At First Light(Dr. Evan Wilding #1)(56)



“River?”

“Lake.” It was Addie. “Are we playing a word game?”

“Addie.” He removed his readers and rubbed his eyes. “Aren’t you and Claymore doing something?”

“Clayton. And no. His client changed his mind and insisted they meet. Vitally important and all that. He probably thinks there’s some political embarrassment looming on the horizon, and he needs Clayton to help circle the wagons.” She paused. “Why do I live in Chicago? I hate politics.”

“I’m sorry about the date.”

“Don’t be. It’s nothing.”

He heard the disappointment in her voice, and it made his own heart ache.

Outside, the rain turned heavy, thrumming on the roof like an orchestra of demonic drummers.

“Anyway,” she said, “I’m on my way to check something out, and I thought I’d see how you were doing on the profile.”

“I’m making good progress. I’ll have something tomorrow.”

“How about giving me the movie-trailer version?”

“My biggest discovery is that I believe the killer intends to murder five people.” He told her about the phrases cattle of riding and ox of riding and how he’d replaced the nonsense words with the numbers of the runes they stood for. “Desser was the first victim, cattle of riding or first of five. And Talfour the second.”

“And the third victim? He would be what?”

“They would be thorn of riding.”

“Dear God,” she whispered.

They contemplated this. Then she said, “Why five victims?”

“I don’t know. At least, not yet. Why don’t you come over?” Evan jiggled the Viking ring in his palm. “You’ll want the rest of the details. I’ll make you a drink and whip up something to eat.”

“Actually, since you’re still up and about, I have something else in mind,” Addie said.

For a moment, his thoughts raced down R-rated paths. He shifted in his chair. “You do?”

“I do,” she said. “There’s a guy I really want to check out.”

“You do?”

“Yup.”

He smiled.

She said, “A man who is, apparently, the leader of a local group that calls itself Aryan ásatrú.”

Ah, the overeager male ego. A steel gate rolled across the trail leading to his brief fantasy.

He set down the ring, carried his drink over to the window, and watched the wind shiver and sway the densely needled white pines; the lower branches of the trees swept the ground like the skirts of nuns.

“How do you intend to, as you say, check him out?” he asked.

“I’m on my way to scope out his place now,” Addie said. “Why don’t you come with me? I’ll swing by and get you.”

“Sounds like a blast, but . . . no. Thanks,” Evan said. “The weather is ghastly.”

“I rather like it.” She sighed. “Fair-weather friend.”

“Dark and stormy isn’t usually your thing.”

“It is tonight.” Another sigh. “What else do you have besides the number of victims?”

Evan told her what else he’d determined so far. That the killer might have some connection to archaeology, given the way he’d so closely duplicated ancient bog bodies. That he also—as Evan had suspected—must possess a decent knowledge of Old English poetry. “Certainly he understands the use of meter and alliteration. And kennings, I believe, more specifically. And that it is Beowulf—”

“What”—Addie’s voice cut in—“is alliteration?”

“The repetition of sounds, usually beginning consonants. Thus we have phrases like busted by big bosses and the repetition of the un sound in undo and unto.”

“Memories of high school English classes are trickling back.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?”

“It’s more like a headache, really. What about kennings? What are those?”

“Compound words or phrases. The Viking poets loved them. They’d use whale-road in place of ocean. Or sea-wood for ship. With our particular poet, we have sun-swimmer and bone-cage.”

“What do those mean?”

“I’m still in the research phase. Now, as I was saying, I believe our killer is specifically referencing the Old English poem Beowulf.”

“I thought Beowulf was a movie. Doesn’t Anthony Hopkins play the king? Angelina Jolie was in it, too. She was a monster or something.”

“Then at least you know the story.”

“I didn’t watch it.”

“Stream it when you get a chance. But centuries before Beowulf hit the big screen, it was a blockbuster poem.”

“What’s it about? Tell me in five words.”

“Man battles monsters and dies.”

“Bravo. And was it written in runes?”

“No. But it’s about Vikings.”

“And our killer thinks he’s, what, part of the story?”

“His poem suggests he sees himself as both Grendel and Beowulf. I should be able to tell you more tomorrow. Something seems to have happened to all three of my translations of Beowulf.”

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