Free Hell Fire by Karin Fossum Page A

herself. Everything was topsy-turvy on Skarven Farm. Nothing was as it should be, and she felt it might never be again.
    The girls cleared the table and put everything in the dishwasher. Then they pushed all the chairs back in under the table. Randen lay down on the sofa in the living room and the cat came running over and jumped up onto his chest. The cat was heavy and made it harder to breathe, but he let the animal lie there. He felt Ma’s warmth through his shirt and it calmed his nerves. Randen was a levelheaded man, but now his thoughts were racing. Because whoever had used that knife in the trailer was alive somewhere. He lived, he breathed, he ate, he slept. He talked and interacted with people who knew nothing, who smiled and laughed. While he waited for his pursuers. And in no way regretted what he had done.
    I hope it will rain before too long, Randen thought. The farm needs rain. Perhaps we
should
go to the funeral. They did die here after all, on our property, in our field.

9
December 2004
    MASS HAD A full-length mirror in her bedroom, and she was standing there now, twisting and turning in front of it, with a dissatisfied look on her face. Everything had started to droop: her jowls, her breasts, her stomach, a great roll over the top of her pants like rising white dough. As she stood there, looking at her reflection, she felt a dull pain at the base of her spine. There, you see, she said to herself, that’ll be all the cleaning I did yesterday, getting ready for Christmas. She had carried the heavy rugs out onto the snow and cleaned the floors. She had washed everywhere in every room; she was thorough. Eddie was no good at cleaning. All he could do was clear the snow. But the pain in her back—well, she wasn’t actually stiff; it was more of a pulsing ache. The pain came in waves, running up and down her spine. She had never felt anything like it before. She turned her back to the mirror as if to look for an explanation. But there was nothing to see, of course. And as she stared into the glass, the pain disappeared just as suddenly as it had come. She pulled a brush through her thick hair, got dressed, and went out into the living room. Eddie was sitting at the computer, as usual. She stood and studied his broad back. She often wondered about her grown son. He had never been given a diagnosis so had fallen between all the checkpoints in the system. She had managed to fight her way to a small allowance for him, after many visits to the doctor who knew him well. And she had sent endless forms to the welfare office and the employment office. What will happen to him when I’m no longer here? she fretted. Even though he did have some skills, he was still helpless and so dependent on her. It was exhausting. He clung to her, nagged her, was on her constantly. But he was all she had, so she accepted it without complaint, because he also brought her a lot of joy.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” she asked as she sat down and reached for the newspaper.
    â€œOn the Internet,” he said, without turning around. “Google.”
    â€œWhat are you looking for? Seems to me that you’re always sitting there.”
    Eddie’s fat fingers bounced on the keyboard. He muttered quietly at regular intervals. Mass was now very curious. She put down the newspaper, got up, and went over to him.
    â€œWhat have you found?”
    Eddie read: “ ‘The authorities in Ohio are now planning to try the new method using only one injection, after the execution of one felon took a full two hours, as they had great difficulties finding a vein. The usual method comprises three injections: the prisoner is first injected with a dose of barbiturate, then something to paralyze the muscles, and finally, an injection to stop the heart.’ ”
    Mass had her arm around Eddie’s shoulder. She put her hand against his warm neck; she loved his wonderful soft curly hair and played with it as