The Girl Who Played with Fire by Stieg Larsson Read Free Book Online

steel in his brain and transformed his life into an obsession to crush her. He fantasized about killing her. He toyed with fantasies of having her crawl at his feet and beg him for mercy. But he would be merciless. He would put his hands around her throat and strangle her until she gasped for air. He wanted to tear her eyes from their sockets and her heart from her chest. He wanted to erase her from the earth.
    Paradoxically, it was at this same moment that he felt as though he had begun to function again, and he discovered in himself a surprising emotional balance. He was obsessed with the woman and she was on his mind every waking minute. But he had begun to think rationally again. If he was going to find a way of destroying her, he would have to get his head in order. His life settled on a new objective.
    He stopped fantasizing about her death and began planning for it.
    Blomkvist passed less than six feet behind Advokat Bjurman’s back as he navigated with two scalding glasses of caffè latte to editor in chief Erika Berger’s table at Café Hedon. Neither he nor Berger had ever heard of Nils Bjurman, so neither was aware of his being there.
    Berger frowned and moved an ashtray aside to make room for her glass. Blomkvist hung his jacket over the back of his chair, slid the ashtray over to his side of the table, and lit a cigarette. Berger detested cigarette smoke and gave him a furious look. He turned his head to blow the smoke away from her.
    “I thought you gave up.”
    “Temporary backsliding.”
    “I’m going to stop having sex with guys who smell of smoke,” she said, smiling sweetly.
    “No problem. There are plenty of girls who aren’t so particular,” Blomkvist said, smiling back.
    Berger rolled her eyes. “So what’s the problem? I’m meeting Charlie at the theatre in twenty minutes.” Charlie was Charlotta Rosenberg, a childhood friend.
    “Our intern bothers me,” Blomkvist said. “I don’t mind her being the daughter of one of your girlfriends, but she’s supposed to be in editorial for another eight weeks and I don’t think I can put up with her that long.”
    “I’ve noticed the hungry glances she’s been casting your way. Naturally I expect you to behave like a gentleman.”
    “Erika, the girl’s seventeen and has a mental age of ten, and I may be erring on the generous side.”
    “She’s just impressed. Probably a little hero worship.”
    “At 10:30 last night she rang the entry phone on my building and wanted to come up with a bottle of wine.”
    “Oops,” Berger said.
    “Oops is right. If I were twenty years younger I might not have even hesitated. I’m going to be forty-five any day now.”
    “Don’t remind me. We’re the same age.”
    The Wennerström affair had given Blomkvist a certain celebrity. Over the past year he had received invitations to the most improbable places, parties, and events. He was greeted with air kisses from all sorts of people he had hardly shaken hands with before. They were not primarily media people—he knew all of them already and was on either good or bad terms with them—but so-called cultural figures and B-list celebrities now wanted to appear as though they were his close friends. Now it was the thing to have Mikael Blomkvist as your guest at a launch party or a private dinner. “Sounds lovely, but unfortunately I’m already booked up,” was becoming a routine response.
    One downside of his star status was an increasing rash of rumours. An acquaintance had mentioned with concern that he heard a rumour claiming that Blomkvist had been seen at a rehab clinic. In fact Blomkvist’s total drug intake since his teens consisted of half a dozen joints and one experiment with cocaine fifteen years earlier with a female singer in a Dutch rock band. As to alcohol, he was only ever seriously intoxicated at private dinners or parties. In a bar he would seldom have more than one large, strong beer. He also liked to drink medium-strong beer. His