Let The Right One In Part 15

"Nope. So we got this thing all sewn up. Maybe we'll even regain control of the Baltic territories." Lacke wiped his mouth with exaggerated care on his napkin and said, "Anyway, it's all pretty strange."

Morgan lit up a John Silver. "What is?"

"This thing with Jocke. He would always tell us when he was going somewhere. You know. Even if he was just going to go see his brother on Vaddo Island it was like a big event. Started talking about it a week before-what he was planning to bring, what they were going to do." Larry put a hand on Lacke's shoulder.

"You're talking about him in the past tense."

"What? Oh, yeah. Anyway, I really think something's happened to him. I really think so."

Morgan downed a big mouthful of beer, burped.

"You think he's dead."

Lacke shrugged, looked beseechingly at Larry, who was studying the pattern printed on the paper napkins. Morgan shook his head.

"No way. We would have heard something. The cops said they would call you if they heard anything. Not that I trust cops but. .. you'd think we'd hear something."

"He should have called by now."

"Good grief, are you two married or something? Don't worry. He'll turn up soon. With roses and chocolates and promises neeeeeever to do anything like this again."

Lacke nodded despondently, sipping the beer Larry had bought him with the a.s.surance that Lacke would return the favor when things looked up. Two more days, maximum. Then he would start looking himself. Call all the hospitals and morgues and whatever else you did. You didn't let own your best friend. If he was sick or dead or whatever. You didn't let him down.

It was half past seven and Hakan was starting to worry. He had wandered aimlessly around the Nya Elementar's Gymnasium and the Vallingby mall where the young people hung out. Various sport training sessions were underway, and the pool was open late, so there was no lack of potential victims. The problem was that most of them moved in groups. He had overheard a comment from one of three girls that her mother was "still completely psycho over this thing with the murderer." He could of course have chosen to go further afield, to an area where his earlier act had less impact, but then he ran the risk of the blood going bad on the way home. And if he was going to go to the trouble of doing this again he wanted to give his beloved the best. The fresher it was, the closer to home, the better. That's what he had been told.

Last night the weather had turned and it had become very cold, the temperature falling below freezing. That meant the ski mask he was wearing, with holes for the eyes and mouth, did not attract undue attention.

But he couldn't sneak around here forever. Eventually someone would get suspicious.

What if he didn't manage to find anyone? If he came home without anything? His beloved wouldn't die, he was sure of that. A difference from the first time. But now there was another aspect, a wonderful one. A whole night. A whole night with the beloved body next to his. The tender, soft limbs, the smooth stomach to caress with his hand. A lighted candle in the bedroom whose light would flicker over silken skin, his for a night. He rubbed his hand over his member that throbbed and cried out with longing.

Have to stay calm, have to . . .

He knew what he would do. It was insane but he would do it. Go into the Vallingby Pool and find his victim there. It was probably fairly deserted at this time and now that he had decided he knew exactly what to do. Dangerous, of course. But possible.

If things went wrong he had his last resort. But nothing would go wrong. He saw the whole thing in detail now that he was walking briskly toward the entrance. He felt intoxicated. The cloth of the ski mask in front of his nose became wet with condensation as he panted.

This would be something to tell his beloved about tonight, something to tell while he caressed the firm, curved b.u.t.tocks with his trembling hand, imprinting everything in his memory for all eternity.

He walked in the main entrance and felt the familiar mild chlorine smell. All the hours he had spent at the pool. With the others, or alone. The young bodies that glistened with sweat or water, at an arm's length, but unreachable. Only images that he could preserve and call forth when he lay in his bed with toilet paper in one hand. The smell of chlorine was comforting, home-like. He walked up to the cashier.

"One, please."

The woman at the cash register looked up from her magazine. Her eyes widened a little. He gestured to his head, to the mask.

"It's cold."

She nodded, uncertainly. Should he remove the mask? No. He didn't know how to do so without raising suspicion.

"Do you want a locker?"

"A private changing cabin, please."

She stretched out the key to him and he paid. He removed the mask as he moved away from her. Now she had seen him take it off, but without seeing his face. It was brilliant. He walked over to the changing area at a rapid clip, looking down at the floor in case he encountered anyone.

Welcome to my humble abode. Come in."

Tommy walked past Staffan into the hallway; behind him he heard a clicking sound when his mom and Staffan kissed. Staffan said in a low voice "Have you? . . ."

"No, I thought..."

"Mmm, we'll have to . .."

The clicking sound again. Tommy looked around the apartment. He had never been in a cop's home before and was, a little against his will, curious. What were they like?

But even out in the hall he realized Staffan could hardly be a satisfactory representative of the whole police corps. He had imagined something ... yes, something like in detective novels. A little run-down and barren. A place where you came to sleep when you weren't out chasing bad guys. Guys like me. Guys like me.

Nope. Staffan's apartment was ... frilly. The hall entrance looked like it had been decorated by someone who bought everything everything from those little catalogues that came in the mail. from those little catalogues that came in the mail.

Here a velvet painting of a sunset, there a little alpine cottage with an old woman on a stick leaning out of the door. Here a lace doily on the telephone table, next to the telephone a ceramic figurine with a dog and a child. On the base a pithy inscription: DON'T YOU KNOW HOW TO TALK?.

Staffan lifted the figurine.

"Nifty little thing, isn't it? It changes color depending on the weather." Tommy nodded. Either Staffan had borrowed the apartment from his old mother, for the purposes of this visit, or else he was genuinely sick in the head. Staffan put the figurine back with care.

"I collect these kind of things, you see. Objects that tell you about the weather. This one, for example."

He poked the old woman peeking out of the alpine cottage. She swung back into the cottage and an old man came out instead.

"When the old lady looks out that means bad weather, and when the old man looks out-"

"It'll be even worse."

Staffan laughed, sounding slightly forced.

"It doesn't work so well."

Tommy looked back at his mom and was almost scared by what he saw. She stood there with her coat still on, her hands gripped tightly together, and a smile on her face that could have sent a horse bolting. Panicstricken. Tommy decided to make an effort.

"Kind of like a barometer, you mean."

"Yes, exactly. That was what I started with, actually. Barometers. Collecting, I mean." Tommy pointed to a little wooden cross with a silver Jesus hanging on the wall.

"Is that also a barometer?"

Staffan looked at Tommy, at the cross, then back at Tommy. Was suddenly serious.

"No, it's not. It's Christ."

"The one in the Bible."

"Yes, that's right."

Tommy pushed his hands into his pockets and walked into the living room. Yes, the barometers were in here. About twenty, in various shapes and sizes, hanging on the wall that ran the long length of the room, behind a gray leather couch with a gla.s.s coffee table in front of it. They were not particularly consistent in their readings. Many of the hands were pointing to different numbers; it looked like a wall of clocks where each showed the time in a different part of the world. He knocked on the gla.s.s of one of the instruments and the needle jumped a little. He didn't know what it meant, but for some reason people always tapped barometers.

In a corner cabinet with gla.s.s doors there were a whole lot of small trophies. Four larger trophies were arranged along the top of a piano next to the cabinet. On the wall over the piano there was a large painting of the Virgin Mary with the baby Jesus in her arms. She nursed him with a vacant expression in her eyes that seemed to say, "What have I done to deserve this?"

Staffan cleared his throat when he came into the room.

"Well, Tommy. Is there anything you'd like to ask me about?" Tommy understood full well what he was expected to ask.

"What trophies are these?"

Staffan gestured with an arm toward the goblets on top of the piano.

"These, you mean?"

No, you dumb b.a.s.t.a.r.d. The trophies down at the clubhouse by the soccer field, of course. field, of course.

"Yes."

Staffan pointed to a silver-colored statue, some twenty centimeters tall, on a stone base, positioned between two trophies on the piano. Tommy had thought it was just a sculpture, but no, it was actually a prize. The human figure was standing wide-legged, arms straight, taking aim with a revolver.

"Pistol shooting. This is for first prize in the district championships, that one third prize at the national level in forty-five caliber, standing ... and so on."

Tommy's mom came in and joined them.

"Staffan is one of Sweden's top five pistol shooters."

"Does it come in handy?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know, for when you shoot people."

Staffan ran his finger along the base of one of the trophies and then looked at it.

"The whole point of police work is to avoid shooting at people."

"Have you ever had to?"

"No."

"But you'd like to, wouldn't you?"

Staffan pointedly drew a deep breath, exhaled in a long sigh.

"I'm going to go ... check on the food."

The gasoline... see if it's on fire.

He walked out to the kitchen. Tommy's mom grabbed him by the elbow and whispered, "Why do you say things like that?"

"I was just wondering."

"He's a good person, Tommy."

"Yes, he must be. I mean, with prizes for pistol shooting and the Virgin Mary. Could it get any better?"

Hakan didn't b.u.mp into a single person on his way through the building. As he had thought, there were not very many people still here at this time. Two men his own age were putting their clothes on in the changing room. Overweight, shapeless bodies. Shriveled genitals under hanging bellies. The embodiment of ugliness.

He found his private changing cabin and locked the door behind him. Good. The initial preparations were completed. He put his ski mask back on, just in case, took off the halothane canister, hung his coat up on a hook. Opened his bag and took out his tools: knife, rope, funnel, container. He had forgotten to bring the raincoat. d.a.m.n. He would have to remove his clothes instead. The risk of getting splashed with blood was great but then he could conceal the stains under under his clothes when he was done. Yes. And this was a pool, after all. Nothing strange about not having any clothes on in here. his clothes when he was done. Yes. And this was a pool, after all. Nothing strange about not having any clothes on in here.

He tested the strength of the other hook by grabbing it with both hands and lifting both feet from the floor. It held. It would easily hold a body most likely thirty kilos lighter than his own. Height might be a problem. The head was not likely to hang freely over the floor. He might have to fix the ropes by the knees. There was enough wall s.p.a.ce between the hook and the top of the cabin wall to make sure the feet wouldn't stick up over it. That That would attract suspicion. would attract suspicion.

The two men seemed about to leave. He heard their voices.

"And work?"

"The usual. No openings for someone from Malmberget."

"Did you hear this one: The question is not was it the Finns' oil but whether the oil was Finn's?"

"Yeah, that's a good one."

"Finn's a slippery guy."

Hakan giggled; something in his head was accelerating. He was too excited, was breathing too rapidly. His body consisted of b.u.t.terflies that wanted to fly off in different directions at once.

Easy, easy.

He took deep breaths until he started to feel dizzy and then he undressed. Folded his clothes and put them into his bag. The two men left the changing area. Silence fell. He climbed onto the bench in order to peek over the top. Yes, his eyes just managed to clear the edge. Three boys around thirteen, fourteen years old came in. One used his towel to snap the rear end of the other one.

"Stop that, d.a.m.n it!"

Hakan bent his head. Further down he felt his erection push into the corner of the booth as if between two hard, wide-opened b.u.t.tocks. Easy does it. Easy does it.

He peeked over the edge again. Two of the boys had taken off their Speedos and were bending forward into their lockers to take out their clothes. His groin area contracted in a single cramplike movement and the sperm shot out into the corner, spilling onto the bench he was standing on. Calm down now. Calm down now.

Yes, he felt better. But the sperm was bad. A trace.

He took his socks out of his bag, wiped the corner and the bench clean, as best he could. Put the socks back in the bag, and adjusted the ski mask while he listened to the boys' conversation.