Sohlberg and the Gift Read Online Free PDF

husband. What’s left of him. He doesn’t even know who I am anymore. Doesn’t know my name . . . just knows that I’m someone who feeds him and cares for him. On rare occasion he seems as if he recognizes me as someone kind or important from his past. Other days he talks to me about his wife and how she was nice and took great care of him.”
     
    “I’m so very sorry,” said the pained Sohlberg. “I didn’t know.”
     
    “Now you do. Go back to Oslo and tell them all to go to hell.”
     
    “Oh I will.”
     
    “Especially that rat of Ivar Thorsen. I’ll live as long as I can so I can one day spit on his grave.”
     
    Fru Nygård’s rancor followed Sohlberg all the way back to Oslo. The unjust treatment and ultimate fate of Bjørn Nygård rankled Sohlberg. He was powerless to stop or change Nygård’s dementia. On the other hand Sohlberg decided that he might—against all odds—make right the humiliating career injustice meted out to Bjørn Nygård.
     
     
     
    ~ ~ ~
     
     
     
    Emma Sohlberg was used to her husband’s absent-minded ways whenever he was solving a case. She was used to his keeping odd hours. For example that evening Sohlberg had arrived home extremely late—almost four hours after dinner time. Homicide is not a 9 to 5 job. Not for the murderer. Not for the detective. And certainly not for the spouse or family of the detective.
     
    Trying to sound as casual as possible Emma Sohlberg said:
     
    “Sohlberg . . . didn’t you tell me that you had a very light caseload this week?”
     
    “Yes my Love,” he replied with a mouth full of rømmegrøt while he read the final draft of a report that he had to turn in at work. He did not notice her suspicious eyes.
     
    She waited for him to finish his favorite dish. They sat in a small cozy alcove in the kitchen. She made the sour cream pudding from an old family recipe that called for sour cream with melted butter and brown sugar and cinnamon with a touch of nutmeg and allspice. Her secret variation of the family recipe was Saigon cinnamon and a delicious organic butter from Norsk Melk. The small dairy co-op refused to be controlled by the giant Tine milk monopoly of Norway.
     
    “Sohlberg . . . isn’t December when you traditionally cut back on work in Homicide unless there’s a new murder?”
     
    “Yes . . . it is,” he said slowly as he lifted his eyes up to meet hers. “I’m sorry I got in so late and missed dinner. But something came up.”
     
    “Oh?”
     
    “Yes . . . an old case. Nothing really. I’m just reviewing it. Making sure all the t’s crossed . . . and i’s dotted . . . you know.”
     
    “But you always do that before you close your cases.”
     
    “It’s someone else’s case.”
     
    “You be careful.”
     
    “It’s not like that time. Not at all.”
     
    “I hope not. You told me they went ballistic when they caught you snooping around an old case.”
     
    “I’ll be careful.”
     
    “I hope so. But why do this?”
     
    “It’s complicated.”
     
    “That’s never a good thing.”
     
     
    Chapter 3/Tre
     
     
    WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 3, OR ONE DAY
     
    AFTER THE DAY DECEMBER 2
     
     
     
    I will not be denied. There must be blood.
     
    The Falconer stared out the window. It smells you know.
     
    I don’t care if it smells or not. All I care about is that there will be blood. There will be blood for that long-tongue liar. That midnight rider.
     
    Wish I could be there. The falcon could then take her away.
     
    Falcon. I don’t need no stinking falcon. God is gonna cut her down.
     
    You got religion boy.
     
    I got Johnny Cash. I used to hear him all the time when I was young and sang his songs on my guitar. I could’ve been like him.
     
    Nobody cares about what a man could or should or might have been. What’s important is the killing. Ain’t nothing like killing. Preparing. Doing it. The Afterwards. What matters is that you are gonna do a killing. That ain’t no small thing. No sir.