They all watched as the cord slid across the floor. Lasse was obviously trying to tear the explosives from his neck as he ran down the corridor. They saw the slack in the cord being taken up as he made his way out of the building, until at last the wires wouldn’t reach any farther and the battery toppled over and was dragged toward the door. When it reached the corner and ran into the doorframe, the loose wire slipped underneath the battery and touched the other terminal.
They felt the explosion only as a faint tremor, along with a muffled thud in the distance.
Merete lay on her back in the dark and listened to the whistling as she tried to arrange the position of her arms so that she could press hard on both wrists at the same time.
It wasn’t long before her skin began to itch, but nothing else happened. For a moment she felt as if the greatest possible miracle was going to shine upon her, and she screamed at the nozzles in the ceiling that they weren’t going to get her.
But she knew the miracle wasn’t going to happen when the first filling began loosening in her mouth. During the next few minutes she considered letting go of her wrists as the headache and joint pains and the pressure on all her internal organs worsened and began to spread. By the time she decided to let go of her wrists, she couldn’t even feel her hands.
I need to turn over, she thought, and ordered her body to turn on to its side, but her muscles no longer had any strength. She noticed everything getting hazy at the same time as nausea made her retch, almost suffocating her.
She lay on the floor, immobile, and felt the convulsions increase. First in her gluteal muscles, then her abdomen, and up into her chest.
It’s going too slow! a voice inside of her cried, as she again tried to release her grip on the arteries in her wrists.
After a few more minutes she slipped into a foggy lethargy. It was impossible to hold on to thoughts of Uffe. She saw flashes of color and glints of light and spinning shapes; that was all.
When the first filling burst out of her tooth, she began a prolonged and monotonous moaning. All the energy she had left went into this tortured sound. But she didn’t hear herself; the whistling from the nozzles overhead was much too loud.
All of a sudden the seeping out of air stopped, and the sound disappeared. For a moment she imagined that she might be saved. She heard voices outside. They were calling for her, and she stopped her wailing. Then a voice asked if she was Merete. Everything inside her called out: “Yes, I’m here.” Maybe she said the words out loud. After that she heard them talking about Uffe as if he were a normal boy. She said his name, but it sounded wrong. Then she heard a loud bang, and Lasse’s voice was back, slicing through all her hope. She breathed slowly, noticing the clumsy grip of her fingers letting go of her wrists. She didn’t know if she was still bleeding. She felt neither pain nor relief. Then the whistling in her cage returned.
When the earth shook beneath her, everything turned cold and hot at the same time. For a moment she remembered God and whispered His name to herself. Next she felt a flash inside her head.
A flash of light followed by an enormous roaring and more light streaming in.
And then she let go of herself.
EPILOGUE
The media coverage was tremendous. In spite of the sad outcome, the investigation and solving of the Lynggaard case was a success story. Piv Vestergard from the Denmark Party was extremely pleased and reveled in the attention, since she was the one who had demanded the formation of Department Q in the first place. At the same time, she took the opportunity to trash everyone who didn’t share her view of society.
That was just one of the reasons why Carl finally couldn’t take anymore.
Three trips to the hospital to have the buckshot dug out of his leg and a single appointment with Mona Ibsen, which he canceled. That was about all he’d been able to deal with.
Now they were back at their posts in the basement. Two small plastic bags hung from the bulletin board, both filled with buckshot. Twenty-five in Carl’s and twelve in Assad’s. In the desk drawer lay a knife with a four-inch blade. Eventually the whole kit and caboodle would probably be tossed in the trash.
They took care of each other-Carl and Assad. Carl, by letting his assistant come and go as he pleased, and Assad, by creating a more carefree mood in their basement. After three weeks of stagnation with cigarettes and coffee and Assad’s cat-howling music playing in the background, Carl finally reached over to the stack of case files sitting on the corner of his desk and began leafing through them.
There was more than enough to keep them busy.
“Are you going over to F?lled Park today, Carl?” asked Assad from the doorway.
Carl looked up with an apathetic expression.
“You know. May first? Lots of people on the streets and drinking and dancing and carrying on? Is that not how you say it?”
Carl nodded. “Maybe later, Assad. But you go ahead if you want to.” He glanced at his watch. It was noon. In the old days getting half the day off was a human right in most places.
But Assad shook his head. “It is not for me, Carl. Too many people that I do not want to meet.”
Carl nodded. It was up to him. “Tomorrow we’ll look through this pile of cases,” he said, giving the folders a pat. “All right with you, Assad?”
Assad smiled so broadly that the bandage on his temple almost came off. “That’s good, Carl!” he said.
Then the phone rang. It was Lis with the usual request. The homicide chief wanted to see him up in his office.
He pulled open the bottom desk drawer and took out a thin plastic folder. He had a feeling that this time he was going to need it.
“How are things going, Carl?” This was the third time in a week that Marcus Jacobsen had had occasion to ask that question.
Carl shrugged.
“Which case are you working on now?”
He shrugged again.
Jacobsen took off his reading glasses and set them on top of the paper chaos in front of him. “Today the prosecutor agreed on a plea bargain with the lawyers representing Ulla Jensen and her son.”
“Is that so?”
“Eight years for the mother, and three years for the son.”
Carl nodded. Only to be expected. “Ulla Jensen will most likely end up in a psychiatric institution.”
Again Carl nodded. No doubt her son would soon land in the same place. That poor guy would never survive a prison sentence in one piece.
Jacobsen lowered his eyes. “Is there any news about Merete Lynggaard?”
Carl shook his head. “They’re still keeping her in a coma, but there’s little hope. Apparently her brain was permanently damaged from all the blood clots.”
Marcus nodded. “You and the diving experts from the Holmen naval station did everything you could, Carl.”
He tossed a newspaper over to Carl. “It’s a Norwegian publication for divers. Take a look at page four.”
Carl opened the paper and glanced at the photographs. An old photo of Merete Lynggaard. A picture of the pressure container that the divers had attached to the airlock door so the rescuer could move the woman out of her prison and into the mobile pressure chamber. Underneath was a brief article about the rescuer’s role and the preparations that were made inside the mobile unit. About how it was attached, about the pressure-chamber system, and about how initially the pressure in the chamber had to be raised slightly, partly to stop the bleeding
