Chapter 35
Five hours after driving his Jeep away from the boatyard on the mainland near Lyng?r, Leif arrived at Hemsedal, a mountainous region with snow-capped peaks and emerald valleys.
He blasted alternative rock to drown out his thoughts, as the tires bumped over the stony root-ridden terrain.
If he was smart, he told himself, he would let it go.
But he deserved to know the truth about the accident.
And besides, he thought, as he maneuvered behind Erik’s cargo van on the side of the dirt road, someone owed Ella an apology for vandalizing Ringpynten, and that person appeared to be Erik.
Zipping his coat against the cold drizzle, Leif trudged along the moss-cushioned path that led to Erik’s cabin.
In the dense evergreen forest, a needled branch brushed against his head.
He snapped the limb from the tree and tossed it to the ground.
Why would Erik do it? Leif thought he had some idea, and it turned his stomach.
Above him, silver light pushed in through the pine branches. He tipped his chin at the slice of sky. Please let there be a sensible reason why the fishmonger’s nets ended up in Erik’s office.
Erik’s one-story brown cabin lay ahead. A twelve-point stag trotted across the clearing and disappeared into the birch trees that bordered the snow-dusted mountain range. Leif hoped seeing the animal was a good omen.
Grass and pine shoots grew on the sod roof.
Leif saw a copy of Crime and Punishment lying on the table on the porch and wondered if it was a sign of Erik’s guilt.
He wiped his feet on the bristle mat and knocked once on the door before entering the damp, dark room that seemed to promise mildew and mice.
Erik sat on the upholstered sofa in front of the blazing fireplace.
Flickering shadows from the flames masked his face.
“There’s a twelve-point stag in your front yard,” Leif said. He unlaced his hiking boots, the worn floorboards creaking as his weight shifted.
Erik leaned forward and grabbed his whittling knife and a block of wood from the reindeer rug at his feet. Leif placed his boots next to a trout rod propped against the pine wall.
“Been fishing?”
“You want to talk about fishing?” Erik grunted at Leif and pulled his cap farther down on his brow.
“No. I’m here to ask some questions and I want the truth.”
“How about a drink? My first one today.” Erik nodded at the bottle on the mantel. Leif found two cups and poured a finger of whiskey into each.
As always, they toasted in unison: “Sk?l.” Erik tipped back his cup, his eyes still fixed on the flames. Leif shifted uncomfortably.
“What about the nets, and the vandalism to Ella’s cottage?”
Erik’s silence was as good as any answer. It felt like a punch to the chest.
“Why?” Leif sank down on the stool and rubbed his chin. Suspecting Erik had been terrible enough, but the truth was devastating.
“Ella was asking too many questions,” Erik grumbled.
“Who cares? She wants to know about her family. There’s no harm in that. What the hell is wrong with you?”
Erik ignored him. He chipped at his wood block haphazardly and pricked his hand with the point of the blade. Blood seeped from the small cut, but he continued to scrape and stab at the wood. The lines deepened in Erik’s hard face.
“This is crap.” He chucked the block onto the burning logs, threw the knife on the floor with a clatter, and licked the blood from his hand.
“You knew Ella’s mum, Sara, didn’t you? It’s bad enough that you didn’t tell me, but you should have told Ella.”
“I can’t . . .” Erik’s voice tapered off. He hunched his shoulders and pressed his palms against his eyes.
Leif plowed on. “Tell me, now.”
“I love you like a son. You’ve been through enough.” Erik swallowed hard.
“It’s about the accident, isn’t it?”
Erik’s hand trembled as he lit his cigar. The torment of that night was written all over his face.
“Yes. Ella’s mother was there.”
So it was true. Both grief and fury roared through Leif.
“Why keep this from Ella? She deserves to know how her mum died.”
“I killed Sara.”
“Bullshit!” Leif tripped over the stool as he rushed to stand before Erik. “You can be a real ass sometimes, but you’re not a murderer.”
Erik looked up. “I also killed your father.”
“You killed them? How?” Leif pleaded, the hairs on his neck rising.
Erik reached for the fireplace poker and stabbed at the logs as he spoke to the fire. “We were on the water, just outside of Lyng?r Sound. A storm came up. I thought I could handle it.”
“You? What do you mean, you?” Leif straightened the stool and fought the urge to throw it against the wall.
“Your father was drunk. I was a little drunk too . . . but I took the helm.”
“You’ve been lying to everyone—to me—all these years?” Leif felt dizzy.
“You were five when it happened. I took you into my home. If I had told you the truth, you would have hated me.”
Leif said nothing. The room felt stifling, and he couldn’t breathe. He raised the window with a bang. Cold valley air pushed into the room and chilled him, the sudden change making him shiver.
“Try to understand, Leif. I was driving the boat, and I was the only person to come out alive. I was racked with guilt but even more terrified of being found out. I might have gone to prison. The village would have shunned me.”
“So you blamed it on my father?” Leif’s throat ached in anguish. For as long as he could remember, he’d been both livid and disillusioned with his father for causing the horrific deaths, as well as their tragic ripple effects. He narrowed his eyes at Erik. “But why the fish? Why Ella?”
“When that girl showed up, something snapped in me. She looks exactly like her mother.”
Leif broke into a cold sweat. He went into the kitchen, turned on the tap, and splashed water on his face.
How would his own life have been different if he had known the truth?
Leaning over the running water, he considered this parallel life.
Perhaps he would have felt better about himself if he hadn’t grown up in the shadow of his father’s crime.
He wouldn’t have had to personally bear the pity and disgust of everyone in the village.
Meanwhile, Erik—the real sinner in this scenario—was praised as a hero for taking on Little Orphan Leif.
He couldn’t believe it. He swiped his sleeve across his forehead and moved back to the other room, almost in a trance.
Erik started up again as soon as Leif reentered the room, like he didn’t want to waste any more time. “We were headed to Whale Island. There was a storm, but it seemed far away.”
“Only an idiot would drive around Whale Island in a storm! Those waves can reach two meters high.” Leif balled up his fists and shuddered.
Erik’s words came faster. “We’d all been drinking. I was young and cocky, and thought I could handle the weather. By the time I realized the danger, it was too late. A rogue wave hit us.” Erik’s voice cracked. “The engine died, and the boat headed for the rocks.”
Leif closed his eyes at the gruesome image.
“Your father and two other fellas jumped ship.”
Leif quickly held up his hand. “Stop. Not another word.” He never saw his father’s body, but he could picture it. Sometimes when he was on the water, or when he looked at the mural at the Propeller, he thought about Bjorn slamming against the rocks. He could almost hear the crunch of bones.
“And Ella’s mother, Sara?” Leif said.
“Sara fell overboard. I tried to grab her, but I was too late. She hit the rocks and disappeared under the water.”
“You must tell Ella. You have to make this right.”
Erik let out a rough sob. Leif wanted to punch something . . . someone. He loved Erik. He’d been like a father to him, but this was more than he could take.