Snowdrift

by Helene Tursten

  At first she thought he was going to object, but then he nodded. “Okay.”

  “Good. Throw it through the same window, then there’s no risk of any debris hitting me.”

  “Okay,” he answered in a weary monotone.

  “Throw it when I knock three times on the wall.”

  A nod.

  With the reloaded gun in her hand and two spare magazines in her pockets, she went to the window and repeated the maneuver with her phone. The man still lay motionless in the red-stained snow. She swung her leg over the sill and jumped down, keeping a close eye on him. She crouched down beside him; he was dead. To be on the safe side she felt for a pulse in his neck, but there was nothing. Shit! This wasn’t good.

  To her surprise, she felt very calm. She recognized this coolness; it resembled the concentration needed for the hunt. Her ability to keep a clear head had saved her back in the fall.

  The pistol beside the dead man was a Sig Sauer, the pistol used by the Swedish police. She picked it up and checked the magazine: three bullets left. Good. With the Sig Sauer in her left hand and the rifle in her right, she went around the back of the shed. When she reached the corner she stopped and listened. There was absolute silence, apart from the ringing in her ears. And that was only going to get worse. She took a deep breath, then knocked three times on the wall with the butt of the pistol.

  The explosion came when she’d counted to seven. She immediately began to run. If the gunman was still at the window, he would automatically look in the direction where the grenade had gone off, not down at the yard. She raced toward the house, every fiber of her being on full alert. A bullet could strike her at any second.

  When she reached the house she pressed herself against the wall to catch her breath and send a thank-you to her own guardian angel. She wasn’t out of the woods yet; the odds had been against them from the start, but now at least the threat had been significantly reduced.

  The house.

  She slipped around the corner, heading for the gaping hole where the porch had been. The door had been blown inward, and the floor was covered in splintered wood. She turned her head and looked back at the devastation. A short distance away among the fir trees, she saw a pair of severely mutilated legs sticking up behind a snowdrift. That must be the guy who stepped out to shoot us before we found the guns, she thought. He didn’t get far, thanks to Olle’s throwing skills.

  She stepped inside. The place was in darkness; she had to move cautiously through the debris. She pushed open a door on her right with the barrel of the rifle, then crouched down and looked in. It was a small, old-fashioned kitchen that didn’t look like it had been renovated since the 1960s, which was probably the last time it had been cleaned. Empty vodka bottles, beer cans, dirty plates, and fast-food boxes covered every available surface. It stank of mold, rotting garbage, and stale cigarette smoke.

  She continued through the hallway. Straight ahead was the living room, furnished with a sagging sofa, a badly scratched coffee table, and a camp bed with a torn sleeping bag. There was an old stove in the corner, with an open fire crackling away.

  She checked behind two other doors in the hallway and found two closets: one empty and the other one containing a metal bucket and an old broom. That just left upstairs.

  Just as she placed her foot on the bottom step, she heard a faint whimpering from above. It sounded like a woman. Was the sniper female? Had she been hit? Or was it a trap? A male sniper could be forcing her to make a noise.

  There was only one way to find out. She crept up the stairs as quietly as she could, ignoring the inevitable creaking and moving fast. The sniveling was coming from a room to the right of the stairs. She tried the door, but it was locked. The sound subsided, but Embla could still hear suppressed sobs. She decided that the occupant didn’t represent an immediate danger.

  Time to focus on the bathroom, which lay straight ahead. That door was also closed, while one to her left was ajar. She kicked it open and glanced inside. Three camp beds, three sleeping bags. Plus more empty bottles, beer cans, and piles of cigarette ends, and there were five bags with the Nike logo. The air was thick with cigarette smoke, and it brought tears to her eyes.

  Bathroom. The sniper had to be in there; she had to make sure she didn’t get shot through the thin door. Like a crab she sidled along the wall. She assumed the door was locked. She listened hard; not a sound.

  She took a step back and kicked the handle as hard as she could. The door flew open as Embla hurled herself sideways, rolled over, and adopted the firing position.

  Nothing.

  She took out her phone, clicked on the camera icon, and reached into the room.

  Blood. Lots of blood. A male body dressed only in underpants, lying on the floor. A rifle with a telescopic sight lay beside him.

  If all the blood had come from the man, he was almost certainly dead. Slowly, Embla straightened up and moved to the doorway.

  The stench was appalling. It can’t be coming from him; he hasn’t been dead that long. Then she saw the body of a girl in the rusty old bathtub. She had been dead for some time, probably several days. Her skin was white with a faint grayish tinge, and there were green patches on her belly, which looked swollen. She was naked apart from a short T-shirt.

  Embla turned her attention back to the man. The right side of his forehead was gone. He’d been dead before he hit the floor. He was of medium height, slim, and muscular. His chest, arms, and legs were covered in dark hair. The hair on his head was cut very short, but that, too, was dark, as was the stubble on his chin and cheeks. She thought he was probably around thirty. Why was he wearing nothing but underpants? It must have been freezing, walking barefoot on the cold floor.

  Maybe he’d been asleep and had woken when he heard the fracas between Embla, Olle, and the man locked in the Mercedes, then grabbed his gun and rushed into the bathroom. He would have had a bird’s-eye view of the whole yard from the window. That seemed like the most credible scenario.

  The woman’s sobs had grown louder. Embla turned to face the locked door. She positioned herself to one side before she knocked.

  “Police!”

  The sobbing stopped for a second, then resumed with renewed strength.

  “I’m going to kick open the door!”

  She gathered herself, then kicked the handle as hard as she could. She had to repeat the maneuver twice more before the door flew open. With her rifle at the ready, she entered the room.

  The occupant was a young girl, not a woman. Fifteen years old at the most. She was sitting on a mattress on the floor, arms wrapped tightly around her knees. Her eyes were wide with terror, and her entire body was shaking with a combination of cold and sobs. She was wearing only a dirty T-shirt with the slogan beer built this body. There was a blanket in a heap on the floor, and the room stank of body odor and semen. Embla saw a supermarket paper bag filled with used toilet paper, and there were several rolls beside the mattress. Against the opposite wall was another filthy mattress that had presumably been used by the dead girl in the bathroom.

  This girl had a shackle around her wrist; she was chained to the radiator.

  Embla lowered her gun and tentatively stepped forward. The girl shook even more violently, tears pouring down her cheeks. Embla stopped and said as gently as she could: “I’m here to help you.”

  Although how was she going to free her? She was clearly in shock, traumatized by multiple rapes and no doubt other violent acts. Presumably she’d seen the other girl die, and of course she’d heard the shooting and the explosions. It was hardly surprising that she’d broken down.

  Embla slowly picked up the blanket and held it out to the girl, but she shrank away and made no attempt to take it. With an encouraging nod, Embla put it down within reach. She had to get the girl out of here as quickly as possible; the temperature in the house was dropping fast because there was
a gaping hole where the porch and front door had been, and there was no glass in the bathroom window.

  Embla decided to go back to the shed to see if she could find a tool to break the girl’s shackle.

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” she said reassuringly. She closed the broken door in an attempt to retain what little warmth there was in the room; better than nothing. She went over to close the bathroom door, too. Just as she touched the handle, she heard the sound of an approaching car.

  Not more of them! She felt as if every scrap of strength had drained from her body. She went into the blood-soaked bathroom to check, trying to ignore the stench of death.

  As she peered out the window, her heart sank like a stone. The Mercedes van that had just arrived was exactly the same as the one parked outside the storage shed. She bent down and picked up the sniper’s gun. The stock was covered in blood, but she didn’t care. Right now it was a matter of life and death as far as she and Olle were concerned. And Tore. She placed the gun in position; it felt sticky against her cheek and hands. She peered through the sight and saw two men in the front seats. There was no one behind them, thank goodness. Was there anyone in the back? She pushed that thought aside; if that was the case, she and Olle wouldn’t stand a chance.

  The driver was a big guy and looked to be between twenty-five and thirty. He had close-cropped blond hair and pale-gray—almost colorless—eyes. Fish eyes, Embla thought with a shudder. His features were strongly defined, and he had a distinctive underbite. Tattoos wound their way up his neck and chin. Both he and his companion were wearing dark-blue padded jackets with fur-trimmed hoods. They were unzipped, revealing black T-shirts underneath. Standard uniform for these guys, she thought. The passenger was much skinnier, and his ratty little face was generously tattooed. He had several eyebrow piercings, a substantial ring through his septum, and a number of short spikes in his lower lip. It was hard to make out his hair color because he wore a black wool hat.

  The van stopped at the first grenade crater and the new arrivals stared at the dead man lying on the dirt road. Embla could see them gesticulating and talking over each other, wondering what the hell had happened.

  Would they continue toward the shed and the house? If so, she had to stop them from getting out of the van at all costs. If they went into the shed, they would find Olle. And Tore. If they came into the house, there was no guarantee that Embla would be able to deal with them on her own.

  She watched as both men took out their pistols. Sig Sauers, probably, but she could be wrong. They appeared to be arguing now; Rat Face shook his head, his piercings glinting in the light. He obviously didn’t like his companion’s suggestion, but Fish Eyes looked determined to get his own way.

  She checked to make sure the gun was loaded; if not, there was plenty of ammunition on the floor by the window. The guy she’d killed had been a professional, judging by his accuracy and the type of weapon he’d used.

  When she looked out again, she saw that Fish Eyes was about to open the door. Suddenly he stopped; something in the side mirror had caught his attention.

  Embla lowered the gun. Flashing blue lights behind the Mercedes! How the hell had that happened? A wave of relief flooded her body, and to her surprise, she felt as if she was about to burst into tears. She pulled herself together; the officers who’d just arrived didn’t know that the men in the Mercedes were armed. On the other hand, the men in the Mercedes didn’t know that she was at the bathroom window, ready to take them out if necessary. She calmly positioned the gun against her shoulder and focused.

  Rat Face and Fish Eyes were sitting perfectly still, each staring into their mirror. By slightly moving the rifle sight over, Embla was able to see what they were looking at. Two armed, uniformed officers were approaching the van, one on each side. They must have left their vehicle around the bend. She quickly switched back to Rat Face and Fish Eyes. They were speaking to each other, but without taking their eyes off the cops. Both held their pistols at chest height, ready to fire as soon as they got out. They opened the doors at exactly the same moment. The police officers stopped, guns raised.

  As Fish Eyes set foot on the ground, Embla shot him in the right lower leg. He managed to fire at the officer as he went down, but he missed. Before he could take aim again, Embla put a bullet in his right shoulder. He let out a yell and dropped the gun.

  Rat Face stood motionless, his left hand resting on the door. Slowly he turned to face the house and raised his gun. Embla shot him in the right shoulder, too. He looked extremely surprised as he fell backward. The gun flew out of his hand.

  When she looked for the two officers, she saw them peering out from behind the Mercedes where they’d sought shelter.

  She yelled at the top of her voice:

  “This is Detective Inspector Embla Nyström from Gothenburg! Detective Inspector Olle Tillman is inside the storage shed to your right. He’s injured—we walked straight into a trap, and we’ve had to fight for our lives!”

  This was an unnecessary piece of information; the place looked like a bomb site.

  The officer closest to the shed cupped a hand around his mouth and shouted, “Tillman—are you there?”

  Embla heard a faint response from inside the building. The officer went over to the window overlooking the road, the one Embla couldn’t see from her vantage point. Olle’s colleague picked up the pistols belonging to the men she’d shot. Embla could hear voices, but she couldn’t make out what was being said; her ears were ringing again.

  Slowly she put down the gun. She left the semiautomatic rifle where it was, propped against the wall. There wasn’t a sound from the room where the girl was; right now Embla didn’t even have the energy to open the door and check on her.

  She plodded down the stairs feeling as if her boots were filled with lead. When she reached the bottom she went over to the hole where the door used to be and leaned against the wall. Olle emerged from the shed with Tore. His colleagues patted him on the shoulder and made a fuss over the dog. All three men were smiling, overcome with relief. Then they turned and saw her.

  Their smiles disappeared, and suddenly they looked horrified. She couldn’t work out why. Weren’t they going to come over and congratulate her? Why were they just standing there?

  Slowly she realized what the problem was. Both her hands were sticky with blood. She had blood all over her clothes. Blood everywhere. Her light-brown boots were dark red. With blood.

  Blood. Blood. Blood . . .

  She had very little recollection of what happened after that—only vague images of the journey to the hospital by ambulance. She did remember the lovely feeling of lying on a stretcher and being able to relax. Her body ached from all the tension, and there was a constant ringing in her ears. What annoyed her most was that she wasn’t allowed to sleep. The paramedics had told her they suspected she’d taken a blow to the head because she’d collapsed when she emerged from the house. Therefore she had to stay awake so that they could monitor her. She could have protested, told them she’d probably fainted because of the severe concussion she’d suffered back in the fall, but she didn’t have the energy.

  She was taken into a side room in the emergency department. A health-care assistant named Ali stayed with her. He smiled a lot; his teeth were very white, and his voice was soft and kind. His presence was reassuring. He accompanied her to the bathroom across the hall. As she shuffled along, all activity stopped and everyone stared at her. She assumed it was because seeing someone covered in blood who was still able to move was quite a novelty. Ali advised her not to lock the door; he would wait outside.

  Back in the side room he talked nonstop to prevent her from nodding off. Afterward she couldn’t recall a word he’d said.

  He gently helped her remove her bloodstained clothes, placed them in a black plastic bag, then washed the blood from her face and hands.

  Blood. Bloody hands.
I’ve got blood on my hands.

  Two nurses and a doctor arrived. The doctor was young, and his hair stuck out in all directions. In one hand he was holding a green paper surgical cap, which he balled up and put in his pocket before introducing himself. Embla immediately forgot his name. They clearly didn’t believe her assertion that she was unhurt and examined her carefully. They found no external injuries and decided to send her for an ECG and EEG.

  The three of them left, and she was alone with Ali again. Good. At last she could get some sleep. But no, Ali had been instructed to keep her awake until all the tests were completed. He found her some faded hospital clothes; her colleagues would collect her own clothing for forensic analysis.

  After what seemed like an eternity, the doctor returned. He was only a couple of years older than her, but the expression in his eyes was that of an old man who’d seen the worst of humanity. It struck her that maybe she had the same look. Right now she felt about the same age as her grandmother, who’d been dead for almost twenty years.

  “The good news is that we haven’t found anything wrong, either on the ECG or the EEG. In fact you have the heart of an elite sportswoman,” he informed her with a smile.

  I am an elite sportswoman, she thought, but she didn’t have the strength to answer. She simply nodded.

  “I’ve read your notes from back in the fall. You went through a terrible trauma, both physically and mentally, and I suspect that what you’ve experienced today was even worse. Like a war zone.”

  A war zone. The explosions, the gunfire, the dead bodies, the adrenaline pumping. She had feared for her life, but her survival instinct had kept her functioning.

  She met the doctor’s weary gaze. “You’re right. There was blood. A lot of blood.”

  He nodded. “Exactly. You’re suffering from post-traumatic stress right now. It often affects those who’ve been exposed to severe trauma. It’s not uncommon among soldiers who’ve been—”