by Samuel Bjork
“Give me that gun, you damned . . . !” the pastor screamed frantically, but it was too late.
Lukas pulled the trigger, shot the white-haired man twice in the chest, and dropped the gun on the church floor. The pastor was flung backward by the heavy blow and collapsed gasping in front of him. Lukas opened the jerry can and started pouring its contents along the walls. He took his time. They were in no hurry. The smell of gasoline started wafting through the small church. Pastor Simon was lying on his back on the floor, his mouth half open, watching Lukas with panicky eyes, clutching his chest with stiff, spasmodic hands. How beautiful, Lukas thought when he saw the fresh blood trickle in small streams across the newly polished floor. He tipped out the rest of the gasoline by the altar and returned to the pastor, who was grasping his throat now, trying to say something, but only gurgling noises emerged from his mouth.
“Don’t be scared,” Lukas said, stroking the pastor’s white hair.
He stood up again and took a lighter from his pocket. Checked to see if it worked. Watched the little flame flicker in front of him. He started in one corner. The gas quickly caught fire. He went over to the other side, put the lighter to the floor, ignited the fuel, and continued until the whole of the white church was filled with burning light. He threw aside the lighter, went back to the pastor, knelt by his side, and held his hand. The church was ablaze now—curtains, walls, the floor, the altar. Lukas smiled to himself and started chanting. He carefully stroked the pastor’s white mane.
“Can you see the devil? He’s leaving you now. Isn’t it wondrous?” The young man laughed.
The pastor stared at him, horrified. His body was shaking. The blood was pouring out of the holes in his chest.
The flames started licking the ceiling. The whole building was burning now.
“I’ll see you at home, Father.” Lukas smiled.
And closed his eyes.
82
Holger Munch crept quietly toward the old cottage, with a feeling that something was wrong. The windows were bolted shut. There was a gaping hole in the roof. There were no signs that anyone had lived there for years. The cottage looked as if it might collapse at any moment. Could this place really be Karen’s hideout? This dilapidated hut? Strange. The closer they got to the house, the stronger was his feeling that something was amiss.
“All Delta units, this is Nine,” he whispered into the walkie-talkie just as he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. “Anyone see anything? Over.”
“Negative. Over,” came the reply into his ear.
He could see Curry shifting from foot to foot only a few meters in front of him, his pistol at the ready. Curry shrugged his shoulders as if to say, What are we waiting for?
This house really was uninhabitable. Had she built somewhere she could live underneath it? The small room they’d seen on the Kiese movie? From what he had seen of the short film, that room was far too small to live in. Of course, there might be several such rooms next to one another, but it seemed unlikely.
He tried frantically to make a decision. They had absolutely no time to lose. She had Marion. She had Mia. They had to do something. They might be too late already.
Too late already.
He did not even dare to think of the consequences if the latter were true. For Miriam. Marianne. For everyone. Everyone in the unit. Not least him.
“Nine, this is Delta One,” he heard in his earpiece. “We’re on standby and ready for entry. Clear signal for go? Over.”
Curry shrugged again, almost overeager now. He seemed to be up for anything, and unless Munch gave the order soon, he would storm the house single-handed.
Munch had crouched down on one knee on the grass, not far from the cottage, trying to get a clearer view of the situation, when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket for the second time.
No, this was not it. It did not feel right. Building a small, underground, sealed room was one thing, but a place you could actually live in? Why on earth would anyone do that? Surely it would be much simpler to make changes to the basement in a house that was not about to cave in?
“Nine?” He could hear the question in his walkie-talkie again.
It was not only Curry who was getting twitchy now. The whole entry team was on edge.
Munch’s phone buzzed again like an angry wasp against his trouser leg. What the hell?
He eased it out of his pocket and glanced at it while he tried to screen the light from the display with his hand so he would not be seen.
He had two missed calls from Ludvig Grønlie and a text message that was now glowing at him.
Wrong place!!! Witness reports eye contact with Marion. Call me!!!!
“Delta all, Delta all, this is Nine,” he said quickly and firmly into his walkie-talkie. “We have a new location. Regroup and await new orders. I repeat, no entry, we have a new location, regroup and await new orders. Over.”
He got up, walked quickly back to the car, and phoned Ludvig Grønlie.
83
Emilie Isaksen sat behind the wheel of her car as she drove up the narrow gravel track leading into the forest. She had spent a long time weighing the pros and cons. After all, she had promised Torben a pizza, but the boy seemed happy with some chocolate and a banana she had in her bag. She didn’t know why, but she had a hunch that time was of the essence. Tobias had been missing for a week. On his way to a kind of cult in the forest, to the Christian girls, as Torben had called them. The thought that he might be there and in need of help was unbearable—she had to do something now, even if it was a futile gesture. Realistically, she didn’t even know exactly where this place was. But she’d been provoked by the slow response from the police and decided to take matters into her own hands. Torben, sitting next to her with a small smile and chocolate around the corners of his mouth, seemed quite content.
She had never known a case like this. These kids needed a new home. No doubt about it. You should not be allowed to treat children this way. Emilie Isaksen was so angry that she wanted to bang her fist against the steering wheel, but she controlled herself for the sake of the little boy. Even so, she had some doubts as to whether she’d made the right choice. It was dark outside now. The only light came from her headlights; the track was winding and they were surrounded by forest. If an elk suddenly ran out from between the trees, she wouldn’t be able to stop in time. So she drove slowly. The car crept across the gravel track, and as if visibility were bad enough to begin with, small drops of rain started falling on her windshield. Social workers. She didn’t know much about how they worked; they probably had to follow procedures, write letters, summon the parents, give them an opportunity to explain themselves—endless bureaucracy, possibly legal proceedings. You couldn’t just take children from their parents, and that was probably a good thing, but in this case, when they couldn’t even contact the parents . . . ?
She had a friend who worked for Social Services, Agnete. They’d met at an aerobics class and had coffee together a couple of times. Emilie made up her mind there and then to call her once they got off this horrible gravel track. Agnete would probably know what to do.
It was raining more heavily now and near impossible to see anything out of the windshield. She didn’t even know how far away the farm was. It seemed irresponsible to go on. After all, she had a small boy in the car. Better to turn around and drive back. Let the police look for Tobias while she looked after Torben. Give the boy some more food and a warm bed. Contact Social Services. Start the process that would provide these boys with a good foster home, with trusted, responsible adults who would care for them, love them, as children should be loved.
She was just about to look for a place to turn around when two figures suddenly appeared in the middle of the road, hand in hand, blinded by her headlights.
Tobias.
Emilie Isaksen’s heart almost jumped out of her throat when she saw the two t
errified teenagers abandon the road after spotting the unfamiliar car and run into the forest.
She hit the brakes hard and stepped out into the rain with the engine running and the emergency brake on.
“Tobias!” she called out.
Not a sound from anywhere. Just heavy rain hitting the gravel and drumming ominously against the car’s hood.
“Tobias!” she called out again with the water pouring over her face. “It’s me, Emilie! Don’t be afraid. You can come out now. Everything is all right. I’m here to get you to someplace safe. Tobias? Are you in there?”
The seconds passed and seemed to Emilie like an eternity, but then some branches stirred not far from her, and soon two quizzical faces appeared in between them.
“Emilie?” Tobias said tentatively as he walked slowly toward her.
“Yes.” Emilie smiled. “Are you okay? Is everything all right with you?”
The handsome boy looked worn out and confused, but at least he was alive. She heaved a sigh of relief.
“This is Rakel,” Tobias said cautiously, gesturing to the girl who was hiding behind him.
The girl, who was wearing a heavy, gray woolen dress and a white bonnet, as if she were from a different century, was standing trembling behind Tobias, not daring to quite show herself.
“She needs help,” Tobias said, and it was not until now that Emilie realized how exhausted the boy was. His eyes threatened to roll into the back of his head, and he could barely manage to stay on his feet.
“Get in,” Emilie said, opening the rear door.
“Tobias!” Torben cried out when he saw his shattered brother climb into the car.
The little boy undid his seat belt in a second and made his way into the back, where he gave his brother a big, long hug.
How could this be allowed to happen? What on earth have people done to these children?
Emilie got behind the wheel again and found a place to turn around.
“Are you all right in the back?” she said when they had driven some way down the road.
She caught Tobias’s eye in the rearview mirror. The boy still looked dazed, but it seemed as if, regardless of the kind of cruelty he and Rakel—and his little brother—had been subjected to, he was slowly starting to believe that they were in safe hands.
“We’re fine,” he told her, his voice trembling. “Will you help us?” He held Emilie’s gaze in the rearview mirror.
“Definitely.” Emilie nodded. “Everything will be all right now, Tobias, I promise you.”
Emilie Isaksen drove as quickly as she dared down the narrow gravel track.
And then she headed into town.
84
For the second time in less than an hour, Holger Munch was sitting in his car with the binoculars raised to his eyes, with a Delta team ready for entry, but this time outside the right location. Definitely the right one. A girl had seen Marion run out of this very house. Only to be brought back inside. By Karen Nylund. The girl was local, and she knew what she was talking about; there was no longer any doubt. And where everything about the ramshackle cottage they’d just left had felt wrong, everything here felt absolutely right. It was an old red house, a little shabby but clearly habitable. There was a faint light coming from behind the windows, as if someone had covered them with film to prevent anyone from looking in. A thin column of smoke rose from a brick chimney on the roof. An idyllic little cottage in the country. From the outside. But it was clear to them that the inside was another story. Karen Nylund was inside. She had murdered four six-year-old girls. She had ruined the lives of innocent parents, grandparents, siblings, friends, neighbors, inflicted pain on them so extreme that it would never go away. She had tricked him into thinking he might experience love again. He felt hatred well up in his chest, his forehead grow hot and his palms sweaty, but he tried to stay calm. Professional. No acting rashly. She had Marion. Marion was alive. Or at least she had been less than an hour ago. Holger Munch didn’t dare to contemplate whether Mia was inside and what might have happened to her.
It was a matter of acting quickly but not too quickly. They had to get an overview of the situation. Get every team member into place. Munch glanced farther down the road, where three ambulances had pulled up a short while ago, all with their lights turned off so as not to draw attention to themselves. Curry sat impatiently in the back, tapping his pistol against his thigh. As usual, Kim Kolsø sat like a stone pillar in the seat next to Holger Munch, with his gaze fixed on the door they would soon break down.
“Delta One, this is Nine, come in.”
“Nine, this is Delta One, we’re in position. Over.”
“Delta Two, this is Nine, come in.”
“Nine, this is Delta Two. We need a few minutes. Over.”
“Delta Two, this is Nine, received, we’ll wait. Over.”
“What the hell is going on?” Curry said impatiently from the back.
“We’re waiting,” Munch said briefly.
“What are we waiting for? Mia is in there, for God’s sake.”
The bald police officer could barely keep still any longer, his fingers going like drumsticks against his thigh and his eyes narrow and filled with rage.
“We’re waiting for Delta Two to get into position,” Munch said as evenly as he could manage.
“Calm down, Curry,” Kim said, still sitting motionless in the front.
“Fuck this,” they suddenly heard from the back.
It all happened so quickly that Munch had no time to react. Curry had already opened the rear door and was heading for the house.
Munch flung open his door and was followed by Kim leaping out of the car. He wanted to shout, but he didn’t want to alert Karen.
Damn.
Munch increased his speed as much as his heavy body could manage, running down the gravel track, through the gate, across the flagstones, and reaching the steps just as Curry pushed on the door handle and stormed inside the house.
From then on, everything happened in slow motion. Munch caught a glimpse of Karen’s startled reaction to the noise. She’d been caught off guard. It was clear that she hadn’t been expecting this, but she still had time to swing the barrel of the shotgun toward Curry, who threw himself to one side as the shot was fired.
Did she hit him?
Curry, you bloody idiot!
Still in slow motion, she turned and faced Munch. Her hands gripped the weapon so hard that her knuckles were white. It looked as if she were opening her mouth to say something as her finger curled around the trigger, but by now Holger Munch had had enough of slow-motion movies.
He raised his gun and fired twice. Once to the neck. Once right through her heart. Karen Nylund twitched, fell backward, and lay lifeless on the floor as the blood ran slowly down her chest and along her arms.
And that was when he spotted Mia. She was tied to a chair near a wall. Tape covering her mouth. A needle in her hand connected to a tube from some kind of stand.
Oh, no.
Oh, please, no, no, no.
Holger Munch froze right in front of his lifeless colleague, unaware of all the people who had come rushing in behind him. Kim. The Delta teams. The doctor. The paramedics. He stayed where he was, unable to utter a single word, watching people who seemed miles away free Mia from the chair and carry her out into the waiting ambulance. He didn’t see Curry get up from the floor, clutching his arm and being supported down the steps. Holger Munch didn’t snap out of his trance until Kim appeared with a small, trembling figure in his arms.
Marion.
She was alive.
In poor shape, but she was breathing.
“Ambulance!” Holger Munch shouted, and helped his colleague carry the little girl down the steps.
“Doctor! We need a doctor here!”
And this time the ambulances did not move discr
eetly. A noisy motorcade of flashing blue lights and sirens left the house and sped through the evening darkness toward the E6.
VII
85
The waiting area outside Ullevål Hospital’s intensive-care unit was packed to the rafters. One of the nurses had come over several times to ask them if they could possibly wait elsewhere, but every time Munch had just dismissed her with a wave of his hand.
The mood in the room was strained. Gabriel Mørk sat in a chair with his hands in his lap, for once not in front of a computer monitor, staring into space. Anette and Ludvig sat on the sofa and made room for Kim and Kyrre. The whole team was gathered in the small room; they looked glum, and nobody said very much.
Anette had just stepped outside to call Mikkelson. She gave Munch a little wave when she came back in again, and Munch nodded and gave her a small smile in return before the tension resumed.
Curry was pacing up and down, refusing to sit, unable to make his small, compact body relax.
“For God’s sake,” he said, flinging out his uninjured hand. “Surely we’re entitled to know what’s going on?”
“Sit down,” Anette said. “We won’t be told anything before they’re sure, that’s how it works.”
“Damn,” Curry swore, and he continued to wander to and fro on the blue linoleum.
“Coffee, anyone?” Ludvig offered, getting up.
The experienced police officer had a dark expression on his face and looked just as oppressed by the situation as the rest of the team. A couple of hands shot up. Ludvig nodded and disappeared up the corridor.
Miriam arrived. Munch went to meet her and gave her a hug.
“Is everything all right with you?”
His daughter nodded and squeezed his hand. “I’m fine, I’m all right now.”
