Flynn didn’t like having his picture taken. It was a habit born of long experience. Before the Legion, he had reason to run away and make himself lost. Then in the Legion, he did things and went places and found and dismissed people in a manner that was better not recorded for posterity. And after Iraq, after their final tour, he again became a shadow and avoided any kind of limelight. These days photographs didn’t lay discarded in dusty drawers—they ended up on the internet, forever, to be indexed and searched and found by people who had no business knowing who or where Flynn was.
Flynn walked across the lawn. The man didn’t move. He just watched Flynn coming the way old men do, as if they had all the time in the world, which patently wasn’t true.
“Hello,” said the man. He had white wispy hair and stubble on his face and seemed thinner than a human ought to be, but he looked at Flynn through ice-blue eyes that had lost none of their color to the years.
“Good afternoon,” Flynn replied.
“You are the visitor,” said the man.
“I guess so. And you are?”
“Lars,” he said.
“John Flynn.”
“Yes.”
“And what are you doing out here, Lars?”
“Taking pictures, John Flynn. I like to take pictures.”
“What do you take pictures of?”
“The things that surround us but which we never see.”
Flynn nodded. “Such as?”
Lars said nothing, instead pointing at the ground.
“Flowers,” said Flynn.
“Look closer.”
Flynn got down on his haunches again, and the old man gingerly worked his way down onto his knees to join him. Flynn studied the flowers. There was a sense of movement to them. Then he saw what Lars was referring to. Bees. Not thousands of them, not enough to make noise, but once his eye caught the first one, he saw them all. The random flower bed was alive with small bees.
“You take pictures of bumblebees?”
“Not bumblebees, honey bees. Buckfast bees, actually. The A. m. Buckfast subspecies of the Apis mellifera bee, or European honey bee. These were originally developed by a brother at Buckfast Abbey in the United Kingdom.”
The man knew his bees. “And you take pictures of them?” Flynn asked.
“Sometimes.”
“Isn’t it hard? They’re very small.”
Lars tapped his camera. “Macro lens.”
Flynn looked at the camera. It was fitted with a lens designed for close-up photography, not taking pictures of men across a lawn.
“That’s not a digital camera, is it?” asked Flynn.
“No. I like it old-school. I develop my own prints in my kitchen. There’s no light out here in the middle of the night, so who needs a darkroom? It’s therapeutic, working in the early hours, watching the prints appear as if by magic.”
“I know. I used to take photos with my dad around Brussels. Old buildings, stuff like that. Things that were foreign to him.”
“Moments in time,” Lars said. “Even old buildings. The light, the surroundings, unique to that moment.”
Flynn nodded and looked at the old man on his knees. “You want to stand up?”
“You want to sit?” Lars replied, nodding at the side of the communal building.
They both edged over to the wall and sat with their backs against the warm wood. The bees stayed busy, working on their own business.
“You live here?” asked Flynn.
“Yes. Second to last house from the end.” He pointed along the side beyond the burned house.
“Do you know about the developers?”
“Of course. We share such news.”
“What do you think of that?”
The old man shrugged. “Everything changes. You, me, these flowers, these bees. Even the trees that provided the wood for this building we rest against. We are all born, we live, we grow old, we die. It is the way of things.”
“That’s true, but it doesn’t really answer the question.”
Lars offered a yellow smile. “No. The truth is, I don’t care for it. I like it here, and I like it the way it is. I like the nature, and I like the fields, and I don’t think the world needs more concrete and glass. But who am I to say? Soon I will be gone.”
“Where are you going?”
The old man looked at Flynn. “I will die.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why? Like I said, we all die. You too.”
“Not today.”
“No, not today. But someday. And the mathematics says that I will go first. So it is really not my concern. I worry for the others, though.”
Flynn looked at the ashen remains of the house. “Did you know Begitte’s parents?”
“The Fiskers? Of course. Good people.”
“Why did they leave?”
“They wanted to live by the sea.”
“Is that the real reason?”
“I cannot tell you the real reason.”
“Why not?”
“Because it resides inside them. Our motivations are our own.”
“But you have an opinion.”
“The presence of an opinion does not make expression of the opinion mandatory.”
“No, it doesn’t. But I’m asking.”
“Why are you asking?”
“I don’t know, exactly. There’s a cloud hanging over this place. It looks like a utopia but for the cloud.”
“Utopia is like perfection: it resides at the far end of infinity.”
“Meaning what?” asked Flynn. “It can’t be obtained?”
“Of course not.”
“But the cloud is still here.”
“Why do you want to know about it?”
“I like to understand things,” said Flynn.
“And if something is beyond comprehension?”
“I guess I ask more questions. But I feel like you’re avoiding the question.”
“Am I mandated to answer?”
“Of course not. But not answering is an answer all the same.”
Lars nodded. “Indeed. All I can say is that things sometimes happen beyond our control, and sometimes those things are good, and sometimes they are bad.”
“And bad things happened here?”
“The cloud you speak of descended a long time ago.”
“Begitte’s sister, Luna?”
“Yes, dear Luna.”
“You knew her?”
“Of course. The children here were like all of our children. Any child could walk in any door as if it were their own. We encouraged them when they were good, and we punished them when they were bad, regardless of who the parents were. So we knew all these children.”
“Lots of parents—a child’s nightmare.”
“Yes, and a child’s blessing. Sometimes a child would need to say something that they could not tell their own parent. Sometimes they would go to another house and talk. It was implicitly understood that we would not break a confidence unless necessary.”
“You knew things their own parents didn’t know?”
“Yes, but we were their parents too, you see? If a mother learned a secret from a daughter and promised not to tell the father, is this wrong? Surely not. But obviously if the mother genuinely believed the father needed to know, she would tell him.”
“Did you know something about Luna?”
“No.”
“Why did she live in her parents’ house?”
“When she came back, they had already moved away.”
“Where did she go?” Flynn asked.
“Copenhagen, years ago.”
“Why did she leave?”
“Children leave.”
“But she came back?”
“Yes. She was troubled, young Luna. The Fiskers were good people, but sometimes things happen.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. Something inside. I don’t think anyone knew what or why. She was raised just like Begitte, j
ust like the others, just like my own children. She played and ran and sang and did all the same things. But something didn’t turn out right for her.”
“She was living in the house when it burned down.”
Lars pushed the air from his lungs like a punctured tire. “Yes,” he said. “And no.”
“And no? What do you mean?”
“Her parents had gone, and it is a condition of ownership here that you live in your house. It’s not a holiday park. A community like this doesn’t work if people are part time. So they were going to sell the house, but since it was vacant, Begitte decided to go to Copenhagen and try to bring Luna back. And she came.”
“But you said no, she wasn’t living in the house.”
“She was, more or less. But I don’t think the memories let her be, so she used to sleep at my neighbors’.”
“She lived with your neighbors?”
“No, as far as I know she just slept there. The house next door. They have—what do you call it in English? A tiny house?”
“Like a camper?”
“Yes, it has wheels, but it’s wood construction. The Jensens built it for some land they have in Langeland, but they hadn’t gotten around to moving it yet. I think Luna would sleep there most nights. I told all this to the reporter.”
“What reporter?”
“The reporter who came.”
“Why did a reporter come? Because of the fire?”
“I don’t recall.”
“What else did they ask?”
“Nothing. They asked more or less what you are asking, and then they left.”
“Do you know who they worked for?”
“Yes. Politiken.”
“And the reporter’s name?”
Lars furrowed his brow as he thought. “I don’t recall.”
“Did you see the story?”
“No.”
Flynn knew that after being interviewed, most people looked up a story they were likely to be featured in. It was human nature. Everyone enjoyed their fifteen minutes of fame.
“You didn’t look to see if you were in the paper?”
“No.”
Flynn said nothing. The old man was a complicated soul, but then most people were. People liked to see the world in black and white, definitives, even when they themselves were complicated by layers of contradiction.
Lars shifted his weight as if he was uncomfortable but then edged up the wall to stand.
“I must make myself some lunch,” he said. “It was nice talking with you.”
“You too.”
“I hope to see you again.”
“Likewise.”
Lars nodded and walked away. Flynn glanced one last time at the razed house then headed back to the Thorsens’.
Chapter Ten
Thorsen and Gorski were putting on their shoes when Flynn came in the front door of Thorsen’s house.
“Going somewhere?” he asked.
“I rebuilt a computer for a friend on a neighboring farm,” said Thorsen. “We’re going to deliver it.”
“He says the guy makes his own akvavit,” said Gorski with a grin.
“He does,” said Thorsen. “Rocket fuel.”
Gorski winked, but neither man asked Flynn along.
“Enjoy,” said Flynn as they strode out the door.
They wandered across the lawn to the communal building and slipped off their shoes again, then Thorsen led the way to a small workshop at the rear of the building. It was neat and organized—Gorski saw the handiwork of Peder Thorsen all over it. Thorsen had been the most organized guy Gorski knew in the Legion, and he hadn’t changed. Tools were hung systematically on a pegboard or stored in cubbies. The counters were clean enough for food prep.
Thorsen had packed the computer and its associated parts into two boxes, which he and Gorski carried to the van. They loaded up and then got in and lowered the windows to let the warm breeze in. Thorsen drove cautiously but looked relaxed behind the wheel.
“It’s good to see you, old friend,” he said.
Gorski nodded. “Back at you. I always knew we would.”
“Did you ever keep in touch with the others?”
“No, you were the only one. Adjudant Fontaine—sorry, Flynn; I’m still not used to that—tracked me down, but you were the only one that Colonel Laporte gave me information about.”
“Where have you been?”
“Poland, mostly. A little bit in Germany and a little traveling around, but I settled in Poland.”
“Was that home?”
“Yes.”
“Why did Flynn find you? Because of the threats?”
“It was more than threats. He was attacked.”
“And you?”
“Threatened. When Flynn found me, we did the attacking.”
“I haven’t seen such trouble.”
“Really?”
“What do you mean?” asked Thorsen.
“There are some strange things going on here, don’t you think?”
“You mean the developer? That’s not anything to do with me, not specifically.”
“And your wife’s sister?”
“She was troubled. Had been for a long time.”
“And a house burned down?”
“An accident, according to the fire brigade.”
“That’s a lot of bad stuff for one little community.”
“But it’s not linked to anything bigger.”
“You hope.”
Thorsen pulled onto a gravel road that cut between two seemingly endless fields of barley. “What of the container from Iraq? It is truly lost?”
“According to Flynn, yes.”
“So it is gone.”
“Is it?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you got a look inside the container.”
“I told you, I didn’t see what was in there.”
“But you saw the security measures.”
“What is your point?”
“Can it be found?”
“I don’t see how.”
“We tracked down the worst terrorist of modern times. If we can do that . . .”
“If Flynn says no, then no.”
“But I’m asking you.”
“If it still exists, perhaps it is not meant to be found.”
“Meaning you’re happy with your life.”
“That’s exactly what it means.”
Gorski looked out the window and let the breeze blow across his face. “Then that’s how it should be.”
* * *
It was a small kitchen, but Begitte seemed to live there. She kept busy around the house and garden most of the afternoon while Flynn read a book on Vitus Bering, who had explored what was now known as the Bering Strait. When Begitte returned to her kitchen, Flynn sat at the counter and watched as she pulled out a large fillet of salmon and began preparing it.
“Can I help?” Flynn asked.
Begitte looked at him, seemingly analyzing him, deciding perhaps if he could help. Then she returned her attention to the fish.
“There are potatoes in the cupboard, asparagus in the fridge. You could prep them.”
Flynn found a bag of potatoes and asparagus spears, and Begitte handed him a peeler and a bowl. He peeled the potatoes and snapped the asparagus.
Begitte minced some garlic and shallots and then put a pat of butter in a frypan and pushed in the knob to light the burner with a quiet whomp.
When Flynn heard the sound, he glanced up and then saw the flame. He fought every fiber of his being to not recoil from it. Then he looked at Begitte. She was watching him again, with a frown.
“You okay?” she asked.
Flynn nodded and breathed deeply. “I’m fine.”
He kept his eyes off the cooktop and his mind on the task at hand. He chopped the potatoes, and Begitte sautéed the garlic and shallots in the butter.
“I saw you at the old house,” she said.
“Which house?”
>
“The burned house.”
“Your house,” he said.
“This is my house.”
“Where you grew up, then.”
“Yes.”
“Your sister was living there.”
“Yes.”
“But she wasn’t sleeping there.”
“What do you mean?”
“I heard she didn’t like sleeping in the house, so she slept in a tiny house in the neighbors’ yard.”
“The Jensens,” Begitte said. “I didn’t know that. I suppose it makes sense.”
“Why?”
“It was a big house for one person, and she knew the Jensens.”
“I heard. Every parent was a parent to every kid.”
“Something like that. But she knew the Jensens better than most.”
“So why pretend to live in the house?”
“I don’t think it was pretending. When my parents moved out, they had to sell the house. It’s a condition of being in the community.”
“I know.”
“So I thought before they did that I would try to get Luna back home. She was in and out of social housing in Copenhagen, sometimes on the drugs and sometimes not. So I brought her home. I thought she was happy there, but maybe the house reminded her of her troubles, I don’t know.”
“But she was there when the fire happened.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so?”
“No.”
“But I thought she died in the fire.”
Begitte paused and looked at Flynn. “No, she did not die in the fire. By the time I got there, she was outside with half the community.”
“My mistake,” said Flynn. “I figured that was how she had died.”
“No. They say she committed suicide by jumping off a cliff into the sea.”
“I’m sorry,” said Flynn.
“I’m sorry too,” said Begitte. “I’m sorry someone is going to get away with killing my sister.”
Flynn stopped mid-cut and looked at her. Then the front door opened, and they heard Thorsen and Gorski.
“We’re back,” called Thorsen, and Flynn glanced down the hall. When he looked back, Begitte was pouring garlic butter across the salmon.
Gorski came in first with a broad smile and ruddy cheeks. “The brother makes good akvavit.” He slapped Flynn on the shoulder and then flopped down onto the sofa. Thorsen entered and headed for the kitchen. He kissed Begitte.
The Rotten State: A John Flynn Thriller Page 6
