Viking Vengeance

by Maggie Foster

  Charlie chewed on his lower lip. “Our gear was in the SUV.”

  Ginny nodded. All they had was the luggage they had brought inside with them. The good news was that mending and laundry had forced her to bring in the big bags so they were not left with just the overnighters. The bad news was that this did not include the camping gear, Jim’s medical supplies, or her pistol, which she had stashed in the SUV.

  She bit her lip. “I wish I knew what was going on.”

  “I’m sure he’ll call as soon as he can.”

  Ginny glanced over at Charlie. “He probably will, but he won’t be able to get through. Himself instructed me to turn off all the phones and not turn them back on until we reach Halifax.”

  Charlie looked over at her. “That sounds ominous.”

  “It sounds as if someone may be looking for our GPS signals.”

  “Well, if we have to call anyone, we’ve got the burner phones. They’re not supposed to be traceable.”

  Ginny shook her head. “Jim has those, too. It might be worth it to buy another, if we can do so without giving our position away. And Gordon gave me his phone to use in case of a real emergency.” It, too, was in her pocket, off, with the battery out.

  “That might confuse Detective Tran.”

  “For a little while, yes, but I’d rather not put it to the test.” Her mouth settled into a grim line. “We’re on our own until further notice. Let’s see how fast we can get up the coast and into Maine.”

  * * *

  Sunday Afternoon

  Albany Police Station

  “Good afternoon, Dr. Mackenzie.”

  “Good afternoon Detective Tran.” Jim smiled at the image on the screen.

  “I apologize for keeping you. I know you have already had a very busy day.”

  “How may I help you, Detective?” Jim was glad the detective couldn’t smell him sweat.

  “I have a few questions I would like to ask you.” He saw her glance down and assumed she’d made a list.

  “First, are you aware that Charles Monroe is missing?”

  Jim nodded. “I heard something about a boating accident.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “Friday night, at the ceilidh.”

  Jim knew not to volunteer anything, just answer the questions. There were several about Charlie’s state of mind before the boating accident and about the custodian who was supposed to be watching him. Jim did his best to answer truthfully, explaining he was neither an expert nor the best source of information.

  “Are you aware that Mr. Monroe is wanted for questioning in relation to the body that was found in the Viking longship?”

  Jim let his eyebrows rise. “It was my understanding that Monroe was so incapacitated by his alcoholism that he couldn’t dress himself. What makes you think he’s involved?”

  She ignored his question. “What are you doing in Albany?”

  Jim was ready for this one. “Ginny wants to do some genealogy and I’m hoping to get in a little skiing.”

  “Is Mr. Monroe with you?”

  Jim was also prepared for this one. He registered surprise. “What? No.” Not at the moment, anyway. Jim let his brow furrow. “Can I level with you, Detective?”

  “Of course.”

  Jim licked his lips, shifting in his chair, his eyes darting from side to side. “I’m having trouble persuading Ginny to marry me. I wanted to get her alone so I could work on her.”

  Detective Tran’s mouth edged up very slightly at the corner. “Are you having any luck?”

  Jim frowned. “Not so far.”

  “Has Mr. Monroe contacted Miss Forbes?”

  “Not that I know of and I’ve been with her almost the whole time.” True.

  “Did Mr. Monroe coerce you into taking him with you?”

  Indignation. “No! Haven’t I just told you I wanted some private time with Ginny?” Both statements were true.

  “Do you know where Mr. Monroe is?”

  “No.” Also true. He might be in Albany at the moment, or he might be on the road to Maine, or he might be somewhere entirely different, depending on what Angus had decided.

  “Would you tell me if you did?”

  Solid eye contact. Earnest good citizenship. “Yes.” A lie.

  Detective Tran studied him through the computer connection. Could she tell? Was the image clear enough for that? She nodded slowly.

  “Thank you, Dr. Mackenzie. If I have further questions, I will contact you.”

  The screen went dark and Jim was tempted to heave a sigh of relief, but he knew they might still be listening in. He was directed to the staff lounge and asked to wait.

  Jim found himself pacing. What between the explosion and the video interrogation, it was almost three p.m. He’d had enough of the Albany police. He needed to get out of here. God only knew where Ginny was at this point and God only knew what he was supposed to do about it.

  The door opened and he turned to find Gordon standing behind a female officer.

  “Thank you very much for your help Dr. Mackenzie. You’re free to go.”

  Jim didn’t need telling twice. He followed Gordon back to the Homestead, then pulled the SUV up to the front door and jumped out. He was immediately replaced by a crew of three technicians armed with sensors. He watched as they climbed inside and underneath the vehicle, then pronounced the car clean of tracking devices. As if on cue, a second crew appeared, loading Jim’s gear into the back and food into the space where Ginny’s feet should have gone.

  “This is for you.” Mrs. Gordon held out a heavy wool coat that Jim suspected had belonged to her husband. The shoulders fit and both the cloth and the cut were well above average. Jim was very pleased to see it.

  Dr. Warner and Dr. Gordon had materialized, one on each side of him, Warner armed with a syringe.

  “Rabies. It’s early, but that shouldn’t change its efficacy. Have them draw a titer when you get home.” He stabbed Jim’s upper arm with gusto and Jim bit back an exclamation. “Couldn’t I have taken that with me?” Ginny would have been gentler.

  Dr. Warner shook his head. “Needs refrigeration.”

  Gordon next. “I’ve given Miss Ginny an extra phone o’ mine, in case of emergency, but it’ll no’ be on otherwise. Here’s th’ number.” He laid his hand on Jim’s shoulder, turning him away from the others. “I’ve a word, I’d say tae ye, about Miss Ginny.”

  He turned to face Jim, catching his eye and holding it. “Ye canna protect her.”

  “Huh?”

  “Any more than she can protect ye.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I ken ye want tae, lad. ‘Tis normal for a man tae want tae protect his lass from harm, but ye canna do it. Ye canna protect her from life. Ye shouldna try.”

  Jim stood there with his jaw dropping, then flushed as he realized what Ginny must have shared with the psychiatrist.

  “I wish I ha’ more time tae work wi’ ye, but ye must go and smartly.” Gordon produced a map to which a bright yellow marker had been applied. “Follow this route. If ye hurry ye can overtake them at Sunkhaze. Good luck, lad.”

  Jim pulled himself together. “Thank you, sir.” He gripped the older man’s hand then jumped behind the wheel, threw the car in gear and headed for the gate.

  * * *

  Sunday Afternoon

  I-90, headed east

  Ginny drove into the truck stop and up to the pump.

  “Rest, gas, food,” she announced.

  Charlie nodded, opening the door and sliding carefully to the ground. Ginny handed him the crutches.

  “I’m right behind you.” She filled the tank, pulled into a parking space, and followed him inside.

  “What do you want to eat?” He handed her a menu. “Turns out this place has table service.”

  Ginny selected a chicken salad and coffee and passed her order on to the waitress who had materialized at her side. She saw the girl’s eyes linger on Charlie.
>
  Ginny grinned. “I believe you’ve made a conquest.”

  Charlie shrugged it off. “She felt sorry for me, because of these.” He indicated the crutches. “Put me over here and told me to take my time.” He looked at Ginny with a mischievous smile. “I don’t think she was happy to see you come in.”

  Ginny laughed. “Well, it doesn’t matter. We won’t be here long enough for you to break her heart.”

  “She’ll remember, though. A man on crutches and a girl with long red hair.”

  Ginny’s smile faded. He was right. They needed to stay out of sight as much as possible.

  They ate swiftly, then climbed back into the car. Ginny was driving, of necessity. Dr. Warner had prescribed no weight bearing for Charlie for two weeks. It made transporting him a challenge and how she was going to get him over the border in this condition Ginny had no idea.

  The Albany Homestead had given them a front wheel drive hatchback with a surprising amount of leg room. Charlie had scooted the seat back as far as it would go and propped the leg up on the dashboard, to keep the swelling to a minimum.

  “Does it hurt?”

  He shrugged. “Some.”

  “You let me know if you have any problems.”

  He nodded, then sighed. “Stupid move. I’m sorry.”

  She smiled over at him. “Apology accepted. Now forget it.”

  “Gonna be kind of hard. I can’t exactly drag this leg through the snow. Not on crutches.”

  “We’ll figure it out.”

  They drove up the coast, watching the light fade on the Atlantic Ocean. Ginny got a glimpse of the water each time the road went over an intersection. It look cold, and the sky continued to be heavy with clouds.

  “More snow, do you think?”

  Charlie peered out the window. “Hard to tell.”

  They lapsed into silence, and Ginny found her mind wandering back to Jim. He wasn’t exactly left behind, he had the SUV, but Angus had decided she and Charlie should leave Albany immediately. What had precipitated that? And how was Jim involved? Because he was, of that Ginny had no doubt.

  “Talk to me, Charlie. I need distracting.”

  He looked over at her. “What should I say?”

  “Anything. Tell me about your life. Have you ever been out of the country before?”

  He nodded slowly. “Yep. I have.”

  He took his sweet time getting started, but, once launched, Ginny found herself breathless at the tales he told. She’d had no idea his military career had been so far-flung.

  When he reached the part where he’d come home to settle down with his family, his voice tapered off and Ginny stepped into the breach, offering stories about her own travels. In an effort to cheer him up, she recounted some of the funny things that had happened, the small mistakes that somehow prove no one is immune from foolishness. She had him chuckling, then laughing outright and tucked the sound away in her heart. The hours passed and, sooner than they expected, they found themselves coming into Bangor. Charlie was navigating.

  “The Homestead is on the other side. We need to cross the Penobscot River and pick up 178 headed north.”

  The snow had started again, softening the edges of the road and obscuring traffic signals. They moved carefully through the twisting streets, sinking to almost river level, then rising again on the other side of the bridge. Another half hour found them headed north and into Edington.

  “There it is.” Charlie pointed out the first of the signs. They turned east, following Hwy 9. Ten minutes later they were at the entrance to the Sunkhaze Homestead.

  * * *

  Chapter 24

  Saturday, Very Early Morning

  Taconic Parkway, NY

  Charlie peered into the gloom, confused by the shifting lights on the snow. They made it hard to estimate distance. Even as good as he was at hunting, and he was, the unfamiliar terrain had him at a disadvantage. He kept missing his footing, slipping on the wet forest floor, and walking into overhanging branches. He was cold, wet, tired, and he was dismayed.

  He hadn’t planned any of this. He hadn’t planned to kill that monster, or to confess, or to be a fugitive from justice. The last time he’d been out in the forest at night was that camping trip two years ago, with Mandy and the girls.

  Mandy! Dear God! Mandy and Beth and Annie, all dead. How was he to bear it? The tears overflowed, running down his cheeks, warm with pain.

  He brushed at his eyes, stumbling forward. What had made him think he could escape? Did he really believe running off to Canada would work?

  The wind had died down and the night was filled with small noises, recognizable as rodents or birds or snow falling off the branches. Nothing to fear. No reason to fear anything, anyway, even death. Would he get credit in heaven if he died out here?

  He was fighting for credit. He’d left the other two asleep in the car with the idea that he would draw his guilt away from them. What had they done to deserve being imprisoned for helping him? He should have chosen to stay in Dallas, to take his punishment like a man. Why had he allowed them to put themselves at risk? The memory of the two of them, curled up together, his arms around her, brought a fresh wave of tears.

  He struggled to the top of a small rise, then paused for a moment to look around. Amazing how deep the snow was. It would be easy to freeze out here. He’d heard it was a painless death, hypothermia. You got tired, then sleepy, then died without noticing.

  He didn’t deserve an easy death, though. That was what he’d been thinking when he chose exile, a long life full of exquisite pain. Fitting for him, for his crime. For not being able to protect his girls.

  He covered his face with his hands, his shoulders shaking and in his mind he heard Mandy’s voice. She was singing to him. Oh, Charlie is my darling, my darling, my darling.

  She had sung it to him first on their honeymoon, when he lay half asleep and she thought he wasn’t listening. Later, she had sung it as a lullaby. He’d been ill and fretful. Then, one day, on a picnic, she had turned to him and sung it, laughing, running, teasing, beckoning him to follow her.

  He lifted his head and tried to locate the sound. It was coming from that clump of trees, ahead and on the left. He pricked his ears to catch the tune again. Yes! There it was! He stumbled down the rise and started up the ridge.

  Charlie is my darling. She’d meant it that time. He could still see her face: high cheekbones and wide set blue eyes, freckles across her nose, laughing rosebud lips. He struggled to the top of the ridge and looked around. There! He’d seen something white whisk around behind the tree. He hurried to follow.

  He plunged into a snow drift. It was a lot deeper then he’d realized, but he couldn’t let that stop him. He had to catch up to her. He struggled forward, fighting his way through the heavy, wet snow. The backpack was slowing him down. He shrugged it off.

  Charlie!

  Over to the right. He’d missed her somehow. He turned right and pushed on, deeper into the forest, out of the heavy snow and into a clearing. There was moonlight here and forest floor and shifting shadows. She had to be here.

  Charlie!

  He jerked his head up, trying to see where the sound came from and lost his balance. His left foot slid out from under him and he fell, tumbling down into the hollow, landing with a sickening sound of breaking bone on a sharp outcrop of rock beside a swollen stream.

  The next three hours seemed even more dream-like than chasing Mandy across the snow. There had been pain, followed by numbness and bitter cold, then the awareness that he was lying in a puddle, one that was growing deeper. He had roused himself enough to crawl to higher ground, but now lay listening to the sound of the rising water and another, much more cautious, sound. Something moving through the snow, breaking through the crust, then pausing to look with eyes that shone in the night, then disappeared, then shone again. It was with a sense of deep regret that Charlie remembered the gun was in the backpack he had discarded.

  He scanned the immediate a
rea, looking for anything that could be used as a weapon, and found a number of small rocks. Before he’d been allowed to use a rifle, he’d used a slingshot to bring down the squirrels from the trees. Not the rubber band variety, a sling as described in the Bible, the David and Goliath kind. He had a good eye and a good arm. All he needed was some sort of strap.

  He pulled his belt off, then dug out his wallet and his sgian dubh. He cut the wallet apart, then cut slits the width of the belt into one flap.

  He loaded a stone into the makeshift sling and climbed to his feet, all his weight on the uninjured leg. He looked around, estimating how much space he would need for a clean throw, then selected a tree in the vicinity of the glowing eyes. He whirled the sling around his head, then let fly. He missed the tree he was aiming at, but hit another. A second attempt landed right where he wanted.

  He spent the next twenty minutes stockpiling stones, then sat down on a small hummock to wait for dawn. If he was to have any chance of getting himself back to the highway, it would have to be in daylight.

  Perhaps they wouldn’t attack. Perhaps they would think him too difficult a target. He loosed a stone anytime he saw those flashing eyes, but was pretty sure it was a hopeless endeavor. Wolves were pack animals. It was February, and he’d seen more than one. They looked hungry.

  He fought the urge to give up, to settle down in the snow and go to sleep. He set his mouth in grim determination. If they wanted to eat him, they would have to kill him first, and he was going to go down fighting.

  * * *

  Saturday Dawn

  Taconic Parkway, NY

  The first thing Jim noticed when he woke was how cold his nose felt, then the condition of his bladder, then the soft warmth nestled up against him shifted, and he realized it was alive. This brought a smile to his face even before he opened his eyes. He considered going back to sleep, but, realistically, he couldn’t do that. He needed to move.

  He pulled his arm out from under her head and eased the blanket free, then had to figure out how to rise from the confined space without waking her. He ended with a modified pushup that allowed him to roll over and put his weight on his toes, then rock back on his knees and ankles.