Closed Circles (Sandhamn Murders Book 2) (29 page)

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Isabelle ran as she’d never run before.

Branches with pinecones hit her face. As she forced her way through a wild rose bush, thorns raked her skin. She stumbled over a rock but recovered her balance at the last second.

With a leap, she cleared a narrow tree trunk and ran through a thicket of birch saplings. The heavy hunting jacket was impeding her, and she pulled it off as she ran, letting it fall into some heather.

Sweat streamed down her face and into her eyes. Irritated, she wiped her forehead with the back of her hand.

The only sound she could hear was her own breathing. She worried about all the other noises she was making—the breaking of twigs, the cracking of branches—all revealing her location.

The voices behind her grew fainter. She dared to glance back—she could see nothing through the vegetation.

Adrenaline pumped through her. Her head throbbed, the beats heavy and loud as pistol shots.

Lactic acid was building up in her muscles, but she forced her legs to keep running. They moved with only one goal—to escape her pursuers.

William Aldecrantz glanced at his watch.

It was time to break for lunch and join the rest of the hunting party. The horn had already sounded, calling them in, but he had hung back. He’d glimpsed a large male boar, slightly out of range, and he wanted to wait a few minutes in case it came back into sight.

He knew he couldn’t be too late. Papa wouldn’t be happy about that. He’d already been schooled in the importance of following the leader of the hunt. But William desperately wanted to get a boar this time.

He could already picture his return to the elite Lundsbergs boarding school. He’d impress his classmates with a story about taking down a wild boar all by himself.

His own hunting trophy.

When he’d received his first rifle on his eighteenth birthday, he’d thought it the best gift of his life. He’d felt like a man. He couldn’t stop admiring his weapon.

It’d be so great to shoot the boar!

William looked nervously at his watch again. He had to give up this good position and get back to the others, or his father would really chew him out. Of that, he was certain.

“Which direction did she go?” Margit yelled.

The trees were close together, and it was hard to force her way through the brush. But Margit caught up to Thomas, who was focused.

“Stand still,” he said. “We need to listen.”

Margit froze. They heard the wind sighing in the trees.

“Which direction did she go?” Margit said.

“Shhh!” Thomas hissed.

He peered between the trunks, searching for movement. They’d already gone a good distance from the meadow.

One hundred fifty or so yards ahead, something in a thicket caught his eye. It fluttered among the greenery.

“There she is! Follow me!” he called. He and Margit took off again, as fast as they could.

Isabelle was panting; she couldn’t catch her breath. She mustn’t lose her orientation.

Dear God,
she prayed.
Get me out of this, and I’ll never pray for another thing. Please don’t let it end like this! Dear God!

Tears of frustration ran down her cheeks. Her jaw and fists tightened. She kept running.

She stumbled over a tree trunk and fell headfirst to the ground. Her nose was scraped and her chin cut open. Woozy, she got back up and leaned against a birch tree.

Blood was flowing from one nostril.

She looked around and tried to collect her thoughts.

There was a highway just beyond the stream ahead. If she could reach that, she could get away. She’d flag down a ride.

She tried to remember exactly where the stream flowed.

She moved several feet forward and then spotted the water through the trees.

Relief came over her. The stream would be her savior. It would wash away her scent so that, even if they sent bloodhounds after her, the water would confuse them. On the other side, she’d be safe.

She continued to make her way through the dense shrubbery solely on strength of will, step by step, her body exhausted.

The instinct for self-preservation was so strong her legs refused to give up.

She was breathing easier. She was almost there.

She saw the sun’s reflection dancing on the water, showing her the way.

She would make it.

A rustling sound startled William Aldecrantz. In the right square of his scope he saw branches and twigs moving. Something was heading his way, toward the water.

William rejoiced. The wild boar was back. What luck that he hadn’t emptied his rifle yet. He was ready. His muscles tensed, and he half shut his eyes against the sun to see more clearly.

He quickly brought up his rifle.

Vegetation obscured his view, but he was sure the boar would rush into his sights any second. His heart was pounding in his chest. His mouth was dry, and he hardly dared to breathe.

As the shadow of the creature moved through the bushes, he took his shot.

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Thomas averted his face as he pushed through branches. He was following a small stream flowing through the forest. Though it was the middle of the day, it was surprisingly dark under the trees. The sunshine barely cut through the thick, looming treetops.

Margit was right at his heels. He could hear her labored breathing.

“Stop, Thomas! Stop!” she yelled. “Look there by the oaks!”

He jerked his head up.

Fifty yards in front of them was a large gray-black boar. The coarse bristles made it look like a creature from the Ice Age. They could tell it was a sow by the udders.

She looked angry.

“Hell,” Thomas said. He halted and remained absolutely still.

An angry wild boar was dangerous. A sow separated from her piglets, even worse. Why had she shown up here, when they were in such a rush?

“Do you know anything about wild boars?” Margit whispered. She remained perfectly still, a few feet behind him. “They’re pretty aggressive, aren’t they? Don’t they attack people?”

“Just don’t move,” he replied. “Maybe she’ll go away.”

Hope was all he could do. What did he know about wild boars? Could they kill a grown person? What would make them attack?

Margit and Thomas stood without speaking, like two Greek statues.

In the distance, they heard birds singing.

Sweat beaded on Thomas’s brow. They didn’t have time for this. Every missed second meant Isabelle got farther away.

The sow looked like she might weigh over two hundred pounds. Thomas was not sure his service revolver could even take her down if she attacked, but he released the safety just in case. It felt ridiculously small in his hand.

The sow stared at them with tiny, deep-set eyes, and her short, bristly ears stuck straight up.

A few minutes went by. Margit and Thomas waited. Then they heard something stir behind the trees.

Three small piglets trotted out from underneath a bush. The sow made a deep, guttural sound and led them away.

Thomas exhaled deeply. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his jacket. Margit let out a low whistle and leaned on a tree for support.

“Yowsa,” she said. “That was scary.”

“Can you hear any sign of Isabelle?” Thomas asked. He listened carefully to the forest.

Suddenly they heard a shot go off.

It was close by. Their choice was simple.

“That way!” Thomas yelled as they crashed on in the direction of the discharge.

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The shot had come from nowhere and must have hit her, although, strangely, it didn’t hurt. Her left hip felt numb, as if a fist had struck her with violent power. But it didn’t hurt.

She’d fallen to the ground and couldn’t get back up. She lay on pine needles hidden beneath thick branches.

She gingerly touched the numb area. Her fingers came away wet, and there was warm liquid on her hand.

She was injured.

Bitter tears filled her eyes. If only she hadn’t run. They couldn’t have proven a thing. She’d carefully eliminated all the evidence. Everything damaging was gone.

But the moment she’d seen that policeman, Andreasson, she’d lost control. In a wild panic, she’d run.

Idiotic. So damned unnecessary. How could she be so stupid?

She shifted slightly to make herself more comfortable. They wouldn’t get her. Nobody would. She’d find her way to her sister in Switzerland. She’d be safe there. Her father’s money was in a trust in that Alpine country. It would be enough to build a new life.

She smiled slightly at the memory of her father, her strong, clever father. He’d understood years ago that the family fortune had to be moved away from the Swedish tax authorities. Daddy had taken care of his girl—he always had.

First, though, she’d just rest here in the forest. She’d gather her strength. Then she’d go on. She rested her cheek against the moss and pine needles and closed her eyes.

It had been so easy, so surprisingly easy, to shoot that pompous Oscar. And so absolutely necessary.

She’d felt enormous satisfaction when she’d accomplished that. He’d rejected her, too, many years ago, but she’d gotten her revenge. Too many unjust actions.

She’d chosen a moment when he’d feel invincible to give him exactly what he deserved.

A wave of nausea ran through her body. She tried to shift positions again. She didn’t feel her blood seeping out as quickly anymore. That was good. She’d lie there a moment longer, then she’d get up and leave this godforsaken country forever.

She regretted that her plans had gone haywire when she’d been so close. She’d longed to be the wife of the RSYC chairman. She would have met the king and queen and would have sat next to the king when the royals attended the club’s parties. She could imagine her photo on the society pages in the newspapers.

She was more than ready to assume that role.

Actually it was she who should have been made chairperson. Neither Oscar nor Ingmar could match her energy or creativity. She was a good leader and an outstanding organizer.

But it wasn’t allowed, of course. A woman running such a traditional club? That would never do. The idea would have shaken the entire RSYC Board to the core. They reminded her of her own father in that way. He’d spent a fortune on her private school in Switzerland, where she’d learned home economics, but he could not have imagined she might want a career of her own. Her duty was to get married and have children.

And then Ingmar had come along. Fine, proper, weak Ingmar with all his aristocratic connections.

She’d tried to set an easy path for him using those social connections. She’d encouraged him to put his time and energy into the RSYC. She’d brought him to the threshold of the chairmanship. She’d supported him, attended dinner parties and events, and made sure he met the right people. And she’d eliminated Oscar.

Oscar’s death was so very advantageous.

But what kind of thanks had she gotten? Ingmar had cheated on her. Not with just anyone either. A dumb blonde she could have handled. She would even have respected him for finding the balls to have an affair. She’d certainly had
her
share of men over the years—her husband hadn’t satisfied her needs in ages.

But this. This would have brought them down, destroyed their entire social position and everything she’d fought for. She would never have been able to show her face again.

And now it was all over.

A tear of anger and frustration trickled down her cheek. It had been so close—everything she’d dreamed of for years.

She heard voices.

Using all her strength, Isabelle got to her feet, her body struggling to obey her. One hand covered her wound, and the other clung to a branch. She wanted to get out of there. But there was no point anymore. She didn’t have the strength. Struggling for breath, she sank back to the forest floor.

The voices were close now. She didn’t care. Calm spread over her. She felt no pain, but she was dizzy and weak. Light flickered in her eyes, and her body felt as if it were falling as her head rested peacefully on the moss. Was she going to die here next to this pine tree? The idea didn’t scare her. She was content, in spite of everything. She’d been in charge the whole time. Oscar had had his triumph stolen. Martin had gotten what he’d deserved.

Isabelle smiled as she slipped into unconsciousness. The last thing she heard was a man’s voice.

“Here she is! I found her!”

S
UNDAY, THE FIFTH WEEK