The Girl who played with Fire

For the first time in her life – at least since she had been a little girl – Salander was unable to take command of her situation. Over the years she had been mixed up in fights, subjected to abuse, been the object of both official and private injustices. She had taken many more punches to both body and soul than anyone should ever have to endure.

But she had been able to rebel every time. She had refused to answer Teleborian’s questions, and when she was subjected to any kind of physical violence, she had been able to slink away and retreat.

A broken nose she could live with.

But she couldn’t live with a hole in her skull.

This time she couldn’t drag herself home to bed, pull the covers over her head, sleep for two days and then get up and go back to her daily routine as if nothing had happened.

She was so seriously injured that she couldn’t cope with the situation by herself. She was so exhausted that her body refused to listen to her commands.

I have to sleep for a while, she thought. And suddenly she realized that if she closed her eyes and let go there was a good chance she would never wake up again. She analyzed this conclusion and gradually came to understand that she didn’t care. On the contrary. She felt almost attracted by the thought. To rest. To not wake up.

Her last thoughts were of Miriam Wu.

Forgive me, Mimmi.

She was still holding Nieminen’s pistol, with the safety off, when she closed her eyes.

Blomkvist saw Niedermann in the beam of his headlights from a long way off and recognized him at once. It was hard to mistake a blond behemoth built like an armor-piercing robot. Niedermann was running in his direction, waving his arms. Blomkvist slowed down. He slipped his hand into the outer pocket of his laptop case and took out the Colt 1911 Government he had found on Salander’s desk. He stopped about five yards away from Niedermann and turned off the engine before opening the car door and stepping out.

“Thanks for stopping,” Niedermann said, out of breath. “I had a… car accident. Can you give me a lift to town?”

He had a surprisingly high-pitched voice.

“Of course. I can see that you get to town,” Blomkvist said. He pointed the gun at Niedermann. “Lie down on the ground.”

There was no end to the tribulations Niedermann was having to suffer that night. He stared in puzzlement at Blomkvist.

Niedermann was not the least bit afraid of either the pistol or the man holding it. On the other hand, he had respect for weapons. He had lived with violence all his life. He assumed that if somebody pointed a gun at him, that person was prepared to use it. He squinted and tried to take stock of the man behind the pistol, but the headlights turned him into a shadowy figure. Police? He didn’t sound like a cop. Cops usually identified themselves. At least that’s what they did in the movies.

He weighed his chances. He knew that if he charged the man he could take away the gun. But the man sounded cold and was standing behind the car door. He would be hit by at least one, maybe two bullets. If he moved fast the man might miss, or at least not hit a vital organ, but even if he survived, the bullets would make it difficult and perhaps impossible for him to escape. It would be better to wait for a more suitable opportunity.

“LIE DOWN NOW!” Blomkvist yelled.

He moved the muzzle an inch and fired a round into the ditch.

“The next one hits your kneecap,” Blomkvist said in a loud, clear voice of command.

Niedermann got down on his knees, blinded by the headlights.

“Who are you?” he said.

Blomkvist reached his other hand into the pocket in the car door and took out the flashlight he had bought at the gas station. He shone the beam into Niedermann’s face.

“Hands behind your back,” Blomkvist commanded. “And spread your legs.”

He waited until Niedermann reluctantly obeyed the orders.

“I know who you are. If you even begin to do anything stupid I’ll shoot you without warning. I’m aiming at your lung below your shoulder blade. You might be able to take me… but it’ll cost you.”

He put the flashlight on the ground and took off his belt and made a noose with it, exactly as he’d learned two decades earlier as a rifleman in Kiruna when he did his military service. He stood between the giant’s legs, looped the noose around his arms and pulled it tight above the elbows. The mighty Niedermann was for all practical purposes helpless.

And then what? Blomkvist looked around. They were completely alone on a road in the dark. Paolo Roberto hadn’t been exaggerating when he described Niedermann. The man was huge. The question was only why such a massive guy had come running in the middle of the night as if he were being chased by the Devil himself.

“I’m looking for Lisbeth Salander. I assume you met her.”

Niedermann did not answer.

“Where is Lisbeth Salander?”

Niedermann gave him a peculiar look. He didn’t understand what was happening to him on this strange night when everything seemed to be going wrong.

Blomkvist shrugged. He went back to the car, opened the trunk, and found a neatly coiled rope. He couldn’t leave Niedermann tied up in the middle of the road, so he looked around. Thirty yards further along the road he saw a traffic sign in the headlights. CAUTION: MOOSE CROSSING.

“Get up.”

He put the muzzle of the gun against Niedermann’s neck, led him to the sign, and forced him into the ditch. He told Niedermann to sit with his back against the pole. Niedermann hesitated.

“This is all quite simple,” Blomkvist said. “You killed Dag Svensson and Mia Johansson. They were my friends. I’m not going to let you loose on the road, so either you sit here while I tie you or I’ll shoot you in the kneecap. Your choice.”

Niedermann sat. Blomkvist ran the tow rope around his neck and tied his head securely to the pole. Then he used fifty feet of rope to bind the giant fast around the torso and waist. He saved a length to tie his forearms to the pole, and finished off his handiwork with some real sailor’s knots.

When he was finished, he asked again where Salander was. He got no reply, so he shrugged and left Niedermann there. It wasn’t until he was back in the car that he felt the adrenaline flowing and realized what he had just done. The image of Johansson’s face flickered before his eyes.

Blomkvist lit a cigarette and drank some water out of the bottle. He looked at the figure in the dark beneath the moose sign. Then he looked at the map and saw that he had about half a mile before the turnoff to Karl Axel Bodin’s farm. He started the engine and drove past Niedermann.

***

He drove slowly past the turnoff with the sign to Gosseberga and parked next to a barn on a forest road a hundred yards further north. He took his pistol and turned his flashlight on. He found fresh tire tracks in the mud and decided that another car had been parked in that same place earlier, but he didn’t stop to consider what that might mean. He walked back to the turnoff and shone light on the mailbox. P.O. BOX 192 – K.A.BODIN. He continued along the road.

It was almost midnight when he saw the lights from Bodin’s farmhouse. He stood still for several minutes but heard nothing other than the usual nighttime sounds. Instead of taking the road straight to the farm, he walked along the edge of the field and approached the building from the barn, stopping in the yard about a hundred feet from the house. His every nerve was on edge. The fact that Niedermann had been running away was reason enough to believe that some catastrophe had occurred here.

Suddenly he heard a sound. He spun around and dropped to one knee with his gun raised. It took him a few seconds to identify the source: one of the outbuildings. Somebody moaning. He moved quickly across the grass and stopped by the shed. Peering round the corner he could see a light inside.