“No,” he says slowly.
There’s a pink sports bag on the passenger seat. Mirja keeps going around the truck. There’s a tarp held down by bungee cords over the flatbed and something’s underneath it.
“Where are you headed?” asks Mirja.
The man doesn’t move but he follows her with his eyes. Suddenly she spots a trickle of blood running out from beneath the tarp in one of the grooves otherwise filled with mud and pine needles.
“What’s this?” she asks.
When he doesn’t answer, Mirja reaches over the side of the flatbed. It’s not easy to reach-she has to press against the wet truck. The man moves to the side. She can just reach the tarp with her fingertips, but she doesn’t take her eyes off the man. He’s licking his lips as she begins to pull the tarp away. She unsnaps the holster of her gun and then turns quickly to look at the flatbed, where she sees the slender hoof of a young deer, a fawn.
The man stops moving, but Mirja still puts her hand on her gun as she walks away from the pickup truck.
“Where’d you shoot the deer?”
“It was roadkill.”
“Did you mark the spot?”
He spits on the ground between his own feet.
“Please show me your driver’s license,” she says.
He doesn’t reply and shows no indication that he is going to comply.
“Your driver’s license,” she says again, and she can hear the insecurity in her voice.
“I’m through with you,” the man says and gets into his truck.
“It’s the law to report any animals which have been hit-”
The man is in the driver’s seat and slams the door. He starts the truck and drives around the squad car, even though two wheels dip into the ditch. As he swings back up onto the road, Mirja thinks that she should have inspected the vehicle more carefully. She should have removed the entire tarp and checked to see if anything else was underneath it.
She can hear a crow cawing from a perch in the treetops. Then she hears the noise of a vehicle coming up behind her. She whirls around with her pistol out, but she can’t see anything in the downpour.
27
Mads Jensen is on his radio, being told off by his manager. He’s doing his best to explain the situation while his boss is yelling about missed times and ruined logistics.
“But-” Mads keeps trying to break in. “Don’t you have to help other peo-”
“The only help you’ll get from me is a cut in your pay!”
“Well, thank you very much, then,” Mads says, and breaks off communication.
The rain thunders on the roof of the cab. Pia is staring into the side-view mirror, looking at the trailer and watching the trees fade into the distance. Mads takes out a piece of nicotine gum. He’s staring straight ahead at the road. The rumbling from the motor and the hiss of heavy tires on wet asphalt fills the cab.
Pia glances at the calendar, which is swinging with the movement of the truck. A curvy woman in a swimming pool holding a plastic swan. Beneath the picture is the date, August 1968. The road is sloping downhill and the weight of the load of bar iron is making the tractor-trailer speed up.
In the distance, a blue light flickers through the gray sheet of rain. A squad car is blocking the road.
Pia’s heart begins to pound. She stares at the police car and the woman in her dark blue sweater waving for them to pull over. Even before the tractor-trailer has come to a complete stop, Pia is opening the door. The sound of the engine is overwhelming.
She feels dizzy as she climbs down and runs over to the waiting policewoman.
“Where’s the car?” asks the policewoman.
“What are you saying?”
Pia reads the woman’s wet face and is frightened by the look. She feels as if her legs are about to give way beneath her.
“Did you see the car as you passed it?” the policewoman asks.
“Passed it?” says Pia in confusion.
Mads joins them.
“We haven’t seen anything on the road,” he says. “You must have put up the roadblock too late.”
“Too late? I drove up here on this road from the other direction!”
“So where the hell is the car, then?” asks the trucker.
Mirja Zlatnek runs back to the patrol car and radios her colleague.
“Lasse?” she asks, out of breath.
“I’ve been trying to get you,” said Lasse. “You weren’t answering-”
“I was-”
“Did you get him?”
“Where the hell is the car?” She is practically screaming. “The truck is here, but no car has come past!”
“There aren’t any other roads,” he says.
“We have to put out a bulletin and close Highway 86 in the other direction.”
“I’m on it,” he says and breaks off.
Pia leans into the squad car. The rain has soaked through her clothes. Mirja Zlatnek is sitting in the driver’s seat with the door open.
“You told me you’d get him,” Pia says.
“Yes, I-”
“I believed you.”
“I know. I don’t understand it, either. It’s impossible to drive at high speed on this road, and there’s no chance the car could have reached the bridge before Lasse did.”
“But it has to be somewhere,” Pia says. She pulls off her pastor’s collar.
“Wait a minute,” Mirja says.
She contacts the central station.
“This is car 321. We need a roadblock immediately, before Aspen. There’s a small road there. If you know where the road is you can drive from Kävsta up to Myckelsjö. That’s right. Who’s going there? Good, I imagine it’ll take him eight to ten minutes.”
Mirja gets back out of the car and stares down the road as if she still expects the Toyota to appear.
“Where’s my boy?” Pia asks her.
“There’s no other place for them to go,” Mirja says, trying to be patient. “I understand your worry, but we will get them. They must have turned off the road somewhere, but there’s nowhere for them to go.”
She wipes the rain from her eyes. “We’re closing the last road and then we’ll get the helicopter from the rescue station.”
Pia unbuttons the top button of her shirt and then leans on the front of the squad car. She’s breathing much too heavily and it feels as if her chest has burst open. She thinks she should be making demands, but she can’t think clearly. She is desperate and afraid.
28
A large white command bus is parked in the middle of the yard between the buildings at Birgittagården. Command Central is inside. A group of men and women sit around a table covered in maps and laptops, analyzing the investigation, until a bulletin comes in about a kidnapped boy and they stop.
Roadblocks have been thrown up on Highway 330 and Highway 86 going north, as well as at the bridge south of Indal. It should be doable, their colleagues say, to stop the kidnapper-but they hear nothing more for the next ten minutes at least. Then the radio breaks in again.
“It’s gone!” a policewoman reports breathlessly. “The car should have been here, but it hasn’t shown up. We’ve closed each and every damned road. It’s just gone. I don’t know what to do.” Mirja sounds exhausted. “The mother is sitting in my car. I’m going to try to talk to her.”
The police in the bus listen silently; then they all turn to the map spread out on the table. Bosse Norling traces the route of Highway 86 with his finger.
“If they’ve blocked here and here, then the car can’t just disappear,” he says. “Obviously, the kidnapper could have driven it into a garage in Bäck or Bjällsta, or onto a logging road, but that would be a damned strange thing to do.”
“And there’s nowhere to go,” Sonja Rask says.
“Am I the only one who’s thinking that Vicky Bennet could have taken this car?” asks Bosse.
The rain is starting to ease up, but water is still washing down the bus’s windows.
Sonja turns back to her computer and starts to go through lists of pedophiles and custody disputes via the police intranet.