At First Light(Dr. Evan Wilding #1)(65)

The killer’s intricate modus operandi and signature suggests he is acting out a fantasy that originated long ago. A more recent event served as the trigger that sent him on his murderous path.

The killer has deliberately embedded difficult and obscure meanings in his poems, requiring careful reading of the subtext. Thus, the most obvious interpretation of his writings—that he is a neo-Nazi and that the crimes are racially motivated—may be incorrect.

The killer may believe he is compelled by an external force to commit murder and to do so in a way that is precise and replicable. The ritual surrounding the manner of death and the posing of the corpse allows no room for error. A “bad” killing or the inability to properly pose a corpse would render that murder unsuitable for the killer’s purpose.





THE VIKING POET


Hear me!

I am the thwarted scop. The poet whose voice was not heeded, the hand of Odin whose hand was stayed.

I am the killer who clears the mead halls of monsters. Who buries your sins in the bogs. I am the poet who requires a blood price—fair retribution for what was taken. For myself. For the Others.

I am Odin’s rage, Hel’s handguard. The avenger.

I am also Draugr—as I have been since Alex’s death.

For I am the poet whose heart was devoured by the dragon.



I throw down my pen and stalk the room as Sunna casts her dull light over the world. I walk until I’m tired, back and forth, back and forth, like Grendel pacing in his lair. At long last, I stop by the table and press the palm of my hand to one of the Beowulf translations—Tolkien’s with its romantic language and noble heroes.

Do you know that I tried to appease the Others without blood? I did try. I made sacrifices of effigies as the Vikings once did. But their rage was too great, their fury a shriek in my ears I could not bear. At night, their words beat against my ears like wings as I curled in my bed, hunting sleep.

Do you remember the games we played? How you spread the runic tiles across the floor and taught me to tell stories with the Viking letters? How you read to me the old sagas and told me that I, too, could be like those heroes?

Do you remember that you told me I did not need to fear the dead?

You told me that my mother wasn’t buried in the bog.

I knew that you lied. That all you wanted was for me to be okay. To be normal. To fit within your world.

But I never fit. I never will.

For I am of another time, and I see what others cannot.

Now I ask, will you sacrifice your own heart to the dragon?

And I answer for you, fate goes ever as it must.





CHAPTER 20


Morning dawned gray and sullen save for a menacing red glow on the underbellies of the clouds. Addie stared out the windshield as Patrick pulled to the curb across and down the street from Helskin’s house.

The firepit was nothing but ashes. The dogs’ chains still led under the porch, but there was no sign of the animals. Only one truck remained in the driveway—an ancient pickup owned by one Ryan Ruley.

Addie smacked the dashboard. “Fork it. Helskin’s gone.”

Patrick jerked his chin toward the remaining truck. “We still got at least one dipshit who might be persuaded to talk. You ever see a vehicle in such sorry shape as that one?”

“I should have moved in last night.”

“Captain America himself wouldn’t walk into a place like that without backup. Not to mention that you had a civilian with you. If you’d gone in, I’d have shot you myself.”

She glanced over at her partner’s sagging, morning-creased profile. She hid her smile. “You’d probably miss.”

Patrick ignored that. He was frowning out the windshield. “Red sky in morning, sailors take warning,” he said dourly.

“Are we back to snakes and augurs?”

“That’s the problem with you kids,” Patrick said glumly. “No respect for life’s great mysteries.”

Addie fell contentedly into their old argument. “I understand mysteries, partner. And not just when it comes to solving murders. We’ve got Catholicism in common, remember? But what you’re talking about is just Old Country superstition.”

“That’s what you don’t understand, Adrianne Marie. It’s not superstition I’m talking about. It’s wisdom. The lore of the ancients.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Wasting my breath on a nonbeliever, aren’t I?”

She unbuckled her seat belt. “That’s okay. I like hearing you talk.”

“The missus could learn a thing or two from you.”

He dropped his wrists over the top of the steering wheel and peered up and down the street, apparently absorbed in whatever folkloric concerns plagued a middle-aged cop who’d lately been telling her of his dreams of fishing expeditions and elk hunting. Perhaps he felt a twinge of warning from his future self—the desire to lay low, play it safe, make it out.

With Patrick, the mood wouldn’t last. And his superstitions—for Addie firmly believed that’s what they were—wouldn’t slow him down. He was a cop through and through. The best. When it came time for him to punch his final time clock, they’d have to walk him to the doors and kick him out to the sidewalk.

Addie resisted an urge to pat Patrick’s beefy hand and reassure him that all would be well. Because it almost certainly would. Better than well. Her excitement at the possible end of the hunt burbled under her skin like water simmering just below the boiling point. If they had to wait much longer, she’d explode.