The Sandman

by Lars Kepler

  “Have you spoken to him?” the man asks, with a sharp look in his gray eyes.

  “We have no conversational therapy in the secure unit,” Anders says, running a hand through his short hair. “But, obviously, the patients talk.”

  Joona Linna leans forward.

  “You’re aware that the Supreme Court applied specific restrictions to Jurek Walter because it deemed him to be extremely dangerous?”

  “Yes,” Anders says. “But everything becomes a matter of interpretation. It’s my responsibility as a doctor to weigh restrictions and treatment against each other.”

  The detective nods. “He asked you to send a letter, didn’t he?”

  Anders loses his grip for a moment, then reminds himself that he’s the one with the power, the one who makes decisions regarding the patients.

  “Yes. I did mail a letter for him,” he replies. “I considered it an important way of building trust between us.”

  “Did you read the letter before you sent it?”

  “Yes, of course. He knew I would. It was nothing remarkable.”

  The detective’s gray eyes darken as his pupils expand.

  “What did it say?”

  Anders doesn’t know if Petra has come in, but it feels as if she’s standing behind his back, watching them.

  “I don’t remember exactly,” he says, uncomfortably aware that he’s blushing. “It was a formal letter to a legal firm—something I consider to be a human right.”

  “Yes,” the detective says, without taking his eyes off him.

  “Jurek Walter wanted a lawyer to visit him in the unit, to help him assess the possibilities of getting a retrial. That was more or less what he wanted. And if there was to be a retrial, he wanted a private defense lawyer to represent him.”

  The living room is silent.

  “What address?” the detective inspector asks.

  “Rosenhane Legal Services—a PO box in Tensta.”

  “Would you be able to reconstruct the exact wording of the letter?”

  “I only read it once. Like I said, it was very formal and polite, though there were a number of spelling mistakes.”

  “Spelling mistakes?”

  “More like dyslexic errors,” Anders explains.

  “Did you discuss the letter with Chief Brolin?”

  “No,” Anders replies. “Why would I do that?”

  117

  Joona goes back to his car and sets off toward Stockholm. He calls Anja and asks her to check out Rosenhane Legal Services.

  “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

  “The time,” he repeats. It occurs to him that it’s only been a few hours since Marie Franzén was shot and killed. “Sorry. Let’s do this tomorrow.”

  He realizes that she’s already ended the call. A couple of minutes pass before she calls him back.

  “There’s no Rosenhane,” she says. “No law firm, and no lawyer, either.”

  “There was a PO box address,” Joona insists.

  “Yes, in Tensta, I found that,” she replies. “But it’s been closed down, and the lawyer who was renting it doesn’t exist.”

  “I see.”

  “Rosenhane is the name of an extinct aristocratic family,” she says.

  “Sorry I called so late.”

  “You can call me whenever you like.”

  The address is a trail that doesn’t lead anywhere, Joona is thinking. No PO box, no law firm, no name.

  It suddenly occurs to him how strange it is for Anders Rönn to call Jurek Walter dyslexic.

  I’ve seen his writing, Joona thinks.

  What Anders interpreted as dyslexia could have been the result of long-term medication but is more likely a code to communicate with his accomplice.

  His thoughts return to Marie. Now there’s a child waiting for a parent who’ll never come home.

  She shouldn’t have rushed forward, but he knows he could have made the same mistake if his operational training hadn’t been so deeply ingrained. He would have been killed, just like his own father.

  Maybe Marie’s daughter has been told the news by now. Joona knows the world will never be the same for her. When Joona was eleven, his father, a police officer, was killed with a shotgun. He had been called to an apartment where there had been reports of a domestic disturbance. Joona remembers sitting in his classroom when the headmaster came in and got him later that day. The world was never the same again for him.

  118

  It’s morning, and Jurek is striding along on the treadmill. Saga can hear his ponderous breathing. On the television, a man is making his own rubber balls. Colorful spheres are floating in glasses of water.

  Her instinct is telling her that she should avoid all contact with Jurek, but every conversation she has with him increases her colleagues’ chances of finding Felicia.

  The man on television is warning viewers against using too much glitter, because it can affect the ball’s ability to bounce.

  Saga walks over to Jurek. He steps off the treadmill and gestures to her to take over.

  She thanks him, gets on, and starts walking. Jurek stands alongside, watching her. Her legs are still tired and her joints sore. She tries to speed up, but her breath is already labored.

  “Have you had your injection of Haldol?” Jurek asks.

  “Had it the first day,” she replies.

  “From the doctor?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he come in and pull your pants down?”

  “I was given Stesolid first,” she replies quietly.

  “Was he inappropriate?”

  She shrugs.

  “Has he been in your room more times?”

  Bernie comes into the dayroom and walks straight over to the treadmill. His broken nose has been covered with white fabric tape. One eye is swollen shut. He looks at her and coughs quietly.

  “I’m your slave now. Fucking hell. I’m here, and I shall follow you for all eternity, like the pope’s butler, till death do us part.”

  He wipes the sweat from his top lip and seems unsteady.

  “I shall obey every—”

  “Sit down on the sofa,” Saga interrupts without looking at him.

  He burps and swallows several times.

  “I shall lie on the floor and warm your feet. I am your dog,” he says, and sinks to his knees with a sigh. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Go and sit on the sofa,” Saga repeats.

  She’s walking slowly on the machine. The palm leaves are swaying. Bernie crawls over, tilts his head, and looks up at her.

  “Anything, I’ll obey you,” he says. “If your breasts are getting sweaty, I can wipe—”

  “Go and sit on the sofa,” Jurek says in a detached voice.

  Bernie crawls away instantly and lies down on the floor in front of the sofa. Saga has to lower the speed of the machine slightly. She forces herself not to look at the swaying palm leaf and tries not to think about the microphone.

  Jurek is watching her. He wipes his mouth, then rubs his hand through his short metal-gray hair.

  “We can get out of the hospital together,” he says calmly.

  “I don’t know if I want to,” she says.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t really have anything left outside.”

  “Left?” he repeats quietly. “Going back is never an option. But there are better places than this.”

  “And probably some worse.”

  He looks genuinely surprised and turns away with a sigh.

  “What did you say?” she asks.

  “I just sighed, because it occurred to me that I can actually remember a worse place,” he says, gazing at her with a distant look in his eye. “The air was filled with the hum of high-voltage electricity wires. The roads were wrecked by big bulldozers. And the tracks were full of water and red clay up to your waist. But at least I could still open my mouth and breathe.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That worse places m
ight be preferable to better ones.”

  “You’re thinking about your childhood?”

  “I suppose so,” he says.

  Saga stops the treadmill and leans forward on the handles. Her cheeks are flushed, as if she’d run ten kilometers. She knows she should continue the conversation without seeming too eager and get him to reveal more.

  “Do you have a hiding place? Or are you going to find a new one?” she asks, without looking at him.

  At once she realizes that her question is far too direct. She forces herself to meet his gaze.

  “I can give you an entire city if you like,” he replies seriously.

  “Where?”

  “Take your pick.”

  Saga shakes her head with a smile. She suddenly remembers a place she hasn’t thought of for many years.

  “When I think about other places…I only ever think about my grandfather’s house,” she says. “I had a swing in a tree….I don’t know, but I still like swings.”

  “Can’t you go there?”

  “No,” she responds, and gets off the treadmill.

  119

  The members of Athena Promachos are listening to the conversation between Jurek and Saga.

  Nathan Pollock has written down the words “high-voltage electricity wires,” “big bulldozers,” “red clay.”

  Joona stands by the speaker. A cold shiver runs up his spine as Saga talks about her grandfather. She can’t let Jurek inside her head, he thinks. The image of Susanne Hjälm flits through his memory. Her dirty face, and the terrified look in her eyes down there in the cellar.

  “Why can’t you go there if you want to?” he hears Jurek ask.

  “It’s my dad’s house now,” Saga replies.

  “And you haven’t seen him for a while?”

  “I haven’t wanted to,” she says.

  “If he’s alive, he’s waiting for you to give him another chance,” Jurek says.

  “No,” she says.

  “Obviously, that depends on what happened, but—”

  “I was little. I don’t remember much,” she explains. “But I know I used to call him all the time, promising I’d never pester him again if he would just come home. I’d sleep in my own bed and sit politely at the table and…I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “I understand,” Jurek says. His words are almost drowned out by a rattling sound.

  There’s a whining noise, then the rhythmic thud of the treadmill.

  120

  Jurek is back on the treadmill. He looks stronger again. His strides are forceful, but his pale face is calm.

  “You’re disappointed in your father because he was absent,” he says.

  “I remember all those times I called him. I mean, I needed him.”

  “But your mother—where was she?”

  Saga pauses. She’s saying too much now, but at the same time she has to respond to his openness. It’s an exchange, or else the conversation risks becoming superficial again. It’s time for her to say something personal, but as long as she sticks to the truth, she’ll be on safe territory.

  “Mom was sick when I was little. I only really remember the end,” Saga replies.

  “She died?”

  “Cancer. She had a malignant brain tumor.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Saga remembers the tears trickling into her mouth, the plastic smell of the phone, her hot ear, the light coming through the grimy kitchen window.

  Maybe it’s because of the medication, her nerves, or Jurek’s penetrating gaze. She hasn’t talked about this for years. She doesn’t know why she’s doing so now.

  “It was just that Dad—he couldn’t deal with her illness. He couldn’t stand being at home.”

  “That’s why you’re angry.”

  “I was too little to take care of my mom. I tried to help her with her medication, and I tried to comfort her. She would get headaches in the evenings and just lie in her bedroom, crying.”

  Bernie crawls over and tries to sniff between Saga’s legs. She shoves him away, and he rolls straight into the artificial palm.

  “I want to escape, too,” he says. “I’ll come with you. I can bite—”

  “Shut up,” she interrupts.

  Jurek turns around and looks at Bernie, who’s sitting there grinning and peering up at Saga.

  “Am I going to have to put you down?” Jurek asks him.

  “Sorry, sorry,” Bernie whispers, and gets up from the floor.

  Jurek starts walking again. Bernie sits on the sofa and watches television.

  “I’m going to need your help,” Jurek says.

  Saga doesn’t answer.

  “I think human beings are more tied to their families than any other creature,” Jurek goes on. “We do everything we can to stave off separation.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You were only a small child, but you took care of your mother.”

  “Yes.”

  “Could she even feed herself?”

  “Most of the time. But toward the end she had no appetite,” Saga says.

  “Did she have an operation?”

  “I think she only had chemotherapy.”

  “In tablet form?”

  “Yes. I used to help her every day.”

  Bernie is sitting on the sofa but keeps glancing at them. Every now and then, he gingerly touches the bandage over his nose.

  “What did the pills look like?” Jurek asks, and speeds up slightly.

  “Like normal pills,” she replies.

  She suddenly feels uneasy. Why is he asking about the drugs? There’s no reason for it. Maybe he’s testing her? Her pulse increases as she tells herself that it isn’t a problem, because she’s only telling the truth.

  “Can you describe them?” he asks.

  Saga opens her mouth to say that it’s been too long, but all of a sudden she remembers the white pills among the long brown strands of the shag rug. She had knocked the jar over and was crawling around next to the bed, picking the pills up.

  The memory is vivid.

  She had gathered the pills in her cupped hand and blown the fluff from the rug off them. In her hand she had been holding something like ten little round pills. On one side they were imprinted with two letters in a square.

  “White, round,” she says. “With letters on one side. ‘KO.’ I have no idea why I remember that.”

  121

  Jurek turns the treadmill off, then stands there smiling to himself for a long while as he catches his breath.

  “You say you gave your mother cytostatic medication—that is, chemotherapy. But you didn’t.”

  “Yes, I did,” she says.

  “The medicine you describe is codeine phosphate,” he says.

  “Painkillers?” she asks.

  “You don’t prescribe codeine for cancer—only strong opiates, like morphine and Ketogan.”

  “But I can remember the pills exactly. There was a groove on one side.”

  “Precisely,” he says.

  “Mom said—”

  She falls silent, and her heart is beating so hard she’s scared he’ll hear it. Her anxiety must be showing on her face. Joona warned me, she thinks. He told me not to talk about my parents.

  She gulps and looks down at the worn floor.

  It doesn’t matter, she thinks, and walks off toward her room.

  It happened. She said too much. But she stuck to the truth the whole time.

  She hadn’t had a choice. Not answering his questions would have been far too evasive. It was a necessary exchange, but she isn’t going to say any more now.

  “Wait,” Jurek says, very gently.

  She stops, still facing away.

  “I knew that the court decision would never be reviewed, and I realize that I’m never going to get parole. But now that you’re here, I can finally leave this hospital.”

  Saga turns and studies his thin face.

  “What could I possibly do?” she asks.

  “It�
��ll take a few days to prepare everything,” he replies. “But if you can get hold of some sleeping pills—five Stesolid tablets…”

  “How can I get them?”

  “You stay awake, say you can’t sleep, ask for ten milligrams of Stesolid, hide the pill, then go to bed.”

  “Why don’t you do it yourself?”

  A smile breaks out on Jurek’s cracked lips.

  “They’d never give me anything. They’re too frightened of me. But you’re a siren. Everyone sees how beautiful you are, not how dangerous.”

  This could be what it takes to win Jurek’s confidence. She decides to go along with his plan, as long as it doesn’t get too risky.

  “You took the punishment for what I did, so I’ll help you,” she replies.

  “But you don’t want to come?”

  “I’ve got nowhere to go.”

  “You will.”

  “Tell me,” she asks, venturing a smile.

  “The dayroom’s closing now,” he says, and walks out.

  She feels strangely off-kilter, as if he already knows everything about her, even before she tells him.

  Of course it wasn’t chemotherapy medication. She just assumed it was, without really thinking. You don’t administer chemotherapy drugs like that. They have to be taken at strict intervals. The cancer was probably far too advanced. All that was left to do was pain relief.

  When she returns to her cell, she feels as if she’s been holding her breath all the way through her encounter with Jurek Walter.

  She lies down on the bunk, completely exhausted.

  She’ll stay passive from now on, and let Jurek reveal his plans to the police.

  122

  It’s only five to eight in the morning, but all the members of the Athena group are assembled in the attic apartment. Pollock has washed the mugs and left them upside down on a checkered blue tea towel.

  After the dayroom doors were locked yesterday, they sat there analyzing the wealth of material until seven o’clock in the evening. They listened to the conversation between Jurek Walter and Saga Bauer, organizing and evaluating the information they heard.

  “I’m worried that Saga’s being too personal,” Corinne says as Pollock hands her a cup of coffee. “Of course, she’s walking a tightrope, because without volunteering a part of herself she can’t build trust.”