medication didn’t kick in during the night, she would have to get professional help. The thought terrified her: the exposure would make her an easy target. She drank some water, her arm stiff and heavy, and tried to concentrate on the article again.
A showdown in the underworld. The Yugoslav Mafia. No suspects, but several leads existed. She turned the page. A picture of a taxi driver.
Startled, she tried to focus on the page as she struggled to pull herself up among the pillows.
The taxi driver, the guy who didn’t want to let her get into his nice cab. She recognized him. A reporter had talked to him. According to the article, he had picked up a woman at the oil dock that night. She had been soaked to the skin. The police would like to get in touch with her and see if she had any information.
See if she had any information.
She sank back against the pillows and closed her eyes, breathing rapidly.
What if there was a warrant out for her arrest? Then there would be no way she could go to a doctor.
She groaned, her breathing rough and erratic – the police were looking for her.
Don’t panic , she thought. Don’t get hysterical. There might not be a warrant after all.
Forcing herself to be calm, she consciously tried to slow down her pulse and breathing.
How was she going to find out if there was a warrant out or not? She couldn’t very well call the police and ask, within fifteen minutes they’d be picking her up. She could call in and try to milk them, pretend to have information and see if she could trick them into telling what they knew.
Once more she groaned, picking up the paper to read the rest of the article. There wasn’t much more, and there was nothing about any warrant.
Then she looked at the byline. The reporter. Occasionally, reporters embroidered the truth, speculated and made things up, but sometimes they knew more than they wrote.
She coughed violently. She couldn’t go on like this, she needed help. She picked up the paper and read the name again: Sjölander.
Then she reached for the phone.
Annika had managed to get her jacket half off when Sjölander called out her name and waved the phone at her. ‘Some dumb broad needs help. Can you take it?’
Annika closed her eyes. This was her turf. Just go along with it, be game.
The woman on the other end sounded ill and weak, and she spoke with a heavy accent.
‘Help me,’ she gasped.
Annika sat down, overcome by emptiness again, longing for a cup of coffee.
‘He’s out to get me,’ the woman said. ‘He’s stalking me.’
Blotting out the newsroom by shutting her eyes, Annika leaned over her desk.
‘I’m a Bosnian refugee,’ the woman said. ‘He’s trying to kill me.’
Good Lord, was everything that went wrong in the whole damn world her responsibility?
The woman mumbled something. It sounded like she was passing out.
‘Hey,’ Annika said, opening her eyes. ‘Are you all right?’
The woman started to cry. ‘I’m sick,’ she said. ‘I don’t dare go to the hospital. I’m so scared he’ll find me. Could you please help me?’
Annika groaned silently and scanned the newsroom for someone she could transfer the call to. There was no one.
‘Have you called the police?’ she asked.
‘If he finds me, I’m dead,’ the woman whispered. ‘He’s tried to shoot me several times. I won’t have the strength to escape next time.’
The woman’s rough breathing echoed on the line. Annika felt a growing sense of futility.
‘I can’t help you,’ she said. ‘I’m a reporter, I write articles. Have you called Social Services? Or one of the women’s shelters?’
‘The free port,’ the woman whispered. ‘The dead men at the free port. I can tell you about them.’
Annika’s reaction was physical. With a jerk, she sat up straight. ‘How? What?’
‘If you tell me what you know, I’ll talk to you,’ the woman replied.
Annika licked her lips and looked for Sjölander without finding him.
‘You’ll
A showdown in the underworld. The Yugoslav Mafia. No suspects, but several leads existed. She turned the page. A picture of a taxi driver.
Startled, she tried to focus on the page as she struggled to pull herself up among the pillows.
The taxi driver, the guy who didn’t want to let her get into his nice cab. She recognized him. A reporter had talked to him. According to the article, he had picked up a woman at the oil dock that night. She had been soaked to the skin. The police would like to get in touch with her and see if she had any information.
See if she had any information.
She sank back against the pillows and closed her eyes, breathing rapidly.
What if there was a warrant out for her arrest? Then there would be no way she could go to a doctor.
She groaned, her breathing rough and erratic – the police were looking for her.
Don’t panic , she thought. Don’t get hysterical. There might not be a warrant after all.
Forcing herself to be calm, she consciously tried to slow down her pulse and breathing.
How was she going to find out if there was a warrant out or not? She couldn’t very well call the police and ask, within fifteen minutes they’d be picking her up. She could call in and try to milk them, pretend to have information and see if she could trick them into telling what they knew.
Once more she groaned, picking up the paper to read the rest of the article. There wasn’t much more, and there was nothing about any warrant.
Then she looked at the byline. The reporter. Occasionally, reporters embroidered the truth, speculated and made things up, but sometimes they knew more than they wrote.
She coughed violently. She couldn’t go on like this, she needed help. She picked up the paper and read the name again: Sjölander.
Then she reached for the phone.
Annika had managed to get her jacket half off when Sjölander called out her name and waved the phone at her. ‘Some dumb broad needs help. Can you take it?’
Annika closed her eyes. This was her turf. Just go along with it, be game.
The woman on the other end sounded ill and weak, and she spoke with a heavy accent.
‘Help me,’ she gasped.
Annika sat down, overcome by emptiness again, longing for a cup of coffee.
‘He’s out to get me,’ the woman said. ‘He’s stalking me.’
Blotting out the newsroom by shutting her eyes, Annika leaned over her desk.
‘I’m a Bosnian refugee,’ the woman said. ‘He’s trying to kill me.’
Good Lord, was everything that went wrong in the whole damn world her responsibility?
The woman mumbled something. It sounded like she was passing out.
‘Hey,’ Annika said, opening her eyes. ‘Are you all right?’
The woman started to cry. ‘I’m sick,’ she said. ‘I don’t dare go to the hospital. I’m so scared he’ll find me. Could you please help me?’
Annika groaned silently and scanned the newsroom for someone she could transfer the call to. There was no one.
‘Have you called the police?’ she asked.
‘If he finds me, I’m dead,’ the woman whispered. ‘He’s tried to shoot me several times. I won’t have the strength to escape next time.’
The woman’s rough breathing echoed on the line. Annika felt a growing sense of futility.
‘I can’t help you,’ she said. ‘I’m a reporter, I write articles. Have you called Social Services? Or one of the women’s shelters?’
‘The free port,’ the woman whispered. ‘The dead men at the free port. I can tell you about them.’
Annika’s reaction was physical. With a jerk, she sat up straight. ‘How? What?’
‘If you tell me what you know, I’ll talk to you,’ the woman replied.
Annika licked her lips and looked for Sjölander without finding him.
‘You’ll
Similar Books
