The Wild One

by Nick Petrie

  They talk for a few more minutes, and Ginger Mulanax returns to her dinner party. Sarah powers off the phone and removes the SIM card. Her face is flushed red. Erik’s heart sinks.

  “We already have the documentation,” she says. “We have the whole hidden drive. We can release everything and pretend the hackers did it.”

  “What do you mean, you have the hidden drive? I thought you just had that single video.”

  “There’s more than one video,” she says.

  “What? How many more?”

  She isn’t listening. “I already made a back door into the server. And we don’t need to find a prosecutor, either. We just copy the drive to an offshore server and send a link to reputable journalists, somebody at the Post or the Times. That or publish the video online somewhere, along with the drive address and the password. The internet will do the rest.”

  Erik cannot believe what he’s hearing. “You were planning this all along,” he says. “From the moment you realized what that video was.”

  She puts her hand on his arm. It is hot to the touch. “We can do this,” she says. “Don’t you want to see him punished?”

  “It’s not that simple,” he says. “What if something happens to us? What about Óskar?”

  But Sarah isn’t listening. She’s already reaching for her laptop.

  The whole night, Erik thinks, neither of them have even dared to speak the man’s name.

  Now they are trying to bring down his whole dark empire.

  19

  PRESENT DAY

  Peter left Bjarni on the couch with the frozen peas in his crotch, a shrink-wrapped halibut steak against the side of his head, and false assurances that he’d leave Bjarni’s car keys and phone at Snorri’s Rave Cave. He took the money from the milk carton, along with the E-tool and the ice axe, but he left the tiny envelopes of medical-grade MDMA.

  Most of them, anyway.

  The storm had eased but the temperature had dropped. The wet snow had frozen into a hard crust. He wanted to check his phone, but drove the little Skoda a mile before pulling over to the side of a busy road, in case Bjarni came after him again. With a pointy stick, maybe. The goddamn Viking probably had a harpoon in his garage.

  Peter had two texts and four voicemails.

  The first text was from Catherine Price, in response to his text about the embassy man after leaving the airport. My husband is talking to his contacts at the State Department and trying to solve your problem with the embassy. He will call you when he has something.

  The second text was from June. Drive safe. Call if you need phone sex. Then a smiley face.

  She still thought he was driving to Death Valley after a visit with Don, his shrink.

  Peter closed his good eye and felt the little car rock in the wake of the tractor-trailers flying by.

  He was not a good person.

  It occurred to him, not for the first time, that he didn’t deserve her.

  The voicemails were all from a single number, which the caller ID listed as Hjálmar, followed by the Icelandic word Lögreglan.

  Police.

  In the first voicemail left the afternoon before, when Peter was sleeping off his jet lag in the Mitsubishi, Commissioner Hjálmar had invited Peter to dinner at his home. “I promise, I will not serve fermented shark or dried fish or any of that crap, just a hearty Icelandic meal of lamb with brown sauce, mashed potatoes, and cabbage salad.”

  In the second voicemail, left at eight o’clock the night before, when Peter was walking down the steps to Snorri’s Rave Cave, Hjálmar had invited Peter to an after-dinner drink. “I suppose you are not checking your phone,” he said. “But in case you get this, I invite you to a drink at Ölstofan. It is a civilized place. They have excellent Icelandic beer and spirits. I stay up quite late. Please call anytime.”

  Peter wasn’t used to the cops being quite so polite. Or having the national police commissioner leave personal messages on his phone.

  The third call came at midnight, when Peter was high on Ecstasy and getting the shit kicked out of him in a snow-covered alley. The commissioner’s tone was much more businesslike. “I call to remind you that you must notify me or my assistant of your hotel and your rental car. You must also report to the airport within thirty-two hours for your flight back to the United States.”

  The fourth call came just a few hours ago, while Peter was waiting for Bjarni by the apartment entrance. The commissioner’s voice was again cordial, even cheerful. “Halló, it is your friend Hjálmar. You will not escape without Icelandic hospitality. I invite you again, dinner tonight. I will text you the restaurant to make it easy to find.”

  The commissioner’s persistence about dinner was not a good sign.

  The restaurant was in the heart of the old city.

  Peter drove the long way around.

  * * *

  —

  He parked Bjarni’s Skoda in a snowdrift behind an ancient Volvo camper, then walked through the white streets toward the rented Mitsubishi. He’d left it in the narrow lot between a row of mixed-use buildings and a high berm that sheltered the cars from the cold ocean wind.

  The temperature had dropped even further, and the weather came horizontally off the bay, tearing fine snow particles off the berm and streaming them into the night. The party people weren’t out in this section of town, just a few local pedestrians hurrying for home. If the cops were watching, there was no way Peter could sneak up on the Mitsubishi without being noticed.

  So he played the part of the winter tourist and climbed the berm to look at the whitecapped water and the glittering concert hall across the sea road, his good eye watering in the wind. Then he turned to admire the city and look for watchers. The exhaust plumes from a running engine might not be so visible in the gale, so he looked for clean windshields with a body behind the wheel. It was well below freezing, and felt much colder. Peter figured even an Icelandic cop would want heat during a long wait.

  He saw several wind-scoured windshields but no people, so he walked down Saebraut, cut through a gas station dug into the berm, then walked back along the row of apartments. No exhaust plumes from this vantage, either, and nobody shivering in a cold car. Maybe Commissioner Hjálmar hadn’t found Peter yet. Either that or the Icelandic cops were hiding under the snow.

  He picked up his things from the Skoda and walked to the Mitsubishi. Nobody looked twice at the tall, battered man with clothes rolled under his arm, an ice axe in one hand and a folding shovel in the other.

  He kept Bjarni’s keys and phone. He wasn’t going to give the big Icelander another chance at him. Also, when Bjarni had unlocked the phone with his thumb, Peter had taken the opportunity to change the passcode and the language. He could use an extra phone. At the very least, it might take longer for Bjarni to alert the rest of the family.

  Peter needed all the help he could get.

  * * *

  —

  He parked outside Grandi Mathöll, an industrial building on the working waterfront that had been converted into a large, well-lit space with counter-service food stalls on three sides and a wall of windows on the fourth. One burger place even had a compact kitchen built into the shell of a Chevy Step Van. Long family-style tables and benches took up the center of the hall with a view through the tall windows. The wind blew the snow sideways, but Peter could still see glimpses of the illuminated city across the harbor, and a pair of ships hauled for repairs onto the rocky beach.

  Televisions high on the walls showed ongoing coverage of the Venezuela thing. That lacquered American commentator was really pushing the idea of a new war. Although, he wasn’t the one who’d have to go fight, was he?

  The static didn’t like the televisions or the enclosure, especially with only one good eye, but if he concentrated on the view, it helped. So did the fact that the exits were clearly visible and the place
was half-empty at that time of night. And he needed to work on being inside, and he needed to eat. He was acutely conscious of his swollen face, but nobody looked at him twice. Either folks were very polite or brawling was a national pastime.

  He ordered a giant grilled sandwich from one stall, lamb chops and roasted new potatoes from a second, and a Viking Beer from the bar. Iceland didn’t appear to be big on green vegetables. The food came on wooden trays covered with brown butcher paper. Peter sat alone by the window, angled toward the harbor, and fell on his supper like a wolf.

  As Peter saw it, he had two challenges. The first was to talk with Erik’s family without getting beaten to death or killed in a car wreck. The second was to deal with the Icelandic police. The embassy man’s demand required that Hjálmar put Peter on a plane back to the States in less than twenty-four hours. Peter needed more time than that.

  He wondered again who had the pull to get him thrown out of Iceland. He was still waiting for Catherine’s husband to hear back from his contacts at the State Department. Peter wasn’t going to wait. He needed to move faster than the speed of government.

  He thought, too, about his conversation with Bjarni. He didn’t know whether he believed that Erik and Óskar were dead. If they were, he still owed Catherine a confirmation of that fact, so she could put aside her hope and truly mourn. If they were still alive, he’d find them. Either way, his task was much the same.

  Although Óskar’s survival was no guarantee that the boy would actually be loved or even cared for. When Peter was growing up in northern Wisconsin, his own family had taken in many runaway kids, children abused or scarred or locked out of their own homes by parents who had claimed to love them. Who’d nearly loved them to death. Peter had seen too much of that damage to wholly believe any family’s claims of love and devotion, no matter what Bjarni had said. The Icelandic family’s police file was too thick. If Óskar were alive, Peter had to believe that he would be better off with his grandmother in Washington, D.C.

  Then there was the question of Sarah Price. As Detective Moore had noted, shooting someone in the face was a very personal way to kill. Most murders, even premeditated murders, had simple, personal motives. Jealousy or greed. Anger or fear. Yet nobody seemed to know why she was killed.

  There had to be a reason. It would be nice if Peter could figure out what it was.

  This was no longer a simple search for a missing child. If it ever had been that.

  He could only imagine what June would say about this.

  Which was why he wasn’t going to tell her about any of it. She had her own work to occupy her. She wasn’t expecting to hear from him. There was no cell service in Death Valley’s wild empty spaces. Peter had two weeks before she’d start to worry. He’d be back well before that time was up.

  He told himself that a child’s life was at stake. That it was better to beg forgiveness than ask permission. That he’d give June the whole story when it was done.

  As if, by this single lie of omission, he weren’t opening some vast, possibly unspannable chasm between them.

  20

  His supper in ruins, Peter opened his day pack, set Bjarni’s phone on the table beside his own, then reached into the pack’s laptop sleeve. He’d only used that space to keep Catherine Price’s folder from crumpling during the long trip to Iceland, but the deep padded sleeve had turned out to be a half-decent hiding place for documents, as long as the police didn’t want to actually find anything.

  He leaned the photo of Óskar and Erik up against his empty beer glass, then paged through the Norwegian investigator’s report. The Norwegian had been on his way to the family farm when he’d been run off the road. It had happened right after he’d tried to find Erik’s uncles on their fishing boat.

  The Norwegian was a much better researcher than Peter would ever be, but he seemed more comfortable on the internet than in a hostile environment. Peter wasn’t about to get chased off by Vikings with snowballs. He’d knock on some doors, introduce himself, and see what happened.

  Not that it was an actual plan, of course. But Peter had used similar tactics in the remote corners of Afghanistan, where the locals had been fighting invaders since before Alexander the Great. They knew the territory better than Peter’s platoon ever would, and were experts at ambush tactics. They’d disable a convoy with IEDs, appear out of nowhere to kill or injure as many Marines as they could, then melt back into the landscape like ghosts.

  Peter’s solution to that particular problem was to take part of his platoon into a known ambush zone on purpose, ready for the fight with his backup on speed dial. When the bad guys made their move, Peter’s spotter would call in the artillery or air support while the rest of the platoon would ride in to pour on the hurt.

  Of course, Peter didn’t have air support in Iceland, or any other kind of backup. His friend Lewis, who was usually happy to lend a hand, was spending two weeks in California with his wife, Dinah, and their two boys. So it wasn’t really the same plan.

  Peter was on his own, headed downrange, looking for trouble.

  It was disturbing how comforting that felt.

  * * *

  —

  There you are.” Peter turned his head to see Hjálmar standing in what had been Peter’s blind spot. “I see that you ate your supper without me.”

  He wore a short black jacket, blue jeans, and snow boots. Civilian clothes. No bulge at his belt, no sag in his coat pocket. The police didn’t carry guns in Iceland, Peter reminded himself. Although Hjálmar could have a radio in his back pocket. He certainly had a phone somewhere.

  “I was too hungry to wait.” Peter felt the heat radiating from his eye. The back of his head throbbed. “I was just about to call you.”

  “Of course.” Hjálmar’s eyes moved from Peter’s face to the pair of cell phones to the papers spread out on the table. He seemed to be alone, which was a good sign. “Outlanders require proper permissions to work in Iceland. Perhaps you did not know this.”

  “It’s more of a hobby,” Peter said. “I’m reading up on Icelandic history. Tracing genealogy.”

  Hjálmar didn’t believe a word of it. “And the bruises on your face? Is that a hobby also?”

  Peter put on a sheepish look. “A girl asked me to dance. A couple of guys decided they didn’t like me. Maybe I had too much to drink? Some guys just like to fight, I guess.”

  The commissioner glanced at Peter’s corded arms and his wide, knuckly hands. “And you? Do you like it?”

  The bruising on Peter’s forearm would look defensive. Peter’s hands would back up this story, too. They weren’t red or swollen because he generally tried not to hit people with his fists. Elbows and forearms were much more effective.

  “I don’t like losing,” Peter said. “How’d you find me tonight?”

  Hjálmar tried to hold back a smile but was not entirely successful. “It is my work.”

  “You found the agency where I rented the car,” Peter said. “I assume my rental has a GPS, in case I get lost or have an accident, but those are usually pretty cheap. They only ping every few hours. So why didn’t I see you watching?”

  The Icelander had the grace not to gloat. “I left my personal car in the parking lot with a cellular-linked camera on the dashboard. I had a coffee watching live video on my laptop.”

  Hjálmar was better than Peter had expected. Plus he got points for style. Peter began to gather his papers. “Please, sit. Can I buy you a beer? This Viking Beer is good stuff.”

  “Unfortunately, I cannot. I am on duty.”

  The gusting wind pushed against the glass like a giant’s hand. Peter felt the pressure change inside the building. “Wow.”

  Hjálmar shook his head. “The coming storm will be worse. A big one.”

  Peter raised his eyebrows. “This isn’t a big one?”

  “Not really,” Hjálmar said. “
Our weather people compare the coming storm to our last large storm, five years ago. It lasted three days. In East Iceland, we measured winds at two hundred sixty kilometers per hour.”

  “That’s too bad,” Peter said. “I was hoping to get out of town for a few hours.”

  “I do not recommend you attempt to leave Reykjavík. With this storm, it is possible to die from exposure or avalanche. And I must mention, your flight to America leaves in”—he checked his watch—“twenty hours.”

  “You know, I had almost forgotten.” Peter tucked his things into his pack. “I could really use a few more days.”

  “I am sorry. That is not possible.”

  Peter nodded. “How many officers do you have waiting outside?”

  “None,” Hjálmar said. “We are civilized human beings, are we not? So we take the civilized path. I offer you my guest bedroom for the night. It was my son’s room, he lives now in Berlin. Tomorrow, after coffee and a fine Icelandic breakfast, I drive you to the airport.”

  “Let me guess.” Peter smiled. “The storm has you short on manpower.”

  Hjálmar sighed. “The wind blew off the highway three tour buses. The drivers did not correctly judge the weather.”

  Peter stood from the table and shrugged into his coat. “I hope nobody was hurt.”

  “Do you know,” Hjálmar said, “I am now police for more than thirty years. What I have learned is this. It is easy to see only the worst parts of people. It is easy to lose trust, to grow hard as a stone. That is one way. Another way is different. You see people for who they are. You are prepared for them to be bad. But you hope to see them do something good. You are often disappointed, but not always. And you continue to hope.”