“Johan was blond, too, but he was a lot huskier, you know? Quite a bit bigger.”
—
Siri stepped out onto the stoop and felt the cold nip her cheeks; she began to trudge toward the others. Then she heard the farmer’s voice calling out behind her.
“Hey. Hold up.”
She turned around. The farmer was on the steps, something in his hand.
“Yes?”
“I don’t know if this will help, but this is Johan, during harvest time in 2000. We always try to take a picture on the last day, before we celebrate the harvest. I just thought, maybe you know what happened to him, or you could find out. Best farmhand I ever had. I hope everything worked out for that boy.”
It was a framed group picture taken in front of the barn. Theywere lined up like a motley soccer team, all of them: the farmer and his wife, their kids, the workers. Siri counted fourteen people in all. The farmer pointed to a young man crouching down and glancing at something off to the side, as if he hadn’t expected to have his picture taken and couldn’t think of an excuse to avoidit.
Siri stared atit.
“Are you sure this was taken in the year 2000?”
“Yes, of course. First harvest of the new millennium. Although it was a bad year, as I recall.”
“Could you remove it from the frame?”
The farmer freed the flimsy photograph with surprisingly nimble fingers.
“You can borrow it if you like. Does this mean you recognize him?”
“No, but I can pass the photo and your information along to my colleagues, and maybe they can track down Johan.”
—
Siri shrank into herself as she walked alongside Vidar through Norre Katt Park.
“I’m so ashamed,” she said. “I don’t know what to say, especially now, with Filip. It feels like it’s all my fault. If only I’d said something, if I’d dared to speak up, maybe he’d be…”
“What?” Vidar said. “Alive? Probably not.”
“But maybe he would.”
Siri stopped and took her hand from her back pocket. In her palm was a photograph, folded double.
90
“I stopped to take a leak around Esmared. I thought it was no big deal, it was Christmas Eve. It was dark and deserted. But I’m standing what, like three or four yards away with my johnson out, when I hear the car door slam and the engine start. The car takes off. Someone, no idea who, is behind the wheel. Never found out who it was either. He looked young. A junkie, maybe. Or, you know, the type who doesn’t know the difference between ‘mine’ and ‘yours.’ Hell if I know.”
It had been a chilly night, and Killian didn’t have much with him. What few belongings he did have were in the car.
Then he heard awhoomp. He didn’t understand what was going on until he saw an orange glow rising between the trees not far off.
“By the time I got there, the car was engulfed in flames. I saw the guy behind the wheel, he was stuck and couldn’t get out.” Killian made a face. “It was the worst thing I’ve ever seen. Goddamn. You know, this mental image of him burning to death, and I can still smell it. I wanted to help, but then there was another explosion and I hightailed it out of there. I might have passed out for a little bit, I don’t know. When I climbed back up, it was still just blazing and I knew it was too late, he was dead. I thought of all my stuff in the car. But then it hit me.”
A young man in the car. Killian’s ID and clothes in the passenger seat.
“I just left it there. And ran.”
A snap decision with consequences that would reach across half a lifetime.
“Where did you run to?”
