The Viper

by Hakan Ostlundh

  “I’ll check these out,” he said and nodded toward the crumbling remains of the stone buildings that stood next to the lighthouse.

  While Sara stayed by the door to the lighthouse, Fredrik examined the closest ruin. The sturdy walls of mortared limestone remained standing there like empty shells, but the roof, windows, and doors had long since disappeared. No one was hiding there.

  He wondered if it really was Rickard Traneus who had come to the island in the boat that lay down on the beach. There could also be other explanations. If it was Rickard, there was a strong likelihood that he had already spotted them. How would he react? Would he view them as a threat?

  If Fredrik had been hiding out on the island, he wouldn’t have stayed in the lighthouse if he’d seen that someone was coming to look for him. He would have moved around on the island, kept himself hidden behind bushes and crags in order to trick those who were looking for him. But was there was nothing to say that Rickard Traneus thought as he would.

  He hurried over to the other ruin. It was in considerably worse shape than the first one, the gables had collapsed in on themselves and the stone had crumbled to pieces.

  He stood up and threw a quick glance back toward the lighthouse. There was no window facing his direction. If Rickard Traneus was still inside there, he couldn’t see Fredrik. He quickly circled around the ruin and peeked in through the empty window openings. There was nobody there, either.

  Fredrik hurried back, approached from an angle where he couldn’t be seen. He came up next to Sara.

  “I think he’s in there,” he said, “if he hasn’t managed to trick us.”

  “We can’t go inside,” said Sara.

  “No,” said Fredrik.

  She was right. It was too dangerous and there was no pressing reason for it. If he was in there, then he was trapped. They could wait him out.

  “Should I call it in?” she asked.

  “We could try to make contact first.”

  Sara looked at him doubtfully, but didn’t object when Fredrik took a few steps to the right so that he was standing on the other side of the door. He raised his hand and knocked hard three times.

  “Rickard?”

  He waited for a few seconds.

  “Rickard? Are you in there?”

  No answer, just the wind that was rumbling around his ears.

  “Rickard,” he tried again. “You know who we are. We came to your house. Fredrik Broman and Sara Oskarsson from the Visby Police Department.”

  It was silent inside the lighthouse. At least no sounds came out that could he heard above the wind.

  “Maybe he can’t hear,” said Sara. “He could be lying inside there high on something, listening to his iPod.”

  “Or just high, or passed out from alcohol or pills or whatever,” said Fredrik.

  “We could try opening the door, just so he can hear us better,” she suggested.

  That shouldn’t pose much of a risk, thought Fredrik. If he was in there, he would hardly be standing right inside the door ready to attack, but would probably have retreated as far up inside the lighthouse as possible.

  “Okay,” he said.

  He cautiously tried the door. Something was blocking it, but then gave way a little.

  “Rickard!” he shouted. “I’m going to open the door, but just so that you can hear us better. We’re not coming in. Okay?”

  “You sound like the big bad wolf,” Sara whispered.

  “You want to take over?” he hissed back at her.

  She shook her head. Fredrik put his foot against the door. Sara pulled her weapon and stayed close to the wall. He gestured to her to keep it cool and shoved the door hard with his foot, but without kicking it. A rough rumbling could be heard from the other side as something was pushed out of the way. It sounded like a rock. As if the door was being held shut from the inside with a rock, which meant there was someone inside the lighthouse.

  The door had opened a few inches. Both Sara and Fredrik kept away from the door opening.

  “Rickard. Could you please answer. We’re not going to go away until we get an answer.”

  It was silent. The door swung gently back and forth in the wind.

  “Rickard. My name is Fredrik Broman and I’m from the Visby Police. We’ve met before. Sara Oskarsson, whom you’ve also met, is here with me. You know who we are, Rickard, so please answer.”

  It suddenly occurred to Fredrik that he may be dead. Had Rickard come there to end it all, to crawl away like an animal into a hole and swallow a jar of pills?

  “Yes,” came a soft echo from inside the lighthouse.

  Fredrik looked at Sara on the other side of the doorway. The voice must have come from the floor above or even several floors up.

  “Is that you, Rickard?”

  “Yes,” said the voice after a short pause.

  It sounded steadier this time.

  Sara let her pistol slide back into the holster, held up her cell phone so Fredrik could see it and pointed with it over her shoulder. Fredrik nodded back. He pulled his own gun instead and waited at the side of the door. Sara walked away a few yards and squatted down against the wall so that the wind wouldn’t blow her conversation apart. The cold wind had made her pale, but she didn’t look like she was cold in her dark-blue parka. She spoke into her cell phone for about a minute and then came back.

  “They’re sending people over,” she whispered almost silently but clearly, mouthing the words slowly.

  The wind brought a tear to the corner of one eye. She wiped it away with the outside of her forefinger.

  Fredrik moved closer to the door.

  “Are you alone out here?” he yelled in through opening.

  “Yes.”

  “How did you get out here?” he asked.

  “By boat.”

  No shit, thought Fredrik. It was uncomfortable trying to shout inside while standing with his back to the wall to the side of the door. He holstered his gun and stood in the middle of the doorway. Now that it was clear that Rickard wasn’t down by the entrance it wasn’t as important to be quite so cautious.

  “The one that’s been pulled up onto the beach?” he said.

  He felt the grain of the wood beneath his fingers as he supported himself against the doorjamb, the softer portions hollowed out by the wind and rain.

  “Yes. Is that what you came for?” asked Rickard Traneus.

  Fredrik couldn’t help but smile. Of course Rickard understood that they hadn’t come out here over a stolen outboarder, but maybe he hoped they had. A last vain hope. His smile stiffened and faded away.

  “No,” he said, “the boat will sort itself out. I think you know why we’ve come.”

  No answer came but strictly speaking it wasn’t a question, either.

  “Are you all right?” asked Fredrik.

  “I don’t know. I’m cold. It’s hard to think when you’re cold.”

  “Do you have anything to eat?”

  “Yeah, I do. So what do you want?”

  “We need to talk to you. We’d like you to come with us, so we can sit down and talk to each other in peace and quiet.”

  There was no answer, but the silence was charged with deliberation. There was a loud creak from a floorboard and Fredrik instinctively pulled away a bit to the side.

  “What is it you want to talk about?” said Rickard Traneus.

  His voice was dragging, turned in on itself.

  “The best thing would be if we could talk somewhere in peace and quiet instead of standing out here shouting,” Fredrik yelled.

  It was becoming increasingly difficult to shout above the wind, at least that’s what he felt. He couldn’t determine if that was because the wind had picked up or had changed direction. He looked away toward the headland and the jetty. Evert Söderman’s boat was rolling and tugging at its moorings. Had it been doing that when they left it there about half an hour ago?

  “Talk about what?” Rickard Traneus insisted.

  Ther
e was a hint of irritation in his voice now. Fredrik looked at Sara before answering.

  “We think that you can tell us something about your parents’ murder, something that only you know and that could explain what happened to them. We think that you’re the only one who can solve this for us.”

  Silence followed, the floor creaked a few times. With each step, dust was released from between the floorboards. In the dim light from the doorway, Fredrik could see how it slowly sprinkled to the floor. That meant Rickard was on the floor immediately above them.

  “We’re talking to each other now,” said Rickard Traneus. “Why can’t we just keep on talking like this?”

  Fredrik paused for a moment before answering, in order to give the impression that he was considering Rickard’s suggestion.

  “Wouldn’t it be better and more comfortable to come back to the main island, get inside where it’s warm and dry? You can have a good sleep, eat something. Then we can talk.”

  “I can’t sleep,” he said quickly.

  “We can get you a doctor. Maybe you need something to help you sleep.”

  The silence that followed was longer this time and Fredrik was almost certain that he would soon hear footsteps on the stairs, but instead again came:

  “Can’t we talk here?”

  “But…”

  Sara stopped Fredrik with a hand on his arm. He broke off, gestured for her to go ahead.

  “Are you sure?” whispered Sara.

  “Yeah, I think it might help. Give it a try,” he whispered back.

  Fredrik took a step to the side to make room in the doorway for Sara.

  “Hi, Rickard,” she began, “this is Sara Oskarsson. We’ve met as you know.”

  She looked away from the door for a moment, out toward the sea before she continued.

  “Of course we can talk here. It works just as well. You’re here, we’re here, and like you said, we’re already talking.”

  “Okay,” came the lagging response. “Go ahead and ask.”

  “The best thing would be if you could just tell us. We think you can help us understand what happened.”

  Another silence. Sara looked at Fredrik, and then out toward the sea again.

  “If you feel like it, you could tell us what happened.”

  Another look out to sea, as if it helped her think, find the right words.

  “Do you know anything about what happened to your father?”

  “I was there,” said Rickard Traneus.

  Sara and Fredrik quickly exchanged looks.

  “Where?” said Sara.

  “In the house.”

  “What house?”

  “In the house. In Levide,” said Rickard.

  “Your parents’ house in Levide?” asked Sara.

  “Yes.”

  The tips of Fredrik’s fingers were cold and he felt how his face tightened. The sea had become darker, grayish-blue, and punctured everywhere by foaming whitecaps.

  Rickard had fallen silent again.

  “What happened in the house?” Sara nudged him on.

  “Nothing…”

  Sara and Fredrik looked at each other again. Fredrik gave a look of resignation. He wondered how long before their backup made it out there, if it was coming by boat or if they were going to fly out there? It wasn’t blowing too hard for a helicopter, was it? No, not yet, not by a long shot.

  “I mean,” Rickard continued suddenly, “I heard them talking about it.”

  “About what?” said Sara.

  “They killed my father.”

  The words came out loud and clear, without hesitation.

  “Who did?”

  “My mother and that man, Anders.”

  Fredrik’s heart was pounding faster. He looked at Sara, but all her attention was intently focused on the doorway and Rickard.

  “You heard them say that?” asked Sara.

  “I know that he got her to do it.”

  “Who?”

  “Him, Anders.”

  Rickard’s account was urged on bit by bit by Sara’s questions. It had become an interview without his realizing. Or else he preferred answering questions.

  “Do you know how the whole thing transpired?”

  “I know that he got her to do it. Somehow he got her to do it.”

  “Do you know how?” said Sara.

  “My mother would never have hurt my father. It was him…”

  “Was that what they were talking about?”

  Rickard didn’t answer. The door got caught by the wind and was about to slam shut. Sara had to hold it open with her hand. She was halfway through the door.

  “Did she say that?”

  The interior of the lighthouse was still silent. Sara turned out toward the sea again, without looking at Fredrik. The wind pulled at the loose strands of hair along her forehead. To the east stood the new lighthouse, cold and unyielding, like a white line against the sea and sky.

  “Rickard. What was it you heard your mother say? Did she accuse Anders of driving her to it?” she asked facing in toward the doorway.

  “I know it,” said Rickard.

  Now it was Sara’s turn to pause.

  “Tell us what you heard,” she said then. “Start with that. Just what they said, as far as you can remember. Just that.”

  60.

  She struck him with the butt of the hatchet. Three times. The spot on her cheek and temple where he had hit her stung with each blow.

  What had he hit her for? That same stupid old question that she had long known was completely pointless to ask. He hit because that’s what he did. The reasons were within him. He was full of them.

  When she lay in bed with her head numb and throbbing from the blows, it suddenly became clear to her why he had hit her this time. He had thought about the woman he had been together with in Tokyo. Kristina had sensed that there was one, sensed it to the point of knowing for certain. It hadn’t bothered her. She had been happy that his attention was directed elsewhere. She was the one he had been thinking about, thinking about the fact that he’d had a mistress for a year or more, a woman that his wife had no idea existed. The thought that had flared up inside him soon afterward was that if he had secretly had a lover on the other side of the world, then his wife … could have had one, too … far beyond his control …

  It wasn’t that he had sensed the existence of a lover, that he had gotten wind of Anders. It was his own guilt, his own filth that had colored his thinking.

  Her cheek and temple was throbbing, her head was burning up with a heat that soon spread to rest of her body. A searing hot wave of hate and rage. She had had so many years to prepare. She could have been so far away.

  But she hadn’t been able to. It was only now that the last drop of love was consumed that it was possible. There was nothing left. No love to get in the way. She would smite herself free.

  She got up from the bed and walked barefoot out to the garage.

  Not one more day, not one more minute.

  She immediately spotted the hatchet. It looked like it had never been used. The handle in light-colored wood, the red-painted head, didn’t have a single scratch. The gleaming blade covered by a leather cover was razor sharp. Frighteningly sharp. She put the little leather cover back on and fastened the strap that held it in place.

  She slipped back into the house, tiptoed silently down the stairs.

  He lay in the bath, his Japanese bath, facing the wall. He lay there stretched out after having fucked and beaten her. He had folded a towel into a pillow and rested his neck against the stone edge of the bathtub.

  He didn’t hear her coming. Only when she was standing right over him did he react and lazily turn his head.

  She struck him, full of rage. Struck to set herself free. But she also struck to punish. She wanted to punish herself for all the years that had passed.

  Three blows. Straight from above with all her might. As hard as she could. Three blows. It went so quickly that she didn’t notice that
he was dead already after the first hit.

  61.

  The windows rattled as the lighthouse was buffeted by the wind gusts. It was cold in there, colder than it ought to be, he thought, as if the air in the old lighthouse had been still for too long. Shut in, dead air. Colder than it should have been.

  He wouldn’t be staying out here till the end of the day, that much he realized. The police were standing down there, just outside the open door. It was as if they were right on top of him. He could almost feel their breath when they shouted their questions.

  He couldn’t understand why they didn’t just come in and get him. Wasn’t that what the police did? Not these ones maybe. No doubt they’ve got special units for that. Ones that didn’t ask any questions, just came in and took you away. Maybe they were already on their way over. Or were they just going to stand here all night? The two of them down there, and him up here. They hadn’t even asked if they could come in. He was happy about that. He didn’t want them in there. Sooner or later, one way or the other, he had to finish this. That much he knew. But first he had to explain. He had started, tried, but it was as if they didn’t really want to listen. He could explain how everything was connected, how one thing had led to another, but it was as if they weren’t interested in the context.

  “So your father was lying in the bathtub down in the basement?” he heard Sara Oskarsson’s voice echo through the lighthouse.

  “Yes,” he said, “he was lying in the bath. That was where he was killed.”

  He had stood there in the back entrance and pieced everything together. But this wasn’t just some made-up story, that was what they didn’t seem to understand. It was only something that he could understand because he was there and because he heard what he heard, right there in the house where he grew up in Levide. He had grown up with Stefania, Elin, Mother, and Father, and Father’s cousin who got kicked to death by a horse, and the island, and the Adventure. He could get it all to make sense. The police down there, on the other hand, hadn’t even heard of him or his family before three weeks ago.

  Stubbornly they asked the wrong questions.

  62.

  Blood. For the rest of her life she would dream about blood. She couldn’t imagine that she would be seeing anything but blood, regardless of whether her eyes were open or closed. Whether she was asleep or awake.