The Swimmer (34 page)

He sat down on a wooden chair and motioned for Klara to have a seat on the couch. She sat down gently, never taking her eyes off the man by the door.

‘He’s American, I think. And he showed up on Aspöja about an hour ago.’

Klara felt the panic knot up in her chest. She propped the gun up in her lap, grasping it with both hands.

‘Oh my God!’ she said. ‘You couldn’t have known, but…’

Grandpa put an icy hand on her knee and shook his head.

‘He knew your mother, Klara. He’s proved it in more ways than one. I would’ve died rather than bring him to you, if I suspected he was hiding anything.’

‘But how did you even know where I was?’

Grandpa looked at her and winked.

‘I have my ways, you know,’ he said.

‘You can never trust Bosse,’ Klara said.

Grandpa turned to the side and smiled at Gabriella.

‘Hello there, Gabriella,’ he said. ‘It’s been a while.’

Klara didn’t even hear them. Her eyes were fastened on the man standing beside the door. With a thick glove he brushed the wet snow from his hood and pulled it from his head.

He looked like he was in his sixties, with the efficient build of a marathon runner. His hair was cut short but was dark and as thick as horsehair. Grizzled stubble covered his furrowed cheeks and chin. Brown eyes and olive skin. Maybe he had Mediterranean or Arab ancestry. Klara met his gaze, but he turned away. He didn’t frighten her; instead, he gave off an impression of deep sadness. As if he’d spent far too long far too alone with a great sorrow.

Sankt Anna’s Outer Archipelago, Sweden

I stand in the wet snow, allowing the storm, the falling snow, to swirl around my Gore-Tex-covered body; allowing myself to bend with each gust of wind. I close my eyes while the old man pounds on the door, shouting against the wind in his singing dialect. The storm drowns him out, tearing his words in every direction, breaking them into atoms, into chunks of vowels, consonants, which swirl randomly out into the snow, into the sea.

When the door opens, it’s as if I go blind, as if my eyes momentarily refuse to accept the signals my mind is sending them. Perhaps it’s a defense mechanism? The last one remaining, the definitive, the least refined. Mechanics instead of psychology. A blunt weapon to protect myself against finally facing the product of my betrayal. But in the end, of course, there’s nowhere to hide and my eyes adjust to the light.

Through a screen of snow, I see her in the glowing rectangle of the door. She stands on the threshold, thin and haggard, struggling to keep the wind from grabbing hold of the door. A shotgun that looks huge in relation to her thin body lies across her arm, and there’s something about how she’s holding it, or almost doesn’t seem to be holding it, that gives the impression of a casual, natural competence.

I squint and see her eyes. They glisten like water in the darkness. They are your eyes. I have no defense against the realization that in her heart beats my heart. In her blood flows my blood. The idea is too enormous. The storm has moved into my head and is gaining in strength. Everything I’ve thought. Everything I haven’t articulated even to myself, but that has been growing inside me all of my adult life. All of it is just wreckage now. A casualty of this storm. I left her all alone. Have mercy on me.

I see the old man take her gently by the arm and lead her into the little cabin. She sits on the couch in front of the stove. He takes off his snowy sou’wester. His boots leave wet tracks on the untreated wood floor. I move cautiously into the room. Lower my hood, set my bag down on the floor in front of the door. Wet snow drips silently.

Another young woman is standing by the stove. Her eyes move back and forth between Klara and me, and she runs her hands through her big red hair repeatedly. She’s doing what she can to keep the shock in check. Probably she thought we’d come to murder them.

The old man is speaking quietly in his bizarre language. I don’t know what he’s saying, how much he knows or suspects. All I’ve spoken to him are the few words I learned in his language, before seeking out him and his wife.

I knew your daughter. Klara is in grave danger. I’m here to help.
And then I gave the locket to his wife. The picture of her daughter. Her eyes when they met mine: pale blue, like a winter sky. The same eyes that I will never forget. Why did they decide to trust me? It was as if they instinctively knew who I was. As if they’d been waiting for me.

The old man has stopped speaking and the young woman, who is my daughter, if I can even allow myself to think that word, turns to me at last. I hear the waves crashing over granite; the wind never wanes. The eye of the storm. I never thought I would make it here. I’ve reached the outermost edge of my plan. What remains is chaos, chance, truth. Her voice is deeper than I’d expected. Her English is British and natural.

‘So,’ she says. ‘My grandfather says you knew my mother? You’ve certainly chosen an odd time for a visit.’

Arkösund, Sweden

George stumbled down the stairs, almost dropping the heavy gun, and grabbed the railing to regain his balance. Nausea, shock, blood. The image of Kirsten’s battered face, and the knowledge that he was the one who’d beaten her. He just barely made it to the bathroom in time to vomit.

Two steady, unstoppable convulsions. Eyes tearing up from the stench of vomit, urine, and blood. His head was pounding, his face pounding, his whole body was pounding and bleeding.

When it seemed he had nothing left inside, he sank down next to the toilet with his back against a tastefully renovated, natural stonewall. Above him he heard a shuffling noise. The handle of the bedroom door was being turned. He held his breath. He knew he’d locked the door and taken all the radio transmitters for fear that Kirsten might contact her cronies. After a minute, it was silent again. Had he killed her? Surely he hadn’t killed her? She’d spoken to him and had apparently been moving around up there. But the silence was terrifying. Maybe she was bleeding to death?

He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting still when he finally noticed his teeth were chattering from the cold. He forced himself to his feet and pulled his shirt over his head. It was heavy with blood. He peeled off the urine-drenched pants and underwear. Naked now and still shivering, he stood up and looked at himself in the mirror. My God. He stepped into the large shower and turned up the heat. As the water washed over him, it mixed with his tears.

He forced himself to get out after only a few minutes. There was no time to lose. At least his legs were steadier now. He found the roll of first aid tape in his pocket. Retaped his eyebrow. Put tape over the torn earlobe. In the mirror, he looked like a halfhearted fucking mummy.

Still naked and shivering with cold, he went into one of the white, tasteful bedrooms where Reiper’s men slept and indiscriminately tore through drawers and shelves until he found someone’s clothes. More jeans. More T-shirts and sweatshirts. The wrong size, but clean and warm. He dressed himself in double layers. Still, his hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Underneath a pile of underwear, he found an extra magazine that looked like it would fit Kirsten’s gun. He slipped it in his pocket and went down the stairs.

His head was spinning. Run. Run. Run. It was all he could think. Just pull on a jacket, open the door, and run straight out over the snow. Away from here. As far away as he could get from Reiper’s ruthlessness and Kirsten’s disfigured face.

But then what? Where would he go? Where would he hide? And what if Kirsten was right that the Swedish police had sanctioned what Reiper and his gang were doing? He’d hardly be safe at home on Rådmansgatan.

And then there was Klara. He barely knew her. It wasn’t his style to give a damn about other people. Everyone had to take care of themselves. But he was the snitch. He had dragged her into this. Even though he really wanted to, there was something about this that he couldn’t let go. He knew where she was. Maybe he could warn her? What choice did he have?

A thick oilskin coat was hanging on a hook in the hall. He heaved it over his shoulders and put the gun in his pocket. The coat was one size too small. Fuck it, whatever. There were gloves and a hat on the rack. He moved quickly, as if fear or doubt might overwhelm him if he relaxed for even a moment.

The keys were indeed hanging in the cabinet next to the door. He fished out the iPhone and resisted the impulse to call someone, anyone. Most of all his old man. But he couldn’t take the risk of getting caught again. With a few stiff pokes to the screen, he loaded the maps application.

A few seconds later, he’d managed to input the coordinates he’d got from Reiper. Navigating by Google Maps? And in a storm? It was pure insanity. But it was all he had. The map showed a small island in the archipelago. He zoomed in on the satellite image. Something that might be a little cabin stood on the island. Was that where he was going? Was that where Klara was? The phone’s battery was almost completely charged. It should suffice.

When he opened the door, snow whirled into the hall. He pulled down his hat over his forehead and jogged across the lawn down to the dock. His footsteps were nearly covered by snow by the time he jumped into the small boat and turned on the fuel valve. Childhood summers in the archipelago had at least taught him how to drive a boat. Still, it took him three tries to get the engine running.

Sankt Anna’s Outer Archipelago, Sweden

I don’t answer her. I have no answers and no words to express myself. All I know is that the truth has finally caught up with me. That the lies were never complete. Her face is exhausted, beautiful. Yet there’s something implacable in her expression. Something strong and determined that I find confusing. An obstinacy I don’t recognize from myself. It must come from you. I know it’s yours. I avoid her eyes at any cost.

Unable to speak or explain, I make my way over to the window facing back toward the archipelago. I peer into the darkness. We don’t know what our enemies know.

‘Who knows you’re here?’ I say to her without turning around.

My reflection in the glass mingles with hers. Her hair is short, sloppily cut and poorly dyed. An amateurish disguise that doesn’t hide the fact that she has the same raven black hair I once had. That her skin is my skin.

She tilts her head, pushes a lock of hair from her forehead, her eyes roving. It pains me to see her move so nervously. That hunted paranoia and sadness. Is there any human behavior I’m more familiar with?

‘No one,’ she says. ‘No one knows I’m here.’

I turn around. We don’t have time for this.

‘Come on,’ I say. ‘I found you. Your grandfather knew where you were. Try again. Who knows you’re here?’

My words are too harsh. My voice trained for interrogation. Her face tightens, her voice is quiet, but it smolders.

‘Who the hell are you to come here and make demands?’ she says. ‘I don’t even know who you are.’

The words burn, and I almost flinch. She doesn’t even know who I am.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I didn’t mean to be so tactless. But we have very little time. I’ll explain, but right now you’ll have to take my word for it that I’m an expert on these situations. And besides, if I didn’t want to help you, you’d already be dead.’

She exchanges a look with her redheaded friend. Her friend nods gently.

‘Okay,’ she says. ‘The only one who knows that I’m here is my friend who brought us here with his boat and then left. He’ll be back at dawn to check that everything is okay. He was the one who told Grandpa.’

I nod.

‘Who else has he told?’

‘He hasn’t told anyone else. I can guarantee it.’

‘Believe me,’ I say. ‘Right now you can’t trust anyone.’

‘I trust him,’ she says. ‘As much as I trust myself.’

‘Still, he told your grandfather?’ I say.

She doesn’t answer. Her friend clears her throat. Her eyes bounce around the room; she is fiddling with her hands.

‘And you?’ I say. ‘Who have you told?’

I know all the signs. All the leaks, all the gaps. All the ways our bodies betray us.

‘I mentioned it to my boss,’ she begins. ‘But he’s a lawyer, and Klara is our client. There is no way he would tell anyone. He’d be thrown out of the bar association, if he were to disclose it to anybody.’

‘You’re Gabriella Seichelman, right? You work for Lindblad and Wiman in Stockholm?’

‘How do you know who I am?’ she says.

I don’t respond. It doesn’t matter. We don’t have time.

‘They know you’re here.’

I turn to Klara.

‘The people who are hunting you know where you are. The reason they haven’t attacked yet is tactical. They’ve waited for darkness. Maybe for the storm to die down. I would guess they’re less accustomed to the sea out here than your grandfather.’

I throw a glance out the dark window. It’s futile. Needless. Just a reflex. Hunters are always invisible.

‘But how is that possible?’ says Klara. Her voice is skeptical, unyielding.

‘I found you,’ I say. ‘The people who are hunting you are like me. Your location has been shared with too many people. I’ve figured out who your friend is.’

I nod to Gabriella.

‘If I know, they know. And, believe me, they have ways of getting information. Even from lawyers. Especially from lawyers.’

I feel the stress growing inside me, and I force myself to take control of it. Pushing it down to the pit of my stomach. Even if they hadn’t told me they’d been talking about their destination far and wide, I still would have known that our enemies are here. A sixth sense. A scent. A vibration in the air that has nothing to do with the storm.

‘Stay away from the windows,’ I say.

I sit back on my heels in front of her. Looking directly at her. Forcing my way through the resistance. Forcing myself to look into her eyes. They’re much more than just blue in the copper-colored glow from the fire. Sincere, defiant. Eyes meant for ideals, not compromises. They’re everything I remember and more.