At First Light(Dr. Evan Wilding #1)(97)

Closer by, in the grasses, something squealed, then fell quiet.

Patrick brought his gaze back to earth. “Even though it’s turning dark and a storm is trying to settle itself right on top of us? And even though my eyes haven’t been young for decades? I will swear on my great-grandmother’s grave back in County Clare that you’ve got that look in your eye, Adrianne Marie. The one that always gives me the shivers. The one that says, Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead. So tell me, what does that Sessr-whatever word mean?”

She put away her phone. “When Viking heroes die, they’re carried by the Valkyries up to Odin’s Valhalla. The great mead hall in the sky.”

“I’m tracking.”

“But apparently half of them don’t go there. They’re taken instead to Sessrúmnir, which is another giant mead hall in the sky. Or wherever in the cosmos the Vikings placed their heaven. Sessrúmnir is the mead hall located in the meadow of Fólkvangr, and it is every bit as good a place as Valh?ll. But this hall is overseen by Freya, Odin’s wife. Who, for what it’s worth, brought seithr magic—dark magic—to the gods.” She was thinking of the ritualism of the murders and the black cross in front of Helskin’s house.

Patrick caught his billowing scarf. His breath hung in the air. “You think that word and the arrow mean he’s up at the top. Addie, you saw those stairs. He can’t fly.”

“He didn’t have to. Look.”

She shone her light once again down the pier. The beam picked out a thick rope, which was tied, ten feet up, to a set of stairs that climbed up the outside of the silos.

“It’s a fire escape,” she said.

“Ah, Jesus. Addie, no. We are not going up there in the dark and this wind. Put that out of your mind.” He placed a hand on her arm. “You may be primary on this, but I’ve got seniority. Have you already forgotten that the killer wrote your name on that envelope? That he probably wanted you to sniff him out here and climb those damn stairs?”

Before she could let fear overwhelm her, Addie shrugged off his hand and walked down the pier to the rope. She gave it a good yank. The stairs groaned, but nothing swayed or pulled loose.

She turned back to Patrick.

He stood watching her, his body stiff. She wondered if he was thinking of hellhounds and Irish ghouls. Or merely of narrow, rickety stairs climbing toward the heavens above empty space.

“If you look carefully,” she said, “you can see graffiti all the way near the top. But all the windows are boarded up. People must be climbing this ladder.”

He shook his head. “How would he get a victim up there?”

But she’d thought it through. “It was someone who trusted him. Who thought it was safe to go with him. The victim walked up willingly.”

“And what about the return trip? Assuming the killer wanted to arrange the guy in a pond or a river like he did the first two. What does he do once his victim is beaten and drugged and all cut up?”

“The killer would have gravity working for him. He could use a sled to drag his victim down the stairs. Or he could lower him on a cable for part of the way.”

She could see Patrick’s mind humming through the possibilities.

“We have to check,” she pressed.

Reluctantly, he nodded, and she released the rope leading to the bottom stair.

“We need two volunteers from SWAT,” she said. “One of them should be a medic. In case someone is still alive up there.”

He puffed out a breath loud enough for her to hear. “Now you’re making sense.”

“But,” she said. “I’m going, too.”





CHAPTER 31


Lightning had most definitely not struck.

Evan pushed aside the Beowulf translations and the stack of Viking books Simon had loaned him and leaned back in his chair, his hands folded atop his stomach.

What, he asked himself, had he learned so far? That the killer was smart, knowledgeable—most especially when it came to Old English poetry—as well as strong, ruthless, and determined. Persuasive, given that he’d managed to lure out men like Talfour and Desser.

The list continued. The killer had selected a heroic saga, Beowulf, as his narrative. But he was also aware that his actions were sinful—he’d called himself monster as well as hero. He would blame his sins on external forces—the spirits of the land whispering in his head, compelling him to slay those who offended them.

Evan stared at the wood-and-twine figurine on his desk. The painted eyes stared back. After a moment, he returned the figure to its cardboard box and pushed it into a corner.

He checked in with his subconscious to see if it had come up with anything useful. But lightning hadn’t struck there, either.

He glanced toward the window. Addie and Patrick were out in the cold and the dark, hunting down David Hayne. What if Rhinehart had been right all along with his theory about Nazi occultism? It wasn’t impossible that Raven was their killer.

Then again, surely the clues in the poem pointing to Nazism were too evident, too obvious. No scop worth his name would lay things out so clearly. What was the saying? Poets were those who never meant only one thing with their words.

Evan rapped out a beat on the desk with his palms. He recalled the pile of bones on Helskin’s porch. Diana’s comment about Raven and Ringwraiths.