Hammer of the Gods

by B. D. MacCallum

  His free hand fumbled in the small bag on the seat between him and Tilde. He pulled a night-vision scope free, and focused it on the hilltop. Odinsson was up there, sitting with a woman. Both had an arm around the other, staring at the immense building. Even the Devil deserves the right to grieve.

  He scanned the grounds, searching for Odinsson’s private security, but came up empty. They were out there somewhere, and by the way his spine itched, had at least one high-powered rifle pointed at him.

  “In my country, criminals fear the police,” she said.

  LeMay sipped his coffee, wishing he had a maple-bacon doughnut to go with it. “Love trumps fear every time.”

  The Interpol agent raised an eyebrow. Either LeMay was too tired from lack of sleep or just getting used to seeing it; he thought it amusing.

  LeMay nodded toward the hill. “Up there is the patron saint of Portland. He’s funded so many charities, food banks, and scholarships, I doubt he even knows how many there actually are. Hell, he tripled the size of the university’s hospital when he built the Gabrielle Deseux-Odinsson wing, in his mother’s name.” LeMay stared at her levelly. “Most people don’t even know his face, but his name carries a shit-load of weight in this town. The day they put Chelsea’s body in that crypt, the road to the cemetery was lined with motorcycles for ten miles; the governor declared the area a no-fly zone, and the National Guard nearly shot down the one news chopper that tried to get footage of the funeral.”

  Tilde met his stare. “Are you afraid of him?”

  “No,” LeMay said flatly. “If Odinsson wanted me dead, I’d been pushing up daisies long ago. Besides – in some twisted sort of way – I think he likes me.”

  Tilde laughed. “What makes you think that?”

  “My third time bringing him in, he told me he wished I had led Chelsea Gillard’s murder investigation. “LeMay lowered his eyes. “So do I,” he added softly. “Maybe things would be different.”

  “Is that why you really stopped trying to arrest him? And don’t give me the story about the three truths, I don’t believe that one.”

  LeMay handed the scope to her. “Tell me what you see.”

  The young woman focused on the hill. “Thor Odinsson and a woman, sitting on a bench in front of a building.”

  “The woman is Traci Gillard, the building is her daughter’s crypt,” LeMay said quietly.

  Tilde’s brow furrowed. “I don’t understand.”

  “That’s alright,” LeMay said with a far-off look, “for too many years, neither did I.”

  LeMay finished his coffee, then cleared his throat. “Six hours after her graduation ceremony, Chelsea Gillard was kidnapped by five of her fellow students. She was taken to an abandon warehouse, where she was raped repeatedly and beaten. The M.E. said she would’ve died from internal hemorrhaging if she hadn’t been shot to death first. She was shot five times. My guess: they each shot her once. Her body was dumped in the Charles River, where it was found by a couple of joggers the next morning.”

  LeMay’s eyes drifted to the hilltop for a second. “They say when Odinsson IDed the body, he fell to his knees and wailed for over an hour. That boy loved that girl, there’s no denying that.”

  “For five Harvard grads, those boys didn’t have a lick of sense between them; the warehouse belonged to a father of one of them. They didn’t even make an attempt to clean-up the crime scene. Between the DNA in the warehouse and what was recovered from Chelsea’s body, those boys were looking to spend the rest of their lives in prison.”

  “Why didn’t they?” Tilde asked.

  LeMay stared blankly out the windshield. “Someone very well connected was smarter than those five idiots. Within days, every shred of evidence disappeared, the warehouse burned to the ground, the car they used vanished, and Chelsea’s body had been cleaned for burial… Oh, there was a huge investigation into the disappearance of the evidence, but no charges were ever filed.”

  LeMay lost his appetite, and suddenly the thought of that bacon-maple doughnut made his stomach churn. “Samuel McGuire actually wore a smirk on his face, leaving the courtroom; until Felix Kahalawal knocked it – and thirteen teeth – from his mouth. It took Thor Odinsson and eight cops to pull Kahalawal off that boy.”

  Heitman looked puzzled. “I don’t have that information on file.”

  “I’m not surprised,” LeMay snorted. “After a five minute conversation with Vali Odinsson and Julia Smith, the senator had all the charges against Felix dropped; and it was like it never happened at all.”

  “Do you think Felix Kahalawal finished what he started, or Vali and Julia finished it for him?” Tilde asked. “From what I understand, as respected as Vali Odinsson was, he had a rather shady past.”

  “No,” LeMay replied quietly. “I don’t doubt that Vali Odinsson threatened to rain-down hell on the senator; but Thor Odinsson took those boys, and rubbed all our noses in the fact we couldn’t prove it, just as he’ll do again. It’s a game he loves to play; why not, he’s very good at it.”

  He looked at Tilde. It was light enough now to see her face clearly. “Three years after I was handed the case from Hell, and ten minutes after a three-minute call from Thor Odinsson, Senator Dennis McGuire put a bullet through his own head. On the desk, next to the body, was a confession to having the evidence destroyed, and the name of the person that carried it out… He was an F.B.I. agent named David Roisen, a friend of mine.”

  There was pity in those beautiful blue eyes. “He was the one to teach you about the three truths, wasn’t he?”

  LeMay smiled sadly. “Yes.” You’re more observant, and clever than I thought. “When they pulled up to bring him in, Roisen blew his own head off in front of his wife and kids.”

  “So,” LeMay sighed. “As much as I believe Thor Odinsson killed those responsible for Chelsea’s death, I can’t prove anything. Even if he did do it, he was pushed pretty hard to do it by a politician that thought his family was above the law, a corrupt F.B.I. agent that thought the same, and a justice system that failed in every way possible.”

  “But that doesn’t stop the F.B.I. shrinks from thinking Odinsson is a sociopath, capable of nearly anything.” LeMay sighed.

  “What do you think?” she asked quietly.

  “I think he’s a man carrying a lot of pain and guilt, for ditching the party early to spend the night with a grad-student,” LeMay said. “We all have regrets that haunt us,” he added softly.

  Tilde studied LeMay’s features, thoughtfully. “What is yours?”

  LeMay stared blankly at the dark clouds hovering over the cemetery. Yah, that’s about right. “Realizing too late that I was playing a game I’d never win.”

  It was Tilde Heitman’s turn to stare off into the distance. Her eyes drifted to Odinsson, and back to LeMay.

  “If you’re worried about me, don’t be,” LeMay said. He shrugged. “I think this whole outing is going to be as futile as trying to catch a fart with your bare hands, but I’ll give you all the help I can.”

  The young woman shook her head. “Has anyone told you, you have an eloquent vocabulary?”

  “Just my mom,” he said with a smile. “But I think she may be bias.”

  “As do I,” she said with a slight nod.

  Minutes passed in silence as LeMay ignored the icy stares of the two men outside. It was starting to rain, and neither one shifted an inch. There was no denying this city had a different breed of people. If they were back in Boston, those two would be ducking back into their car, or, at least, getting an umbrella.

  “Thank you,” the young woman said.

  LeMay’s brow furrowed. “For what?”

  “Putting some puzzle pieces into place for me,” she said with a slight smile.

  Headlights flashed in the rear-view mirror as two cars approached. The back-up just arrived. LeMay glanced at his watch. 5:58. Bob Keith’s word always was good as gold.

  “A word of advice,” LeMay said quietly. “He will come along of
his own will, and treat you with respect. Do the same. A few years ago, an L A cop named Benson took Odinsson to the ground, and held Odinsson’s face in the mud with his knee as he slapped cuffs on him.” He looked the female agent in the eye. “A couple of weeks later, Benson’s wife got a shitload of evidence proving Benson was having an affair, and as far as I know, Benson is still making restitution to the I.R.S. for seven years of back taxes.”

  Tilde’s eyes went wide.

  * * *

  The clock on the wall read 12:18, when LeMay watched Odinsson get into Felix Kahalawal’s Jeep.

  The morning had been just as bad as LeMay thought it would go… and then some. They arrived at headquarters , just as the coffee and doughnuts Thor ordered yesterday were being delivered. I got my bacon-maple doughnut, after all. Odinsson never even bothered to call a lawyer; there was no need, the smug fucker presented air-tight alibies in less than ten minutes, then spent four hours flirting with Tilde Heitman while they were being confirmed.

  The past week had been very busy for Thor Odinsson. He took several hundred kids to a Padres game one day, the San Diego Zoo another, and LEGOLAND a third; a great deal of it recorded by a local news station. In between the children’s outings, he attended a banquet for major donors at the San Diego Museum of Art, and gave the commencement speech at SDSU.

  So, unless Thor Odinsson could be in two places at once, there’s no way in Hell he killed Russell Jenkins.

  No one said as much, but most of the agents present felt that butcher Jenkins got what he deserved. I’ll bet a few of the agents in Florida are cheering inside. They’ll never look for Jenkins’ killer with any real gusto.

  Bob Keith took the news in stride; this wasn’t his first time on the Thor Odinsson merry-go-round either. The brass ring was still in place, all shiny and pretty, but there were no winners, today.

  Watching the foreign agent get flustered to the point of screaming as her flimsy case turned to dust and blew away was entertaining. I tried to warn her, I really did. Something she said struck a nerve with Odinsson, though. I haven’t seen him skip a beat like that since my first interrogation, and I’d pay a week’s wages to know what made him do it.

  Oh well. LeMay never really thought Odinsson had anything to do with that business, anyway. It was an obvious set-up. Someone wanted that body found. Why else put it in a stolen car? The single fingerprint was genius; just enough to make it appear to be missed during a hasty get-a-way. Years ago, it would’ve been enough to make LeMay salivate.

  Someone was very clever, but not clever enough to leave the girls out of the equation. That was one of those fine details that were easy to overlook. Unless…

  Oh, my god! It’s not a frame-job, it’s a message to Odinsson: “I can take you down, anytime I like. If I can’t, I’ll take something away that makes you wish I had.”

  LeMay watched the Jeep disappear. Congratulations! You’ve managed to piss some very bad people off, boy, and you know it! The agent couldn’t shake the feeling something was going to happen to make the Boston Mob War look like a schoolyard squabble.

  Chapter 12

  It had been six days since Thor had frustrated that hot Danish cop – four since the last time she turned him down for diner. Watching Tilde Heitman board the plane for home had been a crying shame; it would have taken only a few more days to ware-down that ice-princess. She actually smiled at the bouquet of roses Thor handed her outside the airport… just before she tossed them into a trash can.

  It was for the best, though. If things had worked out, we would probably end-up having a schizophrenic child that kept trying to arrest himself. Besides, there were more pressing matters at hand, someone desperately wanted his undivided attention.

  This was not the first time someone threatened him, or those around him. Every time Thor had been brought in for questioning, someone crawled out of the woodwork, like a cockroach, to avenge family or friend. They usually crawled back – after some convincing – or ended-up joining their lost one. Thor had absolutely no patience when it came to threats, and was worse when he had nothing to do with the original crime in the first place.

  The Copenhagen incident, however, bothered Thor more than the rest put together. This particular threat was subtle, and took Thor by surprise. No one had ever blindsided him like that before, which is why he was taking this one very seriously. He had already hired a team – led by an ex-C.I.A. agent – to investigate the matter. They came highly recommended by Bryndis of all people.

  As if that woman hadn’t been scary enough before. What else don’t I know about her?

  Most of the morning had been spent in the workshop, contemplating choices. Thor’s father told him: “Every choice you make is a link in a chain. That chain could hold you up, or drag you down.” He was too young then to realize just how far that chain could really drag you, but it was sinking in now.

  He was currently considering his lack of occupation. Bryndis had hounded him for years to make something of his life. The truth was, he had planned to open an art school, and change the world with a legion of gifted talent. All that went by the wayside the day Chelsea was killed. Sometimes, he wondered if the name Odinsson was doomed to lose value at his birth.

  His grandfather, Vali, had been an archeologist, and the foremost authority on Viking lore. The books the old man wrote were practically required reading in Scandinavian schools. His father had been a legendary Formula-one race car driver, and engineer. The name Balder Odinsson was still spoken with reverence nearly twenty years after his death. His mother was the medical researcher that brought cancer treatment out of the dark ages.

  What do I do? He thought. I spend dividends from the shipping line, and lose more of my soul with each passing day. If I keep this up, I’m going down sooner or later, and the girls are going down with me. But where do you go, once you’ve gone too far? He had gone too far; this threat drove that home like a sledge hammer. Someone had the crosshairs square on the back of his head, and he had not the faintest idea whom or why.

  His head ached, but that only made him work harder. His thoughts were crystal clear when he kept busy, and he had kept busy enough to see the world in its entirety today. Damned if this world isn’t a fucked-up place!

  After a final buffing, Thor re-lit his cigar and inspected his work. Ann looked great, there was no sign at all she had been damaged, and he intended to keep her that way. His father had loved this car. His mother said the first time his father kissed her, it was in the back seat. Other things probably happened there as well, but some images of your parents were gruesome no matter how old you got, and better left alone.

  Thor flipped the switch, and the hydraulic lift hissed as Ann lowered slowly. He eased onto a stool, emptying the remains of the beer bottle. He was still feeling bloated and sluggish; Felix’s “party” turned into a forty- hour marathon of food, drink, and people he had not seen in years.

  At least, he was not alone in his misery; everyone – with the exception of Else, that woman’s stomach must be a bottomless pit – had too much to eat and drink. Iona and her new man even tore themselves from each other’s arms long enough to attend for a few hours. Bless their horny hearts!

  Thor eyed the Ferrari that had sat nearly twenty years. His mother named it, Sonny, before they she had even seen it in person; it seemed as good a name as any, considering it was hers. This morning was the first time he had looked upon the vehicle with anything other than disgust and hatred. Once he let those feelings go, he saw the beauty his mother must have seen, then he remembered back to a time when he saw beauty in everything. The clarity of his present state of mind had showed him just how horrible he had been to the memory of his parents, especially his mother.

  It was time to stop acting like the spoiled child so many people believed him to be.

  Sonny would be next in the long line of things he would repair. The car had been neglected too long. He would go over it with a fine-toothed comb to see what it needed to be in factor
y-new shape. The tires had rotted long ago; there had to be plenty of hoses, seals, and wires that needed replacing, as well.

  If he worked hard enough, he could finish before summer’s end and drive it on a cool night, with the top down, blasting the song In The Air Tonight into the darkness. He might even get a couple of pastel suits made, and talk Felix’s cousin, Ralphie, into coming along; the man had a strong resemblance to Philip Michael Thomas. I owe you that much, Mama.

  Then he would work on all the neglected relationships he had, though fixing the Ferrari would be considerably easier.

  “Hey, Bwoy! Ya got a visitor,” Julia’s voice called over the speaker.

  “Who is it?” Thor asked.

  “Your favorite Romanian,” Mikki cut in.

  Thor hung his head. That’s all I need, right now.

  Nicolae Kurkov had been a pain in Thor’s ass for the past two years, showing up at the worst times, with wild stories… and lots of money. Though it was not his fault, though, he was merely working on behalf of a woman named Selucca Lazarovici; she was the one convinced her family was being hunted by a wild animal. For whatever reason, she was also convinced Thor was the only one able to kill it, as crazy as that sounded.

  Thor was convince the whole family was insane, and had no intention of entertaining their fantasies. He told Nicolae Kurkov that much several times, but the man kept returning with larger and larger offers, the last had been fifty million Euros. Crazy or not, the old bat has money.

  The last time Thor sent the Romanian man away, he handed him a list of three big-game hunters he knew. If the old woman wanted to throw her money away, why not let it go to someone that could use it?

  “Send him away,” Thor said.

  There was a long pause before Mikki broke in again. “He says he’s not leaving till he sees you. Do you want me to toss him overboard, Sugah?”

  “No,” Thor sighed. “I’ll be right there.”