Wolves and Angels

by Jokinen, Seppo

Koskinen listened like a puppy with his ears laid back, thinking that since the divorce a remarkable number of people seemed to think it was their responsibility to take on Emilia’s old role as his appointed guardian. And he couldn’t decide whether he was happy about that or not.

  “I promise to buy a helmet,” he said, continuing in his mind, by next summer at the latest.

  Ulla walked with her head at an angle, looking at him with a warm grin on her lips. “You’re like a lone night rider astride your stallion.”

  Ulla turned right onto Joki Street. From there she had a fifteen minute walk home. They waved at each other one last time, and Koskinen turned left toward Hervanta.

  He rode home along the bike path all alone in the autumn darkness. The journey felt longer than usual, and he kept checking the rear shifter—it felt like he had left the high gear engaged on the uphill.

  26.

  Sunday dawned clear and calm. The morning sun was shining just above the tree tops. Its slanting rays highlighted the entire spectrum of fall colors—the forest painted in various shades of brown and an unbroken line of gaudy tracksuits.

  The runners did not disturb the serenity of the surrounding nature. Running shoes rasped in a monotonous rhythm on the gravel of the forest road, their pace set by the warbling of the birds preparing for their migration. The race had been in progress for over an hour, and Koskinen had been running faster than he had planned.

  He wanted to keep visual contact with his competition—Kangas and Havakainen—even though sometimes the pace felt a bit much. Their tactic had been clear enough right from the starting line—they were going to try to shake him immediately after the gun, cut him down to size from the outset. However, Koskinen had kept up. It was easier knowing that the speed was going to wear down his opponents as well.

  The course wound through tortuous, hilly forest trails. Koskinen tried to find the right tempo—small steps saved more energy than bounding from rock to rock, which would use up his thigh muscles. He paced his breathing with his steps: one long in–two quick out, rhythmically moving air into his lungs.

  After the first couple miles of hammering away, his running had become more relaxed. Once his muscles warmed up, and the sweat really started to flow, he was hit by a pleasant endorphin high. But even so, Koskinen couldn’t completely rid himself of his feelings of guilt. When the alarm clock had gone off, he had considered not coming at all. He had called the station and asked if there were any new developments, but no progress had been made in the search for Hannu Ketterä. Riipinen had promised to stay until noon, and Pekki would be getting in soon as well. So Koskinen had finally made up his mind and went.

  Rummy Rantanen had promised to give them a ride to Valkeakoski, and the Saab had been waiting for Koskinen at a quarter past eight at the bus stop. He had been in the front seat, and Kangas and Havakainen had sat in the back. They had immediately started their psychological warfare, bragging about being in the best shape of their lives and throwing around obviously utopian split times. They had patted Koskinen on the shoulder and promised to wait for him at the finish line. At that point apparently they would have already had time for a sauna.

  The race course crossed the road between Lempäälä and Kangasala, the same one that a few years ago had been one of the straightaways in the Jyväskylä Grand Prix, a stop on the Rally World Championship tour. From there it was roughly a half mile to the next rest station. Koskinen lengthened his stride a little. With already twelve miles behind him, he immediately felt the nudge as a cutting pain in his thighs. But still it was worth it. He made it to the water station at the same time as Kangas and Havakainen.

  The two tracksuited police officers weren’t completely able to conceal their astonishment. Nevertheless they gamely put on a cocksure sneer.

  “Oh, so you’re still tagging along, are you?” Kangas said, feigning surprise.

  Havakainen lifted a finger. “But this is where the real work starts.”

  Koskinen knew. The last eight miles would drain whatever juice he had left, if there was anything left to drain. Kangas and Havakainen each grabbed an energy drink from the table and continued on with the paper cups in their hands. Koskinen drank a couple of cups full. And then on top of that he slurped down a bowl of blueberry soup and shoved a few pickles into his mouth. With three miles until the next rest station, refueling at this point was vital—dehydration-induced muscle cramps would turn the stage into a Via Dolorosa.

  In less than a quarter mile, Koskinen had already caught up with Kangas and Havakainen. He set himself up behind them and matched his rhythm to their pace. He was amazed how relaxed his running was—he felt like he could easily pass the twosome and set off on his own.

  Their new tactic quickly became apparent: cat and mouse. They had intentionally let him into their slipstream, but shortly opened up a new gap; the distance grew to thirty yards and then continued to stretch as Kangas and Havakainen took turns drafting.

  Koskinen tried to keep up for about half a mile. He clenched his teeth and sped up, rhythmically pumping his arms and shoulders. But in the end he had to give up, as his lungs were about to burst through his sternum. He slowed his pace and let his breathing even out. No sense killing himself over a bet. And his budget wouldn’t be upended even if he did have to finance one drunken night for the pair. The loss of face wouldn’t sting that long either—he had been the underdog from the start.

  Slowing down quickly eased the pounding of his lungs, and the level road was easy to run on otherwise as well. His previous runner’s high started to ramp up again. His legs worked on autopilot, and it went just like always: his brain’s own opioid, endorphins started coursing through his veins, and soon Koskinen felt himself separating from his body.

  His mind was working in overdrive and thoughts bubbled up from his subconscious without any sensible order: Ulla’s surprise moving plans, Tomi’s new Kuusamo fishing lure, and Riitta Makkonen’s shooting star of a smile. From there his mind cut to work and the facts that had come to light during the investigation: Timonen and Ketterä’s childhood together, their wheelchairs found in the same thicket in South Hervanta, the fear that drove Harjus to attempt suicide, and finally Lea Kalenius’ strange talk about a honey buffalo.

  Koskinen saw the past week’s events as a shaky, halting filmstrip. Sometimes the picture grew dark as if some key part had been edited out. But soon it grew bright again, stopping at some single moment and then moving to another. In the end his thoughts were left ricocheting between two distinct moments: Rauha Salmi sitting in her wheelchair explaining something incomprehensible and Pirkko-Liisa Rinne in her black evening dress telling about the nurses who could understand her. A connection began to form between those two images, and soon Koskinen could see it as clearly as the road in front of him.

  The insight sent his pulse shooting up, and he sped up without realizing it. He felt it immediately in his legs. He had already made it to the Tampere city limits, and the dirt road changed to asphalt, which didn’t make running any easier. The hard surface pummeled the soles of his feet, radiating as muscle pain up to his calves. And there was still a steep uphill ahead. Still he didn’t let up, instead hunkering down and panting: long in–two quick out, huuh hu-huu, huuh hu-huu.

  One untied knot didn’t unravel the whole tangle though—new questions begged to be answered. Since Friday Koskinen had been bothered by something that he couldn’t even fully describe. Someone had said something in passing that had sounded trivial. But there had to be something more that connected to it. Otherwise it wouldn’t have stuck like a burr in his subconscious.

  After the uphill came a downhill. Koskinen rolled down lightly. The race course dove back into the forest, a rippling murmur of water came from somewhere, and his thoughts started flowing rapidly again. Over the next hundred yards the picture started to come into focus: Lea Kalenius had talked about Hannu Ketterä’s music hobby. She had mentioned in passing that the Nokia Lions Club had donated a piano, and that Anniina
had picked it up and brought it to Wolf House with her car.

  The path underfoot was springy, and he sped up again. Koskinen could sense that he was nearing the solution. He just had to find a coherent, meaningful plot to tie the individual incidents together.

  He saw the next rest station and made it there just in time to see Kangas and Havakainen leaving. They had already refueled. The twosome continued on, plunging into the tunnel that went under Old Hervanta Street. Koskinen felt like sprinting after them. However, he held himself back; not rehydrating would have soon backfired on the long uphills.

  Volunteers from the Tampere Outdoors Club were passing out the provisions at the water station. Koskinen grabbed a paper cup from the table, upended the juice into his mouth, and then gasped, “Can I make a call from here?”

  A woman dressed in a red and white anorak wearing a hat with a long brim smiled impishly. “For a taxi?”

  “I’m a cop,” Koskinen said quickly. “It’s official business.”

  “Well, okay then,” the woman said, growing serious. “No phone booths around, but you can borrow my cell phone.” The woman dug a phone out of the kangaroo pocket of her windbreaker, and handed it to Koskinen. He took a few steps off to the side and called Pekki via Central Dispatch.

  He got straight to the point: “Get everyone into the office. I’ll be there in an hour.”

  A hoarse croak came from the phone. “Why?”

  “I’ll tell you when I get there. I’m in a bit of a hurry right now.”

  “Where are you calling from?”

  “Out here somewhere,” Koskinen replied like a soldier on the front lines. “I’m running.”

  “All that sweating hasn’t made your brain go soft, has it?” Pekki rasped knowingly. “Exercise can be dangerous that way. That’s why I never—”

  Koskinen interrupted testily: “Do as I said. Everyone to the station on the double. And send a car over to the Nirva Vocational School.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s the finish line.”

  “Why don’t you just keep on trotting all the way here?”

  Koskinen inhaled angrily, and just that was enough for Pekki. “Okay, okay. I’ll get a car to pick you up at the finish line. Do you still have far to go?”

  “Four miles.”

  “Enjoy your run then.”

  Koskinen hung up the phone and handed it back to the woman. “What do I owe you?” he asked, realizing at the same time that he didn’t have a thin penny on him.

  “It’s okay,” the woman said, waving her hand dismissively. “Unless you called China.”

  The race course continued through a pleasant-smelling swamp and from there rose up onto a dry heath. The final stage was as familiar to Koskinen as his own back yard—it connected to one of his usual jogging paths, along Lake Suolijärvi, and had several hills ahead that would eat up his energy reserves. Koskinen knew that his legs still had the strength they needed, if only his lungs would hold out. Often his progress had been stymied by stabbing side cramps.

  He refused to count how many miles were left and just concentrated on breathing: one long in–two quick out, to keep his mind off of running. His thoughts returned to Wolf House. He rehearsed all of the new ways of looking at the case with the new ideas he had come up with during the race. Step by step he became more certain of what he was seeing, but still he had plenty of unanswered questions. He didn’t try to force himself to answer them, instead letting his subconscious do its work in peace. The race went on, his pulse rising and falling, and again a few of the details that had been eating at him clicked into place. He even suddenly found an explanation for the yellow propane tank.

  The route diverged from the lake, passed one more rest station, and then from there straightened out into the last two-mile stage. At the end of that he would finally be able to see the finish line. The line of runners started to thin out—fewer and fewer were running in groups or drafting anymore, and Koskinen began passing more and more of them.

  Many had slowed their pace to a mere saunter.

  Suddenly Koskinen saw a familiar tracksuit ahead. Kangas was limping forward laboriously, massaging his left thigh. Koskinen ran up alongside and puffed up his chest as if he had just started running.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Kangas glanced at Koskinen and his face twisted into an even more pained grimace. “Leg cramp.”

  “You should have paid more attention to hydration,” Koskinen gasped as sympathetically as he could and continued on. It was like he had found a new energy reserve. He was moving lightly on his feet again and suddenly even had the strength to look around a bit.

  A power line ran along next to the road, and something crashing around in the willow thicket beneath it. He caught a glimpse of a numbered race bib strangely close to the ground behind the trees. On a long run like this always a few heroes ended up with upset stomachs—their guts would stop digesting the strong sports drinks, and then their intestines would act like fire hoses.

  At the far end of a long uphill, he saw a pair of hunched shoulders. Koskinen recognized Havakainen just from the tuft of hair on the back of his head. He was running with irregular, jerky steps, and the way his arms were hanging down showed that he was at the end of his strength.

  There was only a little over a mile left, but Koskinen calculated that with a steady increase in his pace he could catch him. That was easier said than done, though. The distance between them fell by just a few yards, even though he was pushing himself forward with clenched teeth.

  Others had been able to spread their strength out better. A girl of about twenty with swinging braids and a sporty headband ran past Koskinen, still light on her feet. Koskinen realized that this was his chance. He glued himself to her, matching her rhythm as he ran in her slipstream. Keeping up wasn’t easy. While the girl scampered right up the hill with her head held high, Koskinen had to double down. His legs were only operating on strength of will at this point, and his lungs were pumping air furiously. He stared at the black running tights in front of him, the thighs they were hugging and the rhythmically swaying buttocks. That was his only source of strength.

  Now all that was left was the final stretch before the Nirva Vocational School and the finish line.

  Havakainen didn’t see Koskinen until he sped past. The astonishment stripped him of the little speed he had left. Havakainen didn’t understand that he would have had to chase Koskinen right then and there. But the distance quickly became too great, and his chance to catch his opponent was gone.

  In the last twenty yards, Koskinen also tried to pass the girl running in front of him. She noticed and responded with a jaunty, light-footed sprint to the end. Koskinen staggered to the finish line with sagging knees, and the world went black. He leaned against the barrier guiding runners to the recovery area and tried to get his heart to calm down. His pulse stayed up around 200 for a long time.

  He felt a slap on his back and through his own panting heard Havakainen gasp sincerely, “You are one tough son of a bitch.”

  It was time to hand out the medals. Runners piled up in front of the person doling them out, and even the moderate breeze wasn’t able to dissipate the stench of sweat and rancid liniment that was hovering as an invisible cloud over the queue. In addition to a medal, everyone got a bottle of Gatorade. Koskinen drained his own in a few long, greedy gulps, and watched as Kangas finally hobbled across the finish line.

  Kangas ripped the number off his chest and then came with hand outstretched to his rival. “Let’s hit the sauna and start drinking. We’re gonna get you so smashed you won’t even remember your own name. You sure as hell earned it.”

  Koskinen took Kangas’ hand and then noticed the police Saab pulling into the school parking lot.

  “You two go ahead. I have to run over to the station to handle a few things.”

  The sweat had dried on Havakainen’s bushy eyebrows as a white line of salt, and his hair was sticking up like it had been starched.
He scratched behind his ears. “The station? You aren’t one of those workaholics, are you?”

  “’Course not. Far from it,” Koskinen answered and then clambered stiffly into the back seat of the Saab.

  Up front were two veteran patrol officers, Kortesniemi and Kapanen. Everybody knew that both of them were working Sundays just to increase their pensions. “Congratulations, Sakari!”

  Kapanen, who was sitting behind the wheel, looked at Koskinen in the rearview mirror. “So you beat our guys, eh?”

  “How could you know that already?”

  “Dispatch just announced it over the radio.”

  Koskinen had to laugh at this. He leaned back on the seat and stretched his arms over the backrests. He had an amazingly light feeling. As if he hadn’t been running at all.

  27.

  Koskinen had thought it all through. First he made a trip to the restroom and rinsed his face with cold water. Next he made three phone calls from his office. First to the Department of Motor Vehicles, second to Nokia, and then one last call to Jyväskylä. At the same time he scribbled a map on a piece of paper. The notepad page filled with curving lines, circles, and arrows pointing here and there, and soon even the world orienteering champion couldn’t have made heads or tails of it.

  He was able to confirm the theory that had come to him during the race. But one question was still open, and nothing he had written down gave him any kind of an answer. Koskinen scratched the word WHY above his doodles and then sat staring at it with dozens of wrinkles on his brow.

  He didn’t snap out of it until the phone rang.

  “It’s Pekki. People are asking whether your doping test came back positive… It’s already ten past.”

  “I was just on my way.” Koskinen tore the page out of his notebook and folded it into his pocket. The same pocket still contained his race medal and a little bike tire patch kit. He walked down a floor, finally feeling the strain of the run on the stairs. His legs were as stiff as logs, and he felt every step as a painful jolt in the back of his knees.