. No one had visited her once she’d left Plymouth for her PhD, and then gone on to have a career at the Met.
“He’s my son.”
Rey smiled. That was the only answer that was needed.
The woman opened her mouth to speak, probably to ask if Rey had kids, too, then promptly shut it having scanned Rey’s gaunt face. Perhaps the wisdom of old age had told her that such a question for a woman who was clearly sick was not polite. In fact, any line of questioning was likely rude, so she kept on talking about herself.
Rey wasn’t listening. There was an announcement from the cockpit. The copilot sounded shaky, nervous even.
“Uh, ladies and gentlemen, you may have felt we’ve already started our descent. Unfortunately, we are having technical issues and need to land at the nearest airport. We apologize for this inconvenience. You will need to contact ground staff to book you on the next available flight to London.”
The cabin practically vibrated with a collective groan, but the din was nothing compared with the bass drum that was the heart pounding in Rey’s chest. All at once it was hard to breathe, see, hear, or think. Her spine rigid and knuckles white, Rey stared wide-eyed at the back of the seat in front of her.
“Are you all right, honey? You’ve gone white as a ghost.”
Rey didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer. Her mind was fixed on one thought: Arne Huakaas had found her. Somehow. Someway. The boys in Tøyen? The hospital? Had she left something behind at the scene of one of the murders? Some tiny clue.
“Shit,” she muttered.
“It’s okay, honey, nothing to worry about,” the old woman said.
At least that’s what Rey thought she said. The copilot was talking again; passengers were complaining to the cabin crew, children were crying from the change in air pressure. Rey fished out her phone and earbuds.
She needed something. Right now it wasn’t clear what. How should she feel now? Without apologizing, Rey shoved the earbuds in and pressed play on her music app. The first song, “Bruises” by Lewis Capaldi, came on. Soft and melodic balanced against the singer’s hoarse Scottish brogue, it was gentle but wrong. A love song. Not what she needed. She skipped. “Last Resort,” Papa Roach. Angry and fast, it just made her heart beat rapidly. Rey skipped again. “We Can’t Be Found” by Zeal and Ardor. One of Rey’s stranger music choices, Gospel meets thrash metal, the title would certainly seem to be appropriate, but it was even louder and angrier than Papa Roach, driving intense anxiety into her.
Frustration clawed at Rey’s mind, the worry becoming anger, the desire to hit out overwhelming. The old woman still tried to communicate over Rey’s music, which would surely only result in Rey assaulting the frail old hag.
Shut up, shut up, shut up.
Another skip. “Send the Pain Below” by Chevelle. Another angry rock anthem. Over and over Rey pressed the little triangle to move forward, one song after the other—a single note playing before skipping on. Nothing was right. She only knew what was wrong. There was nothing appropriate for this moment. A circumstance for which she hadn’t planned—trapped in a tube with no escape thousands of feet in the air, only to be grabbed as soon as the wheels touched the ground.
Come on! Something. Anything.
And then, there it was. The perfect song. The one that helped her focus on the only thing that mattered: Ethan. Rey’s breathing slowed and her grip on the seat’s arms loosened. Alex Band’s deep voice that belied his young age and long blond hair, sang with passion against an acoustic guitar in an unplugged version of “Wherever You Will Go” by The Calling.
A song about being apart from someone, maybe even dead, and telling that person if they could follow them to the ends of the Earth, nothing would stop them from finding their way back. That’s exactly how Rey needed to feel—that this wasn’t the end. Even if she was arrested now, she’d find her way back. She had to, otherwise what was the point of all this?
Rey pressed the loop symbol, letting the song play over and over.
The airplane’s wheels touched the tarmac, throwing the passengers forward. Rey braced herself on the seat in front, still concentrating on the music in her ears. The plane taxied for what seemed like an age, driving endlessly to find its gate.
The idea of glancing out the window to see a swarm of police cars waiting for her was too much, so Rey unfocused her eyes altogether, staring into space.
The plane finally jolted to a stop and immediately the passengers jumped to their feet. Normally that would annoy Rey—idiots not used to traveling, who leaped up and stood in the aisle for another ten minutes, waiting for the door to open, their fat asses in people’s faces. Today, they served a purpose. They delayed Rey’s capture. Gave her time to think.
It was unlikely that they would be at a gate bridge. The cops wouldn’t make a fuss and disrupt the airport inside. No, usually they’d be parked away from the airport where buses ferried passengers back and forth. Could she run then? Not likely. The cabin crew was already pushing through the crowd of passengers, repeatedly telling them they should sit down, as they couldn’t exit right now.
They’ll board to arrest me, Rey thought. There was no way they’d chance her running. C’mon Rey, think. You’re running out of time. Rey scrunched her eyes together, hoping to squeeze the answer from her brain by sheer force.
Then, Rey’s father and his ability to twist anything popped into her head. Her eyes snapped open. If she feigned a heart attack, she’d have to be taken to the hospital first. There she could make her escape much easier. She’d need the old woman’s help. Rey pulled the earbuds out and stuffed them into her pocket.
“I don’t feel so good,” she said to the woman by her side.
“Oh, honey, are you okay?”
“Chest,” Rey said, feigning a wheeze and pulling the wig from her head. “Meds ...”
“You need your meds?” the old lady asked, her face etched in panic.
Rey shook her head. “Side effect ...”
“Okay, hang on, honey. I’ll get someone.”
A soft ping indicated Rey’s caretaker had called for the cabin crew.
A woman tottered down the aisle and appeared by Rey’s side.
“Can I help?” the steward asked.
“I think she’s having a heart attack. She said it’s because of her meds.”
“What meds?”
Rey cursed herself for having already tipped the Xeloda away.
“I don’t know,” the woman said.
Rey arched her back and grabbed at her breast, breathing labored.
Both the steward and the old woman pressed Rey back into the seat.
With eyes clamped shut and giving the performance of her life, Rey was acutely aware of the sudden blast of cold air from the hatch opening and familiar sound of heavy boots tamping down the aisle. They were coming for her.
Oslo, Norway, 2016
Arne stared at the monitor. The French authorities had allowed a feed directly from the airfield as they made their arrest. The image was black and white and not wholly clear, but enough to get the gist of the scene as it played out. He had to see her taken, needed to observe it with his own eyes.
All of the morsels of evidence loosely tied together by his gut feeling had come together with one final crumb—they had a fingerprint. That’s what the CSI tech had found at the scene of Leif’s house. A damn partial print after all this time. Once they’d matched it, they had her dead to rights.
Arne picked up the file from the desk and flicked it open. The London Met had sent it over. Georgina Thompson, a former forensic tech, although she hadn’t worked in some time. The fingerprint matched perfectly, but her picture didn’t quite look like how he remembered her in the hospital. Still, it was close to how she looked in the passport she’d been carrying. The sickness, or whatever was going on with her, had robbed her of her soft features an
d hair, which meant in the liquor store video feed she had to have been wearing a wig.
Huakaas took another drag of his cigarette. The evidence in his hand, in black and white and officially stamped, still couldn’t quell the uneasy feeling in his gut. He wanted it to be her on that plane so badly. The need to nail this woman was incalculable—his first step toward a better truth for him. He’d catch her, and then probably confess to his own indiscretions. Lose his job, probably. Wipe the slate clean, hopefully. Then he could call Aslaug and Clara and apologize. Come what may after that. He had to, for them and himself. The weight of his life had pressed down for too long because he’d not accepted it. Not admitted to what he’d done.
Here and now, pulling this psycho off the plane was what he needed more than anything. So, he could look her in the eye and thank her. Thank her for showing him he’d been so wrong for so long. For clearing his eyes of the cataracts formed from ten years of denial.
But, if it’s not her? Arne thought. What then? What if Georgina Thompson set someone up? What if that’s not even her name and she’d played them all along? Was it possible?
He shook his head. She’s still human and fallible.
Arne was convinced the boys in Tøyen were her doing and wholly unplanned. Him hitting her with the car, she also hadn’t counted on. No, she’d made a mistake. Fucked up with the last victim because Arne had been on her trail. That’s how she’d left a print behind.
It had to be her.
Please be her.
Huus fidgeted endlessly like a puppy that needed to pee and couldn’t wait to be let outside. He would stand, walk a few paces, then sit back down rubbing his hands together. Huakaas let out a frustrated sigh, then pulled another cigarette from its packet and lit it up, which elicited a few glares from the tech team monitoring the feed and his captain who had come to watch the capture of the King Kubb Killer. Arne let the smoke hang there in front of his face like protection.
A Time For Monsters Page 18
