Girl Who Played with Fire, The - Stieg Larsson [248]
The fox paused by Salander’s grave on the way back to his den. He had found two field mice and was feeling satisfied when suddenly he sensed another presence. He froze and pricked up his ears. His whiskers and nose were quivering.
Salander’s fingers emerged like something dead from beneath the earth. Had there been any human watching, he would probably have reacted like the fox. He was gone like a shot.
Salander felt cool air stream down her arm. She could breathe again.
It took her half an hour more to free herself from the grave. She found it odd that she couldn’t use her left hand, but mechanically went on scratching at the dirt and sand with her right.
She needed something else to dig with. She pulled her arm down into the hole, got to her breast pocket and worked the cigarette case free. She opened it and used it as a scoop. She scraped soil loose and flicked it away. And then at last she could move her right shoulder and managed to press it upwards through the earth above her. Then she scraped more sand and dirt and eventually was able to straighten her head. She now had her right arm and head above the ground. When she had released part of her upper body she could start squirming upwards an inch at a time until the ground suddenly released its grip on her legs.
She crawled from the grave with her eyes closed and didn’t stop until her shoulder hit a tree trunk. Slowly she turned her body so that she had the tree to lean on and wiped the dirt from her eyes with the back of her hand before she opened them. It was pitch-black around her and the air was icy cold. She was sweating. She felt a dull pain in her head, in her left shoulder, and in her hip, but didn’t spend any energy wondering why. She sat still for ten minutes, breathing. Then it came to her that she couldn’t stay there.
She struggled to her feet as the world swirled around her.
She felt instantly sick and bent over to vomit.
Then she started to walk. She had no idea which direction she was going. The pain in her left hip was excruciating and she kept stumbling to her knees. Each time an even greater pain shot through her head.
She didn’t know how long she’d been walking when she saw a light out of the corner of her eye. She changed direction. It was only when she was standing by the woodshed in the yard that she realized she had walked straight back to Zalachenko’s farmhouse. She swayed like a drunk.
Photo cells on the driveway and in the clearing. She had come from the other direction. They would not have noticed her.
She was confused. She knew that she was in no condition to take on Niedermann and Zalachenko. She looked at the white farmhouse.
Click. Wood. Click. Fire.
She fantasized about a gasoline can and a match.
With enormous effort she turned towards the shed and staggered over to a door that was secured with a crossbar. She managed to lift it by putting her right shoulder under it. She heard the noise when the crossbar fell to the ground and hit the side of the door with a bang. She took a step into the darkness and looked around.
It was a woodshed. There was no gasoline.
At the kitchen table Zalachenko looked up when he heard the sound of the falling crossbar. He pulled the curtain aside and peered out into the darkness. It was a few seconds before his eyes adjusted. The wind was blowing harder now. The weather forecast had predicted a stormy weekend. Then he saw that the door to the woodshed was ajar.
He and Niedermann had brought in wood earlier that afternoon. It had been unnecessary, but its purpose was to provide Salander with confirmation that she had come to the right place and to draw her out.
Niedermann had obviously not set the crossbar in place properly. He could be so phenomenally clumsy. Zalachenko glanced towards the door of the living room, where Niedermann had dozed