The Considerate Killer Read Online Free PDF Page A

clear memory appeared.
    â€œIt would be great if you could wake up,” said Søren. “It would be extremely nice to see you. Or feel you. Maybe you could squeeze my hand? Just a little?”
    Oh, God. He was sitting there talking like a lonely waterfall because they had told him to. That’s how they always instructed the next of kin—“ Talk to her, she might be able to hear you.” This wasn’t exactly wrong; she could in fact hear him, even though establishing control over her eyelids and finer motor functions seemed to be beyond her still. But it was also a tactic that was supposed to give the next of kin a sense of purpose and a job to do, so that they stayed with the patient instead of taking all their desperate worries to the overburdened staff.
    Head trauma. How bad was it? No respirator, and while her thoughts did not line up in neat straight lines, she was able to think, speculate, articulate, remember . . . mostly. So . . . probably not life threatening in spite of the vague sensation of . . . of dread. Of having come much too close to death.
    It was worrisome that she couldn’t work out how to move. What if she was paralyzed? What if this sensation of the body as a heavy, unresponsive prison of flesh was . . . permanent?
    No, damn it. She ignored her headache and focused all her concentration, all her power on an attempt to use her left hand to grip Søren’s fingers. She never discovered whether she succeeded, because the pain would not be forced back; it rose up like a violent dark flood and tore her back with it into nothingness.
    â€¢ • •
    The second time was better. There were voices around her. Activity.
    â€œHer eyes,” said Søren. “It doesn’t look . . . very nice. Did someone hit her in the face, or . . . ?”
    â€œNot directly. It’s what we call a raccoon-eye hematoma. It’s an effect of the fractured skull.”
    She still felt heavier than usual. Her eyelids were fat and sticky, but she managed to establish a form of control over the lower part of her face.
    â€œI’m thirsty,” she said.
    â€œNina!” Søren exclaimed. “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t hear . . . What did you say?”
    â€œThirsty!”
    â€œYes. Um . . . Could she have something to drink?”
    â€œIt’s best to wait until you’ve got things a bit more under control, Nina,” said the nursing staff voice. “You don’t actually have a need for liquids; we put in a drip. Your mouth is just dry, so you feel thirsty. We can moisten your lips a little. How are you feeling otherwise?”
    â€œHeadache,” she said irritably. She was perfectly able to determine whether she could drink. Or . . . was she? She didn’t want to choke—just the thought of coughing started a pounding in her battered skull.
    â€œThat’s understandable. Now that you are conscious, we can look into treating the pain. You were hit twice in the back of the head, and one of the blows created a small fracture. You need to relax for a while, but the prognosis is good.”
    Relief slid through her in the form of a heavy dullness. The battle had been canceled; she could relax. She wouldn’t need the adrenaline reserves after all. She yawned carefully and felt a secondary soreness in her jaw.
    â€œJust give me a little water,” she said, somewhat more clearly. “I promise not to cough.”
    â€œA little bit, then,” said the voice. “You can have more later.”
    A fat plastic straw was pushed in between her lips, and she sucked carefully. Even the sucking sent waves through her entire cranium and made it hurt even more. But at least her mouth immediately felt less mummified—it was easier to move her tongue, easier to swallow. Small victories, very small victories, but right now she’d take what she could get.
    â€œThe local police would like to speak with you,” said