“But there’s nothing more to say, Killian.”
Killian glanced down and adjusted his grip on the knife, looking at it as if it had only just appeared, placed in his hand by someone else.
“Go ahead, then, talk to the police,” he said. “Go for it.”
Sander’s mind ground to a halt.
There was violence here now.
103
It was pouring rain. From inside the car, Vidar and Siri watched the endless sweep of the windshield wipers. Constant little rivulets coursed down the edges.
Someone was walking through the downpour. Felicia. She looked around anxiously, under an umbrella, apparently trying to spot something. She went out to the road and scanned the area.
They had parked the car well into the grove; the old, gnarled trees shielded them from view, and the dim evening light and rain provided even more protection. Vidar put his hand on the door and prepared himself.
Just as Felicia seemed about to turn back toward the house, she saw them and froze. As Vidar climbed out, she backed away.
“Felicia,” he said in a low voice.
She hesitated. Vidar feared she would run, but when he opened the back door she quietly approached and got in, folding her umbrella and sitting down without a word. Vidar went back to the driver’s seat and twisted around to look at her.
Rain dripped from her umbrella, forming little puddles on the seat.
“Felicia,” Vidar said calmly. “We’re going to help them, both of them. That’s why we’re here. But is there anyone else in the house, besides those two?”
She shook her head.
“Good. Are there any weapons in the house?”
She said something; Vidar leaned closer.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “One more time. The rain—I couldn’t hear.”
“He has a knife,” she said.
“Very good. Thank you, Felicia. Stay here.”
Vidar opened the door and stepped into the rain again. Siri placed a hand on Felicia’s forearm. Her skin was bluish-gray; the evening had sucked all the color from the world.
—
He saw them through the kitchen window. They had turned on a light, and it lit up the room. There he was, Killian Persson—older now, of course, but just as big and blond, and there was Sander, who looked smaller next to his childhood friend. A strange shimmer hovered around them like a cold fog, everything easily distorted by waves and white veils. Maybe it was just the rain, but whatever it was Vidar was looking at, it seemed to be transpiring somewhere entirely different, in another time. If he squinted, it was like the image straightened out, the veils of fog and the water vanished, and Sander and Killian looked younger, maybe like they had in the past.
They were talking; their lips were moving. Then something happened. Sander shook his head. Killian stepped toward him in a threatening way. Sander didn’t move. Instead, he looked directly out the window at Vidar.
Killian realized something was wrong and turned his head, his focus on Sander fizzling for a split second.
Vidar’s and Killian’s eyes locked. Killian seemed surprised, perplexed. Then Vidar saw the knife in Killian’s hand.
Killian didn’t waste any time. He tried to get past Sander, who snatched at him and caught hold of his shirt.
Vidar ran toward the house, but, slipping in the fresh mud, he wouldn’t makeit.
Through the pounding rain he heard Killian’s voice: “Fuck! Letgo of me. Just let me go!” Then, again, in a cry so loud his voice cracked: “I gotta go! Let go of me!”
He tried to tear loose but Sander held on, and maybe it was this unnaturally firm grip that prompted Killian to raise the knife.
