The Nightmare

by Lars Kepler

  In the reflection of the window in the oven door, Penelope can see him look from side to side. If he stares at the oven, she thinks, he’ll see them too.

  The face in the window disappears and they hear steps on the wooden deck yet again. This time, the steps are continuing along the paved path toward the front of the house. As the front door is opened, Björn dashes to the kitchen. He quietly sets the knife on the counter as he turns the key in the lock, pushes the door open, and rushes out.

  Penelope follows at his heels. They’re running through the garden in the cool morning air, across the lawn, past the compost pile and into the forest. Fear forces Penelope to keep up her stride as it lashes the panic in her chest. She ducks underneath thick branches and leaps over low bushes and rocks. Soon she hears Björn’s panting beside her. And behind them, she senses their pursuer: a man attached to them like a dark shadow.

  He’s following them to kill them.

  She remembers a book she read. A woman from Rwanda was telling how she’d managed to survive the genocide by hiding in the woods and running every day. She ran the entire time the killings were going on. Her former friends and neighbors were hunting her with machetes. We imitated the antelopes, she’d written. We who survived in the jungle lived by imitating the flight of the antelopes from their hunters. We ran in unexpected ways, split apart and kept changing directions to confuse our pursuers.

  Penelope knows that she and Björn should be smarter. They’re running without a plan, which will help their pursuer but not them. She and Björn are not clever. They want to go home, they want to find help, they want to contact the police. Their pursuer knows all this. He understands them and knows they want to find safety in the company of other humans or find a way to reach the mainland.

  Penelope snags her shorts on a branch and rips a hole in them. She staggers a few steps but keeps going. She feels the pain as a burning loop around her leg.

  They must not stop. She tastes blood in her mouth. Björn stumbles through a thicket. They have to circle a muddy, water-filled gap left by an uprooted tree.

  In her flight next to Björn, a memory springs up unbidden. She had been as frightened then as she is now. It was in Darfur. She remembers the look in people’s eyes. Some eyes showed people so traumatized they could not go on. Others refused to give up the fight and kept going. What should have been children came to Kubbum one night. They held loaded guns. She would never forget the fear she felt that night.

  21

  the security service

  The main office of Sweden’s Security Service, Säpo, is on the fourth floor of the National Police Board headquarters. Its main entrance is on Polhemsgatan. The room smells of dust and warm lightbulbs, and pale light falls into the room from a small window facing the courtyard. A whistle can be heard from the exercise yard of the jail, located on the roof of the building. The head of the department of security is Verner Zandén. He’s a tall man with a pointed nose, coal-black eyes, and a deep bass voice. He sits now on a chair behind his desk with his legs wide apart, and he’s holding up a calming hand. Standing in this unusually depressing room is a young woman named Saga Bauer. She’s an investigator and her group’s antiterrorism expert. Saga Bauer is just twenty-five years old. Stripes of green, yellow, and red cloth are braided into her long blond hair. She looks like a wood sprite standing in the stream of light in a dark forest. She carries a large-caliber pistol in a shoulder holster under her unzipped exercise hoodie. NARVA BOXING CLUB has been printed on it.

  “I’ve led this entire effort for more than a year,” she’s pleading. “I’ve been on stakeout for twenty-four hours at a time—”

  “This is something entirely different,” her boss says with a smile.

  “Please, please … You can’t just bypass me again!”

  “Who says I’m doing that? A technician from CID is seriously wounded and an investigator has been attacked. That apartment could have exploded and—”

  “I know. I need to get over there now—”

  “I’ve already sent Göran Stone.”

  “Göran Stone? I’ve been here for three years and I haven’t closed a case yet! This is my field of expertise! Göran knows nothing at all about—”

  “He did a good job with the underground tunnel case.”

  Saga swallows hard and then she replies, “That was also my case. I found the link to—”

  “But it got dangerous and I still believe I made the right call.”

  Saga’s cheeks turn red. She struggles to collect herself. “I can do this. This is what I’ve been trained for—”

  “Yes, but I’ve made a different call.”

  Verner sighs and props his feet up on the wastebasket next to his desk.

  “You know my record. Affirmative action had nothing to do with my being accepted here,” Saga says, as calmly as she’s able. “I wasn’t part of a quota. I was top of my class in all the tests. I was best at sharpshooting. I have investigated two hundred and ten different—”

  “I just don’t want anything to happen to you,” Verner says softly, and his coal-black eyes meet hers.

  “But I’m not a doll, I’m not a princess, or some elf!”

  “But you are so … so …”

  Verner lifts his hands helplessly.

  “All right, what the hell, let’s do it. You be the lead preliminary investigator. But Göran Stone is part of it and I want him to keep an eye on you.”

  “Thanks,” she says, relieved.

  “But this is a big deal. Remember that,” he warns. “Penelope Fernandez’s sister has been killed execution-style and Penelope is missing—”

  “And we’ve noted increased activity among the left-wing extremist groups,” Saga says. “We want to know if the Revolutionary Front is behind the theft of explosives in Vaxholm.”

  “The most important thing is if there is an immediate threat,” Verner emphasizes.

  “Right now the radicals are sounding more threatening,” Saga continues, a little too eagerly. “I’ve just been in contact with Dante Larsson at Military Intelligence and Security, and he says there will probably be acts of sabotage this summer.”

  “Right now just concentrate on Penelope Fernandez,” Verner demands.

  “Of course,” Saga answers swiftly. “Of course.”

  “The technical investigation might be a cooperative effort between the National Criminal Investigation Department and us, but, basically, keep them out of it.”

  Saga nods and waits a moment before she asks one last question.

  “I want to bring this investigation to its conclusion. It’s important to me because—”

  “Right now, you’re in the saddle,” he says. “But at this moment we don’t know where it’s leading or where it will end. We don’t even know how it began.”

  22

  the incomprehensible

  Along Rekylgatan in the town of Västerås, there’s a shiny white apartment building. The people in the area enjoy being close to Lillhagen School, the soccer fields and tennis courts.

  A young man is leaving from Door 11. He’s carrying a motorcycle helmet. His name is Stefan Bergkvist and he’s almost seventeen years old. He attends an automotive vocational school and lives with his mother and her partner. He has long blond hair and sports a silver ring in his lower lip. He’s wearing a black T-shirt, saggy jeans ripped at the cuffs from being walked on, and skate shoes.

  In no hurry, he saunters to the parking lot. He hangs his helmet on the bar of his motocross cycle and slowly drives down the sidewalk next to the building. He continues alongside the double train track, then underneath the Norrleden viaduct and into a large industrial area. He finally stops near a construction shed covered in silver-and-blue graffiti.

  Stefan and his friends like to meet here. They compete on their own motocross track that they built along the train-track embankment. They drive over various sidings and then circle back along Terminal Road. They started coming here after they stumbled upon a key
to the construction shed buried in thistles by the back wall. The shed hadn’t been touched for ten years or more, forgotten after all the renovation work.

  Stefan climbs off his motorcycle, retrieves the hidden key, and unlocks the padlock underneath its cap. He pushes aside the steel boom and shoves open the wooden door to the shed, closing the door behind him. He checks the time on his phone and sees that his mother has called. He doesn’t realize that he’s under surveillance from across the train tracks. A sixty-year-old man idles near a Dumpster that belongs to a nearby industrial building. He’s wearing a gray suede jacket and light brown trousers.

  Stefan walks over to the small kitchen and picks up a bag of chips lying in the sink. He pours the last crumbs into his palm and licks them up.

  Light enters the shed from two windows covered with bars. The glass is dirty.

  Stefan is waiting for his friends. He flips through an old magazine found among others scattered on a drawing table. On the front cover, a headline screams: JUST THINK! PEOPLE PAY ME TO LICK MY PUSSY!

  The man in the suede jacket saunters from his spot and passes the high lattice poles with their looping electric lines. He crosses the brown grass on the embankment and walks over its double train tracks. He continues until he reaches Stefan’s motorcycle. He releases the kick-stand and quietly wheels the motorcycle to the front.

  He glances around once before he lays the motorcycle on its side and shoves it with his foot until it blocks the door. He opens the gas tank and lets the gasoline run out. It leaks underneath the shed.

  Stefan is still flipping through the magazine. He looks at the faded photos of women in jail. A blond woman is sitting with her legs open, showing her pussy to a jailer. Stefan is immersed in the picture until he’s interrupted by a rustling sound outside. He thinks he hears someone walking around and closes the magazine quickly.

  The man in the suede jacket has pulled out the red gasoline can stashed by the boys in the brush next to the shed. He now begins to empty it all around the perimeter. Only when he reaches the back does he hear the shouts from within. The boy is banging on the door and is trying to get it open. He hears the boy’s footsteps before the boy’s face appears at one of the dirty windows.

  “Hey, open the door! This isn’t a joke!” the boy says in a high voice.

  The man in the suede jacket continues around the shed, emptying the last of the gasoline. Then he puts the container back where it had been hidden.

  “What are you doing?” the boy yells.

  He then throws his whole body against the door and tries to kick it open, but it doesn’t give. He tries to call his mother on his cell phone. Her phone is off. His heart is thudding with panic as he goes from one filthy window to the next.

  “Have you lost your mind?” he yells.

  As the boy recognizes the stinking smell of gasoline vapor, terror seizes his body and his stomach cramps.

  “Hey! Hello?” he yells with fear in his voice. “You know I’m in here!”

  The man takes a match from his pocket.

  “What do you want? Please! Tell me what you want!”

  “It’s not your fault,” the man says. “But a nightmare must be reaped.” He hasn’t raised his voice at all. He strikes the match.

  “Let me out!” the boy screams.

  The man throws the match into the grass soaked in gasoline. It makes a sucking sound, as a sailboat’s sail does when it fills with wind. Light blue flames burst up with such force that the man has to step backward. The boy is screaming for help. The fire quickly circles the shed. The man takes a few more steps backward. He feels the heat on his face; he hears the terrible screams.

  In a few seconds, the whole shed is ablaze. The glass panes behind the bars shatter from the heat along the walls.

  The boy’s screams are even higher when the heat ignites his hair.

  The man walks calmly away. He crosses the train tracks again and then stands by the industrial buildings to watch the torch that had once been an old shed. A few minutes later, a freight train arrives from the north, rolling slowly along its tracks, wheels now scraping and creaking as the row of brown wagons passes the high flames. As the man disappears along Stenby Road, the wind catches his suede jacket, lifting it high behind him. Underneath, he is completely dressed in black.

  23

  the forensic technicians

  Although it’s the weekend, the head of the National Criminal Investigation Department is in his office. He’s never been particularly welcoming to unexpected visitors. There’s a BUSY sign in red, lit up on his door, which is shut.

  Joona knocks on it as he pushes it open.

  “I have to know the minute the maritime police find anything,” Joona says.

  Carlos Eliasson pushes a book across the desk. “Both you and Erixson have been attacked. That’s traumatic. You need a break. You need to take care of yourselves.”

  “We do take care of ourselves.”

  “They’ve finished the helicopter search,” Carlos says.

  Joona stiffens.

  “Finished! How much area did they cover?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Who’s in charge of the operation?”

  “We have nothing to do with it,” Carlos says. “It’s under the direction of the maritime police.”

  Joona says sharply, “It would be awfully nice to know whether we’re dealing with one murder or three.”

  “Joona, you’re not on this. I’ve handed it over to Jens Svanehjälm.

  We’re putting together a team with Säpo. Petter Näslund and Tommy Kofoed will be on it from our side and—”

  “What’s my job?”

  “To take the week off.”

  “No.”

  “Then you get to teach a week at the Police Training Academy.”

  “No.”

  “Don’t be so obstinate,” Carlos says. “Fuck you.”

  “Fuck me?” Carlos Eliasson exclaims. “I’m your boss.”

  “Maybe Penelope Fernandez and Björn Almskog are still alive,” Joona argues roughly. “His apartment is burned out; hers would have been if I hadn’t gotten there on time. I believe the killer is looking for something they have and I believe he drowned Viola trying to get it out of her—”

  “Thank you very much,” Carlos barks. “Thank you for your input. We have … no, give me a minute here. I know that you’re finding this hard to accept, but there are other police officers than you, Joona. And most of them are highly competent, I assure you.”

  “I agree,” Joona says slowly, a sharp edge to his voice. “And you ought to look out for them, Carlos.”

  Joona studies the brown spots on his shirtsleeves. Erixson’s blood.

  “What are you implying?”

  “I’ve met the killer. I think we’ll lose some men before this is done.”

  “I know he surprised you,” Carlos says more softly. “And I know this has been tough.”

  “All right, then,” Joona says gruffly.

  “Tommy Kofoed will be in charge of the investigation and I’ll call Brittis at the Police Training Academy. She will welcome you as a guest teacher all next week,” Carlos concludes.

  As Joona leaves the police station, the heat hits him hard. Pulling off his jacket, he senses someone coming up behind him. Someone has emerged from the shadows of the park. Joona turns and sees that it’s Claudia Fernandez.

  “Joona Linna,” she calls in a tense voice.

  “Claudia, how are you doing?” he asks gravely.

  Claudia Fernandez’s eyes are bloodshot and her face looks tortured.

  “Find her. You must find my girl,” she says, and thrusts a thick envelope at him.

  Joona opens it. It’s stuffed with money. He pushes it back to Claudia, but she refuses.

  “Please, take my money. It’s everything I have,” she says. “But I’ll find more. I’ll sell the house. Just find her.”

  “Claudia, I can’t take your money,” he says quietly.


  “Please.”

  “We are already doing everything we can.”

  Joona puts the envelope back in Claudia’s hands. She holds it away from her body. She murmurs that she will return home and wait next to the phone. Then she holds him back and tries to explain. “I told her that she was no longer welcome in my home … she won’t call me.”

  “You had an argument. That’s not the end of the world, Claudia.”

  “But how could I ever have said such a thing?” She hits her forehead with her fist. “What kind of a person says that to her own child?”

  “Sometimes words just slip out …”

  Joona’s voice dies away. He forces away fragments of memory that have been stirred up.

  “I can’t stand it,” she says quietly.

  Joona takes Claudia’s hand in his and repeats that he’s doing everything he can.

  “Of course you must get your daughter back,” he whispers to her.

  She nods, and they break apart to walk away in different directions. Joona hurries down Bergsgatan and squints at the sky as he heads to his car. It’s sunny, but also hazy and still extremely humid. Last summer he would have been sitting at the hospital, holding his mother’s hand. They spoke to each other in Finnish, as they usually did. He told her that they’d take a trip to Karelia as soon as she was feeling better. She had been born in a small Karelian village, one of the few not burned down by the Russians during the Second World War. His mother had replied that Joona ought to go to Karelia with someone special instead.

  Joona buys a bottle of Pellegrino at Il Caffè and drinks it all before he climbs back into his overheated car. The steering wheel is hot to the touch and the seat almost burns his back. Instead of heading over to the Police Training Academy, he returns to Sankt Paulsgatan 3 and to Penelope Fernandez’s apartment. He recalls the remarkable speed and precision of movement, as if the knife his assailant had used had come alive.