Pierced by Thomas Enger Read Free Book Online Page A

you.”
    “People like me? You don’t even know what I—”
    “Oh, yes, I do. You’re attracted to mysteries, aren’t you? Riddles nobody has managed to crack, and now you want to turn up and save the day.”
    “Not at all—”
    “Tore doesn’t need this now.”
    “So what do you think he needs?”
    “He needs to prepare himself for his appeal. He should be trying to find out how to challenge his sentence rather than—”
    Nansen fails to find a suitable ending.
    “So he’s guilty?”
    “Did I say that?”
    “No, but—”
    Nansen interrupts him with a snort.
    “If you had known what I know, you would have done Tore a favor and turned down the job. He has been through enough.”
    Henning changes tactics.
    “Have you ever been to prison?” he asks and hears that she is about to reply, but he interrupts her. “Have you sat in a room no bigger than a broom cupboard where your door is locked at eight forty every night knowing you won’t be able to leave until seven o’clock the next morning?”
    Her sigh is heavier and more labored than he had expected.
    “No, but—”
    “Sometimes hope is the only thing that keeps you going,” he continues. “If Tore believes I can help him then I don’t think—with all due respect—that you should try to oppose it.”
    His comment verges on the pompous, but it works. He thinks.
    “I’m just trying to be realistic,” she says, eventually.
    “Okay, I understand, but could we at least have a chat about his case? You probably know him better than anyone and perhaps you know more about the case. And just so you know, I haven’t decided if I’m going to take this job yet.”
    “You’re right,” she says, quietly after a long pause. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be so abrasive. It’s just that—”
    “Forget it,” Henning says. “Is there any chance that we could meet? Today preferably, if that’s all right? I know it’s Sunday and all that, but—”
    “Could you be here in half an hour?”
    Surprised at her sudden cooperation, Henning looks at his watch.
    “I can.”

11
    “Can we play the snake game? Please, please, pleeeeease!”
    Thorleif Brenden hears his daughter’s voice from the bedroom while he takes out plates from the kitchen cupboard. Glasses and cutlery are waiting on the table with cold cuts, cheese, orange juice, and milk. The oven is on. A saucepan with water and eggs splutters on the cooker, but the sounds from the bedroom drown out even the dulcet tones of Norwegian songbird Marit Larsen from the Tivoli radio on the windowsill.
    The snake game, Thorleif thinks and smiles. The kids never get bored with it even though Elisabeth has been playing it with them for years. First with Pål, then with Julie. And now with both of them. Thorleif hears a hissing sound and the expectant squeals from the children who are hoping—or dreading—being bitten by their mother’s hand snaking toward them under the duvet. The game usually ends in tears either when Julie is kneed in the stomach or her eye is poked by a stray finger. Even so the tears are always forgotten by the next time.
    Thorleif bends down and sees that the bread rolls are golden brown on top. He turns off the oven and takes them out. His stomach rumbles with hunger. The eggs are almost done so he goes through the living room and into the bedroom. Hissssss. He can hear suppressed giggling that could erupt at any minute.
    “Breakfast is nearly ready,” Thorleif says just as the snake strikes. The room is filled with panicky squeals of laughter.
    “Just a bit more!” Pål pleads.
    “The eggs will go cold.”
    “Just two more minutes! Please!”
    Thorleif smiles and shakes his head while he looks, unsuccessfully, for Elisabeth’s eyes somewhere in the sea of bed linen.
    Hisssss.
    The room explodes in new shouts of glee.
    Marit Larsen has long since finished singing when Thorleif cuts the bread rolls in half and puts them in a brown wicker basket.
    “Smell my hands, Daddy. I’ve