MemoRandom: A Thriller by Anders de La Motte

any of this? It was all over the papers, Kollander and the district commissioner even appeared on television to bask in the glory.”
    Sarac didn’t answer. All he could manage was a little shake of the head.
    “Then you started work on a top-secret project. With one particular contact.”
    “Janus . . .” Sarac mumbled.
    Molnar didn’t respond, unless Sarac’s headache had affected his hearing. Suddenly everything was completely quiet, a perfect, dry absence of sound, with the exception of his ownheartbeat. He tried to conjure up the image of the man in the car. Tried to see his face. But the only thing that appeared was a pattern, a snake in black ink, curling up from beneath a collar. A faint sound, growing louder. The car’s chassis buckling, protesting in torment. Then a sudden collision.
    Sarac jerked and woke up. “Th-the accident,” he muttered. “Tell me . . .”
    Molnar was silent for a few moments. Ran his tongue over his even front teeth.
    “Please, Peter. I need to know.” Sarac put his hand on Molnar’s arm. Molnar bit his bottom lip and seemed to be thinking.
    “You called me from your cell,” he began. “Your speech was slurred and you weren’t making much sense. You wouldn’t tell me what was going on, just that something bad had happened and that you were in trouble. We dropped everything and set out to meet you. But when we got to the meeting place, all we could see were the taillights of your car.”
    Molnar’s voice drifted off again.
    “. . . impossible to catch up. You were driving like you had the devil himself in the back of the car.”
    Sarac was back in the parked car. The ink snake on the man’s neck suddenly came to life, moving in time with the man’s voice. “I was thinking of suggesting a deal.” His hands are rough but his voice surprisingly high. Almost like a child’s.
    “Your secrets in exchange for mine.” The man grins, trying to sound tough even though he reeks of fear. His leather jacket creaks as he turns his body. “Well, what do you say? Have you got a deal?”
    Outside it’s started to snow. Heavy snowflakes, falling thickly. Settling on the windows like a dense white blanket until the buildings of Gamla stan are hidden from view. Suddenly Sarac gets the impression that there’s another person in the car. Someone hiding in the darkness of the backseat. He catches a glimpse of a familiar pair of eyes in the rearview mirror, stubble, and a raised hood that shades the face. The devil himself.
    A sweet, chemical smell fills the car. The smell is very familiar; it’s easily recognizable. Gun grease.
    He catches sight of the pistol, sees it raised to the back of the man’s head, where the snake is still slithering. He holds his breath as . . .
    •  •  •
    The bang made Sarac open his eyes. Molnar was leaning over him, his hands about an inch in front of Sarac’s face.
    “David, can you hear me?!” He clapped his hands in front of Sarac’s nose, forcing him to blink. Sarac opened his mouth and swallowed a mixture of saliva and air. He coughed and gasped for air as his heart raced in panic. A machine was bleeping close by, and there was the sound of running in the corridor.
    “You blacked out.” Molnar’s voice sounded shaky. “Your face went all blue, you scared the shit out of me, David.” He put his hand on Sarac’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.
    “You’re not thinking of dying on me, are you? Not after all the work we did cutting you out of the wreckage.” Molnar’s tone was joking, but there was a hint of anxiety there too.
    Sarac grabbed hold of his hand. “J-Janus,” he stammered. “Everything’s fucked.” The lights in the ceiling flickered. He gasped for air again. Terror was clutching at his chest, and the spider’s legs had hold of his head. “We’ve got to find him, Peter,” he panted. “It’s all my fault . . .”
    The hospital staff came storming in, three or four white coats. Maybe more.