Vesa Larsson and Curt disappear through the door. The storm roars, then falls silent as the door closes. Now she is alone with him. Her heart is pounding. She must hurry. She knows that. Otherwise her body will fail her.
Did Curt put the gun down by the door? Difficult to spread out a heavy tarpaulin in a storm with a gun slung on your back. Come closer.
“I can’t understand how you could do this,” says Rebecka. “Doesn’t it say ‘Thou shalt not kill’?”
Thomas sighs. He is squatting by her side.
“And yet, the Bible is full of examples of when God has taken life,” he says. “Don’t you understand, Rebecka? He is allowed to break his own laws. And I couldn’t do it. I told him that. Then he sent me Curt. It was more than a sign. I had to obey him.”
He stops to wipe away the snot running from his nose. His face is beginning to redden in the heat from the stove. It must be warm in that suit.
“I don’t have the right to allow you to destroy God’s work. The media would have blown these financial difficulties up into a full-scale scandal, and then it would all have been over. What has happened in Kiruna is something great. And yet, God has made me understand that this is only the beginning.”
“Did Viktor threaten you?”
“In the end he was a threat to everyone. Not least to himself. But I know that he is with God.”
“Tell me what happened.”
Thomas shakes his head impatiently.
“There is neither the time nor any reason to do so, Rebecka.”
“And what about the girls?”
“They can tell people things about their uncle that… We still need Viktor. His name must not be dragged through the dirt. Do you know how many people we help to come off drugs every year? Do you know how many children are reunited with their lost mummies and daddies? Do you know how many find faith? Job opportunities? A decent life? Marriages saved? In the night God has talked to me about all this again and again.”
He breaks off and stretches out his hand to her. Lets his fingers trail over her mouth and down to her throat.
“I loved you just as much as I love my own daughter. And you…”
“I know,” she squeaks. “Forgive me.”
Come closer.
“But what about now?" she sobs. "Do you love me now?”
His face becomes as hard as stone.
“You killed my child.”
The man who has only daughters. Who wanted a son.
“I know. I think about him every day. But it wasn’t…”
She turns her head to the side and coughs and presses her hand against her stomach. Then she looks up at him again.
There it was. She could see it. Thirty centimeters from her head. The stone Lova had painted Virku on. When he’s close enough. Grab it and hit him. Don’t think. Don’t hesitate. Grab it and hit him.
“There was someone else as well. It wasn’t…”
Her voice tails away in an exhausted whisper. He leans toward her. Like a fox listening for voles under the snow.
Her lips form words he cannot hear.
Finally he bends over her. Don’t hesitate, count to three.
“Pray for me…” she whispers in his ear.
One…
“… you weren’t the only one I…”
Two…
“… it wasn’t your child.”
Three!
He stiffens for a second and it’s enough. Her arm shoots out like a striking cobra, grabs the stone. She shuts her eyes and hits him with every ounce of strength she has. On the temple. In her mind’s eye she sees the stone shooting like a missile straight through his skull and out through the wall. But when she opens her eyes the stone is still in her hand. Thomas is lying on his side next to her. Perhaps his hands are making an attempt to shield his head. She doesn’t really know. She is already up on her knees and she hits him again. And again. On the head every time.
That’s enough. Now she’s in a hurry.
She drops the stone and tries to get to her feet, but her legs won’t bear her weight. She crawls across the floor to the corner by the door. Curt’s shotgun is next to the axe. She drags herself along on her knees, using her right hand. She keeps her left hand pressed against her stomach.
If she can only manage it in time. If they come in now it’s all over.
She grabs hold of the weapon. Gets to her knees. Fumbles. Her hands are shaky and clumsy. Slips the bolt. Breaks the gun. It’s loaded. Snaps it shut and releases the safety catch. Scrabbles backwards toward the middle of the floor. The rag rugs are spattered with blood. Drops of her own blood as big as a one-krona coin. Blurred prints from her right hand, the hand that held the stone.
If they go around the house they’ll be able to see her through the window. They won’t do that. Why would they go tramping off round there? She feels ill. Mustn’t throw up. How is she going to manage to hold on to the gun?
She shuffles farther back in a half-sitting position, one hand pressed against her stomach. Moves the other hand toward the table and pushes with her legs. Gets hold of the gun and drags it along with her. Sits with the table leg supporting her back. Legs slightly drawn up. Lays the gun along her thighs so that it is pointing upward at the door. And waits.
“Keep calm,” she says to Lova and Sara without taking her eyes off the door. “Shut your eyes and keep calm.”
Curt is the first to come in through the door. Just behind him she can see Vesa. Curt catches sight of her with the gun. Registers the two black holes pointing at him. For a fraction of a second his face alters. From irritation with the cold, the wind and the stiff tarpaulin into-not fear, but something else. First of all, the realization that he can’t get to her in time. Then his gaze becomes dull. Empty and expressionless.
She doesn’t lift the gun high enough and the recoil cracks her lower rib when she blasts a hole in Curt’s stomach. He falls back against the door. The snow comes whirling in through the opening.
Vesa stands frozen to the spot. His whole body is a single scream.
“In!” she snaps, and points the gun at him. “And bring him with you. Sit down!”
He does as she says and squats on his haunches by the door.
“On your backside!” she orders.
He slumps down. His suit is bulky. He can’t easily get to his feet from that position. Without her telling him to, he links his hands behind his head. Curt is lying between them. In the silence that follows when the door has closed against the storm, they can hear Curt’s labored breathing: short, panting whistles.
She leans her head back. Tired. Very tired.
“Now,” she says to Vesa Larsson, “you are going to tell me everything. And as long as you keep talking and keep telling the truth, you can stay alive.”
“Sanna Strandgård came to me,” says Vesa hoarsely. “She was… in floods of tears. I know that’s a ridiculous expression, but you should have seen her.”
Oh, I can see her, all right, thinks Rebecka. Hair all fluffed out like a dandelion clock. Nobody suits snot and tears better than Sanna.
“She said Viktor had interfered with her girls.”
Rebecka steals a glance at the girls; they are still tied to the bed with rags in their mouths. She’s afraid she’ll faint if she crawls over to them. And if she tells Vesa to untie them, he can kick the gun out of her hand in a second. She must wait a little while.
They’re breathing. They’re alive. She’ll soon work out what to do.
“What do you mean, ‘interfered with’?”
“I don’t know, it was something Sara had said that made her realize. I didn’t really get a clear idea of what had happened. But I promised to speak to Viktor. I…”
He breaks off in confusion.
She does confuse people, thinks Rebecka. Lures them into the forest and steals their compass.
“Yes?”
“I was such a fool,” he whines. “I asked her not to go to the police or the authorities. She’d spoken to Patrik Mattsson. I rang him and said Sanna had made a mistake. Threatened to throw him out of the church if he spread the rumor around.”