Twenty-seven.

The nor'easter had grown stronger in the night. When Edvard woke at five, he heard it whine above the roof tiles.

He lingered in bed for a couple of minutes and thought about Viola's last words of the preceding evening, when she had predicted a strong wind, even though they hadn't heard anything about it on the late night weather report. It was remarkable how that woman could read the sky and the signs of pending bad weather.

The morning light shone in under the blinds. He tried to see if it was raining. If so, he would ditch the idea of seeing to the nets. He had cast three of them close to the reef in the middle of the bay. The catch would probably be poor due to the weather.

Viola was already up and about. He heard her rattling around in the kitchen. Her weakness after her cold did not prevent her from getting up at dawn and making his breakfast. She did this every day that he went to work. Now he was going out to take up the nets, so it was her duty to make sure he got something in him before he headed out. That was how she felt. "It's my duty," she had told him when he tried to convince her to take it easy in the mornings. However many times he told her that he was used to fixing his own breakfast, the old woman always got up to do it herself.

This morning she tried to convince him not to set out. Viola was a tough old woman, but if there was anything she feared, it was the powers of nature.

"Forget about those nets" was the first thing she said to him when he came down the stairs.

Only rarely was she so direct. He sat down. The coffee thermos was already on the table and Viola was making three sandwiches. Always three, two with cheese and one with roe spread.

"It's not so bad," Edvard said.

"It's near gale at least," she said, turning to him and fixing him with her eye.

She had used a sash that didn't match-Edvard thought it was a curtain sash-to fasten her fringed robe, revealing a glimpse of her nightgown and gaunt body underneath. He felt uncomfortable. If he had been alone, he would very likely not have gone out that day, but in a way this was his duty. If according to the traditional gender roles Viola's task was fixing the meals, then it was his job to go out and haul in the nets. This was instilled in his unconscious, even though he saw the old-fashioned and irrational aspect of his belief.

"I'm going out anyway," he said and started to eat.

Viola grunted in displeasure. She poured him a cup of coffee but did not sit down to join him. Edvard interpreted this as her protest at his decision.

Near gale force at least, she had said and that was true enough. Fresh gale, he thought as he rounded the grove of alder trees and the bay came into view.

The sea was boiling, and out at the reef, white cascades of foam were whipped into the air with a ferocity that Edvard had rarely seen. At this point he should have turned around and returned to the warm kitchen, but instead he decided to go down to the boats and check on them. Granted, the new stone dock was stable and could handle the worst, but you never knew. He could at least test the mooring lines.

At least a third of the little boat was filled with water and Edvard jumped in and started to bail it out. After a while he looked up, out of breath and with a pain in his knee, and he stared out over the water. Hadn't the wind calmed somewhat? He stood up and looked out at the reef. Yes, a little, he decided.

When the little boat was emptied of water, he went to work on Victor's Uttern and then ended up standing on the dock. The wind shook his raincoat. He closed his eyes and turned to the north. In a way it was freeing to expose oneself to the raging elements. All the morning grogginess left his body and he felt cleansed by the wind.

"Jens and Jerker," he muttered almost inaudibly.

He repeated the names a little louder and then louder still, finally screaming their names out over the stormy seas.

He imagined that the wind would carry the names from the island and the waters of regrundsgrepen and then out across the mainland all the way to Ramnas farm where they lived.

The wind was no longer whipping as hard against the dock as before. He turned and stood in front of the little boat as if it would be able to make the determination as to whether he could go out or not. It was bobbing fairly peacefully, shielded by the stones and heavy timber. He could take Victor's boat, which would stand up better to the waves and had a covered wheelhouse for a little protection. Victor wouldn't mind, but Edvard felt it wasn't right to borrow a boat without permission.

He loosened the ropes and stepped into the little boat. As he punted his way out of the calm and protected area created by the stone dock he thought he saw something moving back on the sh.o.r.e. Perhaps Viola had come down, but he couldn't tell. He also knew that a great deal was required to bring her all the way to the sh.o.r.e. Even if she had some doubts about his endeavors, she would be hesitant to show her concern so clearly. Instead, she would nurse her fears in the kitchen or maybe the parlor, with its windows facing the sea.

He rowed a couple of strokes before he turned on the engine. The seas were rough enough that the engine was lifted clear out of the water from time to time. He steered almost straight into the waves and they washed in over him and the boat. His plan was to hold this course for a while, then turn and follow the waves more diagonally toward the nets.

He searched in vain for the buoy marking the location of the nets. It must have drifted away, perhaps along with the nets themselves. d.a.m.n it, he thought. Now there will be a lot of seaweed and s.h.i.t in the nets.

The engine struggled in the hard seas, the boat slowly chugging its way forward. Edvard was drenched through but also felt free, absorbed in the interplay between him, the boat, and the sea. He brushed a hand over his face and tasted salt. The southwesterly threatened to blow him over, but he managed to stay on his feet by hanging on to the straps.

When he changed course, he finally spotted the buoy. As he suspected, it had drifted in toward the reef. The vivid red-painted plastic container bobbed in the water, disappearing sometimes, but now he had a target and steered the boat toward it, the waves now diagonally behind him.

He felt the boat pulling toward sh.o.r.e and had to straighten its course. A large wave suddenly appeared and washed over the boat. Was the storm getting worse again? He grabbed the bailer, leaned forward, and started to scoop the water out while using his other hand to try to stay on course.

Yet another wave filled the boat with water once more. Now there was ten centimeters of standing water in the boat and Edvard felt it get heavier.

The buoy was fifty meters away, but he could not take a straight path there because of the rocks just under the surface of the water between him and the marker. He turned and tried to keep the boat so that the waves would not wash over it again.

It started to rain hard and Edvard quickly glanced up at the sky. Black clouds had piled up in the opening toward the Sea of land. They must have traveled at a furious pace because when he was standing on the dock he had thought the sky was lightening toward the north.

Then he arrived at the buoy. The first attempt to grab the red marker was unsuccessful, so he had to turn about-face and come in for a second pa.s.s. He hauled it into the boat and pulled on it appraisingly to get a sense of how the nets had moved. The large loops of the net disappeared into the dark water. He pulled. A sudden gust of wind caused the boat to careen and he lost his grip as he tried to parry with his body and twist the rudder while grabbing the buoy again before it went back overboard.

Now he had his first serious pangs of doubt about setting out to sea. The rain grew heavier. The water level in the boat rose, so he had to bail more water. He held on to the nets, planted his feet, and managed to get a little shelter from the reef. The first flash of a perch calmed him a little. It landed in the boat, and then there were two more, but mainly there was only seaweed in the nets.

He had to stop bailing water and squeezed the nets between his knees as well as he could. It hurt his bad knee and he clenched his teeth so he wouldn't scream with helplessness, rage, and pain.

The first net resulted in eight fish, but now the perch were the least of his concern. There were two more nets. The boat whirled around as he grabbed at the nets, which exposed him to the bucking waves.

When he had managed to reel in net number two, a powerful wave struck, shortly followed by another. The boat reared up like a circus horse and then dove down into the sea, dipping the bow into the water that rushed in. The rain pelted down without ceasing. The boat wrenched to the side and Edvard was forced to drop the nets, which immediately started to slither over the side like angry serpents.

He considered tossing out the grapnel so that he would have time to bail and gather his strength but didn't have time to do more than think that thought before the next breaker came. The boat was thrown starboard and Edvard had to grab hold of the thwart in order to prevent himself from being pitched overboard. The nets slipped out, the fish disappeared into the sea, and the boat dipped precipitously downward along with them.

The next wave finished the struggle. He had now drifted out of the small area of calm that the reef had afforded. The boat suddenly came under the full ferocity of the bay. A heavy wave struck and waterlogged the boat immediately. Edvard was thrown forward and hit his legs on the thwart but felt no pain as in the next second he found himself in the sea. The boat spun around.

When he came back up to the surface he fumbled around instinctively for something to hang on to and managed to grab an oar. The boat was drifting aimlessly back and forth, bottom up, a couple of meters away. Edvard had time to see that the hull needed a coat of paint before the next wave came and crashed over him with such force that he took in a mouthful of water. He let go of the oar and, with a couple of forceful strokes, tried to swim over to the boat. This was his only chance. If he were forced to swim farther than that, he would quickly run out of energy. He was a good swimmer but wasn't wearing a life vest.

He managed to reach the boat with one hand and could therefore pull himself closer and rest for a moment on its side. He tried to see how far he had drifted from the reef but was not able to see anything through the forest of waves.

This is where I die, he thought, and leaned his head back on the boat. I'm supposed to die here. This was where his longing for the sea had led him. Is this my punishment for leaving Marita and the children? he had time to ask himself before the next big wave came and dragged him under the water.

He thought of Viola and renewed his efforts to clamber onto the boat. Perhaps he would be able to hang on, and if he didn't return in half an hour, Viola would walk down to the sh.o.r.e to see what was happening, and she would give the alarm.

He tried to pull himself up further but failed and realized that he should save his energy. The thought that he should simply let go flashed through his head and paralyzed him. How many times had he stood on the sh.o.r.e these past two and a half years and wished himself dead, buried in the deep? The sea had always fascinated him. Even as a child he had nursed a desire to live close to it. Was it fate that had steered him to Graso, not in order to live, but in preparation for his death?

He clung to the side of the boat. The water pounded him, grinding down his resistance. The cold crept into his limbs and his body now felt heavy, as if it signaled that enough was enough, that it wanted to sink.

He thought of Ann but without sadness or grief. She had fluttered past in his life, given him a little bit of hope and human warmth. What was she doing now? Eating breakfast, reading the paper, showering or getting dressed. He tried to imagine her face but couldn't manage it. Instead he recalled how her shoulders, back, and hips gleamed in the light of the candles they used to light.

Twenty-eight.

Lindell woke with a start. The alarm clock read 6:03 A.M. She sank back against the pillow. She had half an hour left until the alarm was set to go off.

The sheets were sticking to her legs and she pushed the blanket off, but regretted it when she immediately began to shiver. She heard the wind blow outside and feared that it would be another bl.u.s.tery day. Indeed, everyone complained that this particular summer had been cloudy and cool.

She pulled the blanket back over herself and curled up under it. She vainly tried to recapture the images in the dream that had so rudely awakened her. The only thing she remembered was that it had been about Edvard. He was on the island but not at the house. He was in surroundings she didn't recognize. There were fishing cabins and reeds. Edvard had been standing out in the reeds. Ann had shouted at him, but all his attention had been directed toward the sea.

This was all she recalled and it bothered her. What had Edvard been looking for? She could not even remember what she had been shouting, but it had been important.

She stayed in bed and one hand automatically found its way to her belly. She stroked it slowly as if to calm either herself or the embryo growing within her. The alarm rang and she quickly turned it off.

Today they were going to turn MedForsk upside down. Lindell was looking forward to it but wasn't certain how fruitful it would be. They had so little to go on. They had only a few vague, uncorroborated pieces of information from an animal rights activist, and these were secondhand. The doc.u.ment that Mrd had talked about had most likely been destroyed. So what was its value? In terms of a future court case-absolutely nothing. She understood that. But perhaps it was worth something as a point of entry for questioning the MedForsk employees. She wondered if it was possible to use it at all.

Someone who should know about it was of course the CEO, Mortensen. She had to discuss tactics with Berglund, who would be conducting the interrogation.

She dragged herself out of bed and got in the shower. As she soaped up, she wondered if her sense of her own body had changed with her pregnancy. Earlier she hadn't paid it much attention. Certainly she had studied herself in the mirror, had searched for signs of aging such as wrinkles and cellulite, but her overall att.i.tude had been relaxed. She knew she was attractive. Her proportions were fine: While no wisp of a thing, she had fine full b.r.e.a.s.t.s and was not too stocky in the thighs or rear. She knew that men looked at her with appreciation. In his own simple way, Edvard had a.s.sured her that she was beautiful. This had been hard for her to accept at first, but then it had made her happy, even lyrical, when she had realized how he regarded her. He had raised her up with his hands and his mouth. Had made her aware of herself.

With Rolf, it had been different. He had taken her for granted and they had been younger. Then both had a.s.sumed that their outward appearances should be, if not perfect, then at least free of major flaws. Edvard had a different kind of sensitivity that had brought out her own sensuality and sense of self-worth. In Edvard's presence, she had never felt like a woman approaching middle age. Instead she had matured and started to discover and appreciate herself for who she was and how she looked.

Once he had said something about her being as beautiful as a field of wheat. She had started to cry because she had realized the meaning and depth of this metaphor. He was a farmworker who read beauty in the landscape, that which could not be put into words, that which could be perceived only as a joyful intoxication or a peaceful grat.i.tude for the gifts of life. That is to say, love. She wanted to be his ripened field of wheat.

She had observed Edvard at the edge of a field, by pastures and meadows, perhaps a few steps into the crops, among the plants. That gaze, the calm that came over him at these times, fueled her love. "Sun-ripened" was the word that came to her in the shower.

Now her body took on another significance as the bearer of new life. She realized that she should stop drinking wine, live more healthfully, and not tax herself too much. Her awareness that she was responsible for another person was growing stronger.

What she wished was that Edvard could join her in the journey.

A group of frustrated individuals were a.s.sembled for interrogations and questioning. They had to leave their desks at short notice. The prosecutor, Fritzen, had even joined them at MedForsk, something that Lindell had never experienced before. Earlier he had taken a pa.s.sive role, but his very presence at this scene testified to the seriousness with which the action was regarded.

Some had protested, among them Jack Mortensen, but all their complaints had been ignored. When the group filed into the lunchroom, Berglund and Haver had patiently explained why they were impelled to act so forcefully.

"This is about murder," Berglund had intoned.

One of the researchers had stood up halfway as if to say something but had immediately been interrupted by Berglund.

"Murder," he had repeated, his voice harsh, and the researcher lost his nerve.

Now the eight people had been dispatched to separate interrogation rooms. One of the employees, Lena Friberg, had been allowed to stay at her station to answer the phones and explain that no one at the company was available for the moment.

Jack Mortensen had glared at Lindell when she entered the room where he and Berglund were sitting. Berglund had just started, and Lindell paused by the door for a moment before she continued in.

Beatrice was sitting in the next room with Teresia Wall. Lindell nodded in greeting. Teresia's belly had grown in the interim since they had last met.

She was clearly nervous. Lindell stayed for a couple of minutes and observed Beatrice draw on her best side in order to get her to relax.

"Is this your first child?" Beatrice asked.

Teresia nodded.

"Isn't it hard to be pregnant in the heat of summer?"

"It's not too bad," Teresia said hesitantly, as if she had trouble evaluating this informal conversation.

"I always made sure to time my pregnancies for the winter," Beatrice said. "What does your husband do?"

"He works at Ultuna," Teresia said.

"And he's a researcher?"

"He's a vet."

Lindell left the room and went up to her own office.

Eight people, she thought as she poured herself a cup of coffee from the thermos. Are any of them going to crumble? She had her hopes pinned on Teresia or Sofi Ronn. Not because they were women but because Lindell had questioned them herself and it was easier to imagine someone who was already familiar becoming talkative and cooperative.

As far as Mortensen was concerned, she held out little hope. His gruff manner indicated that he was going to be uncooperative. Lindell considered returning to his interrogation room but decided to let Berglund continue on his own.

There was a knock on the door and Lindell called out, "Come in!" She knew that it was Ottosson. The rest of the unit just walked in after a brief knock. Her boss always waited for an all clear.

"We have a fax from our Spanish friends," Ottosson began, waving a piece of paper. "I'm so bad at English that I don't understand very much of it."

Lindell quickly eyed the fax. Jaime Urbano had not yet been found. Moya wrote that the search would continue unabated. In their review of UNA Medico's accounts and correspondence, however, they had found something that Moya believed would be of interest to her. In the fall of 1999 one of the company's researchers had traveled to the Dominican Republic on three separate occasions. In all he had spent three weeks there. Moya had made a note of the dates.

Ottosson tugged at his beard and looked thoughtful.

"Didn't these clowns deny all connection with the Dominican Republic?" he asked.

"Yes. De Soto claimed he had only been there on vacation," Lindell said. "Let's ask Haver check the dates. Perhaps Cederen was there at the same time. That's what I have been led to believe. There's something up over there, but what?"

"Animal experimentation?" Ottosson said.

"Probably."

Lindell thought of the doc.u.ment that Adrian Mrd had mentioned, the descriptions of various experiments and the handwritten notes that had been added. Was it Cederen who had made those notes and who had advised the company not to continue?

"Julio Pieda," she said. "That's a name that appeared in Mrd's doc.u.ment. He remembered the name when I mentioned it. I'm willing to bet that he is the company's man in the Caribbean."

"But how do you explain his letter? It's only a fragment, but still. It made it seem as if some people were suffering or however it was that he put it."

Ottosson sat down in her visitor's chair and Lindell realized this meant she would have him for a while.