Raid and the Blackest Sheep (30 page)

    
“Me too.”

21.

Huusko dropped Jansson off at his house around six in the evening. Jansson took his suitcase out of the back seat and thanked Huusko for the ride.

    
“Best not to gripe about your back for a little while,” said Huusko.

    
“Right.”

    
Jansson saw the drapes flutter in the upstairs window. He climbed over the fence and cut across the lawn. On the way, he picked an apple, took a juicy bite and tossed the remains under the hawthorn hedge.

    
His car was parked in the driveway and the front door was unlocked. Jansson set his suitcase on the entry bench and kicked off his shoes.

    
“I’m home,” he hollered from the kitchen.

    
On the kitchen table was a bottle of sparkling wine on ice, and next to the cooler was a small plate of crackers topped with smoked salmon and roe. Jansson inhaled one in a single bite and washed it down with wine.

    
He heard some music coming from upstairs and recognized Placido Domingo. The first checkmark was
 
hanging on
 
the stair railing: his
 
wife’s
 
panties,

black, little and lacy. There was no mistaking the invitation.

    
Jansson inhaled another cracker, took the plate in one hand, tucked the bottle under his arm, and took the wine glass in his other hand.

    
A black thigh-high stocking was dangling from the bedroom doorknob. The door was ajar enough that Jansson was able to bump it open with his knee.

    
His wife had drawn the curtains and left on only the bedside lamp. She lay on her right side in the classic come-hither position, dressed in something that should be banned for anyone under fifty.

    
The three tenors raised their tremolos to the highest imaginable frequency. His wife lifted her hand to her hip and caressed it.

    
“Show me what kind of shape they got you in now.”

    
“You wanna cracker?” asked Jansson, offering the plate.

    
“No.”

    
“What about some bubbly?”

    
“No.”

    
“Isn’t the music a little loud?”

    
“No. Aren’t you a little overdressed?”

    
“Sometimes you think you know a person, but you really don’t…”

    
“What are you talking about?”

    
“Lieutenant Kempas.”

    
“Forget Kempas and pay attention to your wife.”

    
Jansson set the bottle on the nightstand and the plate of crackers next to it. He loosened his belt and unsnapped his pants. He couldn’t get any further before his wife yanked them down.

    
“What about foreplay?” Jansson asked.

    
“Forget it.”

    
“Right down to business, huh?”

    
“Right down to business.”

22.

The collection plate in Turku’s Elia Church completed its rounds more brimming than ever. Complete forgiveness of sins, new hearts, washed in the blood of the lamb, new souls, as white as heavenly linen. New joy and jubilation as the sinners received grace. Verily, verily, was there good reason to slay the fatted calf and call the guests to partake in the joys.

    
Only the pastor was old. The same old suit, the same thick gold chain on his wrist, the same slick part in his hair, the same greed and cynicism.

    
Pastor Koistinen stood behind the lectern, his hands in the air, palms up.

    
“For my enemies have retreated, fallen to the ground and turned to dust in front of thine eyes. Thou hast granted me the authority and championed my cause. Sit on thy throne, oh righteous judge. My enemies have been destroyed, cast into eternal ruin, their cities overthrown, their memories vanquished…”

    
The double doors opened and Raid strode inside. He walked up the center aisle to the middle of the church. One by one, the voices hushed, and at last Koistinen came out of his rousing tirade.

    
Koistinen stretched out his arm and leveled a finger at Raid.

    
“I have received grace and a new life in heaven, you have no power over me…”

    
“You get a new wallet too?”

    
“Seek salvation, heal thyself and turn away from sin! Your life is as brief as the grass in the field; today it grows and tomorrow it’s cut. God alone knows when the harvest will come.”

    
“God and I.”

    
Raid drew a gun from beneath his coat, cocked it and fired two quick shots into Koistinen’s chest, directly into his heart.

    
Koistinen crumpled to his knees before pitching forward onto his face. Then he was no more. He was like the grass in the field, which yesterday grew and today was cut.

    
Raid turned and walked out.

    
In front of the building was an old Mercedes, a car with a tale. One day, he would tell the tale to someone who was entitled to hear it. And he would add his own parts to it and it would become richer.

    
He drove down the neon-tinged main street, through a sleepy suburb and banked to the right into the current of the highway.

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