The Considerate Killer (18 page)

W
ho are you?”
asked the parka-man.

Søren leaned back against the birch tree in an attempt to signal that he was calm, relaxed, and sincere. The chain around his wrist was too tight for him to wriggle out of it, he had discreetly determined.

“My name is Søren,” he said readily. “I'm Nina's husband. And I'd really like to know why you're following her.”

The answer appeared to surprise the parka-man.

“Her husband?” he repeated.

Søren nodded. It was always easier to lie convincingly if you didn't need to say anything out loud.

“But she . . . are they your children?” He spoke rapid, fluent English, but with a singsong accent that made it necessary for Søren to concentrate.

“No,” he said. “She's been married before. Do you know her from Manila?”

It seemed as if the man was about to answer but stopped himself. The rain was pouring down through the meager cover provided by such leaves as were left on the birch. Søren's windbreaker was what the manufacturers euphemistically called “shower-proof,” which in real life translated into “insufficient in proper rain.” He was getting wetter by the minute, and that could be a problem for his long-term survival—provided that was relevant at all, of course. He found it hard to read the man. There was a vagueness, an uncertainty in most of what he did, but in the parking lot he had used the Taser without a second's hesitation.

“Why are you following her?” he asked again. “Are you the one who contacted her on Facebook?”

The man didn't answer. He sat about ten yards away from Søren, out of his physical reach, which was probably not accidental. The Taser rested loosely against one thigh, and Søren tried not to think about the fact that one of Amnesty International's reasons for campaigning against stun guns was that it was far, far too easy to use them as instruments of torture.

“Are you a policeman?”

The question came more quickly than Søren had expected, but perhaps his few pathetic combat moves, despite their limited success, had been enough to arouse suspicion.

“No,” he said. “Not any longer.” It was the right answer according to the strategy he was tentatively developing, but it was also depressingly close to being the simple truth.

“Why not?” The man leaned forward, and the camping chair's canvas creaked under his weight.

“They didn't want me anymore.”

“They threw you out?”

“You could call it that.”

“Why?”

Søren shrugged. “There are so many rules,” he said. “You can't always follow them all.”

That ought to be a perspective that would resonate with the parka-man. Søren wasn't sure how much he could deduce about the values and normal operational limits of the guy from the abduction itself, haphazard and unplanned as it was. But possession of a Taser was illegal, and acquiring it must have been premeditated and deliberate.

Create solidarity. A shared humanity. Build up a relationship that made violence or killing more difficult. Page one in the manual for hostage negotiations, and who was to say that the hostage couldn't take the preliminary steps himself?

If that was what he was—a hostage. Right now it seemed that even his abductor wasn't completely sure.

He studied the man's expression as keenly as possible given that ridiculous parka hood. He had the sense that his first attempt at a common identification—
we both break rules
—had fallen completely flat. What had flashed across his captor's face had looked like a combination of fear and distaste. He had clearly reacted more strongly to “corrupt policeman” than to “former policeman.”

Søren revised his strategy. His abductor did not consider himself a criminal; he identified with law-abiding morality, not with lawlessness.

“Could I have something to drink?” he asked. “I'm terribly thirsty.”

“Yes, of course,” said the parka-man and promptly got up. “Just a minute.”

Curiouser and curiouser, as Alice said when she began to explore Wonderland. Most kidnappers felt a need to dominate their captives and rarely responded to requests without at least deliberating or demonstrating that they
could
have said no. The parka-man was acting more like a waiter who had been informed that the breadbasket was empty.

“Water?” he said and help up a plastic bottle. “Or would you prefer a beer?”

“Beer sounds good,” said Søren in a friendly tone even though he would actually have preferred water. “What do you have?”

“Um, let me see. Stella Artois? Or . . .” He turned the can in order to read the name. “Warsteiner?”

A selection hinting more at German autobahn than Danish gas station kiosk. And the Land Cruiser had German license plates. Did the man have an actual base in Germany, or was that just the route he had chosen? There were far more long distance connections from a hub like Frankfurt.

“Stella is fine,” he said. “Thanks, pal.”

“You're welcome.”

The parka-man was still careful not to get too close. He threw the can to Søren.

Søren caught it, opened it, and snatched it to his lips to catch the foam that bubbled up. He took a couple of consciously loud gulps and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“That hit the spot,” he said. “Aren't you having one?”

The parka-man looked at the cola he was drinking. Then he shrugged.

“Why not?” he mumbled and opened a Stella as well.

Søren gave himself a mental high five. The man might still have a Taser, and Søren was still chained to a tree. But the balance of power was shifting. In a few minutes—much too easily in fact—he had managed to change the relationship between them from interrogator and victim to drinking buddies, and best of all: the man had allowed himself to be directed to do something he hadn't actually planned on doing. He no longer controlled everything about the situation.

Søren couldn't help wondering why it was so easy. Especially since the man seemed to be alone. To carry out a crime singlehanded and in a foreign country normally required a certain amount of initiative, independence, and willpower. Not characteristics that seemed immediately obvious here . . .

“Cheers,” said Søren and raised the beer can one more time. “What's your name? I can't continue to think of you as ‘the parka-man,' can I?” He said it with a grin, and the other man unconsciously smiled back.

“The parka-man,” he said. “No, that . . . doesn't work, I guess.” Then the smile disappeared abruptly. “You can call me V,” he said.

“V . . . as in Victor?” Søren tried.

The man's eyes and jaw muscles twitched. His eyebrows contracted in a spasm of emotion. Grief? Or at least . . . sadness? He abruptly put his beer down and turned away.

“No,” he said.

“Weren't you the one who sent the flowers?”

The man gave another shrug.

“It was nice of you. She was pleased,” lied Søren.

“When people are in the hospital, you send them flowers,” said the parka-man slowly. “That is common courtesy.”

“Yes, but why did you choose those exact Bible quotes?” They had been about peace and life after death, he thought. On the surface innocuous enough, but . . .

At first, it seemed the man would ignore the question.

“I wanted her to think of heaven,” he finally said. “People . . . think too little about that kind of thing while they are still alive.”

Søren felt a chill along his spine.
While they are still alive
. . . did that mean that he had wanted Nina to prepare herself for death? As when you send a priest to a condemned man and allow him a last prayer before his execution?

“If you sent the card and the messages,” said Søren, “then you must be Victor.”

“No,” the man said again, more explosively. “I am . . . not like him.” He climbed into the car and slammed the door shut.

That particular probe had exposed a nerve ending, Søren noted. He leaned back against the tree trunk and stared into the rain and the oncoming darkness. The beer bubbled sourly in his stomach, and he was not at all sure whether the probe was progress or a fatal mistake.

His clothes were clinging wetly to his skin, and he felt it more now that his abductor had put himself out of reach of Søren's mind games. The man stayed stubbornly inside the Land Cruiser. Was he waiting for something, or was it just to avoid further conversation?

Then Søren's cell phone rang inside the car, so loud and penetrating that he could hear it easily in spite of the distance and the closed car door. The light inside the camper was turned on, and he could see the parka-man—V—rummage frantically between the seats.

He felt a kick of adrenaline throughout his body. He didn't know how the man would react, but he had no doubt that the game had just entered a new phase.

The car door slammed open. V came toward him with rapid steps, holding the Taser in his outstretched arms. Søren jumped up and backed as far as the chain permitted, holding his hands up defensively.

“No,” he begged, at the moment not caring how many points it cost him in the power struggle. His body shrank in remembered pain, and all he could think was that he didn't want to experience that pain one more time. “Don't. I'll do whatever you say.”

“Lie down. On your stomach, please.”

It was now too dark for him to be able to read anything on V's face. His voice was hoarse with some kind of excitement, but also so decisive that Søren was convinced that the man would fire if he encountered the tiniest opposition. He lay down.

“Hands on your back.”

He obeyed. The chain was slapped twice around both wrists, and the lock clicked. He tried to keep his hands apart to have a bit of room to maneuver, but the yank that tightened the chain was too powerful.

“Thank you. Now I must ask you to walk to the car.”

The polite phrasing was all that was left of the accommodating pleaser type with the beer cans. It was bizarre. Would the man kill in the same servile manner?
I'm terribly sorry, but I have to ask you step into this mass grave?
Did he have an actual personality disorder, or . . . no, Søren didn't believe he was a psychopath.

“I'd like you to lie down in the center aisle like before.”

In a way it was easier to say what he
wasn't
than what he was. Not a rule breaker. Not a soloist, even though he was alone. Not a dominating alpha male. And, no, not a callous psychopath either.

Would he kill?

Søren remembered the onion smell and the peculiar sensation of his mouth-to-mouth “resuscitation.” He still wasn't sure if it had been necessary, but in any case the man had thought so, and there had been real desperation in his voice. He didn't
want
to kill, that much was clear. But in spite of the risk he had used the Taser again without hesitation.

Søren crouched on the camper's floor and rolled over on his stomach with difficulty when he was instructed to do so. More rattling, more clicks. He wasn't sure where the chain was attached this time, but in the short interval between V's slamming the back door and getting into the front seat to start the Land Cruiser's engine, Søren's attempt to sit up or roll onto his side failed completely. At least he didn't have his arms over his head this time. No long battle to get enough air into his lungs.

The Land Cruiser lurched through the dark forest. There was a thump that shuddered through the entire body of the car, and something slid along the side of the car with a metallic screech. V cursed, hit the gas pedal, and turned the steering wheel frantically. Not exactly a candidate for Paris-Dakar, Søren thought dryly. His level of alarm had fallen a bit again, really for no other reason than that he was still conscious, still alive, and hadn't been shot with the Taser.

About forty minutes later, the Land Cruiser pulled off the road and crunched onto the gravel of a rest stop surrounded by a windbreak of dark pine trees. Søren's vision was severely limited—only by craning his neck could he glimpse a bit of his surroundings through a side window—and his sense of direction had been through yet another carousel trip, but a short while ago an airplane had passed so near to the treetops that he was convinced that it had to be in the process of landing. Tirstrup Airport? Or Karup? He decided Karup was more likely.

V shut off the engine. In the silence, Søren could hear the man's quick, superficial breathing, and the regurgitated air from the Land Cruiser's ventilation system had a sour and sweaty smell of fear that wasn't just Søren's own.

During the drive the man had had two brief phone conversations, both in a language completely inpenetrable to Søren—Tagalog, maybe, if the man was from the Philippines—but sprinkled with occasional English expressions and words. “Highway” and “gas station” and “cell phone” swam like small recognizable islands in an ocean of incomprehensibility. Now he got out of the car and began a jerky pacing, back and forth, like an expectant father in a maternity ward.

It had stopped raining, and the moonlight fell with photo flash–like clarity across treetops, gravel, graffiti-decorated picnic tables, and garbage cans. V had left the front door open, and cold, damp night air seeped into the Land Cruiser's stuffy cabin. Søren was grateful—not only for the change of air, but also because he could now see a substantial part of the rest stop without overtaxing his vertebrae. They were here to meet someone—or so Søren concluded. If he was right, it took V out of the category of “lone madman,” but opened a new can of unanswered questions. If there were more of them, why was V driving around alone in the absurdly well-equipped Land Cruiser? Who were the others, if there was more than one? What was the setup? International organized crime? Terrorism? There was a Muslim minority in the Philippines, and the country had been a significant base for Al-Qaeda since the nineties. Still, very few so-called “ordinary people” associated Filipinos with terror. Or with organized crime, for that matter. Filipinos were so ubiquitous. There were over one hundred million in the world, and sometimes it seemed as if most of them worked abroad—as sailors, truck drivers, construction workers, cleaners, nannies, and so on. From a conference he had attended in the fall, Søren seemed to remember that the Filipino international workforce actually numbered about ten million, a quite considerable population base for any illegal network to hide in and recruit from, whether the goal was terror or more “conventional” crime.