When Magnus Martinsson regained consciousness, he thought he'd gone blind.

A sudden disability like that wouldn't have been all that surprising, considering the force with which he'd been smacked on the back of the head. The last thing he remembered was the comforting weight of his gun in his hands, nodding in affirmation at Kurt as they split up to cover different sides of the house- then, pain in his skull and blackness.

Blinking rapidly against the dark, relief flooded him when his eyes began to adjust and he saw that he was only sitting on the floor of a very dim-lit room. Heart pounding maddeningly against his ribs, he became aware of restraints on his wrists, which were cuffed behind his back, and his ankles with the other end of the chain attached to the floor. He swallowed hard and gasped, the only sound in the room his own panicked breathing. The cement floor he was sitting on was hard and unforgiving and he shivered, his trench coat gone. With his hands cuffed behind his back, he forced himself to breathe in slow measured breaths in an effort to calm himself. He was in an empty, medium sized room that had a single, dim lightbulb hanging from a string in the center of the ceiling. A wooden staircase was on the far right of the room and that was it, no windows- a claustrophobic's worst nightmare. Magnus scanned the room again and his heart skipped a beat.

Wallander's form was slumped motionlessly against the wall opposite.

"Kurt," he croaked, his voice dry and raspy after not having used it for so long. Forgetting momentarily that his ankles were bound together, he instinctively went to stand but it was impossible, the restraints clanging loudly together. "Kurt."

After several moments of no response, his mouth went bone dry, a sense of dread hitting him in his gut. No, he couldn't be dead. Kurt Wallander could not be dead. Straining his eyes far beyond their normal abilities, an overwhelming surge of relief flooded through his system. The other man's chest had a steady rise and fall- if he was breathing, that was good enough for the time being. He looked desperately around him for his gun or his mobile, anything, saw nothing but the floor, and felt his face get hot. Of course Herman would have taken them, the wormy creep. They had been so close to getting him. Wanted for two counts of assault and three for murder, Norman Berger had sought refuge at his mother's residence in the country. He and Wallander, naturally, had reached the residence first with their weapons drawn. They had done everything according to proper police procedure…

Magnus gave a start when his older colleague groaned suddenly from across the room. "We're fucked, Kurt," he said bluntly, as his superior came to and started tugging on his own restraints. "Absolutely, one-hundred-percent fucked." He didn't bother to fill in the veteran detective, knowing that he would soon realize what had happened.

"Oh, fucking Christ," he growled.

"He must have known we were coming," Magnus said bitterly. He always hated it when people stated the obvious and now he was doing it. "Grabbed a bat or something and knocked us out from behind."

"You're chained up as well?"

"No, Kurt," the young cadet deadpanned. "I just felt like relaxing here for a bit, you know, it's so hard nowadays to find time-"

"Shut it, Magnus," Kurt interrupted him harshly, his voice rising noticeably.

Magnus was by no means oblivious. He knew that Wallander resented him, misinterpreted his confidence for youthful arrogance, thought that he didn't have any tact, no compassion for the victims of the crimes they investigated everyday. Despite being the youngest member on the force, Magnus had seen firsthand the damage this job had had on Kurt after all these years- how it's been eroding at him, getting worse with each coming case. Magnus loved being a cop but working under Wallander had made him wary. He didn't want to find himself overweight, depressed, and alone when he was that age, so he kept himself emotionally removed from his work. No, he didn't care too little. It was Wallander who cared too much.

"That just leaves one question," Kurt murmured, looking distantly at the floor between them.

"What's that?"

"Why hasn't he killed us yet?"

The silence that followed was cold and tense. An icy shiver traveled up Magnus's spine and he kept his gaze focused on Kurt's, trying to decipher his expression.

"We need to find a way to unlock these and get upstairs," Kurt said to himself, pulling again stubbornly at the restraints on his wrists.

"Well that's brilliant," Magnus hissed sarcastically, feeling panic rise up in him again. "Why didn't I think of that?"

"Wait," Kurt said abruptly, as if a lightbulb had just gone off in his brain. "How long is your chain?" They could inch their way to the middle of the room, easily met each other, and that was as far as the chains went.

"A lot of good that does us," Magnus said grimly. "I guess this means we can go home now."

"Do we know the license plate of the truck that was parked outside his mother's? That's the one he most likely used to bring us here. We could send it to Anne-Britt." They both knew that Magnus had the best memory of anyone on the team, and Kurt looked at him expectantly.

"It's WNF 7491," Magnus said flatly. "But that doesn't help us, he took our mobiles."

Hurried as fast as they could back to their respective sides.

"Remember, Berger needs to have power over others. Don't give him a reaction," Kurt whispered to him under his breath. "Don't let him think he owns us." Magnus fought the nearly overwhelming urge to raise an eyebrow at this. Judging by the reality that he and Kurt were helplessly chained up in this psycho's basement, he regretfully had to side with Berger on this one. He actually felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end as he saw a pair of shoes walking down the wooden staircase.

Don't give him a reaction. Right.

Physically, Norman Berger was not an imposing man. In his mid-forties with slightly balding and mousy brown hair, he was dressed in a worn plaid shirt and slacks. He studied them eagerly through the sizable lenses of his glasses. If Magnus had had to take him down on the street without having known him, he would have quickly dismissed him as a threat. But, Magnus had been at the crime scenes; he'd seen the bodies they had found so far and was all too aware of what the man was capable of. His stomach lurched sickeningly at the memory of what he'd seen.

"The famous Detective Wallander," Berger greeted them pleasantly, his voice soft. "What a pleasure it is to finally meet you." The murderer had gone through their wallets, looked at their identifications, and Magnus's hands clenched into fists behind his back.

"You might as well let us go now, Norman," Kurt said, his voice uncharacteristically level. Magnus resisted the impulse to furrow his brow- Wallander usually let his emotions get the best of him and he rarely ever saw him control them. "Don't want to add kidnapping to your list of charges. The entire Ystad police department is tracking you down and it's only a matter of time.

"Now, Detective," smiled Berger, his eyes twinkling. "We both know that just isn't true. And let me apologize for how I greeted you earlier. I admit you... surprised me. But trust that you will not be leaving here any time soon."

Magnus noted how he repeatedly referred to Kurt by his job title. The man did get off on power, and having two police officers at his mercy had to be a considerable stroke to his ego. He saw how his smug smile widened, how he stood straighter, how was leaning slightly more on his right leg than his left...

"What's the purpose of keeping us here, then?" Magnus interjected, trying to sound calm and brave. "There must be a reason why we're still alive."

Berger peered curiously at Magnus, as if he had only just appeared and had not been there this entire time.

"This must be your sidekick, Detective Martinsson." Magnus bristled visibly at being referred to as Kurt's 'sidekick.' Kurt saw this and shot him a warning look. "Awfully young to be a detective, aren't you?"

Magnus was twenty-eight, even though he knew that Berger had most likely figured that out already by looking at his driver's license. He was the youngest cop in the CID but that didn't make him any less capable at his job. Berger hadn't even dignified his question with an answer due to his age. The words fell out of his mouth before he could stop them.

"And aren't you awfully old to have been hiding out at your mother's?"

Blinding pain exploded in his nose and he saw stars, the bitter taste of copper filling his mouth. The bastard had kicked him straight in the face with his shoe- a glimpse of the hidden rage and violence that lay hidden beneath that pathetic exterior. He seemed weak and almost ordinary on the outside, but on the inside was a pure sociopath.

"You bleed beautifully, Detective Martinsson," Berger said quietly as he watched him, almost as if to himself. "Beautiful, wet blood." With that, the man walked calmly back up the stairs, leaving the two detectives alone again in the dim cellar.

"Are you alright?"

Does it fucking look like it, Magnus wanted to yell at him. His nose, even though he didn't think it was broken, hurt like hell. Blood was gushing from his nostrils in rivulets, down over his mouth and onto the front of his shirt.

"Just peachy," he said thickly through the blood, trying miserably and failing to staunch the flow by awkwardly angling his face towards his shoulder.

"This might go without saying now," Kurt snapped, his face red with anger, a vein nearly popping out of his temple. "But give that fucking mouth of yours a rest for a while. Is that clear?"

"Crystal." Magnus was choking on the stream now, coughing and spluttering.

"Get over here," Kurt said gruffly. Magnus inched over, confused, when Kurt turned around and presented his back to him. Wincing, he put his delicate nose on Kurt's shoulder. It stung and probably looked ridiculous, but it was a way to stop the bleeding.

"Kurt" he said, words muffled against the back of the other detective's now ruined jacket. An aggravated sigh.

"Yes?"

"There's a key. He keeps it in his right pocket."