and scrapes on his body. The noose had been so tight that he had a dark red mark
around his neck, and the knife had made a bloody gash in his skin on the left side.
“Get into bed,” she said.
She improvised bandages and covered the wound with a makeshift compress.
Then she poured the coffee and handed him a sandwich.
“I’m really not hungry,” he said.
“I don’t give a damn if you’re hungry. Just eat,” Salander commanded, taking a big
bite of her own cheese sandwich.
Blomkvist closed his eyes for a moment, then he sat up and took a bite. His throat
hurt so much that he could scarcely swallow.
Salander took off her leather jacket and from the bathroom brought a jar of Tiger
Balm from her sponge bag.
“Let the coffee cool for a while. Lie face down.”
She spent five minutes massaging his back and rubbing him with the liniment.
Then she turned him over and gave him the same treatment on the front.
“You’re going to have some serious bruises for a while.”
“Lisbeth, we have to call the police.”
“No,” she replied with such vehemence that Blomkvist opened his eyes in surprise.
“If you call the police, I’m leaving. I don’t want to have anything to do with them.
Martin Vanger is dead. He died in a car accident. He was alone in the car. There are
witnesses. Let the police or someone else discover that fucking torture chamber.
You and I are just as ignorant about its existence as everyone else in this village.”
“Why?”
She ignored him and started massaging his aching thighs.
“Lisbeth, we can’t just...”
“If you go on nagging, I’ll drag you back to Martin’s grotto and chain you up again.”