The Fire Witness

32

The slivers of glass crunch under Joona’s shoes as he enters a neat laundry room complete with a hand-crank mangle fastened to a sink.

Miranda was sitting in a chair when she was killed, Joona thinks. Elisabet, wearing only socks on her feet, was hunted across the yard and into the brewery. She tried to crawl away but was beaten to death.

Joona can feel the weight of his new pistol in its holster underneath his arm. It’s a semiautomatic Smith & Wesson.45 caliber ACP. It weighs slightly more than his previous one and carries fewer bullets, but its first shot is quicker.

Joona slowly opens a creaky door and finds himself looking into a traditional Swedish country kitchen. A large ceramic bowl with apples is on the round wooden table and there’s the scent of a fire burning in the beautiful old wood-fired stove. He sees frozen cinnamon buns thawing on a tray and a drawer with sharp knives has been left open. He catches a glimpse of the yard between the drawn curtains.

He shuts the door and walks down the hall. He stops when he hears the sound of tinkling from the ceiling lamp. Its glass prisms are swaying and colliding. Someone is upstairs.

Hugging the wall, he climbs the stairs. Between the open treads he can see clothes hanging in neat rows beneath the staircase. When he reaches the landing, he creeps silently to the closest bedroom. There’s a double bed covered by a crazy quilt and a wardrobe, its sliding door partially open. The curtains are closed and the ceiling light is off. Joona steps into the room, his line of fire clear, and moves to the side. The front sight of a rifle is lying on the bed.

He hears someone breathing close-by. Joona aims his gun at the corner of the room as he steps farther inside. Beside the wardrobe, there’s a man with stooped shoulders and light brown hair. He’s staring at Joona. He’s barefoot and wearing dark blue jeans and a white T-shirt with the words “Stora Enso.” He’s hiding something behind his back and is slowly moving toward the center of the room and closer to the bed.

“I’m from the National Police,” Joona says. He lowers his gun slightly.

“This is my house,” the man says.

“You should have opened the door.”

Joona sees that sweat is running down the man’s face.

“Did you bust my back door?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Can it be fixed?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Something glints in the smoke-tinted mirror on the wardrobe door. Joona sees in the reflection that the man is holding a large kitchen knife behind his back.

He says calmly, “I need to see what’s in your garage.”

“The only thing there is my car.”

“Put the knife on the bed and take me to your garage.”

The man moves the knife and looks at it. It has a stained wooden shaft, and the blade has been worn down by sharpening.

“I don’t have time to wait,” Joona says.

“You shouldn’t have broken my-”

Joona hears bare feet moving in his direction. He moves slightly to the side while keeping his eyes on the knife. A shadow is heading for his back. Joona turns his body and puts his energy into lifting his elbow to meet the rushing shadow.

Joona’s gun is still aimed at the man with the knife as his elbow hits a boy in the middle of his chest, knocking the wind out of him. The boy tries to stay upright, but he falls to the floor, gasping for breath. He pulls himself into a fetal position on his side, the rag rug rucked up beneath him.

“They’re from Afghanistan,” the man says. “They needed help.”

“I am going to shoot you in the leg if you don’t throw the knife on the bed right now,” Joona says.

The man glances down at the knife in his hand, then throws it on the bed.

Two small children appear at the door. Transfixed, they stare at Joona.

“You’re hiding refugees?” Joona asks. “How much do they pay you?”

“You think I can change them?” the man says indignantly.

“Do you?”

“No, I don’t.”

Joona looks at the dark-eyed boy. He asks in English, “Do you pay him?”

The boy shakes his head.

“No human being is illegal,” the man says in Swedish.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” Joona says to the boy, still in English. “I promise I will help you. Are you being abused?”

“Dennis is a good man,” the boy whispers.

“I’m happy to hear that,” Joona says. He looks the man in the eye then leaves the room.

He walks down the stairs and out the back door. He heads to the garage. He stands there looking through the window at a dusty old Saab inside. He’s thinking that Vicky and the boy, Dante, are still missing and there are not many more places to look.