It was Nisse who suggested that Embla start boxing. He himself had been district champion in his weight class before he got married and took over the farm. Perhaps he had seen that she needed an outlet for all the anxiety she harbored as a teenager, though she hadn’t brought it up or told him where the racing thoughts came from.
She had never told anyone about Lollo.
It was also her uncle who had sparked her interest in hunting the summer she turned fifteen. He had asked her if she wanted to go still-hunting; a group planned to shoot some of the mangy foxes that had been seen in the area. Of course Embla thought that sounded really exciting and said yes at once. But it wasn’t nearly as thrilling as she had hoped. Sometimes they all stood motionless before someone would suddenly start sneaking carefully in a direction where he thought he saw a movement or heard some rustling. They never saw a trace of any fox, with or without mange.
Despite that uneventful introduction, Embla had become interested, and for the next three years she took part in the drive during the moose hunt. When she turned eighteen she took the hunting test. Since then she and Nisse had hunted together several times a year. Mostly they hunted in the fall, starting in early August when deer and wild boar were in season.
Embla unpacked and hung up her clothes in the minimal wardrobe. There was a shower enclosure in the guest bathroom, but she had showered before she left Gothenburg. A few dabs of deodorant, a couple sprays of perfume, and a nice-looking sweater would have to do. Mascara and lip gloss was more than enough makeup; she would only be meeting with the hunting party.
Nisse was waiting down the hall. Dressed in a fresh white shirt, light-blue knit sweater, light-gray chinos, and new light-gray leather shoes, he looked like he could be on the cover of GQ. Around him was a light air of the aftershave she had given him as a Christmas present the year before.
“How stylish you are! What’s her name?” Embla asked happily.
His weathered face took on a shade of polished copper. “Uh . . . or . . . Ingela,” he stammered.
“How nice! Ingela Franzén?”
“The pastor’s widow! Are you crazy? No, Ingela Gustavsson at the ICA store. You know who she is, don’t you?”
It took a moment for Embla to place her. “Light, rather short, a bit younger than you . . .”
“Yes. She is. Although we . . . People talk. You know how it is . . .”
Here stood her retired uncle, hemming and hawing like a shy teenager trying to talk about his first serious infatuation. It was a bit moving but not that strange, considering that he and Ann-Sofie had been together since they were confirmed.
She gave him a big hug. “That’s so great!” Smiling, she handed him one of the wine boxes she had brought with her. “Now let’s go to the party and charge up before the hunt! Yee-haw!”
They put on their jackets and went out to the stable. There were Nisse’s and Ann-Sofie’s old bicycles, shining clean and ready to ride. Nisse always got the bicycles in order before the dinner that kicked off the year’s moose hunt. He didn’t want to have anything to do with drunk driving—not in a car, anyway. But the equivalent on something with handlebars he could overlook.
Because Karin and Björn Bergström had the biggest kitchen, they had been unanimously chosen to host the annual potluck dinner, which they were more than happy to do.
The eight members of the hunting party were gathered around the table, along with the three Bergström children and Einar’s and Tobias’s wives. Embla knew everyone around the table but one, Peter Hansson. He had recently moved to the area—or perhaps moved back was the way to put it—and was the hunting party’s newest member.
Embla observed him in secret. She knew that he was thirty-eight years old, but he looked younger. Given his athletic build, it was clear that he worked out. And he was tall and good-looking with blue eyes and rather long, thick blond hair. The thin linen shirt he wore was just casual enough. The collar was unbuttoned and she could see a little gold cross at his throat. When he introduced himself a row of white teeth was exposed in a pleasant smile. Bleached? she thought automatically. She also noted the appreciative look she got from him.
She was immediately grateful that she had changed into her nicer sweater. It was cobalt blue with a wide neckline that left one shoulder bare; she was often told the color matched her eyes. Under it she wore a black camisole with thin straps. High up on her right shoulder, her new tattoo was visible: a furious grizzly bear standing on its hind legs, ready to attack. The tattoo was not large, but it was masterfully executed. She’d had it done during a training camp in Miami, and the tattoo artist was one of the best in Florida.
It was Sixten Svensson who pointed out that there were thirteen at the table. “Not a good omen,” he muttered, glancing toward Peter Hansson.
Nisse had warned Embla that the Lindbergs, both father and son, had a negative attitude about the newcomer in the hunting party. Evidently Einar Lindberg had been a prospective buyer of Hansgården on his son, Tobias’s, behalf. It was a major, unexpected obstacle that Peter did not want to sell and chose to move back in when his dad died. He was just as pigheaded as his father, the Lindbergs thought. They apparently had a sympathizer in Sixten Svensson. He was the leader of the hunt and had rented Peter’s dad’s hunting ground for many years because his own land holdings were rather modest. It was generally known that he had really wanted to buy the land. When Peter had taken the hunting test and decided to exploit his hunting rights, Sixten’s hunting quota became considerably smaller.
As usual the buffet was plentiful and delicious. Karin had made chanterelle quiche, cheese, fresh-baked bread, warm smoked salmon, Dalsland sausage, grilled herb-marinated fillet of pork, tomato salad, and garlic au gratin potatoes. For dessert a crunchy apple cake with vanilla sauce was served. Embla contributed some boxes of wine that had been recommended in Aftonbladet’s latest best-of feature. Peter Hansson had brought two cases of strong beer and a whole bottle of O.P. Anderson aquavit, which made the attitude toward him soften a bit.
Embla sat next to Peter when she saw that no one else did and began to chat with him.
“And what do you do?” she asked after introducing herself.
“I own an IT company in Gothenburg. We work with security issues. All companies have problems with security on the Internet,” he said.
“How do you manage to live out here? Don’t you have to be in the city? I mean, for the customers and personnel.”
“I drive down a few times a week. But most of it I can manage from here.”
The mood had been lightened by the good food and drink. Everyone was talking and laughing; no one seemed to care about what she and Peter were talking about. With some hesitation she asked the question that the majority around the table was wondering.
“But why did you move back here again?”
Perhaps he would think she was being nosy. In that case, she could blame it on the fact that she was a police officer and had a habit—or bad habit—of interrogating people.
He took his time before answering, and it showed that he carefully weighed what he would say. “My mom died of cancer . . . my partner and I separated. My grandparents died rather close together. And then Dad’s death. It was too much. It felt like I had to . . . change my life. Start over,” he said quietly.
For once Embla didn’t really know what to say. Nisse had mentioned that Peter’s sister had run away when she was in her teens, but he didn’t know what had happened to her. Before she stopped to think, the question slipped out. “And what about your sister?”
He started and for a moment something flashed in his eyes. It quickly disappeared but she had time to register it. Perhaps it was just irritation at her intrusive questions.
“We haven’t had any contact in a long time.”
It was clear this was not something he wanted to discuss. Embla stayed silent and considered her next move.
“Although I’m not all alone on the farm,” Peter continued. “I have four
bulls that will soon go to slaughter. And some chickens and two cats.”
“You like animals.”
“Yes. Next year I’m going to invest in a good hunting dog. And four new bulls.”
Their glasses were refilled and they sang along with a drinking song, had more food, and continued chatting with each other and the others around the table. Peter asked a few questions about her and she answered frankly.
After a while the question came that all new acquaintances asked.
“Where does the name Embla come from? It’s a little unusual.”
She gave her standard response: “If I say that my older brothers’ names are Atle, Frej, and Kolbjörn, perhaps you’ll understand.”
“So your parents worshiped the old Norse gods, then?”
The question was asked with a wry smile, but she could hear the underlying seriousness.
“No, more like old hippies. But they wanted distinctive names for their kids and absolutely not biblical ones. Embla is the Old Norse counterpart to Eve.”
The answer came without her having to think about it, she had recited that litany many times over the years. She never shared how much she hated her name when she was younger. She had gone by Åsa, her middle name, until she started her career as a police officer. Before long some colleague discovered that her given name was Embla and started calling her that. After a while none of her colleagues called her Åsa. These days she thought the name was pretty cool. It had even become popular in recent years, though she hadn’t met any other Emblas when she was little.
“Hippies, huh? What do they do?” Peter asked.
“Dad is a retired journalist. He wrote about culture. Mom is an actress. That was how they met. He was going to interview her. Atle is a doctor, Frej is an actor, and Kolbjörn is a sculptor. He makes butt-ugly things in concrete that he sells for astronomical prices.”
“Did you say Kolbjörn? Yes, Kolbjörn Nyström is very well-known. And his brother Frej is, too. Although he works in Stockholm, right?”
My goodness; a little culture vulture, Embla thought. But she kept a straight face and answered, “Yes. He lives there with his husband, Viktor.”
Peter nodded, the actor and the news anchor on TV4 were a celebrity couple that often appeared in the media. He asked a few more questions about Embla and became noticeably interested when she told him about her work in the mobile unit.
“Västra Götaland County Bureau of Investigation’s mobile unit is a bit unwieldy. Usually we’re just called the Unit. Among ourselves we say VGM,” she explained.
“So you and two old guys drive around the countryside all over the region and provide support when the local police don’t have sufficient resources. Like super cops.”
When he put it like that it sounded pretty corny, but that was basically the way it was. She simply nodded and took a sip from her wine glass. Normally she was very careful with alcohol, but at the annual hunting dinner she usually had both an aquavit and a few glasses of wine.
“What made you decide to start hunting?” she asked to change the subject.
“Now I have land with hunting rights, so why not?”
“Have you ever shot any game?”
“Sure. Deer and hares. But not all that many. I’ve mostly just practiced at the shooting range.”
“And you like it?”
“Absolutely. There’s an excitement in the hunt that I like. One moment you’re enjoying the calm and the next second it’s a full adrenaline rush!”
They raised their glasses and toasted to the hunt. Then Sixten Svensson turned his head and fixed his bloodshot eyes on Peter’s.
“Fun! Excitement . . . excitement! Hunting is not fun and exciting. It puts food on the table and, damn it, it’s been that way since the Stone Age. Now all of a sudden city people come out and want to shoot because it’s fun! They’re dangerous! Can’t shoot. Wound the animals and . . . cause trouble,” he hissed.
Embla saw a faint redness spread from Peter’s neck and creep upward as he met Sixten Svensson’s gaze.
Sixten narrowed his eyes and leered at Peter as he drew his thin lips into a mean smile. “Speaking of hunting. I don’t give a damn that you’re just as lousy a hunter as your father. Stick to hunting ladies!”
The others around the table started squirming. It was obvious that Sixten was picking a quarrel.
Without looking at Sixten, Peter got up from the table and thanked everyone for a pleasant evening. With an extra thanks to the hosts he disappeared through the door.
“You are a fucking idiot, Sixten! Can’t you handle a few drinks without getting unpleasant? And you were actually friends with Peter’s dad,” Nisse said angrily.
Once Peter had left the others also started to get up. The party atmosphere was ruined. Tobias’s wife hadn’t had anything to drink during the evening and drove her husband, her father-in-law, and the tipsy Sixten home.
Embla told Nisse that he should bike home ahead of her. She intended to stay awhile to help Karin.
The two cousins drank a little more wine and talked while they cleared away the dirty dishes.
“Peter’s sister, what do you know about her?” Embla asked after a while.
“Well, not much. Peter is a few years older than me, and a boy besides, so we never really played together. And then he moved with his mother to Gothenburg. But I remember his sister. Very pretty. Oooooh, how I admired her hair! Super long and blonde. She was going to high school in Åmål when she disappeared.”
There was that familiar stab in the gut. “When she disappeared . . .”
“How old was Peter when he and his mother moved?” Embla asked, pushing the unpleasant thoughts aside.
Karin frowned and tried to think. “He was in elementary school . . . but what class . . . I don’t really remember.”
“And his sister had already taken off by then?”
“Yes. She ran away the year before. In the fall or winter. Evidently she had talked about going to Gothenburg and getting a job.”
“Nisse mentioned that the dad was an alcoholic and abused the others in the family.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that, too. I think that’s why the sister left and then Peter and his mother. They moved in with her parents in Gothenburg. I guess his sister was already there. Although I recall that they looked for her in the forest because she disappeared without a trace after a party.”
They rinsed off the dirty dishes, set them in the dishwasher, and started hand washing the big serving plates and casseroles.
“What is his sister’s name?”
Karin stood with her hands in the sink. The detergent bubbles made their way up toward her elbows, and she managed to smear a few onto her bangs as she brushed her hair off her forehead.
“What was her name . . . Yes! Camilla! With a C.”
“Why haven’t I heard about this family before? I’ve been coming here since I was little and . . .”
“You hadn’t even been born yet when the sister disappeared. You and your brothers came here a few years later. By then all that had already been forgotten and replaced with more recent scandals and gossip. It happened at least thirty years ago!”
Embla was the last guest to leave Karin and Björn’s farm. It was almost one o’clock, but the night was clear with a radiant full moon and an amazing starry sky. It was cold, just below freezing. Fortunately she had remembered to bring both a stocking cap and mittens with her. She started pedaling slowly toward Nisse’s farm. Nature was bathing in the magical light from the moon and stars and she enjoyed the silence. A faint breeze blew through the few remaining leaves on the trees, making them rustle. The night air was full of saturated odors of earth, mushrooms, and rotting plants. Autumn smells. The hoo, hoo, hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo of a tawny owl cut through the silence. It was an eerie cry. Nisse had taught her to imitate the call by cupping her hands and blowing through slightly separated thumbs.
Out on the fields big bales of silage wrapped in white plastic shimmered. She co
uld see black shadows in the field by the side of the road. Some of them were lying down on the ground and looked like big stones. Nisse’s Highland cattle. They looked sweet with their long, golden-brown coats, but their horns invited caution and respect.
On the opposite side of the road the birch forest had not thinned out and the brush was dense. The glow of the bike lamp was faint, and Embla biked out into the moonlight to better see potholes and bumps in the road.
Suddenly a flash of light danced in the corner of her eye, and some movement caught her attention. Something white was fluttering among the tree trunks. She braked hard and turned her head but only managed to catch a glimpse of a white garment and long, light hair. The moonlight made the hair and dress glisten. It looked as if the apparition was hovering slightly above the ground before it disappeared in the trees.
When the initial surprise passed, Embla set the bicycle down by the side of the road and quickly jumped across the ditch. She started working her way through the brush toward the place where the white figure had disappeared. Even though she was used to moving in rough terrain, it was difficult. Dense thickets let her through only reluctantly, and slippery stones and roots tried to make her fall. With the trees blocking the moonlight, it was almost impossible to see anything ahead of her. She cursed herself for having left her flashlight in the car, instead of keeping it in her jacket pocket as usual.
When she came up to the spot where she had last seen the mysterious apparition, she found herself on a low knoll. It was the slight elevation that had given her the sense that the figure was hovering. The figure had disappeared into a cluster of straight birch trees on top of the hill.
She held her breath and listened. It was quiet, apart from the dry rustling of the leaves. The tawny owl let out another screech in the distance.
It was pointless to try to look for tracks; it would be better to return in daylight.
When she walked back toward the road she perceived faint sounds behind her. Someone was moving carefully between the birches on the hillock. She felt like she was being watched. She jumped on the bicycle and quickly pedaled away.
Hunting Game Page 2
