James Patterson - Postcard killers

She waved her American Express card.

"We'l rent one, you idiot."

Thursday, June 24

Norrland, Sweden

It was past one o'clock in the morning when Dessie sailed past the town of Utansjo. She had driven almost five hundred kilometers and needed to get petrol, drink coffee, and go to the bathroom. Not in that order actual y.

She glanced at Jacob in the reclined seat next to her as he slept the comatose sleep of the jet-lagged. The diesel would last until they got to the twenty-four-hour truck stop in Docksta, but she had a much better idea.

It would mean a slight detour, but it might be worth the trouble.

She reached the turning to Lunde, hesitated just for a second, and then headed left along Route 90.

The car's rhythm changed and the very poor road surface made Jacob stir.

"What the hel…?" he said, confused, as he sat up straight. "Are we there?"

He looked around, astonished, at the early dawn light. Mist was lying in thin veils on the water, black fir trees reached up to the heavens, several deer fled across the fields.

"We're exactly halfway to Haparanda," Dessie said. "Those are reindeer, by the way."

He looked at his watch.

"This whole midnight sun thing is pretty fucked up," he said, shaking his watch. "And the reindeer, too. Where's Santa?"

Dessie slowed the car and pointed ahead.

"See that?" she said. "Wasterlunds Bakery. I lost my virginity in the parking lot around the back."

This nugget of information woke him up properly.

"So these are your old stomping grounds? Interesting. You're real y a 170 hick."

"Until I was seventeen. I spent a year at Adal high school in Kramfors, then went to New Zealand as an exchange student. I ended up staying there nine years."

Jacob looked at her.

"Your weird English accent," he said. "I've been trying to place it. Why New Zealand?"

She glanced over at him.

"It was as far away as I could get… from being a hick. See that? There's the memorial to the workers who were shot by the military in nineteen thirtyone. Remember our talk, fascist?"

She pointed to a sculpture of a horse and a running man that was just visible down by the water.

They drove up onto Sando Bridge, and Jacob peered down at the river below.

"When it was built, this was the longest single-span concrete bridge in the world. I had to cross it every day to get to school."

"Lucky you," Jacob said.

"It scared me every single time, every day, twice a day. The bridge col apsed once, kil ing eighteen people. The most forgotten tragedy of the last century, because it happened on the afternoon of August thirty-first, nineteen thirty-nine."

"The day before the Second World War broke out," Jacob said. "I have a good memory for history, too. Where are we actual y going?"

"Past Klockestrand," she said. "It's not far now."

She slowed down and turned off to the right, onto a narrow dirt road.

"I thought we might need some expert help," she said, driving up to a huge wooden building in a state of more or less complete ruin.

"What the hel is this place? The House on Haunted Hil?"

"Welcome to my childhood home," Dessie said, switching the engine off.

There was a faint light coming from a window on the ground floor, the sort of blue light that an old television set gives off.

Dessie wondered how many of her family were there. The house was a base for her uncles, the few who were stil alive, and for a number of her cousins.

"Wil anyone be awake at this time of day?" Jacob asked.

"Granddad," Dessie said. "He usual y sleeps during the day. At night he watches old black-and-white films that he downloads il egal y from the Net. 171 Are you coming in with me?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Jacob said, climbing out of the car.

The held each other's hand as they walked up to the huge building.

The structure was an old-style farmhouse, with four chimneys, two floors, and a loft tal enough to stand up in. The red iron-oxide paint had peeled off decades ago and the wooden wal s shone a grayish white in the early light.

Dessie opened the outside door without knocking and kicked off her shoes.

Apart from the sound from the television, the house was quiet. If anyone was here besides Granddad, they were sound asleep.

Her grandfather was sitting in his usual armchair, watching a film with Ingrid Bergman in it.

"Granddad?"

The old man turned around and took a quick look at her.

Then he went right back to the television screen.

"Drag ata dorn for moija," he said.

Dessie shut the outside door.

"This is Jacob, Granddad," she said, walking toward him, stil holding Jacob by the hand.

Her grandfather hadn't aged much, she thought. Maybe it was because his hair had been white for as long as she could remember, and his face had always had the same miserable scowl. He didn't seem the least bit surprised to see her in his living room for the first time since her mother's funeral. Instead, he just glowered suspiciously at Jacob.

"Vo jar hajna for ein?"

"Jacob mostly does rough work," Dessie said, taking the remote and turning off the television.

Then she sat down on the table directly in front of the old man.

"Granddad, I want to ask you something. If I'm on the run from the police and haven't got any money and want to hide out in Finland, what should I do?"

The old man's eyes twinkled. He cast a quick, approving look at Jacob, straightened up in his armchair, and regarded Dessie with new interest.

"Vo hava ja djart?"

"What language is that?" Jacob asked, bewildered. "It doesn't sound like any Swedish I've heard."

"Pitemal," Dessie said. "It's an almost extinct dialect from where he grew up. It's further from Swedish than either Danish or Norwegian. This farm belonged to my maternal grandmother's family. No one around here real y understands him."

She turned to her grandfather again.

"No," she said, "we haven't done anything bad. Not yet, anyway. I'm just 172 wondering, purely hypothetical y."

"Sko ja hava nalta a ita?"

"Yes, please," Dessie said. "Coffee would be good, and a sandwich, if you've got any cheese."

The old man stood up and staggered off toward the kitchen. Dessie took the opportunity to go out into the gloom of the hal and crawl in under the stairs, where the only toilet in the house was situated.

When she got back, the old man had prepared some bread and cheese and had boiled water for instant coffee. He was sitting with his hands clasped on the wax tablecloth, his eyes squinting as he mul ed over Dessie's question.

"A djoom sa i Finland," he said. "Ha ga et…"

Dessie nodded and took a bite of the sweet bread and Port Salut.

Then she interpreted simultaneously for Jacob so he could fol ow.

Hiding in Finland wouldn't work. The Finnish police were far more effective, and brutal, than the Swedes. Any Finns on the run came over to Sweden as quickly as they could.

But if you absolutely had to get to Finland, that was no problem, as long as you had a freshly stolen car, of course.

Anyone could cross the Torne River wherever they liked. There were bridges in Haparanda, Overtornea, Pel o, Kolari, Muonio, and Karesuando.

Each had its advantages and disadvantages. Haparanda was the biggest and slowest, but the guards there were the laziest, so you might not get questioned.

Kolari was the least used and fastest, but you were more likely to be noticed there. You had to choose your route in Morjarv – north toward Overkalix or south to Haparanda. Then you just had to aim straight for Russia as quickly as you could.

"Russia?" Jacob said. "How far away is that?"