column. The bow pointed up, and the stern was securely propped against heavy stones. It probably wouldn’t slip. She climbed up the stern and then farther up onto the little thwart. The last part was trickier. She put her right foot on the tip of the bow, grabbed hold of the bars of the deck railing, and was just about to kick off and lift herself up when a voice made her stop.
“Look up!”
She froze. Was it just the wind whining in her ears? As always she obeyed the voice. Balancing on one foot she peered through the bars toward the big glass doors leading to the house from the deck. The whole wall consisted of sliding glass doors. She could see a faint light farther inside the house, but the room adjacent to the deck was dark. A faint movement could be seen in one of the side curtains. Were her hyperalert senses playing a trick on her? The cold wind whipped around her jeans-clad legs, and the foot she was resting her weight on started to go to sleep. A cold sweat broke out all over her body. With infinite care she began to maneuver the telescope up to her eye.
Her breathing stopped and the roar of the sea and the wind disappeared.
Only her face had been above the floor of the deck. She was peeking between the bars. He couldn’t have seen her. Yet she felt residual fear from Billdal well up from the black hole inside her. The hole she thought she had sealed up forever.
Shaking, she climbed back down and collapsed on the frigid rock. She couldn’t give in to the fear. She took a few deep breaths, closed her eyes, and tried to look inward and find the Point, when something began to claw urgently at her consciousness. At first she tried to shut it out, but suddenly she was totally present in the wintry wind. Her eyes opened and looked out into the darkness. The ice-cold wind whipped tears into her eyes. A desperate scream was faintly audible from inside the house.
It didn’t take her long to climb up the dinghy this time. She positioned herself on the bow with one foot and looked between the bars through the telescope. Hoffa had turned his back to the deck. He, too, was listening, facing into the house. His next maneuver was very odd. To Irene’s astonishment he slipped behind the curtain, still with his back to the deck. He stood quite motionless. Irene could see movement inside the house. Without thinking, she hoisted herself up and threw herself swiftly over the railing. She crouched, stock-still. After a few seconds she carefully pulled out the telescope and looked at the place where Hoffa had been standing. He hadn’t moved. She cautiously stood and looked straight into the house. The illumination came from the ceiling light in the hall. She could see Fredrik in profile standing in the middle of the hall, with his pistol held in a two-handed grip and his arms out straight. He was aiming at someone who stood in front of him, out of her line of sight.
With infinite care she began to move toward Hoffa. Not because she knew what he was going to do, but driven by an instinct not to let him out of her sight. She was completely unprepared and almost screamed when she stubbed her toe on something hard. It hurt like hell. But it made only a low thud. She had kicked the heavy foundation of a patio umbrella. For several long seconds she stood motionless, on alert. Now she was so close that she could see him behind the curtain. No more than two meters separated them. But he was totally concentrating on what was happening inside the house. She was conscious of more movement in the hall. Birgitta came through the door, also with her weapon drawn. While Fredrik maintained his position, Birgitta headed for the room adjacent to the deck. She stopped in the doorway, felt along the doorjamb, and found the light switch. Light flooded the room from an elegant crystal chandelier over a dining room table.
Hoffa was suddenly visible in sharp relief against the white curtain. But the fabric of the curtain was heavy, so as to keep out the bright western sun in the summertime. Birgitta looked around without noticing the man behind the curtain. But Irene saw him. She watched him very slowly draw a knife from a sheath that was strapped to his thigh. A strip of light shone on the long, wide blade. A hunting knife for big game.
Afterward she didn’t know where her strength had come from. Without wasting time to think, she bent down and took a firm grip on the base of the umbrella. She heaved it up to her chest, took a few steps forward, and threw it with all her might against the glass wall behind Hoffa. With an earsplitting crash the door exploded.
Birgitta screamed, but stopped as soon as Irene yelled, “Don’t shoot! It’s me!”
Birgitta hurried toward the door, found the key hanging on the inside, and unlocked it with shaky hands.
Hoffa lay in a big pool of blood. It was spreading with disquieting speed. A large piece of glass was sticking up from a gash in the side of his neck. Dark blood pumped out of the wound.
“Fredrik! Are you okay? Is everything under control?” Irene yelled toward the hall without taking her eyes off the man in the pool of blood. Her demon was about to die. Revenge was being exacted. Why did she feel no triumph?
“Everything’s under control. I’ve got the drop on Shorty. But Henrik von Knecht needs an ambulance. Fast!”
Hoffa did too. Mechanically she yanked the curtain down from the other side of the glass door and went over to him. He yammered weakly when she carefully raised his head. She shoved the curtain under his neck and tied it. It was a clumsy and loose-fitting bandage, but it was all she could do for him at the moment. Fredrik was still positioned to shoot as she went to him. She stood next to him, turned her head, and saw the same scene he did.
In the middle of the room stood Shorty with his hands in the air and his palms turned toward the viewers. Blood was running down them. His face was expressionless, and the look he gave Irene was utterly uninterested. Only his lower jaw churned, as if he were chewing gum slowly. Across the double bed lay Henrik von Knecht. Or more precisely, she assumed it must be Henrik. The bedspread had once been white, but now it was so soaked in blood that it could have passed for a red batik. Henrik’s face was swollen. With each breath he took, bright red bubbles came out of his mouth, and his naked body was covered with crimson swellings from blows and kicks.
Irene had seen plenty during her years of service, but this had to be the worst. A crazed beating, verging on slaughter. With a shudder she remembered how the murdered fourteen-year-old John had looked after the skinheads’ senseless shower of kicks and blows. In the world of movies and videos, after murderous attacks, the heroes just shake it off, get up, and keep fighting. In reality the victims never get up again. They die. Anyone could see that Henrik von Knecht was dying.
Irene and Fredrik approached Shorty. Without revealing how she felt, Irene said, “Turn around! Head against the wall, spread your legs, and hands behind your back. If you don’t obey, it’d be our pleasure to shoot your balls off!”
Still expressionless, he turned around and obeyed the command. This wasn’t his first arrest; he knew when it was time to give up. These cops wouldn’t hesitate, so it would be stupid to give them a reason. He preferred to keep his balls for a while longer.
Irene put the cuffs on him and ordered him to stay where he was. She barked out commands. “Birgitta. Call and get the chopper out here. Ambulances take too long. And we’ve blocked the road with our cars. It has to be a helicopter. They can land on the lawn in front of the big house.”
Birgitta pulled the phone out of her pocket and did as she was told. There was a minor argument before Dispatch realized the extent of what had happened and who was involved. The constellation of Shorty Johannesson, Hoffa Stromberg, and Henrik von Knecht prompted some question about whether the whole thing was a joke. Not until Irene grabbed the phone and began bellowing and shouting just like the superintendent did the officer understand that it was urgent. It would take fifteen minutes at most before the helicopter arrived. With a glum expression Irene hung up. It was doubtful whether either of the two injured men would survive that long.
She looked around the room. There was blood everywhere. On the floor were smashed glass and ceramic shards that crunched underfoot when she walked over to the bed. Henrik von Knecht was almost unrecognizable. His face had been pounded to hamburger. His breathing was now shallow and fast. The blood bubbles came in gusts when he breathed. She leaned over toward him and said reassuringly, “Henrik. It’s Inspector Huss. It’s over now. He can’t hurt you anymore. It’s all over now.”
His eyelids began to move faintly and he managed to open his eyes to small slits. In a whisper he gasped, “The h. . ho. . horse.”
The horse? Irene vaguely recalled that Tommy had mentioned Sylvia’s sick horse. Was Henrik worried about it? Apparently. With all the assurance she could muster, she said very softly and slowly, “Don’t worry. The vet has
