Mercy. I hear the words of my former pastor mentor. Mercy means that we can help others by virtue of our own faults and shortcomings. And if not by virtue of them, then at least despite them. We can be of use despite ourselves.

These words come to mind on an empty road as, once again, I speed back towards Hurmevaara. Matias Ihantola seems like a changed man. It looks as though the deeper into despair I have sunk, the more positively he has begun to view his own existence.

The single-cartridge rifle is a source of some disappointment. I don’t have time to get my hands on more cartridges, let alone look for a new weapon. In the event that I actually need the rifle, I will quite literally have only one chance. The rifle is in the footwell behind the front seat – for now. The phone is in my lap in case I should receive a text message regarding Krista’s whereabouts.

I arrive at the museum a minute before my shift starts. I decide to leave the rifle in the car for a moment longer; I have no desire to answer the questions it might elicit. I relieve those on evening shift; they loiter in the doorway longer than I would like. They chat about the meteorite’s last night at the museum.

And this is the last night.

In the morning a van will pull up outside the museum door and take the meteorite to Helsinki, and from there it will travel to London. These are the meteorite’s last few hours in Hurmevaara.

The security guard on the evening shift tells me many times over how exciting this has been, explaining that the meteorite has shaken the village out of a daydream. I could tell him a few things that would raise the excitement factor considerably. But I decide to say nothing and take small, hopefully imperceptible steps to steer him and the museum’s part-time caretaker towards the front door and to guide them out into the yard. Finally they are outside in the freezing night, their breath steaming, and the door locks behind them with a click. They walk off to their cars. I can hear their chatter for a moment further; apparently there’s no shortage of things to talk about.

Of course, the meteorite’s final night in the village gets me thinking too, but in a wholly different way. What’s more, I realise I don’t suspect either of them of involvement. They don’t even seem to see this side of the story; I can hear it from the way they talk, in what they talk about and how they behave in front of me and when in proximity to the meteorite. In recent days people like this have been in a minority in my circle, I muse. I seem to be surrounded by a whole list of people whose behaviour has changed beyond recognition.

I soon hear their cars. They start their engines almost simultaneously; the second speeds away more urgently than the first. Then the sounds of their cars fade into the evening. I wait for a moment and open the door.

It’s going to be a bright, starlit night.

The stars glow and twinkle, almost trying to reach down to the Earth. I walk to my car, look around. This is a risky business. The letter said I would receive a text message once they see I have arrived at the museum. But I’m not sure I believe this. Nobody has been following me for the last few hours, of that I’m absolutely certain. Nobody could have followed me all the way out to Ihantola’s house without my noticing. Rather, I assume that the kidnapper knows what time my shift is due to start and will turn up and assess the situation. It’s only a question of how soon this will happen. I can’t see anybody. I fill my lungs with fresh air, wait for a few seconds. I open the car door, take the rifle from behind the front seat and return to the museum, the weapon in my hand.

They say that the darkest hour is just before dawn. Maybe. But there are also moments when the whole idea of dawn seems only theoretical, something it’s pointless to wait for because the real battle will take place in darkness.

I make some last-minute preparations at the museum. I eventually decide to conceal the rifle halfway between the meteorite room and the exit; I position it as part of a display of military uniforms. I am about to hide the gleaming, rust-free barrel of the rifle beneath the sleeve of an old army coat when my phone beeps as a text message arrives:

Where are you? The lobby is empty.

I make sure that the rifle is firmly propped in place, easily accessible yet hidden from prying eyes. The telephone is in my hand; I quickly search for the number and receive an answer immediately: the number you entered cannot be found. This means with almost one hundred percent certainty that this is a prepaid account. I don’t know whether I can draw any other conclusions from this except that it seems I’m not dealing with total amateurs.

Keeping the phone in my hand, I take a deep breath and walk into the lobby. I approach with caution. I don’t want to walk straight into an ambush. Because the lights are switched on, I can’t see outside as well as I’d like to. But I do see that, except for my own car, the car park in front of the museum is deserted. I turn and look towards the forest. The large windows reflect the lobby and my own image, but still I can see the pure, untouched snow cover stretching all the way to the edge of the trees. I take a few steps forwards until I am standing in the middle of the lobby. At the same time I realise how lucky I am. I managed to smuggle the rifle into the museum just in time. I stand there for another thirty seconds or so, then my phone beeps again:

I respond immediately:

I understand. Is Krista OK?

I look in both directions. I can see no movement, no human figures either on the side facing the village and the car park, or the side looking towards the forest. I move calmly. Somebody knows where I am, someone can possibly even see me. It’s just gone nine o’clock. I do the things I would normally do: I brew some coffee in the staffroom, walk the length of the museum, making sure all the doors and windows are locked. I return to the staffroom, keeping the phone within arm’s reach. The phone beeps just as I return to the lobby with a mug of steaming coffee.

Joel, it’s Krista.

I am fine. I’m allowed one message.

To prove it’s really me: Dubrovnik.

I know immediately what she means. We’ve been planning a trip to Croatia this summer. So Krista is … somewhere. I can’t – and daren’t – imagine that she is safe. The message came from the same unlisted number. A few seconds later I receive the first message again:

I sit down in the caretaker’s chair, again acknowledge receipt of the message and that I have understood it. I place the coffee cup on the table and take my books out of the desk drawer: the Bible and James Ellroy’s latest novel. I place them on the table in front of me, though I know I can’t bring myself to open either. The coffee gradually cools at the corner of the table. I am neither hungry nor thirsty, I am not tired.

I am waiting for my wife.

And I wait until 2.19 a.m., when one of the windows smashes to smithereens.