Suddenly a moose came crashing out of the undergrowth at the side of the road. Irene slammed on the brakes, her tires squealing. Reflexively she glanced in the mirror to see how far away the other car was. At first she couldn’t see any lights and assumed it must have stopped somewhere farther back. Then she became aware of something blacker than the surrounding darkness, moving toward her: a car. Someone had killed the headlights. Why? The car came closer and closer; there was a grinding noise as the driver attempted to stop. In the red glow of Irene’s brake lights, the driver’s face was clearly visible in her rearview mirror.
Daniel Börjesson.
You are trying to flee from me. You will not succeed. The sanctity of my soul is under threat, and I feel a weight in my breast. Temptation burrows into me, tears at me . . . The Lord is testing me. I must save both you and myself from evil. There is only one way.
You must die.
Only then will I find peace in my soul.
And I will not be alone. The other beloved women are still there, waiting for me. They will never break our bond. I will never need to punish them. But if any one of them should transgress against me, I know what I must do to save their souls. I must cleanse them from sin. They will become a sacrifice. A sacrifice to the Lord to atone for their sins.
I am simply one of the Lord’s chosen tools.
I am the Redeemer.
29.
Irene missed the moose by a millimeter, and automatically completed the turn onto the narrow road. Her brain was completely frozen. She couldn’t formulate a single clear thought. Panic overwhelmed her, and her heart was pounding. She had passed the last farm a kilometer before the turn-off, and now she was on a road that rarely saw traffic of any kind, not even during the day. At this time of night, it was deserted. The only houses along here were summer cottages, and Irene’s heart sank as she realized there wasn’t a single light showing. That was hardly surprising; it was the first weekend in October, and pretty cold for the time of year. The forecast had promised night frosts all over Värmland. She and Krister were the only visitors.
Irene realized that heading for the cottage would lead Daniel straight to their home. He probably wouldn’t attack her as long as she and Krister were together, but he would be there, hidden close by. He was used to watching his victims; he would bide his time, and sooner or later he would strike. What should she do? She didn’t dare rely on her Värmland colleagues to track him down in the darkness.
She tightened her grip on the wheel, and the anger began to burn inside her.
Enough! She had had enough of being persecuted. First Angelika Crazy Malmborg-Eriksson, and now Daniel “Even Crazier” Börjesson. Enough! She didn’t want to feel as if she was being watched, constantly wondering if he was out there. Enough!
Without slowing down, she drove past the turnoff for the cottage. If you knew it was there you could just make out the lights in the windows, but otherwise it didn’t stand out. She put her foot down; she knew this route like the back of her hand, and Daniel didn’t. At first she just kept on going as fast as she could, but gradually a plan began to crystallize. She had to lead him astray, make sure he had no idea where he was, and couldn’t find his way back. There was a network of narrow dirt roads she could use, but a quick glance at the gas gauge told her she couldn’t drive too much farther. The arrow was already in the red zone. She cursed herself. Why hadn’t she filled up in Brålanda? The last thing she needed was to run out of gas in the middle of the forest with that lunatic on her heels!
Plan B would have to be a confrontation. Irene didn’t want to fight Börjesson. She might be a black belt and a former European champion in jiujitsu, but that wasn’t enough to risk taking on a strong man who could well be armed. She wouldn’t have a chance against a knife or a length of iron piping, plus it was pitch dark out here. The street lighting along the E-45 covered only the more densely populated areas, and neither the moon nor the stars penetrated the blackness outside the car. She could use that to her advantage; once again she would have to rely on her local knowledge.
Irene drove toward Björnmyren, a place she and Krister visited several times every summer. It was one of the largest and most treacherous bogs in northern Sunne, but it was also where the best cloudberries could be found. The bog was renowned for its rich animal life, attracting many nature enthusiasts during the spring and summer. Twenty years ago a German couple had taken a wrong turn, and they had both drowned in the bog. Following the tragedy, the local history association and the Sunne ornithological society had raised the funds to build a U-shaped footpath that covered a large part of the bog. Irene knew it well. But Daniel didn’t.
She glanced in the rearview mirror but couldn’t see him. The idiot was still driving without lights. Did he think she hadn’t spotted him? At that moment the lights came on behind her; it must have become difficult for him to follow her in the darkness.
She suddenly felt utterly calm. She knew exactly what to do. Without taking her eyes off the road, she opened the glove compartment and fumbled around until she found the small, powerful flashlight she kept in there. As her fingers closed around it, she allowed herself a triumphant smile.
She floored the accelerator as the road wound its way down to Björnmyren, dense coniferous forest on either side. It was impossible for anyone who wasn’t familiar with the area to know what was waiting around the next bend, but Irene knew. Daniel had no chance of keeping up with her at this speed. As the road leveled out, following the edge of the bog, she slowed down. There! She spun the wheel and drove a short distance along a forest track where she and Krister usually parked, making the car invisible from the road. She leapt out and ran back out onto the road, toward the track leading to the footpath over the bog. She bent down, switched on the flashlight, and with trembling fingers picked out a fist-sized rock lying in the undergrowth. She switched off the flashlight. All she had to do now was get ready. When she heard the engine of Daniel’s car approaching, Irene stepped out and took careful aim before she let it fly. She heard a dull crunch as the rock hit the windshield, by which time Irene was hiding behind the trunk of a tall pine tree. Daniel slammed on the brakes, and the car skidded into the shallow ditch. Irene remained where she was, forcing herself to breathe evenly. This was it.
After a few seconds the driver’s door opened and Daniel scrambled out. He staggered up onto the dirt road, about twenty-five meters from where Irene stood. She switched on the flashlight once more and shone it straight at him. Reflexively he held up his hands, shielding his eyes from the bright light. Irene was counting on the fact that he would be totally dazzled after staring out into the darkness for so long. The beam of the flashlight bounced off the heavy wrench he was holding in one hand.
“So, Daniel. You’ve decided it’s my turn. But you’ll have to catch me first,” she said, determined to challenge him.
She turned away, shielding the beam with her hand. She needed to see where she was going; if she stumbled, the consequences would be disastrous. When she reached the path over the bog, she stopped and listened. She could hear the sound of footsteps and heavy breathing. Daniel had taken the bait and was following her. Irene set off across the bog. She knew that the exact length of the path, which was made of wide wooden planks laid side by side in pairs, was 1.1 kilometers. It was a challenge in broad daylight, let alone in the pitch dark. Daniel wouldn’t be able to keep up with her, because that meant running the risk of stepping off the path. At the edge of the bog his boots would get a bit damp and muddy, but farther out there were deep holes filled with water. He didn’t know about those.
Irene was able to make good progress thanks to the flashlight. She didn’t want to get too far ahead, otherwise he might give up. Occasionally she let out a little cry as if she had gone wrong and got her feet wet in the icy water—which did in fact happen once or twice. They were getting farther and farther out onto the bog.
T
he night was damp and bitterly cold. Veils of mist danced around, trailing their chilly fingers over her face. She shivered in her woolen sweater; she had left her coat in the car, so it wouldn’t impede her mobility. She was surrounded by a strong smell of bog myrtle and peaty water. Coarse sedge whipped against her shins, soaking the legs of her pants. From time to time the screech of a bird or the cry of an animal sliced through the silence. She could hear a large creature moving around out on the bog. Wolves were wary and didn’t make a sound when they crept up on their prey; they preferred to stay in the forest, deep among the trees. This was probably a moose, but it could be a bear. There was a reason why this place was known as Björnmyren—the Bear Bog.
It seemed remarkable that she was able to register so much of what was going on around her. In some strange way she felt at home, safe in the dense darkness. She was constantly aware of the footpath shaking as Daniel lumbered along behind her. He hadn’t said a word, merely set off in pursuit, which was exactly what Irene had expected. From his point of view the situation was ideal: a defenseless woman all on her own, running for her life through the night. He thought he was the hunter.
But he had underestimated this particular quarry.
They had passed the first water-filled hole. The holes were invisible, but Irene knew they were there, right next to the path, dark and cold. Bottomless, according to a tale her mother-in-law had once told her.
Irene estimated that they had covered approximately eight hundred meters, which meant she had roughly one hundred meters left before she reached the spot where she intended to carry out her plan. The planks were still shuddering under Daniel’s weight; he wasn’t about to give up. Irene started moving faster; she needed to increase the distance between them if this was going to work. She sent up a silent prayer that the path by the hole hadn’t been repaired. Her heart started to flutter as she grew closer, and she briefly allowed the beam of the flashlight to play a few meters ahead of her. There they were! The loose planks.
They had suffered badly over the years; the span of the hole was too great, and the planks needed replacing with something considerably more substantial. When she and Krister had been out here picking cloudberries in the summer, they had noticed that the nails at either end had gradually come loose with the vibration of people walking across; they had often said how dangerous it was, an accident just waiting to happen.
Irene tiptoed to the other side, then she turned and kicked first at one plank, then the other. Pain surged through her foot, but after a couple more hard kicks the planks gave way and lay floating on the dark surface of the water. Daniel would have a real problem getting across the hole. Jumping wasn’t an option; the distance was too great. If he did manage to balance on the planks he would have to edge his way over.
By that time Irene should be at least halfway back to the car. Daniel would probably turn around, but without a flashlight it was impossible to move fast. Irene would be safe in the cottage when he got to his car; and she could use Krister’s cell to call her colleagues in Torsby to come out and take care of Daniel Börjesson.
With a surge of relief she set off at speed.
The splash made her halt. Daniel had fallen in. He wasn’t yelling, but she could hear him snorting and struggling in the icy water. Through the splashing she heard him gasping: “can’t . . . swim . . . can’t. . .” The withered sedge simply snapped off when he managed to grab a tuft hanging over the hole. His arms flailed desperately, and a series of guttural roars rose into the blackness of the night sky. No words, just anguished cries. Irene listened for what felt like an eternity.
She ought to go back and help him.
She ought to go back.
But she doesn’t go back.
He is drowning.
Her feet feel like lumps of ice. They have frozen to the planks, and she cannot move them. The rancid breath of the bog finds its way beneath her sweater. The eyes of the night are watching her. All the restless souls that dwell in this desolate place are clawing at her, tugging at her ankles, trying to drag her down into the water. If she moves, they will succeed.
She stands motionless.
Suddenly everything falls silent once more. It is as if all the creatures of the bog have stopped to listen. The only sound she can hear is the beating of her own heart, throbbing against her eardrums.
The paralysis is gone. She can move her feet. She flies along the path as fast as she can. But she does not run toward the hole, where the loose planks are floating on the surface along with a baseball cap.
She runs in the opposite direction.
“Sweetheart! You’re soaking wet! Where have you been? I was starting to get worried.”
Irene sank down at the bottom of the stairs and took off her sodden shoes and socks without replying.
“I called your cell, but I couldn’t get through. Has something happened?”
“The battery’s dead.”
Her voice was thick with suppressed tears. Suddenly her whole body began to shake.
“Hold me,” she sobbed.
Author’s Note
I would like to thank my niece Karin for lending me Hanko, her German shepherd. He’s every bit as wonderful and obedient in reality as he is in this novel.
For those of you who might be wondering, I can tell you that Egon is a little sweetheart who I met briefly in Berlin last year. His name probably wasn’t Egon at all, but I thought it was a bold name for an unusually small dachshund.
The events in my books are always fictional, as are the characters who appear in them. As usual I have taken considerable liberties with geographical facts. I claim the artistic freedom to adapt reality to fit the story where necessary. No doubt many of the residents of Västra Frölunda and northern Värmland have raised their eyebrows while reading this book.
Helene Tursten
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