ASA LARSSON ~ THE SAVAGE ALTAR (31 page)

A
nna-Maria Mella is dreaming. She jumps out of a police car and runs with her colleagues along the E10 between Kiruna and Gällivare. They are on their way to a crashed car lying upside down ten meters from the carriageway. It’s such hard work. Her colleagues are already standing next to the crumpled car and yelling at her.

“Get a move on! You’re the one with the saw! We’ve got to get them out!”

She carries on running with the chainsaw in her hand. Somewhere she can hear a woman; her screams are heartrending.

She’s there at last. She starts up the chainsaw. It shrieks through the metal of the car. She catches sight of the child seat hanging upside down in the car, but she can’t see if there’s a child in it. The saw gives a shrill howl, but suddenly it makes a loud piercing ringing sound. Like a telephone.

Robert nudges Anna-Maria in the side and goes back to sleep as soon as she has picked up the receiver. Sven-Erik Stålnacke’s voice comes down the line.

“It’s me,” he says. “Listen, I went back to Curt Bäckström’s yesterday. But he hasn’t been there all night, at least nobody’s answering the door.”

“Mmm,” mumbles Anna-Maria.

The nastiness of her dream lingers on. She squints at the clock radio beside the bed. Twenty-five to five. She shuffles backwards in the bed and leans against the headboard.

“You didn’t go there on your own?”

“Don’t make a fuss, Mella, just listen. When he didn’t seem to be at home, or wasn’t opening the door, or whatever, I went to the Crystal Church to see if there was some sort of all-night hallelujah carry-on, but there wasn’t. Then I rang the pastors—Thomas Söderberg, Vesa Larsson and Gunnar Isaksson, in that order. I thought maybe they kept an eye on their flock and might know if this Curt Bäckström was in the habit of spending his free time during the day anywhere other than in his flat.”

“And?”

“Thomas Söderberg and Vesa Larsson weren’t at home. Their wives insisted they must still be at the church because of this conference, but I swear to you, Anna-Maria, there was nobody in that church. I mean, they could have been sitting there hiding in the dark, quiet as mice, but I find that difficult to believe. Pastor Gunnar Isaksson was at home, answered after ten rings and rambled on—he’d obviously had a nightcap.”

Anna-Maria ponders for a while. She feels befuddled and slightly unwell.

“I wonder if we’ve got enough for a search warrant,” she says. “I’d like to get into Curt Bäckström’s apartment. Ring von Post and ask him.”

Sven-Erik sighs at the other end of the phone.

“He’s completely hung up on Sanna Strandgård,” he says. “And we haven’t got a shred of evidence. But still, I’ve got a really bad feeling about this guy. I’m going to go in.”

"Into his apartment? Just stop right there."

“I’m going to ring Benny the locksmith. He won’t ask any questions if I tell him he can send the bill to the police.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

Anna-Maria lowers her feet to the floor.

“Wait for me,” she says. “Robert can dig the car out.”

“T
ake it easy now, Rebecka,” says Vesa Larsson. “We only want to talk. Don’t do anything stupid.”

Without taking his eyes off her he fumbles behind with his hand, grabs hold of the door handle and presses it downward.

We, she thinks. Who are “we”?

All at once she realizes that he is not alone. He just came in first to make sure the situation was under control.

Vesa Larsson opens the door and two other men come into the room. The door closes behind them. They are dressed in dark clothes. No skin visible anywhere. Balaclavas. Goggles.

Rebecka tries to get up from the chair, but her legs will not obey her. It is as if her whole body is ceasing to function. Her lungs are incapable of taking in any air. The blood that has flowed through her veins since she was born is stopping. Like the river when a dam has been built. Her stomach is turning into a solid knot.

No, no, fuck, fuck…

One of the two men takes off his hood and reveals his dark shiny curls. It is Curt Bäckström. His snowsuit is black and shiny. On his feet he has sturdy biker’s boots with steel toe-caps. Over his shoulder he is carrying a shotgun, double barreled. His nostrils and pupils are flared, like a warhorse. She looks straight into his glazed eyes. Sees the fever in them.

Be very careful with him, she thinks.

She sneaks a glance at the girls. They are fast asleep.

She sees who the other man is before he removes his hood and goggles. It doesn’t matter what he’s wearing, she would recognize him anywhere. Thomas Söderberg. The way he moves. Dominates the room. It’s almost as if they had rehearsed. Curt Bäckström and Vesa Larsson take up positions on either side of the door to the pigsty.

Vesa Larsson looks past her. Or maybe straight through her. He has the same look as the parents of small children in the supermarket. The muscles beneath the skin of the face have given up. They can’t hide the tiredness anymore. The dead expression. The parents haul their trolleys up and down the aisles like donkeys beaten to the limit of their endurance, deaf to their children’s crying or their agitated chatter.

Thomas Söderberg takes a step forward. At first he doesn’t look at her. With tense, watchful movements he unzips his leathers and takes out his glasses. They are new since she last saw him, but that’s a long time ago. He looks around the room like a commander in a science-fiction film, registers everything, the children, the axe in the corner and Rebecka, by the kitchen table. Then he relaxes. His shoulders drop. His movements become softer, like a lion padding over the savannah.

He turns to Rebecka.

“Do you remember that Easter when you invited Maja and me here?” he asks. “It feels like another lifetime. For a while I thought I wouldn’t be able to find it. In the dark and the storm.”

Rebecka looks at him. He takes off his hood and his gloves and pushes them into the pockets of his leathers. His hair has got thinner. The odd gray streak among the brown, otherwise he is just the same. As if time had stood still. Maybe he has put on a little weight, but it’s hard to tell.

Vesa Larsson leans against the door frame. He is breathing with his mouth open and his face is turned slightly upward, as if he were feeling carsick. His gaze wanders from Curt to Thomas, and to Rebecka herself. But he doesn’t look at the children.

Why doesn’t he look at the children?

Curt sways to and fro a little. His gaze is firmly fixed, sometimes on Rebecka, sometimes on Thomas.

What’s going to happen now? Is Curt going to take the shotgun from his shoulder and shoot her? One, two, three, and it’s all over. Black. She must gain time. Talk, woman. Think of Sara and Lova.

Rebecka uses her hands to support her; leaning on the edge of the table, she raises herself from the chair.

“Sit down!” barks Thomas, and she slumps back down like a beaten dog.

Sara whimpers slightly but doesn’t wake. She turns over and her breathing once again becomes deep and calm.

“Was it you?” croaks Rebecka. “Why?”

“It was God himself, Rebecka,” says Thomas earnestly.

She recognizes the serious tone of voice and the attitude. This is how he looks and sounds when he wants to impress important matters upon his listeners. His whole being is transformed. It is as if he were a block of stone that has thrust up through the earth from under the ground, with its roots in the earth’s core. Gravity, strength and power through and through. And yet, at the same time, humility before God.

Why is he putting on this performance for her? No, it isn’t for her benefit. It’s for Curt. He’s… he’s handling Curt.

“What about the children?” she asks.

Thomas bows his head. Now there is something fragile in his tone. Something frail. It’s as if his voice can barely manage the words.

“If you hadn’t…” he begins. “… I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive you for forcing me to do this, Rebecka.”

As if he has been given an invisible sign, Curt removes his right glove and takes a coil of rope from his pocket.

She turns to Curt. Forces her voice past the lump blocking her throat.

“But you love Sanna,” she says. “How can you love her and kill her children?”

Curt closes his eyes. He continues to sway gently to and fro as if he doesn’t hear her. Then his lips move silently for a while before he answers.

“They are shadow children,” he says. “They must be put aside.”

If she can just get him talking. Gain some time. She has to think. Follow his thread. Thomas is letting him talk, he daren’t do anything else.

“ ‘Shadow children’? What do you mean?”

She tilts her head to one side and rests her cheek on her hand just as Sanna does, makes a real effort to keep her voice calm.

Curt speaks straight out into the room with his eyes fixed on the kerosene lamp. As if he were alone. Or as if there were some being inside the light itself, listening to him.

“The sun is behind me,” he says. “My shadow falls before me. It walks in front of me. But when I step into it, the shadow must give way. Sanna will have new children. She will bear me two sons.”

I’m going to be sick, thinks Rebecka, and she can taste minced elk meat and bile surging up through her body.

She gets up. Her face is as white as snow. Her legs are trembling under her. Her body is so heavy. It weighs several tons. Her legs are like spindly toothpicks.

In a second Curt is in front of her. His face is twisted with rage. He screams at her so loudly that he has to draw breath after each word.

“You… were… told… to… sit… down!”

He hits her in the stomach with enormous force and she folds forward like a clasp knife. Her legs lose their last vestige of strength. The floor comes rushing up to meet her face. Grandmother’s rag rug against her cheek. Unbearable pain in her stomach. A long way above her, agitated voices. A rushing, ringing noise in her ears.

She has to close her eyes for a little while. Just for a little while. Then she’ll open her eyes. That’s a promise. Sara and Lova. Sara and Lova. Who’s screaming? Is it Lova, screaming like that? Just for a little while…

B
enny the locksmith unlocks the door to Curt Bäckström’s apartment and disappears. Sven-Erik Stålnacke and Anna-Maria Mella stand there on the dark staircase. Only the lights from outside shine in through the window facing the yard. Silence. They look at each other and nod. Anna-Maria has undone the safety catch on her pistol, a Sig Sauer.

Sven-Erik goes in. She hears his tentative hello. Anna-Maria stands guard outside the open door.

I must be out of my mind, she thinks.

The bottom of her back is aching. She leans against the wall and takes deep breaths. What if he’s in there in the dark. He might be dead. Or lying in wait somewhere. He could rush her from inside and knock her down the stairs.

Sven-Erik switches on the light in the hallway.

She peers in. It’s a one-room apartment. You can see straight into the combined living room and bedroom from the hall. It’s a peculiar place. Does someone really live here?

There isn’t a stick of furniture in the hall. No desk with bits and pieces and the mail. No mat. Nothing hanging on the coat stand below the hat pegs. The living room is empty too. Almost. There are some lamps standing on the floor, and a huge mirror hangs on the wall. The windows are covered with black sheets. Nothing on the windowsills. No curtains. A single pine bed up against the wall. The coverlet is pale blue machine-quilted nylon.

Sven-Erik comes out of the kitchen. He shakes his head imperceptibly. Their eyes meet. Full of questions and foreboding. He walks over to the bathroom door and opens it. The light switch is on the inside. He stretches out his hand. She hears the click, but the light doesn’t come on. Sven-Erik remains standing in the doorway. She can see him from the side. His hand taking out his key ring. He has a small torch on it. The narrow beam of light in through the door. The eyes narrowing so that they can see better.

Perhaps she makes a movement that he sees out of the corner of his eye, because his hand flies up to stop her. He takes one step into the room. One foot over the threshold. Her back is tense and aching again. She clenches her fist and presses it against her spine.

He comes out of the bathroom. Rapid steps. Mouth open. Pupils like black holes in a face made of ice.

“Ring,” he says hoarsely.

“Ring who?” she asks.

"Everybody! Wake up the whole bloody lot of them!"

R
ebecka opens her eyes. How much time has passed? Thomas Söderberg’s face is floating just below the ceiling. He looks like the eclipse of the sun. His face is in the shadows, and the kerosene lamp hanging behind his head forms a corona around his brown curls.

Her stomach is still hurting. Worse than before. And over and above the pain, outside the pain, is something warm and wet. Blood. She realizes with terror that Curt didn’t punch her.

He stabbed her with a knife.

“This isn’t exactly what we planned,” says Thomas Söderberg firmly. “We must reconsider.”

She turns her head. Sara and Lova are lying head to tail on the bed. Their hands are tied to the bedposts. Bits of white cloth are sticking out of their mouths. On the floor by the bed lies a torn-up sheet. That’s what they’ve got in their mouths. She can see their chests moving up and down rapidly as they fight to take in enough air through their noses.

Lova has a cold. But she’s breathing.

Keep calm, she’s breathing. Fuck, fuck.

“The idea was,” says Thomas Söderberg thoughtfully, “the idea was to set fire to the cabin. And we were going to give you the keys to your snowmobile so you could get away, just in your nightdress or a T-shirt. You’d take the chance, of course; who wouldn’t? With the storm and the windchill factor when you’re traveling by snowmobile, I reckon you’d have got about a hundred meters at the most. Then you’d have fallen off and frozen to death in a matter of minutes. It would have shown up as a simple accident on the police report. The cabin catches fire. You panic, leave the kids and rush out just as you are. You try to escape and freeze to death just a little distance away. No major investigation, no questions. Now it’s going to be more difficult.”