Unknown

SATURDAY, AUGUST 7

When Johan woke up, he didn't know where he was at first. Then he felt a tiny body next to his and realized that he was home with Emma and Elin. His little daughter was sleeping right next to him, breathing calmly. Emma was asleep, too. Each of them lay on her side, facing him, and he was struck by how alike they looked. The work he'd done the past few days reporting on the murder of Gunnar Ambjornsson had been intense. It had taken its toll on him. He was annoyed that he hadn't managed to find out the part about the decapitated horse heads, but all the other journalists were in the same boat. The police had really succeeded in keeping that information to themselves. It was actually quite impressive.

Fortunately more Swedish TV reporters had come over to Gotland to help cover the story. Johan had asked to have the weekend off to work on his report on the thefts of ancient artifacts, even though it was regarded as a sidetrack. Grenfors hadn't been unreasonable. It might turn out to have something to do with the murders.

His meeting with the fence had been arranged the day before Ambjornsson was found, and Johan didn't want to miss the opportunity to meet him in person.

He put on some coffee, took a shower, and then went to get the morning newspaper before he woke Emma with a kiss.

"Good morning. I can change Elin," he offered.

"Thanks," she mumbled, turning over and crawling farther under the covers.

On his way to the bathroom he kissed his daughter's soft cheeks, which were still warm with sleep, and blew on the back of her neck. Johan thought that the moments he spent at the changing table were so cozy. He would talk to Elin and cuddle her as he allowed her bottom to air out for a moment.

When he had finished changing her diaper, he picked the tiny baby up and carried her close to his chest, humming softly in her ear.

Before he'd had a child, he never would have imagined how nice it could be. Most of what he heard from the parents of small children was how trying and difficult everything was. Late hours and dirty diapers, crying and colic. Of course, he knew it was different if you had to take care of a baby full-time, but Emma actually said the same thing- that Elin was an unusually happy baby who was easy to care for.

They ate breakfast and read the paper in peace and quiet. Nothing new had come out about the murder of Ambjornsson. According to the police spokesperson, they were working on a broad front, conducting a thorough investigation, but so far there was no suspect in the murder. On the other hand, the police admitted that they were working on the theory that the same perpetrator was behind all three murders, although they still refused to confirm that a horse's head was found at the homes of two of the victims shortly before their deaths. Instead the spokesperson stated that the investigation had reached a sensitive stage.

A sensitive stage, thought Johan. I wonder what that means.

After breakfast he put Elin to bed; she had fallen asleep again after her second feeding. She had a crib next to their bed, and she usually slept soundly, without any fuss. Johan went over to Emma, who had on only her bathrobe, and pulled her close. He looked into her warm eyes. There was something vulnerable about them that he found fiercely attractive. That's how it had been from the very first time he saw her.

Now he held her in his arms, and she pressed herself against him. Without her doing anything else, he knew what she wanted. Her response was passionate when he kissed her. Johan felt instantly dizzy and wildly excited. They tumbled onto the bed, kissing more intensely than he ever remembered doing before. Maybe the force of their kisses was part of his feeling of desire.

She reached for him, fumbling her hands over his body, pressing against him as if he were saving her life. The intensity surprised him, and he lost all sense of space and time. All of a sudden he heard himself moaning loudly, and he tore off her bathrobe. Her body was soft and warm with sleep. She was plumper than usual, and her breasts were heavy with milk. He burrowed into her, digging his fingers into her flesh and tasting her breasts with his lips. As if it were the first time, he found his way inside of her, and he nearly lost consciousness when they both came at once.

He had thought that she would feel less like herself than she did. In fact, it wasn't her body that was so different. It was something else entirely.

Knutas had never before encountered such rushing about in the corridors on a Saturday. The investigation had expanded, and the work was taking up everyone's time.

This was the most miserable summer he'd experienced in years. He'd hardly had a chance to enjoy it at all. He'd gone swimming in the sea only a couple of times, and he could count on one hand those occasions when he'd had a barbecue outdoors with his family, even though it had been the most beautiful summer in a long time.

Now it seemed as if the investigative work was finally making headway. There was definitely a new energy in the air.

When Knutas came back from lunch, someone had placed the Destination Gotland passenger lists on his desk, as he'd requested. Officers had already checked the lists on Friday without finding Ambjornsson's name or the name of anyone connected to him, but Knutas wanted to go through them personally, just to make sure. He had the names of the passengers from all the departures starting with Sunday, August 1, which was the day when Ambjornsson was expected to return from his travels abroad.

Knutas got a cup of coffee from the machine and sat down at his desk to read.

He went over the lists of names of everyone who had traveled from Nynashamn to Visby on the same day that Ambjornsson was supposed to come home. Knutas didn't discover any name that might give him a lead.

Of course, Ambjornsson could have traveled under another identity, but why would he do that? Had he been forced to do so? Had someone threatened him? One reason he might not have come back to the island alive was that it would have exposed the perpetrator to risk, both by arousing attention and because someone might have caught sight of Ambjornsson and recognized him. No, that wasn't what had happened. Knutas sighed and put the papers aside.

The body had been transported to the forensic medicine lab in Solna. The preliminary autopsy report should arrive on Monday.

Knutas decided to take a walk in order to clear his head. It was a beautiful afternoon. A new high-pressure ridge had moved in from the east, promising a warm week for the medieval festival. The events had already started in town. From Strandgardet he could hear the announcer's voice and applause from the tournament that was held in classic chivalric style. A juggler group was performing at the East Gate, and at Hastgatan Knutas was practically run over by a group of people moving through the lanes dressed in medieval garb.

He crossed Stora Torget and decided to take a stroll down to the sea. On the way he passed by Skogrand, where Aron Bjarke lived. As he neared the teacher's house, Knutas slowed down. He had a sudden impulse to visit Bjarke. He rang the bell several times, but no one came to the door. Bjarke was apparently not at home. As he stood there on the porch, Knutas's eye was caught by one of the objects on the windowsill. Among the pots and old jars stood a wooden figure that was only a hand's breadth tall. He went over to the window for a closer look and was struck by how risque it was. It was a male figure with a disproportionately large, erect penis. Knutas was sure that he'd seen it before, and he frantically searched his memory. He had the feeling that it might be important. Something fluttered past in the back of his mind, but it vanished just as quickly.

He rang the bell one last time, then waited a moment, but the house looked dark and silent inside. Again his gaze fell on the figure in the window. Somewhere he had seen that figure before.

Johan had agreed to meet the unknown seller at four in the afternoon. He felt tense all day, and he talked to Pia several times on the phone to make sure that they had everything under control. He had explained to the seller that he wasn't going to bring any money to their first meeting. It was a precautionary measure. First he wanted to see some samples of the sort of Gotland artifacts that were being offered for sale.

The camera was in the editorial office. Pia was going to get it and then bring it out to Johan in Roma so that he could practice using it. He had hardly ever filmed anything before, and he needed all the help he could get to make sure everything functioned properly. The agreement was that if Johan was satisfied with the goods, he would pay cash on Monday.

He counted on being checked out, so he had given a phony name and address. Fortunately he had a wealthy friend, who happened to be a nobleman, in Skane. This was not the first time that Johan had used his friend's identity for his job. Having his name in the Peerage Book and belonging to one of the richest families in Sweden had its advantages. Now it was just a matter of Johan playing his role well when he met with the fence.

Knutas wanted to read through the passenger lists one more time before leaving the office for the day. It was possible that, in spite of everything, he had missed Ambjornsson's name. So far he had just looked for the first syllable of his last name, but now he read through the whole list, running his index finger carefully over the names so as not to miss anything.

Suddenly he caught sight of a name he recognized. It was Aron Bjarke. The archaeology teacher had traveled from Nynashamn to Visby on Monday, August 2. That meant that Bjarke had been in Stockholm at the same time that Ambjornsson was expected home from Morocco.

With his pulse racing, Knutas looked through the names of passengers from Visby to Nynashamn. He had the lists from Sunday, August 1, but he couldn't find Bjarke's name. He phoned his contact at Destination Gotland, who had sent over the information, and asked for the lists from Saturday, July 31. That was the same day that he'd had coffee with Bjarke in his garden, which meant that he couldn't have left any earlier.

The lists were going to show up within half an hour.

Knutas leaned back in his chair to wait as thoughts whirled through his mind. Aron Bjarke was an archaeologist and a teacher at the college. That gave him a connection to both Martina and Staffan. The question still remained: What was his link to Ambjornsson? The e-mail from Destination Gotland appeared after only a few minutes, and he immediately found the name he was looking for. Bjarke had left the island by car on Saturday afternoon, July 31. Knutas raised his eyes from his computer and looked out the window. Once again he had a vague feeling that he was missing something. That annoyed him.

He wondered what Aron Bjarke could have in common with Gunnar Ambjornsson. With Staffan Mellgren there was a natural connection. Both taught archaeology, and each had been Martina Flochten's teacher.

The instant he had that thought, he realized what he had overlooked: the figure in Aron Bjarke's kitchen window. He now realized what it represented: Frey, the god of fertility in the?sir pantheon. Hence the penis. Knutas had noticed a similar idol at Mellgren's house. He picked up the phone and ordered that the figure be brought in to headquarters at once.

He didn't have time to do it himself. He was extremely anxious to get hold of Aron Bjarke.

Johan left in good time for his meeting with the seller. He had practiced using the camera all afternoon, and it was now attached to a belt around his waist. One problem was that he risked being recognized. He was pretending to be a nobleman from Skane, but the seller might have seen him on TV. Occasionally Johan's face appeared on the screen when he did live reports or stand-ups.

He decided to disguise himself behind a big pair of sunglasses and a cap to hide his dark curly hair. In the mirror he looked like a whole different person.

Traffic was heavy on the road to Visby. Lots of people were headed for the city to take part in or to watch some of the countless events that had been organized for the first day of Medieval Week. He had borrowed Emma's car and reached the indoor ice-skating rink twenty minutes before the appointed time. He felt like a regular gangster, one half of a criminal transaction. The mere thought made him feel guilty.

Johan managed to work up a good case of nerves as he waited. He gave a start when a red pickup drove up in front of him soon afterward. He discreetly slipped his hand inside his jacket to turn on the camera. The man driving the truck was also wearing dark glasses. He had gray stubble on his face and was slightly overweight. About fifty years old.

Without saying a word, he reached over and opened the passenger-side door of his vehicle. With some hesitation Johan got into the pickup.

They greeted each other briefly.

"If we're careful, we can take a look at the artifacts here, but it'll have to be quick," said the man, speaking with a marked Gotland accent. He cast a glance out the truck windows and then looked in the rearview mirror. Maybe he was new at this game.

The seller lifted up a toolbox that was wedged between the seats. He opened the box and took out a cloth-wrapped bundle. Inside were a number of objects: a chisel, a few axe blades, several silver coins, spear points, and a circular clasp.

Johan assumed an expression that he hoped would give him the look of an expert and slowly picked up each and every artifact.

Niklas had given him some tips about the types of remarks he could make. The seller was watching him attentively.

"As I said on the phone, these are just a few samples. I have many more, but I don't know how much you're interested in."

"Now that I see what you have, and that the goods are genuine, I could be interested in a large number of items," said Johan.

"How much are we talking about?"

"I'd rather not go into that right now. One thing at a time. What do you want for these?"

"All of them?"

"Yes."

"A hundred thousand kronor."

"That's too much. I'll give you fifty."

Niklas had warned him that he would undoubtedly be quoted too high a price, if for no other reason than to check him out.

"Ninety."

"I can go as high as seventy-five thousand. Just to show you my goodwill on the first deal. But next time I'd appreciate it if you'd ask a reasonable price right from the start."

"When can I get the money?"

"On Monday."

"In cash?"

"That's what we agreed, wasn't it?"

Aron Bjarke didn't answer his home phone or his cell.

Knutas switched on his computer and looked up the personal data on Bjarke. He was born in 1961 at Visby Hospital. He went to Save High School in Visby and then studied archaeology at the University of Stockholm. For a long time he lived in Hagerstan, a suburb south of the city. Knutas confirmed that Bjarke had never married or registered as living with anyone. Nor did he have any children. A few years ago he had moved back to Gotland, and he now lived on Skogrand.

Aron Bjarke had one sibling, an older brother named Eskil Rondahl. Their parents had died in a fire only a year ago. Knutas remembered that fire in Hall quite well. It was quickly put out, yet two people had died. So they were Bjarke's parents. Knutas frowned at the strange coincidence. The police techs had done a thorough investigation, but the cause of the fire had never been determined.

It turned out that Bjarke's brother still lived at the family farm in Hall.

Maybe he would find Aron there.

The tension that Johan had felt before meeting the seller dissipated as he sat in his own vehicle. He felt sick to his stomach and weak in the knees. Not because the man had made a particularly frightening impression; in fact, he seemed quite timid.

For the time being, Johan pushed aside any thought of possible consequences. He turned off the camera, hoping that he'd gotten it all on film. Then he took off his dark glasses and cap.

In Grabo he picked up Niklas Appelqvist, who was carrying two bottles of good wine and a bouquet of flowers for Emma. Johan was impressed. He hadn't thought his friend would be so considerate.

When they reached the house they were met with loud music. Pia and Emma were sitting on the sofa, each of them holding a glass of wine and rocking out to Ebba Gron. It had been a long time since Johan had seen Emma looking so lively. She needed a break. Maybe her uncertainty about their relationship had a lot to do with simple fatigue.

At that instant he decided to take her on a trip, whether she wanted to go or not. It would be a surprise that he would book in advance. They would have to take Elin along, of course, but he would make all the arrangements. Emma wouldn't have to do anything except nurse the baby.

When Emma caught sight of Johan, she came dancing toward him with a mischievous smile to give him a kiss. He had a feeling that she had read his mind.

After dinner they sat down on the sofa group in the living room to look at the video. The visual quality left a lot to be desired, and the images were shaky, but they could clearly hear what was said.

Johan breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that the material was good enough for him to put together a TV report. Suddenly the face of the seller appeared, at first blurred, then clearer. Niklas gave a shout.

"What the hell! That's the guy from the warehouse. Eskil. Eskil something or other."

Everyone looked at Niklas in surprise.

"I remember now. His name is Eskil Rondahl. He works at the antiquities warehouse. He's been there for ages. I'm not surprised that he could get his hands on artifacts."

"I know who you mean!" exclaimed Johan excitedly. "I've interviewed him about the thefts on the phone. Good Lord. That dried up, sad old man. Are you sure it's him?"

"Of course I'm sure. Everyone who studies archaeology has to take a few classes from him. He demonstrates how to handle ancient relics and archive them."

"So that means it's an inside job. If he's selling artifacts, maybe there are others doing the same thing."

"This is fucking insane," Niklas said, shaking his head. "I wonder how long he's been doing this."

"What do you know about him?"

"Not much. He seems like an anonymous type of guy. Incredibly reserved and uptight. Hardly says a word. A real oddball, to put it bluntly."

"Do you know whether he has a family? Or where he lives?"

"I have no idea. Although I have a hard time imagining that he'd have a family."

"I'll check."

Johan got up and switched on the computer in Emma's study. He searched for Eskil Rondahl in the municipal records and found his address.

"He lives in Hall. That's north of here, isn't it?"

"What's the address?" asked Niklas, who had followed Johan into the study. He was standing behind him, looking at the screen.

"It just says Sigvards, Hall."

"I wonder where that is. Large sections of Hall are a nature preserve up along the rocky coast. There's hardly anything out there. It's desolate and barren."

Johan glanced at his watch. It was nine fifteen.

"I'm going to drive out there."

"Right now?"

Johan printed out the information about Eskil Rondahl.

"I'll go with you," said Niklas resolutely.

"No, it's better if Pia comes along, so she can film things if we need it," said Johan. "You can stay here with Emma while we're gone."

Pia was in high spirits as she drove, and she greatly exceeded the speed limit. She had cut back on the amount of wine she drank because she had to get up early the next day, and now she was glad that she had. They drove via Visby and then north past Lickershamn. It was still light out, and when they passed Ireviken the landscape started to change. The area looked more barren; the vegetation got scruffier. Here and there dead trees stretched their bare branches toward the sky. They searched for the place for a long time. They had to ask for directions to the farm, which they finally found at the end of the road. Darkness had begun to set in, and they didn't dare drive all the way up to the farm. As soon as it appeared from behind a hill, Pia stepped on the brakes and backed up. She parked the car a short distance away in the woods.

The farm was impressive in size but clearly in need of repair. To their surprise, they saw five or six cars parked in the yard. Eskil Rondahl apparently had visitors. Farther away a red pickup was visible, along with an old, rusty horse trailer. Pia took the small camera along, although it would have to be used indoors; it was too dark outside. Cautiously they approached the house. They had it in view when they suddenly heard the sound of a car engine behind them. Johan flinched-was there another visitor?

He was dumbfounded when he saw who got out of the car. It was Anders Knutas. He was alone, and he wasn't driving a police vehicle. Was he on the track of the thefts, too? Johan cast a quick glance at his watch. It was almost ten o'clock.

Knutas didn't seem to have noticed Johan and Pia, who were standing in the shelter of several tall bushes. When Johan stepped forward, Knutas gave a start.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he snarled. What an absurd situation. Here they stood in the dark, in the middle of a nature preserve, close to a remote farm, stupidly glaring at each other.

"I might ask you the same question," said Johan.

"That's none of your business," snapped Knutas. "What's going on here?" he then asked with a nod at the parked cars.

"No idea. We just got here."

Pia stepped into view, and Knutas greeted her.

"Now you're going to have to explain what brings the two of you out here."

Johan briefly told Knutas how he had found the American Web site and about his meeting with the seller. When he said that the fence was Eskil Rondahl, Knutas's eyes widened.

"Not bad," he said. He actually sounded impressed.

"But you're here for some other reason?" said Johan.

Knutas hesitated for a moment. Maybe it was the intimacy of standing there in the dark, maybe it was because he was so tired, completely worn out after everything that had happened lately-but something made him decide to tell them why he had come.

"Aron Bjarke, who's a teacher at the college, was in Stockholm when Gunnar Ambjornsson was expected home from his trip abroad. We didn't know this before, but Aron Bjarke and Eskil Rondahl are brothers. Bjarke changed his name twenty years ago when he was studying in Stockholm. Before that his name was Aron Rondahl."

"Do the police think that Aron might be the murderer?"

"Yes. And now you've turned up a whole new aspect of the case-the thefts. We just may have the solution to the burglary at the Antiquities Room, too."

Pia gave Johan a poke in the side.

"Look," she said. "Something's happening."

Inside the house they could see people walking back and forth. Johan heard someone bolt the door from the inside. Strange, he thought. Out here in the country no one locks their doors.

Cautiously they crept forward and peeked through a window. They were looking at the kitchen, which was old-fashioned and seemed very poorly outfitted. A decrepit electric stove and a small refrigerator and freezer were the only appliances. A considerable number of dirty dishes were littered about, along with glasses and bottles. Johan crept along the wall of the house, crouching down so as not to be seen. He went around the corner, summoned his courage, and then straightened up enough so that he could peer inside.

It was a big room, almost like a hall, but sparsely furnished. About ten people were inside, men and women of various ages. Everyone was dressed in identical, long, cloaklike attire. Johan's first thought was that they were performing some sort of ceremony in connection with Medieval Week, but he quickly realized that something else was going on. A man came in, clad only in a pair of shorts. He was carrying a flat drum with an animal skin stretched across it. It looked like a tambourine. He was beating the drum with a wooden stick that had one end wrapped in leather. At the same time, he was droning a song that lacked any sort of melody. It consisted mostly of a monotone chanting. Johan couldn't understand a single word, but he had the feeling that the drummer was pronouncing incantations or invoking some higher powers.

Another man stood in the center of the group, his face hidden from view. As if at a signal, a circle formed around him. He turned in different directions as he spoke, and the others in the group seemed to answer him.

Knutas had come to stand beside Johan.

"Who's the guy with the drum?" whispered Johan. "He looks like a shaman."

"Yes, he does, though I don't know who he is. Take a look at the man in the middle, the one who seems to be the leader. That's Aron Bjarke."

At that instant Bjarke turned in their direction, and for a moment Johan thought they had been discovered. But Bjarke continued on, undisturbed.

Then Johan caught sight of Eskil Rondahl. He was standing off to one side with his eyes closed, murmuring just like everyone else. He looked totally different from when Johan had met him earlier in the day. Like a different person. He seemed to be in a trance, and Johan had the feeling that the drummer was transporting the others and even himself into some sort of ecstatic state.

Suddenly a scantily clad woman came dancing into the room. She had curly red hair that reached down to her waist. Like the shaman, she was almost naked. Around her hips she wore a short piece of cloth, and above, a simple top. She danced around the drummer, tossing her hair. In her hands she carried something that looked like a horn, and she offered it to the others, who drank from it.

After that, a bowl was brought in. The woman carried it carefully in her hands, and Johan and Knutas instinctively leaned closer to see better. She moved the bowl back and forth, and a look of ecstasy appeared in the eyes of the participants. Everyone was staring at the bowl. Then she held it out in front of her while the man with the drum pounded his club even harder and raised his voice. Now the sound bellowed out, but Johan and Knutas still couldn't distinguish any words. They'd never seen anything like this. Then the woman drank from whatever was in the bowl as the shaman shouted. A dark red liquid ran down the sides.

Knutas and Johan exchanged looks of disgust.

"What do you think they're drinking?" whispered Johan. "I bet you anything it's blood."

"That wouldn't surprise me," said Knutas, taking his cell phone out of the inside pocket of his jacket. These people looked capable of just about anything. He called the officer on duty in Visby without taking his eyes off the spectacle.

All of a sudden Johan noticed that Pia had disappeared. He took a step back and looked around. He didn't see her anywhere. He was both annoyed and worried. These people didn't look sane. What would they do if they found Pia sneaking around with a camera outside the window?

Knutas also called Karin Jacobsson, who happened to be visiting her parents in Tingstade, which wasn't far away. Martin Kihlgard was with her, and they said they would drive over immediately.

Johan wondered what Knutas was planning to do. Was he going to arrest Aron Bjarke? If so, on what grounds? The fact that he'd been in Stockholm at the same time as Ambjornsson was hardly a good enough reason.

Now the other people inside the house had started drinking from the bowl, too. After they drank, they began rhythmically stomping on the floor. They were all stomping to the same beat.

One of the members of the sect moved away from the group and dipped what looked like a small sculpture of a god in the bowl. Then the person held it up for the others to see. Johan thought the sculpture reminded him of an ancient Nordic god, maybe Thor or Odin. The idol was passed from hand to hand, and the participants became daubed with the red liquid, which they rubbed on their faces. It looked quite macabre.

Johan leaned toward Knutas.

"It looks like they'll be at it for a while. I'm going to find out where Pia has gone. Just whistle if anything happens."

He walked around the house. There were lights in all the windows on the ground floor, but the second floor was dark. He crossed the yard and opened the barn door. It was pitch-black and smelled damp and musty. The light switch was inside the door. It took a few minutes of fumbling around in the dark before he found it. After some hesitant flickering, the fluorescent tube in the ceiling went on, producing a faint light. A pile of boards and a couple of bundles of insulating material lay in a corner.

Along one wall stood a large freezer. Johan noticed that it was plugged in, and out of curiosity he went over and opened it. The lid was big and hard to lift, and the handle was slightly broken. Cold air rose up toward him as he peered down inside the freezer. All he could see was several rectangular plastic packages, completely frozen. He picked up one of the boxes and scraped the frost off the lid. A label was stuck to it. He had trouble making out what it said. Part of the text, which had been written with black ink, was smeared. All of a sudden the letters became clear enough to be legible. It was a name that he recognized. Mellgren. Instinctively he looked up to check that no one was around to see what he was holding. He twisted and turned the small package. It seemed to contain a brown liquid that had solidified. His stomach lurched when he realized that what he was probably holding in his hands was Mellgren's blood. He picked up another package and began scraping off the frost, but he was interrupted by a noise from outside.

He glanced toward the barn door and watched as the handle slowly moved downward.

Jacobsson and Kihlgard drove toward Hall in the August darkness. The road got narrower the farther they went, and they met only a few other cars. They passed the exits to Lickershamn and Ireviken, and they almost missed the turnoff for the farm. Jacobsson braked hard and then turned onto the small road. It was now pitch-dark all around them; there were no streetlights or houses. The scruffy woods got thicker, and here and there they caught a glimpse of dead trees with bare, gnarled branches.

"Are you sure this is the right road?" asked Kihlgard, sounding worried.

"Absolutely. I checked the map. This has to be the right way. But I have to admit that even though I've lived my whole life on Gotland, I've never been out here before."

"It's damned desolate. Like some kind of ghostly landscape."

"Yes, it is," Jacobsson agreed. "It feels like this is as far away from civilization as we can get."

The car jolted along as the terrain became more and more rugged. Jacobsson wondered if they'd be able to keep going without getting stuck somewhere. Just as she was starting to look for a place to turn around, they saw a car parked up ahead in the woods. Farther along was another car. She recognized it as Knutas's old Benz.

Jacobsson parked next to it. Then they made their way up to the farm, moving as quietly as possible.

The expression on Eskil Rondahl's face hardly changed at all when he found Johan holding a package in his hands. Only his eyes revealed a flash of surprise. For the second time that day, they met.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"I was just going to ask you the same thing."

Johan held out the packages toward him.

Rondahl didn't reply. His arms hung clumsily at his sides, as if he didn't know what to do. They stood there for a moment, staring at each other.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Johan Berg, and I'm a journalist."

"For a newspaper?"

"For TV. Swedish TV, Regional News."

"Did you follow me?"

As Eskil talked, he slowly came closer. Johan took a step back and cast a surreptitious glance to either side. Where the hell was Knutas? And Pia?

Rondahl was now circling around him like a wild animal about to attack its prey.

Johan didn't know what to do. The door was closed, and he hadn't noticed any other exit. Outside everything was quiet. He suddenly found himself in a situation over which he had no control whatsoever. He hadn't counted on ending up in the danger zone himself. Images of his daughter flickered past. He cursed his stupidity. How could he have landed in this situation without thinking about the consequences? This had to do with a triple homicide. Emma's face appeared in his mind.

He saw the white walls of the barn with the peeling plaster, the old stalls where the cows must have stood, chained and lined up in a row, shackled and unable to escape, just like him. He noted how Rondahl's eyes darkened, and he realized that the man who had seemed so timid was actually deadly dangerous. He was standing face-to-face with the killer.

The windows gleamed black; the darkness from outside came in, squeezing around his heart and blocking his brain. Then he saw the glint of a knife blade in the man's hand. At first he thought he was imagining it, but then it glittered again. Ice-cold terror settled like a tight band around his neck. He stood perfectly still. Incoherent thoughts were racing through his mind, giving him no guidance. He didn't know how many seconds or minutes passed as he stood there as if frozen to the spot. Then he woke from his momentary, fear-induced torpor and made a lunge for the door in a hopeless attempt to escape. The next second the man was on him. Johan felt a burning pain in his stomach.

He sank to the floor.

Jacobsson and Kihlgard hurried toward the farm and caught sight of Knutas, who was pressed up against the side of the house.

"What's going on?" whispered Jacobsson as she inquisitively peeked through the window.

"They're performing some kind of ritual. Both Eskil Rondahl and Aron Bjarke are inside, and Bjarke seems to be the leader, as you can see. I don't know what it means, but it looks as if they're drinking blood."

"Are you serious?"

Kihlgard made himself as small as possible, considering the bulk of his body.

Knutas was starting to get very worried. The reinforcements that he'd called for hadn't arrived, and he wondered where Johan and Pia had gone.

"Where's Rondahl?" asked Jacobsson.

Knutas crouched down and let his eyes survey the mysterious figures inside the hall. He couldn't see Rondahl anywhere. Apparently he had left the room without Knutas noticing.

"Both Johan and Pia have disappeared, too," said Knutas tensely. "And that was quite a while ago."

Pia was lying in the most uncomfortable position imaginable. She had found a stairway at one end of the house, on the outside. She'd gone up to the attic and discovered a hatch that she was able to lift up so she had a full view of the living room below.

Up there she could stretch out and film what was happening undisturbed, as long as none of the participants decided to look up and peer through the crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling.

She would not have dreamed that what was playing out in the room below would ever occur in reality.

Several of the participants were holding figures, which they dipped into the bowls containing something that actually did look like blood. She tried to zoom in on the sculptures to make out what they were supposed to symbolize. One woman was kissing her sculpture, and to Pia's horror, she then carefully began licking off the blood.

Pia recognized Aron Bjarke, although he was behaving in a totally unexpected manner. His face was contorted and his eyes rigid as he stretched his arms overhead and intoned incantations that she couldn't understand.

She let the camera roll, hoping that the images would be clear enough.

Suddenly something happened. The door opened, and the man who had left the room a while ago came back. He looked agitated. Now Pia recognized him. It was the man from the film, Eskil Rondahl. She noticed that he had blood on his clothes and his hands, although she didn't recall seeing any on him when he left the room. But it could have come from one of the bowls that were being passed around.

He went over to Aron and whispered in his ear. Aron's expression instantly changed. He turned toward Eskil to talk to him, but what they said was inaudible. Pia silently cursed. Now she could see only his back.

Suddenly she saw through the camera's viewfinder that Aron was saying something to the man with the drum, and the rhythmic pounding abruptly stopped. One by one the participants noticed that the drumming had ceased, and they, too, stopped moving as they looked around the room in confusion. Aron raised his hand and started speaking. Pia heard him order those present to go home now, but to return on the following night to complete the ritual when the moon was full. If they came back, they would all experience something extraordinary.

Some tried to ask Aron what he meant, but he merely raised his hand and gave them a faint smile.

At the very moment when they discovered that Eskil Rondahl was gone, he came back. They watched him go over to his brother, they watched Aron speak to all the people gathered in the room, and they watched as a certain amount of confusion arose when the ritual was interrupted. One by one the participants left the house. The moonlight forced the three police officers to back so far away from the house that they had a hard time hearing what was said or seeing who came out. Neither Knutas nor Jacobsson recognized any of the individuals in the mysterious sect, except for Aron and Eskild. Since everyone's face was painted, it was hard to make out their features.

Knutas was getting more and more worried about Johan and Pia. Where had they gone? He was afraid that something had happened to them.

Where the hell were the police cars?

They decided to wait to launch an assault until the guests had driven off. As soon as the last car disappeared beyond the hill, the door to the house opened and the two brothers came out. They walked briskly across the yard toward the dark barn. With tense and serious expressions, they went in, carefully closing the door behind them. A light went on inside.

Knutas had an ice-cold feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he urged his colleagues to hurry. The three of them raced across the barnyard. When Knutas peered through the window, his fears were confirmed. Both brothers were bending over someone lying on the ground, and Aron was holding a knife.

The man on the ground was Johan. It took only a few seconds before Knutas, followed by his colleagues, stormed through the door with their pistols drawn.

"Police!" shouted Knutas. "Drop your weapon and put your hands up!"

Aron and Eskil were leaning down, with their backs to the door. For a second they froze.

"Drop the knife!" Knutas shouted again.

He tried to see whether Johan was still alive, but the reporter's body was hidden from view. Slowly the two men straightened up and turned around. Even though Knutas had met Aron several times before, he hardly recognized him. His face had changed, but Knutas couldn't figure out what was different about it. His expression was not the same; his mask had fallen away. Knutas was struck by how similar the brothers looked.

So far Aron had made no sign of letting go of the knife. He stared at Knutas with a remote look in his eye, as if he weren't really present in the room.

"Drop the weapon!" Knutas shouted for the third time.

He sensed Jacobsson and Kihlgard on either side of him, standing a couple of paces back. They had their guns aimed at the brothers.

Knutas had to summon all his forces to make himself stand still. Precious time was being wasted while the life was possibly running out of Johan as he lay motionless on the floor. We have to call for an ambulance, thought Knutas. He could be dying.

Slowly Aron released his grip on the knife, and with a hollow clang it fell to the floor. The officers immediately rushed forward and seized the men.

Johan lay on the floor, his face white and his eyes closed. His shirt was dark red with blood that had soaked through and run out onto the floor.

"He has a pulse, but it's faint," said Jacobsson.

The door opened, and Pia came in, holding the camera in her hand. When she caught sight of Johan, she screamed and ran over to him.

"He's alive," said Jacobsson, "but just barely."