She went closer.
Drifts of dead insects were stil littering the insides of the windows. They covered the bottom third of the screens.
She pul ed the hood over her head. A stiff gale was blowing in from the Oslo fjord just below, sharp as needles.
It was the flies that had let on that something was wrong inside the Italians' motor home. The people in the neighboring tents had complained about the buzzing, and eventual y also about the smel. 150 The owner of the site, a man named Olsen, hadn't been too bothered. The Italians were paying for their patch on account, and he wasn't fussy. If people wanted to keep flies as pets, he wasn't about to stop them.
When the police eventual y arrived, the windows were completely covered in swarms of black insects. They were as thick as curtains.
It was estimated that the bodies had been there for over a month.
Dessie pul ed out the copy of the Polaroid picture, taken before the flies had started to lay eggs.
The wind tore at the sheet of paper, and she had to hold it with both hands.
The letter and postcard had only been found the previous morning. The reporter the kil ers had chosen had gone away on vacation the day the card was posted. No one had been checking his mail.
When he returned to work at the paper, he found both the postcard, TO BE OR NOT TO BE, and the photograph Dessie now had before her.
Antonio Bonino and Emma Vendola had been on a driving tour of Europe, and had arrived in Oslo on the morning of May 17. They wanted to experience Norway's national day, the celebrations when the Norwegians mark the anniversary of their country's independence.
Emma worked as a secretary at a PR agency. Antonio was studying to be a dentist. They had been married for two years.
She looked at the victims' picture again.
Their hands had been placed close to their faces, the palms to their ears.
The kil ers had stuffed two pairs of black tights in their mouths, giving the faces a grotesque expression of pain and horror.
She had recognized the work of art immediately, and it was famous.
Edvard Munch's The Scream, a painting that had become world-famous to a new generation as the logo for the horror movie Scream.
Dessie could feel her eyes wel ing up. She didn't know if it was because of the wind or the thought of the dead couple.
They had been saving up to buy this vehicle ever since they got married.
Six bunks, so there would be room for the children when they came along.
Did they have time to feel afraid?
Did they feel any pain?
She turned away from the motor home and walked toward the exit, not wanting to think about the dead anymore.
Instead she conjured up Jacob's image. His messy hair, the crumpled suede jacket, the sparkling blue eyes. He hadn't been in touch.
He'd disappeared from her life as though he'd never been there.
This past week could have been a dream, or, rather, a nightmare, in which her whole life had been turned upside down by forces she had no control over.
Dessie shivered.
She stopped by the exit and turned around to look back at the abandoned campsite.
Wil owy birch trees bent beneath the wind; the water down below was gray with geese. The cordon around the motor home flapped in the wind.
The Rudolphs could have been responsible for these murders.
They hadn't been arrested yet in the middle of May.
Chapter 114
Stockholm, Sweden
Sylvia let Malcolm go in first.
She enjoyed watching the effect he had on poor, dul Andrea Friederichs: the lawyer clearly became positively moist the moment he walked into a room.
"Dear Malcolm," the lawyer said, standing up and grasping his hand with both of hers. Her cheeks glowed bright red. Her eyes swept from his biceps down toward the curve of his backside.
Sylvia sat down opposite her and smiled.
"It's great that we're getting close to a financial agreement," she said.
The lawyer's smile faded as she glanced at Sylvia. She put on her uglyduckling reading glasses and started to leaf through the papers on the table.
They were in one of the smal er conference rooms of the Grand Hotel, the room the lawyer had reserved to conduct negotiations for the global rights to Sylvia and Malcolm's story.
"Wel, I've had final bids for both the book and the film rights," she said, putting the documents in two piles in front of her.
"There are four parties bidding for both packages, six who want only the book, and three, possibly four, who just want to make the film. I thought we might go through them together so that you -"
"Who's offering the biggest advance?" Sylvia asked.
The lawyer blinked at her over the thick black frame of her glasses.
"There are a number of different conditions attached to the various bids," she said. "Nielsen and Berner in New York, for instance, have a very interesting proposal including a television series, a computer game, a lecture tour… for the two of you."
"Excuse me," Sylvia interrupted, "but how much are they offering as an advance?"
Dear Andrea took a theatrical deep breath.
"Not much at al. Their package is the largest in total, but it's conditional upon your ful participation in the marketing campaign."
Malcolm stretched, making his T-shirt ride up. He scratched his stomach.
"The advance?" he said, smiling toward Andrea.
Her angular face broke into a foolish smile and she fumbled with the papers again.
"The largest advance is offered by Yokokoz, a Japanese company that real y wants only the digital rights. They wil make a manga series, with al the spin-offs that entails – col ectable cards, clothing, and so on. They want to sel the book and film rights, without you having any say in where they end up…"
"How much?" Malcolm asked.
"Three mil ion dol ars," Andrea said.
Sylvia stretched her back.
"That sounds pretty good," she said. "Sign up with Yokokoz."
The lawyer blinked.
"But," she said, "the agreement has to be refined. We can't leave the question of subsidiary sales open. You have to have control over the finished product…"
"Try to get them up to three and a half mil ion," Sylvia said, "although that's not a deal breaker. But they have to pay us now. Anything else and the deal's off with them. Right? We're clear?"
Andrea Friederichs shifted uncomfortably in her chair. Clearly, she wasn't clear.
"If I could just remind you about my fee," she said. "I can't take a percentage because I'm a member of the Association of Swedish Lawyers, but I presume we're fol owing usual practice?"
Sylvia raised her eyebrows in surprise.
"Are we? I don't remember signing an agreement like that. Nor does Malcolm."
"No, I don't."
Andrea Friederichs clicked her bal point pen in irritation.
"A quarter of the total is usual in cases like this. We discussed it the first time we spoke. I must tel you that some agents take considerably more."
Sylvia nodded.
"I know twenty-five percent is the norm," she said, "but in our case I think five percent is more appropriate."
The lawyer looked as though she couldn't believe what she'd just heard.
"What do you mean? A hundred and fifty thousand dol ars? That's quite absurd!"
Sylvia smiled again.
"You're getting five percent."
Andrea Friederichs started to get up from her chair. Her blushes had grown into fiery blotches covering her whole neck.
"Almost a mil ion and a half Swedish kronor for a few days' work,"
Sylvia said. "You think that's absurd? I suppose that it is."
"There's such a thing as legal precedent…," the lawyer began.
Sylvia leaned over and lowered her voice to an almost inaudible whisper.
"Have you forgotten who we are?" she breathed, and she saw how Andrea Friederichs sank back in her chair, her face drained of color.
Part Three
Chapter 115