cottage was ajar. He went into a crouch almost instinctively. Then he smelled
coffee and saw Salander through the kitchen window.
She heard him come in the front door and turned towards him. She stiffened. His
face looked terrible, smeared with blood that had begun to congeal. The left side of
his white T-shirt was crimson. He was holding a sodden red handkerchief to his
head.
“It’s bleeding like hell, but it’s not dangerous,” Blomkvist said before she could ask.
She turned and got the first-aid kit from the cupboard; it contained two packets of
elastic bandages, a mosquito stick, and a little roll of surgical tape. He pulled off his
clothes and dropped them on the floor; then he went to the bathroom.
The wound on his temple was a gash so deep that he could lift up a big flap of
flesh. It was still bleeding and it needed stitches, but he thought it would probably
heal if he taped it closed. He ran a towel under the cold tap and wiped his face.
He held the towel against his temple while he stood under the shower and closed
his eyes. Then he slammed his fist against the tile so hard that he scraped his
knuckles. Fuck you, whoever you are, he thought. I’m going to find you, and I will get
you.
When Salander touched his arm he jumped as if he had had an electric shock and
stared at her with such anger in his eyes that she took a step back. She handed him
the soap and went back to the kitchen without a word.
He put on three strips of surgical tape. He went into the bedroom, pulled on a clean
pair of jeans and a new T-shirt, taking the folder of printed-out photographs with
him. He was so furious he was almost shaking.
“Stay here, Lisbeth,” he shouted.
He walked over to Cecilia Vanger’s house and rang the doorbell. It was half a
minute before she opened the door.
“I don’t want to see you,” she said. Then she saw his face, where blood was already
seeping through the tape.