by Linda Grimes
Nils handcuffed me back to the bed, but didn’t attempt any funny business. I couldn’t help feeling some part of him was decent,
hard as it was to reconcile that with him being buddies with someone like Per. Guess he just realy didn’t like to pee sitting down.
At least he left me a pile of the latest American gossip rags, including my favorite, World Wag Weekly . There must be a large
English readership in Sweden if he could find it here. I hoped it might help distract me, and it did. Page six especialy, where an
article headlined “Undercover Liz” caught my eye. Sure enough, the reporter had an exclusive with an American tourist in the
Bahamas. The lady claimed she’d helped Queen Elizabeth with her shopping, and that the monarch had let it slip she would’ve
had Diana kiled if it had stil been within the Royal Prerogative. Geez. The woman must’ve been on the phone to a reporter within
minutes after Bily and I left the store. Good thing nobody realy believed these stories.
An hour or two later—it’s hard to keep track in a clock-less room—I heard snores and decided to risk some recon. Morphing
into Moly once again, I freed my wrist and then returned to the Mina shape that had become normal for me. I roled as quietly as
possible off the bed and crossed quickly to the dresser. Faint light filtered through the curtains—could it be dawn already? Then I
remembered where I probably was. Summertime sunrise comes early in Sweden.
I opened each drawer gingerly, searching for anything blunt and heavy. Nothing but some ratty old long johns and thick woolen
socks. Damn. I’d have to check the kitchen.
As before, the door cooperated. No teltale squeak gave me away. I could see three forms sprawled and sleeping, one on the
sofa and two on the floor. The loudest snorer was one of the Vikings. Must be Per. Surely Nils wouldn’t make sounds like that. I
eased myself out of the bedroom and tiptoed over to the kitchen.
Ah-ha! On the stove was a cast-iron skilet. Perfect. Precisely how hard did you have to hit someone on the head to knock him
out without kiling him? I wasn’t sure. Guess I’d just have to bash away and hope for the best. And hit al three of them in rapid
succession; otherwise, I’d risk one or two of them waking up before I was done. Couldn’t imagine any of them, not even Nils,
taking kindly to this part of my escape plan.
I’d hit Per last—his snoring might cover up any sound the other two made. The Indian would be first. He was on the sofa, and
farthest away from Per. Then Nils, and finaly the asshole. I felt bad about hitting the first two (wel, not so much Nonto—I was
ambivalent about him), but I was kind of looking forward to introducing Per’s head to a cooking utensil. It would be like dessert
after an unappetizing meal.
I crept closer, raising the skilet with both hands as I went. Geez, it was heavy. With this sucker, you could weight-train while
you cooked.
The three of them continued to sleep soundly. Nils was on his back, head pilowed on a chair cushion, hair mussed, eyes
moving rapidly beneath his eyelids, and the merest hint of a smile playing on his lips. He must be dreaming. About Mina?
I paused. He’d been polite to me. Nice, realy, if you compared him to Per, and ignored the fact that he’d maybe been the one
to shoot Pete.
Damn it! I couldn’t do it. I was going to wuss out. I couldn’t bring myself to risk kiling him. Shit. What kind of woman
couldn’t hit a man with a frying pan? I couldn’t even carry out a fucking cliché. Disgusted with myself, I lowered my arms. Now
I’d have to sneak back into my room and spend the rest of the night berating my cowardice. I hate berating my cowardice.
Unless …
I hadn’t planned to look for the keys until the gang was safely dispatched, but since they were so soundly asleep, I might as
wel try anyway. I scanned the room, searching the tops of the end tables, the dining table, and the bookshelves on my way back
to the kitchen nook. I thought about putting the skilet back on the stove, but decided against it. Heavy and awkward as it was to
manage, it was stil the only weapon I had at hand. Holding it tightly with one hand, I used the other to push the empty grocery
bags out of the way, and immediately stifled a whoop.
Pay dirt!
The keys were there, next to a bunch of receipts. Guess even criminal organizations have to keep track of expenses. I pressed
the simple key ring tightly into my palm—didn’t want to be given away by any stray jingles—and snuck back to my room. I
figured my best shot at getting out of the house undetected was through the same window I’d come in earlier.
On my way across the room, my left foot found the one floorboard in the house that creaked. I cringed at the sound and stood
frozen until I could be sure the snoring from the next room continued. Various snorks and rumbles reassured me.
The window slid open easily, once I remembered to unlatch it. Between the long dress and the unwieldy frying pan, it was
difficult to haul myself through, but I managed, going out feet-first and dropping soundlessly to the ground. (Mostly. Unless you
count the muffled “Shit!” when I banged the skilet against my knee as I hit the grass.)
I turned around to shut the window behind me—anything to help dampen the sound of the car engine—and jumped back when
Per’s head popped out of it, a snarl on his lips. Reaching for me, he gave a big shout-out to his buddies.
Crap! I raised my arms and brought them down swiftly, bashing his forehead a good one. Pan, meet Per. Per, pan. There,
intro complete. His eyes widened for just a second before they fel shut, and he slumped over the sil.
I dropped the skilet and ran for al I was worth, fuckity-fucking under my breath al the way to the car. Keys stil in a death-grip, I yanked the car door open, dove in, and puled most of my dress in behind me. With trembling hands, I found the ignition.
Cranked it. The car lurched forward, then jerked to a stop, rattling my teeth.
Right. Manual transmission. Okay, I knew how to do this. Didn’t do it often, but I could. Clutch. Stick in first. Turn the key.
The engine roared in my ears as a wild-eyed face appeared in the driver’s side window.
Fuck!
This Nils looked like he could kil me without blinking an eye. I should’ve bashed him while I had the chance. See what you get
for being nice?
I locked the door with one hand at the same time I released the clutch and stomped on the gas. Repeated the clutching process,
gaining momentum with each shift. Surely he couldn’t keep up with a speeding car—he’d have to let go, or else risk getting
dragged.
Or he might just give a mighty heave with his legs and wind up on top of the car. Shit!
I stomped on the gas, veered to the right, and found myself in the wooded area behind the farm, slaloming between the larger
trees and mowing down the smaler ones. Nils pounded on the car top, sliding from side to side above me. I caught glimpses of his
feet through the windows. Why didn’t the idiot just get off? Did he want to die?
I puled to the left, and narrowly avoided turning the Mini into a Christmas tree ornament. Found myself bearing down on a
primitive-looking horse.
Oh, for the love of…! What was with this place?
The horse stood stil, calmly gazing at me while chewing on a mouthful of something green. The trees to either side of me were
too big and too close together to risk veering again, so I braked. Hard.
What else could I do? I couldn’t hit the horse. I love horses.
Nils flew off the top of the car and landed with a thud in fron
t of the placid beast. I shoved the gearshift into reverse,
reacquainted the accelerator with the floorboard, and was back to the farm road by the time the crazy-eyed Viking was on his
feet.
Chapter 16
I drove as fast as I dared, letting instinct lead me. When you have a sense of direction like mine, that’s risky, but what choice did I
have?
Eventualy I got to a real road. Paused briefly, trying to figure out if one direction had any notable advantage over the other.
None that I could see, so I eeny-meeny-miney-moed, turned right, and floored it, for the first time in my life hoping a cop would
pul me over. No such luck. The tree-lined road, dappled with pinkish-gray, early-morning light, was deserted. I wasn’t charmed
by the fairy-tale beauty of the setting. There were ogres in these woods. Fricking big Viking ogres with needles, and I had to get
away.
After a mile or so I came upon a long driveway, at the end of which there was a farmhouse. I slowed to a stop, but stayed on
the main road. Did I dare take the time to see if anyone was home? What if they didn’t speak English? Or didn’t have a phone?
Or worst of al, what if they knew Per or Nils?
I stepped on the gas. Better not risk contact with anyone until I was in a more populated area. A couple of more miles down
the road I saw a blue destination sign, slowed just enough to read “Visby,” and sped onward. Fantastic. I sort of knew where I
was, then. Visby was the town Bily had been heading for on Gotland. Not that he’d be easy to find, but I felt better just knowing
he was in the vicinity. If I could find a phone, maybe I could even track him down.
I knew I was getting close when I saw the old stone wal in the distance, and the Baltic beyond it. Three black spires rose from
a sea of red-tiled rooftops, maybe some sort of church. I remembered Bily teling me about the wal—it dated from medieval
times and surrounded the town—but he’d extoled the virtues of the beautiful Swedish girls a lot more than the buildings, so I
wasn’t as up on the architectural details. I just hoped the town wasn’t so medievaly picturesque that I couldn’t find a public
phone.
I ditched the car in a stand of trees. It was no good to me anymore, and might be a liability if Nils had caled ahead and warned
anyone to be on the lookout for it. It was going to be hard enough to blend in, dressed as I was, and there was no point in
dropping Mina’s aura until I could find less identifiable clothes. Besides, I’d draw even more attention to myself tripping over my
hem.
The noise hit me first, before I even got close to the gate—happy babbling, raucous laughter, and lots of singing of the
decidedly unsober sort. My puzzlement grew as I passed though the gate. Groups of people stroled the bricked and cobbled
roads, making merry in languages I didn’t understand. Mostly Swedish, near as I could tel, but also some German (possibly), a
soupçon of French (maybe), and even a little Japanese (okay, that one was a stab in the dark). Most of them were dressed as
oddly as I was. What was going on?
I kept to the smaler roads and avoided eye contact with anyone until I came upon a group of joly, English-speaking inebriates,
and smiled at a girl dressed in garb similar to my own. She smiled back and said, “Isn’t this the coolest place? Too bad the festival
is only once a year.”
Festival? Okay, that would explain the clothes. I’d been to Renaissance Faires in the States—guess this was similar. “Yeah, too
bad, “ I said, feigning a touch of tipsiness. “Um, I seem to have lost my friends. You haven’t seen any big, blond Viking types,
have you?”
Laughter roled through the group. Yeah, okay, it was kind of a stupid question.
One dark-haired, skinny guy, dressed as some sort of robed medieval scholar, said, “You’re kidding, right? This place is lousy
with Vikings. Kind of trite, if you ask me.”
I shrugged. Thought about explaining that my Vikings wouldn’t necessarily be in period costumes, but decided not to waste the
time. “It’s our first visit here. They figured they’d go with tried and true.”
One of the other girls, a dreamy-eyed, golden-haired princess type, said, “Oh, I love the Vikings. They’re so … wel, so.” The
last word was carried on a sigh; the scholar roled his eyes.
“Um, yeah. So so,” I said.
One of the guys—a large, generic peasant with longish, super-curly brown hair and black-framed, squishy glasses—puled a
cel phone from his pocket and began texting someone. I almost salivated. There was my link to Bily.
The scholar tried to grab the phone. “You doofus—you’re not supposed to have that. We al agreed to play it real,” he said
with a scowl.
The peasant twisted away, blocking him with his back. “My phone is a part of me. It doesn’t count.”
“You dipshit.”
The peasant merely sniffled, wiped his nose on his sleeve (he could have a cel phone but tissues were too modern?) and
continued texting. I edged myself between the boys. “Excuse me. Could I possibly borrow your phone when you’re through? I
accidentaly left mine at the hotel, and it would sure save me a long trudge back if I could cal my friends and see where they are.”
I put forth my best damsel-in-distress vibe and smiled, stopping just short of batting my eyelashes.
“Sorry. Can’t spare the minutes. Roaming charges are already kiling me,” he said, his thumbs never pausing.
“But…” I was about to offer to pay him for his damned minutes, but of course I had no money.
“Put it away, turd. You’re ruining the experience.” The scholar was getting seriously bent out of shape.
“Screw you.” The thumbs never missed a beat.
Dreamy girl tried to intervene. “Come on, Philip. Lay off him—he’s only checking on Emmie.”
The peasant turned beet red. “I am not.”
“Jesus. She doesn’t want to hear from you, asshole!” Philip might have been a scholar, but he was not the soul of tact.
Assho—er, I mean peasant boy, turned and walked away, his eyes locked onto the two-inch display. Philip, totaly irritated,
folowed him and, after pretending to go in from the left, grabbed the phone from the right. He threw it into the nearest rosebush.
“Hey! That is not cool, jerk!” Peasant boy shoved Philip aside and dove in after his prized possession, ignoring thorns and
curious passersby alike. “If you broke it—”
“Get a life, jackhole.”
“That wasn’t very nice, Philip,” the first girl I’d approached said.
“It’s tough love. We took him on this trip to get his mind off the bitch, didn’t we? How’s he gonna do that if he keeps
contacting her?” Philip explained patiently.
As much as I wanted to get my hands on that phone, I had to admit Philip had a point. Unrequited love was painful, but
clinging patheticaly never got anyone to requite. Trust me, I know. Much better to moon longingly from afar. Wel, maybe not
better, necessarily, but less embarrassing in the long run.
The dreamy princess reached down and tugged on Peasant Boy’s pants leg. “Come out of there, Kevin. You’re getting al
scratched up.”
“I don’t care,” he said, his voice thick. I suspected he wasn’t so much hunting for his phone now as he was giving himself a
moment to recover.
“Leave him,” Philip told the girls. “Kev, we’re going. See you back at the hotel later.”
“Fine,” Kevin said, and stayed in the bushes.
The rest of the crew waved and set off down t
he narrow, cobbled road, debating the relative merits of forcing fun on someone
recovering from a broken romance. I stayed where I was, stil hoping to convince Kevin he realy wanted to let me use his phone.
As the sound of his friends receded into the distance, it was replaced by suspicious snuffling noises coming from the bushes.
Oh, God. He was crying. What was I supposed to do with a crying, barely post-adolescent peasant boy? I had problems of
my own.
I nibbled a nail and tiptoed away. Got about five steps before I stopped and turned back. I couldn’t leave him like that. Poor
kid. He was realy hurting.
I cleared my throat. The quiet sobbing stopped.
“Kevin? Are you okay?”
“Go away.”
“I wil, but first I want to make sure you can get out of there al right. You, um, your clothes might get caught on the thorns. Just
come on out and then I’l leave.”
He took a deep breath and started backing out. Sure enough, the branches grabbed him mercilessly, clinging to him even
harder than he was clinging to his lost love. I plucked them away as best I could, holding branches aside while he finished
extricating himself. He stayed on the ground, knees up, elbows hooked around them, staring into the middle distance.
I checked him over as casualy as I could, figuring the last thing he needed right now was mommy-ing. His face and arms were
crisscrossed with tiny red lines, but I didn’t think he’d need a transfusion. Nodding my approval, I deadpanned, “So, that was a
pretty impressive dive there. I give it a solid nine point five for form and a nine point seven for originality.”
That got me a ghost of a smile.
“Yeah, wel, ten years on the swim team wil do wonders for your technique,” he said. “Normaly I make it a habit to land in
water, though.”
I chuckled. “Did you at least find your phone?”
“Yeah.” He held it up by the flip top, leaving the bottom dangling by one hinge. “For al the good it does me.”
Wel, damn. Stupid Philip.
“I don’t suppose you carry a spare?” I asked, not too hopefuly, seating myself gingerly beside him, trying to avoid grass stains.
Not that I should care. They weren’t my clothes.
“If I’d known what an asshole Philip would turn out to be, I would have.”