there’s a pool of blood beneath him.
“You’re bleeding,” Joona says.
“No big deal,” Erixson replies. “I’m not sure how he did it, but he sliced my Achilles tendon.”
Joona calls for an ambulance and then crouches next to Erixson, whose face is pale and whose cheeks glisten from sweat. He looks nauseated.
“He cut me while he ran past. It was so quick … like being attacked by a fucking spider.”
They fall silent. Joona remembers the lightning-fast movements behind the kitchen door and how the blade of the knife moved effortlessly, with a life of its own. He’d never seen anything like it before.
“Is she in there?” Erixson pants.
“No.”
Erixson smiles, relieved. Then he’s serious again.
“Was he going to blow the place to hell anyway?”
“Looks like it. He’s good at getting rid of evidence,” Joona answers sarcastically.
Erixson fumbles at the paper on his chocolate cigarette but drops it. He closes his eyes for a minute. By now his cheeks are ash-white.
“I take it you didn’t see his face either,” Joona says quietly.
“No,” Erixson mumbles. “We saw something, though. There’s always something we notice in spite of ourselves.”
18
the fire
The medical crew from the ambulance reassures Erixson that they’re not going to drop him.
“I can walk,” Erixson protests and shuts his eyes.
His chin shakes each step down.
Joona goes back into Penelope Fernandez’s apartment. He opens all the windows to clear the air and then sits down on the apricot-colored sofa. It is very comfortable.
If the apartment had exploded, it would have looked like an unfortunate accident caused by a gas leak. The case would have been closed.
Joona lets his memory expand. No fragment of observation ever completely disappears. It simply must be retrieved just like the seas heave flotsam and jetsam up onto the beach.
But what was it?
He had seen nothing. Just a quick, blurred movement and a knife blade.
That’s what I saw! Joona realizes. I saw nothing!
This lack is exactly what is nudging his intuition.
We’re dealing with a pro here, a contract killer, a hit man, a grob.
There aren’t many in the world.
This was not the first inkling he’s had, but now he’s thoroughly convinced. The killer in the hallway is the same man who murdered Viola. There was certainly time to do both. He’d planned to kill Penelope and sink the cruiser as if it were an accident; then he’d use the same method here. This is a killer who wants to remain invisible. He wants to kill under the radar of the police.
Joona looks around slowly. He tries again to assemble the parts of the puzzle into a whole.
He hears children playing in the apartment above his head. They’re rolling marbles over the floor. They’d have been in the middle of an inferno right now if Joona hadn’t been able to pull the plug in time.
This was a cold-blooded, driven attack, Joona thinks, and the man behind it was not some hate-filled right-wing activist. Penelope Fernandez might be involved in the peace movement, sure, and those groups did, ironically, resort to violence sometimes. But this man was different: a highly trained professional at a level well above any of the amateur groups.
So why were you here? Joona wonders. What does a hit man have to do with Penelope Fernandez? What is she mixed up in? What’s going on beneath the surface?
Joona reviews those unusual knife movements. The technique was obviously meant to circumvent the usual police and military defensive training. His skin prickles as he realizes that the first cut would have sliced into his liver if he hadn’t carried his pistol under his right arm. The second cut would have gone straight into his brain if he hadn’t thrown himself backward.
Joona gets up from the sofa and walks into the bedroom. He studies the well-made bed and the crucifix over the headboard.
A hit man believed he’d killed Penelope, and his intention was to make it seem like
“You’re bleeding,” Joona says.
“No big deal,” Erixson replies. “I’m not sure how he did it, but he sliced my Achilles tendon.”
Joona calls for an ambulance and then crouches next to Erixson, whose face is pale and whose cheeks glisten from sweat. He looks nauseated.
“He cut me while he ran past. It was so quick … like being attacked by a fucking spider.”
They fall silent. Joona remembers the lightning-fast movements behind the kitchen door and how the blade of the knife moved effortlessly, with a life of its own. He’d never seen anything like it before.
“Is she in there?” Erixson pants.
“No.”
Erixson smiles, relieved. Then he’s serious again.
“Was he going to blow the place to hell anyway?”
“Looks like it. He’s good at getting rid of evidence,” Joona answers sarcastically.
Erixson fumbles at the paper on his chocolate cigarette but drops it. He closes his eyes for a minute. By now his cheeks are ash-white.
“I take it you didn’t see his face either,” Joona says quietly.
“No,” Erixson mumbles. “We saw something, though. There’s always something we notice in spite of ourselves.”
18
the fire
The medical crew from the ambulance reassures Erixson that they’re not going to drop him.
“I can walk,” Erixson protests and shuts his eyes.
His chin shakes each step down.
Joona goes back into Penelope Fernandez’s apartment. He opens all the windows to clear the air and then sits down on the apricot-colored sofa. It is very comfortable.
If the apartment had exploded, it would have looked like an unfortunate accident caused by a gas leak. The case would have been closed.
Joona lets his memory expand. No fragment of observation ever completely disappears. It simply must be retrieved just like the seas heave flotsam and jetsam up onto the beach.
But what was it?
He had seen nothing. Just a quick, blurred movement and a knife blade.
That’s what I saw! Joona realizes. I saw nothing!
This lack is exactly what is nudging his intuition.
We’re dealing with a pro here, a contract killer, a hit man, a grob.
There aren’t many in the world.
This was not the first inkling he’s had, but now he’s thoroughly convinced. The killer in the hallway is the same man who murdered Viola. There was certainly time to do both. He’d planned to kill Penelope and sink the cruiser as if it were an accident; then he’d use the same method here. This is a killer who wants to remain invisible. He wants to kill under the radar of the police.
Joona looks around slowly. He tries again to assemble the parts of the puzzle into a whole.
He hears children playing in the apartment above his head. They’re rolling marbles over the floor. They’d have been in the middle of an inferno right now if Joona hadn’t been able to pull the plug in time.
This was a cold-blooded, driven attack, Joona thinks, and the man behind it was not some hate-filled right-wing activist. Penelope Fernandez might be involved in the peace movement, sure, and those groups did, ironically, resort to violence sometimes. But this man was different: a highly trained professional at a level well above any of the amateur groups.
So why were you here? Joona wonders. What does a hit man have to do with Penelope Fernandez? What is she mixed up in? What’s going on beneath the surface?
Joona reviews those unusual knife movements. The technique was obviously meant to circumvent the usual police and military defensive training. His skin prickles as he realizes that the first cut would have sliced into his liver if he hadn’t carried his pistol under his right arm. The second cut would have gone straight into his brain if he hadn’t thrown himself backward.
Joona gets up from the sofa and walks into the bedroom. He studies the well-made bed and the crucifix over the headboard.
A hit man believed he’d killed Penelope, and his intention was to make it seem like
Similar Books
