Hultin paused, then continued in a more intense tone. “The Cold War is over. What has replaced it almost feels worse, because we don’t understand what it is. The world is shrinking, and above all, we seem to be shrinking. We did fantastic police work-I suppose that can be of comfort among all the grief, but it’s not enough. We made political and psychological misjudgments that show that we’re not really up to par with the rest of the world. Violent crime of an international character is slipping through our fingers. This blind violence is a mirror of the goal-oriented crime. Lamar Jennings was a funhouse-mirror version of his father. ‘Bad blood always comes back around,’ as they say.”
Paul Hjelm laughed, filled with scorn for himself. He hadn’t even got the saying right. Wayne Jennings had corrected him. “It’s ‘what goes around comes around,’ ” he said, drying his tears.
They only seemed like tears of laughter.
The others looked at him for a moment. They understood how he felt, and at the same time they understood how impossible it was to ever understand even the tiniest thing about another person.
“Do any of you have anything to add?” said Hultin.
“Well, at least the United States has one less serial killer,” Kerstin Holm said, smiling bitterly. “He was serial-killed by another serial killer. Once again Wayne Jennings shows us he’s the good guy.”
“It’s the result that counts,” said Hjelm. None of his words were his own any longer. Nothing was his own. Everything had been occupied. He was a little model train going around in a circle.
“Well then.” Jan-Olov Hultin rose to his feet. “I have to go take a piss. We can only hope that God stops all of this soon.”
They didn’t really want to disperse. It was as though they needed to be close to one another. But at last they were dismissed out into the world, as alone as they had come into it and as alone as they would leave it.
Hjelm and Holm were last to go. Paul stopped Kerstin just inside the door.
“I have something of yours.” He dug in his wallet, found the photo of the old pastor, and handed it to her. When she looked at him, he couldn’t tell what she was thinking-sorrow, pain, and a strength that pushed through the darkness.
“Thanks,” she said.
“Wipe it off,” he said. “He has Wayne Jennings’s fingerprints on his nose.”
“Yalm & Halm.” She smiled. “In another world we could have been a real comedy duo.”
He bent forward and kissed her on the forehead.
“We are in this one,” he said.
31
Gunnar Nyberg came out of “Supreme Central Command” steaming with rage-he didn’t know how he was supposed to get rid of it. Three times a filicidal murderer had inflicted bodily injury on him. Now here was another father who had murdered his son. Lasse Lundberg was now in the cell from which Jennings had escaped. Nyberg went down there. His first impulse was to let Benny’s dad have everything he had failed to give Lamar’s. He shook off the guards’ protests and entered the corridor with the cells. He arrived at Lundberg’s and peered in through the small window. Lasse Lundberg was hunched over with his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands, shaking uncontrollably. Nyberg watched him for a moment, then did an about-face, reminded of a certain other father’s sins.
He set out for Östhammar, two hours north of Stockholm, in his Renault. He had a lot of time to think as he drove, but his thoughts were wrapped in the after-effects of a double concussion. This case was supposed to have been calm and easy as he awaited retirement. No personal engagement, no risk taking, no excessive overtime. Cutting back, some time for peaceful vegetating. And what the hell had happened instead?
The road he took, Norrtäljevägen, was flooded. The roadbed seemed more liquid than solid. Even when he was driving uphill, he met masses of water; driving downhill, he sloshed through water. It felt ridiculous.
He passed Norrtälje. He passed the exit for Hallstavik and Grisslehamn, and then he was in Östhammar, a small, peaceful, depopulated village. The Stockholmers who vacationed there were back in the city now, so Östhammar was once again identifiable as the little farming village it was.
With the help of the extremely detailed police map, he drove far out into the countryside. The rain fell incessantly. The roads were nearly impassable-his tires dug into the mud. At one point the Renault’s left rear wheel got stuck in a veritable crater. He got out, enraged, and lifted up the fucking car.
Sometime later the farm appeared over the crown of a hill. Small as the incline was, it seemed hard to conquer. He stepped on the gas and pushed ahead. He barely made it but finally turned the car onto the grounds.
Next to the barn he saw a tractor-its enormous back tire was half sunk in the mud. A large man with a gold-and-green cap, muddy overalls, and green size-eighteen boots was crouching next to it. His back was to Nyberg, who stepped out of the car and trudged over to him in the pelting rain. The man pounded the tractor with his large fist, whereupon it sank further into the mud. Fuming, the man yelled, “Fucking tractor!”
And then he lifted the tractor out of the mud.
At that moment, Gunnar Nyberg realized he was in the right place. He took a few steps closer.
The large farmer heard him sloshing and turned to see a gigantic mummy approaching him through the deluge. The sight would have terrified anyone. But not this farmer. He stepped toward the apparition.
Soon Nyberg could discern his face. He was about twenty-five. And he looked just like he himself had, at that age. This man wasn’t Mr. Sweden-he was a hick. But he appeared to feel much better than Mr. Sweden had.
The man stopped a few yards from Gunnar. Was it himself or his father that Tommy Nyberg recognized? “Dad?” he thundered.
Gunnar Nyberg felt a warm wave stream through him.
Tommy Nyberg stepped up to him and scrutinized him. Then he took off his work gloves and extended his hand. “Holy shit! Dad! And you’re still a cop?”
Nyberg adjusted his nose cone with his healthy left hand, then extended it and managed a rather awkward handshake. He was incapable of speech.
“What are you doing here? Come on in, dammit! It’s a little wet.”
They plodded over the waterlogged ground, past the tractor, past the barn, and past a tire swing in a water-filled hollow in the yard; it was floating with its chain hanging slack.
“Oh yes,” said Tommy. “You’ll get to meet him soon.”
They reached the run-down house. It was neither big nor impressive. Boards stuck out in some places, the result of makeshift repairs; the old red paint was flaking. Here and there patches of mold spotted the surface. Patina, thought Gunnar Nyberg; the house fit him perfectly.
They stepped up onto the porch. The stairs creaked alarmingly, first under Tommy, then under Gunnar. They went in, straight into the dining room. A small, thin, blond woman in her early twenties was seated at the large table, feeding a fat, blond baby in a high chair.
She tossed an unruly lock of hair over her head and stared at the giant duo in surprise. The boy started bawling at the sight of his seriously bandaged grandfather.
“Tina and Benny,” Tommy Nyberg said as he pulled off his size eighteens. “This is my dad. He popped up out of the storm.”
“His name is Benny?” said Gunnar Nyberg from the entryway.