Stieg Larsson - The Girl who played with Fire

The fucking old man has a gun too.

The realization cracked like a whip through her mind.

She changed direction in the same instant the shot was fired. The bullet struck the outside of her hip and made her spin off balance.

She felt no pain.

The second bullet hit her in the back and stopped against her left shoulder blade. A paralyzing pain sliced through her body.

She went down on her knees. For a few seconds she could not move. She was conscious that Zalachenko was behind her, about twenty feet away. With one last surge of energy she stubbornly hurled herself to her feet and took a wobbly step towards the cover of the bushes.

Zalachenko had time to aim.

The third bullet caught her about an inch below the top of her left ear. It penetrated her skull and caused a spiderweb of radial cracks in her cranium. The lead came to rest in the grey matter about two inches beneath the cerebral cortex, by the cerebrum.

For Salander the medical detail was academic. The bullet caused immediate massive trauma. Her last sensation was a glowing red shock that turned into a white light.

Then darkness.

Click.

Zalachenko tried to fire one more round, but his hands were shaking so hard that he couldn’t aim. She almost got away. And then he realized that she was dead and he lowered his weapon, shivering as the adrenaline flowed through his body. He looked down at his gun. He had considered leaving it behind, but had gone to get it and put it in his jacket pocket as though he needed a mascot. A monster. They were two fully grown men, and one of them was Ronald Niedermann, who had been armed with his Sig Sauer. And that fucking whore almost got away.

He glanced at his daughter’s body. In the beam from his flashlight she looked like a bloody rag doll. He clicked the safety catch on and stuffed the pistol into his jacket pocket and went over to Niedermann, who was standing helpless, tears running from his dirt-filled eyes and blood from his hand and nose. “I think I broke my nose again,” he said.

“Idiot,” Zalachenko said. “She almost got away.”

Niedermann kept rubbing his eyes. They didn’t hurt, but the tears were flowing and he could scarcely see.

“Stand up straight, damn it.” Zalachenko shook his head in contempt. “What the hell would you do without me?”

Niedermann blinked in despair. Zalachenko limped over to his daughter’s body and grabbed her jacket by the collar. He dragged her to the grave that was only a hole in the ground, too small even for Salander to lie stretched out. He lifted the body so that her feet were over the opening and let her tumble in. She landed facedown in a fetal position, her legs bent under her.

“Fill it in so we can go home,” Zalachenko commanded.

It took the half-blind Niedermann a while to shovel the soil in around her. What was left over he spread out around the clearing with powerful jabs of the spade.

Zalachenko smoked a cigarette as he watched Niedermann work. He was still shivering, but the adrenaline had begun to subside. He felt a sudden relief that she was gone. He could still picture her eyes as she threw the firebomb all those many years ago.

It was 9:30 when Zalachenko shone his flashlight around and declared himself satisfied. It took a while longer to find the Sig Sauer in the undergrowth. Then they went back to the house. Zalachenko was feeling wonderfully gratified. He tended to Niedermann’s hand. The spade had cut deep and he had to find a needle and thread to sew up the wound – a skill he had learned in military school in Novosibirsk as a fifteen-year-old. At least he didn’t need to administer an anaesthetic. But it was possible that the wound was sufficiently serious for Niedermann to have to go to the hospital. He put a splint on the finger and bandaged it. They would decide in the morning.

When he was finished he got himself a beer as Niedermann rinsed his eyes over and over in the bathroom.

Blomkvist arrived at Göteborg Central Station just after 9:00 p.m. The X2000 had made up some time, but it was still late. He had spent the last hour of the journey calling car rental companies. He’d first thought of finding a car in Alingsås and getting off there, but the office was closed already. Ultimately he managed to order a Volkswagen through a hotel booking agency in the city. He could pick up the car at Järntorget. He decided not to try to navigate Göteborg’s confusing local traffic and incomprehensible ticket system and took a cab to the lot.

When he got to the car there was no map in the glove compartment. He bought one in a gas station, along with a flashlight, a bottle of mineral water, and a cup of coffee, which he put in the holder on the dashboard. It was 10:30 before he drove out of the city on the road to Alingsås.

A fox stopped and looked about restlessly. He knew that something was buried there. But from somewhere nearby came the rustle of an unwary night animal and the fox was instantly on the alert for easier prey. He took a cautious step. But before he continued his hunt he lifted his hind leg and pissed on the spot to mark his territory.

Bublanski did not normally call his colleagues late in the evening, but this time he couldn’t resist. He picked up the phone and dialled Modig’s number.

“Pardon me for calling so late. Are you up?”

“No problem.”

“I’ve just finished going through Björck’s report.”

“I’m sure you had as much trouble putting it down as I did.”

“Sonja… how do you make sense of what’s going on?”

“It seems to me that Gunnar Björck, a prominent name on the list of johns, if you remember, had Lisbeth Salander put in an asylum after she tried to protect herself and her mother from a lunatic sadist who was working for Säpo. He was abetted in this by Dr. Teleborian, among others, on whose testimony we in part based our own evaluation of her mental state.”

“This changes the entire picture we have of her.”

“It explains a great deal.”

“Sonja, can you pick me up in the morning at 8:00?”

“Of course.”

“We’re going to go down to Smådalarö to have a talk with Gunnar Björck. I made some enquiries. He’s on sick leave.”

“I’m looking forward to it already.”

Beckman looked at his wife as she stood by the window in the living room, staring out at the water. She had her mobile in her hand, and he knew that she was waiting for a call from Blomkvist. She looked so unhappy that he went over and put his arm around her.

“Blomkvist is a grown man,” he said. “But if you’re really so worried you should call that policeman.”

Berger sighed. “I should have done that hours ago. But that’s not why I’m unhappy.”

“Is it something I should know about?”

“I’ve been hiding something from you. And from Mikael. And from everyone else at the magazine.”

“Hiding? Hiding what?”

She turned to her husband and told him that she had been offered the job of editor in chief at Svenska Morgon-Posten. Beckman raised his eyebrows.

“But I don’t understand why you didn’t tell me,” he said. “That’s a huge coup. Congratulations.”

“It’s just that I feel like a traitor.”

“Mikael will understand. Everyone has to move on when it’s time. And right now it’s time for you.”

“I know.”

“Have you already made up your mind?”

“Yes. I’ve made up my mind. But I haven’t had the guts to tell anybody. And it feels as if I’m leaving in the midst of a huge disaster.” Beckman took his wife in his arms.

Armansky rubbed his eyes and looked out into the darkness.