THE BEAMS FROM the high-powered flashlights lick the yard as the police officers holding them plunge toward the shoreline. Two helicopters hover farther out over the sea, looking for tracks on the ice.
“Form a line and watch your feet!” Jessica shouts, her gaze firmly focused up ahead. The group tramps down the left edge of the property, the same track that the investigators and the patrol have already followed to the water once. The shoe prints that have been photographed and modeled for further investigation range down the path running through the middle of the large yard.
Jessica stops the others by raising her fist into the air and slows her steps as they reach the frozen water. The shore is a confusion of snowfall-softened footprints, presumably those of the suspect. According to the CSI’s report, they lead from the Koponens’ waterline to a long-distance skating track plowed a hundred yards out on the ice.
“There’s got to be some sort of contraption out here somewhere. Something to keep it in place,” Jessica says, stopping at the edge of the ice.
Officer Lasse Hallvik stops at her side. His face is serene, as if he had received confirmation that carrying out his duties could get no stranger tonight.
“Contraption?” he asks, resting the butt of the long flashlight against his shoulder.
“That’s what Koponen said. Otherwise no one would be able to find it.”
“Find what?”
“The second body.” Jessica draws her lungs full of the stinging icy air. Her gaze scans the shore. A wooden dock stands at the middle of it; a few meters out, two red snow-hooded buoys are locked in place by the ice. The suspect’s footprints approach in a dead-straight line from the south, pass the dock, skirt it, and climb ashore. Then they zigzag back and forth in a ten-meter radius right at the waterline.
“Wait here,” Jessica says as she steps onto the frozen sea. Three meters from the shore, a patch of snow cover a square meter in size has been disturbed.
“Goddamn it,” Jessica whispers, warily approaching what suddenly looks like a trap. It’s a hole in the ice that someone has done their best to cover up. In Koponen’s book, the witch is anchored to the ice. Erne’s recent words echo in her ears.
“Hallvik,” Jessica calls, bending over the now-wet snow. The hole sawed into the ice is not much bigger than a beach ball in diameter. Jessica hears Hallvik approach but cannot help herself: she takes action. She tries to jam her fingers between the hunk of ice covering the hole and the sea ice surrounding it, but the water has already frozen.
“Try this.” Hallvik removes a multi-tool from his belt, his experienced hands quickly transforming it into a knife. He kneels down at Jessica’s side, striking at the ice with sharp blows, and a moment later the frozen mass rises, like the cover of a well.
“Crap,” Hallvik says. A horrified disbelief has crept onto his face.
Jessica gulps and feels the shivers run down her spine. Hallvik looks at the jury-rigged mooring lodged in the hunk of ice he’s holding: a piece of plastic with a thick cord tied around it. Jessica feels nauseous.
“Call the guys over,” she says quietly. “We’ll need help hauling it to the surface.”
Hallvik folds up the multi-tool and puts it back in its case at his belt, maintaining a firm grip on the line. Then he stands and hands the rope to Jessica.
“Someone get over here and give us a hand,” Jessica hears him say. The line is wet and ice-cold. She wraps it around her gloved fist and looks at the hole in the ice: the water is black; it’s darkness in liquid form. In all likelihood, a dead woman rests somewhere down there in the depths of the frigid water, and the only thing between Jessica and her is the rope. A bridge between life and death. Despite wearing a down parka, Jessica suddenly realizes she’s shivering.
“Do you want to hand that over?” Hallvik says, rousing Jessica from her reverie. She turns and passes him the end of the rope, sees the line tauten ominously. There really is a body down there. She stands and only now realizes that her knees have gone numb from the icy surface bleeding through the thin denim of her jeans. Hallvik and another officer in uniform pull the rope up out of the water. Flashlights illuminate the operation from all sides. The procedure reminds Jessica of pulling a crab trap out of the water. The rope is long; first a meter spools onto the ice, then another. And finally a dark, algaelike clump rises to the surface.
The woman’s hair is jet-black, just like Maria Koponen’s.