Ларс Кеплер - The Rabbit Hunter

He did two tours of Iraq, so he knows how state-sanctioned killing feels. He’s aware of the force of will required, and the exhaustion that follows.

He used to think they were all fairly ordinary guys when they were doing their basic training together.

But the killing in southern Nasiriyah made them overconfident.

The targets weren’t people to them, but part of a destructive and dangerous enemy they were risking their lives to fight.

There was a unity, a sense of common purpose.

But killing someone after you’ve come home and are no longer wearing the uniform is different.

It’s lonely, and far more powerful. The decision and responsibility are yours alone.

He looks at the time and pulls out the knife he’s planning to use. It’s an SOCP knife, shaped like a Chinese ring dagger, with the blade and grip fashioned from the same piece of black steel.

It’s a finely honed, well-balanced weapon.

The Rabbit Hunter walks over quickly and blocks Oscar’s free leg with one knee, holds his chest down with one hand, and cuts his shirt open across his torso. He looks at the hairy stomach, which is rising and falling rapidly in time with his breathing, and sticks the knife in ten centimetres below the navel. It slides softly through tissue and membranes as he slices Oscar’s torso open, almost all the way to his breastbone.

Smiling, he looks into Oscar’s bulging eyes as he sticks one hand into the opening in his gut and feels the heat of his body through the plastic of the glove. Oscar’s body is shaking. Blood is streaming down his sides. The Rabbit Hunter grabs his intestines and pulls them out, leaving them hanging between Oscar’s legs. Then suddenly there’s a knock on the door to the suite.

A loud knock.

He stands up, turns up the volume on the television, goes over to the small hallway, closing the bedroom door behind him, and looks through the peephole.

An elderly man dressed in white is waiting outside with a room service cart. Oscar has evidently already ordered food, and now he’s going to have to accept the delivery.

The man knocks again as the Rabbit Hunter pulls his gloves off and closes his bag. He quickly removes his trophies, hangs them on a hanger, looks in the mirror, wipes the blood from his face, turns the light out and opens the door.

‘That was quick,’ he says, blocking the door.

Loud bangs are coming from the bedroom as Oscar tries to attract attention by kicking something.

‘Would you like me to serve in the sitting room, sir?’ the older man asks.

‘Thanks, but I’ll do it myself,’ he replies.

‘I’m happy to do it,’ the man says, glancing into the suite.

‘It’s just that I’m not quite ready to eat,’ he says as the whisky glass crashes on the bedroom floor.

‘Then I’m happy with a signature,’ the man smiles.

The Rabbit Hunter remains in shadow as he takes the receipt and pen. As he signs for the food he realises that the bottom of his right arm is covered in blood, all the way to the elbow.

‘Is everything all right, sir?’ the waiter asks.

He nods, looks the man in the eye and tries to work out if he is going to have to drag him into the bathroom and slit his throat over the Jacuzzi.

‘Why shouldn’t it be?’

‘I didn’t mean to be impertinent, sir,’ the man says apologetically, and turns towards the cart.

The banging from the bedroom starts again as the waiter hands him the tray. The Rabbit Hunter thanks him, backs into the hall and pushes the door shut.

He puts the tray on the floor and looks through the peephole, ready to rush out and grab the waiter. Through the wide-angle lens he sees the old man release the brakes on the small wheels of the trolley, then walk slowly off along the corridor.

He quickly pulls on a fresh pair of gloves, wraps the rabbits’ ears around his head and returns to the bedroom.

It smells like blood, whisky and vomit.

Oscar is about to lose consciousness and is kicking only weakly now, letting his heel fall to the floor. His face is white and sweaty, and his eyes are darting about.

The Rabbit Hunter turns the television off and walks straight over to Oscar, grabs hold of his intestines and pulls them out a whole metre, jerks hard and then lets them fall to the floor.

The pain brings Oscar back to almost full consciousness again. He’s breathing quickly through his nose and trying instinctively to push himself backward.

Oscar is going to die in three minutes, and the noise inside the Rabbit Hunter’s head gets louder as he stares into his terrified eyes. The room is silent, but inside the Rabbit Hunter’s mind it’s like someone is drumming on saucepans and throwing plates into a bath. Oscar raped a young woman, left her unconscious and bleeding on a manure pile, and thought he could get away with it.

The floor lurches beneath the Rabbit Hunter’s feet.

He leans against the wall, trying to focus and breathe calmly, then he sees the bloody handprint on the wall and makes a mental note to wipe it off before he leaves, even though there’s no way it could be traced back to him.

‘I can tell you know why this is happening,’ he says, taking the knife out again. ‘That’s good. That’s the point.’

Oscar whimpers and writhes, fighting to pull free. Blood from his torso is pouring onto the floor and soaking into the carpet, which is now shiny and black.

The loudspeakers announce that the ferry will be departing in thirty minutes. The Rabbit Hunter is confident that he’ll have time to get back to shore before then.

Oscar won’t be found until the next morning, in Helsinki, the Rabbit Hunter thinks to himself, looking at the knife in his hand.

It’s like the black tongue of a demon, pointed and jagged.

Soon he will slide the blade into Oscar’s heart, right through the breastbone.

The whole world clatters and rings like a casino.

Then a wind sweeps through him, leaving silence in its wake.

It’s like when a rabbit is lying on the ground kicking one leg. When the animal finally stops moving, a calm seems to settle on the entire world.

Time comes to a stop.

He has always been on his way towards this point.

Ever since those Sundays after mass, back when he lived with Grandma and Grandpa.

Rex gets off the underground at Mariatorget, and is walking along Sankt Pauls Street when his phone buzzes to let him know he’s received a new voicemail. It’s from Janus Mickelsen, telling him he’s organised a secure safe-house for Rex and Sammy, with reinforced glass, a steel door, alarm and a direct line to the emergency control room.

‘I understand that you can’t speak freely if you feel threatened. I get it, I really do. This is a good solution, short-term. My boss has given the go-ahead and I’d like you to meet me tonight at 19.00 just outside Knivsta, at a safe-house belonging to the Security Police, so we can talk through the situation,’ Janus says, then repeats the full address twice before the message ends.

Rex decides to go and find out more about this threat the Security Police seem to be taking so seriously.

He walks through the glass door of 34 Krukmakar Street, where the Pool Hall has its rundown basement premises, thinking that there appears to be a tug-of-war between the Security Police and the National Operative Unit.

He passes the bar and goes downstairs, making his way between the tables.

The only sound is clicking as balls knock together and roll silently across the felt table.

At the end of the room is one pool table that’s bigger than the others. Beside it stands a tall man with unruly blond hair and eyes as grey as driftwood.

‘The yellow ball is called the Kaisa,’ Joona says.