Chapter 1 The courthouse. September 4, 4 p.m. Jacob Skarre glanced at his watch. His shift was over. He slipped a book out of his jacket pocket and read the poem on the first page. Its like virtual reality, he thought. Poof!and youre in a completely different landscape. The door to the corridor stood open, and suddenly he was aware that someone was watching him, someone just beyond the range of his excellent peripheral vision. A vibration, light as a feather, barely perceptible, finally reached him. He closed the book. Can I help you? The woman didnt move, just stood there staring at him with an odd expression. Skarre looked at her tense face and thought she seemed familiar. She was no longer young, maybe about sixty, and wore a coat and dark boots. There was a scarf around her neck, just visible; he could see it above her collar. Its pattern offered a sharp contrast to what she most likely possessed in the way of speed and elegance: racehorses with jockeys in colorful silks against a dark blue background. She had a wide, heavy face, elongated by a prominent chin. Her eyebrows were dark and had grown almost together. She was clutching a handbag against her stomach. Most noticeable of all was her gaze. Her eyes were blazing in that pale face. They fixed him with a tremendous force. Then he remembered who she reminded him of. What an odd coincidence, he thought, as he waited for her to speak. He sat there as if riveted by the silence. Any minute now, she was going to say something momentous. It has to do with a missing person, she said. Her voice was rough. A rusty tool creaking into motion after long idleness. Behind her white forehead burned a fire. Skarre could see it flickering in her irises. He was trying not to make assumptions, but obviously she was possessed. Gradually it dawned on him what sort of person he was dealing with. In his mind he rehearsed the days reports, but he could not recall whether any patients had been listed as missing from the psychiatric institutes in the district. She was breathing heavily, as if it had cost her considerable effort to come here. But she had made up her mind, driven by something. Skarre wondered how she had got past the reception area and Mrs. Brenningens eagle eye. Who is missing? he asked in a friendly voice. She kept staring at him. He met her gaze with the same force, curious to see if she would flinch. Her expression turned to one of confusion. I know where he is. Skarre was startled. You know where he is? So hes not missing? He probably wont live much longer, she said. Her thin lips began to quiver. Whom are we talking about? Skarre said. He hazarded a guess: Do you mean your husband? Yes. My husband. She nodded resolutely, stood there, straight-backed and unmoving, her handbag still pressed to her stomach. Skarre leaned back in his chair. Your husband is sick, and youre worried about him. Is he old? It was an inappropriate question. Life is life, as long as a perso Excerpted from When the Devil Holds the Candle by Karin Fossum All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
