The Missing. Part 9

The girl nods mutely. Makes no attempt to fill the silence, just waits for me to go on.

"And I told you I was looking for a cat."

Again she nods.

"Are you trying to tell me that . . . that you found the cat outside my cabin and took him?"

"Yes."

My mind seems both cloudy and clear at the same time.

"And then . . ."

Again, the girl refuses to complete my sentence. And this time I leave it unfinished. I see her hand reaching for the newest cross in the clearing, see her touching the top of the stick. Then my eyes s.h.i.+ft to the ground where she's standing, and I picture the black-and-white body buried beneath her feet. I imagine what the cat must have endured before he ended up here. I want to shut out reality. I want to close my eyes, but I don't dare for fear of the sights that will confront me. Ma.s.sacred bodies fluttering in the wind like b.l.o.o.d.y sails. No! I slap my face hard, forcing open my eyelids, which, in spite of everything, had fallen shut. I give the girl a defiant look. It can't be true.

"I don't believe you!"

For a moment, she doesn't move, then she silently reaches into her pants pocket and takes out something. She stretches out her hand toward me, her fingers curled around something. She takes my hand and places a thin pink object on my palm. Tirith's collar. My eyes blur; I feel like I'm flying forward even though I'm sitting still. As if I'm traveling through a hazy mist. Only when I'm certain that I'll be able to keep my voice steady do I speak again.

"His name was Tirith," I say. "He belonged to a four-year-old girl who loves him very much."

It seems important for this skinny teenager to know. That the animal she captured and deliberately placed in malicious hands had a name and an ident.i.ty, that he belonged to someone who will be brokenhearted to know he's no longer alive. But maybe that sort of information is wasted here, I think as I look at the stony mask covering the girl's face. There are probably very different things that upset her.

"We were bound together by blood," I add. "My blood."

I don't explain about Tirith licking the wound in my hand. Let this girl think I'm crazy-if that's what she's thinking. I see her looking at the ground. The ax is still lying there, and it's closer to her than to me now. Quickly, she sticks out her leg and sets her foot on top of it. Then she picks it up and stuffs the handle under her belt.

"Listen to me," she says, crossing her arms. "Jorma was the one who said we had to get revenge somehow."

A joyless laugh escapes from my throat. I can hear for myself that it sounds like the laugh of a lunatic, but I can't stop it. Revenge? What she's saying is absurd.

"Is he nuts? Are all of you nuts? What have I ever done to you? Can you tell me that?"

She rolls her eyes, as if exhorting me not to be so stupid. Then she looks away, chewing on her lip.

"I thought Jorma would calm down after we found it again. No harm done, really. I tried to get him to forget about you, but he . . . When he gets in that kind of mood, it's impossible to know what . . . It's like there are no limits. Sometimes I even think he might . . ."

She stops and gives me a furtive glance, obviously uncomfortable. Like she's said too much.

"I thought if he got your cat, then maybe that would be enough."

I look at her, shaking my head in resignation.

"I don't understand. I really don't get what you're talking about."

She studies me skeptically, as if I've missed something important. Only after several seconds does it seem to dawn on her that I'm actually as clueless as I look. She takes a deep breath and then exhales noisily. She comes over to the fallen tree trunk and sits down next to me, keeping a small s.p.a.ce between us. Even though it's August, she's wearing heavy leather shoes. She runs the tips over the ground, sketching some sort of abstract pattern.

"The boat," she says with a sigh. "It's about the boat, of course."

She looks at me to see if I'm following, but I shake my head. I still don't get it.

"Our boats," says the girl. "It's about our boats."

She's speaking with confidence, emphasizing the word our. I picture two boats in my mind. A skiff and a dirty white rowboat. I see the bloodstains on board, a red blob in one end. The girl sitting next to me is still talking. Maybe it's because I haven't eaten or slept properly for days. Maybe it's because of the pregnancy and its effect on both my body and soul. Or possibly it's because during the past twenty-four hours I've been desperately searching for two people who have disappeared without a trace. And instead of finding them, I've wandered farther into the fog, sinking deeper and deeper into the dunes.

That could be why I'm having a hard time seeing where the girl's explanation is heading. Or maybe it's some sort of defense mechanism, a way of resisting an idea that's brewing. It couldn't be . . . It can't be . . . I hear only fragments of what she's saying. The last time. Left there. Disappeared. Found. The other side of the lake. Jorma. It was you. Revenge.

From a distance, I hear a roaring sound. It gets so loud that I have to put my hands over my ears. But it doesn't stop. The world around me is shaking. It keeps going so long that I finally have to scream. Someone pulls my hands away and cautiously moves them down to my sides. Someone is holding their face close to mine and talking to me. I can't make out any of the words, but the voice is unexpectedly gentle. Finally, I realize it's the girl, Greta. She's intoning soothing words in my ear as she strokes my back. And she keeps at it until I calm down. Until the roaring has faded away, until the screams have left my throat shredded and my body exhausted. After that, we sit in silence for a while, next to each other. Then I turn to face her, and she turns to face me. And when our eyes meet, I start to speak.

By the time I'm done, after everything has poured out of me, the sun has reached the tops of the trees, and it's getting hot. I pull the anorak over my head and wipe the sweat from my brow. Greta pulls the handle of the ax from her belt and gives it back to me.

"I feel sorry for you," she says. "I wish there was something I could do."

"There is," I tell her. "Leave him. Do it now, this instant, before it's too late."

She gives me a wan smile.

"You're going to be a good mother."

Then I hear it. The ringing. It's in one of the anorak pockets. For what seems like the thousandth time in a row, I run my hands over the fabric, inside and out, yanking on the zippers and b.u.t.tons to get to my phone. But this time, it feels different. Because now I know. Actually, I knew all along.

I press the phone to my ear. This time, what I hear is not just silence on the other end. This time I hear the confident, self-a.s.sured voice of a man.

"Hi, Greta. It's Alex. Did you miss me?"

32.

That evening when we walked down to the boat. Me trailing behind the other two, my eyes fixed on Smilla's thin legs sticking out from under her pink cotton dress. Legs effervescent with life, containing so much energy that she had to skip, since ordinary walking wasn't enough. Something about those legs made me think of the movie that Alex had chosen for us to watch a few days earlier. It was the story of a pedophile, the violence of a child killer, a dark, depressing, merciless drama. When the camera finally zoomed in on the girl's pale, lifeless legs sticking out from under a bush, I could no longer hold back my sobs. I ran to the bathroom and threw up. Again.

Alex was still deeply engrossed in the film when I came back. He hardly glanced up when I sat down stiffly on the very edge of the sofa. I still hadn't told him about the baby. Part of me had thought it would become obvious, that he would notice I was constantly throwing up and put two and two together. But that didn't happen. He didn't find out until after we arrived in Marhem. And not until then was I prepared to tell him the news myself. That was only a few hours before Smilla arrived, a few hours before I would lie awake and make up my mind to keep the baby. And leave Alex.

The next morning, I told him, but he didn't take me seriously. I should have packed up and left right then, but something held me back. Was I trying to avoid making a scene in front of Smilla? Or was I simply surprised by Alex's reaction and needed time to pull myself together? Whatever the reason, I stayed that day. After dinner, I followed them down to the lake. Out on the dock, he turned to face me. The evening sun formed a bloodred halo around his head. He smiled.

"Nice to see you've changed your mind."

I was filled with a single, crystal-clear emotion. There was only one reply. As I recall, I didn't even have to steel myself before uttering the words.

"I haven't."

We got into the boat and went out to the island, where he disappeared without a trace. Went underground. I've been searching for several days now, trying to make contact, but without success. And all of a sudden Alex is back. His breathing in my ear sounds calm, self-satisfied. Apparently he has me right where he wants me. I press the phone harder against my ear so I won't drop it. I know he's waiting for me to say something, but I can't manage a single word.

"Clearly speechless from longing," he says at last. "Are you still in Marhem?"

I murmur affirmatively. I'm about to ask him where he is, but then I realize there's something I have to find out first.

"How is Smilla? She's not hurt, is she? You didn't . . ."

I can't finish the sentence. Fear and suspicion have plagued me ever since they disappeared. Fear of the unimaginable, the unspeakable. Even though there's no real reason for such anxiety. At least not based on the little I've seen of their interaction. Yet I've feared that Alex might hurt Smilla. That, for lack of other targets, he might vent his frustration on her, act out his inclinations on her. I can't bring myself to voice these concerns out loud. I can hardly bear even to think them. But that's the reason I stayed here in Marhem after they disappeared. Because I feel a weight on my shoulders, a burden that won't ease until I know that Smilla is safe. That nothing bad has happened to her.

I think about the elderly man in the brown house, who said he'd seen Alex and Smilla. I remember the words he used to describe Alex. Angry. Or terrified. Hard to tell which it was. Even though I didn't know how seriously to take the man's statement, it was his words that finally made me go to the police. For Smilla's sake. I've never seen Alex afraid, can't even imagine him being terrified. But I'm familiar with his inner fury, and I know all too well the kinds of things he does when driven by rage.

Alex takes the phone from his ear and speaks to someone nearby. "You're fine, right? Can you say that you're fine?" In the background, I hear Smilla's voice reply. With childish surprise, she repeats the words.

"I'm fine."

I close my eyes, and the image of the girl's bare legs under the shrubbery melts away, leaving me finally in peace.

"Who are you talking to, Papa?"

Smilla is only four, but I can clearly hear a certain wariness in her voice. As I listen to Alex's explanation, something about an old childhood friend, the guilt returns. Guilt over my role in this girl's life, my intrusion into her world. I picture her. Her defiant little face when we pulled up to the island, and Alex trying to persuade me to go ash.o.r.e with them. The look in her eyes when he said, with an irony she must have missed entirely, that this was a "family outing, sweetheart." She wanted her father all to herself. Not to share him with some strange woman.

I glance over my shoulder and see that the young, black-clad Greta has left the clearing. I'm alone once again, in the middle of the woods. In a primitive cemetery for animals, with an ax as my sole companion. On the other end, Smilla sounds unwilling to leave her father in peace, now that she knows he's talking to someone on the phone. "Papa is just going to talk a little while longer. You can go and use Papa's tablet if you want. Why don't you play that game you like so much? Yeah, the one with the girl you can dress up in different clothes."

Finally I hear a clicking sound, probably a door being closed, and there's silence in the background. No more Smilla listening nearby, jealously guarding her father. I touch the ax, take a deep breath.

"So tell me what happened that night on the island," I say. "Tell me."

And he does. Smilla was starting to get tired of the expedition when they came upon some sort of campsite on the other side of the island. A boat was tied up there, with what looked like bloodstains on the bottom. Smilla refused to get in, so he had to lift her on board. He explained that they were going to play a game and surprise me, that she would have to be very quiet and not yell or fuss. Then he rowed away from the island.

I s.h.i.+ver, in spite of the heat. I picture the white rowboat. I hear Jorma's hostile voice echoing in my head. You haven't taken something that belongs to us, have you? Then his voice changes. It's no longer Jorma I hear but the young Greta. I thought he'd calm down when we found it again. No harm done, really.

"Then what?"

"Well, then . . ."

Then they walked through the woods, heading toward the traffic sounds from the highway. And when they finally got there, they were lucky enough that one of the city buses happened past only fifteen minutes later. It was amazing timing, actually. Smilla slept most of the way home. He splurged on a taxi from the bus station.

And that was it. There was nothing more to add.

I run my trembling fingers over the anorak that I'd draped over the fallen tree trunk. Home. They're back home. They've been there ever since that night. While the abyss opened up beneath my feet, threatening to swallow me whole, Alex and Smilla were safe and sound. He's been playing me the whole time. My head wags slowly from side to side. I knew it. Somehow I knew. But knowing something is not the same as understanding it.

"How could you do this?" I ask faintly.

His reply is like the crack of a whip.

"You really don't know?"

Mutely, I shake my head. Even though Alex can't see me, he seems to guess my response.

"I wanted to see how you'd react. If you'd leave right away. Or if you'd stay there and wait, try looking for us."

The tree trunk is hard and rough underneath me. I'm shaking all over. My hand is shaking so much I have to press the phone even harder against my ear or I might drop it.

My phone. The one I found in Alex's bed after they disappeared. Did it end up there by mistake, or did Alex deliberately put it there when he made the bed? When he decided to disappear with Smilla and make it impossible for me to reach him? Can that really be true?

"You turned your phone off," I manage to say.

"Not much of a challenge if you could have called me. Right?"

A roaring starts up inside me. Was that why he finally started calling me, but without saying anything? To heighten the tension, to increase the "challenge"? I ask him about the repeated calls, the silence on the other end, but Alex refuses to take credit for them. He steadfastly maintains that he hasn't called. When I persist, he gets annoyed.

"Who the f.u.c.k cares? It's not important. The important thing is that you didn't run off. You stayed, and that means you pa.s.sed the test."

A whirling dizziness sweeps through my body, making my legs go limp. I've never fainted, but from what I understand, this is what it feels like before it happens. This chaos both inside and out, this darkness slowly sucking me in. Is that really what all this has been? A game? A test?

"Don't you understand it was for your own good? All those stupid things you said . . . I wanted to give you a chance to come to your senses. It's as simple as that. Make you realize that you can't live without me."

In my mind, I picture the black silk tie. I see Alex's hands pulling the knot tighter and tighter around my neck, while I, with my hands bound, arch my back in an attempt to get away. My eyes glaze over, my lungs are about to burst. I'm convinced that he's actually planning to strangle me. For real. Then, at the last instant, he lets me go. Lets me breathe again. Realize that you can't live without me.

Everything falls away, leaving behind only the truth, as hard and uncomfortable as the tree I'm sitting on. By subjecting me to this ordeal, Alex has purposely yanked away the already-rickety foundation on which my life rests. It was for your own good. The morning breeze sweeps through the trees, stroking its icy hand across my throat. Of everything he's put me through, this is the worst a.s.sault of all.

Somehow, I get up from the tree trunk and pick up the ax, but I leave the anorak where it is. Everything s.h.i.+mmers before my eyes as I walk back through the woods, not looking more than a couple of feet ahead. Branches scratch at my face, but the pain seems to be coming from somewhere far away, as if it's not part of me.

"And the child?" I hear myself ask.

"What child?"

"The baby that I'm . . ."

"There is no baby. You know that, Greta."

His words are charged with meaning. What he's saying, what he expects, is that it will just be the two of us. Until the next time he decides to play with my life. Because it will happen again, there's no doubt about that. Maybe he'll use the tie again, or maybe it will be something totally different. The only thing I know for sure is that he'll go one step further next time. And then one more step. He won't let go until I give up. Maybe not even then.

Alex is talking, listing all the clothes and toys they left behind in the cabin. Things that need to be reclaimed. And he's sure I realize that he can't possibly get away right now, so he wants me to pack up as many of his belongings as possible and bring them back in the car. He'll come over to my apartment as soon as he- "No," I say.

"No?"

"No."

I'm thinking about the well, the one I pictured the other night when I was staring down at Lake Malice's dark waters. If it really existed, I could have pushed you into it. That's what these days have taught me. That if I'd had the chance, I could have done it. A person either gives up, or she fights back. And I am my mother's daughter. G.o.d help me, but I am. I know that now.

"I'm leaving you, Alex. I've made up my mind, and I'm more sure about this than I've ever been about anything else in my life. If you ever come near me again, I swear I'll kill you."

He doesn't say a word. Almost thirty seconds pa.s.s before he speaks.

"Like you killed your father?"

"Exactly."

I hear a hint of something in his voice. A slight quaver.

"Would you really do that?"