Hunter. Ларс Кеплер

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      She moves away from the large windows, her own reflection a silhouette against the pale wall behind her.

      She hears him coming from the other direction, retraces her steps and hides behind one of the doors.

      ‘Every door is locked,’ he says loudly as he enters the living room.

      She holds her breath, her heart pounding in her chest, and the door creaks gently. He stops in the doorway. She can see him through the crack between the hinges, his mouth half-open, his cheeks flushed.

      Her legs start to shake again.

      He walks a few more steps, then stops to listen. She tries to keep quiet, but her frightened breathing is loud.

      ‘I’m tired of this game now,’ he says as he walks past her.

      She hears him searching for her, opening doors and closing them again. He says loudly that he just wants to talk to her.

      Furniture scrapes the floor, then silence.

      She listens. She hears her own breathing, the ominous ticking of a clock, but nothing else.

      Just silence.

      She waits a little longer, listening for creeping footsteps, knowing this could be a trap, but still chooses to leave her hiding place, because this could be the only chance she gets.

      She creeps further into the living room. Everything is quiet, as if enveloped in a hundred-year sleep.

      Sofia goes over to one of the chairs around the polished table and tries to lift it, but it’s too heavy. Instead she drags it by its back with her one good hand, pulling it towards the windowed patio doors, groaning with pain when she has to use both hands. She runs two steps, spins her body, and yelps as she swings the heavy chair against the glass.

      The chair hits the window and falls back into the room. The inner pane shatters and crashes to the floor, scattering splinters of glass everywhere. Larger pieces slide down and are left leaning against the intact outer glass.

      The burglar alarm starts howling at an ear-splitting volume.

      Sofia grabs the chair again, ignoring the fact that the splinters are cutting her feet, and is just about to swing it against the window when she sees the man coming towards her.

      She lets go of the chair and walks straight into the big kitchen, her eyes darting across the white floorboards and stainless steel countertops.

      He follows with measured steps.

      She remembers being chased as part of a game when she was little: the feeling of impotence when she realised her pursuer was so close that there was no chance of escape.

      Sofia leans against the countertop for support and manages to knock a pair of glasses and an unusual-looking bracelet to the floor.

      She doesn’t know what to do. She looks over at the closed patio doors, then goes over to the island unit which has two sparkling saucepans standing on top of it, and yanks the drawers open with shaking hands, panting hard. She finds herself staring at a row of knives.

      The man comes into the kitchen and she picks up one of the knives and turns to face him, backing away slowly. He stares at her, clutching a soot-stained poker from the fireplace in both hands.

      She holds the broad-bladed kitchen knife up at him, but realises immediately that she doesn’t stand a chance.

      He could easily kill her. His weapon is much heavier.

      The alarm is still shrieking. The soles of her feet are stinging from where she’s cut them, and her injured hand feels numb.

      ‘Please, stop,’ she gasps, backing into the island unit. ‘Let’s go back to bed, I promise, I won’t give you any trouble.’

      She shows him the knife, then puts it down on the stainless steel countertop and tries to smile at him.

      ‘I’m still going to hit you,’ he says.

      ‘You don’t have to do that,’ she pleads. She feels like she’s losing control of her face.

      ‘I’m going to hurt you badly,’ he says, raising the improvised weapon above his head.

      ‘Please, I give up, I—’

      ‘You only have yourself to blame,’ he interrupts, then unexpectedly lets go of the poker.

      It falls heavily to the floor with a clatter, then lies still. Ash flies up from the prongs.

      The man smiles in surprise, then looks down at the circle of blood spreading out from his chest.

      ‘What the hell?’ he whispers. He fumbles for support with one hand, but misses the countertop and staggers.

      Another bloodstain appears in the middle of his white shirt. The red wounds on his body blossom like stigmata.

      The man presses one hand to his chest and starts to stumble towards the dining room, but stops and turns his blood-smeared palm over. He looks like a frightened child. He tries to say something before sinking to his knees.

      Blood squirts out onto the floor in front of him.

      The alarm is still blaring.

      Sofia sees a man with a very oddly-shaped head over by the pale curtains.

      He is standing with his feet wide apart, and he’s holding a pistol with both hands.

      His face is completely covered by a black balaclava apart for his mouth and eyes. What look like strands of hair or stiff scraps of fabric hang down one cheek.

      Wille presses his hand to his chest again, but the blood seeps through his fingers and down his arm.

      Sofia turns unsteadily and looks straight at the man with the gun. Without taking his eyes from Wille, he takes one hand off the pistol and quickly snatches up the two spent shells from the floor.

      He runs forward, passing her as if she doesn’t exist. He kicks the poker away with his military boot, grabs Wille by the hair, yanks his head back, and presses the barrel of the pistol against his right eye.

      This is an execution, Sofia thinks, and walks towards the living room as if in a dream. She hits her hip against the edge of the counter, and slides her hand along it. As she passes the two men, a shiver runs down her spine and she starts to run but slips in the blood. Her feet slide away from her, and she falls back and hits her head hard on the floor.

      Her vision blurs and goes black for a moment, then she opens her eyes again.

      She sees that he hasn’t pulled the trigger yet, the barrel is still pressing softly against Wille’s closed eyelid.

      The back of Sofia’s head is burning and throbbing.

      Her vision is unfocused, everything is spinning. What she had thought were rough leather strips hanging down the man’s cheek now look more like wet feathers or matted hair.

      She СКАЧАТЬ