FOR A MOMENT, the room is so still that Jessica can once again hear the flicker of the flames dancing at the tips of the wooden torches. The smell of fuel reminds her of childhood, of asphalt shimmering in the heat.
“Mater pythonissam,” Roger Koponen says with a bow to the old woman. Then he turns his shocked eyes to Jessica. “Everything has a purpose, Jessica. A second ago we uploaded a succinct but profound manifesto that expresses our concerns about contemporary society and the ways in which it has been degraded.” He speaks without intonation, like someone reading a speech from notes.
Jessica feels her body go limp again, as if a toxin is pumping through her body. “You . . . killed your wife?” Jessica says, and gulps. Her throat feels numb.
“Maria sealed her own fate. Her work represented resistance against freedom of the mind and a better tomorrow. I had no say in it. I didn’t even know it had to happen. I would have done everything in my power to prevent it; after all, Maria was my wife. . . . But in retrospect it all seems perfectly obvious.”
Jessica tries to wrench free of her bonds. She tenses her muscles as hard as she can, but her hands and ankles are firmly shackled to the wooden chair.
“Look, Jessica. Everything has already been written. Just like Roger’s books. It has all been plain from the start,” Camilla Adlerkreutz says.
“But . . . why?” Jessica asks. Fear has broken through the sensation-numbing medication; she feels a tear roll down her cheek.
“This may all feel a little perplexing, Jessica dear. . . .” Camilla gestures to the row of people standing behind Roger Koponen. “You don’t actually have to understand what it is we hope to achieve; delving into our teachings requires years of intense study. Roger’s disgust with contemporary society and its restrictions inspired him to write the most engrossing of stories, stories infused with our ideology and practices. Tens of millions of people around the world have read them and are now unwittingly open to our way of thinking. It would be downright foolish not to take advantage of this set of circumstances. Thanks to Roger’s books, we have scores of possible new believers, and we must intensify the learning process. Do you have any idea how many people are discussing the Better Tomorrow movement as we speak? Malleus Maleficarum. The hammer of the witches is a matter of burning interest in millions of Western households now. Missionary work is incredibly effortless these days; all it requires is knowing how to wield all the instruments at one’s disposal.”
“But—”
“The secular world we live in today tries to silence those to whom God has granted the gift of an open mind. And as we know, a genuine ability to think critically and creatively, to see the forest for the trees, is a threat to organized society. Society wants to label these individuals as crazy: diagnoses are developed for them, and they are given drugs that slow their thinking. My life’s work has been to ensure that their potential is harnessed, instead of them being left to rot in hospitals or neglected in the homes of loved ones. I’ve never treated sick people, Jessica. I have, of course, played my role and employed terms society embraces. But only to be able to conduct my work in peace. No, I have not treated the sick, because these people, all of you standing here around me, are anything but sick. You are a ray of light in the midst of a chaotic hell overrun by narrow-minded elitists.”
Jessica tastes salt: a tear in the corner of her mouth. The old woman’s bony hand wipes it away. Jessica feels her breath catch. She feels a tingle in her back and tiny bursting lightning bolts in the nerve endings of her leg muscles. Now she sees a gleam in the glow of the burning torches. It’s a dagger.
“Am I the seventh victim? The last witch?” Jessica whispers.
“You?” Camilla Adlerkreutz says, amused. “Do you still not understand why we have done all this?”
It’s getting harder and harder to breathe. Jessica’s nostrils are full of mucus, and an enormous lump weighs in her throat.
“I’ve saved dozens of souls, Jessica. Prevented their minds from being poisoned. I’ve ensured that not a single one of my patients’ lives has been stunted by a diagnosis concocted by a so-called expert in the field. No one deserves the label of ‘mentally ill.’ Not even those who turn their backs on me. Imagine! Thanks to me, all these poor souls who would have been pumped full of drugs and shackled with restraints can freely choose their subject of study and career path. They can obtain positions of power, of influence. My children do not settle for grunt work. They are everywhere. On the land, at sea, in the air.”
“My mother—,” Jessica says softly, but her voice catches on the lump in her throat.
“The Luomas were our best doctors at Bättre Morgondag for years. But they lost their grip; they sold their souls to the pharmaceutical industry. As did Albert von Bunsdorf. Albert gradually came to join that group of people who believe that extraordinary brain function always demands a diagnosis, treatment, and medication. Terms like ‘split personality,’ ‘illness,’ ‘disease,’ ‘delusions,’ ‘psychosis’ . . . they are assaults on difference.” Camilla Adlerkreutz appears to think for a moment. Then she lets out a bark of mischievous laughter as if she has just remembered something amusing.
“Not to mention that Blomqvist minx,” she continues, still smiling. “One of the most outrageous academic studies of recent years was this young woman’s dissertation asserting that nonmainstream brain function is not only an illness—it is supposedly caused by some ridiculous parasite.”
“But—”
“Haven’t you grasped how the system works, Jessica? Apparently not, because there was no need for you to. Do you think you would have made it this far without my influence? Do you think you would have ever passed the background check necessary to join the police force? Now, as you rise through the ranks, you can help us advance our goals and right the wrongs that society has created out of ignorance. I watched you grow up, dear. I know that you can do what your mother could not or would not do.”
“What?” Jessica whispers, and begins to cry.
Camilla Adlerkreutz lowers her chin to her chest, and for a moment, she appears to be praying. Then she stands up and raises her hand into the air.
“Detego.”
One at a time, the naked figures standing in a semicircle pull back their hoods. The clean-shaven man with a birthmark blazing on his brow. Torsten Karlstedt. Kai Lehtinen. A beautiful dark-haired woman Jessica doesn’t recognize. Presumably the same one who knocked on the window of Irma Helle’s shop last night and killed her. And last of all . . .
“I’m sorry, Jessica,” Mikael says, and crosses his hands at his chest.
Jessica can’t breathe. Because they said there’s someone close to you who will find out everything. Who’s watching and controlling things. She feels like an idiot. Suddenly everything is so damn obvious. The water meter, the pistol, the notebook. Micke pressuring Erne to bring in Karlstedt and Lehtinen. And the way Micke, after one two-hour session in a hotel room the night before last, wanted to go for a drive with Jessica. To make sure she was the first detective at the scene of the crime in Kulosaari when the patrols on duty got the call.
“Help me, Micke,” Jessica says softly as the shock gradually turns into anger. But the words feel pointless as they escape her lips. “Get me out of here, you fucking asshole!” she screams.
Mikael looks back at her without batting an eye. “Jessica, my friend. Our journey ends here, but yours will continue.”
“What the hell, Micke? Have you lost your mind? Did you kill—”
“Calm yourself, Jessica.” Camilla flashes a circumspect smile. “You’re falling into the trap of thinking like the majority of the population. You’re adopting their narrow way of viewing the world. To them, we are evildoers. But to so many others, we are heroes. Our movement is much vaster than you can imagine. We have brothers and sisters around the world who welcome us with open arms. And before long, there will be many more. Roger’s books are flying off the shelves, and our online manifesto has been seen hundreds of thousands of times.”
“You are fucking insane—”
“You see? You’re doing it again, Jessica. Please, try to understand that the sole purpose of all this, this treasure map drafted with such exquisite care, is to spread our message. To disseminate knowledge.”
Camilla Adlerkreutz turns around and walks over to the red blanket. Her skin looks surreal in the torchlight, like papier-mâché that has been formed around a frame of bent wire. Her uncloaked body crouches over the blanket, her black fingernails take hold of it, and a moment later two naked figures are revealed beneath.
Jessica bellows in horror.
“The dagger is not for you, Jessica dear,” Camilla Adlerkreutz says, and then laboriously works her way back up to her feet. “Your destiny is not to die but to continue living even after we are all dead.”
“Yusuf! Nina!” Jessica shouts, but neither one answers. Both of them are lying, unconscious and eyes shut, on the same cold stone floor Jessica can feel against the soles of her feet.
“Maria had five beautiful dresses made, Jessica. Perfectly identical to the one your mother wore to her first awards gala. Of course Maria didn’t know what I, the old lady next door, would do with the dresses, but she agreed to help me out.”
“Nina, wake up! Yusuf—,” Jessica stammers, but deep down she knows it’s useless.
SUDDENLY THERE’S INDETERMINATE thumping overhead. Mikael eyes the ceiling beams. “They’re here.”
The thumps on the ceiling grows louder.
“We must make haste, mater pythonissam,” someone in the room says, but Camilla Adlerkreutz looks composed, not the least bit hurried.
Jessica wants to cry out, to make sure the police find this space, which must be in the basement of the big wooden house. But her voice has caught in her throat. Not one of the naked people standing in the semicircle makes the tiniest sign of trying to escape.
Jessica sees the dagger’s gleam again, this time in the old woman’s hand.
“Some of us will remain. Some of us will depart. But you will go on. Because, just like your mother, you, Jessica von Hellens, are mater pythonissam.”
Jessica hears the people behind her begin to sing. A melody she recognizes vaguely. Then there’s the sound of metal sinking into flesh somewhere nearby. Tears stream down her cheeks. Heat spreads through her body, and she shuts her eyes.
It is the song Mom was singing that morning.
Respice in speculo resplendent, Jessica.