The snow leading up the path to Henrik Vanger's guesthouse was still marred with footprints when Blomkvist and Salander arrived that evening.
Blomkvist gazed up at the little cottage. Something about it felt both familiar and foreign at the same time. It was strange to think he had once lived here. Stranger still, was the memory of his former company.
In retrospect, it seemed almost unfathomable that he had ever lead a more or less peaceful existence alongside Lisbeth Salander. After several periods of no contact, a trial, and a vast exposure of injustice, he sometimes forgot what it was like when to be around her when she wasn't wrapped up in some brutal atrocity. Then again, when they first met, Salander had already been subjugated to a number of fowl deeds at the hands of men. Blomkvist simply hadn't caught on. He gave her a sidelong glance, shaking his head slightly. Sometimes he could be so blind.
Hardly interested in standing around, Salander impatiently made her way up the path to the cottage. She nudged the heavy door with the toe of her boot, to no avail. Upon confirming it was locked, she surveyed the area for an alternate entrance.
"Hold this," Salander said, passively. She handed Blomkvist her flashlight and stepped off of the porch.
"What are you—?" Blomkvist began. He stopped himself, realizing his questions were futile. With a huff, he reached over and rattled the doorknob for himself. It was no use. The place was sealed up tight. A strange noise caught Blomkvist's attention. He frowned, and shined the flashlight at the side of the building. Somehow, Salander had managed to wrench a window open. Perhaps security wasn't quite as tight as he'd thought.
Salander held out her hand out expectantly, waiting for her flashlight. Then, in one swift motion, she pushed herself up onto the ledge and disappeared into the dark guesthouse. A long moment passed before she came around to let him in.
"Power's out," she said, shortly, shining her flashlight around the room. The place was in shambled. Dishes lay out in the sink, a thick coat of dust covered everything, and all furniture had been pushed into the center of the room to accommodate twenty, or thirty large cardboard boxes now lined up against the walls.
Salander seemed particularly weary. She shined her flashlight just beside the door, exposing what looked like two, large tanks of oxygen.
"Are those… medical?" Blomkvist asked, frowning.
"No, they're for diving." Salander flicked her flashlight off, and moved across the room in the dark. Blomkvist watched as she threw her weight against the bedroom door twice before it finally opened for her. She seemed to be searching for something in a way that was almost robotic. Feeling the need to busy himself, Blomkvist turned to the stack of boxes in the nearest corner and began to sift through. He wasn't exactly sure what he was meant to be looking for, but he didn't go to the trouble of asking. Lisbeth, as always, seemed to have some kind of system worked out in her head. He could hear her rummaging through something in the other room.
Blomkvist set aside a box full of books, and another full of old paperwork. Worst case scenario, he thought, he would have to sort through all of those entirely once he figured out what he was supposed to find.
Once again, Blomkvist was struck by the oddity of the situation. How strange, he mused, furrowing his brow. Here he was, back in Hedestad, searching through old boxes, completely wrapped up in something all over again. He never imagined he'd return to this. He was a journalist, not a detective.
Salander dropped a large box on the floor, making Blomkvist jump.
"Christ," he said, heart hammering. He couldn't see her very well in the dark. "What have you found?"
Salander flicked on her flashlight, holding it with one hand as she removed the lid from yet another cardboard box, exposing it's contents. At least thirty decks of playing cards lay inside, seemingly untouched.
Blomkvist stooped down to study them.
"Why would Henrik have all of these?" he wondered, aloud. Salander didn't humor him with an answer. Instead she strode over to a larger box Blomkvist hadn't searched through yet.
"Here," she said, setting the lid aside. Her eyes were fixed on something. She pulled a long cord from inside the box.
"What is it?" Blomkvist asked, stumbling over to her in the dark.
"Henrik's computer." Salander's flashlight flickered once, and she hit it with such force it turned back on instantly, as though it wouldn't dare test her again.
Blomkvist examined the desktop. It was new— state of the art— hardly something he'd expect an eighty-four-year-old man to own. "You'd think whoever is trying to cover their tracks here wouldn't leave this lying around," he said. If he had learned anything from his relationship with Lisbeth Salander it was that computers could easily be the key to everything.
Salander gave him a pointed look. "That's why I'm looking at it," she said, rustling around in her pocket for one of Nadia's cards.
Blomkvist began to feel anxious. He eyed the oxygen tank, still resting beside the front door.
"Lisbeth," he began, crossing the floor to get a closer look. "This probably belonged to whoever tried to drown you." He reached down and ran his finger across the facemask. Maybe it was only his imagination, he thought, but he could swear it still felt damp.
"Obviously." Salander gave a grunt of acknowledgement, barely looking up from Henrik's computer. "What's your point?"
"Don't you think it's strange?" Blomkvist asked, straightening up. "Who's playing us here?" he asked. "Someone lazy? An amateur? What kind of attempted murderer leaves this kind of evidence just lying around?"
"One who doesn't care about getting caught," Salander said. She looked up at Blomkvist. "Someone safe."
"Safe…" Blomkvist repeated, shaking his head. "Who do you know who's exempt from the law? Not Larissa Michailovich— whoever that is. Not Tish Solovyov. Not even the Vangers. You and I both know; had Martin survived he would have lived out the rest of his years behind bars. No amount of money could have stopped that from happening. There is no safe."
"That's not true," Salander corrected. "Think about Wennerström. You think he would have been sentenced to anything serious?"
Blomkvist paused, taken aback.
"Truly despicable, scum-like men always seem to have a gift for skirting around the law," Salander said, through clenched teeth. "At least for a while." It occurred to Blomkvist then that Salander could have been envisioning any number of men in that moment. He stooped down beside her and stared at the card in her hand.
"Anyway, it wasn't a man who tried to drown me," Salander said, abruptly. "I already told you; it was a boy."
"Hmm." Blomkvist glanced around the dark room.
"That glove you found probably belonged to him," Salander pointed out. "He looked like he could have been a student."
Blomkvist rubbed his temples. "Yes, but a student from my daughter's roommate's alma mater? You said it yourself, that school turns out all of thirty graduates every year. Don't you think it's a bit coincidental?"
Salander shrugged. "I've seen stranger things."
This, Blomkvist did not doubt. He reached into his pocket and retrieved the glove.
"S-F-D," he repeated, gazing down at the messy stitching. "What the hell does that mean?"
Salander didn't respond. Her gaze grew progressively more distant.
"I suppose if you think the owner is a student, I could go down and check the registry—"
."— Be quiet for just a second."
Salander slowly rose to her feet, holding out a hand to silence him. She glanced down at the playing cards, and then at the computer, still in the box. A strange look crossed her face— something between confusion and horror.
"Lisbeth…" Blomkvist began, standing up.
Salander jumped slightly. Her gaze flickered back and fourth between cards and keys.
"Shit," she swore, breaking the silence. She frowned and shook her head, rapidly. Blomkvist began to feel alarmed.
"What is it?" he asked. "What's wrong?"
Salander didn't seem to be paying him any mind.
"It's so simple," she reveled. "The code. It's so easy. I was thinking too hard…" She shook her head in disbelief.
Blomkvist stared at her, taken aback.
"You mean you've figured it out?" he gaped.
Salander bit her lip. "Yes…" she said, slowly. She looked more horrified than relieved.
"Jesus, Lisbeth. What does it mean?" Blomkvist asked, staring down at the cards that still seemed nonsensical in his mind.
"The letters are aligned with keys," Salander explained. She pointed at Henrik Vanger's computer. "Every letter on this card correlates with something on the keyboard. It's not exact… but there's a message."
When Blomkvist gave her a confused look, Salander sighed and pointed to the card.
"Look at the letter C," she began. "Now look at it on the keyboard. Follow it upward diagonally and to the left. What do you get?"
"D?" Blomkvist asked, still baffled.
Salander nodded. "Now do the same with F."
"You get an R," Blomkvist said."What's your point here?"
Salander stooped down and used her finger to trace the letter D, then frowned.
"Not exact," she repeated. Blomkvist got the sense this was more for his sake then her own. She seemed to have this all worked out already, though he could only imagine how.
She moved her finger over to the K and tried to trace it every which way before skipping a key and landing on P. She seemed to be following some kind of pattern. Blomkvist recalled the way she reacted when he brought up her photographic memory, so many years before. Sure it was all connected, he thought. Her ability to see patterns… her ability to memorize absolutely anything at all. Blomkvist shook his head. He was immensely envious.
Salander continued tracing letters. She followd E downwards instead of up. A pattern. She landed on S, and kept this up until she turned K, W, J, and J into M, A, N, and N.
"Drapsmann," Blomkvist said. "Well, minus the first A." Not exact.
He shook his head, incredulously. "That was Mikhailovich's name, wasn't it?"
Salander reached for the second box and pulled out a deck of playing cards at random. She tore the outer casing off carelessly and shook the cards out into her palm. Her eyes widened as she examined them.
"Look," she said, holding out a card— the Four of Hearts. Blomkvist squinted at the cardstock in the dim light. He could just barely make out another inscription along the lining of the card. This one was different. The 4 was circled in blue ink.
"Nadia was sending playing cards to Henrik. That's why he had them all in his desk. They were messages," she said. "There are probably more here, too." She stared at the tiny boxes, still shaking her head in disbelief.
"But why?" Blomkvist asked, suddenly desperate for answers. "Lisbeth, this makes absolutely no sense. It's a child sending messages to an old man, all scribbled in code. Who's to say it meant anything at all?"
"She confronted me," Salander reminded him, the slightest touch of hostility to her tone, as though she couldn't stand to be doubted. "Nadia warned me about this person… Larissa Mikhailovich." She frowned. "And now we find these cards with her name all over them? It obviously means something."
"Well, where is Mikhailovich now?" Blomkvist asked.
Salander bit her lip.
She doesn't know, Blomkvist realized, with a touch of surprise.
Salander never responded to his question. Instead, she seemed deep in thought as she knelt and lifted the box full of playing cards, lugging it over to the side window and hoisting it up onto the sill.
"We need to leave," she told Blomkvist, wrenching the window open once again. "Go out through the back."
Blomkvist paused, wondering why they needed to go in such a hurry. He glanced around, paranoid, but saw only shadows. Henrik Vanger's old guesthouse was completely desolate apart from Salander and himself. He sighed, giving up on her logic and jamming his hands in his coat pockets as he re-emerged out into the frigid night. Only then did he realize he was alone. Salander was already halfway to the road, lugging Henrik's heavy box in her arms. Blomkvist jogged to keep up. They walked together in silence for several minutes.
When they reached the Vanger Estate, Salander stopped in her tracks, staring up at the house, silhouetted against the cloudy sky.
"There's only one explanation for all of this," she said. Her voice was quiet, but bizarrely commanding in it's own way. Blomkvist watched her, waiting for her to elaborate.
"There's a reason Plague couldn't find any sign of Larissa Mikhailovich past high school." Salander shifted the heavy box in her hand. Blomkvist reached out to assist her, but she shrunk away almost instinctually.
"What reason is that?" Blomkvist asked, hurriedly. The temperature had plummeted while they were in the guesthouse. Now, he was eager to get inside. He rubbed his hands together for warmth, watching his breath rise in plumes around him.
Salander gave him a sidelong glance.
"Larissa Mikhailovich is dead," she said, glancing back at the house.
Blomkvist frowned. "Surely, you would have found something… An obituary… A funeral notice. People rarely die quietly, you know." He motioned up at the Vanger Estate, where Henrik's office window was still illuminated by the light inside.
"Some people do," Salander said, matter-of-factly. "People who are killed…"
Blomkvist shook his head. "That's too big of a leap. You would have found an investigation. Or at least a missing person report. Are you sure you didn't miss anything?"
Salander gave him a sharp look. "I researched this very thoroughly," she said, an edge to her voice. "I couldn't find any information on Mikhailovich's family. She had no parents, no siblings. At least none she was on speaking terms with. I would have seen that. She was alone. Maybe no one's noticed when she disappeared." Salander shrugged. "No one but Nadia Ivarsson."
"W— What about Tish?" Blomkvist stammered. "They went to school together. People don't just forget about their close friends. It doesn't work like that."
"They forget if they have a reason to," Salander said.
"A reason to forget?" Blomkvist furrowed his brow.
Salander shrugged her shoulders. She looked up at Blomkvist, a glint of something strange in her gaze. A warped curiosity, Blomkvist thought.
"There are lots of reasons to forget people," she said, monotone.
"And what about Julien Ivarsson?" Blomkvist pressed, recalling something she had told him earlier. "You said they dated, didn't you? Julien and Larissa?"
"That would explain how Nadia knows her," Salander said.
"You think he had something to do with her disappearing?" Blomkvist asked.
"I don't know anything yet," Salander snapped. Her shoulder's went rigid, and Blomkvist realized he had insinuated too much. He knew full well Salander was not in the business of accusing the innocent. Not after all she had been through as a result of others trying the same thing.
Blomkvist let out a long breath and tried his best to continue.
"You think Larissa Mikhailovich was killed, and Nadia Ivarsson was trying to warn Henrik?" he asked."Forgive me, but this still makes absolutely no sense. Why Henrik? What was her motivation?"
Salander looked away. Jaw set, she muttered, "We won't know anything until we go through this box."
Blomkvist shook his head in disbelief. He couldn't understand how she could make such a leap, so quickly. Then again, there were a lot of things about Salander that were still a mystery to him.
They walked together into the house.
On their way up the staircase, Blomkvist felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Anna standing a few steps away. She was shaking like a leaf again, looking utterly terrified. Blomkvist began to feel a growing sense of unease.
"Herr Blomkvist," Anna said, gently. "Harriet told me to remind you…" She looked away, wringing her hands slightly. "Tomorrow is Henrik's funeral. The time's been changed though… The service starts at five."
Anna didn't wait for a response. She turned on her heel and rushed down the stairs, looking stricken.
"Shit," Blomkvist swore. Amongst all of the chaos he had all but completely forgotten to reason he came her in the first place.
He turned to find Lisbeth.