Lars Kepler - The Hypnotist

“Otherwise he’ll die,” says Marek.

Benjamin ignores the pain in his joints as he runs between the rows of derelict vehicles. He crouches behind an old Volvo sedan and eats some snow, slaking the terrible thirst he feels, and then begins to run again. Soon, he is no longer able to feel his feet. Marek is yelling something at him from the steps of the house, and Benjamin begins looking for a place to hide in the darkness. Maybe he can make his way down to the lake when things quiet down. Jussi said you could always find a fisherman there, sitting patiently over a hole drilled in the ice.

He has to stop; leaning on a pick-up, he listens for footsteps, glances up at the dark edge of the forest, and moves on. He won’t be able to keep going much longer. He crawls under a stiff tarpaulin covering a tractor, slides along the frosty grass beneath the next car, stands up, and finds himself between two buses. He gropes along the side of one of the enormous vehicles until he locates an open window, and scrambles inside. Moving through the dark, musty coach by feel, he finds a pile of old rugs on a seat and wraps himself up in them.

The red-painted airport at Vilhelmina is a desolate sight in the midst of the vast white landscape. It is only ten o’clock in the morning, but it is still quite dark. The concrete landing strip is illuminated by floodlights. After a flight lasting one and a half hours, they are now taxiing slowly toward the terminal building.

Inside the waiting area it is surprisingly warm and cosy. Christmas music is playing, and the aroma of coffee drifts out from a shop that appears to be a mixture of news-stand, information desk, and cafeteria. Outside hang wide rows of Sami handicrafts: butter knives, wooden drinking scoops, baskets made of birch bark. Simone stares blankly at some Sami hats on a counter. She feels a brief pang of sorrow for this ancient hunting culture that is now compelled to reinvent itself in the form of brightly coloured hats with red tassels for tourists who regard the whole thing as a bit of a joke. Time has driven away the shamanism of the Sami; people hang the ceremonial drum, meavrresgárri , on the wall above their sofas, and the herding of reindeer is well on the way to becoming a performance for the benefit of tourists.

Joona takes out his phone and makes a call. He shakes his head with growing irritation. Erik and Simone can hear a tinny voice at the other end responding to his terse questions. When Joona flicks his phone shut, his expression is tense and serious.

“What is it?” Erik asks.

Joona stretches up to look out the window. “They still haven’t heard from the patrol that went out to the house,” he says, sounding distracted.

“That’s not good,” Erik says quietly.

“I’ll call the station.”

“But we can’t just sit and wait for them.”

“We’re not going to,” Joona replied. “We’ve got a car- it should be here already.”

“God,” Simone says. “Everything takes such a bloody long time.”

“The distances are a little different up here,” says Joona. He shrugs his shoulders and they follow him as he heads for the exit. Once through the doors, a different, dry cold suddenly hits them, a cold of another magnitude entirely.

Two dark-blue cars pull up in front of them, and two men dressed in the bright yellow uniforms of the Mountain Rescue Service get out.

“Joona Linna?” asks one of them.

Joona nods briefly.

“We were told to deliver a car to you.”

“Mountain Rescue?” Erik asks anxiously. “Where are the police?”

One of the men straightens up and explains tersely. “There isn’t that much difference up here. Police, Customs, Mountain Rescue- we usually work together as necessary.”

The other man chips in. “We’re a bit short-staffed at the moment, with Christmas just around the corner.”

No one says anything for a moment. Erik looks desperate by this stage. He opens his mouth to speak, but Joona gets there first. “Have you heard anything from the patrol that went out to the cottage?” he asks.

“Not since seven o’clock this morning.”

“How long does it take to get up there?”

“Oh, you’d need an hour or two.”

“Two and a half,” says the other man. “Bearing in mind the time of year.”

“Which car?” Joona asks impatiently, moving toward s one of them.

“Doesn’t make a difference,” replies one of the men.

“Give us the one with more fuel in it,” says Joona, and they climb inside. Joona takes the keys and asks Erik to enter their destination into the brand-new GPS system.

“Wait,” Joona calls after the men, who are heading for the other car.

They stop.

“The patrol that went out to the cottage this morning- were they Mountain Rescue as well?”

“Yes, I’m sure they were.”

They follow the shore of Lake Volgsjö and then, just a few miles farther on, they come out onto the main road, driving west in a straight line for about six miles before turning off onto the winding road that means fifty miles more. They travel in silence. Once they have left Vilhelmina far behind, they notice that the sky seems to lighten and a strange, soft glow appears to open up the view. They become aware of the contours of mountains and lakes around them.

“You see?” says Erik. “It’s getting lighter.”

“It won’t get lighter for several weeks,” Simone replies.

“The snow catches the light through the clouds,” says Joona.

Simone rests her head against the window. They drive through snow-covered forests, immense white fields that have been cleared of trees, dark boggy areas, and lakes that look like enormous plains. In the darkness they can just make out a strangely beautiful lake, with steep shores, cold and frozen, sparkling darkly by the light of the snow.

After almost one and a half hours, sometimes heading north, sometimes west, the road begins to narrow. They are now in Dorotea, approaching the Norwegian border, and high, jagged mountains tower above them. Suddenly a car coming in the opposite direction flashes its headlights at them. They pull over to the side of the road, watching as the other car stops and reverses toward them.

“Mountain Rescue,” says Joona dryly, when they see that the car is the same as theirs. He rolls down the window, and crisp ice-cold air sucks all the heat out of the car.

“Are you the lot from Stockholm?” shouts one of the men in the car in Finnish.

“We are,” Joona replies in Finnish. “City slickers, that’s us.” They laugh, then Joona reverts to Swedish. “Was it you who went out to the house? Nobody has been able to get hold of you.”

“No radio coverage,” replies the man. “But it was a waste of petrol. There’s nothing up there.”

“Nothing? No tracks around the house?”

The man shakes his head. “We went through the layers of snow.”

“What do you mean?” asks Erik.

“It’s snowed five times since the twelfth- so we searched for tracks through five layers of snow.”

“Well done,” says Joona.

“That’s why it took a while.”

“But no one’s been there?” asks Simone.

The man shakes his head. “Not since the twelfth, like I said.”

“Shit,” Joona says quietly.

“So are you coming back with us, then?” asks the man.

Joona shakes his head. “We’ve come all the way from Stockholm. We’re not turning back now.”

The man shrugs his shoulders. “Suit yourself.” They wave and head off to the east.

“No radio coverage,” Simone whispers. “But Jussi said he was calling from there.”