Kate makes not a sound, but on her face she wears a scream of terror and clutches Anu tight.
He kneels beside her. “You need not fear me. You remind me very much of someone so close to me that I would die myself rather than harm you. She is gone, but as long as you exist, in a way she does as well.”
He walks back over to me. “Yes, there was a rumor that whoever killed Lisbet Soderlund would get her job, but it was just that, a rumor, started by Roope Malinen. In truth, my Foreign Legion colleagues murdered her by agreement with Malinen, who promised them a permanent, lucrative, and competition-free concession in the Finnish heroin market. Malinen lied. He had no authority to promise anything in return for the assassination of Soderlund. He hated her and made a false promise concerning a heroin concession in the hopes that he could make good on it later, simply because he wanted her dead. You have gone a long way toward seeing that promise kept. They cut her head off with a meat saw in their food shop. I’m sure, if you live through today, you can find plenty of DNA from the saw and blood-spatter specks around their kitchen to prove it. Saukko demanded a spectacle of dedication to hate, which they gave him. Saukko said quit bullshitting around on the Internet and do something, hinting that it might change his mind about his campaign donation. Word went down the line via Malinen that Saukko wanted a display. Marcel and Thierry did it for political reasons, in the hopes that Saukko would then honor his million-euro campaign commitment. Saukko welshed anyway.
Kate finds her voice. “Why would you let us live? We know who you are.”
“I assure you that you do not. I do indeed work for the French government, but I have a stack of various identifications two inches thick. They will tell you that I work for them one day, then deny it the next.”
“Have you considered that we don’t know where the money is and you’re killing us all for nothing?” she asks.
“I recognize it as a possibility.”
“You’re an ugly human being,” she says.
“As I once told your husband, I am a peacekeeper. Sometimes, keeping the peace requires extreme measures. Giving me the ten million euros will restore harmony to all our lives.”
“For such an altruist, you seem quite concerned with wealth.”
“In fact, I have no interests other than my work, and my tastes are frugal. My wealth is symbolic. In darker moments of doubt, I tally my accounts, and the sum figure serves as proof and reassures me that I have followed the career that was my destiny. There is little more to it than that.”
“But still, you would kill us all to acquire it?”
“Oh yes, with the exception of you.”
He walks over to Milo, flicks open his stiletto, and lops off Milo’s right ear. Blood slops down his neck. “You are the weakest. I believe you will talk first. This is also a matter of time. If you wait too long, it cannot be sewn back on. The next time you get a turn, I’ll sharpen a stick, pop out your eye and perform a makeshift lobotomy on you. Instead of calculating ineffable permutations with your big, big brain, you’ll spend your life being pushed around in a wheelchair with a drool cup strapped to your chin. It’s remarkably easy to do. The man who popularized the procedure sometimes performed hundreds in a single day, divided the brains of whole institutions full of mental patients.”
Milo doesn’t make a sound. Not even the look on his face changes. The ear looks like an odd mushroom lying on a rock in the sun.
Moreau continues his explanation. “Antti kept the children at the summer cottage-which the family had not used in years-while he disappeared during the kidnapping. When he left with the money, he abandoned them. With their father dead, there was little to be done. Marcel and Thierry overdosed them with heroin hot shots in their sleep.”
“And you don’t think they’ll try to hunt you down and kill you after you’ve stolen their hard-earned fortune?”
“They were no longer required and a hindrance. I saw no reason to share the ten million with them after they bungled their own mission and called upon me to fix it. My purpose here is manifold. One is to control the drug trade. Another is to squelch the racist movement that seems to be veering out of control in Finland. These upset the order of things. My mission for my employers is, succinctly put, to restore order when situations require it. The heroin you watched me give to my former comrades had some parts of it, near the bottom of the bag, poisoned, in order to confuse matters and hide the poisoning for a time. Notice that the heroin I gave you was pure, not cut. And so they sold strychnine-laced heroin to racist elements, who in turn sold it to dealers who primarily deal with blacks in the name of, as they put it, ‘nigger sedation.’ Unfortunately, this will lead to some deaths, but the trail will lead back to the white supremacists. It will, however, result in the incarceration of these racist drug dealers, while at the same time rousing sympathy for their immigrant victims. My comrades became liabilities. If you live through today, you’ll discover that I’ve made it easy for you to solve your cases and, once again, shine as a hero. Albeit, a crippled one. It might make you feel better to know that, after all the unnecessary pain they caused-mostly out of enjoyment, I might add-they died badly indeed.”
Kate says, “Milo is in agony. Would you let me give him some heroin and put his ear in the shade so maybe it can be saved? It’s cooking on that rock.”
“For you,” he says, “anything.”
He hands her a bindle and she walks to the other side of the clearing to tend to Milo. Kate picks his ear up and moves it to the shade, to keep it cooler and slow decomposition.
Moreau strides over to Sweetness. He’s sitting cross-legged on the ground. His flask is in his hand. He sucks at it.
“Wise move,” Moreau says. “Breaking you, big man, requires forethought. How to torture an elephant? I have a feeling you can endure a great deal, but you are a romantic and feel much affection for the others. That’s why I hurt them first.”
His back is to Kate. Milo wears his leather jacket with the specially made holster to make his sawed-off invisible. Apparently, Milo never showed it off to Moreau. Kate sets Anu on the ground, slides out the shotgun and points it at Moreau. It looks huge in her hands. It’s hard for her, but she puts a thumb on each hammer, pulls with all her might, and slowly they ease back and click into place.
Moreau doesn’t have to look, doesn’t even turn to face her. He knows the sound.
“And after all the nice things I just said about you.”
She says, “Don’t move.”
He doesn’t.
She keeps the barrels straight although she’s shaking hard and the gun is heavy. When she gets to within about four feet of him, she pulls both triggers. The gun roars, flames and smoke leap out of the barrels. Milo was supposed to have the gun loaded with rock salt. Instead, the ammo was razor-sharp flechettes. The blast cuts Moreau near in half, along his midsection. Not much holds the two pieces of him together. His blood and guts, bone chips, gore, spray out and onto Sweetness. Moreau falls, yet he still lives. I see him blink. His jacket is on fire. The flames spread.
The gun kicked up and back and lacerated the side of Kate’s head. Blood runs down her cheek. She wipes at it and smears it. It drips onto her shoulder. She drops the gun and slumps to the ground. I speak to her but she’s withdrawn inside herself, in shock. She doesn’t move or speak. Her mouth hangs open and spittle dribbles down her chin.
Now Moreau’s shirt and pants are burning. Sweetness pours kossu on him. The flames leap. Moreau can’t move but winks at Sweetness, as if this is a joke only the two of them can share. Sweetness pulls out his horse dick and pisses on him, says “Adieu.”
I look over. Mari, the pregnant girl, is dead. She bled out. Only Sweetness is functional. I ask him to take Milo’s ear to the boat and put it on ice.
The heroin kept me able to think. The pain is returning in spades. I sniff a little more and push myself up with my cane. I hobble over to Milo and shake a little more onto my thumbnail. It’s hard to talk and I slur. “Sniff
thith.”
He inhales it and still doesn’t speak, but I see his body relax.
I hobble to Kate and slump beside her. She stares straight ahead, won’t speak to me. I look at her head. There’s a lot of blood, but that doesn’t mean anything. Head wounds always bleed a lot. I think it’s just a simple cut, nothing more. I pick up her hand and let go. It drops back in her lap, limp. The lights are on but nobody’s home. Traumatic shock.
Sweetness comes back. “I know where the money is,” he says.
I want to beat him to death. “Then why didn’t you tell him?”
“I just figured it out. Look at the graveyard behind the house.”
Set back in the clearing are four cairns marked with wooden crosses. They mean that sometime way back when, fishermen got stranded here, probably waited too long into the winter season to leave and got frozen in and died. The ground was too hard to dig, so they covered their friends in rocks and marked their resting places.
“The weathering is the same, consistent, on all the piles except one,” Sweetness says, “and the cross is a little different, too. The money is under the rocks.”
I have to call for a helicopter to medevac us all out of here, but I will not leave that money to be returned to that racist motherfucker Saukko, or to be stolen, probably by Jyri, when they tear this island apart looking for it. After all the suffering that’s been caused by it, I’ll burn it first. I try to speak as little as possible. It hurts like hell. “Try to get it.”
He brings Anu to me, then goes to work. He throws the rocks onto the other cairns as he digs. Breaks up the cross, leaves no evidence that the cairn was ever there. And people call him stupid. The two sports bags of cash are at the bottom. It took ten minutes.
Milo walks over. He’s a bloody mess, but the heroin pulled him together. He says to Sweetness, “Can you drive a boat to Turku?” Milo points. “It’s that way. The boat’s GPS map will guide you.”
Sweetness nods. “I think so.”
Milo talks slow and pauses in the middle of sentences, but stays focused. “Antti’s is the fastest boat, and it’s long forgotten except by us and Saukko, and he won’t think to start tracking it. The keys are on a nail over the kitchen sink. Make sure it’s fueled and leave now. When you get to Turku, take a bus to Helsinki. While you’re on your way, go for a swim and wash the blood off you the best you can. The wind will dry you before you get there. As soon as you get to Helsinki, before you go home, hide the money where no one would ever think to look.”
Kate rolls over on her side, balls up in a fetal position. I ask Milo, “Can you call?”
He requests the helicopter, tells him there are dead civilians and officers down. Fucking Milo. He can’t part with his toys. He collects the Colts and his sawed-off, puts them in our holsters and pockets, and lies down beside me.
I hold Anu on my chest with one hand. I put the other hand on his shoulder. I say, “Just tell them the truth, except say that Moreau shot Antti.”
“OK,” he says, and passes out.
I think about Moreau. He flew too close to the sun, his wings of Icarus melted, and he fell burning to the earth, plummeted to his death.
39
I awake in a hospital bed, doped up. My first thoughts are whether I still have a leg and a jawbone. I lift the sheet. My leg is still there. I feel my face. It’s swathed in so much bandage that I can’t tell.
I ring the bell, the nurse comes in, chipper and smiling, tells me it’s wonderful to see me awake. I thank her and ask her if she could get a doctor to speak to me. I’d like to know not just about my own condition but the status of my wife, daughter and colleague as well.
An hour goes by, a doctor breezes in, also smiling, and asks, “How are we doing today?”
I wish I could hit him.
“Do I still have a jaw?” I ask.
He looks at my chart. “Your jaw is fine. All the bone is intact. In fact, you suffered little damage in that regard. The teeth that were shot away were prosthetics, weren’t your own anyway. The bullet inflicted injury on a previously damaged area. You may have some additional nerve damage and some trouble with mobility on that side of your face. Only time will tell.”
“And my knee?”
He sighs. “The original gunshot to your knee destroyed a great deal of cartilage, and more was worn away through normal use over the years because the damage made it fragile. During your recent partial knee replacement, some of that damaged cartilage was removed. The new gunshot destroyed the prosthesis. I doubt a new one is viable. Again, time will tell. But best guess, you’ll have the same problems you had before the replacement, only worse. I doubt you’ll be able to walk without aid, at least a cane. But you keep the leg. Be thankful for that.”
“My wife and colleague were also injured. Can you check on them for me?”
“Of course.”
“And I want some cigarettes. Can you help me out?”
“I’ll go to the office and see what personal effects you have locked up there.” He gives my shoulder a pat. “I’ll buy you some and take you outside myself, if need be.”
He comes back a little while later. He has my wallet, cell phone, cane, cigarettes and lighter. My other things are in police custody. He wheels me outside to smoke and I find Milo there. “Your friend can relate his own condition. Your daughter is in our nursery, and your wife responds only to her. Your wife is suffering from acute stress disorder, as evidenced by her inability to comprehend stimuli, disorientation, and dissociative stupor. She’s heavily sedated. Her condition will likely improve, it’s just a question of when. Days, or weeks, at most.”
“When can we all go home?”
“You need professional in-home care, since neither of you can take care of the other, and your conditions need close monitoring. The changing of your bandages, for instance, must be done precisely. I can bring you the contact information for in-home care firms. If you can’t afford it, you can remain here until the situation improves.”
The doctor takes me back to my room and Milo comes with us. I thank the doc and he leaves us alone. “The room is probably bugged,” I say, “don’t say anything private. How are you?”
His head is also wrapped in bandages. “They saved my ear. It may hang funny. My hand will never work right again, if at all. Physical therapy may or may not help.”
“I guess you have to learn to shoot left-handed.”
He sighs. “I guess so. I can go home tomorrow, though. That’s something, at least. I hate this fucking place.”
“I don’t want a stranger in my home. You said Mirjami is a registered nurse.”
“If you recall, she’s in love with you. I doubt she’ll say no.”
I also recall she turns me on so much, I almost came in my pants when I met her. But sex is very low on my list of wants at the moment. “She doesn’t pay much attention to me. I think she got over it. Would you call her for me? Tell her I’ll pay her anything she wants.”
“Yeah. And I’ll stop by again in a while and take you out to smoke.”
That’s all I have to look forward to at the moment. “See you later.”
As he walks out, two SUPO detectives walk in to take my statement. I give it to them. They ask no interrogation-type questions, just tape-record it. Then they congratulate me on breaking the Saukko case, shake my hand, and wish me godspeed in my recovery. I find myself nodding off.
I wake up and Sweetness is sitting in a chair beside the bed. “Here,” he says, and hands me a bouquet of flowers and a box of candy. I don’t know if it’s a joke or not.
“It was supposed to make you laugh,” he says.
I put on the fake smile. “Sorry, everything hurts. Watch what you say. I’m sure the room is bugged. Everything OK with you?”
“Everything went as planned, and yeah, things are good. I’m dating Jenna now.”
“That’s great, you must be a happy man.”
“I had to bargain to get her. No more carrying the kossu flask.
”
“That’s even better. Wise girl. The shit was going to kill you.”
He shrugs. “Something kills everybody. Just ask my brother.”
Milo wanders in. “Hey! The gang’s all here.”
“How are you guys?” Sweetness asks.
Milo says, “Fucked-up and permanently damaged, but alive. How is everything from your end?” meaning the money.
Sweetness gets the drift. “Under control.”
“Mirjami took a leave of absence to care for you,” Milo says to me. “They didn’t like it until she told them she was going to take care of the great fallen hero. She’ll be at your house as soon as you give her the word.”
“Then we can leave. Sweetness, would you do me a favor and take us all home in the SUV?”
“Get your stuff together. It’s parked outside.”
I’m a shot cop, get VIP treatment. I ask a nurse if they can dress my wife, get my child, and meet us in the lobby. She says give her half an hour.
We get outside, have a moment without listening devices monitoring us, and in turn walk, gimp on crutches, and are pushed in a wheelchair to the SUV. “I have a plan,” I say. “We’ll wrap these murders up in a couple days, and make some people unhappy along the way.”
40
The guys help us get our stuff into the apartment. Mirjami shows up, all business. She’s wearing jeans, no makeup and a plain gray sweatshirt. Kate walks to the couch and sits down. She shows no signs of cognition, but this, evidently, is where she wants to be. She holds out her arms. I put Anu in them. Kate’s eyes don’t so much as waver, but she seems satisfied. I ask Sweetness to go with Milo and get the anti-surveillance gear. They go through the house. Every room is bugged. They de-bug the house and leave to let us get settled in.
I call my former psychoanalyst, Torsten Holmqvist, explain about Kate and her condition. I tell him I have an opinion from the hospital, but I’d like a second opinion and follow-up care, and I’d like all this done in my home. I can almost hear him scoff, and then I tell him cost is no object. He’s the best money can buy and that’s what I want for my wife. He agrees.
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