�And what is the purpose of your visit, Mr Holger Rudi?�

The CBP officer looks at me without interest as he scratches his upper arm just below the emblem of the US Customs and Border Protection service. His eyes are tired.

�Research,� I answer.

�And what do you intend to research?�

I�ve just flown from Oslo to Minneapolis via Reykjavik, a seven-hour time difference, and my body is telling me I should have been in bed long ago, so instead of following my instinct to reply �murder� and end up in an interrogation room I tell him that I�m writing a novel about a policeman with Norwegian heritage.

�So you�re a writer?�

I feel like telling him I�m a taxidermist. I stuff things. That I�m here looking to clothe a character, someone in a story I already have clear in my mind. It�s an image that has haunted me these past few months, a title I like to give myself. But as I say, I�m tired.

�Yes,� I reply.

�Interesting. As it happens I was baptised in the Norwegian Lutheran Memorial Church.�

�Really?�

�We�re all over Minnesota.� The CBP officer chuckles as he hands me my Norwegian passport.

On the taxi ride into the city I can see at once that everything has changed. New roads and buildings that weren�t here last time I was in Minneapolis eight years ago. The downtown skyline looms up ahead of us as we turn off the freeway. Between the skyscrapers I see the afternoon sunlight reflecting off the angles of a gigantic structure.

�What�s that glass thing?� I ask the driver.

�That? It�s the US Bank Stadium. That�s where the Vikings play.�

�Wow.�

�You interested in football?�

I shrug. �I�ve seen the Vikings play. At the old stadium. Maybe I�ll get myself a ticket.�

�Good luck with that.�

�Good luck?�

The driver, a black man who looks to be in his fifties, glances at me in the rear-view mirror through his almond-shaped glasses. �Very hard to get hold of. I was offered a ticket yesterday, very ordinary ticket, they wanted 350 dollars.�

�Really?�

�Yeah, really. A football game in the old days used to be something you could take your kids to. Now it�s like everything else in this country. For rich folk only.�

I look out of the window. When we used to visit my uncle and aunt we rarely went downtown. Anything we wanted we bought at the corner store or else in the Southdale Mall. Even so, I�m struck by how quiet it seems, how few people there are about. Eight years ago � when my cousin took me to a rooftop restaurant on Hennepin Avenue � the streets were full of bustling life. Especially around the next avenue we cross, Nicollet Mall.

�Where is everybody?� I ask.

�The people, you mean?�

�Yeah.�

�Aw, things haven�t been the same since all that stuff happened.�

All that stuff happened. For me, all that stuff happened means the murders six years ago; but for him and for everybody else in Minneapolis it means the murder of George Floyd two years back. Just on the drive in from the airport we�ve passed three murals depicting the black man who was killed by the Minneapolis police.

�That�s a long time ago,� I say.

�Don�t feel like it,� says the driver. �Some people thought maybe it would bring the people of this city together. Everyone against the racist police, right? But my view is, it tore this town apart. It came right at the same time as the pandemic, so it was what you might call a perfect storm...�

We pull up in front of the Hilton, and I pay cash and give him a good tip. Before he leaves I say I need someone to drive me around the city and ask if he�s interested. We agree on an hourly rate, and he gives me his phone number and says I can call him when I�m ready.

There are only a few people in the hotel�s large lobby area and the restaurant. Behind the paper face mask the receptionist probably gives me a smile and I hand her my passport. When she notes that I�m booked in for more than a week she informs me that the room will only be cleaned every fifth day. Then she gives me the keycard to room 2406, almost at the top of the hotel, as requested.

�Nosebleed floor?� A man in a cowboy hat smiles at me as I press 24. He says it in that kind of cool and jokey but all the same friendly way that I�ve only ever noticed in Americans and people from the far north of Norway. I try to think of an equally cool comeback, but I�m from the south of Norway. So instead I work on trying to even out the pressure in my ears.

The bed is big and soft and I fall asleep at once.

When I wake up I need to go to the bathroom. As I don�t want to wake myself up too much I don�t switch on the light. I can just glimpse the toilet bowl in the dark as I start to sit down and find myself almost falling backward before my rear end lands safely on the ring of the plastic seat. I�d forgotten that toilets in the USA are built lower than in Norway. And at the same instant I recall how, when I was a kid, that made me think of America as a place where they were more fond of children. That, and all those TV channels with cartoons and series for kids, all those endless metres of shelves with sweets in Southdale, the amusement park Valleyfair, where my uncle always had some new attraction to show us when we arrived for our summer holiday. This was a wonderfully childlike country, I thought. In short: I loved America. And even though I gradually came to understand that it wasn�t perfect, I understood too that I would love it for the rest of my life.

It�s still dark outside when I next wake up. I get up, call the taxi driver�s number and ask him to meet me at Nicollet Avenue by South 10th Street, and then leave the hotel. Dawn is already breaking over the twin city of Saint Paul on the other bank of the Mississippi. On the sidewalk I pass a homeless man asleep with his body pressed up against the facade of a skyscraper bearing the logo of one of the USA�s biggest banks, as though he thinks there might be some warmth for him there. A police car is parked on Nicollet, but the windows are smoked and I can�t see whether anyone is sitting inside. After about fifteen minutes my taxi pulls up next to the sidewalk. I climb into the back seat.

�First let�s go to Jordan.�

The driver looks at me in the mirror. �The town?�

�No. The neighbourhood.�

I can see he�s reluctant.

�Something wrong?�

�No, sir. But if you wanna score dope then you best get yourself another car.�

�No, that�s not it. I want to see the projects.�

�In Jordan? They don�t exist no more, sir.�

�No?�

�Pulled down the last one five or six years ago.�

�Then that�s where we�re going.�

We glide through a city still sleeping. You have to study the details to find out what kind of neighbourhood you�re passing through, whether it�s affluent or poor. If the lawns in front of the small houses are cut, if there�s garbage lying around, what makes of car are parked along the roadside.

We drive by a 24/7 Winner Gas station. Four black youths watch as we go by.

�Is that where people score their dope now?� I ask.

The driver doesn�t reply. A few blocks later he stops.

�Here,� he says. �This is where they stood. The last tower blocks in Jordan.�

I see a sign � NO GUNS PERMITTED BEYOND THIS POINT � and behind it a low, newish-looking building. It�s an elementary school. In the half-dark two squirrels dart about in nervous, jerky sprints across the lawns, their big bushy tails following with a strange softness.

And what is the purpose of your visit, Mr Holger Rudi?

The purpose is to try to get inside the head of a killer. To retrace the steps from that time back in 2016. It�s for a book. I�ve already made a start on it. The working title is The Minneapolis Avenger. I expect the publisher will have an opinion on that, although they might be less sure exactly how to market it. True crime is the hottest genre in the book market right now. People just can�t get enough of stories about bloody and preferably spectacular murders � there�s the air of mystery, unexpected turns of events, villains and heroes on both sides of the law, and, if possible, an uncertain denouement that leaves plenty of room for wide-ranging conspiracy theories. My book will have all of these, apart from the last. The answers are all there, there�s no question about where the guilt lies. What remains is the business of trying to understand how and why what happened did happen. And to achieve this I need to get inside not only the killer�s head but the heads of all the players in this story. Use everything I already know plus a bit of my own imagination to see the world, see the sites where it all happened, see it all played out through their eyes. Find the human in among all the inhuman. Force the reader � and myself � to ask the question: could that have been me?

I�m giving these field studies eight days, so I don�t have all that much time. I need to make a start. And that means starting with the guy who was where I am now, also at dawn, on that morning six years ago.

I close my eyes and look. I can see the tower blocks rising up from the ground. Blocking out the sky. There, on the sixth floor, is an open window. I fly up there. Right now I�m him. I look out. I can see in all directions. Height means overview.

The height gave perspective. For a while I could be a dispassionate observer, or at least pretend I was. Pass what I felt to be an objective judgement on society, human beings and their lives down there. I�d been sitting at that sixth-floor window since seven o�clock looking down on that antheap. At the people emerging from the doors of the apartments of the Jordan projects. It was Tuesday morning. Eleven minutes past eight. I saw cars that pulled away from the kerbside, and the parking lots behind the blocks. The white smoke from the exhausts. Yellow school buses, picking up kids � bars on the windows, like mobile jails, like some kind of prelude to the lives that lay ahead of them. Other buses that ferried people to work. Some to the factories, most to the service industries, at the bottom level. But here at the Jordan projects there were plenty of people who didn�t have school or a job to go to, and a lot of them were still in bed. Some lay staring up at the ceiling, having lost any of the hope that came with the country�s first black president eight years ago but who, in three months� time, would be leaving the White House, along with everything else in the removal van. So they lay there and tried to come up with an answer to the question that never really went away: Why? Why get up?

One of those who had found a reason emerged from the door now. An interesting feature at Jordan was the way the entrances opened inward, not outward. People said it was because it was harder to break in with the crack protected by the frame, and because in Jordan you were in more danger of being killed during a break-in than you were of being burnt to death inside your apartment, even though Jordan had, statistically, more arson attacks than anywhere else in all Minneapolis.

Thirteen past eight. A pale autumn sun struggled to penetrate the morning haze. I put my eye to the gunsight and adjusted the cross hairs until they focused on the door to Block 3. Yesterday he emerged from that door at exactly 08.16. Yesterday was Monday, today was Tuesday; people are creatures of habit and there was no reason to suppose he wouldn�t be heading out to work at about the same time today. And yet, I�d been sitting there since seven o�clock. After all, he was self-employed, so maybe he gave himself a bit of a lie-in on Mondays, but left home earlier on every other weekday.

I rubbed my hands together. There was a frost last night and a cold wind blew in between the drapes. I had taped them to the glass, so they wouldn�t blow about and disturb my aim. I had seen the pushers take their places on the street corners, seen the first deals made. Most of the customers were black, a few Latinos, but a few cars pulled up with white hands sticking out the windows. Quarter past eight. I inhaled the harsh odour of cooking oil, garlic and cigarette smoke. I�d scrubbed this one-room apartment for the last time, but the stink from that old wallpaper was still there. It�ll still be there when they pull this block down in a little while.

Sixteen past eight. My thighs had started to ache. I squatted back on my heels again to relieve them. The position was not optimal. I knelt on the couch, which I had pulled over to the window. I leaned the barrel against a chair back. A distance of 330 yards. A little further than ideal, particularly with those gusts of wind. Just one shot to the head and get it over with would be best. But that was too risky, I could miss and spoil the whole thing. So the plan was first a shot to the chest, to bring him down, then reload and give him the kill-shot. The rifle was an M24. I�d bought it six days ago for nineteen hundred dollars. Obviously, I didn�t buy it from a gun store, I bought it from a local dealer who used front men, mostly junkies with no criminal record who needed money quick. The dealer sent them into some �easy� gun store, some place where the owner didn�t ask a lot of questions, even though the whole business reeked of a front man, he just checked the application up against the register, and then calmly sold twenty potential murder weapons to some dope fiend who didn�t know one end of a gun from the other. The dealer paid the junkie at most twenty dollars for each weapon, then sold them on for one and a half times the price in the store. His name was Dante, a fat peacock of a man, born and raised in the country outside Minneapolis but he dressed like an Italian, ate Italian and talked with a fake Italian accent. And, of course, cheated like an Italian in the business he ran out of a garage just two blocks away from here. His customers were all people with criminal records. Not small-time crooks who sent their girlfriends into the gun store or walked in themselves carrying a fake ID, but people who were willing to pay that little bit extra for a professional service. Pay in the certain knowledge that if they lost the weapon at a crime scene there was no way the police were going to be able to trace the gun back to them.

Dante paid little attention to his weight and his health, but he made up for it with the care he took with his appearance. His hair and beard looked as though they�d been trimmed with nail cutters, and his clothes always matched. And he loved gold. He had gold in his eyebrows, gold in his ears, gold around his neck. And � not least � gold in his teeth.

Those gold teeth of his were the first thing I noticed that day I went to his garage. They blinged wetly at me as he told me he hoped I was going deer hunting and the gun he was selling me wouldn�t turn up at some crime scene, because this particular weapon he had bought himself, he hadn�t used a front for it.

�I�m just saying, you don�t have to tell me, amigo.�

He didn�t really have to say that as I hadn�t spoken a word since entering the garage. Anyway, what could I have said? That he was the one I was going to be hunting? That he was standing there and selling me the very weapon that was going to be used to kill him? He was alone at the time, but even so I was careful not to remove my sunglasses or pull back the top of the hoodie I was wearing. I just nodded, pointed to the one I wanted � the rifle plus two hand grenades � counted out the money and when he dug out the holster that came with the gun I wrapped it up myself in bubble wrap and put it down beside the telescopic sights and the two hand grenades. He had stared at my hands. Stared and stared at my hands. Maybe he was noting the pentagram on my wrist. Maybe he�d mentioned it to someone. Didn�t really matter. No more than that goodbye he had called after me in what he probably thought was a passable Spanish accent � Hasta la vista. �See you later.�

He had no idea how right he would be.

The street door opened.

Dante.

He stepped out and stopped. Just like he did yesterday morning, he looked right and then left. He hit his bunched right fist into the palm of his left hand. As though every day was a fight. As though a man had a choice each day, to head right or left. How naive we are.

His car � a Maserati � was in the parking lot behind the block. It wasn�t exactly brand new, but all the same, it was a little miracle a car like that was allowed to stand untouched in a neighbourhood like Jordan. The explanation was pretty straightforward: the car was protected by his gangland customers, and everybody in Jordan knew it.

I focused the cross hairs on his chest. I had worked out the distance and the angle and adjusted the sights down, since he would be so far below me. I held my breath, tried to exert an even pressure on the trigger but knew that my pulse was faster than it ought to be. The trigger moved. Kept moving. But the shot didn�t come. My pulse raced. I tried to tell myself not to be impatient, not to think that, in one more second, he would move on and the target would be much harder to hit. Don�t jerk. Just a steady, even pressure.

The man down below shivered inside his coat. He blew into his cupped hands. Like a gambler blowing on dice.

He turned right.

In that same instant the rifle jerked. I must have been holding it firmly because he never left my sight. I saw him stiffen, as though he suddenly realised he�d forgotten something. From inside the long coat something or other dropped to the sidewalk. The first association I got was when Monica and I were standing in the bathroom when her waters broke, splashing against the tiles, and the pair of us almost fainted, terrified and happy, terrified and happy.

It was blood. Dante fell. Backward, into the door. It swung open and inward. He lay there in the darkness of the hallway with his feet sticking out in the daylight. There were no screams, no shouts, no running footsteps, no slamming of doors from down there. Only the steady, uninterrupted rumble of the morning rush hour from the highway just beyond. And then, suddenly, hip hop music. Somebody still lying in bed had got up and opened the window to see what was happening.

I felt myself start to tremble, felt nauseous, made myself think of Monica and the children. Think hard about them, as I loaded another shell. Took aim. Eye up against the telescopic sights. Saw him lying there, motionless, and thought how expensive his shoes looked. That it would be a while before the police showed up here in Jordan and that in the meantime maybe someone would steal those shoes. I got something in my eye and had to blink it away. When I looked down again I saw the shoes moving. Someone down in the darkened hallway was dragging him inside to safety. I was about to pull the trigger again but the thought of shooting a neighbour who was only doing what any decent human being ought to do made me pause a moment. And by the time I decided to go ahead and shoot anyway because no one � absolutely no one � is wholly innocent, the door had swung shut.

I stood up and had to steady myself against the kitchen counter because my foot had gone to sleep. Wrapped the gun inside the bubble wrap. Wiped the counter, the arm of the couch, the back of the chair. Then I went into the bathroom and I put on my gear. Plucked an unruly strand of hair from one eyebrow and held it between two fingers before placing it on my tongue and swallowing. It stuck in my throat, like it didn�t want to go down. I put on my sunglasses and zipped up the hoodie. Shrugged on the rucksack with all my stuff inside, grabbed the flowerpot with the yucca plant, took a last glance around the apartment then let myself out.

I took the stairs up two floors to Mrs White. Knocked on the door. Heard the shuffling of slippers inside. They stopped, everything went quiet. I guess she was looking at me through the fisheye lens. Then the door opened. I�d never asked, of course, but Mrs White had to be at least eighty years old. A sweet, grey-haired old black lady who smelled of something that wasn�t exactly apricot jelly or honey but something in between.

�Tom�s,� she said. �Well now, it�s been a long time since I last saw you. Did you hear that bang too?�

Without a word I handed her the yucca plant.

�For me?� She smiled in slight surprise.

I nodded.

She put her head on one side. �Is there something wrong, Tom�s? You look so... dead. Is it the cat? You miss it, don�t you? Did he say when he would be finished? You know, you have to be patient.�

I nodded again. Then I turned and walked away. Heard that she didn�t close the door but stood there, watching me walk away. Something on her mind. Maybe she was thinking, maybe she felt it deep in her bones, that it was the last time she would ever see me.

The elevator took me down, down, down.

Outside the air was clear and the morning haze lifting. The sun was going to win through today. I walked at a steady pace, heading downtown.

It took me forty minutes.

Downtown Minneapolis always made me think of cars from Motown in the eighties, trapped in a limbo between the past and the future. Everything clean and neat, conservative and dull, practical and boring. There were skyscrapers and bridges, but no Empire State Building or Golden Gate, and if you asked someone from London, Paris or New York what he thought of when you mentioned Minneapolis, he would probably say lakes and forests. OK, so if he knew a little bit more then maybe he would know that the city has the largest connected network of skyways in the US. On the way to the intersection at Nicollet Mall and 9th Street I passed beneath one of them, a glass-and-metal bridge that linked shopping malls and office complexes, a place where people gathered to seek shelter when the temperature dropped to below zero in the winter or rose into the nineties in the summer.

I entered the little pet store. A customer was being served. Sounded like he wanted a bigger cage for his rabbit. Sometimes you still overhear something that restores your faith in human nature. I stood in front of one of the aquariums and when the assistant came over to me I pointed to one of the little fishes swimming about inside and said, that�s the one I want.

�Dwarf pufferfish,� he said as he scooped up the green fish in a little hand net. �A good aquarium fish, but not for the beginner. The water quality must always be tip-top.�

�I know,� I said.

He slipped it into a plastic bag full of water and tied it closed. �Mind your cat doesn�t eat it. And don�t eat it yourself. It�s a hundred times more poisonous than��

�I know. You take cash?�

Then I was back out in the street again.

A black-and-white car came cruising in my direction. On the door was the MPD emblem and motto � To protect with courage, to serve with compassion. Maybe they got some kind of feeling about me, the policemen sitting behind those darkened windows. But they wouldn�t stop me. After all the criticism in the media for the unmotivated and ethnically biased cases of stop-and-search, MPD police chiefs had announced a change of policy, and from now on, gut feeling was no longer a valid reason for stopping a man like me.

The car passed, but I knew they�d seen me. Same way as I knew I�d been picked up by all the surveillance cameras along Nicollet Mall and 9th Street, more of them around here than anywhere else in town.

And one other thing I knew.

I knew I was dead.

I open my eyes again. I�m back in the taxi, back inside my own head. Now of course I can�t know for certain whether I was really in the killer�s head, really thought his thoughts as he made his way down Nicollet Mall six years earlier. If he thought that thought, that he was going to die. What I do know is that he was on Nicollet Mall at the precise moment in time, that�s a black-and-white fact, recorded by a surveillance camera and by means of binary code translated into a digital recording which places the matter beyond all doubt.

I tell the driver to take me to Dinkytown.

The sun is rising as we cross the river and glide on into the low-rise settlement. This is a world apart from Jordan. Dinkytown is where the students live. The people with a future. The ones who will occupy the shiny bank buildings, the granite blocks of a city hall, the school staffrooms and the 350-dollar seats at the US Bank Stadium. When my cousin and I were old enough we often came here to drink beer in the dives. For me there was something bohemian and thrilling about Dinkytown. The smell of marijuana and testosterone, the sounds of youth, good music and boy-meets-girl, the sense of some � but not too much � danger. The place to swing through that little arc of freedom that exists between being young and being adult, and not wild enough to stop the straights landing securely on our feet, the way I did. Once my cousin�s girlfriend brought a friend along with her, and she and I sneaked out the bar and smoked a joint in one of the alleyways before having what was probably a pretty forgettable bout of sex but which I always remember anyway because of that � to me at least � exotic setting.

Now I hardly recognise the place. It looks like something in an exercise book in which the teacher has corrected all the grammatical mistakes and removed all the obscenities. We pass the place that was once a coffee bar and where the owner swore blind that Bob Dylan had made his very first appearance when he came down from Hibbing to study. Now some vast building is on its way up. I ask the driver if he thinks the purple facade is a tribute to the town�s other great musical son, Prince. The driver just chuckles and shakes his head.

�But Al�s Breakfast is still here,� I say and point to the door of that little warren of a place where � if the empty seat was down at the front � you had to press your way between the customers crowded at the bar and the sweaty wall.

�The day they try to close Al�s there�s going to be riots here,� the driver says and roars with laughter.

I tell him to stop at the bridge over the railroad line. I get out of the car and glance down at the tracks. The occasional goods train used to run on that line, and judging by the weeds growing between the rusty tracks traffic hasn�t increased much since then. I cross the road and head toward the corner where it still says Bernie�s Bar on the wall, try the handle of the locked door, cup my hands against the glass next to the poster advertising that the premises are for rent and peer inside. The bar is still there, but otherwise there isn�t a stick of furniture left.

Now I have to get inside the policeman�s head.

So I try to imagine how it might have been, what was said and done in here on that morning six years ago.

Bob Oz hissed through his teeth and put the empty shot glass back down on the bar. Looked up and saw his own reflection in the mirror between the bottles on the shelves. A new guy at work had asked him yesterday why the others called him One-Night Bob. He told him it must be because he always solved his cases in just one night.

Bob looked at One-Night Bob. He�d turned forty, but wasn�t that the same face he�d been staring at for the past twenty years now? He wasn�t exactly a good-looking man, but like his father he had the kind of face time didn�t seem to sink its teeth into. Well, OK, chewed up a little bit. At least chewed away the puppy fat of youth to reveal the mature man�s good or his bad genes, all depending on which way you looked at it. White skin of the type that only got sunburnt, never brown. A thick and unruly thatch of red hair on the kind of head that got Scandinavians nicknamed squareheads, back in the day when his ancestors emigrated here from Norway. A relatively healthy-looking set of teeth, a pair of blue eyes that had got more red in the whites since his separation. His eyes bulged slightly, but at least according to one of his one-night-stand ladies that was no bad thing since it gave the impression he was listening closely to whatever they said. Another had said that as soon as they met she had the feeling of being a Little Red Riding Hood and wondering why the wolf had such big eyes. Bob Oz rounded off the stocktaking by sitting up straight on his bar stool. When he was young he wrestled and swam. Though never a champion in either field it had given him a good body that the years had done little to change. Until now, that is. He put his hand on his shirt, beneath his trademark yellow coat. A nasty little pot belly. And this despite the fact he had never eaten less than in the three months that had passed since he and Alice had split up. And it couldn�t be the pills, because he wasn�t taking those any more. But he was drinking more, no doubt about that. A lot more.

The name One-Night Bob came from a colleague early on in his career, before he met Alice and became One-Woman Bob. It was back in the days when he and his colleagues celebrated every triumph, great and small � and, at a pinch, their defeats too � at the Dinkytown bars, when they were young enough to shake off the hangovers and Bob would more often than not wake up with a woman lying next to him. What especially impressed his male colleagues was the way this pallid, ginger-haired guy could pull women even when he was so drunk he could hardly stand up. Anyone who asked what his secret was always got the same answer: that he tried harder. That he didn�t give up. That some of these women pestered him to take them to bed. When you haven�t the looks, the money or the charm then you have to work harder than the competition. End of story.

�Another?�

Bob nodded and looked up at the female bartender as she poured his whiskey. She reminded him of someone and now he knew who it was. Chrissie Hynde, the singer and guitarist with the Pretenders. Black hair, fringe cut straight. Sassy, self-assured, interesting-looking rather than pretty. High cheekbones, narrow, slightly slanting eyes. A bit too much mascara. Russian genes? Long, thin limbs. Tight jeans she knew she looked good in. A baggy T-shirt, meaning she had nothing there worth promoting. No problem there, Bob had always been more of a leg-and-ass man. Sure, the half-closed venetian blinds in the bar blocked out the morning sunlight, but he could make out the lines marking her face. She looked like she�d lived a bit. Mid-thirties going on forty. Good. Gave him more of a chance.

Bob took a sip and hissed through his teeth again. The sign on the sidewalk outside the bar advertised Happy Hour, but just for a handful of whisky brands, and you take what you can get. Bob coughed.

�Liza. It is Liza, right?�

�Whatever,� she said and yawned as she picked up the empty beer glass of a customer who had just left the bar.

�That�s what the guy who was just here called you.�

�Well, that�s all right then.�

�OK,� said Bob and took another sip. �I know you�ve heard this before, Liza, but you know what? My wife doesn�t understand me.�

Liza came back at him without missing a beat: �And there was me hoping you didn�t have one.�

Bob smiled stiffly. �You get tips for that line of yours, honey?�

�You get cunt for yours, honey?�

Bob looked thoughtfully at her expressionless, stony face. �If you want a ballpark figure, and by cunt you mean the whole way, then we�re talking��

�Forget it,� she interrupted. �Let�s just say never mind about the tip so long as I don�t have to be...� She mouthed the word cunt, then turned her back on him to rinse out a cloth in the sink.

�Fair enough, Liza. But just for the record, my wife really doesn�t understand me. For a long time she understood everything, and then it stopped. Suddenly she couldn�t make me out at all.�

Liza gazed longingly in the direction of the tables where the only other two customers were sitting, as though hoping they would give her something else to do other than have to stand and listen to this. Bob moved his right hand toward his jacket pocket. The No Smoking law had been in place for the last ten years, but after a drink or two old habits took over and he could still find himself reaching for the cigarette pack that wasn�t there. It hadn�t been there since that evening twelve years ago when they�d met. He�d been sitting there, minding his own business, listening while a colleague hypothesised about what turned the ladies on; it was Bob�s French inhaling, the way he slipped the smoke out of his mouth and at the same time drew it up into his nostrils. That showed muscular coordination at the same time as there was something vulgar about it, he said. Something suggesting an unbridled and dark sexuality. That was the moment another colleague entered the bar with this woman. He�d introduced her, her name was Alice, she was a psychologist, a couple of inches taller than Bob and insanely good-looking. So good-looking Bob immediately crossed her off his list. Another of his pickup rules involved setting realistic goals, and Alice was obviously way out of his league. On top of that � and this was a practical rather than a moral hindrance � she was on a date with a colleague. And anyway, this colleague had already warned her about him, she knew his nickname was One-Night Bob, and even before Alice got the first drink down she�d asked him straight out about it. Not, like the guys, asking him how he did it, but asking him why. Why did he have to have all these women who he didn�t really want? Because she was a psychologist, and because anyway he�d already made up his mind she was out of his league, he decided to tell her as honestly and openly as he could, and not give a damn about how bad it would make him look. He said it probably came from having a weak bond with his mother, that he hadn�t been loved enough as a child, and that this gave him a compulsion to seek out intimacy and recognition, at the same time as he didn�t dare to risk a closer relationship for fear of being rejected. And that, as well as all that, it was exciting and pleasurable to fuck new women. He asked her what she made of this. She said he seemed self-obsessed and radiated a deep loneliness, and that she didn�t like men who smoked and had it never occurred to him that the smell would get into the fibres of his cashmere coat? Bob then embarked on an intense lecture on the subject of the difference between the goat hair of his coat and camel hair generally, segueing into an equally intense lecture about how �Purple Rain� was so much more than the clich�d rock ballad people thought it was, that when the last verse was over the song wasn�t even halfway through, after that came five minutes of a brilliant, howling guitar solo, an implosion, followed by two minutes of beautiful, delirious anarchy. He got the bartender to put the record on and sang along with it, doing the guitar parts too, dancing like Axl Rose. Alice looked as though she didn�t know whether to laugh or throw up. A month later they were a couple. And from that day on Bob hadn�t cast so much as a glance at other women, she�d transformed him, she�d kissed the frog. Until three months ago. Now � twelve years on � the frog was out hopping again.

�If you really want to know, she�s left me,� said Bob.

�I don�t want to know.�

�No, well, now you know anyway. Isn�t that actually part of your job? To listen and pretend to understand?�

�No. But OK, she�s dumped you and I can�t say I�m surprised.�

�No?� Bob took hold of the lapels of his cashmere coat and parted them, heard how his speech was a little slurred. �Do I look to you like a guy ladies would dump, Liza?�

�Dunno. But when someone comes in here in the middle of the morning and drinks like an amateur then it�s a good guess they�ve been kicked out either by their lady or by their boss. And from the way you�re dressed you look like a guy who has a job to go to.�

�Jesus, you ought to be a detective.�

�You trying to tell me I don�t make it as a bartender?�

Bob laughed. �Tough lady.� He held out his hand. �The name�s Bob.�

�Hello, Bob. No offence, but I don�t touch the customers and they don�t touch me.�

�Fair enough,� said Bob and withdrew his hand. �What about you, Liza? You ever had your heart broken?�

�I�m a bartender, that�s all you need to know about me.�

�OK, but at least tell me this. A man with a broken heart: in your eyes, does that make him more attractive or less attractive?�

She raised one eyebrow. �Are you asking me what your chances are of fucking me?�

�What makes you think I want to fuck you?�

�You mean you don�t?�

Bob thought about it. �If what people say is true, that fucking other people is a good remedy for a broken heart, then Christ, yeah, I do.�

Bob couldn�t be sure, but he thought he saw the ghost of a smile on that hard, closed face.

She pulled a wine glass from a rack dangling above the bar and began polishing it. �Helps about as much as pissing in your pants when it�s cold, I should think. Does you having a broken heart mean I fancy you? No. For all I know she dumped you because you�re no good in bed.�

Bob slumped forward with one hand held to his stomach. �Ouch, you got me there, Liza. Pour me another drink.�

Liza filled his glass. �OK. So do you really have a broken heart?�

�Will you fuck me if I do?�

Bob was sure of himself now; she was smiling.

�Come on, Liza, being here bores you as much as it bores me, so let�s just entertain each other a bit. The question is hypothetical and your answer will not be used against you in a court of law.�

�I�d like it better if you entertain me with the story of your broken heart.�

�Her name�s Alice.�

�You have kids?�

�No.�

�Hard up?�

�No.�

�Someone else?�

�No.�

�Then what happened?�

�She stopped loving me.�

�But she did love you once, you think?�

�Yes,� said Bob. �She did.�

�Then why d�you think she stopped?�

�It�s... complicated.�

She returned the wine glass to the rack and started polishing another, looking at him while she did so.

�I thought you wanted to talk about it.�

�Your turn now,� said Bob, and forced a smile. �Could I have had a date with you?�

�No.�

�Hypothetically,� he said. �If you didn�t work here.�

She shook her head slightly, and then added, with an exasperated look, like someone humouring a troublesome child: �It depends.�

�Depends on what?�

�What you have to offer a single mom.�

�Ah, single mom.� Bob smiled broadly. �I can offer her security. I�m a public servant, it�s almost impossible to fire me. And...� Bob put his hand into the pocket of his cashmere coat and tossed a small, rectangular plastic package onto the counter.

Liza leaned forward reluctantly for a closer look. Made a face. �A rubber?�

�Safe sex. This is the best money can buy.�

She raised an eyebrow. �You�re scared you�ll have a kid?�

Bob shrugged. �I�m scared of a premature ejaculation. And with that thing there my prick hardly feels a thing.�

Liza laughed out loud. And from her laughter he could tell she�d smoked her fair share of cigarettes. �Dammit, Bob, you really are cute.�

�Cute enough to let me buy you a cup of coffee some place else?� Bob pulled the condom back over to his side of the counter.

She shook her head. �Is that the way you usually do it?�

�Do what?�

�First the full-frontal assault, then the retreat, then the siege?�

Bob thought about that. �Yes. Does it work?�

�Sure. Just not on me.�

�Why not?�

Liza rolled her eyes.

�Oh, come on,� said Bob, �I�m out of training. I need a little constructive feedback here.�

Liza spotted a gesture from one of the other customers, an elderly man still wearing his overcoat. She picked up a glass and unscrewed the top of a vodka bottle. �Well, OK then. I couldn�t be less interested. You come in here, I�m the first woman you see, the first living being you see. You sat there for about five minutes before suggesting a fuck. A fuck to make up for the fact that your lady�s dumped you. Let�s say � hypothetically � that I�d been up for it and you and me ended up in the same bed tonight. Does that really sound to you like the start of a quality relationship involving two quality people?�

�Ah, but...�

�But?�

�Isn�t quality in general a bit... eh, overrated?�

Liza looked at him and slowly shook her head. She licked her lips a couple of times.

�Then what do you mean by quality, Liza?�

Liza screwed the cap back on the vodka bottle. �Staying power.�

�Staying power? As in...?�

�No. As in, a man who sticks around.�

She placed her hands on the counter and Bob Oz met her eyes. Then she picked up the vodka glass, emerged from behind the bar and walked across to the old man sitting at his table. Bob watched her. She put the glass down in front of him and spoke to him as she picked up the crutch that had fallen to the floor and leaned it against the chair.

The phone in the inside pocket of his jacket began to vibrate.

He took it out, saw that the caller was Superintendent Walker. He hesitated before taking the call.

As expected, Walker sounded pretty pissed off. �Where the hell are you, Oz?�

�Dinkytown, chief.�

�Why aren�t you at work?�

�I am. I�m checking the licences at a couple of dodgy premises.�

�You are a homicide detective, Oz.�

�Then let me guess. There�s been a murder?�

Pause.

�Have you been drinking, Oz?�

�Any address for that murder, chief?�

Walker sighed heavily before giving the address.

�No surprises there then,� said Bob as he wrote in his notebook. They ended the call and he stood up and buttoned his cashmere coat just as Liza came back round behind the bar again.

�Duty calls?� she asked.

�Yeah,� said Bob as he put some dollar bills down on the bar.

Liza held one up to the light to make sure it was legit. �Will we be seeing you again, Bob?�

�Do we hope so?�

�If you keep on tipping like this then definitely.�

�When do you close?�

�Nine o�clock. But maybe you need a bit of a break from the drinking. Heart, liver � it all adds up, you know.�

�Thanks for the advice.� Bob smiled. �Ha det bra.�

�What did you say?�

�Norwegian. Be well.� Bob turned and headed for the exit. Could feel he was a little bit unsteady on his feet. Stopped in the open doorway and walked back to the bar where Liza was standing with her hand out and a grin on her face. Bob Oz grabbed the condom from between her fingers, gave an exaggeratedly gallant bow and then left.

Bob took the Kojak light off the roof as he swung into the open space between the apartment blocks of the Jordan projects. The brown-brick buildings around him towered into the sky on all sides, and as he passed into the shadows a breath of damp, cold air entered through the car window. It made him shiver. The whole Jordan project made him shiver. In other places � and that included even down in Phillips � it could be difficult for the untrained eye to see visible signs of the misery, to hear the creaking of bottled-up hate, to smell the testosterone just waiting for the right bad excuse. But not here. It started with a welcome graffiti drawn down the side of the cement stairway leading to the road below. BLOWJOB it said, in gigantic lettering. Next to it was a badly drawn pistol aimed at the side of a head with what was obviously supposed to be brain mass blowing out on the other side. Bob directed his gaze up at the blocks. They made him think of termite mounds. There was something odd about this concentrated assembly of people in a place where there was so much space. He�d seen photographs from the time when his great-great-grandparents came out here from Norway, driven out by hunger and hard times. They�d come to a wide, open landscape with farms and people distant from each other. They built their simple houses and churches here. They never envisaged a city with a skyline, still less entire high-rise settlements with people on welfare, people on the margins of society who sold everyday escape routes to each other, dug graves for each other and directed their hatred and frustration above all against people who suffered as much as themselves. What would Bob�s ancestors have said about Jordan and Minneapolis? According to his parents they�d been God-fearing, hard-working and thrifty. As well as conservative racists. Bob�s great-great-grandfather had fought in the Civil War, but when the liberated slaves started arriving from the south and settling in the Twin Cities of Minneapolis and Saint Paul, he�d come to regret it, his grandma said. People of Scandinavian and German heritage were still in the majority, but in the towns especially the ethnic mix of the population was much more varied. Latinos started to arrive after the Second World War, mostly Mexicans but some Puerto Ricans too. By the eighties the Vietnamese had arrived, though God knows why people from a coastal land would choose somewhere as far from the sea as this. The Vietnamese who ran Bob�s local liquor store explained it by saying that once you�d survived being one of the Boat people you kept well away from salt water for the rest of your life. When refugees from the war in Somalia began arriving in the nineties and settled in Phillips and on the south side of the city, a lot of people began predicting trouble. They�d read about traumatised child soldiers with Kalashnikovs in a war financed by the sale of narcotics, and they could see all this baggage making the journey over with them. But things had gone better than the pessimists feared. Naturally some had ended up in drug gangs, but it wasn�t as bad as up on the north side, where for the last six years there had been an average of ten shootings per week. Every time Mayor Kevin Patterson was confronted with a new report on violence he countered by saying that crime per capita in Minneapolis was at an all-time low, which was indeed the case for the other parts of the city. But here it had just gone up and up, especially after Patterson had slashed the police budget and forced them to let people go and start to prioritise. What priorities and which neighbourhoods the mayor � who lived in wealthy Dellwood � wanted the police to concentrate on wasn�t hard to guess.

Bob pulled up beside an MPD police car standing outside the entrance to one of the blocks and climbed out. A bow-legged, slightly overweight policeman in uniform was leaning against the car as his colleague inside spoke on his radio.

�Detective Oz, Homicide Division,� said Bob and flashed his badge.

�That was quick,� said the uniform.

�I was just round the corner. What�s the story, Officer...?�

�Heinz. Ambulance and technicians are on their way.�

�The body?�

Heinz led the way and opened the door. Oz saw the blood on the sidewalk outside and the trail of blood inside. They walked on till they reached the body, which was lying on its back ten yards inside the hallway, beyond the elevator and the stairs.

�Why no crime scene tape?�

�Because we got witnesses that say he was standing outside and the shot came from a long way off, nobody saw anybody shoot. There�s no evidence here to mess up, Detective.�

�Really?� Bob looked at the drag-trail of blood leading from the doorway to where they stood, and at the blood on the victim�s shoe. �Do we know who dragged him in here?�

�No.�

�Right. Get your partner off the radio and get the scene out there and in here taped off and do it now.�

Heinz disappeared. Bob looked down at the body. Noted that he�d been wrong, Bob Oz wasn�t the only man in Minneapolis who walked around in a mustard-yellow cashmere coat, just the only mustard-yellow cashmere coat without a bullet hole in it. The man had narrow lines of facial hair that framed his mouth and followed the line of his jawbone up to his temples. They were so neatly cut and black, probably dyed, that they looked like they�d been painted on. The corpse had piercings on the eyebrows and ears, the rings looked like gold.

Bob squatted down and carefully unbuttoned the coat. Only now did he realise how fat the man was. The body flopped out of the open coat and seemed held in place by no more than a slim-fit white shirt that was drenched in blood. The discreet emblem on the breast pocket announced that it was an exclusive Italian brand.

Heinz returned. �My partner�s fixing the tape,� he said.

�OK. Help me turn this guy over.�

Heinz bent low with a grunt and took hold of the dead man�s hips. �I heard someone from your division say that the reason there�s so many murders here in Jordan is that it�s a food desert, that there�s only one decent food store here.�

�Is that a fact?� Bob said without interest as he lifted the corpse�s shoulders.

�He thought there was a connection between hunger and the level of aggression,� Heinz grunted. �But I don�t buy it. Take the average weight of the people around here and you can see the problem isn�t a lack of food.�

�You don�t say,� said Bob as he studied the victim�s back. No exit wound.

�It�s the fat. Fat makes us bad people. Just look at the folks that live around here.�

�Right, now lay him down again,� said Bob.

�They�re either skin-and-bone meth heads or fat diabetics who are going to die before they make sixty. No one works and they�re all sick. Obamacare means you and me and our children and grandchildren are paying to support these parasites.� Officer Heinz stood up, wheezing. He tucked his stomach back inside his belt.

�Got a pen on you, Heinz?�

Heinz handed him one with MPD�s logo on it, hunkered down close by Bob and watched with interest as Bob pushed the pen into the entry wound in the chest, like someone measuring the oil in a car engine. Bob searched his pockets for something square-shaped, rejected the condom and pulled out the appointment card from Guillaume�s clinic for anger management and held it more or less level behind the pen. Closed one eye and looked. First across the body and then along it. Drew a line along each side of the card.

�What�s that you�re doing?� asked Heinz.

�Trying to get some idea of the angle of the shot.� Bob saw Heinz�s nostrils dilate and guessed the officer was probably smelling the alcohol on his breath. Just then the body on the floor jerked.

�Jesus!� Heinz yelled.

Bob stared down at what he was no longer quite so sure was a dead body. The chest wasn�t moving, but when Bob held three fingers against the neck he could feel the beat of a slight pulse.

�First aid,� said Bob.

�Eh?�

�You take the first-aid course, Heinz?�

�Sure, but��

�Then on you go.�

�OK, OK. Then help me to��

�No, no,� said Bob as he stood up. �He�ll help you.�

Bob nodded in the direction of Heinz�s partner who was standing in the doorway with the roll of crime scene tape in his hand.

�Enjoy the mouth-to-mouth resuscitation,� said Bob as he straightened up.

�Where are you going?�

�I�m a homicide detective, so unless this guy dies then my business here is done.�

We�re back in downtown. I tell the taxi driver to wait for me and I get out. The city is awake by now and I hear the whistle blow as the subway train glides out of the station behind me. In front of me is a statue of Mayor Hubert Humphrey. Before he was mayor he was vice president, as well as a presidential candidate. During one of our trips to the USA, Dad brought us here and told us that the man up there on the plinth was half-Norwegian and that his mother, Ragnild Kristine Sannes, came from the same place in Norway as our family. She�d been one of twelve children and had fled from poverty in Norway to a country in which she would give birth to a child who would one day be just a few votes short of becoming the most powerful leader in the world. That�s what was so fantastic about this country, our father explained to us. That someone from a humble background � like the man who won that election, Richard Nixon � could end up at the very top. When we got back to Oslo, I bought a map of America and hung it over my bed, along with my posters of Elvis Presley and Marilyn Monroe. It was only later that I realised my father had been lying. In the first place, more or less all presidents except one during the previous hundred years were millionaires, and as for the American dream of social mobility, you had to work your way far down the list before you found my beloved USA, right behind Lithuania, South Korea and Portugal.

But strangely enough it was as though my father�s lies only served to further convince me that America is the home of the free and the brave. Because despite all the nice things you can say about my so-called home country of Norway, it�s fantastically boring. All you need to do is compare Oslo City Hall with the city hall behind the statue of Humphrey. The city hall in Oslo is just a couple of shoeboxes standing upright. Red brick, small windows, the place could be a factory. But Minneapolis City Hall, with its spires and its ornamentations and huge blocks of stone, radiates something exalted, like a cathedral, or a castle. Or like the Disneyland castle. The original intention was that these costly granite blocks, some weighing up to twenty tons, should be used only for the foundations and the rest be built of less expensive brick. But once the people of Minneapolis saw how mighty those granite blocks were they overruled the penny-pinching bureaucrats and made sure the whole building was made of granite. Which, of course, blew the budget to pieces. Which is the way to do it, if you ask me!

I have come here to get a closer look at this building because it is going to play an important part in my book. Inside, behind the granite blocks, you�ll find not just the mayor�s office, but courtrooms, police headquarters, even prison cells. And up on the sixth floor, the Homicide Department.

With the Ghost of City Hall.

It was in the Oslo public library that I came across a true-crime pamphlet about John Moshik, and the first and last public execution to take place at the city hall, back in 1898. Moshik was sentenced for killing a man for just fourteen dollars. But the means employed � hanging by the neck until dead � didn�t go according to plan. It took eight minutes for Moshik to die. Meaning just a minute less than the amount of time Derek Chauvin held his knee against George Floyd�s neck after Floyd had been arrested on suspicion of having paid for a pack of cigarettes with a counterfeit twenty-dollar bill. According to my contact in the MPD, Moshik�s ghost still walks the floor up there in the Homicide Department. But my business here is not Moshik�s ghost, or George Floyd�s either. The ghost I�m looking for was seen passing a CCTV camera six years ago, following a shooting in Jordan. And no one knew back then that this was only the beginning. I don�t know if this makes me a bad person, but the thought gives me a pleasurable shiver as I stand there studying the facade of the building. The black windows reveal nothing. My job is to fill in the blank spaces, give lines to the characters and life to the scenes.

Bob Oz crossed Government Plaza. Glanced up at the Humphrey statue that always seemed to him to look more like Bob Hope and entered the city hall. His steps echoed as he passed through the venerable hall with its statue of Aquarius, through the security channel and then over to the elevators where three people stood waiting for him.

�Hi, Bob,� said one of them. He turned. It was a woman in a navy-blue skirt and jacket � the battledress of the legal profession. She smiled. Thirty, maybe, though he never found it easy to guess the age of Asian people.

�Hi...� He couldn�t recall her name. �The coffee good?�

She looked down in slight surprise at the paper Starbucks cup she was holding. �Er, it�s OK. I never heard back from you.�

Was it Ellen? Or Helen? Or a Chinese name?

�You know what, I lost your number,� said Bob. �Maybe...�

�Maybe?�

He smiled. There was a ping and the elevator doors slid open. �Maybe you could send it to me.�

Helen. Yes, it was Helen. The enemy. The defence attorney. Lilac underwear.

�How? You didn�t give me your number either.� She entered the elevator and turned to face Bob, who was still standing outside. She raised her index finger and pointed upward quizzically.

Bob shook his head. �Thanks, Helen, but I�m going down.�

She gave him a big smile, flipped her hand round, and as the elevator door slid closed switched fingers and showed him the middle one. Bob brushed his hand over his tie. So, not Helen then. But he was sure he was right about the underwear.

Bob took the next elevator to the fifth floor and stepped out into the Homicide Department�s new offices. Until recently the fifth had been used to house prisoners on remand, and despite the complete refurbishment and all the glass and the light furniture, Bob couldn�t shake the feeling that the place was a prison. Maybe it was the narrow windows that let in so little daylight, maybe it was the cell-like offices flanking either side of the open-plan office landscape. He walked past the last office, still in the process of being refurbished, said to be the cell occupied by the �Ghost of City Hall�. The decorator working inside turned toward Bob as he passed. He looked like a ghost himself in there behind the glass wall, in his white overalls and with the white cap, gloves and face mask. All that was visible was a pair of brown eyes, and what Bob interpreted as a smile. He smiled back.

Bob headed for his workspace at the far end of the open office landscape, looking neither to right nor to left of him. He made it over almost every hurdle but of course tripped up at the last one.

�Aaa-ss!� Detective Olav Hanson�s pronunciation of Bob�s surname had a lot of air in it, and a descending note that made it sound like a cross between an apology and a puncture. Hanson had apparently been just one knee-tackle away from playing in the NFL, and though Bob Oz didn�t wish fame and fortune on Hanson he would have preferred that to having the giant blond jerk as part of his life. Hanson was in his fifties and had been with the Homicide squad longer than anyone. There were rumours about why Hanson had never been promoted, but for Bob there was no mystery about it: as an investigator Olav Hanson was useless. Unfortunately that wasn�t valid grounds for dismissal in the state. Nor was being an asshole. Fortunately.

�Walker was in here looking for you,� Hanson bellowed, loud enough to be sure everyone in the vicinity heard what he was saying. �You�re to go and see him asap, Aaa-ss.�

�Thanks, Hands-On,� said Bob without breaking his stride.

�Asap, as in as soon...� Hanson�s voice fell away behind him.

Bob slumped down behind his desk. From the chaos of paper piles, crime scene photographs, torn-out notebook pages, chocolate wrappers and chewed pencils in front of him you might have got the impression Bob Oz had far too much to do. The exact opposite was the truth. Since the break with Alice, Walker had been taking Bob off his involvement in active investigations one by one until now he was down to none. Walker�s grounds had been what the personnel report called �unstable conduct�, MPD�s psychologist referred to as a failure of anger management, and Walker called giving Bob a break until he pulled himself together again. In the meantime he was handed assignments usually given to newcomers in the unit, such as collating data for other detectives, fact-checking and interviewing witnesses in cases assigned to other investigators.

Bob checked MPD�s website to make sure the BOLO for Tom�s Gomez had been sent out as he had ordered. No results so far. He pulled the note from his coat pocket and called a number on the red landline telephone. While waiting for it to be picked up he looked at the photograph of Alice that was still pinned to the privacy wall, alongside the Vikings fixture list.

�Hi, Kari, this is Bob. Can you help me trace a doctor? Name is Jakob Egeland. He�s an MD. Thanks, Kari, you�re a... sorry, I can�t come up with a euphemism that�s sexually neutral enough. What? Me? A dinosaur? Come on.�

Bob hung up. Stretched his legs and folded his hands round the back of his head. Looked at the clock. Then the picture of Alice. If he called her using the landline, maybe she would pick up. No, no, fuck it, no! He pulled up the Star Tribune�s website and learned that the number of bison in Minnesota was on the increase. Read an article about the National Rifle Association�s annual conference which was being held this year in Minneapolis and was due to open in four days. A report on the Vikings� last game, a victory. They were looking good so far, so good Bob figured they would be able to defend their title as the best team in the NFL never to have won the Super Bowl. Nothing else of interest there. His gaze settled once more on the red telephone.

Don�t ring Alice. Do not ring Alice.

He felt himself itching all over. He glanced at his neighbour�s desk, at the handcuffs lying on top of a pile of documents as a paperweight. He felt like he wanted to arrest somebody, anybody at all. Something had to happen, anything at all or else he�d go out of his mind. He regretted now that he�d quit smoking after meeting Alice. The day after she threw him out, he�d bought his first pack in twelve years, but they tasted like shit. She�d even taken that from him. He itched inside, in places he could never reach.

Bob got to his feet so abruptly that the chair was still rolling toward the next desk as he marched out.

�I understand you have to consider your oath of confidentiality, Dr Egeland, but what we�re dealing with here is a possible murder.�

�You said murder on the telephone, Detective Oz, not possible murder.� Egeland repositioned his newly polished spectacles on his nose. The policeman sitting on the chair in front of him, normally occupied by patients, was wearing clothes of a cut and colour that Egeland was inclined to associate with Mafia bosses and pimps rather than police officers: a coat that was almost orange, red silk tie and brown shoes that looked a touch too elegant and delicate for a Minneapolis autumn. But there had been nothing suspicious about the credentials the man had shown him, and it was hard to imagine someone going to all this trouble just to trick a bit of information out of him about a diabetes diagnosis.

�Since you have Gomez�s label then you already know he�s diabetic,� said Egeland. �So you really don�t need any confirmation from me.�

�No. But there are a couple of things I�m wondering about. The first is, do you have any information at all about where we can contact Gomez?�

�I have his address in Jordan.�

�Phone number?�

�No.�

�OK. My second question is, when will he need to renew his prescription?�

�What do you mean?�

�There was one used injector pen left in the box. The usual thing would be to keep the pens in the box and throw it away when the last needle was used, right?�

�It�s perfectly possible.�

�I don�t know if this is the last box, but I know that when he runs out he�s going to have to contact his regular doctor, which is you. So can you check his journal on your computer and see when he�s going to need to renew?�

Egeland looked sullenly at Detective Oz. He disliked the man. He had that air of arrogance you find only in someone who doesn�t care if people like him or not.

�The reports from the hospital are pessimistic,� said the police officer. �Delete possible and think of this as a murder.�

Egeland thought about it. Weighed that word up against his own vow of confidentiality. Murder. This was the exception. The place where ethical discussions stopped. He sighed, then worked his keyboard as he studied his computer screen.

�He�ll run out in ten days.�

�So before then he�ll turn up here?�

�No, most likely he�ll phone and I�ll email the prescription to a chemist close to where he happens to be calling from.�

Egeland watched Detective Oz as he leaned forward and, placing the notepad on the desk as though it were his own, began to write. �Now listen, Egeland. When Gomez contacts you I want you to call MPD on the number I�m writing down here. We want to know the name of the chemist where he�s going to be picking up his insulin, and we want you to wait until we�re in place there before you send the email prescription. Understood?� Oz tore out the sheet of paper and pushed it across the desk.

Jakob Egeland was astonished. �You want me to cooperate with the police in the arrest of one of my own patients? Don�t you understand��

�Dr Egeland, what I want most of all is for you to cooperate with your own conscience and in doing so prevent Tom�s Gomez from killing a number of other people. If the moral algebra of that is too complex for you then I can leave and come back with a judge�s order.�

Egeland stared at the number on the sheet of paper as though the figures were an equation that could be solved.

�I�ll do it,� he finally conceded. �But I would like a written judge�s order.�

�Fine, but I can�t promise we can arrange that before Gomez contacts you. So can I still count on your assistance?�

Jakob Egeland nodded.

Detective Oz pushed the notebook back into his pocket and stood up.

�He�s a quiet man,� Egeland said in a faint voice. �But bright. The first time he came to see me I was surprised at how much of my legal Latin he understood.�

Oz remained standing.

�So I was surprised again when he was due his first biannual check-up and he took off his shirt and his upper body was covered in tattoos. You know... gang tattoos.�

Oz sat back down.

�Which gangs?�

�I don�t know them all, but on his back he had X-11 tattooed.�

Oz nodded slowly. �X-11. And the others?�

�He had a tattoo of a wolf which I�ve seen as graffiti. So I presume that�s a gang too.�

The police officer tapped on his phone, raised it and showed Egeland an image of a black wolf tattooed on a naked back. �Did it look like that?�

�Yes, it could well have done.�

�And now you�re worried that if you help us catch him his gang will want to take revenge on you?�

Egeland looked up in alarm. �No. No, that didn�t occur to me until now.� The doctor�s Adam�s apple bobbed up and down. �Ought I to...?�

�Absolutely not,� said Oz as he stood up again. �We have a duty of confidentiality too. No one will know that you were my source of information.�

�No one?�

�Absolutely no one.� Oz gave a quick smile. �I�d better be getting back over to the right side of town. Have a nice day and hope to hear from you soon.�

I was on high, I had perspective. But no gun this time, this time I was just an observer.

I was lying in bed and watching TV. Switched between news broadcasts on KSTP, WCCO and KARE and the internet on my phone. I didn�t get it. I could see why the murder of a gun dealer in Jordan would get less coverage than the killing of some rich white guy out in Dellwood; what I didn�t get is why it didn�t even rate a mention. After all, Minneapolis isn�t Chicago where they have two or three murders every day. I closed my eyes. They hurt from staring at the screen. My ears were exhausted from all the cackling and the brutal sound effects used by advertisers to attract attention. What I wanted was peace. Rest. I heard a child crying somewhere. I knew there were no children here. I know it was just her.

Then it came. A short item on KARE. And I realised why it hadn�t made the headlines. The anchor reported a shooting incident in Jordan in the morning in which the victim had been shot in the stomach outside his own home. Badly injured. Not killed. A person injured in a shooting is everyday stuff in Minneapolis � it hardly rates a mention on the news. The images used to illustrate the ten seconds of the report weren�t even from the blocks but from somewhere else in Jordan, on a grey day, and the only connection with the place were the pictures of the police crime scene tape, stock footage from some previous report.

Badly injured.

Not dead.

Not yet.

When Bob emerged from the elevator three men from Homicide were standing by the unit�s new coffee machine. Hanson, Joe Kjos and a new guy whose name Bob couldn�t remember.

�Here�s the wizard,� said Olav Hanson. �Didn�t manage to transport yourself here in twenty minutes after all?�

�Traffic,� said Bob over Joe Kjos�s laughter. �Where is this guy?�

�He�s waiting by your desk.�

�Oh yeah? Who let him in?�

�Me,� said Hanson, exchanging looks with the two others. There was an anticipation in their sniggers that made Bob uneasy.

�It�s a personal matter so I thought it was best if the two of you dealt with it face-to-face.�

�I see.�

Bob unbuttoned his coat as he headed into the empty office landscape. He heard whispering and knew that the three were following him. He slowed as the person sitting at his desk turned. Even sitting down Bob could see the man was huge. Hanson came up behind Bob.

�He says you screwed his wife,� he whispered.

Bob swallowed. �Oh yeah? So does that make him your father, Hands-On?�

�Joke all you like, Aaa-ss, but I think you�re scared. Maybe you want us to call in a SWAT team?�

Low cackles of laughter from behind. Bob felt that familiar rushing sound start up in his head. He walked on, a little faster now. The man in the chair got up.

�Good evening, I�m Detective Oz,� said Bob. He walked round his desk and sat down in his chair. Looked up at the man. A weak chin and a feminine mouth. Scar on one cheek. It didn�t have to mean he got in a lot of fights. But he was big. Very, very big. �Won�t you sit down again, Mr...?�

�I�ll stay standing. My name is Tony St�rk.� He was shaking. His voice, his lips, his whole body. �You raped my wife.�

Bob raised his head to meet the man�s gaze.

�Raped? Jesus. Have you reported this?�

�More or less raped.� The man was so angry he was tripping over his own words. �Seduced. Persuaded. I don�t know what sort of fucking trick you used but my wife doesn�t do something like that of her own free will. Are you listening, you shitbag? You stay away from her, or I�ll crush you like a... like a...�

As Tony searched for a suitable metaphor, Bob glanced over toward his three colleagues who were following things from four yards away. Kjos was sniggering and Hanson�s face glowed with pleasure at Bob�s uncomfortable predicament. That rushing sound that had started when he was standing on the veranda hadn�t completely subsided. Now it sped up again. This had been a long day. Very long.

�Louse,� said Bob Oz.

�What?�

�I think the word you�re looking for is �louse�. And for what it�s worth, the description of me as a �shitbag� is pretty accurate. But �pig� would do even better. Because I am a pig. I have no idea who you�re talking about. I don�t recognise the name St�rk, and I�m terrible at first names, so maybe you could describe her for me? Is she dark? blonde?�

Tony�s heart-shaped mouth stayed open. �Blonde,� he said.

�Aha. Big breasts?�

�Er, yes.�

By now the rushing sound felt like a large fan going full speed inside Bob�s head. He leaned back in his chair, curved his hand and moved it up and down in large gestures in front of his crotch. �Carry on, St�rk, please. Tell me more.�

He heard the sniggering from Kjos stop and glanced over at the three men watching. They looked shocked, even Hanson, whose face no longer reflected pleasure, just disgust.

Bob looked at Tony. Saw his words sinking in and knew he�d managed to pull the man down with him in his delicious, liberating free fall of rage. Tony took a step toward Bob.

�I�m warning you, Tony,� said Bob, his voice so quiet it sounded as if he was giving advice to a friend. �It will be a long time before you see your children again. You can get up to three years for assaulting a policeman in the performance of his duty.�

�We have no children,� said Tony.

�Oh, but your wife is pregnant,� said Bob with a smile. �I promise you. These little swimmers here...� He pointed at his crotch.

As Tony leaned across the desk and swung out at him, Bob pushed off with his feet. There was a screeching sound from the wheels of his chair as it spun across the floor. The chair came to a halt against the neighbouring desk, and Tony was coming toward him, teeth bared, right hand ready to swing again. Bob grabbed the handcuffs from the top of the pile of papers so one of the steel brackets covered his knuckles. He stood up, saw the punch coming and dipped his knees so that it struck his forehead instead of full in the face, at the same time reeling backward and lashing out with his right hand. With the difference in height the punch came up from below and there was a crunching sound as the steel crushed the bone in Tony�s nose, followed by a second punch from the same fist that hit him full in the mouth. The man stood there, swaying.

�My teeth...� he said, before Bob hit him again. And again. A full storm raging in his head by this time. Blood mist. Acid rain.

Bob was still swinging as Hanson and the two others pulled him off the doubled-over body. Bob saw that the man�s face was covered in blood, with blood coming from every orifice, but that didn�t calm the storm in his head, just the opposite, now was its turn to speak, and it did so in a long, piercing tirade:

�If you can�t hold on to your wife that�s your own fault, you fucking loser! You pathetic, worthless nothing! Go hang yourself, don�t come here blaming other people! It�s your fault. Your fault!�

Liza Hummels held open the door of Bernie�s Bar as one student helped another to make it through.

�Sure you can get him home all right?� she asked.

�We live just round the corner,� the boy snuffled.

Once they�d left, she closed the door and locked it.

�Why didn�t you let me throw him out?� asked Eddie, the other bartender at Bernie�s. They took turns at covering the day shift, with the older, more alcoholic clientele; but evenings, when the students drank there, they were both on duty.

�It was his birthday,� said Liza.

�Everyone has a birthday,� said Eddie.

�Yes, but this guy found out today that he failed the same exam for the third time.�

Eddie shook his head and buttoned up his jacket. �OK if you...?�

�I�ll do the till,� said Liza. They both knew she did the till. On the odd occasion Liza had to stay at home because her boy was sick the whole thing ended up such a mess it left her with twice as much work to sort it all out when she came back the next day. So the routine was that Eddie always asked before he left.

She switched the usual playlist with its permanent hit parade for the Delines� �Calling In�. She always played it after she closed up. Once somebody asked if that was her singing, some guy who obviously thought she and Amy Boone sounded the same. Liza swayed about behind the counter as she did the takings. Bernie�s � which wasn�t Bernie�s, there was no Bernie, just three sisters who�d inherited the bar � wasn�t doing all that well, that was pretty obvious. While the other bars in the neighbourhood decorated and worked hard to attract the students, Bernie�s banked everything on minimalist maintenance, low outgoings and lower prices. But the combination of shabby location and shabby clientele had given the place a rock-bottom image, which deterred everyone except those with the least money. That didn�t make it a customer profile impossible to make money from, and Liza had her own ideas on how to make Bernie�s a bar that was both cheap and cool and could attract the alternative section of the student population. These would in turn attract the straight, monied crowd who liked to hang out with the cool artist types in the belief that this made them that bit cooler themselves. It was the same pattern as in uptown; first came the bohemians, attracted by low property prices, and the straights followed them. The sisters had listened when Liza voiced her thoughts, but when it came to funding the small investments such a change would have necessitated they backed off. It was frustrating, and every once in a while it occurred to Liza to make them an outrageously low offer and take over the bar herself. Put her ideas into action. Make some money for once. Buy Bernie�s cheap and sell it at a profit. Because once the straights started arriving it would need to be sold pretty quickly. When the straights moved into uptown and drove up standards and prices, they also drove the bohemian element out. The same thing would happen with Bernie�s, it was just a question of selling before the buyer understood that within another year or two Bernie�s would once again stop being the cool place to hang out.

Yes, yes, a fun way to pass the time, thinking thoughts like these when the days � like today � dragged by.

Liza called her sister�s number.

�Hi, Jennifer. Soon finished here. Is he sleeping?�

�Like an angel.�

�Any dinner left?�

�It�s in the refrigerator. But hurry up, they�ve changed the timetable again and my last bus goes just before midnight.�

�Oops, then I better catch an earlier bus myself. See you.�

Liza hurriedly put the evening�s takings away in the safe and turned off all the lights, the clearing up could wait until tomorrow. She put her jacket on, turned on the alarm, knew it would hurt her hip but ran for the bus anyway. Got there just in time to see it pull away from the stop and disappear into the night.

�Shit!� she said loudly and pulled out her phone.

�Second that,� said a voice.

She looked up.

A man stood leaning against a Ford parked by the sidewalk. She recognised the coat before she recognised the rest of him.

�Second what?� she said.

�It�s shit. I second that opinion.�

�What is?� she said without interest as she scrolled back to her sister�s name.

�Most of it, I�m guessing.�

�Like just missing a bus?�

�No, right there we�re lucky.�

�We are?�

�I can drive you to wherever you want to go.�

She looked up from the phone. He had a bump on his forehead but seemed to have sobered up from earlier in the day.

�Thanks but no thanks,� she said. �What are you doing here?�

�I�m waiting for you.�

She felt something stir inside her, a memory, an old fear that had never quite died away. �Because?�

�Because I want to apologise.�

�Apologise for what?�

�For being an asshole.�

�You weren�t an asshole.�

�No?�

�You paid up and you didn�t start a fight with anyone. So in my book that�s not being an asshole.�

He smiled. �OK, maybe I wasn�t an asshole, but I still am an asshole. It�s more or less a constant. So I�m apologising for that, at least.�

To her surprise, Liza noticed that both his words and his smile of resignation made her feel calmer. Maybe he wasn�t what you would call handsome, but he wasn�t bad-looking either when he smiled. Charm. Yes, a certain charm. Maybe it had been there earlier too, but her radar for things like that was turned off when she was working behind the bar.

�Anyway,� he said as he straightened up from the car. �Can an asshole make amends today by offering to drive you somewhere, Liza?�

He must have noticed that she hesitated slightly, because the next moment he opened the passenger door for her with an exaggeratedly gallant gesture.

She laughed drily. �After the conversation we had what makes you think I�d dare take you up on your offer?�

�Your gut feeling when it comes to people,� said the man. Bob. She didn�t know why she remembered the name. Probably because it was short. She glanced up and down the street. Not a taxi in sight, and if she waited for the next bus her sister wouldn�t make it for hers. She felt the old fear. It was speaking to her, but in a low voice. And she had gathered from the phone call she overheard at the bar that he was a policeman.

�OK,� she said. �But no funny business.�

He showed her his open palms and backed away smiling round the car.

�Well?� he said, after she�d given him the address and they had passed the first set of traffic lights on the road south in a strange but not actually embarrassing silence.

�Well what?�

�What�s on your mind?�

�I thought you were the one who had something on your mind.�

�Shoe is on the other foot now. I�m your driver and your confidant.�

She smiled. �What if I don�t have any issues?�

�Oh but you have some, my lady.�

�Oh yeah? Such as what?�

�You�re tough, but you were afraid when I said I�d been waiting for you. You work behind that bar and it hides your limp, but you can�t hide it when you run. You probably have trouble making a commitment because you�re afraid of being let down again.�

She sighed.

�Am I wrong?� said Bob.

�I guess not, I�m just so tired of men who think a superficial psychoanalysis is the way to a woman�s heart. And the zip on her pants.�

They drove on in a silence that was now slightly more oppressive. Liza noticed the plaster on the knuckles of his hand on the steering wheel.

�Do you always give your suitors such a hard time?� he asked.

Liza sighed again. �Is that what this is? You�re paying court to me? And if so, then do you always stalk your victims?�

She saw that she had hurt him and regretted what she�d just said. Why could she never just leave it? The guy was driving her home, his woman had just dumped him, and he was looking for some comfort. How difficult could it be for her � especially for her � to understand that?

The radio was playing low. Emmylou Harris�s version of Springsteen�s �Tougher Than the Rest�. A playlist from his own phone maybe. OK, so he got bonus points for that.

�All right then,� she said. �My son�s father up and left me. I developed a rare illness, one that eats up the bones. It took parts of my hip and no one believed I would ever walk again. He just couldn�t handle looking after a newborn baby and a disabled wife and away he ran. Not hard to understand.�

�But not to forgive and forget, maybe?�

Liza looked out the window. She hoped it would rain soon. She�d always liked the rain, didn�t know why. Maybe it was the country blood in her. Maybe it had something to do with purification. And maybe it was just because she liked the rain.

�You�re right, a stalker tried to rape me when I was thirteen years old.� She took a deep breath. �So three out of three. Congratulations.�

Silence. Just Emmylou.

�D�you want to talk about��

�No,� she interrupted.

��something more pleasant?�

They drove.

She started to laugh. He glanced over at her and then he began to laugh too.

�Screwed-up people,� she murmured, and he turned up the music, another woman, singing about could you please stop your whining and laugh instead. And Liza began her story. Not much of it, not the whole story, just stuff about her childhood and her parents. A typical white middle-class family facing the future and optimistic about the eighties, and then the shit hits the fan.

�My father lost his job. We had to move to somewhere cheaper, a place where the neighbours didn�t go out to work but got as much in social security cheques as my father did for breaking his back in all those casual jobs he took. He told me he had to use all the money they�d been saving to send me to college, because I was bright, you know. Instead we lost everything, while the rich got richer. And no one seems to know just exactly how it happened.�

�Then other people began making cars that weren�t just cheaper than ours, they were better than ours too.�

�Could be. My father says that people like us were once the backbone of this country but now we�re the crap in the middle, not lucky enough to get rich but still too proud to live off welfare. He�s voting for Donald Trump, he says.�

�And you?�

She shrugged. �I suppose I could vote for Trump, but he just makes me puke. I�m not too crazy about Hillary Clinton either, but maybe it is time for a woman to take over.�

Then they were there. He parked outside her house, and to Liza it seemed the journey hadn�t really been all that long.

The police officer leaned forward and looked up at the house. �Looks cosy.�

�I dated this guy from Tennessee who said that back where he comes from it�s what they call a shotgun shack.�

�Oh yeah?�

�A house so small you could stand in the doorway and empty both barrels through the window at the other end.�

�That I would like to see.�

�I�m not inviting you in if that�s what you think.�

�No, I didn�t mean it like that.�

�OK.�

�So he had no staying power?�

�Who? The Tennessee guy?� She grinned. �I was the one that jumped ship there. He believed in UFOs, and that it was fake news about the world being round. Those two things together were just a little bit too bizarre for me.�

They laughed.

�Some people are just screwed up,� he said, again with that sad smile she suspected was something he deliberately used on women.

�How�d you get the bump on your forehead?� she asked.

He raised his hand as though to hide it, the same way her sister automatically did whenever Liza asked about her most recent bruise or black eye.

�I let a guy hit me so I could beat him up,� said Bob. He sneaked a glance at her, as though checking to see how she took this.

�I see. And what happened to him?�

�I think they took him to hospital. If my colleagues hadn�t stopped me, I believe I might even have killed him.�

�Jesus. What had he done?�

�He complained that I�d fucked his wife.�

Liza didn�t respond.

�I have an anger management problem,� said Bob. �And I have... other problems too.�

�O... K...� she said, drawing out the syllables.

�Here is when I ask if you�d like to meet for a coffee one day,� he said. �And you should answer no.�

�Then I say no.�

He nodded. �Smart girl. Sleep tight.�

�You too.� She opened the car door. Was about to step out. Stopped. �Hey.�

�Yeah?�

�You shouldn�t try to just fuck her out of your head. Your ex, I mean.�

He licked his lips, as though tasting the thought. �You sure about that?�

�Yes. You shouldn�t drag other people down with you when you�re sinking.�

She could see he was about to say something, try to be funny. But then it was as though he felt a sudden jolt and his face twisted in pain. That was definitely not something he used on women, and she felt an urge to reach out and stroke the bruise on his forehead. Instead she climbed out of the car. Then turned back to look inside.

�Thanks for the ride, Bob.�

�Well, thank you. See you soon.�

�OK. But not...�

�Not?�

�I meant what I said about not meeting for a coffee. All right? I don�t want any campaign.�

He gave a big smile. �I hear you, Liza.�

She shut the door and headed up toward the house. Knew he was watching her. Then she heard the car drive off.

After saying goodnight to Kjos, Olav Hanson crossed the parking lot. Looked at his watch, a present from a time long gone. Already he regretted drinking those three beers. Or had it been four? In the first place there was the risk of being stopped, and he knew that one day he would meet some keen young policeman who would not be influenced by the fact that the man in the car he stopped was a fellow officer. There was a new generation coming up now, one that didn�t respect the old rules. In the second place, Violet would moan. Women were like dogs, the smaller they were, the more noise they made. But then Violet was one of the reasons he needed these few hours to himself after work, either in a bar or down by the river with his fishing rod. How come he�d ended up with her? Shouldn�t he have seen the warning signs when she said straight out she wouldn�t have Sean � Olav�s adult son from his first marriage � in the house? She hadn�t been willing to listen to Olav�s explanation that Sean had certain difficulties, she made him choose, her or his son, no discussion. So he�d made his choice. The wrong one. The way he�d got it wrong twice, with two different women. As he walked along Olav had to laugh. Bad choices, wasn�t that the story of his life? With the start in life he had he should have owned the world by now. If not for a bad knee and a wrong choice made over thirty years ago now. He�d never been caught, but there had been rumours back then. Enough that it was convenient to hop over him the next time a pawn was due for promotion.

Then, of course, it was more opportune to give a hand up to someone like Kay Myers. Female, black, probably lesbian too � the bosses could tick all the diversity boxes there. Diversity, my ass, meaning that now white, heterosexual men had to work twice as hard to achieve the same results. But that wasn�t what had tripped up Olav Hanson, he�d done that himself. And everything was down to a single moment of weakness, one single bad decision taken thirty years earlier. Did he regret it? Of course he did, but once you�ve let the genie out of the bottle... Sure, he�d got out before the train really left the tracks. And in days to come there would be times when he regretted that too. Regretted not going down in style. Instead, the daily regret and the humiliation of suspicion and the bitterness consumed him, reducing the giant he�d once been to a man whom even a hag like his wife thought she could talk down to.

Olav pulled out the keys to the Ford Mustang. Not that they would help him find a car that was so old you still had to use a key to lock it and start it. Back when he�d bought it and paid in cash it had been a beauty. Back in the days when he could pay for dinners and holidays, and Violet thought he was a helluva guy.

A figure ghosted out from between two cars.

Die Man.

That was Olav�s immediate response when he saw the hoodie. In the days when he was on patrol, a hood was always reason enough to stop someone, and surprisingly often it resulted in illegal weapons, narcotics or someone they were looking for. Only when he saw the glint of a knife did Olav start to doubt that he was seeing Die Man. And his mistake was confirmed � fortunately for him � when he heard the trembling voice:

�Give me your money!�

The voice was that of a boy, and he was standing so far away he would have had to take at least two steps before he could use the knife. Die Man would never have sent a frightened amateur out without a gun.

�Easy now, got my wallet here,� said Olav as he dug his hand in under his jacket. The boy didn�t protest. Olav pulled the SIG Sauer P320 out of its shoulder holster and levelled it at him.

�Don�t move or I�ll kill you,� he said calmly but very clearly. In his experience, use of the simple, precise word �kill� had a more powerful effect than any macho stuff about �blowing your brains out� and other such euphemisms.

The figure twitched. Flight mechanism � the fight reflex had already disappeared.

He stayed where he was. The freeze alternative had triumphed.

Definitely an amateur. A pro would know the chances of someone bothering to shoot a fleeing would-be robber in the back, someone armed only with a knife, were minimal.

�I�m a police officer,� said Olav. He pulled his jacket aside with his free hand to let the boy see the badge on his belt. �Drop the knife and raise your arms up in the air. Do it quickly, because I still feel like killing you.�

The boy did as Olav said, and Olav felt something he hadn�t felt for years. A combination of excitement and calm. Of control in a critical situation. Of mastery. That was what he had been so good at, on the football field, on patrol, and in his first years as a homicide detective. Too good, perhaps. He had started to believe he could control everything.

The knife clinked against the asphalt and when the boy raised his arms above his head his hood slid down. Olav nearly jumped. Not just because the kid was so young, but because for a fraction of a second he reminded him of Sean. Sure, the kid was younger, and he was black, but the next thought came along just the same. That it could have been Sean standing in this kid�s shoes. That he could only hope Sean hadn�t already made the wrong choice, like the one the kid standing in front of him had made this evening. The boy�s lower lip was quivering, as though this was a result, a defeat, that didn�t come as any surprise. How old could he be? Sixteen? Seventeen? Alone, in a world of gangs, armed with a knife in a world of guns, still an amateur when kids of fourteen already had three or four shootings behind them. It was probably not the first criminal act the boy had committed, but perhaps the first robbery, it almost looked that way. And in doing so he had taken that decisive step into a world in which he did not belong, but one in which the door would slam shut behind him. The one wrong choice he would have to look back on for the rest of his life. Unlikely maybe, but not unthinkable either.

�What�s your name?� asked Olav.

The boy stopped staring at the gun and looked up at him and said nothing.

�Your first name�ll do,� said Olav.

The boy swallowed. �Elliot,� he said, a sob in his throat.

�OK, now listen here, Elliot. What do you need money for?�

�Need?�

�Is it for dope? Or for your sick mother?�

�For shoes,� said the boy.

�Shoes?�

�New Nike shoes.�

Olav wasn�t shocked. He gave an exasperated sigh. �How much do they cost?�

�Cost?�

�Roughly?�

�Two hundred and forty-one dollars.�

�OK,� said Olav. He pulled out his wallet, wondering whether he was about to make yet another wrong choice. He lowered the gun and counted out the notes. �Here�s two hundred, it�s all I have. Is that enough to...?�

The boy nodded hesitantly. He looked as though he was wondering what kind of trap he was being lured into.

�All I ask is that you promise me... or no, that you promise yourself one thing. That this is the one mistake you get away with. Like a mulligan in golf, get me?�

Olav saw that the boy didn�t understand. He held out the money to him.

�Go buy yourself those shoes, Elliot. But every time you lace them up I want you to think that you got them so you could run from the life that�s chasing behind you. And I hope you win, boy.�

Elliot grabbed the notes and the next moment was gone in the darkness.

Olav stayed where he was. He could hear himself panting and guessed that his pulse was racing faster than he realised. He knew he could never tell Violet what had just happened. She wouldn�t understand, she�d say he threw his money away, even rewarded a criminal for being just that. Nor could Olav explain to her that he�d been thinking of Sean, and that maybe the world would reward his action by giving his own son another chance. She would have laughed herself sick, and Olav hated, hated that laughter.

Bob drove aimlessly. Turned off his playlist. He was sick to death of it. It had been on repeat for too long, just the same way he had. The radio was tuned to a heavy rock station and the singer was reeling off the usual brain-dead, aggressive clich�s. This time about a guy whose woman had left him. He cruises the highway, horny as a dog, he�ll burn a house down if it gets in his way, got his woman by the throat, smashed up her face.

�That was Ted Nugent with �Stranglehold�,� the DJ said, with the obligatory heavy rocker�s crunch in his voice. �And rejoice, people � in just four days the NRA�s annual conference gets under way right here in our very own Minneapolis, and Nugent is gonna be there!�

�Along with sixty thousand others,� said his sidekick. �I think it�s very generous of the NRA to hold their conference here with the strict gun control legislation we have in this state. In other states you can at least buy yourself a machine gun!�

Laughter.

�I�m reading the programme here and there�s going to be seminars, meetings, displays of marksmanship and exhibitions of handguns. What d�you think, Phil, think Kevin Patterson will be handling the display of marksmanship?�

�I hope not, Otis. But on Saturday our esteemed mayor Kevin Patterson himself will be opening the conference at the US Bank Stadium. If you want to get tickets, may we recommend that you...�

Bob switched off the radio. Took a deep breath. And had an idea: that if he put his foot down now and waited till the speedometer showed a hundred before closing his eyes then he wouldn�t have to face another day. He pushed the thought away, but he was shaken. It wasn�t the first time he had thought about taking his own life, but it was the first time the thought hadn�t immediately frightened him instead of seeming almost tempting. Well, OK, now he was scared by the fact that he hadn�t been scared. He sat up straight in his car. He had to do something. The bar lady had been right. He had to change tack.

Bob reached out and turned on the radio again.

Tried to focus his thoughts. Tom�s Gomez. The apartment. Why did he keep returning to the apartment? Was there something he�d seen there, something his subconscious had noticed but which hadn�t managed to make it to the surface? He went over the details one by one. The couch. The cupboards. The syringe. The bathroom. The cat. The neighbours. No, that wasn�t it. Was it the smell? The decor? No, not that either. It was something about... the whole thing. Or the emptiness. It reminded him of something. What was it?

I stand with my face pressed against the display window and peer into Town Taxidermy. In the darkened interior of the store I can just make out a bear standing up on two legs and a deer with a massive set of antlers. The store doesn�t open for another hour, but the arrangement I have with the owner isn�t even for today, I just wanted to have a look since I was driving past.

It strikes me that it�s such an odd profession, to recreate something that once was. Although actually, a few months ago, when I spoke to the taxidermist who runs the place, he insisted that what he did was not recreate but create something. That it isn�t an actual recreation but a fiction. Something that tells a story by putting it in a certain context in which it can be felt, and for that reason can sometimes feel truer than the cold, isolated facts do.

And that was when it struck me that this is precisely what I�m doing in this book I�m writing. I�m a taxidermist.

The time was 9 a.m. and Bob was standing in a narrow street in downtown. He looked at the sign above the store doorway.

Town Taxidermy.

In the display window a black bear stood upright on two legs, and around it, like courtiers, a gathering of birds and various rodents, which, Bob assumed, formed part of the local fauna.

As he entered a bell over the door jingled feebly. But once it stopped, and the door had closed behind him, he noticed how quiet it was. Quieter than simply soundless. Quiet as the grave, he thought, as he looked around at the bodies of the silent animals. A hart, a lynx. A wolverine with bared teeth. Several birds. As far as he could tell they were perfect copies of the original living beings they once had been. He stopped before each one in turn. How lifelike they were. As though they all had a story to tell. So unlike the corpses he was used to seeing. Murder victims with expressions of fear, perhaps, or pain, but who otherwise hid more than they revealed, holding on to secrets it was his job to wrest from them. Bob stood contemplating an owl that returned his gaze. And it occurred to him that the silence in here wasn�t oppressive at all, it was... restful. Liberating. Balm for the ears and the soul.

�Good morning.� A smiling man with a laurel wreath of hair surrounding a bare dome emerged from a doorway, in the act of removing a pair of latex gloves. �Sorry to keep you waiting, I was in the middle of something rather complicated in the workshop.�

�Quite all right,� said Bob. �Mike Lunde?�

�That�s right.�

Bob showed him his ID.

�That was quick, I must say, Detective...� He leaned closer and read the name aloud: �...Oz?�

�My great-grandfather�s adaptation of his Norwegian name. A-a-s-s. The pronunciation is the same. At least it is according to our Norwegian relatives.�

�That�s correct. Two A�s in Norwegian are pronounced like an A with a hoop on top of it. �.�

�You speak Norwegian?�

�No, no.� Mike Lunde laughed and shook his head. �I learned that about the � from my grandfather.�

�I see. Well, of course, my great-grandfather couldn�t have known that Frank Baum would one day write a kids� book about a wizard.�

�Precisely. But I don�t suppose that was the worst name you could be called as a child?�

�The wizard of Oz? Better than the alternative, I guess. The wizard of ass would have been harder to shake off.�

Mike Lunde laughed heartily. There was something melodic and disarming in the sound. Perhaps because of the silence of all the animals, it made Bob think of birdsong in a vast forest.

�I�m here about a customer of yours, Tom�s Gomez,� said Bob. �I found your card in his apartment yesterday. A neighbour of his, a Mrs White, said she had recommended you to Gomez.�

�Ah, I see,� said the taxidermist. �I thought you were here because of my phone call.�

�Your phone call?�

�I saw in the morning newspaper that you were looking for Tom�s Gomez. So I rang the police and left a message. A... eh, a tip-off, isn�t that what it�s called? That was just...� He looked at his watch. �Two hours ago. That was what I meant about being quick.�

�If it was about Gomez then it probably didn�t get through to us at Homicide, it probably went to Aggravated Assault, because the victim didn�t actually die. What did you say in your message?�

�That Tom�s Gomez has an order here waiting to be picked up. A cat.�

�I see. Anything else?�

�Anything else?�

�Anything else you can tell us about Tom�s Gomez?�

�What might that be?�

Bob didn�t respond but just looked at Lunde. He had taken a spontaneous liking to the man. There was something straightforward and natural about him. The type who calls the police because it�s the right thing to do. But it was also evident that he wasn�t telling Bob everything. He continued to hold Lunde�s blue eyes and let the silence work for him. Watching for signs of stress. But Lunde seemed unaffected by the silence. And when he finally did speak, he did so in a calm, assured voice:

�I had no idea he was going to shoot someone, if that�s what you mean. If, that is, Tom�s really is the one who shot this other person.�

Bob nodded. He studied the owl. The feathers looked so vivid and the eyes so lifelike he wouldn�t have been all that surprised if the bird had suddenly taken off from the pedestal on which it stood. �So you know Tom�s Gomez? As more than a customer, I mean?�

�What makes you say that?�

�Tom�s Gomez is a very common name. There was no photograph or drawing in the newspaper, and yet you knew that the man in question must be your Tom�s Gomez. You call in with information, but now you express doubt about whether it really was Gomez who did the shooting. And you referred to him by his first name just now.�

The taxidermist rubbed his chin. �My wife always tells me I�m a terrible liar. She says I should practise more.� He gave a resigned smile. �So yes, I do know Tom�s as rather more than just an ordinary customer.�

�Why didn�t you say so straight away?�

Mike Lunde sighed. �I thought it would be enough if I did my civic duty and reported something I supposed would be relevant to the case.�

�So he�s a friend?�

�Not a friend. I...�

�Yes?�

�I like to get to know a bit about my customers. See what it is they want when they come here. What it is they�re really looking for. Even when they�re not entirely clear about it themselves.�

�And what is Tom�s Gomez really looking for?�

Lunde moved his hand and started rubbing his neck. �It�s rather a long story, Detective Oz.� He gave the name its correct Norwegian pronunciation. �One that he told me in all confidence. And one which I doubt would bring you any closer to your goal.�

�Let me be the judge of that, Lunde.�

�Of course, but should I not make my own judgement too? I accept that one has a civic duty to provide the police with information that can help them catch dangerous criminals, but I have to weigh that up against the fact that what Tom�s Gomez told me about himself he told me on the understanding that it would remain between us.�

�To the best of my knowledge taxidermists are not bound by any oath of confidentiality, Mr Lunde. And we have an innocent man fighting for his life in a hospital bed.� Bob saw no indication that Lunde saw through the untruth. �Have you any idea where Tom�s Gomez might be?�

�I have his address in Jordan. That was how I knew it had to be the Tom�s Gomez referred to in the newspaper. But I presume he isn�t there now.�

�No.�

�Then beyond that I haven�t a clue as to where he might be, alas. Or fortunately.�

�Fortunately?�

Mike Lunde sighed again, raised a glove to dust off the owl�s beak. �I�m in a dilemma here. I must confess I did consider not calling the police.�

�Why?�

�Because I like to think he�s a good man.�

�A good man doesn�t try to kill people.�

�That�s a valid objection.�

�And yet you did call us, Mr Lunde. So that must mean that you understand Gomez has to be arrested.�

�Oh indeed yes. The trouble is, one�s intellect and one�s feelings aren�t always in agreement with each other.�

�Well, we certainly can�t let our feelings decide.� Bob took out his notebook. �What can you tell us?�

�Hm. Are you so sure about that, Oz?�

Bob looked up. �That we can�t let our feelings decide?�

�Yes. Can you be sure it isn�t the feelings that decide, and that we afterward employ our intellect to rationalise the choice to the point at which we believe it was actually the intellect that made the decision?�

�I�m pretty sure about that, yeah.�

�Yes, you do look pretty sure of yourself.� Lunde smiled. �The first time Tom�s Gomez came here was three months ago. He wanted to have his cat stuffed.�

�It was... eh, dead?�

Lunde gave a short laugh. �Yes. It�s in the freezer in the basement if you want to look. Sickness, so natural causes.�

�And?�

�He could not afford to pay what I charge for such a job.�

�Are you very expensive?�

�That depends.�

�On the animal? A canary can�t cost all that much.�

�On the customer. If it concerns a pet that was very dear to them then I have to lower my price.�

�So you dropped your price. Feelings took priority over common sense?�

�Perhaps, but I still have to make a living. Six months ago I received a large, lucrative commission which has led to me putting everything else aside while I finish it, so hopefully I�m not too naive. Anyway, the result is that Mr Gomez has had to wait.�

�When was the last time you were in contact with him?�

�I�ll need to check in my diary.�

�What about the call log on your phone?�

�We�ve never spoken on the phone � I don�t know whether he has one. Just a moment.�

Lunde disappeared, and again Bob Oz was struck by the silence. Why did he like it so much? Was it the feeling of time standing still, of discovering a moment in which it moved neither forward nor backward, in which nothing happens? In which everything feels safe?

Lunde returned. He was now wearing a small pair of glasses perched on the tip of his nose as he peered down into a book bound in brown leather. �Now let�s see...�

�Mind if I tape this, for the record?�

�Of course. The taxidermy of the word.�

�Sorry?�

�I visited Tom�s Gomez on October 7.�

�You visited him?�

�He invited me for some of his home-made chilli con carne. It was extremely tasty.�

�Do you usually visit your customers� homes?�

�Not always, but if possible I like to see where my work will be displayed. To see what sites are available and find out which spots the pet frequented, how my customers were used to seeing the animal. It can be useful in deciding the ultimate pose of the finished piece. And the lighting is important. Enough to highlight the details, not so much that the work fades.�

�You take this extremely seriously?�

Lunde looked at Bob over the top of his glasses. �I try to take it every bit as seriously as my customers do. I feel it�s something I owe them. But of course�� he smiled wryly � �it has happened that sometimes I take things a little more seriously than my customers. So I need to listen.� He flipped on through his diary. �By that time we had had three... no, four meetings in the store, I see here.�

�And you did what? The cat still being in the freezer, I mean.�

�What I said.�

�What you said?�

�I listened.�

Bob Oz nodded slowly. �To what he had to say about the cat?�

�To what he had to say.�

Bob put down his pen. �And what did he say? People I�ve spoken to already have told me Tom�s Gomez was the taciturn type.�

Lunde shrugged. �It took a while. But in the end, everybody talks.�

�Oh really? Why don�t they do that with me?�

Lunde smiled. �Perhaps because they know you only want to hear one thing: the confession. Gomez told me that he and his family came here to Minneapolis as illegal immigrants from the south.�

Bob picked up his pen again. �So he has family? Do you have names and addresses?�

�He had a family. Even though both Gomez and his wife were university-educated they didn�t have much money. They lived in a tiny house in Phillips West and were eating out when two gangs began shooting at each other inside the restaurant. Teenagers with guns. His wife tried to cover the little boy on the floor while Tom�s headed for the exit with his daughter, she was in a wheelchair. He got her outside and almost to shelter behind a car when two of the boys came out and shot Tom�s in the foot. He fell, and the next bullet, meant for him, instead hit the back of the wheelchair. By that time his son and wife had already been executed. The boys were on their way to deal with Tom�s, who was trying to drag himself over to his daughter, when the first police car arrived, and they ran off. The daughter died in her father�s arms.�

Bob felt a sudden pain in his jaw and realised that he had clenched his teeth.

�The police later told Tom�s that gangs usually only shoot at each other.�

Bob put a finger on his cheek next to his jaw and pressed hard. �That�s correct. As a rule they aren�t bothered about witnesses either.�

�Tom�s asked what did I think, why had they shot his family.�

�And what did you say?�

�I told him the truth, that I didn�t know. What do you think, Detective Oz?�

Bob watched through the window as a couple passed arm in arm, her with her head on his shoulder, and it took a moment for him to shake off a memory.

�It�s a question of numbers,� said Bob. �They have shit jobs as foot soldiers for the Black Wolves, X-11 or another of these gangs where they get paid three dollars an hour for standing on street corners getting their balls frozen off selling crack and meth. One in four of them is going to get killed on the job. So it�s about moving up the system, becoming a runner, a security chief or a banker for the outfit, straight away you�re earning ten times as much and you�ve got a much better chance of surviving. But to get there you have to be noticed. And the quickest way to be noticed is to show you�re willing to kill.�

�Interesting. And this you know from your own experience?�

�I know because I read it in an article about the economics of the narcotics trade.�

�I see. So it was simply a matter of economics?�

�Economics and incentives. Morality is about how we want the world to function, economics is about how it actually does function.�

Lunde nodded.

�You look as though you don�t agree,� said Bob and glanced down at his notes.

�You probably want to hear more about Gomez?�

�There�s no hurry as long as we have no idea where he is. Go ahead.�

�Right. Well, I think they shoot because they can. Because they recognise no limits. And they have these incredible weapons. Because it feels good to shoot, doesn�t it?�

Bob Oz coughed. �Dunno. I don�t shoot. Did he mention any other family or friends, here or elsewhere?�

Lunde shook his head. �Only that his parents live south of the border.�

�What does he live off?�

�Casual work. An education from his own country is no use to him when he doesn�t have the necessary residence permit.�

�Can you recall the names of any employers?�

�I�m sorry, we didn�t talk about things like that, about... about our everyday lives. I remember only that he said the longest he had worked at the same place was two months.�

�Maybe the reason he didn�t want to talk about his everyday life was that he made his money working for X-11,� said Bob Oz.

The man in front of him wrinkled his brow in disbelief.

�I spoke to the doctor who writes his insulin prescriptions and he told me that Gomez had an X-11 gang tattoo on his back.�

�But that�s... ridiculous,� said Lunde.

�Why so?�

�Because he told me that the boys who shot him and his daughter were wearing X-11 jackets.�

A sound cut through the silence. A solitary police siren that rose and fell somewhere out there. Bob checked his watch. �Do you think he�ll be coming back here, Lunde?�

�Maybe. I can�t read people, but as long as his cat�s here there�s a chance. People who have lost loved ones often end up feeling closer to their pets.�

�Will you let me know if and when he does turn up?� Bob offered him his card. Lunde hesitated a moment, then took it.

�I do things slowly,� he said as he placed the card inside his diary. �As you�ll have noticed, I think slowly, and I talk slowly. So if he does show up, I might be a bit slow about calling you too.�

�But you will call?�

Mike Lunde nodded slowly. �I guess I probably will, yes. This innocent man he shot...?�

�The name is Dante and he�s a gun dealer in Jordan. Probably works with several gangs, but mostly the Black Wolves.�

�So he...�

�Yes, I lied, he probably has a few lives on his conscience. Always assuming he has a conscience.� Bob pushed the notebook back into his pocket.

The bell above the door tinkled as Bob left. And jingled again when he came back in moments later.

�Yes?� said Mike Lunde, who was squatting in front of the wolverine with a spray.

�So then what did you talk about?�

�What did we talk about?�

�If you didn�t talk about jobs, friends, family.�

Mike Lunde stopped spraying and looked up with a sad smile. �We talked about loneliness.�

Bob Oz nodded.

As he emerged into the main road the sun was shining over the whole city.

Kay Myers stood in the doorway of an office that was being decorated. In her hand she was holding a coffee mug with I LOVE CHICAGO written on it. She watched the man painting the ceiling. He reminded her of a crime scene technician, masked and dressed in white. Maybe that was why she had decided she liked him even though they had only said �Hi� to each other when she passed the office. He climbed down from his ladder and turned to her.

�It�s going to be nice,� she said. �You�re good.�

The dark eyes behind the mask twinkled as though he was laughing. �This is just a job. You should come see my art.�

She liked his deep, calm voice too.

�You paint... er, paintings?�

He shook his head. �Not quite. I can show you.� He spoke with a very slight accent. She wondered how old he might be.

�OK,� she said and took a sip of her coffee. �So you�ve got an exhibition?�

He laughed. �Yes. Soon. Very soon.�

�Whereabouts?�

�Can�t tell you yet. I�ll let you know.�

Kay saw Bob enter the reception area and instead of taking the shortest route to his place he walked in her direction. He didn�t look happy, and she figured it had something to do with what she�d heard about the previous evening.

�Hi, Bob. How�re things?�

�I�ll find out soon enough,� he said. �Walker wants to see me.�

He carried on walking. She turned to the painter, but he was busy painting again. Kay sighed and went back to her desk.

The time was six in the evening and the sun hung low over the rooftops of Phillips.

Bob had parked by the playground at Bloomington. He sat eating a hamburger in the Volvo and watched the deal going down outside a nearby house. The same three as before. The Latino in the porkpie hat was clearly running the operation. Rich people from the suburbs in the west often drove to these northern neighbourhoods, like Jordan, to buy grass, or coke or meth. Here in Phillips customers tended to be local. And the goods harder. Heroin. Crack. It looked like that was what was going down here. The same pas de trois each time a customer showed up. A few words exchanged, banknotes, small deals changing hands, fists closed to hide as much as possible and always orchestrated in such a way that the notes and the dope were never held by one person at the same time, since the penalty for selling dope was higher than for giving it away, so the one dealing the dope could always claim he�d given it away if no one ever actually saw him taking the money.

Bob chewed down the last morsel, dried his fingers on the paper towel and started the car.

He drove up to the corner and climbed out.

�Police,� he said loudly, holding up the ID card and a pair of handcuffs he�d rescued from one of the packing cases in his apartment. �Face the wall. Anyone makes a run for it gets shot.�

The three stared, first at Bob, then to left and right, clearly astonished to see that he was alone.

�Now!� Bob shouted.

Reluctantly they turned, put their hands against the wall and spread their legs. Bob approached the oldest of them, knocked the porkpie hat off his head and jerked his left arm, forcing him up against the wall. Then the right arm, and then holding both wrists behind his back handcuffed him.

�Jamar Clark.�

The words were spoken quietly, but Bob turned toward the young black kid who had spoken.

�What did you say?�

The boy gave Bob a hate-filled stare but didn�t reply. A couple of years ago Jamar Clark, a black man, had been shot and killed by the MPD during an arrest, and the people who wanted to start a riot spread the word that it had happened while Clark was handcuffed. Bob didn�t doubt for a moment that MPD�s reputation for brutality and racism was well deserved, you just had to listen to Hanson and Kjos when they enthusiastically quoted Donald Trump�s expressed view that the police ought to be tougher with people they arrested; but not even the MPD would kill defenceless people.

�Here.�

Bob led Porkpie Hat over to the passenger side of the car and helped him into the front seat and � without irony � made sure he didn�t bang his head on the roof as he got in. He fastened the seat belt over him, then got into the driver�s side and drove off.

�What the fuck is this?� said the man. His accent suggested Mexico, just as Bob had been hoping. Bob pressed a finger to his lips.

�Fuck this, man!� Porkpie screamed.

Three blocks later Bob turned into a quiet street and stopped.

�I need a little information, amigo.�

�Amigo my ass!�

�OK, but I still need information.�

�I thought you had snitches for that. Or did we kill them all?� Three front teeth were missing from the man�s wide grin.

�Now listen good,� said Bob. �I don�t have a lot of time, so here is my offer, probably the best one you�ll get in the course of your probably short life.�

�I ain�t saying a word to you, fucking asshole cop!�

�Oh but you will. Because I�m offering you the perfect incentive, which is a fancy word for carrot. Comprende?�

The man�s eyes flashed.

�I�m not threatening you with prison, I�m not threatening to beat you, I�m not threatening you with what will happen to your kid brother who�s doing time in MCF.�

�I don�t have no kid brother, you prick!�

�All I�m doing is offering you this.�

Bob tossed a bundle of something with an elastic band around it onto the dashboard. The man in the passenger seat stared at the long-dead general and president whose portrait adorned the fifty-dollar banknote.

�There�s two thousand dollars there,� said Bob. �Go ahead and count it.�

The man looked at him with a well-ain�t-you-a-funny-guy look on his face, his jaws working furiously.

�Oh, sorry, I forgot, you�re in handcuffs,� said Bob.

The man worked his jaw a little more and then spat. A yellowish globule that coated the general�s serious face.

�If that�s a rejection then I�m going to ask you to think again,� said Bob. �You make three dollars an hour for getting shot at by gangs, robbed by customers, arrested by guys like me, and now I�m offering you this for what they�re gonna guess I got from you anyway. Because in five minutes� time I�m going to drive you back there and drop you off without a mark on you, and I�ll be calling out a cheery �thank you� as I drive away. I leave it up to you to work out what your buddies will think I�ve got out of you. And what the consequences will be. So it�s up to you if you want paying for them or not.�

The man looked at Bob. He blinked as his brain tried to process what this asshole cop had just said to him. Bob waited.

�What d�you wanna know?� the man grunted.

�Tell me about Tom�s Gomez.�

�Who?�

Bob sighed. �I didn�t exactly pick you because you�re the best-looking or the smartest, I picked you because you�re obviously the oldest. And maybe from south of the border. So dig around, go back a few years in your mind and recall Tom�s Gomez. It�s not like you�re snitching on one of your own.�

�What would you know about that?�

�Gomez isn�t X-11 any more. He bailed out, right?�

�There�s lots of people bail out, that don�t mean we snitch on them.�

�That brings us back to the two thousand, amigo.�

The man looked at the money on the dashboard. Bob waited. Let the gravitational pull of logic do its work. Finally the man gave a heavy sigh. �He came over from south of the border some years back. Called himself Lobo.�

�Wolf?�

�As in lone wolf. Kept himself to himself, a real loner. But he might just as well have called himself Loco. He didn�t say much, but according to rumour he�d worked for one of the cartels down there, killed a lot of people, the police put a price on his head. Gang boss didn�t believe none of it, I mean, Lobo was just a kid, so he gave him an Uzi and told him to go shoot some of the competition. Lobo went straight to a Black Wolves party, shot the whole thing up.�

�Hang on. You mean the Lobo?�

�Well, I dunno, I only know one Lobo.�

Bob stared at the other man. Lobo. The Uzi man. Bob recalled the tales he had heard about the guy when he was starting out in the police, a ghost that showed up and vanished again in the mid-nineties and left nothing behind but a trail of blood. Since the blood in question was gang blood, MPD�s hunt for him had been a half-hearted affair. And when Lobo dropped off the radar MPD concluded that he�d probably been killed and most probably by one of his own and they dropped the whole thing.

�Go on,� said Bob.

�After that Lobo was the security boss�s right hand. But he was too crazy, he had no discipline, he went ahead and mowed down people from other gangs, even when they weren�t even threatening our territory. So they had to take revenge, and that meant gang wars, people going down on both sides, bad for business for everybody. So the bosses took Lobo off the barricades and put him in charge of internal security.�

�Entailing what?�

�Checking that no one�s taking money from the counting room or dope from the cutting room, stuff like that. Lobo did a good job. He uncovered not just thieving but snitching too. We had to terminate a lot of guys we�d been trusting blind. Then some of our own people started getting it, Lobo said they�d drawn on him once they knew he was on to them. It happened a few too many times, so the bosses decided they couldn�t have Lobo in the gang no more. They threw him out.�

�So they didn�t kill him?�

The man shrugged. �Lobo always said he was still on the payroll of that cartel he was working for back where he came from. Our bosses were scared to have them breathing down our necks. You said five minutes, pig. If I�m gone much longer the boss is going to think I�ve been giving you fucking state secrets.�

�OK. So what happened to Gomez?�

�How the hell should I know? Try south of the border.�

�You know who Marco Dante is?�

�No.�

�Stupid question. You know who he is, and you know he got shot yesterday. Did you hear the news that it was Gomez that shot him?�

�Like I told you, all I know is that Lobo was plumb crazy. Drive me back.�

�Last question. Did Dante sell guns to X-11?�

�I guess he must have sold to every gang that some time or other had the territory where his garage is. So yeah, sure.�

�Well then, thank you. Lean forward.� Bob unlocked the handcuffs. �You can walk.�

�Walk?�

�Do I look like a taxi driver?�

The pusher reached for the bundle of notes but Bob was quicker and grabbed it.

�Hey!�

�Just the top one,� said Bob, pulling out the fifty and handing the bundle to the man, who sat staring down at the pile of newspaper strips in his hand.

�What the fuck?�

�You don�t think we�d pay two thousand for a little general information I could�ve got for a packet of cigarettes down at the MCF, or free from a snitch? You�d be better off reading these Situations Vacant.� Bob pressed the bundle down into the man�s hand. �At least they pay minimum wage, unlike X��

�I�ll be coming after you and I�ll shoot you down, you fucking pig.�

Bob nodded slowly as he looked out of the windshield. �You know what? I have actually considered that possibility. But I decided you won�t be looking for revenge. Know why? It�s a question of economic behavioural psychology. Want to hear?�

Bob turned to the pusher, who now looked more surprised than angry.

�Because your disappointment has its limits. Behavioural research shows that our reaction to not getting the dollar we�ve just been promised is less negative than losing the dollar we already have in our pocket. I haven�t stolen from you, so you have no economic or moral incentive to kill me. And you have no social motive, since I haven�t publicly humiliated you either, just here, between you and me. See, so you learned something new today as well! Have a profitable evening, amigo.�

He leaned across the man and pushed open the car door.

As Bob drove off he saw the man diminishing in his rear-view mirror. He stood there, arms dangling by his side, and seemed to be shouting something after the Volvo.

Olav Hanson pulled his fishing rod sideways, against the current. Stared out into the night-time darkness that descended over the Mississippi before it took the rest of the city. Sometimes it even felt as though the darkness rose up from the Mississippi and not the other way round. Because it was a river with a lot of darkness in it. A lot of dirt and devilment people dumped there in hopes the river would take it all away, far from where they were. And if it surfaced again it would be someone else�s problem. Hanson shifted the weight from his bad knee. Listened to the reassuring hiss from the cars on the freeway on the other side of the river. He came down here more and more often in the evenings now, went on fishing long after the others had gone. The bass bit well after dark, and of course he did sometimes come home with a couple of small fish; but that was mostly to show Violet he really had been fishing and not in some bar with Joe Kjos. He could think while he stood here. Get some respite from all her moaning about how �the kid�, the twenty-seven-year-old son from his previous marriage, still had the keys to the house, and came and went as he pleased, often in the middle of the night, usually high on something or other. She complained that the Ford Mustang was almost as old as she was, that the kitchen and bathroom needed decorating, that she had hoped to see things in general improving a bit, not sliding backward. Either he�d got miserly with age, or else he was worse off now than when she�d met him in the nineties. And it was true, she just didn�t know the reason.

Olav Hanson thought about a lot of things as he stood there by the river. There were just a few thoughts it was important to avoid. Things from the past. So he thought about the future. About how he would be able to retire in a couple of years. Be a free man again. Go fishing. Get Sean back on track. He would�

He heard a scraping sound from the fine river-sand behind and instinctively whirled round. Stood there staring into the trees on the steep incline.

�Who�s there?� he shouted.

He�d been on the alert for something like half his life and could never completely let it go. All that wasted energy, and still his hand instinctively went for the shoulder holster with the SIG Sauer which he always carried. Just then the moon slipped free of the clouds, illuminating the riverbank, and he caught sight of a black dog standing there. Olav picked up a stone and threw it in the dog�s direction. It disappeared soundlessly between the trees. Hanson cursed quietly.

He reeled in.

His phone rang.

He�d told Violet not to call him when he was out, but she was as unpredictable as Sean. This, however, was a caller unknown.

�Yes?�

The voice at the other end breathed in before speaking in a low voice: �Milkman?�

Olav Hanson felt his heart stop beating in his chest.

Thirty years.

And it took him only a second and two syllables to recognise the voice.

He had to moisten his mouth before he could answer:

�Who is this?�

�I can hear that you know who this is, Milkman. And that you�re afraid. That�s good. It means you�ll listen extra close. One of my guys tells me you�re looking for Lobo.�

Wha? It came out as an a? as Hanson tried to speak at the same time as swallowing. �Lobo? But Lobo is... gone.�

�Evidently not,� said the voice. �MPD are looking for him. Suspicion of attempted murder. Which can only mean he�s got a bit rusty. Anyway, if Lobo really has shown up again then neither you nor I want the MPD to find him. We don�t want him sitting in some interrogation where they suggest a deal that involves him telling them everything he knows. About me. And about you, Milkman. Do you get my drift?�

Olav got it. He understood the nightmare was back. The man at the top, the one they called Die Man, and not just because of the diamonds in his teeth. �You want me to...?�

�Yes, Milkman, I want you to make sure Lobo never gets as far as that interrogation.�

Olav Hanson closed his eyes. He heard something in the background. A woman, no, several women, groaning with exaggerated ecstasy and gasping �Oh, fuck, yeah!� He had never asked Die why he called him Milkman. It could of course be because Olav was pale and blond or because people like him were typical of the Scandinavian farmer class. Or because he milked the gang for money. But it might also have been ironically meant, giving a milk-white name to a dirty cop who had done what was necessary each time investigations of some gangland killing made things hot for Die Man and his people. It hadn�t taken much. He might neglect to pass on information a witness had given him. Or invent something that suggested other perpetrators. Maybe technical evidence was destroyed by something that looked like an unlucky accident. So no, it hadn�t taken much. And they�d paid him well. Very well. All the same he�d quit. Why? It started with the triple homicide that evening thirty years ago. The girl in the wheelchair, the little boy and the mother. It hadn�t been one of Olav�s cases, but he�d managed to send it off in the wrong direction, and yes, he�d had trouble sleeping after that. But not so much that he hadn�t carried on helping Die Man for a while after. But then he�d become a father himself. And Die Man�s security boss Lobo had started massacring gangbangers, and Olav started getting scared of being pulled under himself. He had to get out, wake up from his nightmare. And he�d done it, managed to put it behind him.

Until now.

Because when Olav opened his eyes again the nightmare hadn�t ended.

�You still there, Milkman?�

�Yeah yeah,� said Olav.

�You know what you have to do?�

Olav thought. Pulled back thirty years in time he began thinking the way he used to think back then, and when he opened his mouth again it was like some familiar and fond old refrain: �Sure, but we have to talk about the price.�

For a moment the only sound was the monotonous groaning of those women. Then he heard Die burst out laughing. He laughed long and loud.

�Nice try, Milkman. But this time let�s say you�re doing it for yourself. Because you don�t want to end up in jail. Especially not somewhere with my boys on the inside.�

�Listen�� Hanson began, but the connection went dead.

He stared out across the Mississippi. The river rose here in Minnesota, and the shit floated downriver. With every state it ran through the body count rose, until the bloodwater reached the sea and the chance of ending your life with a bullet was three times what it was here. That must have been why the chance of getting away with murder was higher down there. A cloud passed in front of the moon, the blackness returned and for an instant he felt an almost irresistible urge to throw himself into the water and just drift away. But he didn�t want that. He wanted to survive. That damned survival instinct would be the death of him one day � but not yet. He straightened out his bad knee. He�d worked, and he�d worn himself out, and mostly it had been honest work. He�d been robbed of opportunities before, been overlooked before, life wasn�t fair, death wasn�t either.

Sure, but we have to talk about the price.

Word for word that was what he had said the first time, when he made his choice and let the genie out of the bottle. He spat in the direction of the river and saw the foamy white ball carried off into the darkness. All right then. But this time, he wouldn�t be the one going under.

There was a Donald Duck in the store. The noonday sun had cast a strip of shadow across its bill. A target had been drawn on the forehead and he was holding a pistol that was pointing at me. I walked to the counter. The wall behind it was hung with rifles for sale. They stocked magazines and pistol butts and put you in mind of Iraq and Afghanistan rather than deer hunting. An advertising poster hanging on a pillar had a picture of a machine gun and the text: Because sometimes the only thing that is going to make you feel better is shooting a machine gun.

A man wearing a camouflage cap and a T-shirt with TOTAL DEFENSE on it appeared.

�Welcome to Mitro,� he said. �What can I help you with today, sir?�

�I have an hour with an instructor booked.�

The man looked down at something on the counter in front of him. �Mr... Jones?�

�That�s right. I have problems with targets that are low down in the terrain.�

�Yes, that�s what�s noted down here. Is that a rifle you�ve got there?�

I nodded and held up the bubble-wrap package.

�Then just let me get a little ammo here. Follow me. The name�s Jim.�

�Tom�s.� It just slipped out. No big deal but I would have to watch out, be on guard for any signs my concentration was slipping. Think. Think. All the time.

Jim took me outside. We passed two standard shooting ranges, one where you shot at clay pigeons and one with targets in the shape of human beings. Three-hundred-yard ranges for standard rifles, Jim told me. Two normal, nice-looking armed teenagers standing on a rise greeted us politely, him wearing a jacket with a Stars and Stripes logo, her in a sweater with PRO-GUN written on it.

�Hi, Ola. Can you and Sigrid take a coffee break?�

The two nodded and disappeared. Behind the rise, down on the flat, was a wooden wall with ordinary round targets mounted on it.

�Can you tell me what your specific problem is, Tom�s?�

I said again that I couldn�t seem to adjust my sights to correct for the difference in height between myself and my target.

�I see.� Jim nodded, serious as a priest who�d just heard my confession. �But don�t worry, Tom�s, you and me are gonna fix that here today.�

�Thanks,� I answered, couldn�t think of any other response.

�Can I see your shooting position, Tom�s?�

I unpacked my rifle and lay flat on one of the two rubber mats.

�Aim and breathe,� said Jim. I did as he said. He walked around and behind me, grunting as he used his foot to adjust my position here and there. Then he lay down next to me on the other mat.

�Right,� he began, clearing his throat. �It�s three hundred yards to those targets and they�re quite a bit lower as you can see. A lot of people protest when I say that even though the target is below you or above you, you�ve got to aim lower than you normally would. They can accept it when as is the case here the target is lower. But not that you have to aim lower even when your target is higher. Their logic protests��

�I�m not protesting, Jim, I just want to��

��because they don�t understand that the line of a horizontal shot is affected more by gravity than a shot straight up in the air or right down in the ground. Now just imagine that��

�I know all this, Jim. I just have one concrete question.�

�Now just imagine that you�re lying on a hillside three hundred yards from a deer down on a plain that��

�Four hundred yards.�

�Sorry?�

�The deer is four hundred yards away from me. And from where I�m standing there�s a fifteen-degree angle.�

�Sure, but let�s take the example with three hundred.�

�No,� I said.

Jim looked a little confused now; he�d lost his place. But I could see his brain looking for a way to continue playing a game he knew to perfection.

�I don�t recommend that a beginner start by shooting at something that�s over three hundred yards away,� said Jim. �At three hundred you�re already flirting with what we call maximum point-blank range, doesn�t matter what ammunition you�re using. Further than that and the bullet will be affected so much by wind and weather that the beginner will just wound the deer or frighten it off, and you don�t want that, Tom�s.�

I took off my sunglasses. Our eyes met.

�Four hundred yards,� I repeated. �All I need to know is whether my calculations are correct or is there something I haven�t been taking into consideration.�

He took a breath. Blinked. �Suit yourself,� he muttered, pushed his cap back and concentrated, his jaws moving around like he was chewing grass.

I waited. I was in no hurry.

He rolled over on his side and pulled out his phone. Tapped the calculator.

�OK, four hundred yards,� he said. �You have to aim as though the distance was four hundred yards.�

�That�s what I thought.�

�Good. What d�you say, Tom�s, shall we try a few shots at the target on the left down there?�

I shrugged. �What are the numbers?�

He gave me the distance and the angle, and I told him I didn�t need the cosine, I already knew it for every angle. And I didn�t need any calculator to work out how much to adjust the sight. I looked at the flags on the front of the store behind me. Lay out on the mat, loaded, adjusted the sight.

�Shoot when you�re ready,� said Jim.

I took a breath, held it. Saw Cody Karlstad�s face in front of me the way it looked in the picture. A target on his forehead like that Donald Duck. Pointing a gun at me, my wife, my children. I fired. Loaded. Fired. Loaded. She was so pretty when she laughed, and when her heart broke, my heart would break too. And my heart broke often, because hers could break over the slightest little thing, it could be some stranger she felt pity for, or the way light fell, reminding her of a time she would never get back again.

�It�s empty,� said Jim.

�What?�

�The magazine. It�s empty. You can quit squeezing the trigger.�

�Sure.� I put the rifle down and stood up.

We walked down the incline to the target.

�Not bad,� said Jim.

All five shots had hit within a radius of five to six inches.

�Could be better,� I said, noting that the spread was more horizontal than vertical. �Any advice?�

�You could work on your shooting position and your breathing, but you have a fine natural trigger action. Hang this up at home, Tom�s.� He took down the paper target, rolled it up and handed it to me. I guessed that was something he did with all his customers, gave them a trophy, something to take home from the hunt.

We headed back up the slope. Jim watched as I packed my rifle back in its bubble wrap.

�What exactly are you going to be hunting?� he finally asked.

I carried on wrapping. �Why d�you ask?�

�An M24. Not that you can�t use it for hunting, I mean, that�s what it was originally for. With a few modifications.�

�Beasts of prey,� I said without looking up.

�I never heard that,� Jim said and laughed.

I didn�t laugh.

�Not that it�s any of my business, Tom�s, but you do know that the wolf is protected now, right?�

�Is it?�

�Yup. But relax, I ain�t planning to sneak. Wolves have been seen in Cedar Creek, dammit, that�s just a half-hour from downtown, and this is a free country, people have the right to protect themselves, if you ask me. Or am I wrong, Tom�s?�

�Damn right they do,� I said.

Back inside the store I paid in cash.

�Don�t see that too often,� said Jim.

I heard someone enter behind me. Don�t know why I turned, maybe it was something about the footsteps, the coughing, the gravelly voice speaking. Two uniformed cops, a man and a woman. I felt my heart beat faster. I picked up my change, wedged the rifle under my arm, looked downward and marched out. I saw the empty cop car in the parking lot. Nothing strange about police coming to a shooting range, I told myself, they probably come here to practise. All the same I walked faster than I normally would. And when I heard that gravelly voice calling �Sir! Wait!� then I knew that no matter how well you�ve planned things � whether it�s for a family�s future, or for how to handle losing one � you haven�t a hope against the play of chance.

Should I stop? Run? Tear the bubble wrap off the rifle and attack?

I stopped. Turned slowly.

The cop was running toward me. He hadn�t taken the gun out of his holster yet but he was holding something in his hand. I tensed, not quite sure yet what for.

�Jim says you forgot this, sir,� he said as he caught up with me.

I saw now what he was holding. The target. I must have left it on the counter.

�Thank you so much,� I said. I tried to smile as I wedged the target inside the bubble wrap.

�Courtesy of the MPD.� The cop laughed. And I could see then he was a man it would have been easy to like. I laughed too. Because he had no idea he was face-to-face with the man who�d shot a Jordan gun dealer two days before, and in just a few more hours was going to be at work again.

It was three thirty and the bell over the door of Town Taxidermy rang.

Mike Lunde emerged from a door behind the counter with a pair of reading glasses pushed up on his forehead.

�Detective Oz,� he said, wiping his hands dry on his rough blue apron.

�Lunde.� Bob looked around. Apart from the animals the place was as deserted as it had been the previous time.

�What can I do for you?�

Bob smiled and patted a white-tailed deer. �I was wondering if I could hang around here for a while this afternoon.�

Lunde gave Bob a look of mild astonishment.

�We don�t have any other leads on Gomez,� Bob explained. �This is the only place where we can expect him to show up.�

�You�re welcome to stay,� said Lunde. �But I wouldn�t hold your breath. I don�t have a definite appointment with Tom�s.�

�I know that.�

�OK then. Coffee?�

Bob followed Lunde through the door behind the counter and into what was evidently a workshop. It was a large room with several workbenches, tools hanging on the walls. The smell, probably glue, reminded him of something from his childhood, recalling Christmas and sweets, only a little more pungent. Lunde moved four yellowish-white figures that looked like they were carved in polystyrene so Bob could sit down. One resembled a deer, the others were smaller mammals, maybe lynxes or wolves.

�What are these?�

�We call them mannequins,� said Lunde as he poured coffee from a stained pot. �We order them and they come ready-cut like that.�

�But that�s cheating.�

Lunde laughed and handed Bob a mug with NATIONAL TAXIDERMIST ASSOCIATION written on it. �I still need to file them down a bit, where you can see the crosses I�ve made. But yes, the days when we used formalin and the soft parts of the animal are over. Now it�s just the hide and the horns. And the teeth, if the customer requests it.�

Lunde walked over to the head and neck of a deer mounted on a stand. The hide around the nose and eyeholes was dotted with what looked like needle pricks. He pressed a small ball of clay into one of the eyeholes, opened a drawer in a plastic box and took out two eyes.

�Plastic?�

�Glass. These are special orders. I�m very particular about the eyes. Too particular, according to some of my suppliers.� Lunde pushed an eye into the clay. Studied it, turned it a little. �The hart has oblong pupils that have to be positioned horizontally,� he explained.

�Why?�

�So that they can take in the horizon in one look. They�re prey.�

�They�re on the lookout for predators?�

�Precisely.�

After he had inserted both eyes and added more clay around them and sculpted to shape, Lunde sat on one of the workbenches, picked up a hide and showed Bob a hole.

�Bullet hole.�

Working from the inside, he cut the hole a little larger before starting to sew it closed. Burned off the end of the thread with a lighter.

�It�s quiet here,� said Bob.

�Yes it is,� said Lunde. He walked over to the deer mannequin, applied glue to the clay surrounding the eyes and fitted the hide over the head, pulling it forward over the head like a pullover.

�Right now it looks more like an ass,� he said as he lifted up the floppy ears. �But we�ll deal with that later.�

�How long does it take you to, er... make an animal?�

�That depends. Anything from a week to six months. A head like this is a lot less work than if you want the whole animal. A lot of the procedures take time. Flaying, salting, drying the skin. Then you have to find the right expression.�

He picked up a scalpel from the table and started cutting and pushing in the white skin around the eyes. �This one, for example, I need to give a look of ease and power. A so-called alpha male.�

�Oh?�

�That�s the way the client recalled the animal when he shot it, so that�s what he�s ordered.�

�A hunter who wants to capture his moment of triumph over an animal that thought it was in control,� said Bob.

�Very poetic. And in this particular case, very accurate.�

�And you can do it? Give the animal this type of authentic expression?�

�Well,� said Lunde, �of course, I don�t know if it�s authentic. What does an animal feel? I just have to use my imagination and end up, I�m sure, giving it a more or less human look. The thing is, anyway, to see it through the client�s eye. To show what the client wants to see.�

�What if you don�t like what the client wants to see?�

Lunde shrugged. �I�m a barber. The customer decides the style. But, within limits, I have a certain degree of freedom to produce something that exceeds the customer�s expectations. Their pleasure is mine too.� Lunde looked up. The bell above the door had sounded again. He went out, with Bob following three paces behind.

A woman was standing in the store. She and Lunde had obviously met before and they at once began talking about a job involving a dog. Lunde explained that he was waiting for new eyes, that he wasn�t satisfied with the ones that had been sent.

Bob returned to the workshop and to his coffee.

After a while Lunde returned and resumed work.

Bob closed his eyes for a moment and listened to the silence and the small sounds produced by Lunde�s work. It relaxed him, watching Lunde at work, seeing the result slowly taking shape. It was like medication. More calming than any pills.

�So you like to watch too,� said Lunde, as if he could read Bob�s thoughts.

�Maybe I do. Why do you say too?�

�Tom�s. He used to sit there, like you. Not saying much, now and then asking a question about some technical aspect of what I was doing. Judging by his questions you would almost think he knew enough about taxidermy to do the cat himself. I told him that once. He said he didn�t know anything about the subject but that he was good with his hands.� Lunde smiled. �But maybe he had hidden reasons, maybe he brought the cat along to steal some of my tricks.�

�Hidden reasons,� Bob echoed. �Like X-11.�

�X-11?� Lunde switched to a smaller scalpel.

�Yes. I think he infiltrated X-11 in order to avenge the death of his family.�

�Really?�

�He spun them some tale about how he�d worked for a drug cartel south of the border and been sent over here because the police were after him. Because there was nothing that exposed Gomez�s story, X-11 believed it. He arranged for the killings of drug dealers in and outside X-11 by starting gang wars. When his bosses pulled him back from the front line he continued the vendetta against his own people.�

�Without being exposed?� Lunde stepped back to study his work.

�One in four drug dealers die within four years. Think about it. In this country a prisoner under sentence of death has less chance of being executed than a crack dealer has of being shot dead in the street. Like the head of X-11 it means you�re used to natural shrinkage. They probably didn�t respond immediately, but once they made the connection they threw Gomez out. Looks like he stopped after that.�

�Hm. Is this something you know, Oz, or what you might call speculation?�

�Let�s call it an educated guess. If he stopped then I have to wonder why he started up again. Did he feel he hadn�t avenged his family�s deaths enough? Some kind of bottled-up anger that was somehow triggered? Like, for example, his cat dying. A lot of people just lose it when someone or something dies... you know, something close, much loved.�

�I�m sure you�re right there.� Lunde stepped back to the workbench and wiped off his scalpels.

�What I find a little strange is that he messed it up so badly in Dante�s case,� Bob continued. �The distance was no more than three hundred yards and the rifle case was for an M24 with telescopic sights, same as the snipers in Afghanistan used, same as the police.�

�Maybe he hasn�t had much practice with that particular rifle?�

�When you prepare something as carefully as Gomez did then you�re pretty certain you�re going to get it right. There was no wind to speak of, and the distance was too short for the temperature to make any difference. If he made the beginner�s mistake of failing to adjust for the difference in elevation then he would have shot too high, not too low.�

�Maybe he was nervous and his hand shook. A lot of the hunters I get in here talk about what they call �buck fever�. Speaking of which, buck, I think we�re done with this for today.� Lunde pulled off his gloves. �Which means it�s time for a little con amore work.�

�Con amore?�

�A labour of love. Come.�

Bob followed Lunde into a smaller workshop. There was just one workbench there, and the mannequin standing on it was quite different from the others in the larger workshop. �Taxidermy the way it used to be done,� said Lunde as he stroked his hand over the hollow, wolf-like figure. �Wood, cotton and steel wire. I�ll dress this with treated skin the same as those back there, but here I�ll use the animal�s skull as well.� He indicated a cranium resting on sawdust inside a glass case.

�Why?�

�At the customer�s request.�

Bob made a face. �I know something about corpses, Lunde. If there�s so much as a thread of organic material inside that head it�ll rot and start to stink.�

�That�s right. And that�s why the cranium is in that glass case.�

�Oh?�

�There�s a colony of carnivorous leather beetles inside that skull and they�ll eat it clean before I begin work.�

Bob stared at the cranium. He listened.

�Oh no,� Lunde said with a laugh, �you can�t hear them.�

�OK. But isn�t there a simpler way?�

�Oh sure, I could have freeze-dried the whole animal so the customer would get the complete thing.�

�Then why not do that?�

Lunde lifted the lid of the glass case and held an eye up against an eyehole. �In the first place it�s expensive. Secondly, the animal has to be stored in a special freeze-dryer for months. And thirdly, as a rule the corpse will get eaten up by carpet beetles. And anyway, there�s something about making these shapes, something to do with feeling.� Lunde held up his long, slender hands. �It�s as though the vision lies in the eyes and the fingertips, and without your even noticing it gets transferred to the work in question.�

Bob noticed a row of trophies on a shelf and, above them, a photograph.

�Family?� Bob asked.

�Yes. Grandfather, father, me and my sister Emily. All taxidermists. My grandfather and father are dead, but my sister and I are still at it.�

�Using the original techniques?�

Lunde shrugged. �When we get the chance. There aren�t many of us left who still do it.� He chuckled. �Emily and I always say we should be stuffed ourselves, as examples of an endangered species.�

�You never... feel like you just want to give up?�

�Give up?� Lunde gave Bob a long, thoughtful stare. �No. There�s always a reason to go on.� He gestured toward the mannequin. �This here, for example. I have a feeling that this is going to be the best thing I�ve ever done. My masterpiece.�

Bob studied it. �Looks like a very fine wolf, Lunde.�

�Wolf?� An expression of pained sorrow crossed Lunde�s face. �Ah, I see I�ve failed already. This is supposed to be a Labrador retriever.�

�Your masterpiece is, eh... a dog?�

Lunde smiled. �Oh yes, I know what you�re thinking. Why not a bear? Or a deer? But consider this: the demands posed by a Labrador are sky-high. Everyone�s seen one, everyone has a clear idea of what a Labrador should look like. The problem is, as usual, the eyes. These are samples from a manufacturer in Madrid.� Lunde held up the glass eyes. �They aren�t bad. Just not very... lifelike.�

�Those owl eyes in the store are lifelike.�

�Yes, aren�t they?� Lunde was in the grip of an almost childlike enthusiasm. �I made them myself. They�re ceramic. You get the feeling they�re watching you, don�t you?�

Bob bent forward and studied two photographs lying next to the dog mannequin on the workbench. �Is this it?�

�Yes.�

�Isn�t it a little, er... fatter than the mannequin?�

�Oh definitely. The customer is a very wealthy family and I intend to give them the animal as they would remember it when it was young and slender. It�s called idealisation. We beautify the portraits, in just the way Van Dyck, Rubens and da Vinci did. The art isn�t in the resemblance.�

�Then where does it lie?�

�In the creation of the story.� Lunde placed the eyes back into an envelope. �Ever heard of John Hancock? I don�t mean the one who signed the Declaration of Independence.�

�Can�t say I have.�

�No, he�s pretty much a forgotten figure. Let�s call him the father of modern taxidermy. He exhibited some birds at the Great Exhibition in London in 1851 and, of course, people were impressed by their anatomical accuracy. But as one of the judges remarked, the surprising thing was that one felt moved by the exhibits. Do you see? Hancock raised taxidermy to the level of art.�

�You think a stuffed animal is a work of art?�

�Let me show you.�

Bob followed Mike Lunde back into the store, where he took down two large books from a shelf on which two hares acted as bookends.

�In Victorian England it was as common to have stuffed animals in the averagely affluent household as it was to have paintings,� said Lunde, opening one of the books. �Things moved forward, and in the latter part of the nineteenth century Walter Potter developed so-called anthropomorphic taxidermy. He dressed the animals in clothes and posed them in comic situations, like humans.�

As Lunde turned the pages Bob studied the whole-page photographs in the book. One of rats in human clothing brawling round a poker table as another rat dressed in a policeman�s uniform comes storming in. Another showed a classroom full of rabbits sitting neatly at their desks. These montages had a certain cuteness, and at the same time a subtext Bob wasn�t immediately able to decode.

�Exhibitions by Potter and by other taxidermists attracted larger audiences than popular theatre performances or athletics meetings. And then taxidermists began including bizarre details, such as a two-headed lamb, or a chicken with four legs. From which there is a direct line to this...� Lunde indicated the second book. �The contribution of our own city, Minneapolis.�

The title on the cover was Rogue Taxidermy. He thumbed through it. A stuffed polar bear atop a sinking refrigerator. A squirrel holding up something that looked like a small heart.

�I�m sorry,� said Bob, �but isn�t this just... creepy?�

Lunde chuckled. �I agree, it is creepy. But not just creepy. These are artistic expressions. They�re stories.�

�But... doesn�t it do something to you, spending so much time in the company of dead animals?�

Lunde thought about it. �I don�t know. I mean, chefs do the same thing. The difference is that we try to bring the dead back to life. It�s what you might call an existential challenge, and it probably does have some effect on you. All those hours, sitting alone, trying to put a mask on death.�

�Who did this?� asked Bob, pointing to one picture. It showed an eagle sitting on a branch. One wing was holding a revolver pointed at its own head.

�Ah, that�s by Anonymous,� said Lunde. �That�s to say, that�s what they�re known as in taxidermy circles. He or she exhibits the work in some public space, most often at night, unsigned, and that�s all we know. That eagle was exhibited in a tree right outside the picnic area in the Minnehaha Park. Caused quite a stir, of course, because the bald eagle is a protected species.�

Outside rain started falling. They both looked out into the street. The sounds changed. Car tyres hissed against the wet asphalt. Footsteps along the sidewalk sounded quicker. An animated conversation fell silent.

�When you and Gomez were talking about loneliness,� said Bob, �what did you discuss in particular?�

�Well, all sorts of things,� said Lunde as he replaced the books on the shelf. �Why it is that loneliness is so troubling. None of our most basic physical needs require the presence of several or even one other human being. Breathe, eat, work, get food, get dressed, fall ill and recover, shit, piss, sleep. From nature�s point of view, we are fully capable of living long, full and wholly satisfactory lives entirely on our own. In many cases better lives than the ones we get when we enter into a union and voluntarily or involuntarily allow our lives to be guided by the needs of others. And yet no one asks themselves whether the ending of Robinson Crusoe, when he gets rescued, is a happy ending or not. Think about it. I mean, he�s managed to organise things pretty well on that island � what guarantee does he have that the life he gets when he goes back to living with other people will be as good? He�s losing his freedom, his daily swims, a territory that�s all his own with limitless access to food, no working hours, no boss. And for what? But we don�t even wonder about it, we just take it for granted that we�re willing to give up all this for just one thing: the company of other people.�

�But if we don�t need others, then why is loneliness so intolerable?�

�What do you think?�

�Biology. If we all thought it was fine to be alone, we wouldn�t want to reproduce ourselves.�

Lunde raised a finger to point to a glass case full of butterflies hanging on the wall behind him. �Some species meet up for the purpose of reproduction only.�

�Economics, then. Cooperating with others gives everyone a better chance of survival.�

�You and your economics. Economics doesn�t drive people insane. But loneliness does. Am I right?�

�I�m sorry?�

�Loneliness is a fairly novel experience for you, Bob, isn�t it?�

Bob didn�t reply. Again Mike Lunde smiled that smile that Bob seemed to recognise from somewhere, some faint childhood memory he couldn�t quite pull to the surface. The store bell jangled.

A man walked in. He was wearing a suit that looked straight out of one of the Downtown West skyscrapers. Bob waited as the customer explained that he wanted a hunting trophy stuffed � a black rhinoceros. He�d heard that Lunde was the best in the business. Lunde declined politely, explaining that he didn�t do rhinoceros. When the man insisted, and demanded an explanation, Mike Lunde said that he just didn�t work with threatened species. The customer got a little heated. He pointed out that he�d had permission from the Namibian authorities, it was one of the five animals a year they allowed. He added that he had an import licence for the animal. Lunde offered his congratulations, and it wasn�t easy for Bob to know if he was being ironic. He said the black rhinoceros was on the taxidermists� blacklist, no pun intended. The man protested that it wasn�t illegal, he�d spent a quarter of a million dollars for the hunting rights at an auction in Dallas, that the money went toward the preservation of the black rhinoceros, and that he was prepared to pay well for a good taxidermist to do the job.

�I�m sorry,� said Lunde, gently but firmly. �But by all means, bring in another animal.�

The bell jingled angrily as the man left.

Mike Lunde sighed.

�Couldn�t you have taken that job?� asked Bob.

�Maybe,� said Lunde. �Ethical dilemmas always give me a headache. While I�ve got you here, would you mind helping me with the mother lynx?�

Together they manoeuvred down a lynx mounted on a branch that was attached to the wall. Lunde sprayed the lynx�s coat with something from a bottle. Bob went over to the glass case with the butterflies.

�How old are these?�

�My father�s butterflies? Forty, forty-five.�

�It�s wonderful, the way the colour is preserved.�

�My grandfather said that butterfly wings don�t fade like other dead bodies, that they�re like mementos of the dead. With each passing year the colour gets stronger.�

Bob nodded. Continued to study the butterflies while Lunde dried off the lynx with a tissue. Hesitated a moment. Then asked: �What makes you think I�m lonely?�

Lunde carried on drying for a few moments before replying. �It�s in the eyes. Always the eyes. I saw it the moment you entered the store. Your eyes expressed the same thing as Tom�s. Loss. Anger. Desperation. Loneliness.�

�Did you tell him that too? That you knew he was lonely?�

�Tom�s? He said so himself.�

�What did he say about being lonely?�

�Lots. That it was slowly driving him mad.�

�And is he mad, do you think?�

Lunde shrugged. �It looks that way, don�t you think? Normal people don�t kill other people. Although, the same could be said of those that killed his family. I don�t think your guy is any better or any worse than anyone else, he�s just been unlucky. His world was shattered. He said that what tormented him most was that those idiots hadn�t killed him, the only one who could pose any threat to them.�

�Yes,� said Bob. �I know what he means.�

�Give me a hand again here?�

After returning the lynx to its place they went back into the workshop and Lunde continued working. Bob fell asleep with his head against the wall. He dreamed. It was the same dream. He was holding a pistol and firing at a tiny head with a candyfloss halo of fair hair. And was woken by the sound of Lunde talking on his cell phone:

�Yes, I�m just leaving now.� Bob heard the twittering of a female voice at the other end and saw the broad smile on Mike Lunde�s face. �Meatballs? Mm, that sounds good.�

He hung up.

�Sorry,� said Bob as he sat up in the chair and wiped the dribble from the corner of his mouth. �I had a bad night.�

�You were sound asleep. That�s good.�

�I heard meatballs. With brown sauce, potatoes and mushy peas?�

Lunde smiled. �Yes, as it happens. How about you?�

�Guess.�

Lunde leaned his head to one side and looked at Bob. �I�m guessing you�re going to eat alone, and you don�t care a damn where or what.�

�Bullseye.�

Bob then noticed Lunde�s hesitancy. It was as though he was wondering whether to invite Bob home with him. Then perhaps he saw the warning signs in Bob�s eyes and let it drop.

�One more thing,� said Bob. �You said you didn�t know if Gomez has a phone, but he has your cell number, it�s printed on your business card. Given that he knows we�re looking for him, it could be he won�t take the chance of turning up here in person but he�ll ring you instead.�

Lunde nodded. �You could be right there.�

�Can I borrow your phone for a few seconds?�

Lunde tapped in a code that opened it and handed it to Bob. Bob went online and downloaded an app.

�Using this app, with just one tap on the keyboard you can record conversations on your phone without the other person knowing about it. It�s unbelievable what sound technicians are able to get out of the voice and the background sounds on such a recording.�

�You don�t say?� said Lunde. He looked down sceptically at his phone.

�Anyway, the option is there, if you want it,� said Bob. �And thanks, thanks for letting me hang out here.�

It had stopped raining by the time Lunde locked the store door behind him, but heavy clouds the colour of exhaust fumes still coated the sky. The sidewalks were beginning to dry. Bob breathed in the air. Remembered childhood, and how sharp every sensory impression was, how even the most insignificant of them could seem almost overwhelming, like the special smell, the humid taste of rain-wet asphalt. Now it smelled and tasted of nothing. He thought about eyes. How it�s the eyes that are the problem.

We�re waiting for a red light in Edina, which is technically speaking another town. The cab driver, whose name I have discovered is Gabriel, tells me that he thinks the mayor of Edina is of Norwegian descent. I�m more preoccupied by the fact that I don�t recognise my surroundings. What�s happened to my Southdale Mall? Gabriel explains that my shopping mall is hidden from view now behind all the new buildings, that it is actually still there, just behind them. He looks at me in the mirror.

�What made you choose this particular story?� he asks.

�I�m a crime writer,� I answer.

�Well, I�m a cab driver,� he says, �but I don�t go to New York and drive around a lot of streets I don�t know.�

I nod. Hesitate. But why not? I cough.

�The hero of the story � if you can call him that � was my cousin. I guess I just want somebody to tell his story.�

�Was? You mean he passed away?�

I don�t answer.

�You get rich writing books?�

I shake my head. �But enough to get by.�

�Good for you. That something you always wanted to do, be a crime writer?�

�No. I trained as a priest.�

�Really? Isn�t that pretty unusual? For a priest to be writing about gruesome murders?�

�Not as unusual as you might think. Maybe you�ve heard of Ronald Knox? He was a Catholic priest. He�s the one who laid down the ten commandments of crime fiction.�

Gabriel shakes his head. �As in, �thou shalt not kill�?�

I have to laugh. �As in, the killer has to be introduced early on in the story, but we�re not allowed access to his thoughts.�

�And you follow that commandment?�

�No, not at all. I let the reader follow the murderer�s thoughts as I think he must have thought them at the time. But then, I�m writing true crime, not a detective novel. And Knox�s commandments aren�t meant to be taken seriously. The fifth commandment states that there shouldn�t be a Chinaman in the story.�

�And you�ve got a Chinaman in your story?�

I have to think about it. �No, not exactly.�

The light changes to green and Gabriel has to concentrate on his driving.

And it turns out he�s right, suddenly we�re there.

I recognise those low buildings, and the huge surrounding parking lots. When I came here as a boy, Southdale Mall seemed like a complete universe. Only when I was a little older did I realise that Southdale wasn�t a particularly big shopping mall, not for example when compared to West Edmonton Mall, which is bigger than the smallest country in the world. But when Southdale opened in 1956 it turned out to be the start of an urban development that would soon characterise the whole country and, in due course, the whole Western world. Victor Gruen, the architect who designed Southdale and fifty other shopping malls, fled Austria when Hitler annexed it in 1938. He arrived in New York with eight dollars, no English, a training in architecture and the idea of building small urban centres where people would live with every facility a country town could need right next to them: post offices, bakeries, police stations, schools. But as the old saying goes, the road to hell is paved with good intentions, and there�s an obvious irony in the fact that a dedicated socialist and urbanist like Gruen should be the architect responsible � in my uncle�s view � for the gradual destruction of the Minneapolis he had grown up in, a vibrant and living centre with a thriving business, cultural and social life. To him Gruen�s shopping malls were parasites that sucked the life out of the towns and left nothing behind but a dying organism choked by exhaust fumes and crime, a lack of public transport and ordinary, everyday humanity, an accretion of cold stone-and-glass castles containing offices where people worked but from which they fled as soon as the working day was over. I remember my uncle once saying to my father that shopping malls like Southdale created psychopaths, whatever that was supposed to mean. Anyway, my uncle must have been mollified to learn that Gruen repented of his sins and atoned for them by returning to Austria to live and to work on the pedestrian precincts in the centre of Vienna, and that two years before his death he publicly expressed his regret for what his shopping malls had turned into.

Me, I love shopping malls.

I don�t tell anyone, but I can still feel some of the elation of my childhood as I enter those riotously coloured jungles where everything screeches at you, everyone hunts you, and the ant-like columns of humans move up the escalators as they head for new worlds. It�s like something out of a computer game. Where my uncle and my father saw vulgar commercialism I feel the joy of sinking into a warm cacophony of sight and sound, walking through an Eden of temptations and sinful invitations, feeling how your life might have been had you owned this thing or that, the sensation and excitement of a possible Fall of biblical dimensions, even if you don�t have a krone or a dollar to spend.

We stop in the parking lot and I get out. Six women in red T-shirts carrying placards are standing under some trees at the end of the lot. I walk toward them. They�re on strike, nurses from the women�s hospital on the other side of the road, they explain. I point to the parking garage next to the hospital and ask if they can tell me anything about what happened there.

�What did happen?� they ask.

I explain, but they�ve never heard of the incident. Six years is a long time, they say. Before the pandemic, before Floyd, it was another time.

I say thanks and walk away. Close my eyes behind the sunglasses and breathe in deeply, maybe hoping to breathe in the air of my childhood. Open car windows with the smell of Minnesota�s sun-scorched fields and the smoke from Dad�s cigar in the driving seat. But above all, the smell of freshly baked doughnuts from Southdale Mall.

A flat light lay across the desert. A huge desert that I crossed alone. I saw no other people, there in that monotonous, desolate landscape, no sign of life at all. But of course, cars count as signs of life. And this parking lot. What if every person on earth apart from me had been whirled up into heaven just a moment ago by some generous-spirited Jehovah? That would have been fine actually, it wouldn�t have left me any more alone than I already am. That was my first thought as I woke up, and my last as I fell asleep. That I was lonely. Some days it was just fine, but at other times the loneliness and the burden of the emptiness were so great I felt they were going to crush me. But I couldn�t let it, not yet. First I had to do what I had to do. That was the only thing that kept me going now, the only thing that made it worth getting up in the morning. Worth going out. Worth eating the food on the plate in front of me. But afterward, when that was out of the way, what then? Then this eternity would end. Then we would be together again, my beloved. And rest. Eternal rest. So I carried on walking.

It was cloudy and at this time of the autumn the daylight was already noticeably less by six o�clock, which was the time he usually left work.

Suddenly I saw someone. She was standing by her car with the trunk open. She was overweight and out of breath and I could tell she�d been using that overfilled shopping cart as a walker on her way through the desert.

�Hi,� I said.

The big body jerked in surprise and she turned toward me. I could see the panic in her eyes. Then the relief.

�Oh, thank God,� she groaned.

She didn�t say it, but I knew anyway. That her first thought was that I was black. I guess Latino was a bit less threatening. Just a bit. I smiled. �I was wondering if you needed any help?�

�Thanks, but that�s OK,� she said, with a look that said help is exactly what she needed. She stared at my face, then at my hands. I walked on.

It took me a while to spot that big blue car, even though I knew where it usually stood and navigated there using the floodlight pylon in the centre of the parking lot. It was a Chevrolet Silverado High Country crew cab. I peered in at the driver�s seat. Noted that the neck support was at normal height. The seat pushed not too far forward nor too far back. I used the sleeve of my jacket to wipe away the raindrops from the windshield, took out the roll of wide white tape and tore off three strips. Taped them to the windshield on the driver�s side, directly under the roof. It formed a white square approximately three by three inches. I looked at my watch. Five thirty. That gave me half an hour.

Bob stopped the Volvo by the kerb outside Bernie�s Bar. The Happy Hour sign wasn�t up. He drummed on the steering wheel as he looked toward the yellow light behind the blinds. So what would that make it in there now? Unhappy Hour? And how unhappy would Chrissie Hynde be if he showed up again so quickly? Only one way to find out.

The man tending the bar looked more like a bouncer than a bartender.

�Where�s Liza?� asked Bob.

�She�s not in today.�

�I can see she�s not in, I asked��

�I heard what you asked, mister. Can I get you something?�

Bob breathed through his open mouth. He could feel the rushing start up. He laid his police ID on the bar. �You want to answer my questions here or down at the station?�

The bartender studied the ID as he poured a glass of beer.

�The kid�s sick, so she�s at home,� he said. �Is she in trouble?�

No, thought Bob. He grabbed up his ID and walked out again.

Back in the Volvo he beat his head against the steering wheel.

I�m the one who�s in trouble.

He tapped in an A. Then an L. Looked at the I and the C in surprise, and then remembered he had deleted her from his Contacts last night. Alas, he could still remember the number.

�Stan.�

The voice was deep and calm.

The fact that Stan answered Alice�s phone without saying anything other than his name told him at least two things. That Alice trusted Stan with her phone, which was something she�d never done with him. And that Stan knew it was Bob ringing and he was ready for a confrontation. Bob could scrape the phone against his thigh and pretend it was a pocket dialling. But the rushing in his head had taken over now and it was the rushing that made the decisions.

�Good evening, meathead. Is Alice there?�

�She asked you not to call her, Bob.�

Bob howled into the phone. He didn�t know what had happened, for a moment he was lost, and when he came back his phone was gone. He located it and saw a rose-shaped shatter in a corner of the screen. He typed, Couldn�t do it, couldn�t be alone now. Had to... They only had first names, their surnames were the places he had met them for the first time, usually in a bar. For example, it looked like he knew two sisters with the surname �Riverfront�.

�Carol.�

�Hi, Carol. Bob here.�

Silence.

�Bob Oz.�

�I can see that. I�m wondering what to say to you.�

�Oh?�

�I know you screwed my friend the day after me.�

�Really? Is�� Bob looked at the phone � �Tonya Riv� Tonya your friend?�

�Tonya? Have you screwed Tonya as well?�

Bob pressed a hand to his forehead. �OK, Carol, I�m in the doghouse and I deserve it. But I�m not looking to get laid, I just need someone to talk to. As in, a cup of coffee somewhere.�

Bob heard the rough, bitter laughter. Interrupted by a furious: �Are you sick?�

�You mean venereal, or some other way?�

He never found out whether she enjoyed the joke or not, she�d already hung up.

He scrolled down. Spun through the names with his index finger the way you spin a wheel of fortune. The list stopped and his eye fell on a name. Dory Anvil. Anvil was a bar, he remembered it, but not Dory. So it probably hadn�t been that memorable. But that was exactly what he needed tonight, someone he didn�t feel he had to screw. He pressed Call.

�Hi, Bob! At last!�

Bob hesitated. It sounded like it might have been more memorable for her than for him. Could mean she wanted seconds. On the other hand it didn�t sound like she would say no to a meeting.

�Hi, Dory.�

�Have you missed me?� Her voice had a false, trilling quality, like a grown woman pretending to be a child.

�Hugely,� said Bob, noting as he did so the way he had unconsciously imitated Mike Lunde�s cautious irony.

�Then why didn�t you call?�

�Well, let me explain, I lost your number, and��

�Hilarious, just what I thought!� Her laugh was so high up the register that Bob felt as though his brain was being sliced into by a circular saw. �That�s why I sent you a text with my number, Bob.�

�You did?�

�Yes!� Her laughter died out. �So why are you lying?�

Bob took a breath. He was so tired. Tired and weary. Weary of Bob Oz.

�To be honest, Dory, and that�s not something I usually am, I�m lying because it�s so much more fucking pleasant. And I think you should regard the obvious lie as a kind of lifebelt. Grab hold of it, and you�ll avoid the humiliation of having me tell you that it�s because you just weren�t interesting enough.�

A long pause. Then that circular saw of a laugh cut another slice through his brain.

�Hilarious, Bob!�

�Thanks. How are things, Dory?�

�Not bad. I�m at home alone. Want to come over?�

Bob was about to say yes, but something held him back. Dory-Dory-Dory. What was the thing he couldn�t quite remember? Had she been crazy? Bit of a prude? Needy? Did she have the clap? A husband? Anyway, none of that mattered now.

�Come on, Bob.�

�Er...�

�Hey, I feel horny when you play hard to get, Bob. But I know you want me. And I�ll do exactly what you want. Just tell me what it is.�

�Can you make meatballs in brown sauce?�

�Eh?�

�Nothing.� Dory, Dory... �Why are you telling me that you�re at home and you�re alone?�

�Well, you should know the answer to that.�

�I should?�

�You�re the one who put Tony in hospital.�

That Dory. Bob swallowed.

�How... how�s he doing?�

�Tony? Not too good. You broke his nose and his jaw.�

He heard her sigh. Heard the clink of ice cubes against glass.

�Of course I feel sorry for Tony, but I love the way you fought for me, Bob. You fought for me, you did. Even though he�s much bigger!�

Bob heard the slur in her voice now. And the tears.

�Dory, I�ve just remembered, I�m going bowling tonight.�

�After the bowling then.�

�It�s a tournament, be a long night.�

Silence at the other end. He heard a couple of snuffles. �How about tomorrow then?�

�Would love to, but I think you�ve got something on tomorrow, Dory.�

�I do?�

�You�re visiting Tony in hospital and telling him you�re never going to hurt him again.�

Dory gave a bitter laugh. �Hilarious, Bob.�

�Maybe, maybe not. But he was the one who was going to fight for you, Dory. Not me.�

In the silence that followed he could hear her sobbing. He waited until the sobbing stopped. The clink of ice cubes on glass. She cleared her throat and then spoke in a slightly deeper, natural register.

�Enjoy your bowling, Bob.�

It was starting to get dark as I watched Cody Karlstad walk through the parking lot. In the half-hour I�d been waiting up there on the roof there had been a lot of activity down below, cars coming, cars going. Through the telescopic sights I followed Karlstad until he reached the big blue pickup, unlocked it and climbed in. My pulse rate was low, even though I hadn�t taken the beta blockers as I had considered doing yesterday. I�d worked out that the reason I didn�t hit Dante properly was because my pulse rate had been too high.

The interior light came on.

I knew that gave me seven seconds. I knew because this was the fourth day I�d been there at the same time, and each time he had carried out exactly the same ritual. He put his briefcase on the floor in front of the passenger seat, slipped the key in the ignition, fastened his seat belt and turned on the ignition.

Cody Karlstad was a white, middle-class part-owner of an agricultural machinery dealership. He had three children and a wife who worked in the local church. Cody Karlstad was a frugal man. Despite the fact that his car was worth 50,000 dollars he parked it every morning in the free parking slot at Southdale Mall. That was seven o�clock, before the mall opened; he had five thousand vacant parking slots to choose from but he always picked the same one, just about in the centre of the desert. After that he headed over to the machine outside the mall to buy a packet of chewing gum. I guessed he did that so he could tell himself and any parking warden who checked that he was a customer at the mall and qualified to park there free. But of course it could also have been just that he liked chewing gum, or had chronic bad breath. Then Cody Karlstad headed over toward the building where he worked. It shared a parking lot with the women�s hospital, and he�d have had to pay a monthly rent of 155 dollars to park there. I knew this because the prices were posted on a yellow metal sign outside the main entrance. I had no idea why the sign was made of metal � did they maybe think the price would never go up?

I was lying on the roof of the parking garage now. Between me and Cody Karlstad was a busy road and a lot of parking lot. Altogether the distance was almost exactly four hundred yards, but through the telescopic sights it looked a lot less than that. With the silencer and the roar of traffic below me no one was going to hear the crack if I squeezed the trigger. When I squeezed the trigger. When!

So, I had seven seconds.

Seven seconds before the engine turned over, the headlamps lit up and the interior light automatically went out. But for the seven seconds before Cody Karlstad was wrapped in darkness the lighting would be perfect. On the windshield, positioned above the light, was that white three-by-three square I covered with the cross hairs as I slowly pulled the trigger back. Owing to the angle all I could see were the hands fastening the seat belt, not his face. Perhaps that�s why I didn�t feel nervous. But I wanted him to fasten his seat belt first, I didn�t want him slumping forward and leaving his upper body pressing the horn, which would immediately have drawn attention to the scene. Three seconds. Two. He�d fastened the seat belt.

The rifle butt imparted its slight kick to my shoulder.

I saw a black mark in the white square.

A perfect shot.

I lowered the sights.

In the interior, which was still illuminated, I could see Karlstad�s body shaking.

It shouldn�t have been shaking. I�d done all the calculations; the distance, the angle, the thickness of the glass, the height of the seat, the length of Cody Karlstad�s body from the hips upward. Cody ought to have been sitting motionless with a hole in his forehead. But there he was, shaking like he was strapped to an electric chair.

I loaded the rifle. Took aim again. Calmly. Pulled the trigger. The kick against my shoulder was almost pleasurable. Once again, the shot hit the taped square, an inch higher this time.

And Cody Karlstad stopped shaking.

Olav Hanson took another cast with the rod. Saw nothing, could just hear from the reel that the line had run out. He was no fisherman, never would be. But he could cast a long way, and that was something. Pity he was alone here with no one else to see � or more properly hear � the line as it sizzled toward the far bank of the river. The line was still travelling when he felt his phone vibrating. It made him jump. The same way he�d been jumping every time the phone rang following his conversation with Die Man yesterday. But right now he was fishing, so to hell with Die Man, every man had a right to one place where he�s his own boss. He let the phone ring three more times before he took it out. He read the name on the display: Joe Kjos.

�Yeah?�

�Hi, Olav, where are you?�

�Never mind. What is it?�

�You asked me to tell you if anything new came up about Tom�s Gomez.�

�So?�

�Why, can I ask?�

�None of your business. What you got?�

�Something came in just now, a man shot in the parking lot at the Southdale Mall. There�s a couple of patrol cars there and from what I�m hearing Kay Myers thinks it could be Tom�s Gomez. Rifle shot from a distance.�

Olav Hanson began reeling in as fast as he could. �Any detectives on the scene yet?�

�No. Myers is on the phone right now, but she�s going up there directly after.�

Southdale wasn�t too far away, about midway between where he was and city hall. He might make it.

�See if you can delay her a little, Joe.�

�What?�

�You heard me.�

�But... why you want me to do that?�

�I want this case.�

�You?�

Olav knew why Joe was asking; Olav wasn�t exactly known for taking on more cases than he strictly had to.

�Yeah, me,� said Olav Hanson and hung up.

Olav Hanson was panting. he�d run all the way from where he�d parked his car at Track Plaza. He tried to ignore the pain in his knee as the escalator slowly moved him up to the second floor. He got to the top and there, a hundred yards away, he saw the pizza place. It was open toward the communal area, like a restaurant at an airport. He had his phone plugged into one ear and as he had driven from Southdale he�d been getting updates all the way from the MPD�s video centre telling him Gomez was still at the restaurant. The video centre received images from over three hundred cameras located indoors and outdoors in the downtown area and was a cooperative enterprise involving law enforcement and local businesses. It had either drastically reduced crime or � as some critics claimed � transferred it to other parts of the city. Concerns about secret surveillance had been dealt with by making the project open to all, using a glass wall behind which anyone could come and sit and see the same pictures as the police. In a word, Olav had an audience. It also meant that what had to happen had to happen somewhere it wouldn�t be caught on camera. His shirt was wet with sweat, and he could feel the edge of his holster rubbing against his armpit. The plan was simple but sound. An arrest on camera in front of witnesses and everything done by the book, body search, reading his rights, the whole bit. Apart from the fact that he wasn�t going to handcuff Gomez. He�d deliberately left his cuffs in the car and would tell Internal Affairs afterward that he�d forgotten them. He�d take Gomez over to the elevators and order everyone out of the first one that arrived. Because there were no cameras in the elevators. He�d checked. He�d shoot Gomez before they reached the lobby, make sure his fingerprints were on the barrel and say Gomez had tried to grab the gun off him.

Olav put his hand on the butt of his pistol inside his jacket as his gaze wandered over the backs of those sitting at the counter in front of the pizza ovens. None were wearing the hoodie he�d seen on the video at the parking garage. Nobody had the raven-black hair he remembered on Lobo. But if Lobo had moved on, why hadn�t the video centre passed on the message? He got his answer when he felt his phone vibrate, opened it up, heard Kay Myers�s voice and understood his twenty minutes were already up.

It was a Harry Winston diamond ring. It lay cushioned on black velvet in the jewellery-store window and twinkled more brightly than any of the others. Tomorrow would have been our wedding anniversary. It was expensive. But I had the money. Monica hadn�t wanted a ring like that, though, and she didn�t get one either, but I knew she would have loved it. And I would have loved it. Loved to have been standing in the kitchen making our breakfast, knowing that right then she was waking up and discovering the box on the pillow. No, it wasn�t correct to say our anniversary would have been tomorrow, it was tomorrow. You can�t stop the days from coming. Time just keeps rolling along, no matter how meaninglessly.

The security guard inside the jeweller�s stood with his arms folded, swaying back and forth on his toes. There was no music to sway to, the stores at Tracks quit playing canned music after research showed that it distracted people from their shopping. The guard could see me out here. From the scarred Latino face and the moth-eaten hoodie he guessed I couldn�t afford their jewels. Maybe he was wondering what was inside the bubble wrap. When you work security I guess you see potential threats everywhere. You don�t ask yourself, �Is that thing there a rifle?� You ask, �Can I exclude completely the possibility that that thing there is a rifle?� Well, anyway, I guess that�s a question people in this country must have been asking themselves ever since the birth of the nation: does that person intend to shoot me?

I raised my gaze. I wasn�t looking at the ring now but at the reflection in the glass. Behind me, on the other side of the shopping mall where people were hurrying along, a man was standing talking into his phone as he studied the interior of the pizza restaurant I had been sitting in just a few minutes ago. There was something familiar about him. Could that really be Olav Hanson, the Milkman? If he was looking for me then he�d been quick. I took one last look at the ring. Then moved on. Took a right along a short corridor between a store selling bags and one selling toys, to where the bathrooms were on this floor. I entered the men�s room. The stall I had intended to use was occupied, but I taped a note to the door before exiting and rejoining the stream. The people coming my way looked past me, like I was invisible. I liked being invisible, being able to move about freely, being a fly on the wall, listening and picking up snippets of information here and there about the progress of the investigation, being close to them in a place where it would never have occurred to them to look. But I didn�t want to be invisible all the time. I needed to show the world who I was. And then: what I was.

I looked up into the camera above the skyway I stepped onto. Looked down again. A cop car glided out into the street below me. Then another. Both had blue lights but no sirens. Like something was urgent, but they mustn�t be heard just yet, like beasts of prey sneaking up on their victims. And behind them a large green vehicle with SWAT written in white on the side. The cars stopped, men in black carrying automatics and wearing visors jumped out and ran toward the entrance. I turned and hurried back the way I had come.

Bob had taken up a position some distance from the SWAT team that was waiting in readiness outside the door to the restrooms. Men who emerged at irregular intervals through the swing door jumped at the sight of those black-clad men with automatic weapons pointing in their direction. Kay, Hanson and O�Rourke stood behind them and watched. Behind Bob, curious passers-by stopped to watch, even after being told to move on.

One of the SWAT team pushed a thin wire through the door. Bob knew there was a micro camera on the end of it. Kay approached him.

�What�s up?� she asked.

�What?�

�You�re shaking your head.�

�Am I?�

�Yes. So what is it?�

�I don�t know,� said Bob. He saw Hanson say something to O�Rourke, who turned and looked in Bob�s direction. �It just... it feels wrong. As though...�

�As though what?� asked Kay. She was standing next to him. Her arms were folded, same as his.

�As though he�s playing cat and mouse with us. And he�s the cat.�

�Why�� Kay began, but Bob interrupted her.

�Wait a moment.� He ran after a man in a grey Minnesota Twins sweater who had just emerged from the toilet and was being waved on by the SWAT men. Bob caught up with him outside the bag store. �Excuse me, sir. MPD. Did you see anything in there?�

The man looked at Bob. �Like what?�

�A Latino carrying something wrapped in bubble wrap?�

�No. What�s going on?�

�You�ll see it on the news. When you say no, do you mean he might have been there but that you didn�t see him?�

The man hesitated. �He could have been in one of the stalls, I guess.�

�Thank you, sir.�

Bob ran back.

O�Rourke and one of the SWAT team were studying a phone screen that was relaying a feed from the micro camera.

�We have to go in and take him now,� said Bob.

O�Rourke glanced at Bob then held up his palm like a Stop sign. As Bob waited for the SWAT chief to finish looking at the screen he saw that the man in the Twins sweater had stopped next to a guy wheeling a cleaner�s cart who looked like Super Mario. He was saying something, then pointing to the toilet, then up at the roof. Super Mario nodded like he understood.

�We need you to get out of here.�

Bob turned, realising that O�Rourke had been talking to him.

�I�m sorry?�

�You�re under suspension, Oz, only serving police officers are allowed on the scene. Get out of here. Now.�

�Listen, I�m starting to understand Tom�s Gomez. He knows what he�s doing.�

O�Rourke looked over Bob�s shoulder, pointed at Bob and made a signal.

�Listen to me, O�Rourke. Gomez has a plan. He has to be taken now!�

O�Rourke licked his lips. �That will be all thank you, Oz.�

He felt a heavy hand on each shoulder. Turned. Two sturdy uniformed officers were standing behind him.

�Come on, Detective, we�ve got orders to escort you out of here.�

Bob looked past them, saw Hanson standing a few yards behind with a mocking grin on his lips. Felt that rushing start up. Saw Kay spread her arms in exasperation. Told himself he mustn�t lose control. Not now.

�I�m leaving,� said Bob, and tried to push away the hands clutching his shoulders.

They stayed where they were, just as heavy.

�Escort you,� one of the two said curtly. Bob guessed by the looks on their faces that they weren�t interested in discussing it. He bunched and then opened both his hands. Breathed regularly and counted.

�Take him now,� Bob managed to say in a low voice to O�Rourke before one of the two uniforms dragged him almost off-balance and he was led from the scene.

�There�s no need to hold me,� Bob said as they crossed the skyway to the neighbouring building.

Still they kept a hold of him, one on each arm.

Think before you speak, think before you act. Tell yourself you can control your anger.

They didn�t let go of him until they reached the other side, and Bob realised that he�d managed it. He really had surprised himself by proving that he didn�t have to go berserk every time. It was just a pity there was no one he could share it with.

What looked like people from a TV news team came hurrying in their direction. In the lead was a female reporter holding a microphone, with two men behind her, one carrying a camera with KSTP-TV on it. They disappeared onto the skyway leading to the Track Plaza building.

�We�ve got orders to arrest you if you try to come back,� one of the officers said. �Got that?�

�Got it,� said Bob, who was trying to keep track of where the reporter had gone.

The two officers left, and Bob pulled down the sleeves of his cashmere coat and straightened his tie as he looked around. Met a couple of curious stares but did his best to ignore them. Dignity � what the hell does a man need with dignity? This was obviously the floor for places to eat. And drink. Directly in front of him was a flashy sports bar with giant screens all showing the same baseball game. He had a quick think. Then he took out a loop from his coat pocket, took out the ID card, fastened it to the loop and hung it round his neck.

�What�ll it be, sir?� said the bartender as Bob approached the counter.

�Switch to KSTP,� he said.

The bartender laughed. �Fat chance. Can�t you see the Timberwolves are playing?�

�Fat chance? Can�t you see this card? It means you do what I damn well tell you to do.�

The bartender peered at the ID. Shrugged, pressed a switch behind the counter that at once gave rise to a unison groan from the watching customers. That fell silent the next moment.

�...Track Plaza where police are hunting the suspect who shot and killed a man at Southdale Mall earlier this afternoon. There is a heavy police presence at the scene.� While the news anchor talked, pictures showed the police cars in Nicollet Mall and Bob caught a glimpse of Kay and himself heading for the entrance. The view went split-screen, with the studio anchor on one half and the female reporter Bob had just seen on the other.

�What�s happening now, Shirley?�

�Right now we�re standing on a skyway because everyone has been told to stay away from the place where the suspect may emerge. There are reports that he�s armed, but none of the police are willing to talk to us. But I�ll do my best to get an interview, Rick.�

�Thanks, Shirley. We�ll be back with more on this story after the weather.�

For a couple of seconds a weather chart filled the screen, then the Timberwolves were back. Following a few seconds of shocked silence there were ironic cheers and a couple of customers hurried out of the bar. The bartender put his forearms on the counter and leaned over toward Bob, biceps bulging.

�I�m guessing you ain�t about to use your authority to check the weather, Lieutenant.�

�Detective.�

�Whatever.�

�OK,� said Bob. �Five minutes of basketball. And a double Johnnie Walker.�

Without turning round the bartender reached up to the shelf behind him, took hold of a bottle and poured a drink.

�Pretty smart trick,� said Bob, tossed back the contents and put the empty glass back on the counter. �How about letting me see it one more time?�

Things were looking bad for the Timberwolves and got even worse when they missed two desperate efforts at three-pointers. Bob recalled what the coach of his soccer team once said, that losing affects your ability to take good, rational decisions. And Bob had been losing for some time now. At least in sport the games come to an end and you get to start the next match at 0�0. He checked the time. Three minutes had passed, but already he could feel the effects of the whisky.

�Tell me what�s happening...� a voice behind him said.

He turned. It was Shirley, the reporter. She was standing up close to him and smiling invitingly. She took hold of his ID card �...Detective Bob Oz.�

�What�s happening,� said Bob, and heard how he slurred a consonant slightly as he fastened his gaze on her husky-blue eyes, �is that I am halfway down a Johnnie Walker and then you and I are going to have another one. Alice has kicked me out, I fuck everything that moves, and I�m suspended for defending myself against Tony. How about you, Divine Blue?�

�Sorry, Rick, strike one,� she said laughing into the microphone which Bob now saw for the first time. �Back to you.�

She removed an earphone from under the long red hair, the smile was gone, and she wasn�t laughing along with the cameraman and sound technician crouched behind her.

�What the fuck,� said Bob. �Did that go out live?�

�Just local TV,� Shirley said sourly, in a tone that suggested she was aiming for bigger things. �But this�ll be out on YouTube soon enough.�

�Funny,� said Bob. �What�s happening back there?�

�Don�t know, they�re keeping us away. A black man against MPD, no witnesses. Poor man.�

�He isn�t...� Bob started to say, but Shirley and her team were already on their way out.

Bob swore, paid and left.

People were crowded onto the skyway and trying to get a view into Track Plaza. Super Mario was among them, with his cleaning cart. Bob approached him.

�Excuse me,� he said, flashing his ID card. �I saw you talking to a guy who just came out of the restroom. It looked like he was explaining about something inside, what was it?�

Super Mario looked up at Bob. �The fan has fallen out.�

�The fan?�

�The fan in the ceiling. It�s hanging open. He said someone should fix it.�

�You mean the fan in front of the ventilation shaft?�

�Yeah.�

Kay entered the almost empty sports bar, saw the mustard-yellow coat and slipped onto the bar stool next to him.

�Sorry,� she said.

�For what?�

�For letting them run you off like that.�

�Not your fault. SWAT make the rules when they�re leading the operation.�

�I could have protested, but it wasn�t the time or the place.�

�Agreed. Don�t think about it. You made sure they listened to me about the fan.�

�They should have listened to you and gone in immediately.�

Bob took a sip of his whisky and nodded in the direction of the news broadcast on the screen behind the bar. �Rick there has just explained to the viewers that the MPD managed to lose the murder suspect Tom�s Gomez while they had him surrounded in a public restroom.�

Kay groaned. �Guess I need a drink too.�

Bob signalled to the bartender. �A Johnnie Walker for the lady.�

The bartender repeated his trick of grabbing the bottle without looking.

�Not bad, eh?� said Bob.

�He must�ve practised,� said Kay and waited impatiently for the glass in front of her to be filled.

�Apropos,� said Bob. �I�ve been thinking about what O�Rourke said about how it almost seems as though Gomez has had some kind of training.�

�What about it?� said Kay.

�Gomez is strong and supple. He got up into that shaft where O�Rourke needed two guys to help him up. And so quietly that no one else noticed anything. Before he dropped down into the yard he must have been hanging by his fingertips, pulled himself up again and used his head to snap the fan back into place. Not something you or I could have managed. And not O�Rourke either, even though he�s in good shape.�

�Well, some people are just stronger than others,� said Kay. She emptied her drink, nodded to the bartender and pointed at the glass.

�I think Gomez has planned this whole thing very carefully. He�s been working out with precisely this end in mind. And just the same way both murders were carefully planned, this last little game of his was planned too.�

�You think so?�

�Don�t you see? That it�s just a little bit too much of a coincidence he ends up in a restroom where the ventilation shaft leads out into an empty backyard. That the fan is just high enough up on the wall for it not to be welded in as a precaution against somebody breaking in that way but low enough to make it possible to drop down from, provided you have training in how to fall, like a paratrooper. Maybe he had the foresight to place something on the ground to break his fall, some kind of mat or something.�

�Where are you going with this? That we should be looking for Tom�s Gomez among elite soldiers or police officers?�

Bob took the vibrating phone out of his jacket pocket and checked the display.

�More Walker,� he said as he tapped the keypad and took the call. �Good evening, chief.�

�Oz,� rumbled Superintendent Walker. �Did you see that item on KSTP?�

�Should I have?�

�It was broadcast live and you were on it, Oz.�

�Well, then of course I haven�t seen it.�

�Of course?� snorted the superintendent.

�You said yourself, chief, it went out live and I was too busy being on it.�

�I mean, have you seen it afterward? It�s all over the internet.�

�Honestly, chief, I did not know it was an interview, she sneaked up on me.�

�What the hell were you even doing at Track Plaza? You�re suspended, Oz! And you were drunk, dammit.�

�I had a Johnnie Walker to deal with, chief. I drank it. I drink. I�m suspended, dammit.�

In the ensuing silence Bob listened to the superintendent�s puffing. The next time Walker spoke he had lowered the volume but not the intensity:

�I want you to stay well clear of this case, Oz. Do you hear me?�

�Aye aye, chief. I promise. Starting now. Got to go.� Bob hung up.

�What does he want you to start on?� asked Kay.

�Finding Gomez,� said Bob as he put the glass to his mouth.

Kay looked at him, eyebrows raised.

�We close at ten,� said the bartender. �The whole centre does.�

�OK,� said Bob. �Give us another two each and we�ll be happy.�

�By the way,� said Kay, �there was something left inside that bubble wrap.� She pulled a sheet of paper from her pocket and opened it out.

�A target,� said Bob.

�From a rifle range, you think?�

�A four-hundred-yard rifle target.�

�Oh?�

�You can tell from the dimensions. Professionally made too. Kr�ger.� Bob pointed to the producer�s name, printed vertically but discreetly in the bottom corner.

�Wouldn�t have thought someone who hated guns as much as you would know so much about shooting,� said Kay.

�There�s a lot people don�t know about me, Kay. I�m an enigma.� Bob held the two glasses in front of him, one in each hand, and took a sip from each in quick succession, without getting a laugh.

�No,� said Kay. �You�re just One-Night Bob, nothing too mysterious about that.�

The corners of Bob�s mouth rose in a smile. �My cousin called me Rundbrenner Bob.�

She looked uncomprehendingly at him.

�It�s a Norwegian expression. It means someone who screws around. A rundbrenner is a big wood-burning stove. One that spreads its warmth around to a lot of people. You get it?�

�But you can�t spread warmth, Bob. Because there�s nothing burning inside you.�

�No?�

�It�s dark and cold in there, isn�t that right?�

�I�m looking Chicago,� sang Bob as he raised his glass in a salute, �and feeling Minnesota.�

�What�s that?�

�You�re not a grunge fan? So tell me about Chicago.�

�Chicago?� She emptied her glass. �I spent most of my time in Englewood and that�s not the Chicago you want to hear about.�

�Yes I damn well do.�

�No. I saw my mother...� She closed her eyes and sighed. �Forget it.�

�Forget it?�

�It�s just the booze talking. Time I was getting home to feed the cat.�

�Come on, Myers, I�m sensing a crack in your armour here.�

Kay looked at the last glass in front of her. It was still full.

�My dad ran off before I was born,� she said. �Nothing unusual about that in Englewood. Or that he was just another victim of the crack epidemic. What was special was that he would come home and rob my mother when he needed money. Because my mother had two jobs, she actually managed to put some aside for my sister and me to get an education. After the third time he broke in, beat my mother up and stole from us, she bought a gun. All she had to do was go into a store, fill out a few simple forms and she left carrying a weapon. I know you hate guns, but I tell you, when my sister and me were sleeping there in my mother�s bed and she had that pistol underneath the pillow, we all felt safer. And that�s a safety you middle-class liberals know nothing about because it�s just something you take for granted. But for three girls in Englewood the gun was the great equaliser. It meant we didn�t have to be helpless victims and let someone terrorise us because he was physically stronger. It didn�t stop my mother from crying inside, but that gun changed our daily lives. Not a shot was ever fired from it, but it made us that little bit safer, we slept better, we could go to school and get ourselves an education. And I know the statistics that show what guns can do to a society like Englewood in the long run. But I�m being honest, you don�t care a damn about the long run when your life is about surviving one night at a time.�

In silence Bob raised his glass to Kay, but she shook her head, she had to drive and she was pretty sure she was already skirting the limit.

By the time they left the bar, Bob was unsteady on his feet.

�My car�s over at Southdale,� he said to Kay as she got into her Ford, �and I need to clear my head anyway.�

�Bob,� said Kay, �you�re too drunk to drive and you shouldn�t be out at this time. Let me drive you home.�

�Thanks, sweetie, but it�s OK. Your cat awaits, and they have buses here.�

�So now he�s officially a killer,� Mike Lunde said with an unhappy shake of the head.

They were sitting in the smaller of the two workshops as Bob sipped at the strong black coffee which Mike told him he needed.

�Yeah,� said Bob. He�d hung his clothes up to dry and was wearing sweatpants and a sweater borrowed from Mike. �One attempted murder, now an actual murder. Victim is a family man who as far as we know never hurt a fly. Gomez can count himself lucky we�re on this side of the state border.�

�Because of the death sentence, you mean?� Mike stood working his scalpel around the eyes of the Labrador retriever up on his workbench.

�Yeah.� Bob leaned back in his chair. He was already beginning to sober up. And not feeling too bad either. �Where do you stand on that? Do you think we should be executing people too?�

Mike paused his cutting and peered up into the air. �It�s a difficult one. I�m against capital punishment because I believe that as a society we should be taking a lead in the whole civilisation project, and that means not taking human life. And as I read somewhere, the long view suggests that fewer murders are being committed here. And that applies also to other states that don�t have the death penalty, I think?�

�True enough. But?�

�Well, that man they executed four or five years back...�

�Donald Moeller.�

�That�s right. He raped and killed a nine-year-old girl, didn�t he?�

�Yeah. She went to the store to buy sugar. They were going to make lemonade. After he raped her, he cut her throat.�

Bob saw that pained expression cross the taxidermist�s face again.

�Sorry, Mike, maybe you have kids yourself.�

�That�s OK. Actually that�s the point. If it had been my own child, how would I have felt then about capital punishment?�

�Like Tom�s Gomez,� said Bob.

Mike gave him a puzzled look.

�Cody Karlstad, the man who was shot this evening, was a passionate supporter of the right to bear arms. The way they see it, they�re fighting for a principle of freedom. In their view, that trumps the knowledge that these weapons take more innocent lives than they save. In a court of law that would be called being an accessory to murder.�

�So you believe...�

�Yes, I believe Tom�s Gomez has introduced the death penalty and appointed himself judge, jury and executioner.�

Mike nodded but said nothing.

Bob walked over to the coffee maker and poured himself another cup, sat down again and watched in silence as Mike worked on. Looking at the dog�s eyes he could see that Mike had finally found the pair he had been looking for. And a thought struck him. That he should quit being a cop and study instead to be a taxidermist. Stuff the things he most wanted to hang on to in his life. The things he�d loved.

�Mike?�

�Yeah?�

�You ever had woman trouble?�

�No.�

�Never?�

�No. Or rather yes. The summer I was twenty-two.�

�So you haven�t had many?�

�I guess I haven�t.�

�So how many?�

�Two.�

�Two?�

�My wife and I started going steady when we were fifteen. When I was twenty-two I fell in love with a Saint Paul girl from Summit Hill. We were both students at MCAD, studying sculpture. I was shy but very definite about it, so I first of all broke with my future wife before I asked the girl out for a date. She said yes, we became a couple, and I spent the next two months learning the difference between infatuation and love. I think she got it too, so there was no big drama when we broke up. And fortunately the woman who was to be my wife was willing to take me back.�

�So that�s the only woman trouble you�ve had in your life?�

�And only my second woman.�

They laughed.

�You�re the only one your wife�s had, I�m guessing?�

�No,� said Mike. �She had one other. At least that I know of. She was twenty-five, I think. It was a Norwegian writer she met when he visited the Hosmer public library � you know, that little old one in Powderhorn. She fell head over heels for him and says it was because he read to them in Norwegian, that we have this latent yearning toward our own original language.�

�Did she tell you or did you find out?�

�She told me.�

�How did you react?�

�I took Norwegian lessons.�

Bob laughed and Mike raised a hand theatrically and declaimed, �Vodann-st�-dettil-p�-setteren-ida?�

�Meaning?�

�How are things down on the farm today.�

�And it worked?�

�Oh yes. In fact, I believe we owe our firstborn to that line. But I suspect she thought it meant something completely different.�

They both laughed.

�Anyway, you fought for her, Mike.�

Lunde shrugged. �Fought and fought. After a while we realised we�d both been lucky and hit the bullseye first time around. That we were made for each other.�

�You�re a lucky man.�

�Don�t I know it. And you?�

�Me?�

�When a man asks another man if he�s ever had woman trouble it�s usually because he�s having woman trouble himself.�

�What kind of woman trouble are you talking about?�

�Well, I can�t possibly know that,� said Mike as he worked at the hair on the dog�s tail with a comb and scissors. �But maybe it�s related to that loneliness in your eyes. What�s her name?�

Bob lowered his head. Maybe it hadn�t been such a good idea to sober up so quickly after all. �Alice,� he said.

�What happened?�

�Same story as yours. She met someone else.�

�And that left you lonely?�

Bob stood up and walked over to a white hare that looked as if it had frozen in mid-hop. He gently stroked the fur. �Before I met her, I didn�t know what loneliness was. Or maybe I just covered it over with other women. She opened me up like a clam, and I discovered there was another Bob in there, a sensitive, tender guy who could love, cry, ask for help... yeah, all that kind of stuff.�

�All that kind of stuff,� Mike echoed with a slight smile, still intent on his work.

Bob put two fingertips against the hare�s nose. �But when she left me, I found out she had nullified the effect of my antidote to loneliness. Women. Casual sex. Alcohol. Work. I try, and for a short while it�s OK, but I know it can�t last. I�m like that open clam, the sphincter is gone. I stand there gaping, defenceless, and all the time I�m drying out inside and smelling worse as each day goes by.�

Bob was almost surprised to feel that the hare�s nose was neither cold nor damp, so likelife was the illusion. Around its round pupils the eyes were brown, shading to black at the edges. But Bob was looking at the area closest to the pupil, where the brown shading was lighter, like amber. Like Frankie�s eyes.

�The only consolation is that after a while you get numb to it,� said Bob. �You stop caring, self-respect doesn�t seem all that fucking important. Nor does the respect of others either. In fact, nothing does. Nothing seems to matter.�

�Apart from work?�

�Not even that.�

�But the way it looks, you work night and day.�

�That�s just because I want to be the one who brings Tom�s Gomez down, not Olav Hanson or one of those other idiots.�

�Is that why you haven�t told any of them about a taxidermist where Tom�s Gomez has an order waiting to be picked up?� Mike Lunde didn�t look up from his work, but he had that slight smile on his face. It reminded Bob of the way his father looked after he had had that stroke. �To be honest I�ve been wondering why you�re the only police officer I�ve spoken to.�

�Well,� sighed Bob, �now you know.�

�Thank you for being honest, Bob. Are you going to be honest about that other thing too?�

�Other thing?�

�The reason you and Alice broke up.�

�But I already told you. She met someone else.�

�Before that. The reason the two of you fell apart.�

�And what might that be?�

�I don�t know. It could be the real reason you�re so lonely. But of course, we don�t need to talk about it.�

Bob stood there and swallowed. Looked at the eyes on that hare. No, they didn�t need to talk about it. It had worked just fine so far, hadn�t it? Not talking about it? Just let the wound heal over and knock back a stiff drink when the pain gets too much or the thoughts can�t be driven off. Her eyes were brown. Like caramel, said Alice. He preferred amber.

�We lost our daughter,� said Bob. �Frankie. She was three years old.�

Lunde stopped working. Briefly wiped his hands together and let his arms drop to his sides. The look he gave Bob was open, naked, direct. What Bob saw wasn�t a look that asked for something, some further explanation. And Mike Lunde didn�t say anything either, it was as though he was someone who understood that no words added to those just spoken could give them meaning. Daughter. Lost. Three years old.

�She found my service pistol in our bedroom drawer,� said Bob. �She was playing with it. Alice was home and heard the shot. An hour later our daughter died at the hospital.�

Bob chose his words the same way he always did whenever the situation demanded that he explain what had happened. It was a formula he had learned off by heart. After a while he could recite it without too much alteration. Sometimes, like when he gave his statement to the police, he would add details, volunteer facts. Such as that he had kept the pistol and ammunition easily accessible in the drawer of the bedside table because there had recently been two night-time burglaries in the area. But never a word about what it felt like or about Frankie herself. That would be like opening the floodgates. He knew he would lose it. And still, as he stood there reciting the formulaic sentences, he could feel the pressure.

�I�m so terribly sorry to hear that, Bob,� said Mike.

Bob could see he meant it. There was empathy in his eyes, a mute pain like an echo of Bob�s own. Bob could only wonder at the arbitrary way empathy was distributed among humans.

�Alice is a psychologist and she persuaded me to see various professionals who specialised in grief management. They all said the same thing; that experience shows that grief like this often leads to divorce; that it was important to give each other space and not apportion any blame. Of course, none of this was new to Alice, she explained the mechanisms involved to me, described in detail what typically happens to a young couple who lose their only child. We knew. And yet still we didn�t manage to stop a single thing from happening. The exhaustion. The apathy. The silence. The outbursts of rage one person feels when they think they�re being blamed by the other person. Because of the guilt you feel. Hatred for the other, because you feel they share the guilt. Alcohol. Rejection. We completely forgot that we loved each other, we dragged ourselves along with this millstone of grief around our necks that was pulling us both down. Just the sight of each other at the breakfast table was a reminder of what had happened. Neither one of us would let the other forget, because forgetting, escape from the pain the other felt, would be a betrayal. Until in the end we just couldn�t take it any more.�

�So the reason wasn�t that she found someone else?�

�Oh yes. But... she threw me out first.�

�Are you sure about that?�

�About what?�

�That she threw you out?�

�Why wouldn�t I be sure about that?�

Mike shrugged.

Bob felt the metallic tang of blood in his mouth � he hadn�t even noticed that he�d bitten his tongue.

�Maybe she didn�t say it in so many words, but she froze me out. Wouldn�t talk to me, wouldn�t touch me. So I accepted the consequences. I packed my bag and I left.�

�So you were the one who left?�

�What? No.�

�No?�

�No! She could have phoned and asked me to come back. But she didn�t.�

�I see.�

�OK, she did ring. Twice. At the most. Directly afterward. But my life right then was just a chaotic mess and I... I needed it to be, I guess. When I began to get things sorted out and started remembering all the good times we�d shared I got in touch with her. But she told me she�d met this guy, Stan. Stan the Man. It was only a matter of a few months, remember. So...� Bob had located the wound in his tongue and pressed it hard against the back of his teeth. �...in my book, she had the last word.�

�This Stan...�

�A guy who works with Alice. Psychologist. I talked to someone I�d got to know a bit there and he reckoned Stan had been interested in her for a long time. I guess he was just waiting for his chance. He claims to be a researcher, but I checked out a couple of articles he published and I wasn�t impressed.�

�But do you think they love each other?�

�Love?� Bob spat it out as though it was a dirty word. But the rushing in the head didn�t come. Instead he thought about it, discovering as he did so that if he put the wound on his tongue between his teeth and clamped down hard on it, the pain brought tears to his eyes. �Maybe. I guess so. Yes, they probably do.�

�Then why are you so angry with her? You were the one who left, and I�m guessing you weren�t exactly celibate once you were gone.�

�Not exactly, no.�

�So maybe you�re not really angry because she found someone else but because she�s happy. And since your daughter�s death you feel she has no right to be.�

�You think so?�

�It�s not really my business, Bob, but you gave the explanation yourself. That the two of you were bound together by this millstone, that neither one could accept that the other could somehow cut themselves free.�

Bob kept thinking. It wasn�t that he hadn�t had similar thoughts himself, but it was the first time he�d ever heard them spoken aloud.

�You who spend so much time talking to people who�ve lost something they loved,� said Bob. �Tell me something, are we all insane?�

Mike Lunde stood up straight and pulled off his gloves. �Oh but it�s not just people who�ve lost something they love.�

�It isn�t?�

�Take a look around,� said Mike as he lifted off his apron. �Insanity is the norm.�

Bob nodded. �Amen to that.�

�I�m done here for today. Where do you live?�

�Phillips.�

�I can drive you.�

Bob had taken off all his clothes and was sitting on the couch holding the Radica 20Q. When he had bought it for Frankie, Alice had said she was too young for a game like that, but Frankie had loved it when Daddy had asked her to think of a question, and only helped her a little bit with the answers. He stared at the TV, an old black-and-white movie on a channel that advertised it only showed classics. English aristocrats hunting a solitary fox across a rolling landscape. Bob had noticed there were messages waiting on his phone but couldn�t face checking them. A police siren somewhere out there mingled with the sounds of the hunting horns in the film, which seemed to be about a man with a list of people he planned to kill. Bob closed his eyes and the questions came.

Did Tom�s Gomez have a list like that?

How many names were on it?

Who could be next?

The siren sounds were getting closer. The fox hunt was in full cry out there. He imagined Tom�s Gomez limping away to some place where he could hide out. A man driven by grief, by the loss of his family, by hatred of a society in which fifteen-year-olds can buy weapons and shoot a young girl as she sits in her wheelchair. He thought about what Kay had said about the gun under her mother�s pillow. The great equaliser. Freedom. And he thought the same useless thought once again: that if Alice, he and Frankie had moved north of the border, the statistical chances of Frankie being killed were a fraction of the three-figure number of children that die annually in accidental deaths involving guns.

Did it make him angry? Of course it did. It made his head fume just thinking about it. But did he hate, the way Tom�s Gomez obviously did?

He didn�t know. He knew only that another question had suddenly arisen:

Just how committed was he to actually putting a stop to Tom�s Gomez�s crusade?

On his TV screen the fox raced across a field and into a woodland copse. What was it thinking? Where was it headed? Did it have a plan?

Bob looked down at the Radica 20Q. It was lifeless, silent, the batteries dead.

Bob�s eyelids flickered. It was the light that woke him. It came from a combined alarm clock and lamp he�d given Alice as a birthday present. The soft light came on at the hour the alarm was set for and then gradually grew brighter, like a sunrise. That was the idea. He�d taken it with him after Stan appeared, when Alice told Bob he could take absolutely anything he wanted. Bob probably hoped she would be hurt by the fact that he�d taken her birthday present but instead she seemed relieved, she�d never been someone who needed a gentle wake-up.

The radio turned itself on. Bob dozed as he listened to the newsreader say that the opinion polls were still predicting that within a few weeks� time Hillary Clinton would be elected the country�s first female president. Then came an interview with an election expert who warned against the Bradley effect, this being when pollsters call people up on the phone who don�t dare to admit they won�t be voting for the politically correct option, as happened a while back in the case of the black California gubernatorial candidate Bradley, or now, with a female presidential candidate. By the end of the broadcast they still hadn�t mentioned the hunt for Tom�s Gomez, concluding instead with a report that the NRA conference had sold out the US Bank Stadium quicker than any Vikings home game.

Bob got up. He was cold and had a throbbing headache from yesterday�s drinking but felt revived after a warm shower. He opened the cupboard above the sink, looked at the pink pill tray, took out the tube of toothpaste and closed the cupboard door. He put the coffee on while still brushing his teeth, switched on his laptop and registered that his internet was down. After thinking about it he called Mike Lunde. The taxidermist sounded busy.

�My internet�s OK, yes, but this Labrador has to be finished today, so I�ve closed the store to be alone here and to give it my full concentration. I�m not letting any Tom�s Gomez in here today either. How about tomorrow?�

Bob hung up. Though he much preferred the coffee at Moresite, they didn�t have Wi-Fi like Starbucks.

After a bus ride to Southdale he bought batteries at the mall and picked up the Volvo, complete with parking ticket, and drove into Dinkytown.

�This isn�t a laptop place,� said Liza when he sat down on one of the stools and put the computer on the counter at Bernie�s.

�Sorry, but I couldn�t find anywhere else that offered a combination of decent coffee and Wi-Fi,� said Bob.

�You�ve never even tasted our coffee as far as I know,� said Liza. �And what makes you think we have Wi-Fi?�

�This is right in the middle of student territory � are you trying to tell me you don�t have Wi-Fi?�

�Not for customers, no.�

�I can see I�m alone here, so this stays between us. How much do you want for the staff password?�

�So you think I can be bought?�

�Not with money, perhaps, but I think you�re open to a bribe for the right price.�

�And what would that be?�

�The truth.�

�The truth?�

Bob took the device from the inside pocket of his coat and put it down in front of her. �Radica 20Q,� he said before she had time to ask. �It can read your thoughts.�

�Right. And if I prefer to keep my thoughts to myself?�

�I�m thinking not so much of your thoughts as of your son�s. He�s going to love this.�

Liza raised an eyebrow. �What makes you so sure about that?�

�All intelligent children are curious about things that are intelligent.�

She lifted the ball and studied it sceptically. �Well, I must say, it looks as if it�s been used a lot.�

�It was my daughter�s.�

�You�ve got a daughter?�

�Had. Frankie. She died. She�d be happy if another child had the pleasure of using her favourite toy. She was like that.�

Liza�s mouth opened slightly. For a moment her eyes went blank. And Bob saw how her face, how the way she was standing, the way she held her hands, how everything about her was changed. Of course, he�d seen the effect before on the few occasions when he�d told someone he�d lost his daughter, how the other person always searched for some kind of adequate response. But never like this. It was as though the words had struck a chord inside Liza Hummels, as though they opened the door to a person Bob hadn�t yet met. She became, thought Bob � for want of a better word � beautiful. And her voice was thicker when, after a few seconds� silence, she said, very clearly:

�Hillary Clinton for Prison.�

�Sorry?�

�The password. Not my idea. I hope you like your coffee black?�

Bob talked about Frankie and their family of three without the dam bursting. Liza was the one who now and then dried a tear.

�It was Alice�s idea to call her Frankie. It means �free man�. She wanted every door to be open to her.�

Liza nodded. �That�s the same reason I called my son Johan.�

�Johan?�

�It�s what people call a high-income name. It doesn�t make the child any more intelligent, but it gives them an edge when they apply for high-income jobs after college.�

�So Johan�s going to college?�

She shrugged. �Why do you think I work twelve-hour shifts?�

�And if he doesn�t want to?�

�Then he won�t have to. It�s about keeping as many doors as possible open for them, isn�t it? So what happened after Frankie�s death?�

Bob spoke of the depression, his problems with anger, the separation and his current situation as a detective suspended from duty. And finally, halfway down the third cup of coffee, of his strictly unofficial hunt for Tom�s Gomez. By this time two more customers had arrived. One sat quietly reading a newspaper in the corner, while the other was apparently drawing the two of them, now and then looking up from his sketchpad.

�So you have absolutely no personal information about him at all?� asked Liza.

�Nope,� said Bob. �But we know the story of how his family was killed, and we have these images from various security cameras.�

Bob turned the laptop screen so that she could see it. To his relief, not to say surprise, it was obvious no one had thought of blocking his access to MPD�s databases.

�How old would you say this guy was?� he asked.

�Hm,� she said. �Thirty-two maybe? Not over forty anyway.�

�I agree,� said Bob. �Let�s say that at the earliest he had children when he was fifteen or sixteen. I�ve searched the database with all murders since 1990 both in Minneapolis and in Saint Paul, and in those twenty-six years there have been four instances of two children and a woman being shot in connection with a gang shootout. But Gomez�s name isn�t mentioned in any of the newspaper reports. Three involved black families, only one Latino. They were killed in the Fourth Precinct, but here it says their name was Perez and they were Spanish.�

�You think this might be them?�

�Could be. As an illegal immigrant it�s not surprising he gave a name like Perez and claimed to be Spanish. At least that made sure they wouldn�t be transported back over the border and into the hands of the cartel they were running from.�

�Are there really no more details of the killings?�

�Nix. Deaths involving minorities in the Fourth Precinct have always had less media coverage, and this was in 1995, the worst year ever for murders.�

�I was hardly even born then, baby.�

Bob tapped a number on his phone and held it to his ear. �That was the year they started calling the city Murderopolis.� He signalled that he had someone on the other end of the line. �Hi, Kari, how are things in the Fraud Unit? Listen, could you check something for me? A multiple homicide from 1995? Perez. I need the report. And the name and address of the father.�

Bob could hear that Kari at the other end wasn�t taking notes the way she usually did.

�Kari?�

�I�m sorry but I can�t help you, Bob.� Her voice sounded pained.

�What do you mean?�

�Walker�s given me orders not to do anything for you as long as you�re suspended. I think it�s because of that TV thing of you on YouTube. Even the chief of police is furious � they think you�ve embarrassed the whole police department. I�m sorry, Bob.�

�I understand. Sorry if I�ve embarrassed you too, Kari.�

�Me?�

�You in particular, Kari. Have a nice day.�

�You too, Bob.�

Bob hung up, tapped in a new number, got an immediate reply.

�Bob...�

�Hi, Kay. Listen, I think I�ve got something.�

�Bob, you listen��

�Murder case. Perez. 1995. Can you send me the report and��

�Walker�s given everybody orders not to��

�Fuck Walker. All I need is the��

�I�m going to hang up now, Bob.�

�Kay!�

The line went dead.

�Can�t pull the women any more?� Liza asked.

�It�s been going on for a while now,� said Bob. He put his elbows on the counter and rubbed his skull hard. �Excuse me.�

Bob made his way to the men�s room. Though he had the whole trough to himself he still entered the only stall there and locked the door. It was a peculiarity of his; if he didn�t feel certain he would be alone when urinating he would end up just standing there, pressing away at his bladder. When he was finished and buttoned up he remained standing and looked down at the slider bolt for a moment before exiting, washing his hands and splashing water on his face. When he got back to his stool at the counter he saw that Liza had poured him another cup of coffee.

�Liza?� he said quietly, so that she automatically took a step closer to him.

�Yes?�

�What we said about holding the doors open � when you enter a stall in a restroom where there are other people, don�t you automatically lock the door?�

She looked uncomprehendingly at him.

�And definitely if you�re preparing to make your escape through a ventilation shaft,� he said. �Gomez hadn�t locked the door of that stall. Isn�t that odd? I mean, you don�t want to be caught in the act now, do you?�

�Maybe.�

�You maybe lock the door?�

�Maybe you want to be caught in the act. If you�re committing a criminal act.�

�Would anyone want that?�

�To be caught in the act? Oh yes.� Liza leaned across the counter and put her chin in her hands. �I got into the habit of stealing small change from my father�s wallet. I felt so ashamed I started stealing larger and larger amounts so that he�d notice.�

�And did he?�

�I don�t know. Maybe he punished me by pretending he hadn�t found out. Let my own conscience torment me.�

�Did that work?�

�Apparently. I stopped doing it.�

Bob cleared his throat and nodded slowly. �It�s grounds for hope to know that at least we are potentially capable of stopping. Can you get me a whisky?�

�No.�

�No?�

�No, you can have more coffee. What is it you�re hoping to stop doing?�

�Nothing.�

�Come on, Bob. Like you said, this is part of my job.�

�What is?�

�Listening. Pretending to understand. What is it you�re hoping you can stop doing?�

Bob smiled and looked down into his coffee. Drew a breath. �Alice. I give her hell. The divorce papers, the division of property, this new guy of hers � all of it. Even though I know it hurts me most, that my self-contempt just grows and grows when I make myself a worse man than I already am. Sometimes I wonder if what I�m doing is asking for pity. It�s as though I want her to see that the man I once was is going to pieces in front of her eyes. I�m a prick, and my own conscience torments me over it, but I just can�t seem to stop it the way you did. Just the opposite, in fact � I�ve turned into a fucking stalker.�

�Have you asked yourself why you�re stalking her?�

�Actually I don�t think it�s her I�m stalking, it�s more the places where I was once happy. Where I lived with her and Frankie. Where I picked her up from work. I�m stalking the memories. You know, like those people who have their pets stuffed, to recreate something that�s gone from their lives.�

�Do people stuff their pet animals?�

�Oh yes. Even a killer like Tom�s Gomez wants his cat back. Incredible, isn�t it?�

Liza dealt with two customers who had come in and ordered beers.

Bob watched her. The friendly, professional manner; the quick, assured movements. An efficiency he was sure made her feel good, the pleasure of doing a job well. The pleasure. I�m stalking memories. Suddenly it lit up for him, as clear as the answer on the Radica 20Q display.

�Where are you going?� asked Liza.

Bob was on his feet and buttoning his coat. �I think I know how I can find him.�

I had my face turned to the sky and my eyes closed against the bright morning sun. It was still warm, but at sunrise there had been a thin layer of ice on the puddles. I inhaled the air, felt my lungs expand, felt that my body was ready. Felt the slight pressure of the hypodermic with its long point in my breast pocket. I opened my eyes again.

US Bank Stadium.

It looked like a ship. No, a submarine. Or a black iceberg. I was standing on Medtronic Plaza, beside the big Viking ship, and looking up at the black zinc facade. Behind it 60,000 seats waited to be filled. The stadium had a glass roof which kept the NFL fans from freezing. There had been mixed reactions to it, both while they were building it and afterward, once it had opened in the summer. Some hated it and said they should never have pulled down the old Metrodome stadium, but it was always like that with places people had good memories of. I had slept well in the woods that night, with my memories. I needed it, needed it to keep me steady.

I saw the WCCO-TV and the KSTP buses, the cables being unfurled and getting ready for live coverage of Mayor Patterson�s opening of the NRA convention tomorrow. I had made a circuit of the stadium and the security looked unimpeachable. It was impossible to get into the stadium without proper accreditation, and there were security cameras above every entrance. Especially here in Medtronic Plaza, which was where most of the audience would be queuing the following day.

I closed my eyes again.

Saw the mayor standing there, all eyes on him, all cameras focused on him. The way his facial expression kind of freezes when he gets hit. The chaos. The anarchy. Running footsteps. Sirens. That whole apparatus we trust in, that we believe can protect us, and save us, and the lives of those we love, is set in motion. But mixed in with the certainty that no matter what any of us do now, it�s already too late. My despair had finally become theirs too.

The joint terrorism task force consisted of people from MPD and the FBI. They had a building all to themselves, within walking distance of the city hall. As soon as Kay walked into the reception area with Walker and Hanson, she noticed that the place was superior to their own � and when they entered the well-lit meeting room which already held eight people she noted that the suits and the outfits were better quality too.

Following a quick round of introductions she learned that four of them were MPD, two FBI and two were from the mayor�s own security office.

�Thanks for making it here to JTTF at such short notice,� said Ted Springer, who was wearing a pinstriped Wall Street suit instead of the standard undifferentiated FBI black. Kay picked up at once that he was appointing himself head of whatever was about to happen. But Springer also understood that, at this stage of the proceedings, it was Homicide Division that had all the information, and so he handed over to Walker, who in turn handed over to Kay. She didn�t have time to feel the nerves she sometimes felt when addressing a group but went straight into an account of the murder and attempted murder Tom�s Gomez was believed to have committed, the hunt for him and the suspicion that Gomez was now focusing on the US Bank Stadium and Mayor Kevin Patterson. A couple of seconds� silence followed her account. Then Springer spoke.

�So this Gomez has twice evaded you by the use of restrooms?�

Kay noticed the implied criticism but ignored it.

�Yes,� she said. �It almost seems like he plans to let us know where he is, get us on his tail, and then disappear.�

�You don�t think he just got lucky twice in a row? What motive would Gomez have for this kind of game?�

�I don�t know,� said Kay. �Maybe he just wants to send a message.�

�What kind of message would that be, Myers?�

Kay exchanged looks with Walker before responding. �That he�s a ghost. That if he wants to hit Kevin Patterson at the US Bank Stadium then we can�t stop him.�

�You are aware that it�s forbidden for members of the public to bear arms at a sports stadium, even when it�s not being used for a sports event?�

�Yes,� said Kay.

�And yet you still believe he thinks the US Bank Stadium is a good idea?�

Kay noticed how Springer tugged at the sleeves of his suit despite the fact that it must be, she was guessing, made to measure. �Yes.�

�And you think he believes he can outsmart the MPD which alone has over a thousand operatives, as well as the FBI?�

�I�m not saying he�s right about it, just that that�s the way I think he thinks.�

�Well, Miss Myer,� said Springer � Kay suspected he omitted the final �s� on purpose � �murder is your business, and there are all sorts of sad and banal stories behind every case and the guilty parties are almost invariably inadequate people. But terrorists on the other hand, no matter how crazy they may be, are often rational and intelligent people, and certainly as regards their operational methods. So if that is what Gomez is planning, he knows perfectly well that in threatening the life of the mayor he is going to have every police officer in the city on his trail. Of course, it is not unheard of to get terrorists with deep personality disorders, but in the majority of cases the terrorist does everything he can to ensure the success of his mission. Put bluntly, if we�ve uncovered a plan to kill the mayor at the stadium then Gomez has screwed up already. This tells me that we�re dealing with an amateur. Sure, he�s still dangerous. But this is someone we have the competence and the professionalism to stop before the situation becomes critical.�

Something in the way he said �we� gave Kay the feeling that the �competence and professionalism� didn�t necessarily include the Homicide Department.

�I hear what you�re saying,� said Kay, noticing that her voice sounded harsher than she intended. �But if I were the JTTF I would not underestimate Gomez.�

Springer gave a thin smile. �Yes, but that�s true of most things in life. In dealing with terrorism the trick is neither to underestimate nor overestimate. We simply don�t have enough resources to follow up on every threat, and that means being sure you make the real threats your priority.�

�Like vegetarians at a potluck dinner?� It just popped out of Kay�s mouth and the silence in the already quiet room deepened. A few years back, JTTF had been ridiculed in the press following revelations that they had infiltrated a group of vegetarians who sometimes gathered to share meals with each other. And not much else, as it turned out. Walker sent her a warning glance and she read his message: don�t trip up.

Springer turned to Hanson. �How about you, Detective? Do you share your colleague�s view of this man Gomez?�

Hanson gave a start, obviously taken by surprise.

�Hm,� he said. He thought about it, linked his hands behind his head in an exaggerated attempt to look relaxed. �On this I�m more in line with you guys in the JTTF.� A wide grin spread across his face. �I mean, we�re talking here about a Mexican with no papers who�s been living in a rathole up in Jordan. Doesn�t exactly sound like a criminal mastermind, does it?�

No one laughed.

�What does the mayor�s office say?� Springer asked, turning to the man and the woman sitting further along the table.

�Well,� said the woman, a blonde with blue eyeliner, �the mayor is very clear that he doesn�t intend to cancel his participation. If the threat becomes public, we�ll quote him to that effect in a press statement.� She put on a pair of glasses and read from the screen of her computer: �...I would view it as an admission of bankruptcy for the city if one single illegal immigrant should succeed in preventing me from doing my job as the city�s democratically elected mayor.� She looked up. �So unless anyone here has information that indicates we�re dealing with powerful forces here?�

Kay was on the point of responding but stopped when she saw Walker�s almost imperceptible shake of the head.

�Right,� said Springer. �We�ll have a threat assessment ready in a few hours, and I suggest that meanwhile we grade this orange, does that sound OK?�

Kay saw the others round the table nodding. Springer looked at her, one eyebrow raised.

�You disagree, Myer?�

�Myers. I don�t know what orange means.�

�In this instance it means that the level of security around the mayor and his family is raised immediately and maintained until after the arrangement ends. Same goes for the NRA leaders currently visiting the city. That sound OK to you, Myers?�

It wasn�t what he said, nor the exaggerated stress he laid on the final �s� of her name that made her cheeks flush, it was that thin, ironic smile.

�By all means,� she said. �This is your field of competence, not ours.�

From the corner of her eye she noted the discreet nod of approval from Walker.

�Good,� said Springer. �Which of you two detectives has seniority status?�

Given that Hanson looked an obvious ten years older than Kay the question was superfluous. But Kay guessed that Springer needed an answer to legitimise the decision he had already taken.

�That would be me,� Hanson said quickly.

�OK, then you report to me � unless there are any objections from the Homicide Department?�

�Fine by me,� Kay said before Walker could answer.

Kay Myers�s desk was located almost exactly in the middle of the open office landscape of the Homicide Department. Maybe that�s why she sometimes felt herself surrounded on all sides. And longed for her own office. She looked at the paper target they had found in the bubble wrap left behind in the shopping mall. Studied the bullet holes.

She felt Hanson�s presence before she heard him.

�We�ve had over two hundred calls from people who think they saw Gomez.�

�Oh yeah,� she said.

�Springer acts cool, but JTTF have called up half the police in the city for the opening tomorrow.�

Kay read the text on the target.

Hanson coughed. �Hope you�re not pissed that Springer put me in charge at this end?�

�Not at all,� said Kay. �You have seniority.�

�Good. Because here�s a list I want you to check.� He handed her a sheet of paper. �I want you to check out first the ones I�ve ticked. Here...�

Kay looked at the sheet of paper. Skimmed through it. �It says here the caller thinks they saw Gomez three weeks ago?�

�Yes, but if you read on, you�ll see she thinks she saw him again yesterday. If that�s true, then she�s the only person we know of � apart from the neighbours in Jordan � who�s seen Gomez more than once in the same place. If there�s anything in it, then it means we have a place we know he visits regularly.�

Kay glanced through the notes. Aged eighty-three, address Cedar Creek. North of the city centre, more or less wilderness country. There was a separate column for the person taking the call to assess the caller�s credibility.

�Credibility rating under half, it says here.�

�Yes, he wasn�t sure if the old lady was all there.�

Kay looked up at Hanson. �Even among calls we get that sound serious, eighty per cent turn out to be fantasies. And this is from a senile old lady living somewhere out in the sticks, in wolf country?�

�I hear you, Myers, but I think it�s worth following up.�

�If I say I don�t agree?�

Hanson smiled and lifted his coffee cup as though to make a toast. �I recall someone telling me to shut up and call Walker because he�d put her in charge of the case. Well, Myers, you can call Springer. OK?�

Hanson turned and walked off whistling. Kay closed her eyes. Hoped the slight twinges of pain in her lower back weren�t going to be the start of something.

�Excuse me.�

Kay opened her eyes and looked up. Her heart gave a little jump. It was the dark-eyed painter. He hadn�t taken off his mask, not even the protective white cap and gloves.

�I promised you an invitation,� he said. He put a card down on her desk, turned and walked away. She watched him go. The cheek of it. He must have been warned he couldn�t just wander round inside the Homicide Department where there was so much sensitive information lying about. But he�d taken the chance anyway, risked getting a dressing-down just to deliver this card to her. She looked at it. It was the kind of invitation you buy in a store and fill out your own details on. Here it said that the invite was to Minnehaha Park, in front of the waterfalls. Sunday at one o�clock. There was no indication of what would happen there, nor was the card signed. She slipped it into a drawer. If they�d got Gomez by then, well, maybe. If not, then she�d still be sitting here.

She picked up the paper target again. Ran her fingertips over the bullet holes.

It was pouring down as Bob swung into the parking lot in front of the McDonald�s. He turned off the engine and peered out. Heard the distant rumble from the 35W, the freeway that passed directly above him and blocked out the view in the west. It wasn�t exactly an idyllic location and the cloud cover that swallowed up the daylight didn�t make it any more inviting. He saw Mike�s Chevrolet Caprice station wagon further ahead in the parking lot. He pulled out his phone and tapped in a name. The voice that answered sounded resigned:

�What is it, Bob?�

�Hi, Kari. My suspension�s been cancelled.�

�It has? Because of the terrorist threat?�

�Yes,� said Bob, who had no idea what she was talking about. �What I need right now is to get a trace on a phone call. A Mike Lunde received a call about half an hour ago, I need to know where that call came from. Can you take down the number?�

Kari hesitated.

�This is urgent,� he said. �This terrorist threat...�

�Go ahead,� she said.

After hanging up Bob buttoned up his coat. Cashmere was showerproof, but if it got soaked through then the coat would stink like a wet dog for days afterward. He sprinted through the rain to the entrance and nodded to the security guard on the inside. Saw a waving Mike Lunde, who occupied one of the booths facing out onto the parking lot.

Bob bought two vanilla shakes to make it all look legit and then slid in opposite Mike, who had placed his cell phone on the table between them.

�Thanks for coming, Mike. Vanilla shake?�

Mike shook his head with a sad smile. �Lactose intolerant.�

�That�s a bastard. Can we get straight to it?�

Mike nodded. �So, when the recording starts, he�s said his name, I recognise the voice and I start recording.�

�Got it.�

Mike tapped the play button. Bob heard heavy breathing. It stopped. Then the sound of Mike�s voice:

�Yes, Tom�s, what is it?�

More panting. Again it stopped.

�I know it�s taken time, Tom�s, but I�ve finally finished the Labrador and now I can start on your cat. I�m delivering the dog at twelve o�clock tomorrow, so if you could come by at two?�

The panting resumed. And stopped. Like a malfunctioning respirator, thought Bob.

�Trust me, Tom�s. Come in tomorrow and we�ll have a long chat. We�ll work this out.�

The panting came back. Gomez had clearly moved the receiver away from his mouth with the intention of hanging up but then changed his mind. Then came a click, and a long dialling tone.

�He hung up,� said Bob.

�I think he heard it,� said Mike.

�Heard what?�

�My betrayal. That I was lying. He won�t come.�

Bob put his lips around the red-striped straw. Sucked up the vanilla shake and looked into the other man�s worried face.

�You know what I think, Mike?�

�Yes, I believe I do.�

�So then what?�

�You think I acted worse than I had to. That I wanted him to realise it was a trap. That I found a way of warning him at the same time as I kept my word to you and fulfilled my responsibilities as a good citizen. On paper, at least.�

�Is that what you did, Mike? Are you so calculating?�

�I don�t know, Bob.�

�You don�t know?�

Mike blew his nose on a paper serviette. �Sometimes we�re convinced that a particular action is exclusively the product of a reasoning process, don�t you agree? But then � could be a long time afterward � we start to doubt. That good testimonial you gave to a student taxidermist, was that justified? Or was it out of pity for someone whose talent you know is little more than mediocre? Or your teenage daughter�s boyfriend, the one you more or less implied to her you weren�t too crazy about � was it really like you said, because he seemed so gormless? Or was it out of the anxiety any father feels at the prospect of losing his daughter? It�s not easy to know the answer when you have contradictory emotions struggling inside you.�

Bob looked out the window. It had already grown darker in the short time they had been sitting there. Light from passing cars was reflected in the raindrops on the parked cars. With a loud slurping noise the last of the vanilla milkshake disappeared up the straw.

�Know what the people round here call this McDonald�s?�

�What?� asked Bob, but never heard the answer because his phone rang. He saw it was from Kari.

�Hi, sweetie, what�ve you got for me?�

�The call to Mike Lunde�s cell phone was from a phone booth.�

Bob noted the address on a serviette beneath a paper cup. �You�re an angel, Kari.�

�Such good news that your suspension�s been cancelled.�

�Thanks.� Bob ended the call and looked at the address he had written down. Visualised a map of the city centre. �Looks like Tom�s Gomez called from a phone booth a block away from your store.�

Mike raised his eyebrows. It dawned on Bob.

�You know what, Mike? He was on his way to the store. He saw me sitting waiting outside. He must�ve figured I was a cop and run off.�

�You think so?�

�Yeah. And then he called you just to get confirmation of what he already suspected. That you�ve been talking to us. Damn.� Bob grabbed up the cardboard cup and crushed it in his hand. Drops of vanilla milkshake dripped down from the straw and onto the back of his hand. �I�m sorry, Mike.�

�Sorry for what?�

�That I pressured you into doing this, put you in the line of fire. Because you�re in danger now. You do get that, right?�

Mike shook his head.

�No?� Bob licked the back of his hand.

�Tom�s isn�t hunting for people who are hunting him. He understands they�re just doing what they have to do. He already knows who his targets are, and I�m not one of them, Bob.�

�If you say so. What makes you so sure about that?�

�McDeath.�

�McDeath?�

�That�s what they call this McDonald�s here. The crack gangs used to hang out here. This is where Tom�s was eating that night, with his family.�

Bob stared at Mike a moment and then looked around the half-full diner. �So his family was killed here?�

�He said they were sitting at the table nearest the door, so it must�ve been that one over there.� Mike pointed. �He said he was happy that evening. It was his daughter�s birthday, she was the one who insisted they go to McDonald�s. He didn�t know this was a gang hangout, he�d just driven by a few times and noticed they had a parking lot. It was a perfect evening. There were balloons, the kids sang a song they�d been taught in elementary school, he and his wife Monica sat there dreaming about the future. Where they were going to live, if the kids should go to university, et cetera. About how lucky they were to live in a land that offered so many opportunities for anyone who was prepared to make an effort. A country that gives you a chance no matter whether you�re black, brown or white, if you sit in a wheelchair or you don�t come from a rich family. You could make it even if your immigration papers weren�t yet in order, because as long as you willed it hard enough, you knew things would work out. Tom�s had what he thought was an unshakeable faith in the future. But as things turned out it only took thirty or forty seconds to shake it to its foundations. He used to say he wished I could have known the person he was back then. That I would have liked him. But that he no longer exists, that person no longer exists. He died here that day, along with his family. The man sitting in front of me was just his ghost.�

Bob looked at a couple sitting at a nearby table. Their daughter couldn�t have been much older than Frankie. �Is that why you picked this place for us to meet, Mike?�

�It�s actually on my way home, but maybe. Probably.�

�And what is it supposed to show me, this place?�

�That it could�ve been you or me. It could have been you sitting here with your family that evening, Bob.�

Bob Oz pushed the crumpled cardboard cup to one side and buttoned up his coat. �I�ll be at your store at one thirty tomorrow, Mike. Maybe the guy will turn up after all.�

�Why should he, when he knows he�d be walking straight into an ambush?�

�I don�t know. There�s a certain kind of killer we call a moth.�

�A moth?�

�They seem attracted to the investigation into the murder they�ve committed. They turn up at the scene of the crime, or at the funeral. They make an effort to get close to the detectives involved. Frequent the bars where they hang out, close to the police station. They�re like moths that can�t help flying toward the flame, even though they know they might get their wings burned off.�

�You think Tom�s might be like that?�

�I don�t know. I was talking to someone this morning who thinks that sometimes we want to get caught. Maybe Tom�s knows the game is almost up. Maybe deep down he just wants to get it over with.�

After Bob had got into his car and watched Mike�s station wagon head out onto East Lake Street and disappear into the south-west, he pulled out his phone and made a call. Half expected to hear a pip and then the voicemail message telling him to stop calling her. Instead she picked up after just two rings.

�Hi, Bob.�

The priest at the Mindekirken, Jon Erland, greets me in the lobby connecting the church itself to the offices. When I called him before my departure from Norway and told him about the book I was writing he said he hadn�t actually known my cousin, only my uncle, and that I should really try some other source. But once he became aware of my theological background, and I had hinted that it was memories of the Mindekirken when I was a child that had inspired me, he agreed to meet me anyway. Jon Erland looks to be in his seventies and speaks with the same Norwegian dialect as I do, not so surprising since the Norwegian Bible Belt is in the south of the country, like it is in the USA. But he uses words that became obsolete back home in Norway many years ago. He is professionally friendly and open � an American openness that seems to have worn off some of that traditional Scandinavian reserve. He shows me round. The Mindekirken is mostly still as I recall it. Large but austere, as Lutheran churches should be. As far as I can see the only thing that�s new is the air conditioning. He suggests we talk in his office. On our way there we pass a Norwegian flag and photographs of the Norwegian king and queen, flatteringly young. Along with the gifts from earlier visitors from Norway it gives the church a strangely museum-like atmosphere, at once calming and a little disturbing. In his office Jon Erland tells me that he only met my relatives at church services, which are still held twice a day every Sunday, one in Norwegian at nine o�clock, which usually attracts a congregation of about forty or fifty, and the second in English at eleven o�clock at which a congregation of between fifteen and twenty is about all they can expect. He tells me that my uncle is buried in the family grave at the Lakewood Cemetery, as I already knew.

�What do people say about my cousin, after what happened?� I ask.

�You mean his posthumous reputation, his legacy?�

�I mean, do people regard him as a hero?�

Jon Erland raises an eyebrow, clearly surprised. �Why? The whole thing ended in the most appalling tragedy. The best thing one could say about your cousin is that he was a poor misguided soul.�

�That�s one way of looking at it�� I start to say.

�No!� says Jon Erland. �It is the truth. And as we all know, there is only one truth.�

I look at him. �Only one truth,� I echo. And in that same instant, remember why it was I could never have been a priest.

It was dark but the rain had stopped by the time Bob reached the house. He rang the bell. Heard the footsteps inside, recognised them as Alice�s, knew which slippers she was wearing, also that she would be wearing the white lamb�s wool sweater she always wore when it was cold.

She opened the door. Smiled. And it seemed to him that she was still the same, beautiful Alice, with her hair tied up in a knot and stray honey-blonde locks of hair tapping at the corners of her mouth, though the wrinkles around her eyes were now more pronounced.

�Come in,� she said.

�Thanks,� he said, and tried not to think how odd it was to be invited to enter his own house. �And thank you for seeing me.�

He removed his coat and hung it on one of the vacant hooks. Tried not to wonder whether she might have removed one of Stan�s jackets from the same hook just before he rang the bell.

She led the way into the kitchen. He registered that she was back to her familiar Alice size, the curves had returned, there was a little more flesh on the bones, all of which suggested to him that she was doing well. Immediately following Frankie�s death she had lost weight dramatically, and then gained it so swiftly she became a sort of inflated version of herself. And then lost it again. It was as though she had gone through the whole repertoire of eating disorders familiar to her from her patients. Or maybe it was the pills.

They sat in their usual seats on opposite sides of the kitchen table. She laced her fingers around a large teacup. How many times had he seen her do that, warming her hands, with her shoulders slightly hunched? He noticed that the picture of Frankie on the refrigerator was still there. And next to it, one of Frankie, Bob and Alice together.

�Like something to drink?�

�Water,� he said and stood up. Took a glass from the cupboard above the sink, turned on the tap and said, without turning round:

�I�m sorry for having behaved like an idiot. I want to sign those papers as soon as possible, so that you�re also the formal owner of the house, you don�t just live here.�

�What?� she said, as though the running water had drowned out what he was saying.

Bob turned off the tap, took the glass and sat back down opposite her. �On one condition.�

She gave him a cautious look. �And that is?�

�That we lower the price.�

�Lower? Don�t you mean raise?�

�No, lower. Even you won�t be able to pay off the loan if we stick to the current valuation.�

�But...�

�If in due course Stan the Man wants to buy himself in then, of course, you can pay me more.�

Bob looked at the disbelieving face before emptying the glass in a single long swallow. As he put the glass down he could see that she believed him. Her eyes were shining. A slight shiver passed between her shoulders, as though she wanted to put her hand onto his.

�And there�s one more thing I want from you,� he said.

�What�s that?�

�Explain loneliness to me.�

�Loneliness?�

�In technical terms.�

�Are you lonely?�

�I�m asking you to explain it, not me.�

�OK.� She folded her arms, breathed deeply and calmly and fixed her gaze some place just above his head the way she did when she was concentrating. He waited. Waited the way he had waited outside her flat before those first, comically old-fashioned dates. Outside her workplace after they became a couple. Outside the bathroom after they started living together and she was getting ready to go out to a party. Outside the delivery room when Frankie was born. Waiting for Alice was something he associated with happiness, because he was waiting for something good. But there would be no more waiting. He knew that now. There was nothing left to wait for.

�The language that describes loneliness is limited,� she began slowly, as though testing her way. �But first you have existential loneliness. The knowledge that you have been thrown into this world, and that you, me and everybody else are all, in the final analysis, alone. And then you have interpersonal loneliness. A lack of belonging, the feeling that you are alone even when with friends. You feel as though you�re inside a bubble, the others seem far, far away because you are, emotionally speaking, somewhere else.�

�Talk about loneliness when the most important people in your life are gone,� said Bob. �Someone you love. And children.�

It was as though he had pressed a button. Her lips twisted and tears at once sprang to her eyes. �Bob, please don�t start again...� Her voice was hoarse.

�I�m not starting again,� he said. �I�m not talking about us, Alice. This is about Tom�s Gomez, the killer we�re looking for. He lost his family, they were shot. What I�m wondering about is whether loneliness by itself can have driven him to want to avenge their deaths.�

She blinked twice.

�Go ahead,� said Bob.

She swallowed. Fixed her gaze back onto the wall above him. �That�s trauma,� she said. �Trauma, not loneliness. Trauma arises when you lose someone you thought you would be spending the rest of your life with. When it was more than an expectation, it was a conviction. Something you based your whole life on. Something that was everything.� She lowered her gaze to meet his. �The trauma is the wound. But the loneliness that comes with it locks you to your trauma. Sometimes there are physical manifestations. Often intolerable pains that follow the spine down toward the stomach.� She put a hand to her own stomach. �You feel you want to disappear, but the body is frozen up, and you become simply incapable of drawing warmth from those around you.�

�Silent, locked in?�

�Or raging. Everyone reacts differently. But we often share the feeling that something drastic has to be done. Traumatic memory is circular. Meaning that when something happens that reminds us of a previous trauma it can awaken rage, in this case the rage of abandonment. Everything that has happened before happens again. The whole weight of those previous experiences invades the present. The grief that has up to that point been frozen explodes in a vengeful rage. The violence of trauma is often extreme. People stab in a frenzy, they molest the body, not uncommonly there are elements of sadism.�

Bob nodded slowly. �The rage of abandonment.�

�That�s the technical term.�

�Thank you.� He turned the empty glass in his hand. �Alice, has it ever...?� He stopped.

�Yes?� she said.

�Have you ever felt afraid of me?�

Alice tilted her head. �No. But as a psychologist I know that as a rule people overestimate their ability to predict how those closest to them will react, especially if the person concerned has been traumatised. Maybe that�s exactly the mistake I�m making now. Given your sometimes aggressive behaviour, it is definitely not doing things by the book for me to meet you here alone, like this, where all the memories are.�

Bob gave a crooked smile. �You mean you should be afraid, but you aren�t?�

She nodded. �I�m probably more worried about what you might do to yourself than to me. Tell me...� Now it was her turn to stop.

�Yes?�

�Are things getting better, Bob?�

�Better? Oh, no question.� Bob smiled and knew that if he squeezed the glass any harder it would break. �I�m over the worst. I accept that life goes on. I remember you saying that the rational mind forgets things it has no use for. That�s true. I can feel how I�m thinking less about both you and Frankie with each day that passes. And you�ll see, they�ll be even better now that I�m getting rid of the house. It�ll be as though none of this�� he gestured toward the photos on the refrigerator � �ever happened. Don�t you think?� He was smiling so hard the corners of his mouth ached and through the tears her face grew fluid and indistinct. It felt as though his skin was on fire. �But then, there�s a part of my brain that isn�t rational and smart, and that can�t forget, even though it knows it should.�

Alice nodded. �Maybe we don�t have to forget, Bob. Maybe it�s more about treasuring the good memories and learning to live with the not so good ones. And... carrying on.� Her hesitation had been brief, but Alice was like a song Bob knew off by heart. He knew at once that that pause, short as it had been, meant something. And suddenly he understood what it was.

�Carrying on?� he said. And steeled himself as he waited for what he knew must come. Because of course he�d seen it as soon as he arrived, the way she looked just the way she had done back then.

Alice wrapped her fingers around her teacup and looked down into it.

�Yes, I�m...� She seemed to ready herself, then looked up and directly into Bob�s eyes. �I�m pregnant.�

Bob nodded and nodded, his head going up and down like that dog on the parcel shelf in the back of his parents� car.

�Congratulations,� he said, his voice thick and hoarse.

�Thanks,� she said quietly.

�No, I really mean it,� he said. �I�m... happy for you.�

�I know you are.�

�You do?�

�Of course,� she said.

They looked at each other. He smiled. She gave a cautious smile in return.

�You�ve been dreading giving me the news?� he asked.

�A bit,� she said. �So it�s OK?�

�Yes, it�s OK.� He thought about it. It really was. More than OK. It felt... yes, like a relief. Alice was pregnant again, and in some strange way it felt as though he now had one life less on his conscience. He�d never thought of it like that before, never realised that he might instinctively react like that to news that could only take her even further away from him.

�Girl or a boy?� he asked.

�We�re going for an ultrasound on Monday. I guess we�ll find out then.�

�Exciting.� Bob was still nodding. If he did it much longer his head would probably fall off. �Thanks for talking to me, Alice. Thanks for... well, everything really. I�ll be on my way.�

They said goodbye without touching each other. When she shut the door behind him, and he headed out into the chill autumn night, it was as though his step was lighter. But then it was as though a pendulum swung across his chest, across his heart, and for a moment he stood by his car, doubled over in pain. Then the pendulum swung the other way, and he drove off to Mot�rhead�s idiotically cheerful �On Parole� with the volume up full, singing along as the tears rolled down his cheeks.

Betty Jackson locked the door to the ticket booth and was heading for the switches to turn off the lights for the Rialto sign when Mel, the projectionist, came down the steep steps from his projection room. �There�s a guy still sitting in the theatre,� he said, keeping a tight hold of the railing. Mel was only a couple of years younger than her and had recently had a hip replacement.

�I see,� said Betty. �Didn�t you call down and tell him we�re closing?�

�Yeah, but I think he�s asleep.�

They entered the theatre together.

She registered that it was the black man in the red hat. She would have shouted his name, but she didn�t know it, had never spoken to him, even though he sat there almost every day, usually staying for several hours. Sometimes he was the only person in the whole theatre. She�d hear him talking on his phone when he was alone, like it was his office. But this time it looked as though he�d fallen asleep, his chin slumped down in his chest and the brim of the hat shading his face.

Betty walked along the row toward him with the projectionist, who had actually offered to go first, like he was some kind of gentleman, right behind her. The man sat with one hand resting on his thick thigh and she put her hand over his and gave it a gentle shake. The hat fell off. Betty exclaimed loudly and backed away, into the projectionist. The man�s eyes were wide open and completely white. Though it wasn�t that that made her jump, her own husband also sometimes slept with his eyes open and his head back. Nor was it the open mouth with the tiny inlaid diamonds glinting in the teeth. It was the hand. It had been as cold as marble.

The time was eight thirty and the sun shone from a cloudless sky down onto the Minnesota Landscape Arboretum, more familiarly abbreviated to Arb. Gunnar Person, the senior gardener in the botanical gardens, registered that it looked like they were in for a fine autumn day. He stepped down from the golf cart and crossed the grass in the direction of a stand of trees. He liked an early start, liked being the first man at work. But today it looked like someone had beaten him to it. The park was fenced in, and it had opening hours, but the fence was low and the park covered a huge area. If someone wanted to get in, they got in. Right now the park was hosting a sculpture exhibition, with pieces on display across the whole area. They showed animals that looked like they were made out of folded paper. Origami, they called it. Only these were made of metal and they were life-sized. If you could say of such literally fabulous creatures that they had a life-size. Like that rearing, winged Pegasus Gunnar was headed for. But as Gunnar got closer, he saw that the figure of a large man had been placed on the horse�s back. He was half naked, and Gunnar was thinking it was probably something to do with someone�s stag party. The figure was held in place by the wings, with the upper body and shoulders resting against the horse�s neck. There was no way it was a comfortable position to sleep in, but the man was probably so drunk he didn�t notice.

�Hey there!� Gunnar called in a loud, cheery voice. �Time to wake up!�

The figure on the horse didn�t move. Gunnar felt uneasy. There was something... well, something dead about it. The man�s head had evidently slipped down over the far side of the origami-like horse�s neck and couldn�t be seen. Gunnar walked round it. His first thought was that he must have made some mistake, for there was no head there either. Then he saw the red stub of neck sticking up from the collar of the man�s shirt. He gasped for breath and started saying the Lord�s Prayer as he fumbled for his phone, found it and tapped in the emergency number. While it was ringing he looked around for any sign of the head but saw nothing. He returned his gaze to the sculpture again, in all its grotesque horror an arresting and almost poetic sight. Almost as though the horse was about to lift off and fly the headless man up to heaven.

He�d checked out the final lead, a tip-off from a long-distance truck driver who claimed to have met a strange man who looked like Tom�s Gomez at a truck-stop cafe just the other side of the Iowa border. Joe had talked to the people who worked at the cafe and it turned out that guy was a well-known local character who just liked talking to truck drivers at the cafe.

Now it was time to get over to Arb where there was other work to do. The patrol who rang it in said the corpse had no head and no papers that could identify who it was, but there was a bullet hole in the chest leaving little doubt that it was a matter for the Homicide Division. Joe explained that he had a couple of other things to do first before he could get out there but that a technical team was already on its way.

A phone rang somewhere out in the deserted office landscape. Joe shrugged on his jacket. He was actually pissed with Olav for not making him part of his stadium team and leaving him with this shit job instead. The phone was still ringing. Usually it got transferred to reception automatically after a certain number of rings, but since this was Saturday there was no one in reception. Joe Kjos had no intention of taking the call, but as he walked past Myers�s desk he realised it was her phone that was ringing. She�d only just left, so he picked up anyway.

�MPD.�

�Good morning, my name is Jim Andersen. Kay Myers, is she...?�

�She just left. This is Detective Joe Kjos, how can I help you, sir?�

The caller hesitated, and Joe Kjos hoped the guy would say no so that he could get out of there, get this last job done and finally enjoy the weekend.

�I�m an instructor at the Mitro shooting range,� the guy said. �Your colleague who was here left her card and asked me to call the number if I remembered anything about the Latino she was looking for.�

�OK?�

�I still don�t recall any Latino, but then something came to me. She traced us through a target you guys found inside some bubble wrap.�

Joe Kjos checked the time.

�There was a guy in here with a rifle wrapped in bubble wrap. But he wasn�t Latino. He was white.�

Joe Kjos sighed but located a pen on Myers�s desk and made a note. �White, sir?�

�White. I remember because he insisted on me working out the height adjustment for a shot from four hundred yards.�

�Was there anything unusual in his behaviour? Did he seem aggressive? Drugged?�

�Absolutely not.�

�Did he give you a name or a phone number?�

�No.�

�Anything else you can tell us about him?�

�Not really.�

Joe Kjos breathed out in relief. �OK. Let me take your number and we�ll be in touch if we have any more questions.�

�I saw this Gomez come walking along the road there,� the old woman said, pointing.

She and Kay Myers were standing on the upper floor of a fine old timber house that lay on a rise above the otherwise flat landscape of Cedar Creek. From here Kay looked out over dense forest, swamps, meadows and ploughed land. On her drive out Kay had gathered from the signs that this was a protected area for ecological research.

Kay peered in the direction of the narrow, twisting road almost a hundred yards away from the house.

�How can you be sure it was Tom�s Gomez, Mrs Holte?�

�Because I�ve seen him on the TV, of course. That he�s a wanted man.�

�Yes, but what I mean is, that�s quite a long way away. I don�t think even I could see so clearly who someone down there was.�

�Ah, but the older you get, the better your sight gets, I can assure you.�

For a moment the two just looked at each other, then Mrs Holte began laughing, a funny, clucking, little old woman laugh. It made Kay think of a cocoon, shrunken and dried up, with silver-grey hair and dry as an old spider�s web. She�d been standing waiting at the door as Kay parked in front of the house and invited her in without even asking what this was about. Once Kay told her, Mrs Holte explained that she hadn�t answered the calls because she turned her phone off when she wasn�t making a call on it because the only calls she ever got anyway were from telephone sales people.

�I�m just kidding you, honey,� said the woman. Then she suddenly reached for something next to the window behind the drape and pulled out a rifle. Kay froze, and before she had time to act the woman had lifted the weapon to her cheek. �Like this,� she said.

She closed one eye and with the other peered through the telescopic sights. The barrel was pointed toward the window. Then she lowered the rifle. And laughed that clucking laugh of hers again when she saw the look on Kay�s face. �I just used the telescopic sights. I took this over after my husband died.�

Kay shivered at the thought that she herself and her car had probably been in that viewfinder as she drove up toward the house.

�So you saw a person you believe to have been Tom�s Gomez pass here yesterday morning.�

�Yes. He parked in the passing space down there.�

Kay took out her notebook.

�What kind of car was it?�

�Oh, sweetie, I don�t know much about cars. But it was a big one. Nice car.�

�Colour?�

�Mostly wood.�

�Wood?�

�Wood-panelling. My husband�s car had the same thing. I�ve seen it here several times.�

�Really?�

�Before yesterday it was three weeks ago. He came walking up the road with another man. The other man was white. Probably one of those crazy artists, I thought to myself.�

�Artists?�

�Yes. They disappeared into the trees along that track you see there. Probably on their way to that nasty house of horrors they�ve made for themselves in there.� Mrs Holte shuddered. �Uergh.�

�Well, Superintendent,� said Ted Springer as he stood next to Walker and picked up a slice of watermelon, �not hungry today? Not thirsty?�

Springer gestured with his free hand to the table in front of them and the coffee pots and bottles of water, the fruit along with a few simple sandwiches.

�Thanks, I ate before I left,� said Walker. He was watching Mayor Patterson as the mayor stood by the coffee pots talking with someone from the NRA. Someone important, judging by the body language and the facial expressions; two men who could be useful to each other. Walker glanced at his watch. Five minutes before Patterson stepped up onto the podium. The speech would last a maximum of ten minutes. Then it was job done and home to the family. There was still a lot of weekend left.

The phone in his pocket vibrated. It wasn�t Hanson this time either.

�Yes, Rooble?� said Walker.

�Dante says that Gomez is Lobo.�

�What?�

�Tom�s Gomez is Lobo.� Rooble spoke clearly and calmly, so it wasn�t a case of Walker not hearing him, more that he just didn�t believe what he had heard.

�The Lobo?� said Walker.

�Yes. The Wanted poster was still up on the wall when I started in Homicide. I remember the description referred to a star-shaped tattoo on the back of one hand. Hanson said it was a cartel thing from south of the border.�

Walker closed his eyes. Opened them again. Lobo. He turned to Springer, who was holding the slice of melon up in front of his face so it looked like he was grinning from ear to ear.

�Bad news, Walker?�

�Yes. We need to postpone the speech.�

�Why?� Springer took another mouthful of melon.

�Gomez is almost certainly identical to a man called Lobo, a notorious serial killer.�

�What difference does that make? We already know Gomez is a killer.�

Walker looked at Springer. He realised he had no good answer. That the unease he felt in the pit of his stomach at the news was not an argument. Walker heard Rooble�s voice and realised he was still on the line.

�What?� he said, putting the phone to his ear.

�I said, Dante said there was something strange about Gomez�s hands.�

�What, exactly?�

�They had stitches along the sides, like seams. That the skin seemed to sort of move when he moved his hands. Like he was wearing gloves.�

Bob turned into Erie Avenue in Chanhassen. Middle-class villas with plenty of room between them, trees and neatly trimmed lawns on both sides.

He stopped in front of the address Kari had provided.

Two floors. Big but standard family home with a yard in front, lawn with the grass cut short, double garage.

He didn�t see the Caprice, but of course it could be in the garage.

His phone vibrated. He was about to reject the call but changed his mind when he saw it came from Kay Myers.

�Kay, thanks for the report. And the list.�

�You�re welcome. Now it�s your turn to help me.� It could have been just a poor signal, but it sounded like she was freezing.

�Where are you?�

�At a deserted house in a forest with no tracks. Listen, I broke in here without a search warrant. I found something.�

Bob didn�t respond. Cops called it an own goal when you found something that could have been used in a court of law, if only you�d followed the rules.

�So what am I going to do?� She sounded desperate. Bob had never heard Kay Myers like this before.

�Get out of there the same way you went in,� he said. �Cover your tracks and make out like you didn�t find anything. Get the search warrant then come back.�

Bob heard her trembling intake of breath. Were her teeth chattering? Or was she starting to cry?

�I broke open the door, but if that�s �tripping up� then what�s the point of being a cop? Tell me that. I sent you those reports because it�s our job to protect people against... against monsters like this. I don�t need a bigger office, Bob, I just need to stop this... this sickness.�

�Easy now, Kay, you hear me? You�re stressed out. What�s going on there? What have you found?�

�I�m sorry, I did ring the bell,� said Bob to the woman in the wheelchair. �Bob Oz. I�m a friend of Mike�s. Is he in?�

�Oh, I see,� she said, panting for breath, one hand flat against her chest. �Just give me a moment to recover. I�m afraid you�ve missed Mike, he just left.�

�Did he say where he was going?�

�To work. A customer is coming in to pick up a Labrador he�s been working on.�

Bob nodded, studying her. She looked to be in her fifties, and her clothes were conservative and almost old-fashioned, in the same way Mike�s were.

�I believe I�ve seen a picture of you somewhere,� he said. �Aren�t you...?�

�Emily Lunde,� she said, offering her hand. �Mike�s sister.�

He shook her hand. �Of course. You�re a taxidermist too, aren�t you?�

�That�s right.�

�Just visiting?�

She looked up at him in surprise. �No. I live here.�

�I see. Have you lived here long?�

�Quite a long time yes. Ever since...� She nodded at the family portrait above the fireplace.

�Ah yes,� said Bob. �The tragedy.�

�Yes. A cup of tea or coffee?� She smiled. She seemed like someone who smiled easily. And laughed. �It�ll only take a minute,� she said as he looked at his watch. �I like company, I admit it, it�s easy to get that way out here. You could always ring Mike.�

�I�ll do that after the tea,� said Bob.

She gave a contented nod and wheeled over to the kitchen worktop while Bob studied the portrait.

�Multiple sclerosis,� Emily called as she filled the kettle.

�What?�

�You�re wondering why Mike�s daughter and I are both in wheelchairs. Grandma also had MS.�

�I see. So it runs in the family?�

�To some degree yes. Our family was unlucky.�

Bob looked at the faces in the portrait. He saw no trace of doubt in any of them. They believed the future was bright. That all of them would live long and happy lives.

�So you�re the one who stays at home and makes kj�ttkaker in brown sauce?� He said it in broken Norwegian and Emily laughed again.

�Our mother taught us that, yes. What is it you want to see Mike about?�

Bob thought about what to say. �Just to pick up something he said I could borrow.�

�What�s that?�

�A rifle.�

�Ah. Well, he took that with him. Maybe he misunderstood and thought you were going to meet him at the store?�

�Maybe,� said Bob. He saw no trace of suspicion in her open face. Perhaps that was why he felt a pang of conscience. �Where does he keep it?�

�The rifle? In his room.�

�Mind if I take a look? I want to make sure he remembered the bullets.�

�Bullets?�

�He forgot last time.�

�Well, I don�t know, I�m never in his room, I live down here.� She pointed through the open door to a corridor where Bob saw a staircase. �Second door on your left.�

�Thank you.�

Bob walked into the corridor and took the stairs in four or five long strides.

Pushed open the door. The room was white, clean and tidy. The bed was made, the drapes parted. There was a TV on the wall. In spite of the items of personal property lying about � a cell phone on the chest of drawers, a hanger with a pair of faded jeans and a hoodie on the closet door � something about the room gave Bob the feeling that it was abandoned, and that the person who lived there wouldn�t be coming back. Just like that apartment in Jordan where Tom�s Gomez had lived.

An apartment that seemed to know others would arrive there looking for answers.

On the bed, on top of the pillow, lay a brown face mask with holes for the eyes and mouth. In fact it was a complete head covering, including a full head of hair. On the blanket was a pair of thin brown gloves. They lay like the hands of a person lying in the bed would have laid.

Bob picked up the mask and looked at it more closely. Shuddered as he recognised the face with the scar on the cheek. At the back the skin was cut away low on the neck and up to the crown of the head, and there was a lace woven through perforations in the skin to make it easy to take on and off.

He ran his fingertips over the gloves of human skin and across the tattooed five-pointed star. He thought of Tom�s Gomez�s fingerprints they had found at the crime scenes. On the handle of the restroom. It was all beginning to make sense now. Mike Lunde hadn�t escaped up through the ventilation shaft at the shopping mall, he had simply taken off the hoodie, the Gomez mask and the Gomez gloves. Probably put them in a bag which he hid under his jacket. Dismantled the rifle to make room for it too in the bag. With practice, the routine wouldn�t have taken more than a couple of minutes. After that he�d pulled down the fan, tossed one of Gomez�s insulin syringes into the ventilation shaft and then strolled out of the restroom like a quite ordinary white man out shopping, walking straight past Kay and the SWAT team. It was a trick he could repeat time after time without ever getting caught. Bob� s gaze fell on a paper bag in front of the closet. It was from a well-known toy store, he recognised the logo � a boy wearing a mushroom for a hat. There was a branch right next to the restroom at Track Plaza. He looked inside. Lifted the scrunched-up sheet of gift wrapping. Out fell a pair of sunglasses, the same type as they�d seen Gomez wearing in the video recordings.

Bob looked at the cell phone. It was turned off. A police voice expert would be able to confirm that the recording of the alleged Tom�s Gomez who called Mike Lunde was in reality Mike Lunde himself, standing in a phone booth and calling his own cell. That that explained why the breathing seemed to sound as if it was turning itself on and off.

Bob walked into the bathroom. Clean and tidy here too. He opened the door of the cupboard above the sink. The usual bathroom stuff. Several packs of brown contact lenses from different manufacturers. Of course. Have to get the eyes right.

On the bottom shelf Bob saw a familiar-looking tray of pills. Pink. Bob picked it up and read the long and unpronounceable name of the antidepressants. He read the doctor�s signature and the date. The tray should have been empty, and when Bob counted the number of pills left he concluded that Mike Lunde must have stopped taking them and that, coincidentally, he must have done so at about the same time as he stopped taking his own pills.

He walked back into the corridor, down the stairs and stopped in the doorway of the living room.

�Find the bullets?� asked Emily as she poured tea.

�No,� said Bob. �He took them with him. Did he say anywhere else he might be going, apart from the store?�

�No. Where would that be?�

�Yes, where would that be?� Bob looked at the steaming hot tea on the counter in front of him. �So did he say what he was going to be doing today?�

�Only that he would be unveiling his masterpiece. He�s been looking forward to that.�

Bob swallowed. �You know what, Emily? I see Mike left his cell phone in his room and I really need to get hold of him, so that tea is going to have to wait until another day.�

She looked up at him, smiling and rather surprised. �Of course, Bob. Any time.�

Bob ran out to his car, the sound of the mower screeching in his ears, his pulse hammering like a speeded-up watch.

Brenton Walker was looking at Kevin Patterson�s back as he stood by the opening of the drape, ready to mount the podium and be greeted by the cheers and the sunshine. He was going to be introduced over the loudspeaker as soon as the next musical offering ended. Patterson raised and lowered his shoulders, he rolled his neck like a boxer getting ready for a fight, fastened a button on his suit jacket, unfastened it, fastened it again. Walker�s seething sense of disquiet had started to abate, perhaps because there was now no way back and it was too late to do anything about anything they might have overlooked. That was a lesson Brenton�s father had taught him: the need to accept things you cannot change. It was advice his father himself never followed, and that caused his downfall as a local politician.

The band was still playing out there, the crowd singing along.

�Ten seconds please,� said a man wearing a headset. �Break a leg, Mr Mayor.�

Springer was standing next to Walker. His walkie-talkie crackled into life and a grating voice spoke: �Foxtrot, I see a male, white, age around fifty, about five foot nine, entering one of the private boxes.�

Walker saw Springer�s face turn pale as he picked up the walkie-talkie and spoke quietly into it: �Do you have a sighting on him, Foxtrot?�

�No, he disappeared into the back of the box, into the darkness.�

�Listen up!� Springer shouted into the room. �There is someone up in one of the boxes. Does anyone know how this happened or who this person is?�

There was silence all around Walker. All that could be heard was the sound of the band and the crowd singing. And the man in the headset who was talking into his microphone:

�Norma? Be a sweetie and see if you can get the band to do one more number. Something has, er... come up back here.�

Bob drove as fast as he dared � and as fast as the Volvo managed � along the highway to the city centre.

He drove with one hand and held his cell in the other. Yes, he wished he had a pistol. Yes, he wished he had a Kojak light. Yes, he wished he had a better brain and had deciphered the writing on the wall earlier. When she took the call he could hear she was running.

�What�s happening, Kay?�

�I�m headed for my car. I�ve made a few calls and done some checking and it looks like the house in the forest is owned by a group of artists who practise something they call rogue taxidermy. I just spoke with one of them and she told me that after they rented new premises in the city the place out at Cedar Creek has hardly been used. I asked about the refrigerated room, and she said a number of the artists used it, including this Emily Lunde, the woman who owns the booth with the body in it.�

�Emily Lunde?�

�Lives out in Chanhassen. I�m sending a patrol car out there now.�

�Don�t do that. Not... yet anyway. She probably isn�t involved.�

�Oh?�

�She�s the sister of the man we�re looking for. His name is Mike Lunde. Emily Lunde is confined to a wheelchair, she can�t have been out in a forest with no tracks through it in years. Mike Lunde is the one who�s been using that booth.�

�Who is Mike Lunde?�

�A taxidermist. He�s been wearing a Tom�s Gomez mask.�

Bob waited and let that sink in, let her brain trace the line from the flayed body and Tom�s Gomez on the security videos.

�Jesus,� Kay whispered, as though not daring to say it out loud. �Are you saying that��

�Yeah. He�s been using Tom�s Gomez�s face and hands.�

�But... where is he now?�

�He�s not at home, his sister says he�s gone to work. Unfortunately he�s left his cell behind so we can�t track him that way. And he�s taken his rifle with him.�

�God. He�s at the stadium. Gomez... or, yeah, the guy the cameras picked up there yesterday while he was doing reconnaissance. He�s going to shoot someone there.�

�Someone?�

�The most obvious target would be Mayor Patterson. Any minute now he�s going to be speaking in front of 60,000 people, and it�s going out live on TV.�

It was Bob�s turn to join up the dots.

�It is Patterson,� he said quietly. �His masterpiece.�

�What?�

�He told his sister he was going to unveil his masterpiece today. I thought he was referring to this Labrador he�s been working on.�

�What?�

�Mike Lunde is going to crown his work with the unveiling of his last masterpiece. And an unveiling needs an audience.�

Bob heard a change in the acoustics around Kay and realised she must now be sitting in her car.

�Give me a description,� she said. �I need to ring Walker and warn them they�re looking for the wrong man.�

Bob gave Kay a quick description of Mike Lunde and the few bits of personal information he had about him. She repeated after him, he confirmed it, then she hung up.

Saturday traffic was light and Bob had already reached the city centre. He stopped at a red light. Hesitated. A left turn would take him to the store, a right to the stadium. Kay hadn�t queried why Bob hadn�t mentioned this Mike Lunde before. Maybe because there wasn�t time. Maybe because she didn�t want to know. No matter which way he turned now, he would still have a lot to answer for. But right now he didn�t care a damn about that. Right now all that mattered was to make the right choice, chop the tree down from the correct side and let the splinters fall where they would.

The light changed to yellow.

O�Rourke�s men were in position outside the door of the box. On the frosted glass he noted the logo of one of the Vikings� sponsors. Two men stood ready with the little battering ram, three others behind them with weapons trained on the door, the lights on the gun barrels lit.

�Kilo and Lima are ready,� he whispered into a walkie-talkie.

O�Rourke breathed slowly as he waited for a response. Could feel in his pulse that this was the good kind of tension, on the right side of being nervous. It brought a strange feeling of safety to know that he was so alert. They were totally prepared for just about any eventuality. On the other hand they could never know exactly what lay in store for them. But that was what he loved about the job. The combination of the intoxication of control and the thrill of the risk. It was like fucking and being fucked at the same time.

Then Springer�s voice was coming through the walkie-talkie.

�Alpha. Do you have to use stun grenades?�

�Have to,� said O�Rourke.

�We�re worried that might create panic in the stadium.�

�Tell the band to play louder.�

�Nothing plays louder than a stun grenade, and the flashes of light will be visible all over the stadium. Sixty thousand frightened people. You see what I�m getting at...�

O�Rourke saw all right. Not using stun grenades would deprive them of a tactical advantage and increase the risk of loss. On the other hand, nothing SWAT did was free of risk, and if only one man had been observed in there then the risk was acceptable. His decision was easy.

�OK then, we go in without the stun grenades,� said O�Rourke.

�It�s lovely,� said Jill Patterson as she stroked the dog. �Absolutely lovely.�

�Thank you,� said Mike Lunde.

The two of them and the children, Siri and Simon, sat in the store in a little circle around Quentin. Jill kept stroking him, she said the Labrador�s coat seemed so glossy and bright. Outside, on the other side of the street, their Chevy stood parked, with their private bodyguard Hector Herrer inside. From where she was sitting she could see that the other one, the extra security man from the JTTF, had taken up a position outside the car and was monitoring the street in both directions. The JTTF man had wanted to come into the store with them, but Jill had explained that Mike said they should always be alone in the store whenever they were looking at Quentin. The JTTF man had said OK, but he asked them not to be too long. Jill hadn�t replied. After all, this might be the last time they would ever see this nice taxidermist, whom everyone in the family had become so fond of. Mike had been to their home in Dellwood and listened as she and Kevin and the children talked about Quentin. The Labrador retriever had been their beloved companion until the day he ran out into the road and got run over by the neighbour�s Lexus. The children had insisted that Quentin be buried in their own back garden, and they had even had a priest for the burial. But so great was the children�s grief that after just one week Jill said to Kevin that they had to do something, the kids wouldn�t leave the grave, they spent every evening weeping there. Kevin�s first response had been that maybe the grave had become a place for the kids to get rid of all their frustrations, that maybe it wasn�t just about Quentin, maybe what was happening was good for them. But Jill said it was grief, and that children shouldn�t grieve, that could wait until later. She�d spoken to a friend who knew a friend who�d had the family�s pet rabbit stuffed and spoke of it like a resurrection. She was the one who had recommended Town Taxidermy to Jill.

Of course, neither Jill nor the children had been present when the grave was opened. After a mere fourteen days the fur was still pretty much unchanged, and Mike had said it wouldn�t be a problem to repair any damage. They agreed to use as much of Quentin as possible, not just the teeth but the whole skull. That way she felt she could tell the children it wasn�t just a copy of Quentin, it really was Quentin. Mike took the dog�s measurements for the mannequin he had to make, and he studied the family�s photographs and home videos showing the animal. The better to capture Quentin�s character and personality, as he explained.

Siri sat next to her mother and began stroking Quentin too. Because it had turned out just as Jill hoped, it really was Quentin. Mike hadn�t just captured the dog�s personality, he�d caught the way he walked and had frozen their beloved pet in mid-stride. And the look in the eyes! It was Quentin�s look exactly. It really was an exercise in pure magic. Simon, their youngest, stood up and ran across to the fox. Felt its teeth. Then ran over to the wolf and tugged at its tail. She hoped he wouldn�t break anything, he was a bit of a handful. But Mike took it all calmly enough. Simon came running back and put his arms around Quentin�s neck.

�Simon, be careful!� his big sister called.

Simon obediently let go.

�But he doesn�t move,� Simon complained as he stood in front of the dog and called out: �Quentin! Wake up!� He hit the unmoving dog on the snout. �Quentin!�

Jill laughed what she herself heard was a slightly nervous laugh. �Simon, sweetie, don�t do that. Quentin is a... he�s a... still dog now.�

�But I don�t want a dog that stands still! Man!� Simon stood in front of the chair Mike was sitting in. �I want a living Quentin!�

Mike cocked his head to one side. �You know what, Simon, it�s actually completely impossible to get back someone who�s dead, no matter how much you loved them. You see, death...�

Jill could see that Simon had been about to lose patience and run off again until Mike said that word � death � with such weight. Now the boy stood quite still and stared at Mike.

�Death...� said the taxidermist, �death is a door with a spring lock.�

Simon blinked.

�And the pain,� Mike went on, �the pain of losing the one you love, or all the ones you love, well, that�s enough to drive anyone out of their mind.�

Jill was a little shocked at Mike�s choice of words. After all, this was a child he was talking to. On the other hand, he had such a good way with the kids, so maybe he was getting through to him with what he was saying. But no, he had lost Simon�s attention, and now Simon was tearing about inside the store again.

�Don�t touch that!� she called as Simon approached the rifle leaned up against the wall directly behind Mike. She�d seen it as soon as they entered, and if it had been anywhere else she would certainly have said something. But here, among all these stuffed animals, it seemed natural, just another of the many tools of Mike�s trade. They had to have used something to shoot that large deer and that bear, she had reasoned with herself. But now that Simon stood staring in frozen fascination at the gun it gave her a bad feeling. She saw his little child�s fists clench and open, could see how he itched to reach out and touch it, dangerous and tempting. What was it about guns that made them so irresistible � and to small boys in particular? It was like the ring in that movie the kids loved, she thought. The Lord of the Rings. Jill got hold of Simon and pulled him onto her lap. He pretended to resist, but she knew how much he liked it when she coddled him. Especially with his sister looking on.

�Now we all have to say thank you to Mike for making Quentin look so fine,� said Jill.

�Thank you, Mike,� the children said almost in chorus.

Mike just sat there and smiled. He looked almost sad. Maybe it was because he didn�t want to be parted from Quentin. It was almost enough to make you feel sorry for him. Jill leaned forward and said in a quiet, comforting voice: �I want you to know that this is going to ease a lot of the pain in our family. I�m really looking forward to when my husband gets to see Quentin.�

Mike nodded. �I hope I can repay all he�s done for so many other families in Minneapolis, Mrs Patterson.�

She smiled. �Thank you, that�s true. Kevin has done so many good things as mayor.�

�Like opposing anyone who�s tried to limit our God-given right to carry weapons,� said Mike.

�Yes, indeed,� said Jill. She felt the smile stiffen slightly on her lips.

�This military sniper�s rifle here, for example.� Mike picked up the rifle. �It was purchased illegally, but it wouldn�t have been difficult to buy it legally. Isn�t it reassuring to know that we are such a well-armed people that everyone, absolutely everyone, is able to defend themselves against everybody else?� He smiled broadly.

Jill Patterson swallowed. �Of course. It wouldn�t be fair if only a few of us could.�

Mike�s eyes had grown more intense, his voice higher. He was speaking more quickly. She could see that Siri had noticed it too, she�d stopped stroking the dog.

�We�re able to defend our families,� said Mike. �Because dying yourself isn�t the worst thing. The worst thing is to go on living after the people you love have all been killed. Don�t you agree?� He nodded in the direction of Quentin, at the same time doing something with the rifle that made a metallic, oily sound. She assumed he was loading it.

�Since it�s your husband who makes all this possible, as I said, I�m going to do for him exactly what politicians like him have done for families such as my own.�

Jill felt Siri take hold of her hand, and Simon stopped wriggling about in her lap. Jill�s mouth was dry and when she spoke her voice sounded hoarse and strange:

�What would that be, Mike?�

�What he and people like him did for me,� said Mike Lunde as he looked down at the rifle, �was to put weapons in the hands of those who took from me everything I loved.� He raised the rifle to his cheek. �So now it�s my turn.�

Hector Herrer saw that Gerard, the security man JTTF had sent over yesterday evening, was hearing something through his headset. Hector had suggested he be included in the same loop but Gerard told him this wasn�t part of �JTTF�s protocol�. He knew it had to be something important because Gerard, who had so far been leaning against the hood on the passenger side keeping a lookout, straightened up suddenly and went for the gun in his shoulder holster. Hector lowered the window on the passenger side.

�What�s up?�

Gerard held one finger to the earbud and lifted the other hand holding the gun � a Glock � to indicate that he was still listening. But Hector saw now that Gerard�s attention was drawn toward the store, Town Taxidermy. Hector took out his own gun and loaded it.

�Copy that,� said Gerard and took his finger away from his ear. Without taking his eyes off the store he said: �Message from the stadium. The store owner, Mike Lunde, is dangerous and potentially armed.�

�Meaning what?� said Hector, not because he hadn�t understood, but because he wanted it confirmed.

�Meaning they think the store owner is the assassin. Is that Mike Lunde in there with them?�

�Yeah,� said Hector. He knew that now wasn�t the time to start handing out blame but had already worked out his own part in it. Others had been responsible for giving Mike Lunde the security clearance he needed to enter the Patterson home, but it was Hector who had told Gerard it was safe for Jill and the kids to go into the store alone. Of course, he could excuse himself by saying he was only following Jill�s expressed wishes. Excuse himself by saying that the view from out here in the street was as good if not better than from inside the store. Excuse himself by saying he had spoken to Lunde and rarely met someone who inspired greater confidence. But Hector had departed from his principle of being always, no matter what the hour, as close to the Patterson family as possible, and for that there could be no excuse. Hector was already out of the car and heard Gerard behind him, running to keep up.

�We�re going into the store,� Gerard said into the headset.

Right at that same moment Hector�s own security chief spoke into his earbud: �You get that message, Hector?�

�Yeah, we�re on our way in.�

Hector had known Gerard for only a few hours but from the way he moved and readied himself he could see they must have gone through a similar training. So they didn�t need to exchange words but automatically split as they crossed the street so that they wouldn�t be seen from the store, then made their way separately from different sides toward the store window. Hector risked a quick look inside, but the lighting was dim, and all the stuffed animals in the window blocked his view so he couldn�t see much. He and Gerard moved in a crouch past the display window then pressed their backs against the wall on either side of the doorway. A handwritten sign hanging on the door handle said CLOSED. The O was drawn like a smiley. But Hector had noticed that when Mike Lunde opened the door to Jill and the children they had been moving straight toward the back of the store as the door swung closed behind them, so unless it was a spring lock the door should be open.

Gerard pointed to Hector and laid his hand flat on the top of his head and then pointed to himself � a tactical signal meaning you � cover � me. Hector shook his head firmly and returned the signal. After a moment�s hesitation Gerard nodded.

Hector put his left hand on the door handle, pressed down and pushed carefully.

It wasn�t locked.

Hector pointed to the top of the door with his gun then put the barrel against his lips. Gerard understood and nodded, he clearly recalled the jangle of the bell when Mike Lunde had opened up for Jill and the children.

Hector took two deep in-and-out breaths.

Then something happened to Hector that occasionally happened in situations like this. In his mind�s eye he saw the silhouette of his father�s head against the sun, and heard the deep voice, at once reassuring and challenging: �I see you.�

Hector pushed the door open wider, careful not to make the bell ring but just enough to enable him to slip inside. Bodyguards wear dark glasses for a number of reasons, and style is not among them. One is to avoid a situation in which bright sunlight makes the pupils so small that the bodyguard is temporarily blinded on entering a darker room. Hector pulled off his shades and tossed them aside before again raising the pistol in both hands. He had time to see the family sitting in a ring around Quentin, Jill facing him with silver duct tape over her mouth and hands behind her back. He had time to see Siri and Simon in chairs, hands bound by plastic strips to the struts on the chair backs. And he had time to see Mike Lunde, who was sitting beside Jill. And he had time to see the barrel of the rifle Mike Lunde was pointing at him.

Hector even had time to see the flash of light from the mouth of the gun.

And then it was as if he had been hit by a truck, he felt himself tumbling backward, out of the door, felt himself hit something and collapse onto the sidewalk, felt he couldn�t move, the light was disappearing. Felt someone take hold of the shoulder straps of the ballistic vest he was wearing under his jacket and pull him over the asphalt as the voice of the JTTF man whose name he could no longer recall spoke above him in a loud, panting voice:

�November. Herrer has been shot by the suspect, repeat Herrer has been shot. Pulling him to safety, bleeding heavily, looks critical. Suspect is in the store with three hostages. I need an ambulance and backup. Now!�

Hector thought he should take off his shades, because it was too dark. He searched the sky for the sun. Looked for the face. Listened for the voice that was supposed to say I see you. But it wasn�t there. Hector neither heard nor saw anything.

Jill Patterson felt the warm tears running down her cheeks and lost the sensation as they ran onto the tape. They were cold by the time they ran back onto the skin and down over her chin. She wanted to close her eyes, shut out all this, but forced herself to keep them open, forced herself to look at Simon and Siri, who stared at her from above small, taped mouths, as though she, their mother, was the only person in all the world who could save them. And hadn�t she really always been the only one?

Mike Lunde�s voice beside her was calm, almost like someone talking in his sleep.

�I�m sorry you had to see that man get shot, Mrs Patterson, I would have preferred things to be different. But as your husband preaches, it is the right of every citizen to protect his house and property against intruders. And there is actually a Closed sign on the door.�

Like someone breaking the surface for a breath of air, Jill closed her eyes. Momentarily.

�Siri and Simon...� Mike Lunde began, and Jill at once opened her eyes wide again, seeking to catch her children�s eyes, as though she thought they would be doomed if they so much as looked at him. But she had lost them, their gazes were already on the taxidermist.

�Don�t be afraid,� he continued. �This will soon be over. I promise, cross my heart and hope to die.�

Jill tried to blink away the tears as Mike Lunde drew his forefinger twice, slowly, across his throat.

�Isn�t that that guy who was in here?� the customer said, gesturing with his beer glass toward the small, muted TV screen on the wall behind Liza. That was one of the things she�d change if she ever took over the place. Two big TV screens instead of one small one. But only for turning on when something was happening, something that brought people together. Super Bowl, presidential elections. Stuff like that.

She turned around to look.

It was KSTP-TV with a flashing BREAKING NEWS line above the picture.

A female reporter was talking to the camera. Behind her police cars were visible, and a big military-looking vehicle with SWAT in white lettering along the side. Then Liza saw the picture of a face in the upper-right corner of the screen. With the name under it: Bob Oz. MPD. With a trembling hand Liza grabbed the remote and turned up the sound.

�...went inside and persuaded the hostage-taker to take him in exchange for the release of Jill Patterson and the two children. Bob Oz is now in there with the hostage-taker, who is believed to be the owner of the store. He is Mike Lunde, a fifty-eight-year-old widower.�

�So, Shirley, you�re able to confirm that the officer involved is the same Bob Oz you met briefly two days ago at Track Plaza.�

�That�s right, Rick. But in a completely different role here. Before Jill Patterson and the children were taken away from here with the mayor she had time to say how they will be eternally grateful to Detective Oz for his courage, and that they are praying he will survive the ordeal.�

Survive. Liza�s hands went to her mouth. She took deep breaths. In. Out. In. Out. Breathe. And then she did something she hadn�t done for so long she couldn�t even remember when the last time was. She prayed. God, let him survive. I don�t ever have to see him again if that�s what you want in return. But dear God, don�t let him die.

�I made a hunting trophy for Karlstad a couple of years ago,� said Mike as he folded his hands behind his head. Like someone who�s finished a piece of work, thought Bob. �A buck he wanted above his fireplace. I didn�t know then that he was a local big shot in the NRA. I went to his house out in the suburbs to have a look at the fireplace. Wife, three children. Cody Karlstad had everything I didn�t have. In his opinion what we needed to reduce crime was more guns, not fewer. He thought the gun was our foremost symbol of liberty, he thought we should be like certain other countries, have an automatic weapon as part of our flag.�

�Did you hate him?�

�No. Actually I quite liked him. He seemed a caring kind of person.�

�But all the same you shot him?�

�As I said before, it�s about more than revenge.�

�The message.�

�Yes.�

�Which is?�

�That one day the gun you make is going to be aimed at you.�

�And the dead are to communicate this message?�

�That�s what taxidermists do.�

�Do you really think people will listen to your message?�

Mike shrugged. �The noise level is so high these days you have to shout loudly to be heard. Which is why I hope people will understand my use of such radical methods. But those involved at least died for a good cause. Even that corrupt detective became, in the end, a part of the work of art.�

�Oh?�

�I gather an anonymous artist has exhibited him in Arb Park. Minus his head.�

Bob studied Mike�s face, not sure whether he was speaking metaphorically or meant it literally.

�What happened to the head?�

�Ah, I wanted to cleanse it of everything it has ever seen or heard. And done. Cleanse it completely.� Mike turned his innocent blue eyes on Bob.

Bob swallowed. �So now the head is...?�

Mike nodded toward his workshop. �The leather beetles are busy.�

Bob took a deep breath. Was about to ask the name of the detective but changed his mind.

�The gun. Who is it pointed at now?�

�At me.�

And sure enough, Bob saw that the barrel was pointing at Mike Lunde�s own chin. �Tell me, Mike � was I ever a part of the plan?�

�Not the plan. You were a good listener.�

�But I might have stopped you. Ruined everything. You told me all I needed to know. If I�d only gone a little deeper...�

�I realised early on that you wanted to keep me to yourself, so that you could get Tom�s Gomez on your own. Your hunter�s instinct blinded you, and I counted on you not suspecting me until it was too late. Anyway...� Lunde put his thumb against the trigger. �...we all need someone to confess to.�

�Because?�

�Because we�re all lonely.�

Bob stared at Mike Lunde�s thumb. �You told me Tom�s Gomez once said that he would have liked you to meet the person he once was. That you would have liked the person he once was. But you were thinking about you and me, right?�

�Maybe. But as I told you, that person died along with his family. So it really wasn�t all that strange to walk around wearing the mask of a dead man. Both of us are ghosts. You understand?�

�Yes, I think I do.�

Mike Lunde closed his eyes. �Bob?�

�Yes?�

�Are you my friend?�

�I think I am.�

�Can you help me this last bit of the way? It�s so hard.�

�I...�

�Just put your thumb here, on top of mine. Help me squeeze.�

�You don�t need to do this, Mike. There are people who can help. Treat your depression. Not just give you pills.�

�Please, Bob.�

�I can�t, Mike. I haven�t carried a gun, haven�t touched one, since... since...�

�Since your daughter died. I know that. Do it for her, Mike. Give meaning to my death. As a protest against everything meaningless.�

Bob looked into Mike�s eyes. The older man smiled gently. It was so quiet and so peaceful here. It was quiet out there too now. Much too quiet. Bob couldn�t hear it, he could just sense the running footsteps, the whispered commands. In a few seconds they would be here.

�If I hand myself over now, the whole thing will have been in vain. It would no longer be a genuine work of art. It�s all about the eyes, Bob. The eyes have to be right.�

�But...�

�You can tell them. Explain about the work. Because you�re another one who has lost what you loved most of all. But you can start a new life. It�s not too late for you.�

Bob knew exactly how it would go down. A window shattered, a stun grenade that paralysed the senses, then a burst of automatic gunfire before Mike had time to turn his rifle against them.

Bob Oz closed his eyes. Then he whispered her name, the name of his greatest joy. Frankie.

Bob crossed the street from Town Taxidermy and walked toward the SWAT car where Walker stood. His face and posture gave nothing away, but Bob took the warmth in his voice as recognition.

�Good work, Oz.�

Bob pressed his ID card into Walker�s hand and kept walking. Passing the police car he retrieved his mustard-yellow cashmere coat, then ducked under the police tape and slipped away through the spectators. Fortunately, no one seemed to realise he had just played a central role in the drama they had witnessed. Then came a loud, authoritative female voice:

�Bob Oz!�

He looked up and recognised the face of the TV reporter from the sports bar. The same guy holding the camera on his shoulder behind her. A red lamp blinked above the lens and Bob assumed it meant they were on air and live. They backed away in front of him and slowed down, but he didn�t stop.

�Can you describe how you felt in the middle of all this drama?� The reporter put the question with exaggerated body language and a bright red, ingratiating smile as she pushed the microphone into his face.

�Yes, I can,� said Bob, and her smile grew even wider. �But not to you.� He looked straight into the camera. �Viewers, change the channel to WCCO and you�ll hear my whole story. You�ll also get better news there. You�ll even get better weather.�

As he walked on in the direction of his Volvo Bob registered the crestfallen look on the reporter�s face.

A young man with a shoulder bag appeared beside him.

�From the Star Tribune. That was some answer you just gave!� He laughed and sounded as though he meant it. �But are you sure you wouldn�t rather talk to a proper newspaper than WCCO?�

�I was kidding,� said Bob. �I don�t want to talk to anyone. OK?�

�I understand,� said the young man. But kept trotting alongside Bob. �Right now you just want to be left in peace. But once things have quieted down, maybe we can talk then. Here�s my card.�

Bob stopped by the Volvo, picked up the parking ticket wedged under the wipers, took the card in order to get rid of the guy and stuffed both into his coat pocket.

�You�ll get column inches with us,� said the young man.

�What would I want column inches for?�

The boy shrugged. �To say what you think about this. About Lunde. About his project.�

�His project?�

�If the rumour that he is actually Tom�s Gomez is correct then it looks like all of this was a political attack on the NRA and the gun laws. From today on you�re a hero, whether you like it or not, and right now people in this state will be interested to hear your opinions. We�ve got a presidential election coming up and research shows that the majority of people make up their mind which way to vote the last two days before the election. I don�t know where you stand politically on gun control or anything else, and it really doesn�t matter to me. But just think about it, Mr Oz � right at this moment in time there�s a small window open for you when you do actually have some kind of power.�

Bob unlocked the Volvo. �You think I can change anything?�

�Contribute to change, perhaps.�

Bob looked across the roof of the car at the boy standing on the other side. His cheeks were flushed. He looked as if he cared about things, looked like a decent kid.

�You�re an optimist,� said Bob. �What�s your name?�

�Bob.�

�Another one?� He laughed. �How old are you?�

�Twenty-two.�

�OK. I envy you, Bob.�

�Envy me being twenty-two?�

�That as well.�

The older Bob got into his car and started the engine. As he drove off he looked in the mirror and saw the boy following with his eyes. A naive optimist, twenty-two years old. Had he once been like that himself? Bob hoped so. And he hoped that it was the Bob in the mirror who would use the little bit of power he had, not himself. The city � and the world � needed naive optimists more than it needed resigned realists.

Sunday was another sunny day. Kay Myers followed the handwritten directions showing her the route through Minnehaha Park. They invited all adults and children along to something entitled �Emma the Hare and Freddy the Fox�.

She came directly from 1025 Bar, the place where the cops drank, where those who wanted to had gathered to pay tribute to the memory of Olav Hanson. That not everybody did might have had something to do with the fact that it was a Sunday. It might also have been connected to the fact that on the Saturday the Star Tribune had already run a story about the thirty-year-old killings known as �the McDeath massacre� involving Mike Lunde�s family, in which it was implied that the late Olav Hanson had protected the guilty. Walker said a few words that were so vague they could have meant anything at all, and a tearful Joe Kjos started reading something from written notes but had to give up. Bob wasn�t there, but it was Bob and not Olav people talked about as they drank at the wake. Walker told Kay he had rescinded Bob�s suspension with immediate effect following the hostage drama on Saturday. That meant it was operative from Saturday morning, so they didn�t have to explain to the press what a cop under suspension was doing in the middle of the whole drama. And with all the other stuff going on around them at that particular time, the MPD definitely needed a hero.

�I�m telling you this as an example of the sort of trade-offs you�re going to have to make when you take over,� Walker was saying. �Have you got the stomach for it, Myers?�

Kay thought about it before replying that, as regards Bob Oz, that decision was one she would have had no problem taking.

As she walked along the path that twisted through the centrally located park she passed families with children on their way to the waterfalls. They looked happy. And safe. This is what our job is, she thought. It�s to keep these people, these citizens of our city, safe. She realised she had thought of Minneapolis as our city. Was that maybe for the first time? To protect with courage, to serve with compassion. MPD�s motto. She had to smile a little at herself. But maybe it was a day for big words and big thoughts.

She had arrived at the wooden deck in front of the paddling pool where many of the families were now gathered. Here must be where it was going to happen, here, where the roar of the waterfall wasn�t too overwhelming. A number of children were already gathered in front of a wagon on which a miniature stage had been built.

�You came,� said a voice next to Kay.

She turned. She�d never seen him without his mask but recognised the voice at once. He was black, but much lighter-skinned than she was. Younger than she had thought too.

�Kay,� she said.

�Alex. Maybe you�d like a coffee afterward?�

She looked at him. �Maybe,� she said.

�Then let the show begin,� he said with a smile.

He disappeared behind the wagon. A blaring fanfare emerged from what sounded like a ghetto blaster that had seen better days, then the drapes parted and a glove puppet that looked like a hare wearing a princess�s crown made its entry. The children cried out �Look, Daddy!� or �Hey!� or else just cheered in general excitement. Then all went quiet.

�You think maybe I�m just a hare?� the hare said in Alex�s rather feeble imitation of a girl�s voice.

The kids responded with an excited mixture of yeses and noes.

�The ones who answered right got it wrong,� the girl�s voice said. �And the ones who answered wrong got it right.�

Kay closed her eyes to the sun. It was October, election day soon, but still it warmed. You take the good days you get.

The story ends there. Full stop. There is no more. Because stories aren�t like life, which always has more to offer.

So I don�t know what more life has to offer to Kay Myers, only that, six years on from the Mike Lunde case, she is now head of the Homicide Unit and shacked up with a younger colleague.

Nor do I know what life has to offer Brenton Walker. For a while he was a likely candidate as the city�s next chief of police until a diagnosis of cancer slowed him down.

Hector Herrer made a full recovery and now works for the governor of Minnesota.

Kevin Patterson wound up in Washington DC, not as a politician but as a well-paid lobbyist for the agricultural sector. He never made it to the House of Representatives, something some commentators attributed to the damage done to his reputation by NRA lobbyists in the wake of his change of stance on the issue of gun control.

But life has nothing more to offer Marco Dante. He was discharged from hospital a week after the dramatic climax of the Mike Lunde case. Two days later he walked to his car outside the Jordan projects. It was the middle of the day and there was no one else around when he unlocked his car. He didn�t notice the tiny jerk in the door as he opened it, nor did he see the two strands of fishing twine wound around the door handle on the inside. Attached to the other end of them were the two pins Dante had just jerked loose from two hand grenades, placed beneath the pedals in such a way that when he pushed down on them he would press on the levers. Dante started his car. He pushed down on the accelerator with his foot, felt a resistance and then felt the resistance give way. That was when he knew something was wrong. Looking down at the floor between his legs he saw one of his own hand grenades with its lever lying next to it. A thinner man than Marco Dante might perhaps have made it out in time. But to cut a short story even shorter: life had no more to offer him.

One who didn�t think life had much more to offer was Bob Oz. How wrong can you be? I push open the door to Town Taxidermy, and there he is. The red hair is a little thinner than in the pictures from back then, the face more lined. But the cashmere coat is the same, and for an instant it occurs to me that the man sitting motionless on a chair between a bear on its hindlegs and a leaping lynx has turned into the Bob Oz I wrote about in my story; stuffed, frozen in time, arrested in mid-movement. But then � as the bell above the door jingles � he looks over, his eyes light up and a smile spreads across his face.

�Holger!� he says as he gets to his feet.

Over the past two years Bob and I have exchanged hundreds of emails and spent hours of screen time in each other�s company. I�ve offered him a percentage of any royalties from the sales of my book, but he rejected the offer, said the conversations were free therapy for him. Bob has become what I would call a friend. Even though this is the first meeting in person it feels natural to give each other a warm embrace.

He and Liza have moved into a small house in � ironically enough � Chanhassen, just two streets away from where Emily lives. He�s left the police and now works as head of security for a tech company. Not just because the pay is twice as good, but because two years ago Liza gave birth to their baby boy, and Bob wanted a more structured life. And Liza has been offered the chance to take over a bankrupt bar in downtown for next to nothing. The brewers are actually going to pay her to get the place back on its feet again. Bob has admitted that there are times when he misses police work, but that his decision to leave remains one of the few he never regrets.

We sit down. We talk a bit about family stuff, and then I say:

�So this is where you and Mike were sitting that last time?�

�Right here.�

We fall silent. I look out into the street as the scene plays itself over in my mind.

�You must have been afraid,� I say.

�Actually no. He was so calm. And it was all so quiet. Like in a... like in a church.�

�I see.�

�Have you been out to Lakewood Cemetery?�

I nod. Less than two hours earlier I had been standing in the company of his sister Emily by the grave where Mike and his family lie buried. A full stop carved in stone. Although in fact, for Mike, life had come to a full stop long before that.

�You told me you remember Mike as happy,� says Bob. �I never got to see that side of your cousin.�

I nod. �We used to go drinking in Dinkytown. Me, him and Monica, the love of his life. Sometimes Monica brought along a friend who I think they hoped I would fall for. I never met anyone with such faith in the existence of deep and lasting love. I don�t mean a naive faith, but a... well, an overwhelming conviction that it existed, despite the negative experiences of the majority.�

�I know what you mean,� says Bob with a wry smile.

�What do you think of love?�

�What do I think of love? I think...� He scratches himself behind his ear. �...that just occasionally, in between all the little loves, a big one comes along. But it doesn�t necessarily look all that big on the radar, so you need to have your wits about you. And that sometimes a little love can grow, given the right kind of care and nourishment.�

I give him a long look. �Was that your line when you were One-Night Bob, picking up all the girls?�

Bob gives a loud laugh. �One-Night Bob was a pig. But he had integrity, and he never used the word �love�. That�s something only the new Bob has earned the right to say.�

The door to the workshop opens and a young man wearing a blue apron comes in, pulls off his latex gloves and says hello. His name is Alan, he�s the new owner of the store, and from our correspondence I know that when he graduated from his taxidermist studies in Iowa he was one of only three students. But he�s optimistic about the future of the business, he thinks the customers are on the way back. We�ve arranged for him to show me how Mike Lunde made his mask, and he takes us into the workshop, where a deer�s head is mounted on a stand. Alan explains that the process wouldn�t be very different if a human head were involved. I take notes as he demonstrates how you begin by cutting a Y-shape in the back of the head with a sharp knife.

�You always cut from inside the skin out, so you don�t cut off the hair. Then...� He holds up an ordinary, flat screwdriver which he says you insert under the skin and then push along, and little by little the skin comes loose from the cranium.

I can see that Bob is thinking about Mike.

Alan explains how he cuts across the earhole, folds the skin up over the head, then moves to the mouth, separating the gums from the skin and folding it back again. He then presses his index finger into the eye socket from the outside, and the thumb from the inside while cutting with the sharp knife, careful not to leave any disfiguring marks visible from the outside.

Bob leaves the room, and I excuse myself and follow him, leaving my notes behind.

We stand in the street outside.

�There are times when I wish I was still a smoker,� says Bob, stamping his feet on the sidewalk. The air is cold and sharp today, like the start of the Minnesota winters I�ve heard about but never experienced personally.

�What�s on your mind?� I ask.

�I�m wondering what it is that makes a person want to kill, when killing and causing suffering to others can no longer bring your loved ones back to you.�

�You wonder because you don�t understand?�

�No. I wonder because I�m made that same way too. When Frankie died I wished someone had killed her. Because that way I would have had someone I could take my revenge on.�

�You think that would have eased your pain?�

�Yes. A bit. Why are we made that way? Why fight for what�s already been lost?�

�Hm. The teachings of evolution maybe? If we just swallow our losses and allow the powers of evil free rein, the same thing will just happen over and over again. So we fight for a future in which we might, just possibly, get another chance.�

�That�s very naive.�

�Naive, or optimistic. At least better than apathy and quiet resignation.�

�So your book is going to be a defence of violent revenge?�

I shake my head. �I just want to tell a story about how good people can become monsters. For a little while back there, Mike was probably the most famous serial killer in the whole of the United States. Then there was another school shooting, or someone taking revenge on their old workplace, some news item with more victims than there were here, and Mike gets forgotten. And, strangely enough, that can make for a better and more general story.�

�What do you mean?�

On the other side of the street I see an old lady who�s just bought something from a cart I noticed particularly because it advertises Ambassador Hot Dogs, which I used to dream about as a boy when counting the months and weeks until my next trip to Minnesota.

She�s bought two hot dogs.

�Jack London, as I�m sure you know, was an author as well as a journalist,� I say. �He said that fiction is truer than fact. And that the best thing you could do with the facts was to make them look like fiction.�

�And that�s what you intend to do?�

I shrug, and watch as the old lady bends to a homeless man sitting on the sidewalk with his back to the wall of a building. She gives him one of the hot dogs, straightens up, they exchange a few words, she laughs at something and then walks on.

�I�m going to try, at least,� I say. �It�s probably the only thing that gives any meaning.�