liked this time of year better than the summer, liked the crisp autumn air and the bright colors. He took several deep breaths. He thought he ought to work out more; he wasn't getting any younger. There was plenty of life left. Matteus would grow up, black in a white world; he had to be there for him. Sejer shook his head, bewildered by his sudden gloom. And then, there was Jacob Skarre, standing next to him.
"Smells good!"
"What do you mean?" Sejer asked, on the defensive.
"From the kitchen," Jacob said.
They ate and drank and talked about their jobs. Sara told stories from the Beacon psychiatric hospital, where she worked as a doctor. She wasn't the least bit stoned, at least not that Sejer could see. But now and then he would glance at her surreptitiously, and he scrutinized Jacob more closely than usual. One of the things about Jacob was that he was so tactful. If he noticed anything he would never say so. Should he mention it himself when they were alone? He brooded over this as Jacob talked about a shooting incident. It was a bad case but an old story, one that repeated itself with few variations. Jacob was determined to confer with his God, to find some meaning in something which had no meaning. There wasn't any meaning or purpose; what had happened wasn't part of any higher plan that would lead to anything good. Sejer was convinced of that.
"It was a bunch of kids who were going to have a party. It happened the same way it always does. The guys bought the alcohol and then picked up the girls. One of the boys, called Robert, had a rented room and a stereo system. The landlord was gone, it was perfect timing. The idea was to get drunk, get laid, and then brag about it the next day." Skarre looked up at Sejer with the bluest eyes in the world. "Somebody also brought along some dope. They weren't really drug users. It's just considered decadent to smoke a little hash at a party, and it's not exactly a major crime anymore, not these days. To keep it short, the whole thing ended in great misery. They got drunk and they fought. Robert took out a shotgun and shot his girlfriend right in the face. Her name was Anita, eighteen years old. She died instantly."
He paused and stared into his glass of red wine. Held it by the stem, not wanting to leave any fingerprints on the bowl of the glass. It was amazing, Skarre's attention to detail.
"They were ordinary boys," he said to Sara. "I know it sounds as if they were nothing but the dregs of society, but they weren't. They all had jobs or were students. They came from decent homes. Had never done anything criminal."
He started swirling the wine in his glass. "In a way it's impossible to understand, don't you think? Except to suppose that something took over. Something from outside."
"You can't blame the Devil," Sejer said with a smile.
"I can't?"
"Hasn't he been officially excluded from the Norwegian church, as being nonexistent?"
"That's a great loss to humankind," Skarre said pensively.
"Why so?" Sara wanted to know.
"If we don't believe in the Devil, we won't be able to recognize him when he suddenly shows up."
"Blame the Devil? For heaven's sake. That would cut a lot of ice in court."
"No, no." Jacob shook his head. "Try to think of it like this. We encounter the Devil all the time. The question is, how do we handle him?" He fell silent for a moment. "I don't really believe in the Devil, but I have doubts now and then," he said, smiling.
"For example, when I saw the photo of Anita—what was left of her—or Robert's face through the bars sitting in his cell. He's a good person."
"All of us are both good and bad, Jacob," Sara said. "It's not an either-or."
"You're right. But some people are fundamentally good. Others are fundamentally cynical. I'm talking about a basic tone that exists in every person. And in Robert, it's good. Don't you agree, Konrad?"
Oh yes. He agreed. But he didn't understand it. He didn't go to bed—gave himself an extra hour. Sara and
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