been registered. He leaned over the counter and said to Micke:
“That Rebecka Martinsson, has she cleared off or what?”
“No,” said Micke. “Actually, she’s working here tonight.”
Something in Lars-Gunnar’s expression made him go on:
“It’s just a one-off, it’s really busy tonight and Mimmi’s already got her hands full.”
Lars-Gunnar reached over the counter with his bearlike arm and hauled Micke toward the kitchen.
“Come with me, I want to talk to her and I want you to be there.”
Mimmi and Micke managed to exchange a glance before Micke and Lars-Gunnar disappeared through the swing door into the kitchen.
What’s going on? asked Mimmi’s eyes.
How should I know, replied Micke.
Grass in the wind again.
Rebecka Martinsson was standing in the kitchen rinsing dishes.
“So, Rebecka Martinsson,” said Lars-Gunnar. “Come out the back with Micke and me, we need to talk.”
They went out through the back door. The moon like a fish scale above the black river. The dull sounds from the bar. The wind soughing in the tops of the pine trees.
“I want you to tell Micke here who you are,” said Lars-Gunnar Vinsa calmly.
“What do you want to know?” said Rebecka. “My name is Rebecka Martinsson.”
“Maybe you should tell him what you’re doing here?”
Rebecka looked at Lars-Gunnar. If there was one thing she’d learned in her job, it was that you should never start babbling and chattering.
“You seem to have something on your mind,” she said. “You carry on.”
“This is where you come from, well, not here, but Kurravaara. You’re a lawyer, and you’re the one that killed those three pastors in Jiekajarvi two years ago.”
Two pastors and one sick boy, she thought.
But she didn’t correct him. Stood there in silence.
“I thought you were a secretary,” said Micke.
“You must understand we’re wondering, those of us who live in the village,” said Lars-Gunnar. “Why a lawyer’s got herself a job in the kitchen, working under false colors. What you’re earning tonight is probably what you’d normally pay for lunch in the city. We’re wondering why you’ve wormed your way in here… poking about. I mean, I don’t really care. People can do what they want as far as I’m concerned, but I thought Micke had a right to know. And besides…”
His eyes slid away from her and he looked out across the river. Let out a deep sigh. A weight settled on his shoulders.
“… there’s the fact that you were using Nalle. He’s only a little boy inside his head. But you had the stomach to worm your way in here with his help.”
Mimmi appeared in the doorway. Micke gave her a look that made her come outside to join them, closing the door behind her. She didn’t speak.
“I thought I recognized the name,” Lars-Gunnar went on. “I used to be in the police, so I’m well aware of what happened in Jiekajarvi. But then the penny dropped. You murdered those people. Vesa Larsson, anyway. It may well be that the prosecutor didn’t think there was a case to answer, but I can tell you as far as the police are concerned, that doesn’t mean a thing. Not a bloody thing. Ninety percent of cases where you know someone’s guilty finish up not even going to court. And you must be feeling really pleased with yourself. Getting away with murder, that’s clever. And I don’t know what you’re doing here. I don’t know if that business with Viktor Strandgard gave you the taste for more, and you’re here playing the private eye off your own bat, or if you’re maybe working for some newspaper. I don’t give a shit which it is. But in any case, the charade stops right here.”
Rebecka looked at them.
I ought to make a speech, of course, she thought. Speak out in my defense.
And say what? That this had given her something else to think about, other than putting stones in her jacket pockets and sewing them up. That she couldn’t cope with being a lawyer anymore. That she belonged to this river. That she’d saved the lives of Sanna Strandgard’s daughters.
She untied her apron and handed it to Micke. Turned away without a word. She didn’t go back through the bar. Instead she went straight past the henhouse and over the road to her chalet.
Don’t run! she told herself. She could feel their eyes on her back.
Nobody followed her demanding an explanation. She pushed her belongings into her suitcase and overnight bag, threw them on the backseat of her rented car and drove away.
She didn’t cry.
What does it matter? she thought. It’s completely and utterly insignificant. Everything is insignificant. Nothing matters at all.
YELLOW LEGS
Bitter cold February. The days are growing longer, but the cold is hard, like God’s fist. Still implacable. The sun is nothing more than an image in the sky, the air is like solid glass. Under a thick white blanket the mice and voles find their way about. The cloven-footed animals gnaw through the icy bark on the trees. They are growing thinner, waiting for the spring.
But minus forty degrees or the snowstorms that cover the whole landscape in a slow white wave of destruction don’t bother the wolf pack. Quite the contrary. This is the best time. The best weather. They have picnics with outdoor activities in the blizzards. There is sufficient food. Their territory is extensive, their hunters skillful. No heat to torment them. No bloodsucking insects.
As for Yellow Legs, her days are numbered. The glint of the alpha female’s sharp teeth tell her it’s time. Soon. Soon. Now. Yellow Legs has tried everything. Crawled on her knees, begging to be allowed to stay. This February morning, the time has come. She is not permitted to approach the family. The alpha female lunges at her, jaws snapping at the air.
The hours pass. Yellow Legs does not leave straightaway. Stays a short distance away from the pack. Hoping for a sign that she will be allowed to return. But the alpha female is implacable. Gets up and drives her away.
One of the males, Yellow Legs’ brother, turns away from her. In her mind she wants to bury her nose in his fur, sleep with her head resting on his shoulder.
The young wolves look at Yellow Legs with their tails down. Her yellow legs want to run, to chase them through the trees, tumbling over and over in a play fight, then up on her feet being chased by them in her turn.
And the cubs, soon they’ll be a year old, cocky, foolhardy, still like puppies. They understand enough about what’s happening now to keep calm and stay out of it. Whimpering uncertainly. She wants to drop an injured hare at their feet and watch them set off after it, ecstatic at the chance to hunt, leaping over one another in their eagerness.
She tries one last time. Takes a tentative step forward. This time the alpha female chases her right to the edge of the forest. In under the gray branches of the old fir trees, stripped of their needles. She stands there watching the pack and the alpha female, calmly making her way back to the others.
Now she must sleep alone. Until now she has rested among the sleepy sounds of the pack, yelping and hunting in their dreams, grunting and sighing, farting. From now on her ears will remain alert while she herself drifts into an uneasy sleep.
From now on unfamiliar scents will fill her nose, eroding the memory of her sisters and brothers, half-siblings and cousins, cubs and elders.
She sets off at a slow trot. Travelling in one direction. Yearning to be going the other way. She has lived here. She will survive there.
