Comes a Horseman

  “How would you know that?”

  “Because that’s exactly what my mother did. Every day of her life. Sometimes she would . . .” Her voice trailed off. Why should she share her memories with some guy who couldn’t possibly give a squat? She’d spoken without thinking and regretted it.

  Lindsey eyed the neatly arranged items. “She was probably getting ready for bed when the intruder broke in.”

  “Sure.”

  “Will you look at this place!”

  She followed his roving gaze. Every surface—the nightstand, the dresser, the chest at the foot of the bed, the book case shelves—was cluttered with knickknacks. They all seemed to be religious in nature: a ceramic chapel, praying hands, a monstrous nail capped with a red ribbon, a dish ornately painted with the words “Feed my sheep,” countless crosses, tracts, angels, and figurines of Jesus Christ. The walls were covered with dozens of paintings, some depicting the Messiah in various poses, others of beautiful landscapes with Scripture passages in calligraphy across them. She turned in a 360-degree circle, watching the video display to capture the valueless treasures.

  “Another religious nut—”

  “Detective!” She pointed to the video camera and microphone perched like the eye of a baleful god atop the helmet. Video walk-throughs were used in all sorts of ways besides helping investigators reconstruct crimes. They’d been known to settle judicial doubts about the original location or condition of key evidence. And relatives and friends often viewed them either to satisfy themselves about the handling of a crime scene or to help investigators identify items missing or out of place.

  He looked stricken. “As I was saying, another religious person gone home too soon. It burns me up.”

  Fleiser came in, little black bag in hand. “Anything in here?”

  “Doesn’t look like it,” Lindsey said, pushing past him to get to the hallway.

  Alicia had not noticed it before, but she suspected there was one place not overrun by trinkets. She looked and smiled. A bare spot on the nightstand, the size and shape of a teacup saucer. Mom relished her chamomile. She wondered what Cynthia Loeb favored.

  “Coming?” Lindsey called. “There’s still a body to be found!”

  Suddenly, Alicia was not so keen on finding it.

  8

  Just his luck that a cop saw his detour into the woods. Olaf held his grin as a spotlight came on, spearing the night sky before it dropped and found the minibus. The cruiser had stopped thirty feet back. Its lights illuminated the van’s rear and right side, leaving the left side, with its open side door, in darkness. The cop was blind to the raised section of floor and the compartment beneath it. Holding the bearded ax behind him, Olaf sauntered over to the van. The cop would not like that he had moved out of view. Quickly, he tossed the soiled rag on top of the weapons, leaned in, and lowered the floor into place. He slid the ax into his belt above his right buttock, letting the blade catch the rough leather. It would take him three seconds to pull it straight up and swing it forward . . . half that time if he simply snapped the leather.

  He stepped back into the light and into the cop’s line of vision. He placed his hands on his hips, slightly forward so the cop could see they were empty. The spotlight stopped on him, then clicked off. The strobes died as well; he suspected they had been flashed only to inform him that the newcomer was not a bad guy.

  The cop took another minute to run the van’s plates.

  Fine, thought Olaf. It’s not the van you have to worry about.

  Finally, the door opened and a state trooper emerged. He pushed on a wide-brimmed hat with one hand; the other, Olaf noticed, rested on the butt of his holstered gun. Stepping around the door, he called, “Good evening!”

  “Evening, Officer! Don’t tell me I’m trespassing!” His tone was friendly; his words carried not the slightest trace of an accent.

  The cop crossed in front of the headlights, his shadow jumping at Olaf, dropping away, then jumping again. He stopped before reaching the van. “No, the land’s here for the public to use. I saw you pull in and wanted to make sure you were okay. You okay?”

  “Peachy.” He pushed his lips into a wider smile. He knew his physical appearance was unsettling. Stocky and muscular, hairy as Bigfoot, dressed like a Norseman of old, which, in fact, he was: heavy knit shirt, long and, unfortunately, filthy; tight sheepskin pants; high leather boots. When he was on a rampage, his visage served to intimidate his victims, stunning them for the briefest of seconds—time enough for Olaf to gain the advantage, to make his move. In a situation like the one he was in now, it served to ensure that cops didn’t stand around making small talk, but was sufficiently innocuous to avoid biased persecution or overzealous investigation: he was weird, but not that weird. The clothes were comforting to Olaf. His wife, Ingun, had made the shirt; he had skinned and tanned the material for the pants, and Ingun had cut and sewn them. His sons had been with him when he picked up the boots from the leather smith. They had oohed at the craftsmanship and praised his stature when he slipped them on.

  The trooper pulled a flashlight from a loop on his belt and switched it on. He stepped up to the rear window and peered through. “California plates,” he said, as if Olaf would appreciate the knowledge.

  “Yeah, San Luis Obispo.”

  “That the place with the birds?”

  “You’re thinking of San Juan Capistrano. I’m five hours northwest.”

  The cop nodded. He stepped around to Olaf ’s side of the van. He was in his midthirties, a little younger than Olaf. He had earnest eyes that said he loved his job, and deep frown lines that said maybe he loved his job a bit too much for a healthy family life. Olaf pictured the man volunteering extra hours to train rookies and spending a lot of time at the shooting range. If anybody was going to give him a hard time, it was this guy. He wondered if the man knew about the latest murder. Unlikely. It was less than two hours fresh, and law enforcement agencies weren’t that quick about disseminating crime information, especially interagency and when they didn’t have a clue about who they were looking for or what type of vehicle he was driving. He was sure nobody had seen him make his way to Palmer Lake from the west, a direction with no thoroughfares and few residents.

  The trooper aimed his beam past Olaf into the open door. “Lotta trash.”

  “I’m a pig when I travel.”

  “Where you heading?”

  “Taos. See a cousin.” He anticipated the cop’s next question and added, “Came in on I-70 so I could visit friends along the way.”

  “Lotta trash.” He was shaking his head, playing the beam over the garbage. His nose crinkled; he grimaced. He had just caught the odor.

  Olaf stifled a smile. There was only one reason he, himself, tolerated the stench: to knock people like this trooper off balance. If the cops wanted to search the van, he was reasonably sure it would be a quick search, and the searchers probably would not be at their best. And if they were looking for someone with dogs, they wouldn’t detect them with their noses. It was no violation of law to possess a vehicle that smelled like an outhouse. The crimes the outhouse helped conceal were another matter.

  The trooper took a step back. “Got your driver’s license?”

  Olaf reached behind him. “Am I in trouble, Officer?”

  “Not at all.” The words were amicable, but they fell from scowling lips like an insult.

  Olaf produced a tattered nylon wallet; he fished out his ID, which was newly minted but looked a thousand years old.

  Something snapped in the trees nearest them. The trooper’s head whipped around. His flashlight followed. He was holding it in a bent arm, at shoulder height—a javelin of light. His other hand had sprung back to his gun.

  “Anything wrong, Officer?” Before the sound, Olaf had caught a glimpse of one of the dogs. They had circled around the perimeter of the meadow and were now positioned just out of sight.

  “Are you alone?” Olaf could tell the cop was kicking himself for not aski
ng the question sooner.

  “’Course I am. Why, something out there?”

  “Would you please step over there, sir?” He directed Olaf to a spot farther away from him and halfway to the tree line, where he could see both Olaf and the shadowy area from which the sound had issued. He inched closer to the trees, panning the light back and forth.

  “Don’t think it’s a wild animal, do you?”

  The cop didn’t answer. He dropped to one knee, bending to peer under the branches . . . scanning. Then he cocked his head at Olaf, but he wasn’t looking; he was listening. After a minute of silence, he stood and approached Olaf.

  “Should I be afraid?” Olaf asked, wide-eyed.

  The trooper grunted. “Must have been a deer.” He took the driver’s license, squinted at it for about three seconds, and returned it. A layer of greasy perspiration coated his forehead, gleaming in the light. He stepped back, flashed the beam into the van, into the woods, at Olaf. He seemed on the edge of some decision. Then he backpedaled toward his cruiser, casting furtive glances at the trees and prattling to justify not exposing his back to the weirdo in the ridiculous clothes. “If you make a campfire, be sure to douse it with water before leaving . . . Put your trash in properly marked receptacles, or keep it in the van if you prefer. Have a good trip.”

  “Thank you, Officer.”

  The man navigated past the front of the cruiser, down the side, and around the open door without turning away from Olaf—a home movie played in reverse. Without removing his hat, he tucked his head under the roof and slammed the door. Electronic door locks engaged with a loud thunk. The green glow of his communications terminal gave him an eerie presence behind the windshield. The cruiser made a tight circle, found the tire ruts where the path cut through the trees, and became an indistinct white glow—flickering with occasional brilliance, adorned by winking red taillights—that faded with the noise of the engine.

  He may come back.

  It mostly depended on whether or not he believed Olaf was alone. Clearly, he did not. But if he caught Olaf in a lie, what did it matter? Did it prove a crime was committed? No, all it really did was expose the trooper unnecessarily to potentially dangerous people. Even when he heard of the murder, he would be hard-pressed to make a connection. The killer had dogs—at least one. The sound in the woods could have been made by such an animal, but there were no other signs of it. And what animal owned by man stayed hidden and silent? Then there was Olaf ’s speech. A description of the killer would include a heavy accent, as heard by the woman on the phone. Most people might try to disguise an accent while committing a crime, but rarely would they invent one. He was a strong believer in an abundance of red herrings.

  “Freya! Thor! Eric!”

  The dogs crashed through the branches and sat in a semicircle around him.

  “Góan dag!” he praised them. “I have something for you. You want something?” He leaned into the van and came back with a burlap pouch. He withdrew a bulging handful of beef jerky and tossed it in front of the first dog, a monster called Thor. The animals looked at the pile, then shifted their gaze back to the master, waiting. He gave the other two similar helpings, then said, “Eat.” By the time he’d replaced the pouch, the pile in front of each dog was gone. “Now go play. We leave in five minutes.” They tore into the meadow as if their tails were on fire.

  Again he lifted the false floor. He pulled the ax from his belt and tossed it into the bin of weapons. Reaching deeper into the compartment, his fingers felt along the side. They found the plastic business-card pocket glued to the wood and worked out a tightly folded piece of paper. He turned, sat on the edge of the opening, and unfolded it. Names, descriptions, addresses. In small, careful hand lettering, the list contained fifty people. He’d counted them, thought about each one, how his life would intersect theirs, ending it. Cynthia Loeb’s was the fifth from the top of the first column. A thumbprint of dried blood partially obscured the next name down. Olaf scraped at the smudge with a fingernail until the letters beneath were legible: Trevor Wilson, age 12.

  A physical description and home address in Cañon City, Colorado, followed.

  The corners of his lips pulled into a frown, as if attached by a thread to the growing heaviness in his chest. Of course, he’d known the boy occupied this position on the list. But here he was, the next to die. It made him think of his own sons. His hand rose to trinkets that dangled from braided hemp round his neck. He fingered a wood-carved Othel—a diamond shape with legs continuing beyond its bottom point. It was his people’s symbol for family. Seven-year-old Jon had spent a month whittling it in secret to present to him upon his departure. The child had kissed him and pushed his face into his breast. His tears had felt like blood trickling through Olaf ’s chest hair.

  His hand moved to a rabbit’s foot from his other son, Bjorn’s, first kill. It meant the world to the boy, so it had deeply touched Olaf when he had handed it to him. Eleven-year- old Bjorn, thinking himself a man, had held back emotionally and physically. He had hugged his papa and wished him a safe trip, and then quickly stepped away. Bjorn’s determination to be strong had meant as much as Jon’s tears.

  And now this boy, Trevor Wilson. How his parents will mourn.

  Olaf stiffened his jaw, began refolding the list.

  What must be done, must be done.

  Turning back to the exposed compartment, stashing the paper, he resolved to grant what mercy he could. He slammed down the false floor and nodded. Yes, he could do at least that. His clan’s edict to always face one’s enemy, to look him in the eye, granting him the chance—however small—to fight and triumph over his own death, did not apply to children. He would visit the boy late at night, when he was certain to be asleep.

  NEARLY HALF a world away, a cell phone rang. A man awoke, blinking against the morning sun that filled his hotel suite. He squinted at the infernally chirping device on the nightstand and picked up a jewel-encrusted watch beside it—8:50, which meant 6:50 in his own time zone. He slipped on the watch and picked up the phone.

  “What is it?” he said gruffly in his native tongue.

  The caller spoke his name. The words were filtered through an electronic voice changer, jarring him fully awake.

  “Yes. Who is this?” He realized it was a stupid question.

  “Speak English,” the caller ordered.

  He complied. “How did you get this number?”

  “Pippino Farago is ready.”

  “Pip?” The man sat up. “Ready for what?”

  “For you. He has what you want. Be persuasive. Do it now.”

  “What do you mean? Hello?”

  The line was dead. He looked at the phone. The screen informed him that the caller was “unidentified.” Of course. But did that matter? If his information was correct, he had just received an extraordinary gift. His heart was racing when he started scrolling through the phone’s memory for Pip’s number.

  9

  Alicia’s lights panned into the kitchen and almost immediately captured the screaming horror of Cynthia Loeb’s severed head. It was perched upright on the edge of the counter, its chin hanging over the edge, in front of a stack of unwashed dishes and an open box of Cheez-Its.

  Alicia hitched in a sharp breath, which through her helmet’s little speakers sounded like a squawk and reverberated back to her as a piercing crack. Her shoulders came back instinctively, a slight move, exaggerated by the bulky lights mounted to them. Detective Lindsey, who was standing immediately behind her in the hall, caught one of the lights squarely in the forehead.

  “Hey!” he yelled painfully. “Watch it now!”

  “Sorry,” she whispered.

  He pushed past her, rubbing his head. Then he saw the thing on the counter and made a sharp choking sound.

  The tech, Fleiser, entered next, squeezing by her on the other side. He didn’t make a sound, but Alicia felt a hand grip her arm.

  “So this is a Pelletier killing.” Lindsey’s voice was flat,
like a documentary’s narrator. Until now, he’d had to trust the assessment of the responding patrolman who had set everything in motion.

  Fleiser cleared his throat. “I heard the name, but why Pelletier?”

  Alicia suspected the man would have asked anything that would, however insignificantly, move his thoughts away from the grotesque sight before him.

  “Nicolas-Jacques Pelletier,” she answered. “In 1792, he was the first victim of the guillotine.” This nugget of trivia had popped from the mind of one of the investigators at the first known killing by the assumed perp in Utah. The name had stuck.

  The head’s strawberry blond hair was matted and sticking up in a pointed swirl. Alicia realized with sick vividness that the killer had carried it by the hair. But there hadn’t been a trail of blood. She lowered her view to check again, bringing the lights with her.

  “What are you doing? Go back to the head! The head!” demanded Lindsey, sounding panicked over the possibility of Cynthia Loeb’s head taking flight in the dark and whispering in his ear.

  “Hold on.”

  The floor was clean, except for a few thin swirls of brown—obviously dried blood. Almost as if the spilled blood had been wiped up. But why? Then her lights caught a mark on the floor, and she stepped closer. Three-quarters of a dog’s paw print, made of blood. And it came to her: the animals had licked the floor clean.

  “Come on, lady.” The detective was really pouring on the charm now.

  Slowly she turned back to the head.

  Cynthia’s irises—green, Alicia noticed—had rolled up slightly, as if just becoming aware of how atrocious her hair looked. One eyelid was drooping. Blood filled both nostrils and caked the left temple and cheek. A purple-yellow bruise had blossomed on the other cheek. Dry lips were twisted in a sour grimace . . . a bloated tongue . . . blood . . . pooling, dripping onto the floor.