by Mark, David
The door was open.
Reaching down instinctively, Vikland popped the strap off her service pistol, sliding it out of the holster, bringing it up close to her chest. She listened, then slid the barrel slowly, chambering a round, moving the safety to off. Not a sound, except for the sound of an old clock.
She felt a cold descend down the length of her spine like a serpent chilling her to the core.
Something was seriously wrong.
Tick tock tick tock
She entered, continuing along a corridor, sweeping into a simple country kitchen: a large square porcelain sink, plates overlapping along the shelves of a traditional plate rack, then exiting, ears tuned to silence, the faint dirty light of morning entering through veiled windows.
Tick tock, tick tock
She swung to her left, entering a low-ceilinged day room. She felt her pulse rising in her ears, her heart in her throat, feeling tense, tensing. The sound of the clock grew louder. She stepped into the room, eyes focussed on the back of a chair and the shadow of a sleeping occupant. She paused to look over her shoulder, then took another step, her footstep landing in the middle of a loose board, making it squeak. She froze, her breathing becoming uneven, eyes fixed once more on that fine carved dark oak chair. It was upholstered in a rich, red material, fastened to the frame with rows of fine brass-headed nails. She saw his feet. He was sitting upright.
Tick tock, tick tock
She listened but couldn’t hear any breathing, moving another step to her left, glancing back to the entrance, seeing no one. She swallowed, breathing to calm herself, approaching the slumbered form of the Pastor. Ekman, she recalled, that was his name, a man much younger than the previous Pastor, but still old to behold, his arms hung at his sides.
Tick tock, tick tock
In the middle of each hand blood flowed from a small red hole, dripping down his fingers. She moved close, daring herself, touching it briefly with the tip of her index finger. It was still warm.
Tick tock, tick tock
Drops coagulating into tentacles, she followed the viscous lines, running down the edge of the seat, down the legs. She looked down at her feet, standing in the middle of a large black pool of blood pooling across the floorboards and under the chair.
Tick tock, tick tock
She took a step away, the blood leaving a treacly imprint of her boot, her fearful look swept across his arms, up his chest to his head laying to one side: To where his eyes stared in half-shut horror at the moment of his death, caused by the single hole in the smooth space between his eyebrows.
Tick tock, tick tock
On the floor beside the chair was a single brass casing.
She crossed to feel his skin. Cooling, but not cold.
She knew only one thing for certain: Pastor Ekman had not offered himself willingly, lifting his hands in a futile gesture of defense as he was shot in the head.
Tick tock, tick tock
She turned her back on him, walking back down the corridor, the ticking of the clock growing faint until she had returned to the open doorway, out into the early gray light of pre-dawn. She held her firearm, arm raised, trembling in the light rain, eyes searching, hair getting wet. She stopped and listened. It was quiet, without even the sound of a clock to disturb the peace.
Fabian waited for the lady to leave, watchin’ her make for the church and froze, seeing then the first faint glow from a window. Someone was in the church. The lady cope goin’ there, but she looked grim, real grim. Curious, she waited until she be gone inside then made back for the house.
The back door was already open, a pane of glass broken. She entered to the sound of one of them old clocks and followed the trail of boot prints still damp from lady, until they lead to the room and looked at the dead old man and the holes in them hands, listenin’. That be what she be good at, rememberin’ that silent conversation, readin’ the body language, like it’d been some arranged meeting or somethin’ that day. She waited for a second, listenin’ some more. Either lady had a silencer... but then she’s see the flashes. No flashes.
It was dark in here.
She stood to one side, listenin’ again, then poked her head around the side and scanned bad ground. They could lookin’ at her, here.
She heard it before she saw it, a car coasting out of the mist.
Two heads, men heads in car as they parked it under some big-ass trees. She retreated, walking quickly and silently back into the room with that clock and watched two men stand out. One of them glanced in the direction of the house. Instead of making for the house he turned to the church instead.
She retreated then walked into the kitchen, finding the door and walked at a run around to the side of the house. Another pause, listen, then a sprint to the edge of the wood where she waited.
Sebastian Chivers ran across the open space of the churchyard, waddling slightly and huffing, clutching his precious package closely. He entered the shelter of the pitched entrance canopy, studying the door before him – carved in the familiar Viking style, motifs picked out in yellow, red and orange against a black background. He tried the handle, raising the latch. It was open, as they said it would be.
He entered the primitive church, the smell of pine-timber and tar welcoming. Inside, it was dark. He waited for his eyes to adjust before finding the candle stand; upon it a box of matches. He placed the bundle of the Hangman at his feet and standing up, removed a candle from the open box set on a shelf under the stand. He lit it with shaking cold fingers, the match flaring up with a brief scent of phosphorous, the small flame revealing a tired and weary face out of the mantle of darkness. He lit the candle and rubbed his fingers to bring warmth to them, feeling the numbness of his fingertips begin to recede. Looking around to make sure he was completely alone, he mounted the candle in an empty holder. Then he placed his hand inside his trouser pocket and sought the small oval of his little penknife, drawing closer to the candle to see better. Crouching, he lifted the candle and dripped a little wax to the floorboards, bending down to glue it upright into the hot wax on the floor. Then he reached for the wet bundle, removing the soggy blanket which he threw across the back of one of the pews and placed the Hangman on the boards next to the candle, so the shimmering light bathed it in a warm golden glow. He turned the painting over to reveal the backing. Opening the penknife with his thumbnail, he dug the tip of the knife into the back of the board until he found purchase, twisting the blade to lever the head of the small nails ever so slightly upwards. And again, until he could remove it with his fingers. He repeated the process until he was able to pull one side of the backing loose.
His heart skipped a beat.
Inside the board was another board, made of a thin piece of plywood. The middle of the plywood had been cut away to make room for... metal. It was golden, once, it would have shone like gold. And yet... he moved his hand closer so his fingers could brush the surface. It was cold to the touch, looking like a triangle, a flat triangle of metal, one edge curving slightly, another smaller curved edge on the one opposite. He could feel something inscribed but couldn’t see it. He removed the object from the backing and held it close to the light, a face and a golden object lit by a solitary candle in a blanket of darkness. He studied it for a long time, taking in the symbols he couldn’t comprehend. He put it inside his trouser pocket, replacing the two layers of backing boards. Re-inserting the nails, he tapped repeatedly with the flat edge of the folded penknife until it was secure.
When he was done, he sat down cross-legged inside the space of the church and studied the small metal piece closely by the light of that one candle. He saw other symbols, finely cast within the surface, not one of them familiar. He took his time marveling that finally, here was something of real value.
More value perhaps, than a hundred Hangmans...
Vikland looked across the dark space between the Pastor’s house and the church. The door to the church was closed. Showing faintly from the high windows below the roof li
ne, the unmistakable flicker of candlelight. She approached, walking quickly across the open damp ground, ignoring the path, mounting the low wall. She crossed a circular mound, closing the distance to the entrance vestibule. It was placed at the narrow end of the church, facing away from the lake, stopping outside the heavy studded entrance door.
She raised a hand and pushed the door. It was open.
She stepped silently through the entrance, closing the door behind her, entering the church through the inner arched doorway, peering into soft light and shadow. Inside a heavy, overbearing smell of pitch, pitch and smoke, wood and tar and everything that reminded her of places she hadn’t been to in a very, very long time. She passed a line of twisting dark, serpentine columns, looking towards the door, firearm held before her in two hands. Nothing, save for a candle on the floor, others lit on the stand by the wall. No one, except for the serpents coiling up columns brought to life by the lazy dance of candlelight.
A figure appeared, rising from behind a line of pews in front of her, looking like a tramp, face crumpled from sleep. She realized with a jolt who it was: Sebastian Chivers. She stepped backwards, pointing her gun at him, uncertain, looking to her left, looking to her right, looking behind her, keeping her arms before her. She tried to take command, tried to sound brave: ‘What are you doing here?’
Chivers blinked once, twice, rubbing his eyes without saying anything, looking confused. His face, his hair and most of his clothes were covered in mud. Shadows lined his eyes, his hair sticking out in all directions. His shirt could be seen open underneath his filthy jacket, bowtie gone. The transformation was as remarkable as it was unexpected. Chivers looked like he was going to say something, then changed his mind. That was when she saw the painting. It was propped up on the seat of a pew next to him.
Vikland felt the weight of her firearm clapped tightly in her hand. Something still wasn’t right. He was looking around, as if searching, eyes darting to the door. She took a step towards him, nodding to the side gallery between the outer timbered walls and the colonnade. ‘Walk over to the wall, place your hands where I can see them,’ she said in a quiet, controlled voice, a sixth sense of paranoia ingrained after years of police work. She turned to look behind her again, but there was... nothing.
‘It’s you, Vikland,’ he said, standing up. ‘What are you doing here?’
He merely stared at her, piggy eyes waking.
‘Over there,’ she forced him to the left. Except, he was still looking towards the door.
‘Keep moving,’ she said tensely, looking over her shoulder, stepping deeper into the gloom deeper within the depths of the church. She walked to her side, sitting down near the end of one of the pews, beckoning for him to approach with her gun.
A sound. She glanced around at the door, rising and stepping to her left so she had a clear line of sight, in time to see the handle to the outer door turn.
Chapter 21
DESTRUCTION
Cattle die, and kinsmen die,
And so one dies one's self;
But a noble name will never die,
If good renown one gets.
Stanza 77, Hávamál
She watched the two men enter the church entrance where the lady had already disappeared. She’d already stepped out of the cover when they emerged from the trees. She sprung back and held her breath, cursing her luck and dropped to the ground, hand moving upwards, finger already curled around the trigger. She held her breath and only when they continued along their line did she release it. Two men as silent as the night broke out across the carpark at a run, their movements cloaked in the sound of the light rain.
Fabian watched them, watched them cross the open ground. One had a pistol, the other a rifle, both covering the other in a quick, silent routine. Their movements showed them to be well-trained, repeating the process until they were standing on either side of the entrance porch. One took two, three steps back, followed by an exchange of whispered words and quick hand signals.
There be at least three people inside there.
She had three magazines in the pouch at her side and somewhere inside she blessed her luck they didn’t have assault rifles. She could take them both, now. But then there were the three others inside the church. Outcome unknown.
Fabian never acted on unknowns, ever. She calculated the distance, seeing an opportunity to bear left, the two placing all their attention on that door with their backs to her.
She rose and stepped out, breaking out into a run as she picked her way over the soft leaf-littered ground at the edge of the trees. She dropped down on one knee, focussed on a place at the side of the church where she couldn’t be seen then closed the distance at a quiet run.
The men stepped forward into the doorway. She tensed, waiting for them to go inside. As soon as they entered passing from sight she ran to take position next to the doorway, pressing her back to the wall, looking ahead into a mist of rain. She breathed deeply, in, out. Three times she breathed, regaining composure before peering around the edge of the entrance, just long enough to see what the hell it was that was goin’ down.
Her heart fell to the floor together with the rest of her body, consumed by disbelief and denial. Vikland watched in disbelief as Conrad Baron entered Æsahult, followed by Oskar Lindgren. She pressed herself instinctively to the floor, waiting to see if she had been seen. Had Oskar arrested him? She looked for handcuffs. She could see none. Something about Oskar prevented her from rising; something about his sense of ease, the look of satisfaction. She stretched out as Chivers looked at her, motioning with her head for him to look away, bringing her firearm forward and pointing it at his legs so he got the message. He looked away, looking scared, standing with his back to the timbered wall next to one of the tapestries, unmoving.
She could hear Baron’s voice. ‘Do you have it, the painting?’
She could sense his indecision, wanting to shout out, yet kept quiet by the fear of a bullet in his leg. Conrad was more insistent, looking around the church without expression as he spoke to Chivers. ‘Do you still have the painting?’
‘Speak, man.’ Baron commanded.
Vikland eased herself under a pew, aiming her gun at his calf muscle.
‘Yes, yes...’ Chivers spluttered. ‘Yes, I have it here.’
‘You’ve got a lot of answers to give...’ she heard Conrad Baron say. She saw Chivers tense but couldn’t see what was happening, edging away from the candlelight, pushing herself deeper into the shadows. She peered across into the next row, seeing the book of psalms on a prayer shelf, tensing, raising her head slowly to get a better look as she laid out under the pew, pressing herself to the ground her gun held before her. She could see they were half-turned from her, their attention still focused on Chivers, whose eyes were wide with uncertainty, unsure what to say or how to respond. He looked to his side, trying to find Vikland, or give her away. Except, she wasn’t there.
Lindgren reached down and removed his service pistol, pointing it at Chivers. ‘Come forwards to so we can see you,’ he said in a strong Swedish accent.
Chivers obliged, feet shuffling forwards.
Vikland kept low, crawling along the floor away from the aisle, slowly, trying not to make a noise until she had eased herself into a better position, from where she could see Conrad Baron motion for Chivers to move to the side as Lindgren took a step towards him.
‘Tell me,’ Oskar said as he looked around, peering into the dark recesses. ‘How the hell did you get here?’
Chivers’ eyes must have moved to her position because Lindgren ran forward, looking down the rows of pews in front of him.
No one was there.
‘Where are you going Sebastian? Come here. Don’t run away now. Come on, there’s no need to be scared,’ Baron said teasingly, as one does to a child.
She watched Oskar’s smarmy smile spread to a grin as he glanced across to Conrad Baron, who was looking behind him up to the simple wooden altar with a passive, watchful f
ace. They were working together.
Lindgren stopped, poised.
‘She’s here!’ Chivers said in a rush.
She froze, pressing herself to the floor as Oskar turned towards her, feeling the grit on the floorboards under her hands.
‘Who?’
She held her breath.
Oskar moved to look down the next row.
‘Vikland!’ He said.
Then the next, until... he was only one row away.
Chivers backed towards the painting, left upright on the pew where he’d been sleeping.
‘Vikland is here?’ Oskar said with surprise in his voice.
Vikland shifted her position farther under the pew, away from Oskar as he rounded the end, searching, completely at a loss what to do, her heart pounding, finger tightening. She wouldn’t have time to make a second move. Lindgren stepping slowly deeper into the church, about to discover her laid out across the floor with no way out. She was about to move under the pew and into the next row when Baron stepped forward into view, so she couldn’t move either one way or the other without being seen.
‘Where is she?’ Lindgren asked Chivers, eyes darting all over the room, seeing nothing.
