Daybreak

by Viktor Arnar Ingolfsson

  “Hakuna Matata, what a wonderful phrase.”

  SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 24

  03:10

  Birkir was awakened by the ringing of the telephone. It took him a few seconds to emerge from a strange dream: He’d been surrounded by dancing white creatures, but they weren’t ghosts. They were snowmen, he realized—snowmen with top hats and carrot noses—that had been whizzing through the air as he tried to take them down with a shotgun. He never managed to hit one in his dream, even though he loaded and fired the gun, over and over.

  He lay still for a long time with his eyes open, puzzling over this while the phone continued ringing relentlessly. Finally he picked up the receiver.

  “This is Birkir,” he said, looking at the clock. The illuminated dial showed that it was the middle of the night.

  A familiar voice said, “Hi. It’s Gunnar. I’ve been thinking.”

  “Go back to sleep,” Birkir said gruffly.

  “No, listen. The weather’s perfect for goose hunting just now.”

  Birkir coughed and cleared his throat. “Goose hunting? I don’t hunt. And I thought you had more than enough on your plate.”

  “Yeah, well, we don’t really go hunting, not exactly—more like, I get into my hunting gear and you hide in the back of the car. First, we’ll stop and get gas from Ártúnshöfdi at around four o’clock. There won’t be many people around, especially given what’s been happening. If the Gander is waiting there for a victim, he might just follow us. We’ll head for Borgarfjördur and see what happens.”

  “What if he shoots at us?”

  “We’ll be better equipped, and there are two of us.”

  “I think this is a bad idea.”

  “If you don’t come with me, I’ll go alone.”

  “That’s an even worse idea.”

  “You coming, then?”

  Birkir thought about it. “Oh, all right,” he finally said. “It might be worth trying just this once. But I have a very bad feeling about this. Which car do we take?”

  “Obviously not a squad car. I’ve borrowed a decent SUV from one of my friends who hunts. We can use that.”

  “Did you wake the guy up to borrow his car?” Birkir asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “What did he say?”

  “It was fine. He owed me a favor.”

  “What sort of favor?”

  “Never mind. Just get ready. I’ll be starting out soon.” Gunnar hung up.

  Birkir shivered as he crawled out of bed. He didn’t know much about goose hunting, but he knew it involved standing still and feeling cold. He would have preferred to wear the old snowsuit he kept in the lumber room, but it was bright orange—probably not a practical choice for either goose hunting or hiding from a murderer in the backseat of an SUV.

  During his conversation with Gunnar, it had occurred to Birkir to try to talk the man out of his idea—only briefly, though. He knew his colleague was serious enough about the idea to take the trip alone if Birkir chickened out. He was certain that Gunnar had been mulling over this plan ever since the investigation had turned up a time-dated gas station receipt on victim number two. Gunnar probably hadn’t slept much of the last two nights as he’d thought it over. Once he’d made up his mind, he’d phoned. Birkir knew all this because Gunnar was his friend. Basically his only friend.

  They had met when Birkir first joined the Reykjavik uniformed police force. Gunnar was quite a bit older, with years of experience under his belt. You could hardly imagine two more different characters, but they nevertheless got along together very well while on the job. Neither of them had extended family in Iceland, and both felt willing to take shifts during holidays when others preferred to have time off. These were often uneventful stints, and that allowed them time to chat or just be quiet together. They also complemented each other physically. Small of stature, Birkir could only offer limited help in situations where brute force was required, whereas Gunnar was strong enough to fight for them both if it was necessary. Birkir, on the other hand, was a good runner and useful in a chase. Finally, Gunnar tended to do the talking, while Birkir wrote reports. They had to split up, though, after Gunnar was appointed to the detective division. In his new position, he quickly began to miss his colleague. It wasn’t long before he started pulling all sorts of strings with the police administration and, eventually, succeeded in getting Birkir reassigned to his new division.

  Despite having such different interests, the pair also spent quite a bit of time together outside of work. For many years, Gunnar had been in the habit of having a beer as soon as he came home from his shift, followed by a Jägermeister to go with another beer after supper—a custom he had picked up from his mother, who’d needed the extra kick of the German liqueur to go with her low-alcohol pilsner during the many years when strong ale was prohibited in Iceland. This routine of his, however, created a bit of a transport problem for Gunnar if he wanted to go out later in the evening, since he wouldn’t dream of attempting to drive under the influence.

  He got into the habit of phoning Birkir instead. There was no danger that Birkir would be incapable of driving, since he couldn’t drink alcohol. It made him ill—some sort of allergy. He could take one glass of white or red wine with food, but that was all. Birkir didn’t see this as a drawback, since he had another source of intoxication: running. Every week he jogged a total of nearly ninety kilometers, with one run being at least thirty. The endorphins this activity released in his body provided the only high he needed. Birkir didn’t mind driving Gunnar around town in his spare time, because the man was easy company when under the influence. The truth was, he never actually looked drunk. Their habit of driving around together turned into a habit of doing things together—going to movies, soccer matches, and concerts, preferably jazz. They went out like this a couple of times a week usually. Once a month, they would hang out at Gunnar’s apartment and play rummy with old María, a tradition she cherished.

  The first time Gunnar had shown up drunk for the evening shift, Birkir had driven him straight home and told everyone he was ill. The second time it happened, Birkir did the same but told his friend that if there was a third time, he would take him directly to the rehab center for treatment. Gunnar would not admit to being an alcoholic; he was merely doing what his mother had done all her life, and he only drank two types of alcohol, Holsten beer and Jägermeister bitters. But never again did he show up drunk for his shift; he even took it one step further and made it a goal to go to bed sober several days a week.

  03:50

  As Gunnar drove up to the house, he saw Birkir waiting on the sidewalk clad in dark-green Gore-Tex pants, a dark-blue quilted parka, and a black wool hat. That would do to conceal him in the dark, Gunnar thought. He was wearing his old camouflage hunting jacket.

  Birkir climbed into the rear seat of the vehicle, a Toyota RAV4, and endeavored to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. The idea, after all, was to pretend that Gunnar was going hunting alone. Gunnar had thrown a dark blanket on the seat for Birkir to take cover under if necessary. In the back, he had stowed a shotgun in its bag, two decent rifles, and two pairs of high-powered binoculars. One of the rifles was his. The other belonged to his usual hunting partner, who had young children at home and no safe place to keep the weapon and so had asked Gunnar to keep it in the gun closet in his bedroom. The rifles were light and manageable, and Gunnar and his friend used them mainly for shooting seagulls—usually the black-backed variety—or for target practice. Both had telescopic sights.

  Gunnar had thought ahead to bring a sack containing some foam-rubber decoys, and a picnic bag with a coffee flask and some sandwiches. He’d also packed two pocket-size walkie-talkies that he’d picked up from headquarters; each had a headset with an earpiece and a microphone so the two of them could easily stay in touch if they needed to take separate positions.

  They stopped at the Ártúnshöfdi gas station, and Gunnar took plenty of time filling the tank at the automatic pump. He strolle
d around the car, wiping invisible dirt from the headlamps while glancing around. The area around the gas station was brightly illuminated on all sides, and there was a full moon, a clear sky, and good visibility, so anyone wishing to hide nearby would have had difficulty. There were no other cars at the station and very little traffic on the western highway at this early hour. The store was well lit, and you could see the attendant inside reading a newspaper. This place stayed open around the clock; drivers on their way out of the city often stopped here if they needed fuel or refreshments.

  Suddenly a vehicle with a security company logo appeared. It drove in a circle around the gas station, and then stopped by the main door. The security guard got out of the car and disappeared into the store. A short while later he reappeared, carrying a paper cup of steaming coffee, walked toward the pumps, and examined the hoses. Voices came from the walkie-talkie clipped to his jacket, and he uttered a few words into its microphone as he continued with his task.

  “Good morning,” he said to Gunnar as he strode past. Getting into his car, he pulled quickly out of the parking lot and drove away.

  Gunnar replaced the gas tank cover and got back into the Toyota.

  “I met that security guard yesterday,” Birkir said from his hiding place in the back seat. “He’s the guy that got shot in the face back east about a year ago. I interviewed him just before his night shift.”

  “This city is extremely small,” replied Gunnar.

  They drove off, heading north through Mosfellsbær. Not far from the intersection with the Thingvellir road they met a police patrol car, which turned around just behind them and chased them, its blue lights flashing.

  “What the fuck do these guys want?” Gunnar said, while Birkir sank to the floor behind the front seat and covered himself with the blanket. They had to keep up the pretense that Gunnar was a lone hunter on the move.

  “There’s no peace,” Gunnar said. “First that security guard and now this.”

  He stopped the vehicle, and the patrol car pulled up behind them. An officer got out and walked toward the Toyota carrying a flashlight. Gunnar got out his wallet and extracted his driver’s license.

  “Where are you going?” the policeman asked, taking the license and examining it.

  “I’m heading for Borgarfjördur,” Gunnar replied. He did not remember having seen this cop before, and he hoped that was mutual.

  “What for?”

  “Goose hunting.”

  “Do you think that’s advisable, given the recent killings?”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “I have to ask you to turn around and go back to bed,” the policeman said, handing back the license. “There’s a dangerous guy on the loose.”

  “Are you authorized to stop me?” Gunnar asked.

  “No, but I think it’s for the best that you don’t proceed.”

  “Well, I’ll take responsibility for my own comings and goings, if you don’t mind,” Gunnar said. “Was there anything else?”

  “Do you have a gun license?”

  Gunnar had been expecting this question and had the right documents at the ready. The patrolman inspected them carefully and handed them back.

  “Was there anything else?” Gunnar asked again.

  “No.”

  “I’ll be on my way, then.”

  The policeman stepped aside, and Gunnar drove off. A short while later, the patrol car caught up to them. It followed them closely.

  “Goddamn assholes. They’ve appointed themselves as a goose preservation society,” Gunnar said. “The Gander is hardly likely to follow us while these bastards are on our tail.”

  A few minutes later, an eighteen-wheeler came zooming toward them—probably at a speed somewhat over the limit, for the patrol car slowed, switched on its blue lights, and turned around. It rapidly disappeared in the direction from which they had come, chasing down the truck.

  Gunnar kept to ninety kilometers per hour. It was slow enough to allow anyone wanting to follow them to do so easily, but fast enough to appear normal. They went through the Hvalfjördur tunnel, stopping at the pay booth. Birkir studied the security cameras by the barrier while Gunnar offered a one-thousand-krónur bill and asked for the receipt.

  “We should check on how those cameras work,” Gunnar said, as they drove off. “I wonder if they’re always on, with a time code showing, or if they just activate when a car runs a red light.”

  “I’ll check that out when we get back to town. But they must at least take a picture when someone goes through without paying,” Birkir said.

  “I don’t think the Gander is going to let himself get caught like that,” Gunnar said as he turned east off the circle.

  As they drove along the northern shore of Hvalfjördur, two cars overtook them at high speed.

  Birkir raised himself up in the seat and looked through the rear window, using one of the pairs of binoculars. He saw no one behind them, but looking across the fjord he could see the lights from the cars on Kjalarnes.

  “I don’t know if we’re going to get anywhere with this,” he said.

  Gunnar didn’t reply immediately, but then said, “We’ll continue as planned. If the worst comes to the worst, this may just turn into an excellent goose hunt.”

  They drove on toward the bridge over Borgarfjördur but swung right just before it and headed northeast up the fjord. Birkir had spotted the lights of a car a ways back on the highway, so Gunnar slowed down to make sure that whoever it was could see they had turned off. After driving on for a little over twenty kilometers, Gunnar turned onto a side track and parked in a spot where the car would be plainly visible from the road. They waited there for several minutes but saw no traffic. From this place there was a good view over the large meadows bordering Hvítá River; in the bright moonlight they could observe their surroundings almost as distinctly as if it were day.

  “Let’s go down there.” Gunnar pointed to a spot a couple of kilometers away, where two ditches met in the meadows. “I’ve often bagged birds in that place, and the landowner’s given me permission to work the patch anytime, because I did him a favor once. You take a rifle and sneak on ahead as fast as you can. When you’re halfway there, lie down and keep an eye on me with the binoculars. I’ll just stroll along like a regular hunter, not looking around. Use the walkie-talkie to let me know if you see anything unusual.”

  He motioned to Birkir to hand him one of the rifles, which he loaded and handed back to him.

  “You know how to use this, don’t you?”

  Birkir examined the weapon. “Yes, I’ve used a gun like this.”

  They donned the walkie-talkies and turned off their cell phones to prevent the radio interference their signals would create.

  “All ready?” Gunnar asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then go.”

  Gunnar switched on the internal car light as Birkir slid out the rear door facing away from the road; he extinguished the light once his partner had disappeared into the ditch below the track. He waited for five minutes, then got out, put the second rifle in the bag with the shotgun, and hoisted it onto his shoulder. He hung his binoculars on the other shoulder, took the sack of decoys, and got going.

  “Testing, testing, one, two, three,” he said into the walkie-talkie. “Are you there?”

  “I’m ready,” came Birkir’s reply.

  Gunnar stepped over a low fence and made his way through the long grass alongside the ditch. At one point, he had to climb down into a ditch that barred his path and jump across its waterlogged bottom. After ten minutes he reached Birkir, sheltering behind an old hay bale and scanning the area around the car with his binoculars.

  “There’s definitely nobody following you,” Birkir said.

  “Stay there while I’m on the move, and then follow me,” Gunnar said, walking on. When he got to the spot he had been aiming for, he stopped and set down his bags. He raised the binoculars and immediately spied the back of Birkir, who was still on
the lookout. After checking the rest of the area, he said into the walkie-talkie, “You can come now, but stay out of sight in the ditch if you can.”

  He continued to watch from his position overlooking the ditch until Birkir arrived.

  “Stay hidden down there,” Gunnar said. “I’ll put up the decoys and then join you.”

  “Where are you going to put them?” Birkir asked.

  “I’ll set up two groups within range, one on each side of us, with empty space in between. Geese aren’t attracted to a landing place just because other birds are already there; it’s about the grouping. They’re smart enough to be frightened off if it doesn’t look right. You have to have the correct spacing so that the geese will feel safe—and sense that because other birds are there, there’s no danger.”

  Birkir smiled. “Do you think your decoys will also do that for the Gander?”

  Gunnar didn’t reply, but began arranging his decoys—eight in one cluster and twelve in the other. Each group included two birds with their necks stretched up as if on lookout. The others were grazing. All had their beaks facing into the wind.

  Decoys deployed, Gunnar took the rest of his kit and crawled down to join Birkir. It was nearly six o’clock, and the two of them hunkered down as best they could in the bottom of the ditch.

  “I’m cold,” Birkir said after a while.

  “You’re a sissy,” Gunnar replied.

  They were silent for a bit then Gunnar heard Birkir softly recite something:

  “In the pale light, absent words,

  arcs a lone bird over moorland;