John Lindqvist - Let The Right One In aka Let Me In

"We'll get him, Lacke. Of course we will."

Tommy looked out over the railing, thought he caught a glimpse of shiny metal down there. Looked like one of those things Huey, Dewey, and Louie came home with after their competitions.

"What are you thinking about?" his mom asked.

"Donald Duck."

"You don't like Staffan so much, do you?"

"It's OK, Mom."

"Is it?"

Tommy looked out toward the center of town. Saw the large red V in the neon sign that slowly rotated high above everything. Vallingby. Victory.

"Has he shown you his pistols?" he asked.

"Why do you want to know something like that?"

"Just wondering. Has he?"

"I don't understand."

"It's not that hard, Mom. Has he opened the safe, taken out the guns, and shown them to you?"

"Yes. Why?"

"When did he do it?"

His mom brushed something from her blouse, then rubbed her arms.

"I'm cold," she said.

"Do you think about Dad?"

"Yes, of course I do. All the time."

"All the time?"

His mom sighed, bending over a little to be able to look him in the eye.

"What are you implying?"

"What are you implying?"

Tommy's hand was on the railing; she put hers on top. "Will you come with me to see Dad tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow?"

"Yeah, it's All Saints or something."

"That's the day after. And yes, I will."

"Tommy."

She peeled his hands from the railing, turned him toward her. Hugged him. He stood there stiffly for a moment, then freed himself and walked back in.

While he was putting his coat on he realized he needed his mom to come back inside if he was going to be able to go look for the statuette. He called out to her and she quickly came back in, hungry for words.

"Yeah,… uh, give my regards to Staffan."

She lit up.

"I will. You're not staying?"

"No, I… it could take all night."

"Yes, I'm a little worried."

"You shouldn't be. He knows how to shoot. Bye."

"Good-bye…"

The front door slammed shut.

"… honey."

There was a muffled bang from deep inside the Volvo as Staffan drove it up over the curb at high speed. His upper and lower teeth slammed together with such force it almost sounded like a bell rang out in his head. He went blind for a second and almost ran over an older man who was about to join the group of onlookers that had gathered around the police car by the main entrance.

Larsson, a new police recruit, was in the patrol car talking on the radio. Probably calling for backup or an ambulance. Staffan drove up behind the patrol car in order to leave clearance for any other vehicles that might be on their way, jumped out and locked his car. He always locked his car, even if he was only going to be gone for a minute. Not because he was afraid it would get stolen but in order to keep the habit alive, so he would never forget to lock a patrol car for godssake.

He walked up the steps to the main entrance and made an effort to walk with authority in front of his onlookers; he knew he had an appearance that inspired confidence, at least with most people. Many of the people who were gathered probably saw him and thought: "Aha, here comes the guy who's going to clear up this whole thing."

Shortly inside the front doors there were four men in swimming trunks with towels wrapped around their shoulders. Staffan walked past them, toward the changing rooms, but one of the men called out, "Hello, excuse me," and ran over to him in bare feet.

"Yes, sorry, but… our clothes."

"What about them?"

"When can we get them?"

"Your clothes?"

"Yes, they're still in the changing rooms and we're not allowed in there."

Staffan opened his mouth and was about to say something sharp about the fact that their clothes were hardly the highest priority right now, but just then a woman in a white T-shirt came walking toward the men with a bunch of white robes in her arms. Staffan gestured to her and then continued on his way.

In the corridor he met another woman in a white T-shirt walking a boy of twelve or thirteen toward the entrance. The boy's face was a deep red against the white robe he was wrapped in; his eyes were devoid of expression. The woman turned to Staffan with a look that was almost accusatory.

"His mother's coming to pick him up."

Staffan nodded. Was this boy… the victim? He had wanted to ask this, but in his haste couldn't think of a reasonable way to put the question. Had to assume Holmberg had taken the boy's name and other information, judged it best to let his mother come in and take over, accompanying him to the ambulance, crisis intervention, therapy.

Protect these Thy smallest.

Staffan kept going down the corridor, ran up the steps while inside his head he recited a prayer of thanks for the Lord's mercy and for strength to meet the challenges ahead.

Was the murderer really still in the building?

Outside the changing rooms, under a sign with the single word men, there were, appropriately enough, three men talking to constable Holmberg. Only one of the three was fully dressed. The other two both lacked some item of clothing: one had no pants, the other had no shirt.

"I'm glad you got down here so fast," Holmberg said.

"Is he still here?"

Holmberg pointed at the changing room door.

"In there."

Staffan gestured at the three men.

"Are they?…"

Before Holmberg had time to say anything, the man without pants on took a half step forward and said-not without some pride-"We're witnesses."

Staffan nodded and looked inquiringly at Holmberg.

"Shouldn't they?…"

"Yes, but I thought I'd wait until you got down here. Apparently he's not violent." Holmberg turned kindly to the men and said, "We'll be in touch. The best thing you can do now is go home. Oh, and one more thing. I understand this may not be easy but try not to discuss this among yourselves."

The man without pants on half-smiled, nodding in agreement.

"Someone could overhear us, you mean."

"No, but you could start to imagine that you have seen something that you didn't really see, only because someone else did."

"Not me. I saw what I saw and it was the most hellish…"

"Believe me. It happens to the best of us. And now you'll have to excuse us. Thank you for you help."

The men walked off down the corridor, mumbling. Holmberg was good at this kind of thing. Talking to people. That was what he did most. Went around in schools and talked drugs and police work. Wasn't pulled into this kind of thing very often nowadays.

A metallic noise, as if a sheet of metal had fallen to the ground, came from inside the changing room. Staffan flinched and listened intently.

"Not violent, you said?"

"Badly injured, apparently. Poured some kind of acid onto his face."

"Why did he do that?"

Holmberg's face became blank; he turned to the door.

"I guess we'll have to go in and ask."

"Armed?"

"Probably not."

Holmberg pointed to a large kitchen knife with a wooden handle on a nearby window ledge.

"I didn't have a bag on me. And anyway the guy without pants had managed to stand there handling it for a while before I came. We'll have to deal with it later."

"Are we just going to let it stay there?"

"Got a better idea?"

Staffan shook his head and in the ensuing silence he perceived two different things. A soft, irregular blowing sound coming from inside the changing room. Wind whistling through a chimney. A cracked flue. That, and a smell. Something that he had at first assumed to be a part of the ubiquitous chlorine scent that permeated the whole building. But this was different. A sharp, stinging smell in his nostrils. Staffan wrinkled his nose.