“Danny. I’m asking you, please. I will tell you the whole thing in the morning. I want you to be there when it all goes down. You will be there. Please, Danny.”
“When what goes down? What’s this about? The damn rock again?”
“Not the rock. I don’t care what happens to that rock. This is something much more important than that.”
He gave another exasperated sigh, then tapped the receiver with his pencil or something. “Okay. I’m coming by your place at eight in the morning, right after I file this. You be there this time.”
“Thanks, Danny.” I flipped the phone shut. Maggie was staring at me, waiting for an explanation. Una was asleep now, a ragged snore coming from the backseat. I sank down in the seat, shut my eyes, pulled Maggie’s blanket tighter around me, and felt the shiver pass through me again.
They could wait until morning too.
Chapter 21
No man so flawless but some fault he has,
nor so wicked to be of no worth.
Both foul and fair are found among men,
blended within their breasts.
The moon, only half full but bright, shone into the dark room of the Wort Hotel. Up over the trees towering in the square, over the buildings east of the hotel, the sky had a hard winter glow, cushioning the moon in a ring of snow mist I lingered, pulling my hair out of its tight bun, before yanking the string to close the drapes.
Not her room, but it would do. I had hoped to get the exact room that Isa Mardoll had rented, despite the lingering malevolence of Glasius’s death in it. I debated that for a while, not sure I wouldn’t obsess about Glasius. In the end I thought the vibes from the room would help. God knew I needed it. But all the worry was for naught. Her room was still unrentable, sealed by the police.
Now I wished I hadn’t even attempted a little disguise: hair pulled hack, white turtleneck, black boots. Somehow I didn’t possess a pair of white pants or a white skirt, so jeans had to suffice. The disguise wasn’t necessary; the night clerk had hardly looked up.
It was eleven o’clock. I turned on the light on the dresser and looked into the mirror. Dark circles ringed my eyes. My winter paleness struck me as sickly. Nose red, cheeks blue. My hair was clean, bangs in my eyes. I pulled it back again into the bun. Not bad. A little longer, and it might actually work. I let my arms fall to my sides. My lungs held on to a low-grade ache from my minutes underwater, but otherwise my resurrection had been complete. Now a comfortable soreness in my shoulders made me smile. A rumble in my stomach: I was hungry. From my backpack I extracted a sandwich my mother made me, tuna on stale white bread. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I unwrapped it and bit in.
The day had been full of argument. Despite my anticipation that something would be revealed tonight, I had to spend the day talking everyone else into it. First Danny, then my mother, then Charlie Frye, who wouldn’t at first send one of his officers. He and I have never seen eye to eye. Being back in the Wort with Charlie, after his threat last time, wasn’t a hot idea for either of us. But by the time I got to Charlie I had my argument so well refined it shone like greased glass, and finally he agreed to one of his off-duty men sitting in.
I finished the sandwich and a can of apple juice. My watch said eleven-thirty. After dumping the trash and checking the peephole, I picked up the phone. Maggie answered on the first ring.
“What?” she whispered.
“Everything cool?”
“Hold on.” A rustling pause, then she spoke normally. “I had to go into an empty conference room. It’s too weird talking out loud in that lobby. Everyone listens. You okay?”
“Just tired. This bed is looking pretty inviting.”
“Don’t sleep, Alix. You don’t know what kind of psycho you might have attracted with that story. You might be completely wrong, you know.”
“It wouldn’t be a first.” I was hoping to be wrong, hoping the bait didn’t attract the right fish. I took a deep breath, feeling a weariness, an inevitability in my gut. Tonight would play itself out, one way or the other. Please, let me be wrong.
Maggie said, “Do you think she has more boyfriends hidden around?”
More boyfriends. I was still worrying about Bjarne, going over the last words he had said to me as if they were encoded with meaning. If she wasn’t my—If she wasn’t my what? Lover, I thought then, maybe even wife. Stranger things have happened. But then he said, “If I hadn’t said I’d help her, I’d be gone.” This was loyalty of a different sort. It didn’t matter now. We hadn’t heard anything about Bjarne or Isa all day. I had called the West Yellowstone deputy sheriff’s number to find out if the skier had been picked up or found dead or something. But they knew nothing about a gunshot, just something about a woman jumping through the ice. Crazy broad.
“Alix, you there?”
“Yeah, I’m here. I was just thinking about Bjarne.”
“Oh, yeah, soft-spot city.” She made a noise out her nose. “He screwed you, girl. He set you up. I know you don’t like that, nobody does. Hell, I feel like shit because I introduced you two. But you’ve got to believe he was just following orders from the white witch.”
“I know.”
She sighed. “Okay, tell me what he said again.”
I lay back on the bed. The bedspread was red and gold and scratchy. “He was so sincere, Maggie. The way he said it, that he was willing. That he felt it deep in his chest.”
“More likely deep in his loins.”
“God, I just thought of something. Remember when I was under the trailer hitch, and it slipped off the blocks and almost crushed me?”
“You think Bjarne did that on purpose?”
I closed my eyes. Had he tried to kill me? Or at least put me in the hospital? And he was so sincere then, too. I breathed in and out, in and out, trying to purge myself of the lingering feelings I had for him. Whatever he was, he was weak to let Isa demand he do such things. “Maggie? You’re going to call me if you see anyone, right? Anyone involved in this.”
“Right. You don’t think she’ll be back, do you?”
“No, not with what she’s done. And she’s got the stone now. That must mean everything to her.” And to Hank, I thought. We still hadn’t broken the news to him. “Strange how a slab of ordinary rock can make people nuts.”
“You think she’s seriously off balance? Because then she might come back for you, if she’s mad enough.”
“No, she won’t come. She’s got what she wants.”
“So how long are we up for?” She yawned, making me yawn.
“As long as it takes. Listen, I’m not going to use the phone again. I’ll just be waiting for your call,” I said.
“I’m going to get coffee. Buster over there looks wiped. Nighty-night.”
The policeman in plain clothes sat in the lobby with Maggie, the kind of guy who didn’t really need a uniform to be recognized: ruddy complexion, buzz cut, big feet. He had pretended to be reading the paper when I went by. He might as well have cut out little peepholes in the pages. At least Maggie was there with her cell phone.
I set the phone back on the hook and adjusted the lighting by the bed. The remote control for the television made it into my hand. Dave was throwing hams into the audience again; a plastic surgeon was showing Jay how he would look with a little time under the scalpel. I turned to The Weather Channel about one and watched cloud patterns go back and forth, back and forth. Fascinating stuff. I sat up and pulled off my boots, which were not as tall or as shiny as Miss Mardoll’s. Could anybody hope to be so perfectly together, as single-minded, as ruthless and hungry, as the White Queen of the Runes?
Well, Queenie, things are about to get messy.
The knock was soft, as if a small bird had tapped its beak on the wooden door. I opened my eyes to a room ablaze with light, three pillows under my head. The television mute. Black-and-white pictures flashed on it: Cary Grant, Bette Davis, Ray Milland. In low-cut dresses and white tie, dancing. I stared at the set, and the k
nock came again, a little louder.
I put my feet on the floor and shook the feathers from my head. A deep breath, and I was up, then back to the bed to jab the remote control, turn off the set. My eye at the peephole—nothing, then a hand flashing by, another soft knock. I hadn’t set the chain or deadbolt; now I twisted the knob, stepping back into the shadows behind the door.
I suppressed a shallow gasp as Peter Black stepped into the room. Quickly I shut the door, engaged the deadbolt. He turned, staring at me. For a second he said nothing, as if registering my face. His own countenance kind, even gentle, a face once simple now tangled with contradictions. How I had wanted to be wrong.
“Where is she?” His voice was barely above a whisper but a low rumble as always. He spun around, looking in the bathroom and around the room.
“What’s that you’ve got, Peter?” I asked. He looked confused, then glanced at the wooden trunk under his arm, the case of fortunetelling rimes. I said, “Are those for Isa?”
He wrapped his other arm around the trunk protectively and took a step away from me. He must have been carrying them with him everywhere, his constant companion, his connection to her. Did he come to return them to his mistress tonight?
“Where is she?” he said, desperation creeping into his voice. “Is she here?”
I walked to the small round table and flicked on the overhanging light. “You know how to read the runes just as well as Mistress Isa, don’t you, Peter?” I patted the table. “Set them here and read mine for me.” He was between me and the door now. If he wanted to leave, there was little I could do to stop him. I kept eye contact, took a step closer to him, tugged on the sleeve of his thin red cotton jacket. His hair was still close-cropped but unkempt now. His dark eyes looked afraid, and weary, shifting from bed to chair to door, back to me. “Come, Peter. Sit down. I would love to get my fortune read. So many strange things have been happening to me, it would be great to know what else is coming.”
He cocked his head. “Strange things?”
I sat on the wooden captain’s chair, nodding. “If the runes can tell me what’s going on, I’d sure be grateful.”
He stiffened and shook his head from side to side, a violent no in slow motion. “You don’t understand. Nobody understands. The runes do not tell you what will happen next. That is not your fortune. None of you understand!” He looked frantic at the thought. I stood up again, as close to him as I could without scaring him.
“I want to understand, Peter. Tell me.”
He towered over me, at least six-three with that proud head, long, delicate fingers, still in the black tunic and pants, his uniform for her. His short black boots were covered with slush and mud. The pink palms of his hands were chapped and raw. I noticed suddenly that he was shivering.
Over his shoulder, one way then the next, he looked wildly about the room. His gaze came to rest on me finally, as if giving in to gravity. He held my gaze, his dark eyes large and sad. He is lonely, I thought. Lonely and tired and cold.
“Peter—” I paused. “That’s the name Isa gave you, isn’t it?” He looked at his feet. “What’s your real name?”
“Julio,” he whispered, not looking up.
I whispered his name to myself. An old disco song with that title rose up from my subconscious, played over in my mind, “Who, who, Julio.” An anxiety reaction: I pushed it back down. “Will you sit with me, Julio?”
We settled uneasily into the chairs, both of us tense, both of us waiting. I kept silent, biting my tongue. At last he eased the wooden box onto the tabletop, straightening it so that the brass latch faced him. His fingers rubbed the edges.
“It’s a beautiful box,” I said. “Were the runes always in it?”
He shook his head. “Isa had it made. She told me her uncle made it for her. He works with wood. A carpenter.”
“He did a wonderful job.”
Peter opened the lid of the trunk carefully, blocking my view of the interior. He moved one hand over the runes inside; I could see they had fallen to one end when he had the box under his arm. He straightened them, then turned the box ninety degrees. The silver-inlaid backs of the wooden pieces shone in the overhead light.
“May I?” I gestured toward the runes with my eyebrows. He nodded, solemn. I picked one near the center of the box, leaving an empty core to the assemblage. I fingered it in my hand, a cold, flat, irregular square of wood rubbed smooth by handling, the sharp edges of the silver inlay raised. I turned the piece over in my opposite palm.
Peter made a breathy noise deep in his throat, a purr. The ends of all his fingers lay on the edge of the table, twitching.
“I should remember this one,” I said, my voice only a notch above a whisper as if these secrets shouldn’t be told. “Is it Ehwaz?” The symbol in the wood looked like an M.
“Ehwaz, yes.” Peter seemed unimpressed by my educated guess, as if everyone knows the runes. “The horse.”
“I have a horse named Valkyrie,” I said.
Peter startled, blinking. “Valkyrie? Your horse is a valkyrie?”
I shook my head. “It’s only a name I gave her. She’s not magical or anything. Just a horse.” I tilted the rune piece up toward me in my hand and tried to intuit its meaning. “If I picked this piece in a reading, what would you say? Or what would Isa say?”
Peter’s breathing calmed again as he focused on the rune. “A partnership perhaps. Marriage. It is a good sign for marriage.”
I smiled. “I’m not getting married.”
His eyes caught mine. “It can have other meanings.” I waited. “Ehwaz often has a feminine meaning, your female energy, your mother, sisters.” There it was: my mother. “Pick another rune,” he said.
The next was Dagaz, which looked like a boxed X. It meant “day,” I knew. I held it in my hand, next to the M.
“Opposites dissolving,” he said. “The beginning of consciousness. Connecting the left and right sides of the brain, the eyes. Being whole.”
“I always thought I was the opposite of my mother,” I whispered, hardly aware I was talking aloud.
“Dagaz shows a connection, a bond between you. You and your mother are linked in many ways, from the time before you and the time after her. Infinity,” he said, pointing to the symbol. With only small roundings, it was infinity.
“One more?” I asked, putting the runes on the tabletop. The last piece I chose looked like a double helix. “What is it?”
“Inguz. The god Frey,” he said. “Something has come to a conclusion. You must combine it with the other runes to know. A transformation is at hand, even perhaps a dark night of searching and wondering.”
I sat back in the chair. “This is my dark night, Julio.” He didn’t look up. I laid the piece next to the others. “I have been searching for an answer. Do you know what the question is?”
He sat perfectly still. I took several breaths, listening to both of us. The runes between us. A black man, a white woman, and the runes that separate us. Once, I might have said the runes that connect us. A magical language of the gods, of the breath of life, of the fiery depths of hell. Those beautiful runes that Glasius wanted so badly. Too badly.
“What happened here, in this hotel? What happened to a fine artist, a great man? That is my question,” I said.
Peter’s fingers began to twitch along the edge of the table. I could see the tension building across his shoulders, his neck. “Should I consult the runes?” I asked him. “Or does someone know much more?” I leaned into the light and whispered. “What really happened that night? What did you hear?”
He stood up suddenly, knocking his chair backward. Two steps to the side of the bed, jerky, stiff-legged. His back to me. “I can’t go back. They will kill me.”
“Who will kill you?”
“In Cuba. The soldiers. They killed my father, my brother. Put them in jail, let them die. I won’t go back.”
I stood up quietly. “You don’t have to go back.”
He nodded fero
ciously. “They will send me back. If they know.”
“If they know what?” I could see his face in profile, head bowed, hands clenched. “I know you love her, Peter—Julio. What did she do that night?”
A low growl in his throat made his face turn toward the acoustic tile ceiling. He shut his eyes tight, grimacing as if in pain. Then suddenly he collapsed, sinking to his heels, knees pressing against the bed. His head fell forward against his arms, hands clasped tightly on the folds of the spread.
I bent near him. “I want to help you. Let me. I want to be your friend. But you must tell me the truth. Everything that happened.”
“They will send me back,” he repeated, stricken.
“We don’t send people back. You must be a political refugee. We don’t send refugees back.”
“They will kill me in prison there. In Cuba.”
I didn’t know how to further relieve that concern. Was he a political refugee? Was he an illegal alien? Did working for a fortuneteller qualify a person for a green card? I had to swallow and let it go.
“Julio, I don’t read fortunes or anything, but I can tell this is troubling you. You can’t take all this by yourself. You need a friend, someone to help you. Isa is gone. She stole the stone with the runes on it and left town. She won’t be back for you.”
He lay bent over the bed, his head on his arms, face buried in the red jacket. A low groan was the reply.
“Did she come back to the room that night? Did you hear her?”
He bent his elbows, laid his face in his large, graceful hands. Rubbed his eyes as he spoke: “With that man.”
“Glasius? Did she come back and talk to Glasius?”
“It was very late. The sounds had finished, and one person had gone. Then she came back.”
I eased down on the bed next to him. “What did they talk about?”
“I followed them after supper. I saw them together.”
“Isa and Glasius?”
He shook his head. “Her brother, half brother. They had been meeting in secret. But not secret from me.” He glanced at me. “When you ask about him, then I know what you mean.”
Nordic Nights (The Alix Thorssen Mysteries) Page 25