THE TELEPHONE DREW her from her nightmare. She fumbled for it and managed to take the call before the ring woke Morten. Or so she thought.
At first, there was only a lot of hectic breathing at the other end. She was about to hang up, when finally a thin and panicked voice came on.
“Please come.”
“Who is this?”
“Natasha. Please.…”
Nina sat up abruptly and turned on the light. Still half asleep, Morten muttered something unintelligible. The word “Hell” could be distinguished, but other than that, she had no idea what he was saying.
“Natasha, what is it?”
For several long seconds she heard only the tear-choked wheeze of the girl’s breathing.
“He touched Rina. Touched.…”
“Report him,” snapped Nina angrily. “Or I will!”
“I think maybe he is dead,” said Natasha. “Please come. I think maybe I kill him.”
There was a click as the connection severed. Nina slumped in the bed, remnants of her nightmare a blood-like taste in her mouth. Morten rolled over, away from the light, and went back to sleep. He had never really been properly awake. The sheet that covered him slipped to reveal the top of his buttocks.
Call the police, she told herself. Come on. 911. You know the number. God damn it to hell. The wound in her scalp had only just healed, and she still got random headaches.
She closed her eyes for a moment. Then she let herself slide carefully from the bed, put her arms into yesterday’s T-shirt, and slipped into the bathroom for a quick splash of water to her face. She dressed as quickly as she could, and lifted the car keys from their peg by the door in the hallway. It was still the summer that wouldn’t die. Outside, the September darkness hugged the city in a close and damp embrace, the night hardly cooler than the day had been.
It was 4:32 A.M., she noted.
The Boy in the Suitcase Page 27
