The Murder of Harriet Krohn by Karin Fossum Read Free Book Online

weeps over Julie who won’t see him. Then he’s appalled at his own reaction. Only a madman acts like this, he thinks with alarm, and slams the door shut. He rushes back to the Honda.

3
    HE CAN SEE no stars. Only a thick darkness.
    Out of that darkness, the snow drops quietly. This is the planet’s ultimate night. It will never be light again; no sun will rise in the morning. So grisly was his recent act. He bows his head in despair. If he’s being honest with himself, he thinks he’s dreaming. Soon he’ll wake up and groan with relief because it was only a nightmare. He switches on the courtesy light in the car and looks down at himself. His parka is bloody. The collision must have been the hand of God, a sudden intervention to halt him in his flight and make him face justice.
    The lights are on in Erlandson’s house next door, and there, a shadow at the window. It’s almost eleven o’clock; his right arm is trembling. He sits in the car smoking, unable to tear himself away. Now and again he hears a hoarse groan, and it’s coming from him. He’s killed Harriet Krohn, but all he can think about is the accident with the white car. He thinks it was a Toyota, a Yaris. The contretemps was inexcusable. His reaction unforgivable. Only a lunatic would have behaved like that. He takes a firm grip of himself and grabs hold of the bag of silverware and jewelry, the “Tina’s Flowers” bag, and the bloody revolver. He gets out of the car and locks it.
    His knees are weak. He bends close to the fender: a dent and the remains of some white paint. If only it were a bad dream, if only the fender were smooth and undamaged. Damn this weather, he thinks. Damn this whole wretched existence that I can’t cope with. Once again, he feels the need to cry, and some miserable sobs escape from him. He throws another glance at Erlandson’s house, but there’s no one at the window now.
    He goes into his own house, slams the door behind him, and drops the revolver and the bag on the floor. He throws off the parka and it falls in a heap. And there he remains, standing with eyes closed, leaning against the wall. He hears himself breathing and knows that he’s alive, that the world is moving on. Even though he’s sunk to the bottom, to the very depths of existence. There’s a thudding at his temples, and the skin of his cheeks is prickling. He opens his eyes, sees his furniture and possessions. There’s the photo of Inga Lill and Julie; he can’t meet their gaze. He doubles over and starts tearing his hair, yanking so hard that his scalp hurts and the tears come. He eases his shoulders, gets a firm grip of himself, and sits down in his chair. The familiar red chair. He lies back. Oh, he’s so tired, so tired. He tries to force his breathing into an even rhythm and succeeds. Just sit quietly now, breathe, rest.
    Only after an eternity does he get up and cross the floor. He knows that he must meet himself in the mirror. Instead he looks down and sees splashes of blood at the bottom of his trouser legs. Aghast, he kicks them off. He goes into the bathroom to shower. He imagines it will help, that perhaps he’ll return to his old self. Can he ever be himself again? Didn’t the door just slam and shut him away from everything? He imagined he heard a boom. He is standing quite naked in the garishly lit room. But then there’s the mirror. Perhaps it’s all hopeless if his eyes give him away as a killer.
    He approaches the mirror with lowered head, and again he closes his eyes. I know what I look like, he thinks. I don’t need to make a big thing about it. He opens them again and looks straight ahead. His eyes are strange. His look is so distant; it reaches him from far away. Meditative, a little defensive. Is this really me? Am I alive? He steadies himself on the washbasin. This is too much for me, he thinks. I must calm down now. Calm down, Charlo! He makes another attempt, lifting his head and looking at his reflection with a more