motion. Since he had not immediately called the police, it became harder to do so
with each hour that passed. He spent the morning in gloomy silence, sitting on the
kitchen bench, watching the rain outside. Around 10:00 there was another
cloudburst, but by lunchtime the rain had stopped and the wind had died down a
bit. He went out and wiped off the garden furniture and then sat there with a mug
of coffee. He was wearing a shirt with the collar turned up.
Martin’s death cast a shadow, of course, over the daily life of Hedeby. Cars began
parking outside Isabella Vanger’s house as the clan gathered to offer condolences.
Salander observed the procession without emotion.
“How are you feeling?” she said at last.
“I think I’m still in shock,” he said. “I was helpless. For several hours I was convinced
that I was going to die. I felt the fear of death and there wasn’t a thing I could do.”
He stretched out his hand and placed it on her knee.
“Thank you,” he said. “But for you, I would be dead.”
Salander smiled her crooked smile.
“All the same...I don’t understand how you could be such an idiot as to tackle him
on your own. I was chained to the floor down there, praying that you’d see the
picture and put two and two together and call the police.”
“If I’d waited for the police, you wouldn’t have survived. I wasn’t going to let that
motherfucker kill you.”
“Why don’t you want to talk to the police?”
“I never talk to the authorities.”
“Why not?”
“That’s my business. But in your case, I don’t think it would be a terrific career move
to be hung out to dry as the journalist who was stripped naked by Martin Vanger,
the famous serial killer. If you don’t like ‘Kalle Blomkvist,’ you can think up a whole
new epithet. Just don’t take it out of this chapter of your heroic life.”
Blomkvist gave her a searching look and dropped the subject.