The Scream of the Butterfly (28 page)

65

THE RADIO CRACKLED.
Valmir swore, then wiped the sweat from his brow. Shqiptarë, the low basement that had been his home for the past seven years, was perpetually dark and narrow. It smelled of sweat, onion, and cigarettes. But that home-like sensation was gone now. It had been mayhem since Meriton and Ukë were shot. The Nigerians had moved in, taking over their territory and their girls. They had broken most of the bones in Goran's body the other day; it was a miracle he was still alive.

It was only a matter of time before they turned up here. This time it was serious.

He turned on the frequency selector. Radio interference and white noise filled the headset before a nasal voice suddenly came through.

“A police officer and a witness are on their way from Margretheholm to Rigshospitalet's trauma centre in an ambulance going down Kløvermarksvej, heading toward Vermlandsgade. They need to be escorted by a patrol car. I repeat . . .”

Valmir closed his eyes and sniffed the air. Then he got up, downed a glass of raki, took off the headset, and tossed it on top of the radio. He opened a drawer and took out his Zastava EZ9. He removed the magazine from the gun with a click, checked it, and pushed it back in with the palm of his hand.

He nodded to Elvir.

“Turn off the lights when you leave.” Then he crossed the floor in two long strides, ran up the stairs, and disappeared into the darkness.

66

THE WATER WAS
already rising at the bottom of the concrete underpass that led to Rigshospitalet's trauma centre. The back of the patrol car skidded as the driver slammed on the brakes. A cascade of water sprayed out from the car. Lars pushed the door open and leapt out from the back, quickly followed by the driver. A group of porters were building an improvised dam of sandbags near the entrance to the trauma centre. Lars straddled the dam and showed his badge to the nurse in reception.

“A female police officer and a witness were admitted earlier.”

The nurse was on the telephone, a panicked expression on her face.

“Hello . . .” Lars waved his badge in front of her. She blinked twice, then put the handset down on the counter.

“I'm sorry. Everything is in chaos, with the rain and all. We're busy moving patients higher up the building. Do you have their names?”

“Sanne Bissen. The witness is transgender. Her name is Arbën Bukoshi, but she calls herself Serafine.”

The nurse scrolled through records on the computer. The ceiling lamps blinked.

She followed Lars's gaze. “Don't worry. We have emergency generators that will kick in. They're in a room right behind us.” She gestured to a door on the left-hand side that opened onto another corridor.

“Have any other officers been asking after them?” Lars waved over the police officer who'd driven him.

She shook her head.

“Good. Is there anything we need to know before we move them?”

“I'd better come with you.” The nurse showed them to Side Ward 2. Sanne was lying in the bed right inside the door, her arm in a sling and circular bandages covering both eyes.

“We've given her a sedative. She's asleep.” The nurse removed the IV from Sanne's arm. “It's only fluid. You can ask the doctors upstairs to insert a new one. The other one is in a much worse state — did you say her name was Serafine?” She placed her hand on the other bed. Serafine looked deathly pale and her breathing was shallow. Her naked torso was covered with tiny white scars. The shadows between her ribs were eerily deep, the bones rising under her skin with each breath. Her left shoulder and chest were covered in a large bandage. She was conscious, and didn't take her eyes off the uniformed officer.

“We were discussing whether she was safe to move . . .” the nurse began.

“Her life is at risk if she stays here.” Lars put his hand on Sanne's forehead. A faint tremor went through her.

The nurse hesitated for a second. Then she grabbed a clipboard from a chair, turned over the pale green form attached to it, and wrote a lengthy message on the back.

“Give this to the doctors when you get upstairs. They'll know what to do.” Lars thanked her and stuck the clipboard under the duvet at the foot of the bed. The nurse disconnected the electrocardiogram from Serafine. The police officer positioned himself behind Sanne's bed, unlocked the brakes, and started wheeling it toward the elevator.

“Where are we taking them?” he asked.

Lars followed with Serafine.

“Anywhere upstairs.”

The elevator door opened and they pushed the two beds inside. Lars pressed the button, which closed the door, then picked a random floor and kept both buttons pressed. He didn't let go until the elevator was in motion. Now they would go straight up without stopping at floors where others might be waiting.

The fluorescent light in the elevator flickered.

“Are you sure he's coming for them?” The police officer was sweating.

Lars watched the floor counter above the door: second, third, fourth . . .

“He murdered Mogens Winther-Sørensen when the mayor tried to prevent him from killing Serafine. He's coming all right. Make sure you have your service weapon ready.”

The officer gulped. His hand moved to the pistol holster at his side. He opened and closed the security flap.

“My name is Bent.” He held out his hand. Lars stared at it without taking it.

“Lars. Winkler.”

The elevator stopped and the door opened onto the twelfth floor, unit 2122:
Gastroenterology
. Lars quickly stuck out his head and looked both ways. The area was filled with patients in their beds. They were staring at him. There was no mysterious killer in sight.

“Calm down.” Lars attempted to smile at them. “This is the police. We just need to . . .” He pulled out Serafine's bed, carefully moving a few of the others to make room. Bent followed with Sanne.

Lars looked around. He didn't like being out here; it was too exposed and close to the elevator. He forged a path through the patients, dragging Serafine's bed directly into the gastroenterology ward. People were lying in beds along the walls, as well as in the middle of the corridor. Two male doctors and a not very tall female doctor with a bob were walking from patient to patient, reassuring them. It took him a while to recognize the red glasses.

“Christine?”

Christine Fogh looked tired, but colour rose to her cheeks the moment she spotted him. Then she noticed the uniformed officer and the beds in front of them. Her professional attitude returned. “What are you doing here?”

He pointed to Serafine and Sanne.

“You know Sanne. Someone tried to kill her and Serafine tonight. We have reason to believe that the killer will try again, so we've brought them up from the trauma centre. Sanne just needs a new saline drip. Serafine, on the other hand . . .” He flung Serafine's sheets aside and handed Christine the clipboard. “The nurse from the trauma centre wrote a message.”

Christine read it, her eyebrows buckling in concentration over her red glasses. She looked up after she finished.

“Your timing is perfect: we've just evacuated the top floors. The water was starting to leak in. Thankfully we have the emergency generators.” She started walking. “Follow me.”

They pushed the beds and followed her down the corridor.

The fluorescent lights flashed again and again, then went out for a few seconds before coming back on. They were wheeling the beds slowly, so that they didn't bump into the other patients.

“You can take them into the nurses' station —”

The lights went out again. And this time they didn't come back on. Lars registered the unease behind him: the sound of bodies stirring in their beds, groaning, and a voice calling his name . . .

“Lars?”

He turns around. His eyes scan the beds and the faces. Somehow Sanne has managed to remove the bandage covering one of her eyes and is staring at him. Her lips are moving. Is she trying to tell him something? He bends over her, turning his head so his ear is right above her lips. All she can muster is a faint lisp and croaky breathing. But somehow he senses what she is trying to give him: a name.

“Easy now. Don't exert yourself.” He pats her hand. “I know. It's Kim A.”

Outside, the sky is ripped asunder by a gigantic flash of lightning. The blue-white electrical discharge lights up everything and freezes all movement. Everything is double-exposed. The view of Copenhagen from the window is overlaid with a reflection of the hospital corridor on the twelfth floor. He sees himself bent over Sanne's face. Then the darkness returns.

“Lars,” Bent says behind him. “Shouldn't we be . . .”

Lightning strikes again and tears the world apart. The thunder reverberates between the concrete buildings. Frozen movements; yet another double exposure. A door opens behind them. The black figure in the doorway is reflected in the window, a Heckler & Koch USP Compact in his hand. The balaclava conceals his face, except for the mouth and eyes.

And Lars recognizes those eyes; he was staring into them less than an hour ago.

67

SHE FLOATS ON
her back across the grassy hills. The blades tickle her back, thighs, and legs. Rays of sunlight caress her body. She can't see anything, but everything is beautiful. The pain in her right shoulder is a hollow thumping, far away.

The air around her is alive with singing voices. She is safe. She hears a faint beep: a machine starting. She surges upward. She is surrounded by music, a string section with long notes: simple themes that merge imperceptibly.

She hears another beep and the grass blanket returns. But the sun and the beautiful music have disappeared. She can't see. A chorus of voices lash out at her. They are angry now and frightened. Her shoulder starts to hurt. Where is she? Her left arm is heavy, and twitches from her shoulder to the tips of her fingers. She grits her teeth. One finger moves first, then her whole hand. She raises her arm and fumbles for her face. Her fingers follow the bandages over her eyes, picking at the surgical tape keeping them in place. Everything comes back in a flash: the abandoned naval base, the figure, the knife, and her pepper spray.

Serafine
. Her fingers pick at the surgical tape. She has to see to get her bearings. The voice, it sounds close by. She recognizes it — recognizes him — it is . . .

“Lars?”

She manages to lift up the tape by her right eye and rip off the bandage. Her world is dark and chaotic. She can see only blurred figures. She blinks, trying to focus.

A searing white pain. Suddenly everything is lit up by a blinding light. Then the darkness returns and the world is shaken by a violent blast. She can see again. Lars is standing with his back to her, staring out of the window.

She tries again: “Lars.” This time he hears her, bends down and puts his ear to her mouth. She tries to articulate the sentences clearly and logically: who, what, where. Another blast rocks the bed she's lying in. She looks at him, caught in the flash of lightning. Did he nod? Does he understand? His mouth is moving, but she can't hear what he is saying.

Then lightning strikes again. Her eyes have adjusted and she sees what Lars can see reflected in the window: the figure appearing in the doorway behind him.

She tries to scream, but she can't. Not a sound passes her lips.

68

“JUST PUT IT
down. There'll be more officers here in a moment.” Lars doesn't turn around; he tries to keep his voice under control. He may only get this one chance. Darkness has descended on the room once again. And yet he thinks he can still see the outline of Kim A's reflection in the window. Through the glass, the cascading water, Blegdamsvej, and the blurred contours of a high-rise construction across the road are visible.

“When you're gone, no one here will dare to contradict me.”

Lars knows he's right; he can tell from the faces around him. Though it wouldn't surprise him if Christine told the truth.

Then he turns around.

“You stay just where you are.” The order is barked immediately. Lars turns his back to him again and raises his hand. He slowly unbuttons the top button of his jacket.

“Put your hands on the bed where I can see them.” The voice slams against the wall. “I know you hate shoulder holsters.”

What can he do? He is starting to panic. He can't reach his gun; there is no time to turn around before taking the shot. But what's the alternative?

Bent has moved a step away from Sanne's bed and is standing with his left side to the door. His right hand fumbles with the safety strap on his holster. Lars tries to catch his eye, shaking his head faintly. But Bent is sweating; his gaze is fixed on the figure in the doorway. The weapon leaves the holster. Bent's hand approaches the correct firing position. His left hand grips his right wrist and his elbow is slightly bent. His forefinger curls around the trigger, but he pulls too hard, yanking the pistol with him. The bullet hits the ceiling.

It takes only a fraction of a second, but to Lars it feels like hours.

There is a roar from the doorway followed by a second shot. Patients and doctors scream. Bent sighs, falls backward, and is thrown against the nearest bed before he crashes onto the floor. Bloody foam bubbles between his pale lips. Christine lunges, rolls him over, and puts him in the recovery position.

Lars tears open his jacket. He grabs his service weapon and spins around until he is face to face with his opponent. But he doesn't dare shoot — the risk of collateral damage is too great.

“Drop your weapon,” he calls out instead, constantly moving to keep the firing line clear.

The figure is now in the hospital corridor next to Serafine's bed, the muzzle of his gun resting on her forehead.

“You don't have the balls. You never did.”

Lars fires his gun. The other man wobbles and touches his head. Then he dives behind a bed before returning fire. The bullets ricochet. An old man next to him screams, but Lars can't decide whether he has been hit or is just petrified.

He sticks his head up. Kim A fires again. He has retreated away from Sanne and Serafine, but Lars can't shoot for risk of hitting the screaming patients and doctors crouching on the floor. Lars sees the flame from the muzzle; the hair stands up on his head from the air pressure as the bullet whizzes straight across his scalp. Then his opponent gets up and staggers away, pushing the beds aside, before fleeing down the corridor.

Lars leaps up to give chase, and follows the trail of blood the other man is leaving behind. A doctor tries to stop the running man by blocking his path, but receives a blow to the head with the barrel of the gun and stumbles backward. There are ten metres between them, but Lars is closing the gap. Then Kim A disappears through a door and slams it shut. Lars is forced to waste costly seconds prising it open. The echo of the other man's clattering footsteps rises up through the stairwell.