A portion of Ylva’s soul had been taken. She had been halved, rendered permanently off balance as surely as if a limb had been amputated, unable to walk, talk, or think normally now that Malte was gone.
Alongside the black, cruelly vibrating thread of grief, a red hot wire of fury also ran through Ylva’s soul. She had no patience for mourning. The dulled and muffled quality of the family memorial, held in Vilgot’s sprawling rustic lodge, angered her. Malte’s biathlon friends livened up the gathering somewhat, guzzling brandy and smoking weed around a bonfire at the back of the grounds. Ylva had little tolerance for the bro attitude, either.
Thankfully Jarl made himself scarce. Ylva had already socked him more than once. Though Jarl was the stronger of the two, when it came to Ylva he turned weak. She had bent him to her will as a child and he could not undo it. Ylva took full advantage of his inability to resist. She blackened his left eye as soon as they returned to Västvall from the catastrophe along the Hede River. Jarl was the cause of it all. He slunk around the compound, retreating to his quarters, attempting to weather the storm.
Due for a reckoning, that boy. Jarl understood that fact. He avoided Ylva like the plague.
In the region of the world around Västvall, whatever Junior Voss said went. The specific circumstances of Malte’s death were kept carefully under wraps. No autopsy, no official examination of the wound. If they had been conducted, tests would have determined the fatal shot came not from a hunting rifle but a 9mm round, probably fired by a Glock pistol. Questions would have multiplied. Inconsistencies in Junior’s official line might be brought to light.
None of that happened. Malte’s father Vilgot made a stab at rebellion, demanding a full police investigation. He was quickly voted down by the other members of the brother’s generation.
“What happened?” asked a stern Junior Voss of Ylva. She was the only Voss able to bring back a coherent account of the incident.
“What happened?” echoed Vilgot Voss.
To Ylva’s ears, it was like a goddamn chorus. Brothers and wives and cousins all wanted details of what went down when Malte was killed. They were like bees buzzing around her head. All she wanted to do was remain numb.
She bit off her words when responding. “I nailed the guy who shot him,” she said. “Some gypsy asshole. Split his head open to the chin. He’s dead. You won’t see him around anymore.”
Small satisfaction. “There were others,” Ylva added. “The immigration lawyer, we got him, too. And the American detective woman.”
“She is no longer among the living, is that correct?” asked Junior. “You took care of her also?”
Ylva didn’t want to say it, didn’t want to come out with the most bitter word in her life at that moment, but she forced herself. “No.”
“Then you didn’t finish the job?” Junior made her say it again.
“No.”
“Hmm.” A bullshit non-response from Junior Voss’s lips. For Ylva it contained a whole encyclopedia of comment. Are you a Voss? Did you love your cousin Malte? How could you fail him in this way?
Her cousin Hans represented Ylva’s only refuge from maddening grief. They met around the bonfire in the yard, lost amid the hail-fellow fraternity of biathletes.
“As soon as this is over, you and me, right?” Ylva said to him.
“Yeah, sure,” Hans said. But Ylva could tell he was wavering.
“The American detective is in this business up to her neck. Plus we need to nail a few more of those Roma fuckers.”
“You know, maybe we should let things cool out for a bit,” Hans said. “The Hede business is all over the news.”
“Damn it, Hans!” Ylva snapped, raising her voice. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying? You want to back out?”
Her outburst drew the attention of the biathlon bros around the campfire. They looked over as if Ylva was harshing their mellow.
She drew Hans aside. “If that detective goes back to New York, we’ve lost her.”
“You think?” Hans said. “Maybe it would be even better to do her over there. I could do with a trip to New York.”
Ylva felt alone. All right, she thought, if I have to pursue this solo, so be it.
Her father Gabriel Voss came out of the lodge and found the two of them. “Good news and bad news,” he said.
“Always the bad first, you know that, pappa,” Ylva said.
“The Sami lawyer didn’t die. He’s in a coma at the hospital in Sveg, about to be airlifted to Stockholm.”
Ylva cursed. “Are you sure? It can’t be the guy, pappa—it just can’t! I broke his head open. Then Malte and I threw him into the river. That body won’t be discovered until the spring.”
“And yet there the man is, in a hospital bed in our own medical center, a hundred kilometers away.”
“No! I refuse to believe it.”
“Belief isn’t necessary for truth, and exists altogether outside it.”
Ylva turned to Hans. “Are you coming?”
“Hold up,” Gabriel said. “According to our sources, the flight for life airlift isn’t happening until tomorrow morning. So a nighttime visit to the medical center would be fine.”
“We have to get geared up,” Ylva said.
“Your grandfather wants to speak with you, that comes first.”
“All right,” Ylva responded, still impatient. “So, wait, you said, bad news, good news. What’s the good?”
“The American detective is with him.”
“Really?”
“That’s what we hear.”
Ylva smiled grimly. “‘Two birds with one stone,’” she said in English.
“Yes,” Gabriel said.
Ylva noticed that Hans looked a little sick. He was going to be of no use, she decided. Her mind buzzing, she returned to the lodge to seek out her grandfather, Loke Voss senior.
“Hi, farfar,” Ylva said to the old man, kneeling next to his wheelchair.
“I’m sorry for you,” he said. Loke searched his granddaughter’s face with his pale, watery eyes. “I know you and Malte had a special bond.”
“I’m sorry for us all,” she responded automatically. Save me from age, Ylva
