At First Light(Dr. Evan Wilding #1)(29)

“Come on, Evan. What else could it be? A Black man and a Jewish man walk into a Viking bar . . .”

“Hall. Vikings had mead halls. Wood-timbered buildings with trestle tables and roaring fireplaces. And a fermented honey drink known as mead.”

“Mead sounds Viking-ish.”

“It goes well beyond the Vikings. Mead is possibly the oldest alcoholic beverage enjoyed by mankind. Popular with the Egyptians and Mayans. The Greeks called it the nectar of the gods. But to return to my point—we might have a visionary killer. Someone who acts because he believes he is being commanded by an outside force.”

“What kind of outside force?”

“It could be a group of gods. Or a single god.”

“Like Odin.”

“Yes.”

“A visionary killer,” she said. “So much better than a missionary killer.”

He grunted, and she grinned at him before she sank into her thoughts and turned quiet.



Evan watched her gaze go far away. He wondered what she was thinking. He hated where his own thoughts sat. So-called religious killers were his bread and butter when it came to his consulting work. But they terrified him. Misplaced faith and passion could ignite wars.

He found himself watching Addie with the admiration she always stirred in him. He took in her dark-brown hair as it corkscrewed in soft ringlets around her face. The dimple in her chin. A scattering of freckles like tiny grains of sand across her nose and cheeks. Inwardly, he groaned. Why did love reduce its sufferers to cliché? And why could he not, like Cyrano, concoct the perfect verse that would render Addie putty in his hands?

Why could he not stop thinking in clichés?

Not that any of it mattered. Addie loved him. But only as a friend. She saved her romantic interest for the kind of man who could fold up someone like Evan and use him as a snot rag.

He forced his mind back to the matter at hand. “There’s one other element we have to consider.”

She jumped at the sound of his voice. “What’s that?”

“Both Talfour’s and Desser’s bodies were arranged to resemble European burials from the Iron Age. Some of those bodies are even older—from the Neolithic. The poor victims are known by archaeologists as bog bodies.”

She mouthed the words as she sped around a tractor trailer rumbling along the county road. Bog bodies. “And that’s not a Viking thing. At least, that’s what you said this morning.”

“Right. Bog bodies are from a time long before the Vikings took up their marauding ways. We know about them only because, over the centuries, bog bodies have emerged from their ancient graves, usually discovered by people cutting peat and finding more than they bargained for. Or at least that was true before archaeologists got involved. We’re a bit more precise in our excavation methods now.”

“I heard about them. They’re mummies. It was on National Geographic or something. Maybe the Discovery Channel.”

“They’re everywhere. Quite popular, bog bodies. And with many of them, we find garroting, a staved skull, a noose. The same postmortem positioning as with Talfour.”

“A missing eye?”

“Not that. That may return us to the Vikings and Odin.”

She gripped the wheel as she braked behind a large semitrailer truck. Traffic flew by in the left lane. “So . . . why?”

“There are a number of theories as to why people were buried in bogs. We have the theory of accidental—”

“I mean, why is the killer re-creating a bog body?”

“That is the question of the hour. Or one of many questions of the hour. But it’s clear—given the incredible effort this kind of death and burial required—that the killer is sending a very important message.”

“To who? To whom, I mean.”

“Odin, perhaps. Perhaps the police. Maybe Iron Age deities. I don’t know yet.”

Traffic cleared, and she accelerated around the rig, cutting off the driver just as he signaled his own desire to get into the left lane. The trucker honked, and she casually flipped him off. “And what is the killer’s message?”

Evan offered the trucker an apologetic smile as they whipped past. “Unknown. But if I were to live dangerously, as you suggest, I propose that he’s saying this murder is either a sacrifice or a punishment. Some archaeologists speculate that the bog bodies were human sacrifices, although it’s unclear to whom they were being sacrificed. Others theorize they were miscreants who had to pay for their crimes.”

“We’re back to that word from Talfour’s poem. Bletsian.”

“Quite possibly.”

“Why can’t this be both? Maybe Talfour and Desser, already outcasts from the pure Aryan race, committed some offense against our killer.” She chewed her lip. “If we can figure out their supposed crime or crimes, maybe we can use that to find him. Evan, I need those runes translated.”

“I know.” He held his sigh. “And I’ve made a pass at it. But because it isn’t a straightforward process and I’m not a runologist, I suggest that you get approval from your lieutenant to bring in a professional. Someone who can lay out all the possible interpretations. Once we have that, I can use my linguistic skills to peer into the killer’s mind. I can also help with the semiotics of the scene—the killer’s signature, if you will. We have to consider the bog body elements, the wooden slats forming a halo. The injuries inflicted both perimortem and for a time after the victims’ deaths. But for the runes themselves, Diana suggested Ralph Rhinehart.”