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whatsoever. He hadn’t counted on ending up in the danger zone himself. Images of his daughter flickered past. He cursed his stupidity. How could he have landed in this situation without thinking about the consequences? This had to do with a triple homicide. Emma’s face appeared in his mind.
    He saw the white walls of the barn with the peeling plaster, the old stalls where the cows must have stood, chained and lined up in a row, shackled and unable to escape, just like him. He noted how Rondahl’s eyes darkened, and he realized that the man who had seemed so timid was actually deadly dangerous. He was standing face-to-face with the killer.
    The windows gleamed black; the darkness from outside came in, squeezing around his heart and blocking his brain. Then he saw the glint of a knife blade in the man’s hand. At first he thought he was imagining it, but then it glittered again. Ice-cold terror settled like a tight band around his neck. He stood perfectly still. Incoherent thoughts were racing through his mind, giving him no guidance. He didn’t know how many seconds or minutes passed as he stood there as if frozen to the spot. Then he woke from his momentary, fear-induced torpor and made a lunge for the door in a hopeless attempt to escape. The next second the man was on him. Johan felt a burning pain in his stomach.
    He sank to the floor.

 
    Jacobsson and Kihlgård hurried toward the farm and caught sight of Knutas, who was pressed up against the side of the house.
    “What’s going on?” whispered Jacobsson as she inquisitively peeked through the window.
    “They’re performing some kind of ritual. Both Eskil Rondahl and Aron Bjarke are inside, and Bjarke seems to be the leader, as you can see. I don’t know what it means, but it looks as if they’re drinking blood.”
    “Are you serious?”
    Kihlgård made himself as small as possible, considering the bulk of his body.
    Knutas was starting to get very worried. The reinforcements that he’d called for hadn’t arrived, and he wondered where Johan and Pia had gone.
    “Where’s Rondahl?” asked Jacobsson.
    Knutas crouched down and let his eyes survey the mysterious figures inside the hall. He couldn’t see Rondahl anywhere. Apparently he had left the room without Knutas noticing.
    “Both Johan and Pia have disappeared, too,” said Knutas tensely. “And that was quite a while ago.”

 
    Pia was lying in the most uncomfortable position imaginable. She had found a stairway at one end of the house, on the outside. She’d gone up to the attic and discovered a hatch that she was able to lift up so she had a full view of the living room below.
    Up there she could stretch out and film what was happening undisturbed, as long as none of the participants decided to look up and peer through the crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling.
    She would not have dreamed that what was playing out in the room below would ever occur in reality.
    Several of the participants were holding figures, which they dipped into the bowls containing something that actually did look like blood. She tried to zoom in on the sculptures to make out what they were supposed to symbolize. One woman was kissing her sculpture, and to Pia’s horror, she then carefully began licking off the blood.
    Pia recognized Aron Bjarke, although he was behaving in a totally unexpected manner. His face was contorted and his eyes rigid as he stretched his arms overhead and intoned incantations that she couldn’t understand.
    She let the camera roll, hoping that the images would be clear enough.
    Suddenly something happened. The door opened, and the man who had left the room a while ago came back. He looked agitated. Now Pia recognized him. It was the man from the film, Eskil Rondahl. She noticed that he had blood on his clothes and his hands, although she didn’t recall seeing any on him when he left the room. But it could have come from one of the bowls that were being passed around.
    He went over to Aron and whispered in his ear. Aron’s expression instantly changed. He turned toward Eskil to talk to him, but what they said was inaudible. Pia silently cursed. Now she could see only his back.
    Suddenly she saw through the camera’s viewfinder that Aron was saying something to the man with the drum, and the rhythmic pounding abruptly stopped. One by one the participants noticed that the drumming had ceased, and they, too, stopped moving as they looked around the room in confusion. Aron raised