THIRTEEN
THE WOMAN OPENED her eyes and looked straight up at me. Her hands began clawing desperately at the air, as if she’d just realized what was about to happen.
I could see her surprise, her confusion, and I whispered to her that there was no alternative, that it was too late, she had already seen too much in the back of the ambulance.
She should have kept her eyes closed, shouldn’t have looked around with her meddling gaze, shouldn’t have seen me take the ring.
“I’m sorry,” I said, pressing my hands against her nose and mouth, “but what would you do if you were me?”
She didn’t answer. How could she?
She struggled again to pull her face away from me, making one last desperate attempt. Her thin body thrashed up and down on the stretcher. She tried to grab my hands, but instead her fingers just pulled at my arms with increasing panic. Her nails tore at my skin, but I didn’t stop. I pressed harder. Harder.
She tried to scream, and I heard a gurgling sound. She couldn’t keep it up any longer; her strength began to wane, and she blinked a few times without any tears falling.
And then, finally, it came. The awareness. This was the end. Her brain let go of all other thoughts, taking in the reality—crystal clear and horrifying.
There was no sound, only a tiny gasp as she surrendered, as her body finally relaxed and became completely still.
I took my hand away from her mouth and listened to the silence. I smiled. It felt so simple, so undeniable, so complete.
This was a deviation from the plan, yes, but nevertheless it was a beginning. I was filled with excited anticipation, with revenge.
Wednesday
PHILIP ENGSTRÖM LEANED against the black kitchen counter at the ambulance station in Norrköping. Cool spring air wafted in through an open window. He reached for the cup in the coffee machine, wrapped his fingers around it and enjoyed its warmth. Then he walked through the room, sank down onto one of the sofas and took a couple of sips before putting the cup on the nearby coffee table.
He had one hour left before his overnight ambulance shift ended. He had to fight a strong desire to close his eyes and drift off, if only for a few minutes.
He knew that he shouldn’t give in to his exhaustion; he needed to pull himself together after the shift’s stressful events, but he couldn’t help himself. He nodded off and was dragged down into sleep where he dreamed of a whirling, rushing waterfall. Then he heard someone yell, and he jerked himself awake, his hands fumbling over the table and knocking over his coffee cup.
“Philip!”
“Hi, Sandra,” he said, drowsily.
Sandra Gustafsson stood six feet from him, one hand on her hip. Her hair was blond and her eyes the same green as their work clothes. She was the newest paramedic, the most recent in a series of recruits. She was in her early twenties, competent, worked hard and seemed to care about her colleagues.
“Still tired?” she asked.
“Not one bit,” Philip said, getting up and wiping the coffee from the table with a wad of paper towels before sitting back down on the couch.
She looked at him as he attempted to stifle a yawn, then went to the coffee machine, picked up two cups and filled them.
He couldn’t resist smiling when she held one out to him. He took a quick sip and glanced at his watch.
“Time to go home soon,” she said.
“Yep,” he said.
“Do you want to talk before you go?”
She sat in the armchair across from him. Her body was trim and fit.
“About what?”
“About the patient who died.”
“No. Why would I want to do that?” he said, taking another sip of coffee, still feeling drowsy and thinking that he really should start taking better care of himself. The nature of his work meant his sleep was often broken, and as a result he didn’t sleep enough. He knew he needed more than an hour or so here or there.
“It was an unusual situation,” she said.
“It was your everyday heart attack. What is there to talk about?”
“The patient could have survived.”
“But she didn’t, okay?”