The Fifth Element

by Jorgen Brekke

  Then he left for work without waking her.

  * * *

  The fifth man on the list lived in a building in Malvikmarka. They stripped off his clothes and chased him through the woods. In the moonlight Sving watched him run, jumping and wading through the snow across the frozen lake outside the building like a plaster cast of a human being that had come alive, whiter than the snow, a reflection of humanity that no man could express in words.

  One of the Lars Brothers found the man’s shotgun and fired a shot after him.

  Then they locked his door and headed home.

  Sving walked behind the Lars Brothers. They were dashing around, having a snowball fight, goofing off and tumbling into the snow like characters in a silent movie.

  “We might be pushing the limits here, boys,” said Tall Lars pensively after they were back in the car.

  “Don’t worry,” said Short Lars, sticking a wad of snuff under his lip. “He’s not going to freeze to death. He’ll turn around. He knows these woods better than we do. All he has to do is break a window to get back inside his house. We scared him. That was the whole point. Our job is to push the limits at all times.”

  Sving started the car, letting the Lars Brothers go on with their discussion.

  “Do you think we ever go too far?”

  “Hell, where do you think we are? In the House of Literature in Oslo, or something? We’re supposed to scare them. We go as far as we have to.”

  “I’m just thinking that sometimes—”

  “Well, cut it out!”

  Both laughed.

  “Turn up the radio. I like this song,” said Tall Lars.

  Sving complied, but instantly regretted it.

  “What kind of shit is this?”

  “Raga Rockers. ‘Somebody to Hate.’”

  “Fuck. Not more of that shit of yours.”

  “Just listen, man!”

  All three of them sat there listening.

  Tall Lars wanted to roll a joint in the car, but Sving wouldn’t let him.

  * * *

  “I didn’t mean what I said last night.”

  She was first to apologize. He didn’t think she’d be there when he returned from work, but she was in the front hall, waiting for him. Her nipples were visible through the cotton top she had on. He could hear Tina watching cartoons in the living room.

  “What about you?” she asked.

  “I didn’t mean it either.”

  “I want you to mean it.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “That you’re considering it. That you’re giving it serious thought. That you might do it. That’s what I want.”

  “I need to know I can trust you.”

  “If that’s what you need to hear, then the answer is yes. I’m scared of him. He’s not like you. He’s very calculating. He plans things out. He can say things that never go away. Things that eat me up inside.”

  “Is it just psychological?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Does he just abuse you psychologically, or does he hit you too?”

  She lowered her eyes.

  “There’s been physical abuse.”

  “Is he capable of killing?”

  “I have no doubt about it.”

  20

  Two weeks before it happened …

  The sixth man on the list got a nail through his tongue early the next morning. One of the Lars Brothers hammered the guy onto the doorframe of his bathroom. That didn’t make him any more talkative. Actually, it was a bad idea. They considered pulling out the nail, but that proved rather difficult.

  Tall Lars began giggling in that girlish way of his.

  “What’s with you?” said Short Lars.

  “I just happened to think up a new term.”

  “A new term? What’s the matter with you?”

  “Gastronomic crucifixion.” Tall Lars was overcome with laughter.

  Short Lars merely stared at him, shaking his head. As if his colleague had gone completely bonkers, as if there was no hope for him.

  When Tall Lars finally stopped laughing, they decided to leave.

  They left the guy hanging there, warning him that they’d be back.

  Out in the car Tall Lars started laughing again.

  “Could you please just shut up? We didn’t nail him to a cross. We nailed him to the doorframe. Your so-called new term is stupid. And it’s definitely not funny.”

  “The Romans didn’t just use the traditional Christian form of crucifixion. There were a whole bunch of variations. Bet you didn’t know that. How can you talk about anything when you never read? In Roman times, most crucifixions used only a single upright pole. Some people even think that Jesus was nailed to a pole. But that sort of design wouldn’t work as a logo for a whole fucking world religion, would it?”

  “Shut the fuck up, Lars! Please just shut up.”

  * * *

  After that Sving finally had a day off. He and Tina went over to the film club to see the movie Up. They laughed themselves silly over the dogs. The filmmakers had really nailed it with the dogs. Whenever Sving watched a movie about dogs, he had an urge to get a dog for himself.

  Afterward they went out to Hitra to plan the murder of Rolf Fagerhus, Ane’s husband.

  For once it was good weather. As they drove, they heard on the radio a lot of talk about a young girl who had disappeared from her home in Rosenborg. The reporter interviewed a policeman named Odd Singsaker, asking whether the incident might be related to the Music Box case. No mention was made of all the violent things Sving had done lately. The story about the poor innocent guy whose face Sving had battered was no longer news.

  Ane’s sister arrived by boat to pick up Tina, taking her back to where she lived out in the islands.

  Then Sving and Ane were alone.

  Ane showed him around the house. It was run-down and falling apart and needed all sorts of repairs. Even that might not be enough. But the place still had charm, and the view out to sea was fantastic.

  Sving sat on top of the big table in the living room.

  “This is where we’ll put the explosives.”

  “In here? I thought it was supposed to be an accident. Who keeps dynamite in the living room?”

  “The thing is, he needs to get really close. And there’s no guarantee that he’d go down in the basement.”

  “But won’t it look suspicious?”

  “I’ve thought it through. Has your sister agreed to this?”

  She nodded.

  “Are you sure?”

  “She knows what he’s capable of. She agreed to the plan because she knows it’s the only way to make us safe.”

  “Good. I’ve worked with a guy who was in touch with the sheriff out here. He once called me to order some dynamite. Exactly the kind we have, old and dangerous. It took almost a month before the sheriff came over to pick it up.”

  “He’s not the speediest kind of guy.”

  “It’s a calculated risk. But I suggest that when everything is ready, when you’ve put out the bait and we can count on your husband showing up soon, then you should call the sheriff. Pretend to be your sister and tell him that you want to turn in some explosives that were left in this unoccupied house. So in that case, it would seem careless but not entirely unusual for her to have brought the dynamite up from the basement and put it here.”

  “What if the sheriff shows up too soon, before Rolf gets here?”

  “Give him a phone number and ask him to call before he comes out. Say that you’re not living in the house, so you need to make arrangements to meet. Then we’ll need to stall him as long as we can. If he doesn’t go along, then we’ll just have to turn in the dynamite and think up a plan B. But as I mentioned, he’s not usually in a hurry.”

  “Sounds like a pretty good idea. If he dawdles, he’ll feel responsible for the explosion. And that would probably mean a less thorough investigation. It seems right, psychologically.”

  “
Yeah. The trouble is that I need to use a lot of equipment to trigger the explosion at the exact moment your husband is inside. We can’t stand guard 24-7, and we have no idea when he’ll arrive. We need an automatic detonator. And the equipment has to be removed after the explosion. The problem is that the parts of the actual bomb will break into thousands of pieces. I know how to clean up after myself, but there’s no guarantee that the police won’t find something that could arouse suspicion.”

  “Is that a risk we just have to live with?”

  “I’m afraid so. But the risk of being discovered is very low. The most important thing is to make the explosion look like an accident from the very beginning. Does your sister have an insurance policy on this house?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “If she does, ask her to cancel it. Insurance companies are often more suspicious than the police in such matters.”

  “How do we explain why he was in the house?”

  “How many people know about your breakup?”

  “Only my sister. Everybody thinks we’re on vacation. I know Rolf. He wouldn’t tell anybody. There’s no one he would confide in.”

  “Okay. You’ll say that you had agreed to meet him here, that he was going to join you at a later date for vacation. Your sister had forgotten to tell anyone about the dynamite in the living room. That’s all.”

  “Do you think the story will hold up?”

  “Are there many people who know about your marital problems? Who know how dangerous he is? Who think you have good reason to kill him?”

  “Only those few I’ve already mentioned. Outwardly we had a perfect relationship. We traveled. He pampered me. He had the drollest sense of humor whenever we were in social situations. It makes me sick to think about all the people who like him, who see him as a quiet, calm, and patient man.”

  “I think your story will sound plausible. There’s no apparent motive for murder. A tragic accident would seem like the most likely explanation. The police will be satisfied with that. As long as nothing unexpected happens, it should work.”

  “What do you mean by ‘unexpected’?”

  “We wouldn’t want anyone else to show up. It’s not good to have witnesses. Luckily the place can’t be seen from any of the farms around here. The big boulders are perfectly placed. The worst that could happen is that he survives.”

  “Is that a possibility?”

  “Twenty-two pounds of dynamite in a room this size? A small possibility. Very small.”

  “But it could happen?”

  “There’s always a risk with anything you do. If you want to kill him, you might get caught. That’s just how it is. The question you need to ask yourself is: Are you prepared to take that risk? Is it important enough to you to try? Do you want it badly enough?”

  Ane Fagerhus looked at him with those big, intense eyes of hers, and he realized that the question was superfluous.

  She sat on the table. Unbuttoned her coat and let it fall around her.

  “Take me right here,” she said.

  “Now? After all this?”

  “Now!” She lay back and wriggled out of the heavy gray wool dress she had on. Underneath she wore only pantyhose. “Rip them off me!”

  He did, and then lay on top of her on the table. The air in the room was ice cold, but they were hot. The table creaked ominously as they got going.

  “Fuck me!” she howled.

  He stopped. Couldn’t make himself do it.

  “Fuck me!”

  “I can’t.”

  She ended up hitting him. Multiple times before it was over.

  * * *

  “Did you ever hit him?”

  “Do we have to talk about him?”

  “When did you start being afraid of him?”

  “Are you jealous?”

  “I’m just asking.”

  “In the past there were plenty of times when I felt sorry for him. It seemed like he wanted to have feelings about things, but that he couldn’t. He used to tell me about his father, who disappeared on a hunting trip when Rolf was a boy. He never came back. No one ever found out what happened to him. His father used to hunt in remote areas. Maybe he had an accident. Maybe a bear got him. Or maybe he got shot by another hunter. But every time Rolf told me about it, I had a definite feeling that he knew what happened. He never said anything, but I’m positive he thought his father committed suicide. And I think that destroyed something inside of him.”

  “Are you sure you don’t still have feelings for him?”

  “Could you stop asking me that? You’re driving me crazy!”

  “It’s just that when you talk about him like that, it sounds like you still care about him.”

  “Would you please shut up! You’re a sick bastard. Why would I care about him? He’s a shithead. I want him dead.”

  Ane slid off the table and got dressed.

  “Sorry,” she said. “You make me so mad when you talk like that. You can stop being jealous. I don’t care about him anymore. He’s a danger to us. That’s all. It’ll be a relief when he’s gone. Then it’ll just be us.”

  He got up and smiled.

  “I can drive out here with the equipment next week. I have most of what I need at home in the basement, but I have to get a few things from work. You can send the letter when I’ve got it rigged up and ready. Do you think he’ll take the bait fast?”

  “He’s just waiting to get some clue about where I am. I know him. He’ll come the minute he gets wind of where to find me.”

  “Don’t make it too difficult for him.”

  “The trick will be not to make it too easy. He’s a suspicious man. But I think I know how to create a plausible chain of coincidences that he’ll be able to follow.”

  Sving looked at Ane. Her intelligence scared him.

  “Good. But it’s important that he doesn’t take too many days. I have to take off from work during that time, so we can stay here on the island. Then I’ll come in right after the explosion and clean up.”

  She led him into the kitchen and pointed out the window at a grove of spruce trees between two boulders.

  “You could back your car into that space between the trees. Nobody would be able to see us from any direction. It’s a good place for a stakeout.” She laughed.

  “What are you laughing at?”

  “Nothing. Just something I happened to think of.”

  * * *

  There were still a few names on the list when Sving came back from Hitra.

  They chopped off a finger from number seven. Sving thought it was the guy’s little finger, but he wasn’t really paying attention. He sat at the back of the room, lost in his own thoughts, while Short Lars used the severed finger to write something on the wall.

  Pay up! it said in bloodred letters on the white wall.

  They tied the guy to a chair so he could sit and look at what it said. He stared at the words as if staring at the red numbers in the account books of his life.

  They took care of the eighth person that same day. It was the only woman on the list.

  Sving didn’t want to go in with the Lars Brothers. At first Tall Lars refused to do it, but they persuaded him.

  Afterward he was more keyed up and boisterous than the other Lars.

  “She had one of those fridges with a lock. The bolt is on the side. You know?”

  “I guess,” said Sving.

  “Practically no food inside, but we had to pull out the shelves. Then we stuffed her in there and threw the bolt.”

  “Is she in there now?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Use your heads, boys. We don’t want to kill anybody.”

  “No, but this is so brilliant. The bolt is a little loose, so the door doesn’t close tight. Plus we gave her a hacksaw so she can work at the crack. You know how the ladies are with tools. It’s going to take a while, but she should have cut through part of the bolt already. Then it’s just a matter of whether she dares come out. Lars gave her a g
ood punch in the nose before we locked her in.”

  “Good job. What about her apartment? Did you find anything?”

  “Empty. Just like all the other places.”

  “Shit! This is taking a long time. Tomorrow we’ll start revisiting guys on the list. Maybe somebody’s ready to pay up. And we’ll keep working on the rest of the list. We’re going to be busy.”

  “At least we have work,” said Short Lars.

  “Do you remember when we were locked up, Lars?” Tall Lars suddenly asked.

  “How could I forget?”

  “The weirdest thing is the way you change in there. Even your voice is different. Remember? That friendly voice? People like us, with tats on our necks and steroid chins don’t have such fucking nice voices, like some sort of kindergarten teacher, right? No, they make us sound like the worst druggies, right? The kind that wander around the streets pretending to be so pitiful because they need money for the bus. After a while in the pen, you start to say things like you ‘realize your behavior was offensive.’ Shit, man! I mean, behavior? Who uses words like that? Behavior?! You can’t talk about life that way, as if it’s just a little behavior here, and a little behavior there. See what I’m getting at?”

  “Sure, I get it,” said Sving. “I know exactly what you mean, Lars.”

  The Lars Brothers looked at Sving in surprise.

  “I mean it,” he merely said and turned on the engine. “I promise that you’re not going to be out of work, and you won’t have to worry too much about your own behavior until this is over.”

  Neither of them replied. They weren’t used to him talking to them that way, about something that was semi-personal.

  Sving put the car in gear, and they drove out of town toward Charlottenlund. None of them said much for a while.

  “Fucking social democratic piss,” muttered Lars halfway there.

  Apparently he wasn’t quite done with the topic of behavior and the prison system, but he might also have been thinking about something else.

  * * *

  “A clock? Why do you want a clock? That’ll just make things less certain,” said Sving.

  “I want a countdown that he can see. I want him to have enough time to understand that it’s over, but not enough time to do anything about it.”