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the man with the dog, “but stay there. We’ll be talking to you and your wife shortly.”
    “It can’t be anyone but Martina Flochten, can it?” said Jacobsson. “The body matches the age and the description.”
    “Yes, it’s her. Without a doubt,” Knutas agreed.
    “What the hell kind of lunatic did she run into?” said Sohlman tersely. “Why would anyone hang a person after he’d already killed her?”
    “Or why slash a person you’ve already hanged?” countered Jacobsson.
    Knutas moved cautiously around the body, studying it from every angle. Martina looked like a terrifying doll. Her face was bright red, as if she had been straining hard. Her eyes were open but dull and lackluster. Her lips were brownish black and dry, her skin blotchy red, her calves and feet a mottled purple.
    Flies were visible in the incision in the lower portion of her abdomen. Knutas’s stomach turned over when he saw little maggots squirming in the wound.
    “I wonder if she’s been hanging here since Saturday,” murmured Jacobsson behind the handkerchief that she had pressed to her mouth.
    “What day is it today? Wednesday. If she was murdered on Saturday night, that would mean that it’s been over seventy-two hours,” said Sohlman. “It’s possible.”
    “She’ll have to stay like this until the ME gets here,” said Knutas. “I want him to see how she looks at the scene.”
    Curious spectators had already gathered at the gate. Knutas declined to answer any of their questions as he and his colleagues hurried past.
    They drove straight back to police headquarters.

 
    He stood in the middle of the woods, leaning against the rough bark of the tree. His eyes were closed and he was listening. The wind rushing through the trees, a pine cone that fell to the ground with a soft thud, a crow cawing. There was a strong fragrance here in the shadows. Resin, pine needles, dirt, and blueberries. Slowly he bent his knees and slid his back down the tree trunk until he ended up in a sitting position. The uneven surface of the tree didn’t bother him. He began muttering to himself, quietly and monotonously. Gradually he sank into the state that he was trying for, into a trance. He merged with the tree. His soul could stay there while he projected his consciousness into something else.
    The transference was important for him; it was actually essential if he was going to complete his task.
    He became one with the tree. There were no boundaries, none at all. He had slipped into another reality. The rest of the world no longer concerned him. Whatever had been worrying him before no longer had any importance. He had freed himself from all commonplace and trivial problems—everything that had to do with other people. He no longer needed to care about them, because he had entered into a different alliance that had nothing to do with human relationships. It was as if walls had fallen, obstacles had been swept aside, and the path lay straight and clearly marked before him. He realized that he possessed unusual powers.
    Suddenly a twig snapped and a fox emerged from a thicket. It sat down like a cat right in front of him and began to wash, taking its time. Now and then the fox glanced up and studied him for a moment. When it headed back into the woods, it passed quite close without paying any attention to him. He took a deep breath.
    That was the final proof that he had succeeded.

 
    Knutas’s phone rang nonstop after he got back to his office. He had his hands full dealing with questions from the press about the murder of Martina Flochten. Finally, after calling Patrick Flochten and notifying him of the discovery of his daughter’s corpse, he was forced to tell the switchboard not to put through any more calls. He needed time to concentrate on his work.
    It was decided that a press conference would be held later that afternoon. Lars Norrby offered to make the arrangements instead of taking part in the investigative meeting.
    Knutas had notified the prosecutor, who took a seat next to him in the conference room. Birger Smittenberg was an experienced chief prosecutor, and he had worked for the Gotland district court for many years. Over time a solid trust had been established between him and Knutas. They had a long series of investigations behind them. Smittenberg was originally from Stockholm, but in the late seventies he had married a Gotland woman who was a ballad singer. He was deeply committed to his work , and he