If the Rudolphs managed to reach Russia, he'd never see them again, that much he was sure of. Anyone with a lot of money could buy protection there, and anyone without it could disappear among the country's homeless mil ions.
He stiffened his grip on the wheel and pressed the accelerator. His head stil felt groggy from his long nap. The car was smal and sluggish, with a weirdly noisy engine. He'd never driven a diesel before.
The landscape glided past and it real y was astonishingly beautiful.
Craggy cliffs fal ing to the sea. Blue peaks rising to the north. The road wound its way along the coast, getting ever narrower and more twisted and scenic.
He was on his way toward the end of the world. The Rudolphs were on their way there, too.
Dessie's cel phone started to ring on the dashboard.
He glanced at the woman beside him. She was fast asleep, mouth open in a narrow line.
Jacob grabbed the phone and said, "Yeah?"
"We've found the left-luggage locker," Gabriel a said. "It was in the basement of the Central Station. You were right. Both of you were."
He clenched his fist in triumph.
"It contained everything you suspected: light shoes, brown wig, coat, trousers, sunglasses, Polaroid camera, a couple of packs of film, pens, stamps, postcards, eyedrops, and a real y sharp stiletto knife, as wel as some other stuff."
She fel silent.
"What?" Jacob said. "What else was there?"
His raised voice woke Dessie, and she sat herself up beside him.
"We found the passports and wal ets of al the murder victims – apart from Copenhagen and Athens and Salzburg."
He braked and stopped the car by a twenty-four-hour cafe. He was searching for words but couldn't find any.
"Your daughter's were there," Gabriel a said quietly. "I've got them on 174 the desk in front of me. Her fiance's as wel. You'l get them when you're back."
"Okay," he muttered.
"You wanted to know if any cars had been stolen in northern Sweden late yesterday, didn't you? A farmer north of Gysinge has just reported the theft of a Volvo two forty-five. A nineteen eighty-seven model, red. License number CHC four-one-one.
"A two forty-five – that's a sedan?"
"A wagon. I'm sending a text message with al the details."
He put the car in gear and looked round. They were in a smal vil age. A tractor trailer pul ed out of the parking lot just ahead of him.
"How far have you gotten?" Gabriel a asked.
Jacob pul ed out onto the road behind a gigantic lumber truck bil owing smoke.
"Halfway. Thanks for the cal," he said.
"I wish there were more I could have done," Gabriel a said quietly.
Dessie looked at him.
"Cal your cousin," Jacob said. "We have the make of the potential getaway car."
She took the phone.
The sun was just rising to the north.
Chapter 131
The forest grew thicker after Ornskoldsvik, and signs of habitation thinned out. Between the towns of Umea and Skel eftea, a distance of almost 150 kilometers, Jacob hardly saw a single house. The end of the world was getting closer and closer, wasn't it?
In the town of Byske, the jet lag struck him like a sudden fog. The last traces of his ability to judge distances abandoned him and he woke Dessie to take over at the wheel.
Even with the sun in his eyes, he fel into a restless sleep.
Kimmy was there with him.
She looked like she had when she set off for Rome. She had on her new winter coat and her yel ow wool y hat. So beautiful and talented.
Jacob could see she was upset, crying. She was standing in a glass box, banging her fists against the transparent wal s and cal ing for him, cal ing for her dad. He tried to answer, but she couldn't hear him.
Kimmy! he shouted in the dream. I'm here! I'm coming!
"Jacob?"
He woke with a start.
"What?" he said.
"You were shouting. Having a bad dream."
He sat up and rubbed his eyes hard with his fists.
The car had stopped. They were on the outskirts of a town.
On the left was a large warehouse, and on the right, a long row of office buildings. It was ful daylight, a dul sort of light, filtered through a thin cloud cover. The landscape was flat and bare, not like anything he'd ever seen before.
"Where are we?"
"The bridge over to the Finnish side is only a kilometer from here.
Robert's a bit closer, on the other side of the rotary. Nothing came through during the night. No red Volvo. No young couple."
He blinked and looked around.
"This is Haparanda?"
"Kyl a."
He looked at her, confused.
"Finnish for yes, babe. Let's go. Robert's waiting for us."
She started the car and drove toward a large rotary with what was practical y a smal forest at its center.
"He's got men watching al the bridges across the river, and a couple at the main harbors for smal boats. No one's seen anything. Robert's men are vigilant."
"Thank god for organized crime," Jacob said.
"Robert's rough, but he's a good guy."
A huge building with an immense parking lot spread out to the left of the car.
"What the hel is that?" he asked.
"That's the most northerly IKEA in the world. And there's Robert!"
They stopped beside a customized Toyota Land Cruiser, the latest model.
Leaning against the gleaming paintwork was a giant of a man with a blond ponytail and biceps like logs.
Dessie hurried out of the car and threw herself into his arms. The giant received her with a big grin on his face.
A pang of jealousy hit Jacob in the solar plexus. Slowly he got out of the car and approached the enormous man holding on to Dessie.
Robert's arms were covered in clumsy tattoos. He was missing two front teeth.
He would have been perfect, just as he was, as the leader of one of Los Angeles' infamous motorcycle gangs.
"So you're the American?" he said in a thick Swedish accent, holding out his paw.
Jacob's hand disappeared in the iron grip of the fist.
"Yep," he replied. "That's me."
Cousin Robert pul ed him closer and lowered his voice.
"Don't think you can hide just because you're from the States. If you treat Dessie badly, I'l find you."
"That's good to know," Jacob said.
The giant let go of Jacob's hand.
"We've been keeping an eye on the junction in Morjarv al night," Robert said. "They passed it half an hour ago in a red Volvo with false plates. They took the E-ten down toward Haparanda."
Jacob felt adrenaline explode throughout his body. This was it. The end of the tale, at the end of the world.
The gangster looked at his watch, a diamond-encrusted Rolex.
"They could be here any minute."
Chapter 132
Time nearly stopped for Jacob.
He checked his cheap plastic watch every minute. 8:14, then 8:15, then 8:16.
The early morning mist was lingering, making the landscape seem eerie, scary-looking.
Robert's sidekick brought them coffee, juice, and ham sandwiches, which they ate in the car. They were both very hungry.
"How close are you two?" Jacob asked, nodding toward the enormous man leaning on his car a hundred yards away. The car sagged from his weight.
Dessie was doing her best to scrape the ham off the bread.
"Robert?" she said. "He's my favorite cousin. His mom was in and out of prison when he was young, so he spent a lot of time with us on the farm. He's two years younger than me, but he was always bigger and stronger than me."
Dessie put the sandwich down on her lap.
"I've always wondered if we're more than cousins," she said.
Jacob stopped chewing.
"What do you mean?"
She took a
gulp of orange juice.
"I don't know who my dad is," she said quietly. "My mother always said he was an Italian prince who would come and fetch us both one fine day. I have no idea what she meant."
She gave him a quick embarrassed look.
"I know," she said. "Al a bit like a fairy tale. One of my uncles is probably my father, or maybe even Granddad himself." She shivered and was silent.
Jacob turned to look through the windshield. What could you say to something like that?
Dessie stretched out as much as she could and looked in the rearview mirror.
"Red car," she said.
Jacob adjusted the mirror so he could see for himself. Sure enough, a red car was approaching from behind.
"It's a Ford," he said. "Four people. It's not them. It's probably not them."
Chapter 133
They sat in silence, watching the passengers as the Ford went past on its way to the border crossing: two elderly couples, the men in the front, the women in the back.
Dessie turned to him, hesitated for a moment, then asked, "Who was Kimmy's mother?"
Now it was his turn to put his sandwich down.
"Her name's Lucy," he said. "We grew up together in Brooklyn. She was a singer, blues and jazz, real y talented. We were both eighteen when she got pregnant. When Kimmy was three months old, she left us."
"Left you? To do what?"
Jacob shrugged.
"Live another life, I guess. Drugs, money, music… The first few years, she saw Kimmy a couple of times, but that died out. It must be fifteen years since I last saw her."
"Does Lucy know… about Kimmy…?"
Jacob shook his head.
"No. At least, I haven't told her. I don't know where she is. I don't even know if she's stil alive."
"She sounds like an idiot to me."
"We were both young, both idiots."
Silence fel inside the car.
A green VW Passat drove past.
Jacob looked at his watch. 8:54.
A blue Saab sped past them. They could hear the sound of rock and rol coming from the open windows. Two young males. Punk-style haircuts.
Jacob looked at his watch. 8:55. He was conscious that he was doing it obsessively, but he couldn't help it.
Dessie's phone rang. She listened in silence, said not a word, then turned to Jacob.
"They've passed through Salmis and Vuono," she said. "Two vil ages just outside this town. Stil in the red Volvo. They're almost here."
"Robert's men, are they reliable?"
Dessie nodded. "Very."
"I don't want them involved at the border. I'l take it from here."
She passed on the message and hung up.
Chapter 134
Nine o'clock came and went.
No red Volvo. No Rudolphs.
The road beyond the rotary was ful of cars now, mostly trailers and trucks. Due to the hunt for the Postcard Kil ers, security at the border crossing had been stepped up and al vehicles were forced to go through the checkpoint, next to a smal wooden building up on the left.
Jacob looked at his watch again.
Half past nine. Jesus. The time was crawling.
Big tourist buses had started to arrive in the lot outside IKEA. They seemed to come from the whole of the Arctic region. Jacob saw license plates from Norway, Finland, and Russia. It was like IKEA was a county fair.
Soon there was a line of cars waiting to get into the parking lot.
"This is the Thursday before Midsummer's Eve," Dessie said. "It's the high point of Sweden's busiest shopping week. It's even bigger than Christmas."
Jacob didn't say anything.
He realized he was grinding his teeth. He needed to stop that. Yes, as soon as they caught the Rudolphs.
A line of shoppers was starting to form outside the entrance to the superstore. These country folks were clearly nuts.
Jacob looked at the time.
Three minutes before ten.
He glanced up into the rearview mirror.
Just a line of cars: blue, red, white, black, al ful of crazy-ass Arctic shoppers.
He pressed the palms of his hands to his forehead.
The doors to the store opened.
People flooded into the hangarlike building.
Jacob felt like he was going to burst out of his skin.
"What the hel is this?" he yel ed suddenly. "Where have they gone?"
Dessie didn't answer.
"They must have taken another road," Jacob said. "They're not coming through Haparanda. That criminal hooligan you cal your cousin was wrong.
Maybe he's in league with them now. Maybe he's fooled us into sitting here so they can get away. They could have bribed him."
"Jacob, calm down! You don't know what you're saying. Stop it."
Jacob turned the key, and the engine coughed into life.
"What are you doing?" Dessie asked.
"I can't wait here any longer," Jacob said. "I'm going completely fucking mad just sit-"
"Hang on," Dessie interrupted. "Just hang on. A red car – there's a red car. I think it's a Volvo."
Jacob looked in the rearview mirror again.
It was a Volvo wagon, an old model, definitely red.
There were two people inside.
A young blond man and a dark-haired woman.
The Rudolphs were here.
Chapter 135
The Volvo crept slowly toward the big rotary with al the bushes and trees in the middle.
Jacob pul ed out into the traffic right behind them. His heart was thumping so hard that he could hardly hear anything going on around him.
The pair in the Volvo stopped in the rotary. The line to the border crossing snaked forward ahead of them.
"They've realized they can't get through this way," Dessie said. "Not in that car. So what do they do about it?"
Jacob pul ed handcuffs from the inside pocket of his jacket and stuffed them under his belt behind his back. Then he leaned forward and took the Glock out of its holster strapped to his ankle. Suddenly he was glad he hadn't turned it over to the authorities as requested but had checked it in an airport locker while he traveled to and from Los Angeles. It looked like he'd need it now.
He heard Dessie's breath catch.
"Jacob, what are you doing? You can't use that gun here. You'l go to jail."
Just then the red Volvo swerved out of the traffic line. The driver wrenched the car to the left and squeezed past a trailer and a smal van with Cyril ic lettering scrawled along the side.
Jacob found first gear and pushed his foot al the way to the floor. A moment later he was forced to brake sharply to avoid a truck that was halfway into the rotary.
"Hel! We're losing them!"
"They're going straight on," Dessie cried, leaning her head out of the window. "Now they're turning right! They're in the IKEA parking lot!"
Jacob drove too fast past the truck. He scraped the side of a Peugeot and 180 forced his way into the lot as the driver of the Peugeot sat angrily on his horn behind them.
The parking lot for IKEA was complete chaos. Cars and buses and trailers were al battling with huge shopping trol eys and children's strol ers and hundreds of people.
Jacob stopped the car and looked around wildly.
"Where the hel have they gone? We've lost them! They got away!"
"I think they were heading for where the buses park," Dessie said, pointing. "There. There! That's Sylvia Rudolph, isn't it?"
The dark-haired woman opened the door and started to run. She was athletic, fast on her feet.
"No!" Jacob cried, trying to drive after her. An entire family – grandma, mother, four kids, and a dog – blocked his way. Then the driver of the Peugeot suddenly appeared, banging furiously on the windshield. Jacob showed him the pistol, and the man backed away, hands up.
"To hel with this!" Jacob said, throwing the door open and racing toward the buses.
Chapter 136
It was th
e Rudolphs, he was sure of that much. He recognized Malcolm's relaxed movements and the woman's thick head of dark hair.
The kil ers were moving quickly through the parking lot, getting away.
People who saw him running with his pistol drawn screamed and threw themselves out of his way. Someone yel ed, "Madman!" at him. That was correct.
Dessie was coming up behind him. She had her cel phone in one hand.
She was keying in a number as she ran.
The Rudolphs disappeared between two big buildings.
Jacob raised the pistol as he approached the corner. He didn't know what weapons the Rudolphs might have.
No one was there.
He rushed through the passageway and emerged from the far end.
Four buses, with toilets and curtains, were parked there. Even if one of the 181 vehicles was unlocked, they couldn't hide for long, not here.
With his Glock drawn he ran over to the first bus.
No one.
The second one.
No one.
The third…
"Drop the gun!"
The voice came from behind him, a woman's voice, struggling to stay calm and col ected.
He spun around, aiming the Glock, ready to kil.
Chapter 137
Sylvia Rudolph was holding Dessie in front of her as a shield. She had a knife to her throat. It was a carving knife, maybe a butcher's knife.
Jacob's head was spinning. For a moment he imagined it was Kimmy standing there with the knife to her throat. He couldn't let her die.
"Drop the gun," Sylvia Rudolph said. "Put it on the ground – or she dies.
I have no problem with that."
Dessie's face was deathly pale. Her cel phone was stil in her hand.
Malcolm Rudolph was standing some ten feet away, looking bewildered and lost.
Jacob stood stil, his weapon raised.
Al at once the situation was clear to him. Another part of the mystery had just been solved.
It wasn't the brother who was the kil er.
It was the sister, Sylvia. La senorita. The girl who found her parents dead in their beds, or who had kil ed them with her own hands. Why, though? For the sake of art?
Postcard killers Page 22
