Karin Fossum - The Caller

And what others think.

He’d reached the house.

He hit the brakes. The big Land Cruiser stopped so abruptly that gravel spat from the tyres. The dog kennel was empty. The doors were wide open. Everything skidded to a halt. How was it possible? He sat there desperately clutching the steering wheel. Even though he blinked repeatedly, even though he slapped at his forehead, the picture was the same: the dog kennel was empty, the doors were open. All seven dogs were gone. Someone must have been up here, it occurred to him. It simply wasn’t possible for the dogs to get out of the secure kennel by themselves. Not a chance in hell. How could it have happened? The doors were in order; he kept a close eye on such things because he was aware of his responsibility. The dogs were big and strong. What the hell happened? Was someone here? Where have the dogs gone? He got out of the car, and saw Lazy sitting near the house, tenaciously licking its paws. The dog was bloody and soiled around its mouth. Schillinger walked across the grass. The car idled, his heart beat fast, as if he had run up the hill and not driven. Yes, the kennel was empty; all seven of the dogs had gone hunting. They had found prey, and the blood around Lazy’s jaw came from that prey. What had they killed? God forbid it was a house pet. You can’t lose your composure, he told himself, there’s got to be an explanation. He continued up to the house, carefully distributing his weight as he went, like crossing ice in winter. He felt a little weak. Halfway across the driveway he had to pause, bend over and put his hands on his knees.

The large husky stopped licking its paws and raised its head to look at him, and Schillinger moved towards it slowly. He spread his legs and stood tall, not yielding an inch, even though the dog was in a strange mood. Lazy got up and lowered its head. Definitely blood, Bjørn Schillinger thought. My heart, God, how it’s beating, they must’ve killed a cat. Or a fox. Or a dog. Please, don’t let it be a dog. Then he heard the low growl. Lazy bared its teeth. It no longer subjected itself to Schillinger, no longer treated him like the leader of the pack, which both frightened and angered him. He took the risk and rushed forward, throwing himself at Lazy and pressing the dog to the ground, taking hold and forcing its jaw open. He stared directly at the blood and patches of skin clinging to its teeth. They probably got a sheep, he thought. I’ll placate Sverre Skarning and pay him for the loss. Pay him damned well. As he knelt there fighting his panic, the dog on its back beneath him, two more dogs came sauntering out of the woods. Ajax and Marathon. Their jaws were also bloody. For one moment he had no energy, and little by little he grew nauseous. He wanted to get up, but his body was so heavy that his arms wouldn’t obey.

The dog kennel was open. How had it happened?

In anger he leaned down and growled into Lazy’s throat, growled like a madman. Finally the dog gave in. It whimpered weakly, and its strong body relaxed. He went off to collect the other two, steering them across the garden and into the kennel. They slinked about inside and looked at him furtively, embarrassed, pacing from side to side in the cage, with an energy they could no longer direct anywhere. They’d become different dogs now, dogs he had no feelings for, just large beasts with sharp teeth. He tried to bare his own teeth at them, and it brought tears to his eyes. He investigated the kennel’s aluminium gate, and found it intact. None of the metal bars had been cut. Everything was in place, the bolt and everything. But I couldn’t have forgotten to lock it, he thought.

Then he saw more dogs coming out of the woods. They too were bloody. They too behaved differently. Now his thoughts began to go in circles. There were people in the woods, of course, on these fine late-summer days. Some rode bikes, others hiked to one of the many streams to fish. And if they ran into seven dogs … no, he wouldn’t even entertain the thought. He had to act now. He got Bonnie and Yazzi into the kennel, then with a stick chased Attila and Goodwill into the enclosure, slammed the gate, pulled the bolt, flipped down the latch and ran to get the garden hose.

The dogs were out .

They were all bloody .

Now he had to think clearly. So much was at stake, his and the dogs’ future. His good name and reputation. His entire life. He pulled and yanked at the hose; it just reached the kennel. Then he rushed down to the cellar to turn on the water, ran up again and took hold of the hose, then began spraying the dogs. They pulled back, recoiling to their corners, but weren’t able to evade the hard blast of ice-cold water. He kept at it until the dogs were completely clean, at the same time listening for cars and people, in case anyone was on the way. I always close the gate after me, he thought. I feed them, and then I close the gate. Three quick movements: shutting the gate, pushing the bolt and flipping down the latch. Besides, I’m not the only one who owns dogs. Down near Svarttjern is a man with four huskies. What’s his name again? Huuse. I might be able to get away with it. OK, so they got a sheep. But there are so many sheep, and only seven of the kind of dog I have. He hosed the dogs again, jets of water showering them in the eyes and jaw. The terrible part, he thought, is that people will be hysterical, will demand that the dogs be put down. No matter what. Whether they nabbed a fox or a deer. He kept the water trained on them a while longer. When finally he rolled up the hose and threw it on the ground, the dogs were dripping wet and quite clean. Then he went into the kennel and headed over to Attila, the alpha dog. He bent down, lifted the dog’s head and stared into its yellow eyes.

‘Where have you been?’ he snarled. ‘What the hell have you done?’

After the shower of ice-cold water the dog was back in its subordinate position, and it licked its master’s chin. Schillinger gave it a powerful shove, cursing low and earnestly. Then he left the kennel and carefully closed the door behind him.

The gate, the bolt and the latch.

Just to be certain, he pulled at the gate twice.

I can’t have forgotten the door, he thought. Someone must have been here. They got a sheep, I’m sure. But either way, it’ll be pure hell. People don’t tolerate much.

He realised the Land Cruiser was still idling and cut the motor. Then it was silent as a grave. With no more sounds now, either from the woods or from the dogs, he carried on into the house. Sitting by the window, he stared out towards the road, waiting for someone to come.

Wilma Bosch was out of her mind with grief.

It happened when they explained her son’s fate to her. That it had been several dogs, possibly an entire pack. That they had lunged at him. That they had shorn the skin from his muscles, and the muscles from his bones. Immediately she was taken to the Central Hospital and treated for shock. Torment and sorrow tore her to pieces; she felt teeth and claws slice into her bone marrow. And she screamed. As Theo had screamed. They gave her strong, calming medicine so she would fall asleep. When she woke up, she continued screaming.

Theo’s remains were laid in a body bag, and taken to the Institute of Forensic Medicine. Hannes and Wilma were strongly advised not to see him. At first Hannes had insisted, but he finally gave up, burning in shame.

It’s my fault, he thought. It’s my fault, and now I’m a coward. When Sejer and Skarre visited him, he sat in a chair with Optimus Prime on his lap. He tried changing the robot into a truck, as Theo had done in a few simple moves, but he couldn’t do it. He had sat like this for a long time. Several times he’d heard a little clicking noise in the hallway, and at once imagined it was Theo returning, that he’d met his grandfather Pim on the other side and had been told to return to Earth. Because Wilma needed him. And because small boys should stay on Earth as long as possible. Again and again he heard the little clicking beyond the door. But no Theo slipped quietly into the room. Now I’ll lose my mind, he thought, just like Wilma. Then, himself again, he realised that the police were waiting for him to reply.