Hammer of the Gods

by B. D. MacCallum

  If he had known taking that case wood turn his life into a never-ending-shit-storm, he would’ve called-off sick, feigned a coma, volunteered for medical experiments, anything to avoid being handed that goddamned case!

  Before he knew what hit him, his wife left him, his beautiful home in the burbs was gone, and his career was spiraling downward out of control. All the while, Thor Odinsson figuratively passing out photos of LeMay looking like a monkey trying to fuck a football. It took years for LeMay to read the writing on the wall and drop his unrelenting chase to catch Thor Odinsson, before his superiors suggested he check into the Ha-ha Hotel.

  It took a few more years for his career to recover to a semblance of respectability – though some of the older agents still referred to him as Ahab to the great white whale: Thor Odinsson.

  LeMay shook his head. Best not to go back there, he was in a bad enough mood as it was.

  He finished his coffee, feeling more human than he had in days, and deciding he was taking ten pounds of this stuff home with him, if it meant leaving his clothes behind.

  He studied the arrival board. Good. His contact’s plane was still an hour and a half out, plenty of time for him to grab a bite to eat. He only hoped to find a non-pretentious burger joint. LeMay didn’t care what the fucking cow’s name was, just that his cheeseburger was tasty.

  Later, he stood by the gate, leaning against his carry-on. His stomach was full of cheeseburger from an anonymous donor, and half of his third cup of coffee – handed to him by a cute, young woman referring to herself as a “barista”: Oregonian for the angst riddled person making you coffee.

  There were a couple of things bothering LeMay about this whole thing, his flying blind at the forefront. He hadn’t worked with Interpol before, but so far, they hadn’t been very forthcoming about their case on Odinsson. In fact, they were more secretive than the C.I.A. Director in a press conference. LeMay didn’t know anyone that had dealt with Interpol before, so he had no idea if this was normal procedure, or they just wanted him to feel special.

  LeMay was no fool, he knew the only reason the international agency dragged him into their investigation was to tap the wealth of knowledge he had on their suspect, and that was fine with him. He was happy taking the back seat to this particular ride. Let someone else have the pleasure of pulling their hair out when this falls apart like a paper sack in the Portland rain.

  The other thing gnawing at LeMay’s insides didn’t require a calculator to tell him didn’t add-up. His new partner, Tilde Heitman, had only been a Copenhagen cop for two years before being recruited by Interpol, where she’d been an agent for less than that. That was a whole lot of inexperience to put in charge of an international case involving a man suspected of making more than a dozen people around the world disappear! So, unless this Danish woman was a super-genius criminologist with a mountain of evidence, this was going to be a very unfruitful venture.

  There was finally movement in the gate as the passengers began to depart. The second in line had to be Heitman; how many six-foot-tall, strawberry-blonde women could be on one plane?

  Son-of-a-bitch! LeMay thought. She flew first class; I gotta get me a job with Interpol!

  Martin LeMay nodded curtly as the woman made her way toward him thrusting her hand out. “Tilde Heitman,” she said in a pleasant voice. “You must be Agent LeMay.”

  The day just made a turn for the better; Tilde Heitman was the second most beautiful woman he’d ever met. She was tall and shapely, with legs that went for miles. Her fine, straight hair hung past her shoulders. LeMay was sure it would shine in the sun like strands of copper and gold, if the goddamned sun ever shone in this place. Chills ran down LeMay’s spine as he looked into her light-blue eyes. It would be difficult to deny those eyes anything they desired. Anything!

  Twenty years ago, LeMay would’ve been awe-struck, with all sorts of thoughts running through his head. He never considered himself particularly good looking, but he was far from Quasimodo, either. His wife had said he was “ruggedly-handsome”. That, however, was a long time ago, and before she became his ex-wife, and before a lifetime of experience worked its magic. Time had taught him the difference between a pretty face and true beauty; the former could be faked with make-up, the latter needed no make-up to enhance.

  LeMay looked into Heitman’s eyes; the glint staring back said she wasn’t used to hearing the word “no”. If the woman thought to keep Thor Odinsson off balance with a flash of her smile and batting those blue eyes, she was in for a long, hard road filled with disappointment. Sure, the woman was gorgeous; but so were the woman that threw themselves at Odinsson’s feet, daily, not to mention the ever-expanding harem of beautiful – Yes, beautiful! – women that accompanies him everywhere. It must be like living in a goddamned Robert Palmer video. Not that LeMay was jealous, just realistic, that’s all.

  I should’ve called-off work!

  Tilde’s brow furrowed. “Are you alright?” she asked with concern.

  LeMay nodded slowly. “Yes,” he said quickly. “I guess I had too much coffee.”

  The woman gave a surprised look, then laughed. “Is that even possible?” she asked, smiling.

  Oh, you do have a way with words! He smiled at her. “Only on occasion,” he said, amused. “Are you hungry?”

  “No,” she said, placing a hand to her stomach. “The meal on the plane was much more than I could ever eat.”

  LeMay shook his head. I gotta get me a job with Interpol!

  They placed their luggage into the trunk of the rental car, and LeMay drove them away from the airport; heading for a small bar in the northeast. It was a quiet out-of-the-way place where he could ask a shit-load of questions. There had better be a shit-load of very good answers, if he was going to stick his head in this particular noose again; the previous times left rope-burns that will never heal.

  LeMay thanked the waitress as she sat the drinks on the table, then laughed softly with amusement. This was, probably, the only city on earth where ordering straight orange juice in a bar didn’t earn you a second glance.

  The past few hours had been very enlightening to say the least. Tilde had been surprised that more of his questions were about her career than the current case, but she answered them, nevertheless.

  Her inexperience was worse than he originally thought. The woman had a few minor busts, before being recruited by Interpol. That alone put up a red flag; there are a few reasons for rapid advancement, not all of them good. She had been involved with a few high-profile international cases, but as little more than back-up. Ultimately, it was the lack of experience that earned her the right to travel to Portland on a futile errand, when everyone else became suddenly too burdened with other cases. They were the real intelligent ones!

  LeMay didn’t like being put in the middle of this shit, especially with a rookie that believed she honestly stood a chance at bringing Odinsson down at the helm. That wasn’t going to happen with everything Heitman told him so far. Hell, the evidence the international agency had on Odinsson smelled as bad as the Charles River during a summer heat-wave, but the woman didn’t seem concerned. It must be more of that not used to hearing the word “no” shit.

  Heitman had that look in her eyes – LeMay had seen it a thousand times before; mainly when he looked in a mirror – this was her chance at easy-street, and she was ready to wrestle a bull to the ground to close this case. The problem was, she was so blinded with the thought of being the one to put Odinsson behind bars, she was ignoring the fine details, and hoped LeMay would, too.

  She was wrong, of course. Paying attention to the fine details could be the difference between getting out of the bush alive or dragged out in a body bag. LeMay had survived too many missions – in countries he denied ever being in – to be ambushed by this, even if the woman sitting across the table was ready to jump in with both feet. There was a trap being set, there was no denying that fact; the air was suddenly electrified with the anticipation of its being sprung.r />
  The bad thing about traps: they were austere by nature, and snagged the wrong target just as many times as the right one. It had been a long time since LeMay had to detect a tripwire in the jungle; he only hoped he wasn’t too out of practice.

  LeMay took a sip of orange juice; it was good, fresh-squeezed and cold. “Let me get this straight,” he said staring into those light-blue eyes. “The Copenhagen police discovered the body of a drug dealer, Heinrich Mentz, in the trunk of a stolen car?”

  Tilde Heitman blinked, obviously irritated at more questions. “Yes,” she said flatly. “But Heinrich Mentz was not a back alley drug dealer; he controlled most of the cocaine trade in northern Europe.”

  “And you’ve got nothing but a single fingerprint, left on the inside of the trunk lid, to tie it to Thor Odinsson?” LeMay was trying to hide his irritation, but it was getting difficult. “Doesn’t Interpol find it strange that Odinsson’s DNA wasn’t on the car or the body?”

  Tilde sniffed her juice before taking a sip. “Of course, we find it strange. But the fact remains, Thor Odinsson was in Copenhagen when Mentz was killed… I agree the evidence is weak, but it is better than nothing.” She looked at him with those blue eyes, and he could feel the noose tightening around his neck.

  “Was Odinsson alone?” LeMay asked, his eyes drifting toward the window. It had stopped raining, and a rainbow arced across the sky. I’ll be goddamned, the sun really does shine here! I should grab my camera, head for Mount Hood, and get me a picture of Bigfoot.

  His mother would’ve said the rainbow was a sign of good things to come. She had that kind of cheery outlook on life. LeMay doubted it, though; those brilliant colors would fade and turn black whenever he was around Odinsson. Another shit-storm was coming, and he didn’t even have an umbrella.

  “No,” tilde said. “There were seven women with him: Bryndis Angantýrsdóttir, Michelle Acier, Else Obermeijer – “

  “I know the rest,” LeMay cut her off. He sighed, shaking his head. The colors of the rainbow faded, and blackness was rushing in fast. “As much as it pains me to say this; I don’t know who or why, but someone is framing Thor Odinsson.”

  Tilde stared incredulous. You would’ve thought he just said the Pope was an atheist. “What makes you say that?” she asked, her brow furrowing further.

  LeMay finished his juice. “Two reasons. One: you have a body. If you really did your homework, you’d know half the reason no one pinned a thing on Odinsson, no bodies were ever found. Two: Thor Odinsson would never do anything to endanger those women. A murder would make them accomplices in the eyes of the law, and targets to Mentz’s associates.”

  What the Hell was he doing? Was he actually defending that son-of-a-bitch? Oh God, I’m getting senile in my old age.

  “What makes you so sure?” Her eyes twinkled in the sunlight like pale sapphires. “It’s my understanding Mister Odinsson started a war among the various crime families in Boston – your hometown I believe – nine years ago. If my facts are correct, Michelle Acier was at the center of that.” She raised an eyebrow – LeMay hated when women did that; it usually meant they thought you were an idiot. “More than six hundred people died in two weeks. Perhaps Mister Odinsson was less concerned with the safety of those around him then.”

  “Else Obermeijer deserted the German Army, and was a fugitive in the Republic of Congo. Seven years ago, she stole a military helicopter and gunned-down three dozen people with it.” Tilde’s eyes turned cold. “But Thor Odinsson’s money made those problems go away.”

  “Until forty-five years ago, Odinsson’s ship’s captain, Julia Smith, didn’t even exist; a pretty remarkable feat for someone with the age seventy-four on their captain’s license and passport, wouldn’t you agree? Who she is, and where she came from are still mysteries. Then, no one really knows anything about his crew either. There are plenty of speculations, but nothing solid. One thing’s for sure, they’re not Canadian, no matter what their passports say.”

  “Jennifer Kingston was a budding Australian actress, until she was arrested for transporting heroine. She claimed she knew nothing about the drugs in her bag, a popular story, and overused… Need I go on?”

  LeMay took a deep breath. This woman had done her homework, but that didn’t mean much; he did so much digging he could’ve gotten his degree in archeology, and was never able to prove a damned thing.

  “You left out the part, there was no evidence implicating Odinsson,” LeMay said. He hated having to defend the Bureau… especially to someone from another law enforcement agency.

  Tilde raised an eyebrow again! “There never seems to be evidence linking Odinsson to anything. Even when eyewitnesses are involved.” She finished her juice, obviously disliking the taste. “I do have one question for you.”

  LeMay stared her in the eye. “Fair enough. Shoot.”

  “Why did you almost ruin your career trying to prove Odinsson guilty?”

  That was the question LeMay asked himself daily for five years. “Because he was.”

  “Then, why did you stop?”

  “An old friend taught me the three truths,” he said quietly. Tilde looked puzzled. LeMay smiled. “There are the things you think are true, things you know are true, and things you can prove are true. What keeps you sane, is knowing the difference.” It took him a long time to learn that lesson.

  She nodded slowly, considering his words.

  “This is your case,” LeMay said, holding the glass above his head for a refill. It was great orange juice. “I’ll help all I can. So, I’ll begin by telling you a few things about your suspect. Take your IQ, double it, soak it in Scotch, and add eighty-billion-dollars-worth of contempt for the legal system. Shake well, pour over ice.”

  Tilde frowned. “You Americans are so fond of metaphors.”

  “Then, here’s another one from someone with a lot of experience,” he warned. “If you give him half an opportunity, he’ll fuck your mind up.” He had been warned about watching his language around female agents before, but LeMay figured this one could hold her own. “This is all a game to him, and he’s very good at it! By the time you think you’ve got it all figured out and are one move ahead, Odinsson changes the rules and you’re a dozen moves behind.”

  Tilde leaned closer. “How did he fuck your mind up?”

  The sun was shining brightly; the raindrops clinging to leaves glistening like someone had sprinkled glitter over the trees. A middle-aged couple was walking on the other side of the street, dressed in shorts, tee shirts and rubber boots, holding hands and laughing as they jumped into the puddles on the sidewalk. This city is insane!

  LeMay fixed his gaze on the woman across the table. “Nine years ago, on the anniversary of her death, four of the five boys that killed Odinsson’s best friend disappeared. We put the last one, a senator’s son, in protective custody. The two agents guarding the boy released him for transfer to a safe house to an agent named, Faen Tadeg. That was the last time anyone saw the kid again… The real transport showed up two minutes later.”

  Tilde seemed amused. “He has a sense of humor. Faen ta deg is Norwegian for ‘fuck you’.”

  LeMay shook his head. “We could’ve used you back then. It took a day to figure that out.”

  The waitress appeared with the juice. LeMay handed her a five dollar bill, and told her to keep the change. It was worth double that; he couldn’t remember the last time he had fresh-squeezed juice.

  “What makes you believe the message was meant for you?” Tilde asked.

  “Because, after both agents picked Odinsson out of two different line-ups, they said the false agent said: ‘Tell LeMay he still owes me a bottle of Pschitt!’ ”

  “Why didn’t you arrest Odinsson, then?”

  “A hundred people placed Odinsson here in Portland when the first four disappeared. Odinsson was in Boston when the senator’s son was taken, but there’s no way in hell he took the kid; I was interrogating him at the time it happened.” LeMay got a dista
nt look in his eyes.

  “What is it?” Tilde asked softly.

  LeMay looked up, letting himself be pulled in by those blue eyes. “Before an army of Odinsson’s lawyers showed-up, I played it a little rough, trying to make the kid crack. Odinsson seemed scared to death. All I had to do was press a little to get him to admit to putting a hit on the boys. During my “fit” I took his bottle of French soda, Pschitt! to be exact, and threw it across the room.”

  The female agent stared blankly. LeMay could see her working things out in her head. Those beautiful blue eyes – tinged with signs of wanting to plea for help, but not wanting to appear weak – locked onto his. Good, you’ve just figured out how difficult this is going to be.

  Lemany’s attention was drawn to the flat-screen behind the bar. An aerial-view showed the mass graves in the Florida Everglades, then a smaller clearing with a burned-out car and a pile of charred debris that may have been a building. He hadn’t heard about the car, but everyone in the Bureau knew of the graves in glades three days ago. It was going to be Hell sorting that mess out.

  “… In an ironic twist, a serial-killer was found a few miles from where he buried his own victims. DNA tests confirm the burned remains found in the Florida Everglades belonged to Russell Jenkins. In a letter recovered from a security-deposit box, Jenkins confessed to murdering eighty-one people over the past twenty years. The body was discovered around nine A.M. yesterday morning, after an anonymous tip led officials to the area.”

  “A video of Jenkins’ torture and death popped-up on the internet just prior to the body being found. Sources say the video originated outside the U.S., but from where, exactly, is unclear, and will take time to sort out. The overwhelming volume of internet traffic caused by the troubling video has crashed dozens of servers world-wide. The result of those crashes has left nations in turmoil, affecting major businesses, and shutting-down global stock markets.”