After a minute I was on him. I sat on his tail, matching his speed, a car length behind.

Twice he stood on his brakes, guessing perhaps that my nerves were dulled by worry and by lack of sleep. But my nerves were sharpened by the certainty of the righteous man. And so I braked when he braked, and accelerated when he accelerated, tracking him move for move.

Twenty minutes out I knew he was heading for Garden Island. He took an exit from the highway, timed very late. I swerved out behind him and onto a lazy back road that led across endless flat fields of maize. Bror slowed. Impossible to shake me on this narrow road. I eased off the accelerator, allowing the gap to increase. We drove at a steady sixty all the way, parked next to each other on the road that led to the slipway.

The ferry was heading toward us across the sound. On Garden Island people were disappearing up the rise. I sat watching Bror in his car. He made a telephone call. I wondered, almost casually, whether he was ordering our deaths. We were at the end of something. I knew that. Still the fear that Bror wanted me to feel was obliterated by a seething rage.

Why was this man not in jail?

I got out of my car, walked down to the water’s edge, waiting as the ferry moored. I turned to find Bror walking down the slipway toward me.

Security on the mainland was light. Informal, almost. I watched Bror as the police officer patted him down. He stood patiently, watched as I was patted down in my turn. He smiled. I was not expecting the smile. It was warm and inclusive, as it had been the first time we had met. That same quality of understanding and—even now—a part of me wanted to interpret it as kindness. But I was no longer seduced by his charm. He did not wish me well. To Bror I was merely a means to an end.

“Have they euthanized your dogs yet?” I said as we walked onto the ferry.

He considered this. Again he smiled. “Perhaps.”

Anyone watching us might have thought we were friends as we stood together at the bow of the ferry, facing Garden Island. Just the two of us, and the ferryman in his cab above the deck, as the man on shore cast off the rope.

The ferry edged out into the sound.

I turned to Bror. “You’re clever. You see the problems with what the Andersens believe.”

“I do.”

“You made me believe that you despised their beliefs.”

“Any sane person does.”

“I think the reality is worse. I think what they believe is irrelevant to you. You care about what they do. It’s the praxis of terrorism that excites you. You’re in love with the chaos and the pain.”