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the wall of the house, crouching down so as not to be seen. He went around the corner, summoned his courage, and then straightened up enough so that he could peer inside.
    It was a big room, almost like a hall, but sparsely furnished. About ten people were inside, men and women of various ages. Everyone was dressed in identical, long, cloaklike attire. Johan’s first thought was that they were performing some sort of ceremony in connection with Medieval Week, but he quickly realized that something else was going on. A man came in, clad only in a pair of shorts. He was carrying a flat drum with an animal skin stretched across it. It looked like a tambourine. He was beating the drum with a wooden stick that had one end wrapped in leather. At the same time, he was droning a song that lacked any sort of melody. It consisted mostly of a monotone chanting. Johan couldn’t understand a single word, but he had the feeling that the drummer was pronouncing incantations or invoking some higher powers.
    Another man stood in the center of the group, his face hidden from view. As if at a signal, a circle formed around him. He turned in different directions as he spoke , and the others in the group seemed to answer him.
    Knutas had come to stand beside Johan.
    “Who’s the guy with the drum?” whispered Johan. “He looks like a shaman.”
    “Yes, he does, though I don’t know who he is. Take a look at the man in the middle, the one who seems to be the leader. That’s Aron Bjarke.”
    At that instant Bjarke turned in their direction, and for a moment Johan thought they had been discovered. But Bjarke continued on, undisturbed.
    Then Johan caught sight of Eskil Rondahl. He was standing off to one side with his eyes closed, murmuring just like everyone else. He looked totally different from when Johan had met him earlier in the day. Like a different person. He seemed to be in a trance, and Johan had the feeling that the drummer was transporting the others and even himself into some sort of ecstatic state.
    Suddenly a scantily clad woman came dancing into the room. She had curly red hair that reached down to her waist. Like the shaman, she was almost naked. Around her hips she wore a short piece of cloth, and above, a simple top. She danced around the drummer, tossing her hair. In her hands she carried something that looked like a horn, and she offered it to the others, who drank from it.
    After that, a bowl was brought in. The woman carried it carefully in her hands, and Johan and Knutas instinctively leaned closer to see better. She moved the bowl back and forth, and a look of ecstasy appeared in the eyes of the participants. Everyone was staring at the bowl. Then she held it out in front of her while the man with the drum pounded his club even harder and raised his voice. Now the sound bellowed out, but Johan and Knutas still couldn’t distinguish any words. They’d never seen anything like this. Then the woman drank from whatever was in the bowl as the shaman shouted. A dark red liquid ran down the sides.
    Knutas and Johan exchanged looks of disgust.
    “What do you think they’re drinking?” whispered Johan. “I bet you anything it’s blood.”
    “That wouldn’t surprise me,” said Knutas, taking his cell phone out of the inside pocket of his jacket. These people looked capable of just about anything. He called the officer on duty in Visby without taking his eyes off the spectacle.
    All of a sudden Johan noticed that Pia had disappeared. He took a step back and looked around. He didn’t see her anywhere. He was both annoyed and worried. These people didn’t look sane. What would they do if they found Pia sneaking around with a camera outside the window?
    Knutas also called Karin Jacobsson, who happened to be visiting her parents in Tingstäde, which wasn’t far away. Martin Kihlgård was with her, and they said they would drive over immediately.
    Johan wondered what Knutas was planning to do. Was he going to arrest Aron Bjarke? If so, on what grounds? The fact that he’d been in Stockholm at the same time as Ambjörnsson was hardly a good enough reason.
    Now the other people inside the house had started drinking from the bowl, too. After they drank, they began rhythmically stomping on the floor. They were all stomping to the same beat.
    One of the members of the sect moved away from the group and dipped what looked like a small sculpture of a god in the bowl. Then the person held it up for the others to see.