It’s a silent struggle. The Needle looks nervous and Svanehjalm appears troubled. Without too much effort, Joona forces Frippe’s head underwater and holds him there for a slight moment, then lets him go and steps back. Frippe gets up, staggering, and The Needle hurries to him with a towel.
“You could have just told us how it went,” The Needle says with irritation.
As Frippe towels off his hair, they troop together into the next room, into the strong smell of decay. One of the walls is covered with three rows of stainless-steel refrigerated boxes. The Needle opens box 16 and pulls out a drawer. The body of the young woman is lying on the narrow gurney. She’s naked and has no color. A brown network of arteries can be seen on the pale skin of her neck. Joona points at the thin, curved line over her breastbone.
“Take off your shirt,” Joona says to Frippe.
Frippe unbuttons his jacket and pulls off his T-shirt. On his chest they can see a light rose mark from the edge of the tub. It’s curved like a smiling face.
“I’ll be damned,” Petter says.
The Needle steps nearer to peer closely at the roots of the woman’s hair. He takes out a small pocket flashlight and aims it directly at the pale skin of her scalp.
“I don’t need a microscope to see how someone has held her head tight by using her hair.”
He turns off the flashlight and drops it back into his pocket.
“In other words…” Joona waits.
“In other words, you’re right, of course,” says The Needle, and claps his hands.
“Murder,” Svanehjalm pronounces, sighing.
“Impressive,” remarks Frippe as he catches some black hair dye that has run down his cheek.
“Thanks,” says Joona, but he sounds distracted.
The Needle looks at him.
“What now, Joona?” he asks. “What do you see?”
“It’s not her,” Joona says.
“What?”
Joona looks up at The Needle and then points to the body before them.
“This woman is not Penelope Fernandez. This is someone else.”
Joona meets the chief prosecutor’s eyes. “This dead woman is not Penelope. I’ve seen Penelope’s driver’s license and it doesn’t match. I’m absolutely sure.”
“But what-”
“Perhaps Penelope Fernandez is also dead,” Joona says. “We just haven’t found her yet.”
14
Penelope tries to breathe slowly, but the air tears at her throat. She slides down the cliff, ripping off sheets of moss as she squeezes between the branches of the spruce trees. She shakes with fright and creeps closer to the tree trunks, where the darkness of night is already gathering. As she thinks of Viola, she begins to whimper. Bjorn is ahead of her, already sitting perfectly still underneath the spruce trees, his arms wrapped tightly around himself. He’s mumbling something over and over.
They’ve been running in panic, not looking, stumbling over objects, falling, getting up again, clambering over fallen trees. They’ve ripped open sores on their legs, their knees, their hands, but they’ve let nothing stop them.
Penelope has no idea how close their pursuer might be, if he’s caught sight of them again or even decided to give up and go away. Perhaps he’s found a spot to wait them out. They’re fleeing for their lives, but Penelope has no idea why.
Perhaps it’s all a mistake, she thinks. A horrible mistake.
She feels nauseous, feels like she’s going to throw up, but swallows resolutely.
“Oh God, oh God,” she whispers to herself. “We can’t go on like this. We have to get help. They’ll find the boat soon and then they’ll come looking for us-”
“Shhh!” Bjorn shushes her, visibly, shockingly terrified.
Her hands tremble uncontrollably as images flash through her head. She blinks so that she won’t have to see them, but the visions keep flashing back: Viola dead; eyes wide-open, face wet, sitting on the bed, hair dripping in streams.
Penelope knows instinctively that the man on the beach, yelling out to Bjorn at sea, was the one who killed her sister. She’d reacted the instant she’d understood. If she hadn’t, they’d both be dead.
When they fled the boat, they’d carried nothing with them, not even a cell phone. Scrambling up the bank, Penelope had turned around only once to see the man in black tying the rubber boat to the pier.
Penelope and Bjorn had run, side by side, into the spruce forest, darting around trees and skirting outcroppings; Bjorn’s voice was a series of painful gasps as the soles of his naked feet tramped over sharp brush. And when he’d seemed to slow down, Penelope had pulled him with her, knowing their pursuer was not far behind. All the while she could hear herself crying as she ran, in a voice she’d never heard before.
A thick branch whacked her thigh and brought her to a stop. Her breath ripped at her. She moaned and with shaking hands pushed her way under low-hanging branches with Bjorn close beside her. Her legs throbbed. She kept going straight ahead. She heard Bjorn behind her and kept plunging deeper into the dark forest without turning around.
From far outside herself, Penelope contemplated the fact that thoughts change when panic sets in. Fear is not constant. Now and then there’s room for rational thought. It’s like silencing a racket to discover a quiet space in your head, which gives you a clear overview of your situation. Then the noise returns and your thoughts race in circles until the only impetus is to run.
Penelope kept expecting to find people. There had to have been hundreds of people out and about on Orno Island that evening. The south end of the island is developed; there had to be people there. There had to be help.
For a moment, Penelope and Bjorn hid between tightly spaced spruce trees, but after only a few seconds, their fear overwhelmed them and they began to flee again. Even as she ran, Penelope could feel the presence of her pursuer. She thought she could hear his long, swift strides. He wouldn’t stop. If they couldn’t find help, he would catch up.
The ground was rising again. Stones loosened underneath their feet and tumbled down the slope.
There must be people nearby. There must be a house. Hysteria swept through Penelope and she felt the need to just stop and scream as loud as she could. Silently, she ran on.
Bjorn coughed behind her, strangled for breath; coughed again.
What if Viola wasn’t really dead? What if she just needed help? Somehow Penelope knew she was having these thoughts to ward off the terrible truth. Viola was dead, but thinking that was unbearable: an empty dark space she refused to comprehend and didn’t even want to make the attempt to understand.
They kept climbing up another steep slope between yet more spruce trees, around more huge branches, lingonberry bushes, and craggy rocks. She used her hands to steady herself until she finally reached the crest. Bjorn was right behind her. He tried to tell her something, but instead just gasped for breath. He took her hand to start down the other side, which now sloped toward the western shore. They could see the light of water between the dark trees. It wasn’t far.
Penelope slipped and slid over the edge of a small cliff. She fell freely and hit the ground hard. Struggling to get up, she wondered whether she’d broken something. Then she realized she was hearing music and laughter. She leaned against the damp cliff side for support so she could stand up. She wiped her lips and studied her bloody hand.
Bjorn reached her and pulled her along. He pointed. There was a party going on somewhere ahead of them. They took each other’s hands and stumbled shakily to a run. Colored lights, strung on trellises around a wooden
