Fear Of Broken Glass: The Elements: Prologue

by Mark, David

  The question was, had it been him or her? The more she thought about it, the more she realized she must have been the target.

  Gray Eyes waited; a minute, two minutes; looking at her in that way that was not just looking, the threat ever present, so much it made her want to die. She cursed these filthy men. She cursed Denisen for his greed. And she cursed herself for being so bloody stupid, as if things like this never happened. As if headlines were distant fiction, pictures painted for people living boring lives, all of them looking for a little bit of entertainment. That’s what they did, serve lies to be consumed as entertainment, all so a paper could sell copies and make money, paying for the fat owners at the top to buy themselves bigger cars and even bigger houses.

  She had been so stupid. Above all else, she cursed her bloody rotten timing.

  Gray Eyes was still watching her, mouth hanging open.

  She couldn’t deal with any more. She felt like she wanted to die.

  He turned to his side showing the scar on the side of his nose then walked over to her and leaned forwards, pulling her unexpectedly out of the vehicle so she nearly fell. He reached out and lifted her upwards by her hair with his good hand, so she screamed with the pain of it. He removed a knife from a sheath at his belt and held it up in front of her. If he meant to frighten her he succeeded, feeling the first swell of panic. There was malice in that look, pure unbridled malice, without form or conscience.

  Before she could do anything or prepare herself, he bent down and slit the cord around her ankles. He pulled her upright, roughly with his good hand, pushing her to the bonnet and using the arm of the other to throw her over the front of the vehicle, pressing her down against the cold metal.

  Terrified, unsure, she felt him kick one leg to one side. She tried to resist. It was useless. He kicked the other leg. She cried out in desperation, at the top of her lungs. Her scream was in vain. There was no-one remotely close to hear her apart from Bad Arm. She tried to push back, struggling to keep him away. Her efforts were rewarded by being pushed forcefully down again. This time her head was thrust downward, brutally so it hit the metal with a thud. She moved her leg back in time as her head was slammed down again onto the metal bonnet, harder, making a small dent where her forehead hit, numbing her into passivity. The shock and speed of the attack numbed her conscious mind, crushing it into oblivion. She felt a trickle of blood inside her mouth, her leg again kicked roughly to one side. She felt the hand grab her from behind, her own grip on reality distorting.

  She felt no tremble of panic now, no fear. A sense of calm overtook her – a quiet, passive acceptance of the inevitable. Ulrika’s mind closed down as he pulled at her belt, pulling it loose. He leaned, using his body weight to keep her pinned against the bonnet as he must have been pulling down his trousers with his good hand, Ulrika thinking desperately of any way she could use his injury to her advantage.

  There was none.

  He pulled at her trousers, popping the button with ease. She felt the distant swell of the ocean, far away, as her trousers were pulled down. Somewhere, through the gathering fog, she thought she felt a cold air on her buttocks.

  She knew what was coming next.

  The painting was laid out on the back seat behind him wrapped in a blanket, Chivers looking out across the open landscape, head moving slightly to the swaying of Almquist’s car. The car slowed, approaching the large clearing at the bottom of forested hills that was Gotfrid’s homestead. Sturla’s homestead.

  Chivers had been nervous leaving the station. A criminal with a past conviction, he’d been unhappy about being taken back to the homestead. He had stopped by the hospital, cuffing him to the steering wheel, more to humiliate the fat prick than for any concern with security; Chivers wasn’t the type to run away.

  It took five minutes to locate the X-ray department. To his dismay, they were too busy with a victim of a fall to show the least interest in an old painting. He insisted, using all the arguments in the book and more than one flash of his badge until they agreed to take it. He departed again twenty minutes later with a sour Chivers, and a promise from the duty nurse they would get around to processing it as soon as they could, to be forwarded to the Department later.

  A voice broke through the police radio as Almquist turned right into the dirt road leading to the homestead. He glanced down.

  ‘Three nine to seven five, over.’

  Almquist picked the radio out of its cradle. ‘Seven five. Go ahead.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’ll be there in five minutes. Almquist looked over to Chivers. ‘What is it?’ He glanced into the mirror and pulled over.

  ‘I ran a check of local news articles and discovered an incident in 1975. We’re still looking into it, since there are some records missing, over.’

  ‘Just a moment, wait.’ Almquist glanced back as he released the talk button. There was nothing on Chivers’ record about speaking Swedish. He trusted his sense of judgement. ‘I need you to leave the car. Walk to the front and stay where I can see you,’ he told his passenger.

  Chivers obliged, opening the door with a look of weary resignation and walked around to sit on the hood.

  ‘Go on,’ he continued in Swedish.

  ‘I’ve been checking dates with our own records. On the thirteenth of February a couple of years back, an incident was reported to the police involving AB... it’s complicated... incident in Stockholm... I can understand why certain files were classified.’ Alvar Bok. ‘You need to get back here so I can fill you in...’

  Almquist felt lightheaded. ‘I’ll be back by...’ he looked at his watch, ‘about four. I’ll call if I’m delayed. Focus on Sturla Gotfridsson and his relationship with Bok... anything on the homestead. Out.’

  The first splatters of rain hit the windshield as he replaced the transceiver back into its cradle and beckoned for Chivers to get back in. When he did he pulled out, accelerating, the car bumping along the uneven surface of the dirt road.

  What had she seen? The excitement in her voice was unmistakeable.

  Where are the officers? Almquist frowned as he bent his head forwards, peering beyond the cottage, up towards the giant cliff of rock in the distance, behind Gotfridsgaarden.

  Then three things seemed to happen at once: The first was, Almquist felt his head explode, followed by the sound of an impact to his windscreen. The second was as he did so he saw himself lose control of the car, skidding in slow motion off the edge of the road to the right, moving inevitably towards the collision he knew was coming. The third was the sound of the car radio announcing another call from Station.

  Ulrika felt rather than heard it. It came from the direction of the woods on the other side, away from the pickup. Like a whip, cracking through the air. Yet softer, faster and more elegant. She was leaning over, head sore from being thrust down over the metal of the bonnet.

  The pressure disappeared.

  She heard him gasp involuntarily, then the sound of moving feet. Ulrika turned her head to see his upper torso snapped to the side, as if pulled by an invisible cord. He took one, two steps backwards, clutching something she couldn’t see, his uncomprehending eyes moving away from her. Then she saw it: the end of a small arrow protruding from the side of his chest. She heard an unfamiliar sound where the black shaft embedded itself in his clothing, pink bubbles frothing from the base of the shaft. Three Fingers cried out in anguish raising his soiled hand in defense, looking lost. His hand left the arrow and reached for his handgun in the holster at his side, fingers curling around the grip.

  At that moment Gray Eyes with the bandaged arm appeared from a cluster of trees. The sound repeated itself, another bolt hitting him in the middle of his chest. It must have penetrated his heart, eyes vacant, body crumpling; dead before he hit the soft forest floor.

  Ulrika twisted around, struggling to understand. Three Fingers was alive, raising his handgun, aiming at something behind her. A third bolt hit him near his head, his screams contorted
, tortured by the air escaping his chest. She screamed at the sight of his blood flowing in thick spurts from his neck, his knees buckling until he was kneeling, eyes wild, fingers clawing at the bolt in vain, choking. She watched, unable to move as he crumbled forwards, fingers quivering. His head convulsed, again and again until eventually, he lay still. Confused, afraid and shocked, Ulrika regarded the horror of death to one side, the appearance of a deathly stranger on the other.

  Something about his face confused her. The attacker carried a rifle. Except it wasn’t a rifle. It had the stock and body of a rifle, a scope attached to the top. But at the end a curved metal arm crossed the stock, ending in tension pulleys and a quiver of five small crossbow bolts secured along the length of the stock.

  Ulrika backed away, her legs heavy. He placed a finger to his lips, walking forwards with confidence. Ulrika bit her lip as a black man approached and knelt. He placed a hand under the bottom of the vehicle in one swift movement, keeping his eyes on the edge of the forest, before turning to Ulrika.

  ‘Move to one side, do nothing.’

  He was a she. It was a woman’s voice. She looked at Ulrika, talking with one side of her mouth. When she spoke, the muscles of one side of her face worked, the other remaining lazy or dead.

  Ulrika nodded, trying to place the accent, trying not to look. A gust of wind sent the trees into motion. That was when she became aware of her jeans and panties hanging around her ankles and thighs, the cold touching her fresh white buttocks, covering them in goose bumps.

  She dressed, urged on with few words and fewer actions. They left the woods and was entering the edge of a glade when Ulrika heard the muffled sound of something, turning as a small explosion erupted from the direction of the pickup, followed by the sound of tearing metal and shattered glass.

  The car park was empty other than Conrad’s car, the blue and white Volvo not in its usual place. ‘No police,’ he mumbled, turning to read a newspaper clipping he carried in his hand.

  Justin came to look out of the window.

  ‘This was from Almquist.’

  Justin looked across and took the article offered by Ash. ‘When?’

  ‘Today. He left me a note,’ he said perplexed.

  ‘What did it say?’

  Ash shrugged, ‘just that the clipping might be of interest...’

  Justin looked up. ‘He wasn’t here today.’

  ‘Conrad had it with him.’

  ‘Conrad? He met Almquist?’

  ‘He says he did, unless it’s his stupid idea of a trick.’

  Justin read the text. It was in Swedish and could only understand a little. As far as he could tell, the clipping was old. It told of the visit of a group of archaeologists, one of whom had been Gustav Kron. It showed a faded picture of five men standing on what he presumed was the top of the monolith. A little piece of history was what it was. A little piece of worthless history...

  He watched Ash place the kettle back on the kitchen worktop and walk to the window. Justin placed it the windowsill and looked out of the window to see Almquist’s car approach, nearing the homestead. He followed it for a moment until he heard a sound, a sharp crack, like a whip. He watched it veer off the side of the road. It took a moment for him to understand what he was seeing as it spun left and collided head-on into the thick trunk of a stout beech tree with a crunch, followed by the sound of a rising engine and spinning wheels clawing the earth. With a gut-wrenching, sinking feeling, Justin turned and ran, the memory of the hole in the windshield engraining itself forever in his unpleasant-memory bin.

  Chapter 15

  FORCES OF DESTRUCTION

  Vafthruthnir spake:

  Of the runes of the gods

  and the giants’ race

  The truth indeed can I tell,

  (For to every world have I won;)

  To nine worlds came I,

  to Niflhel beneath,

  The home where dead men dwell.

  Stanza 43, Vafthruthnismol

  The Ballad of Vafthruthnir

  It was as if the sound of the impact pushed a button bringing Ash to life. ‘We’re getting out of here!’

  Conrad entered the room, eyes wild. He ran to the window and registered something was wrong. ‘Two cars are better than one. Daniel, you come with me in the car. Ash can take Ulrika’s car with Justin. Then Conrad turned away from the window looking determined. ‘It’s time for you to get back to your families, for those of you who have one.’

  They stood, undecided.

  ‘Do it!’ Conrad shouted. ‘Get what you can. We’re leaving. Now!’

  Daniel started to run out of the kitchen when Justin looked at Conrad. ‘What about the police?’

  Conrad ignored the question. ‘We split up, get the first ferry to Copenhagen...’

  Outside it had started to rain.

  Justin looked over to Conrad as he left the kitchen, running down the corridor to the front door. Tentatively, he stepped forwards to open the window and opened it a fraction, peering up to the top of the monolith. Nobody. He looked over to the police car parked closer to the road. No one; he listened. Nothing. Then a faint sound; the ping ping ping of an engine block cooling.

  It came from Almquist’s car.

  Ash scribbled a brief note on the kitchen table, signing and dating it. Then he left the kitchen, running down the corridor to the open front door – and the sight of Conrad’s car disappearing into the main road. ‘Conrad... he’s already bolted!’

  Justin appeared next to Ash, looking outside. He stopped, seeing the axe leaning against the wall. Without a second thought Ash picked it up and departed Gotfridsgaarden, feet crunching on gravel as keys in hand, he sprinted towards Ulrika’s battered old Fiat.

  Justin felt like someone under water, looking up at the outside world. Looking through a filter, a distorted looking glass, into a world familiar but where all the normal rules had been gathered in and new ones handed out. It felt unreal, aware of events overtaking him, beyond his control in the distance. There was no imminent sense of danger. No one was running up the road waving a gun, or charging at him with a lance on horseback. And yet, it was close and as sure as the tide changes.

  And it was coming his way.

  Justin charged through the wind and rain, reaching Ulrika’s car and opened the passenger door, climbing inside. He heard another car door thrown open. It came from Almquist’s car. He looked up the road, to the wide-eyed, drunken form of Sebastian Chivers. He was struggling to get out, then running towards him, keeping low, half limping, half running down the dirt road towards Gotfridsgaarden, looking nervously from side to side. Maybe they didn’t know he was here? Of course they knew he was here.

  They were here.

  Ash sprinted around to the driver’s door buffeted by a thrashing wind. He threw the axe into the backseat, noticing Justin was looking in the direction of the road, to where Sebastian Chivers was running towards them. He faltered as he ran, soaking his trousers as he stumbled through a puddle not more than a hundred meters away, holding something under his arm. Behind him escaped the steam from the smashed radiator of detective Hasse Almquist’s car, dissipating lightly within the mist of rain.

  Ash buckled himself in, turned the ignition, firing the little rusting 127 into life. ‘We should go and take a look.’ Except, he didn’t want to take a look, dreading what he would find there. For a moment, he remembered Almquist’s tale of the accident on the motorway to Oslo...

  Ash shook his head. ‘No time,’ releasing the brake.

  Old worn tires ate wet dirt, the little Fiat sliding as it hit the road. It sped past Almquist’s car, heading directly towards Chivers who had stopped in the middle of the road, waving his hands desperately for the car to stop. Ash gunned the engine, Chivers ran out into the road. Ash was going to hit him, then Chivers sprang to the side at the last moment as they sped past.

  ‘It looks like he has the painting!’

  Ash had barely driven fifty meters before he hit t
he brakes, sliding to the side. It wasn’t Sebastian Chivers who was the reason. There, ahead of them, sitting in the middle of the road was the squat form of a red pickup, waiting, blocking the road, denying them escape to the main road. Ash looked over his shoulder, then threw the car into reverse, wheels spinning in the mud, head turned, looking out the back window at Chivers running desperately towards them. He slid to a halt a second time, throwing the wheel hard over, reversing and backing into a ditch, close to Chivers.

  Justin cursed, undoing his belt, opening the door, looking around as he crouched, sliding the seat forwards, offering Chivers access to the back. Chivers needed no persuasion, gasping for air as he dived in, throwing a bundle into the seat next to him, the door closing behind him. Then the Fiat was moving forwards, engine screaming, as Ash gunned the car in the opposite direction. Justin looked away from the squat shape of the red pickup still in the middle of the road, to see Almquist’s lifeless head slumped forward, hanging over the steering wheel, restrained by his seat belt.

  Fabian knew the time; she knew the place. Her plan was simple: wait for the move. Take the initiative.

  She removed the nylon bag, unzipping it and removing the pieces of Ingwe. She kneeled, removing the barrel section from the foam lining, followed by the tan-and-green plastic composite stock, locking them together with a click. She removed the tripod, attaching it to the front of the rifle, locking it into place with another click, then attached the scope and clipping the sling last. She re-zipped the nylon case, replacing it on her back, swinging the rifle around onto her shoulder and looked down at the compass hung from a chain around her neck. Taking a line of sight, she read the bearing, satisfied that the rock formation in front of her was the right place. Stepping forward at a trot, she threaded her way through the undergrowth, choosing a line between the trees and yellowed ferns behind a line of rising rock. She climbed and ran as above her, trees swayed in a rising seething wind, gusts blowing from above, a loud whoosh inflating the air with a power she had never felt before.