Emelie Schepp - Slowly We Die

Who? Jana thought, raising her glass to her mouth again.

* * *

Henrik Levin carefully closed the front door behind him. He left his shoes in the hallway, hung up his jacket, then stepped into the kitchen. He could hear his infant son, Vilgot, screaming and his wife, Emma, talking softly to him in the bedroom upstairs. She was shushing him gently, saying it was time to go to sleep.

Henrik smiled to himself and walked up the stairs, peeking quietly into the bedroom and seeing Emma standing there with Vilgot in her arms. Her delicate face was pale, and her hair, which was almost always in a large topknot, hung loose. He nodded to her quietly, then continued silently to his son Felix’s room, stroked his hair and whispered good-night. Then he went to his daughter Vilma’s room, where he accidentally stepped squarely on a Lego.

“Shit!” he said.

“Daddy, you swore.”

“Why aren’t you asleep?” he asked, leaning over the bed and meeting Vilma’s large, blinking eyes.

“You said ‘shit,’” she said.

“Don’t say that word.”

“But you just did.”

“We shouldn’t say ugly words.”

“Why did you do it, then?”

“Because I hurt my foot.”

“Don’t we say ‘ow’ then?”

“Yes, but sometimes we say ugly words when we hurt ourselves or when we’re angry or tired.”

“Why?”

“Because. Now, my curious little monkey, it’s time for you to sleep.”

Henrik pulled the covers up to her chin and kissed her on the forehead. He closed the door quietly.

Emma turned toward him as he returned to their bedroom.

They hugged with Vilgot between them.

“Hi,” Henrik said. “You look beautiful.”

“Thanks,” Emma whispered.

Henrik laid his hand gently on Vilgot’s little head.

“Did you have a good day today?”

“No. Vilgot’s not sleeping enough. I remember both Felix and Vilma could sleep a few hours in a row by this point. Vilgot hardly sleeps more than fifteen minutes at a time, it seems. I don’t get anything done during the day. I have no idea how I’m going to be able to plan this move.”

“Don’t worry about it. The movers are coming a week from Friday, and the cleaners come the weekend after that. All we have to do is pack.”

“It’s a little more than ‘all we have to do,’” she said, rocking the baby in her arms. “I feel so stressed. When I walk around the house, all I see is all the stuff that needs to be done. You don’t see it day in and day out.”

“I know,” he said. “But I have a few other things to think about right now. A man accused of murder escaped from the hospital today.”

“From the hospital?” Emma asked, looking at him. “Who?”

“Do you remember Danilo Peña?”

“Yes, of course. He escaped?”

“Yes.”

“Oh dear,” she said. “And you’re searching for him, I assume.”

“Yes, everywhere.”

“Around the clock?”

Henrik met her gaze.

“Yes.”

“So I’m going to have to take care of the move myself,” she said.

“Not necessarily.”

Henrik let his eyes drift to the floor, seeing the scene before him again. The ambushed male nurse with the syringe stuck in his chest, the bloody fingerprints, the guard beaten and tied up in the closet. A violent criminal on the loose.

Vilgot whimpered, bringing Henrik back to reality.

“Let me take him now,” he said to Emma.

“Are you sure?”

“You need to eat.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll eat after you do.”

Emma padded out of the bedroom.

Henrik shifted Vilgot in his arms and rocked him. He felt the baby’s tiny hands and stroked his soft head. Then he let his gaze wander around the room, and his thoughts returned to Danilo Peña.

A shiver suddenly went down his spine, as if someone were watching him from behind. He turned and looked out the window toward the dark yard. The glow from the closest streetlight stretched over the smooth lawn to the open area in front of their townhouse.

He couldn’t put a finger on his sudden uneasiness, but something made an icy chill creep up his spine when he thought about Danilo Peña out there somewhere.

He looked at Vilgot again and saw that the baby was asleep. His heart was pounding as he laid him in the crib. Then he left the bedroom and went downstairs, going first to the entryway and checking that the front door was locked.

Not just once.

Twice.

* * *

The tomato soup was simmering in the kitchen.

Jana Berzelius left the pot on the induction cooktop and reduced the temperature. She still wasn’t hungry, but she thought she should probably eat something anyway. She pulled the hollow-edged carving knife out of the knife block, cut a thick slice of leftover sourdough baguette and stuffed a piece of it into her mouth as she flipped through channels on the wall-mounted television in her kitchen to find the news station.

As she removed the simmering soup from the cooktop to the counter, she heard her cell phone ring from the bedroom. When she went and picked it up, she saw a familiar name.

Twice earlier that day she had ignored Per. This time, she knew she had to answer. She put the phone to her ear as she walked back to the kitchen.

“I think you’re avoiding me,” he said loudly to compensate for the noise in the background.

“What makes you think that?” she asked.

“Well, first of all, you didn’t let me into your office today. Second, you haven’t answered my voice mail.”

“I’ve been busy. Something came up that...”

“I can hardly hear you,” he interrupted.

“It was nothing,” she said.

“I waited for you to come back, anyway.”

Jana sighed, opened a cupboard and stretched on her tiptoes to reach a soup bowl.

“Why is that?” she asked.

“I was going to tell you something about a person in whom you might be interested...”

“A person?”

“Yes, a person who is now an escapee.”

“And who is that?” she said.

“Danilo Peña.”

The bowl slipped from her hands and broke on the tile floor. She tried to process the significance of Per’s words, but it was hard to compose her thoughts as they raced around in her head. What? How had her nemesis, Danilo, escaped? It couldn’t be true. Per must have said the wrong name, she thought.

“Could you say that again?” she said in an attempt to stay calm.

“You remember Danilo Peña, right?” he asked. “The Thai women, narcotics smuggling?”

“I remember,” she said curtly.

“He escaped from the hospital today.”

She leaned forward, supporting herself with her hand on the kitchen counter.

“And what are the police saying?” she asked.

“At the moment they have no knowledge of where he could be but believe that he’s still in town. I’d love to tell you more over dinner.”

“Dinner?” she asked.

“Yes—I left you a message about dinner. Asking if you’d like to come to my place for filet mignon tonight.”

“Oh, well...I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

“But you have to...”

“...eat, I know.”

Suddenly, she heard something knocking and stiffened. Slowly, she went out of the kitchen, looked down the dark hallway at the jackets and shoes and then into the bedroom.

“Hello?” Per said.

“Yes?” she replied.

“You don’t even have to walk. I can come and get you, and later I’ll drive you home.”

“It’s only a mile, Per.”

“How can you say no to filet mignon?”

“I don’t know...” she said, walking back to the kitchen. The light from the television colored the tile floor red, blue and white.

“I have a hard time understanding you sometimes,” he said, and she realized she’d fallen silent again.