The Book of Lamps and Banners

by Elizabeth Hand

  Chapter 63

  She lay there motionless, curled on her side, arms crossed over her breasts. She wore the clothes I’d last seen her in—black cargo pants and white T-shirt, both now filthy, and a black pleather motocross jacket. Dirty white socks but no shoes. Her matted dreadlock was crushed beneath one shoulder. Loose sequins winked from the blankets like spiders’ eyes.

  “Tindra,” I whispered, afraid to touch her. “Tindra, can you hear me?”

  I couldn’t see her breathing. Her pale face looked bruised, lavender deepening to gray. I sank onto the mattress beside her, slipped my hand beneath her T-shirt. Her flesh was cool.

  But I felt a flutter beneath my palm, so faint it might have been my own pulse. I moved my hand slightly, pressing until I was sure. She was alive.

  I picked up one limp arm and shone my flashlight at the crook of her elbow, looking for the telltale sign of a hypodermic needle. I found none. The other arm was the same. I turned the flashlight onto her neck, and there it was: a tiny hematoma, marking where the needle had entered her neck. It might not have hit her carotid artery, just a vein, but that would be enough. I pushed up one of her eyelids. Only a pale corona of iris showed around the dilated pupil.

  I shook her gently, then harder, to no avail. Whoever did this had done it before. He knew to give her enough etorphine so that she’d appear comatose, even dead, but not enough to actually kill her. I wondered if this was what had happened when she was thirteen, or if it was a pattern that developed later.

  Kneeling on the futon, I dug my hands under Tindra’s shoulders and tried to lift her. I could barely get her to move. I cursed, sweat pooling between my breasts, and staggered to my feet, trying to shake off rising panic. An hour or two ago I wanted to kill myself. Now I wanted to get the hell out of here.

  That grayish tinge could mean she was already gone—that she’d suffered brain damage, or was suspended somewhere between a fatal overdose and unconsciousness. I could leave her here. I could clamber up that ladder and race back outside and…what?

  “Fuck,” I whispered.

  I dumped my bag’s contents onto the futon, sorting through them frantically. The Nikon was useless; my wallet was useless; the scissors and cigarette lighter were useless. I had barely enough drugs to get me high, except what remained of my crank.

  That left a couple of ballpoint pens, a retainer wrapped in tissue, a photo CD, a few black T-shirts and underwear, my toothbrush, and two tranquilizer darts, one empty.

  I stared at the motionless form on the mattress. After a minute I swept everything back into the bag except for the empty dart, the scissors and lighter, a ballpoint pen, and the baggie containing the crank. I picked up the spent cannula and scrutinized it.

  I couldn’t fuck this up. I only had one empty dart. I needed pliers to do the job right, but I might be able to make it work with scissors.

  I placed the dart’s needle tip near the crux of the scissor blades, held my breath as I closed the blades as gently as I could. I needed them to grasp the needle firmly enough to pull it free, but not slice through it. I exerted as much pressure as I dared, and very slowly pulled. It took several attempts, each more difficult than the one before. My hands were sweating, and I shook from cold and nerves and the beginnings of withdrawal.

  On the fourth try the needle emerged. I dropped it onto the table, wiped my palms on my jeans, and used the tip of the scissors to disassemble the dart, prying out its various parts. Plastic chamber, black plastic plunger, plastic stop, a minute wad of control felt, the red nonreturn valve. When the cannula was empty, I filled it with water from the plastic jug. I swished it around and dumped the water onto the concrete floor, repeating the process several times.

  I picked up the needle again, avoiding the tip, and managed to force it back into its nearly invisible socket. I flicked the lighter and held the needle in the flame till it glowed orange, then set the dart on the table’s edge.

  While the needle cooled, I cut a long strip from one of the cartoon sheets. I examined Tindra’s T-shirt until I found a spot where the fabric seemed relatively clean, and snipped off a tiny piece. Then I wrapped the long strip I’d cut from the sheet around Tindra’s biceps, just above her elbow.

  I filled the cap of the water jug with water, about a quarter teaspoon. I opened the tiny ziplock bag of crank and poured the water inside it, added the bit of cotton I’d snipped from Tindra’s T-shirt. I closed the bag, made sure the seal was tight, and shook it vigorously. You don’t cook meth the way you do heroin, but you have to ensure that the crystals are fully dissolved in water before you inject it, otherwise they clog the needle.

  I let it sit for a minute or two—I couldn’t wait any longer. I opened the tiny baggie and tipped the meth-soaked cotton into the hollow cannula, shaking it until the fabric settled at the bottom. Using the scissors, I poked in the nubbin of felt, no bigger than a pencil eraser, and the black plastic plunger. Last of all I slid the ballpoint pen into the chamber, point up, to serve as a charger.

  I sat beside Tindra and grasped her forearm, just below the crux of her elbow. It had turned white as soap from the tourniquet’s constriction. In contrast, the veins beneath her skin looked as though they’d been drawn in azure ink. Holding the jury-rigged hypo in my right hand, I pressed the needle against a vein, the ball of my thumb on the pen charger. If the needle broke or slipped, she was done. Same if I missed the vein. I counted to three, steadying my hand, and jammed the charger as hard as I could.

  The barrel of the pen shot through the chamber. The needle held, puncturing her skin. I exerted more pressure, trying to squeeze as much of the drug into her system as I could. I counted to thirty and withdrew the needle, a bloody filament dangling from its tip, undid the tourniquet, and threw it onto the floor along with the spent dart.

  “Come on, baby,” I whispered, pulling her into a sitting position. I grabbed the jug and sloshed water onto her face. Her head lolled, mouth sagging open. I slapped her cheek, shook her violently. “Tindra! Goddamn it, wake up!”

  She gasped. Her eyes flew open and she stared at me, her expression gormless as a doll’s. I slapped her again, dragging her to her feet. She punched me and began to scream, babbling in Swedish as she lashed out, knocking down the stepladder. I pushed her against the wall, covering her mouth with my hand.

  “Shut up!” I grasped her chin and turned her head. “Look at me—can you see me? Do you remember who I am?”

  Her gazed fixed on me, then the cell around us. The tawny eyes filled with tears. I took that for a yes.

  “Do you remember me?” I repeated. “In London, I was at your place in Brixton. Do you remember that?”

  She nodded.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “Han tog mig! Han—”

  “English! I don’t know Swedish.”

  She drew a shuddering breath, her chest heaving. The crank had kicked in, her pupils already shrunk to pinholes. Her fingers tightened around the dreadlock as though it were a lifeline. “Where am I?”

  “On Kalkö. Do you remember coming here?” Again she nodded. “Those empty cottages on the eastern side of the island, that’s where we are. This room is beneath one of them. Someone is holding you prisoner. They drugged you and brought you down here. Do you know who that is?”

  Her face contorted; I thought she might throw up.

  “Ville,” she croaked.

  “Do you mean Gwilym? Gwilym Birdhouse?”

  “Yes. Ville, that’s his name in Swedish.”

  “Okay.” I backed away from her, picked up the stepladder, and placed it where it had been. “You need to listen to me. I want you to climb up that ladder. I’ll be right behind you. We need to get out of here right now.”

  She grabbed me, surprisingly strong for someone who’d just had her body jump-started. “Do you have it?”

  “What?”

  “The book? He took it—did you find it?”

  “Are you out of your fucking mind? No, I don’t
have it.”

  I pushed her toward the ladder. She twisted away and stared at me, wild-eyed.

  “We have to get it. He has the book and my mobile. We need to go back and get them.”

  “We need to get the fuck out of here before he comes back and kills us.”

  She was younger than me, fired up from crank and etorphine, the speedball from hell, but I was bigger and stronger. “If I have to knock you out again and drag you up there, I swear to god I will. Or I’ll leave you here for when he comes back.”

  She began to sob, then pointed at her feet.

  “My shoes…”

  I ripped the covers off the futon, lifted it, and found her white Vans wedged beneath. I tossed them at her. She started to pull them on, stopped abruptly, and looked at me. “There’s somebody else.”

  I’d already grabbed my bag and stood beside the ladder. “What?”

  “Another girl. There was another girl here. Girls.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “At the farm, I heard them—Freya and Erik, they were whispering. A refugee girl, more than one. I don’t think they’re alive now.”

  “Jesus Christ. What the hell are you saying?”

  “I don’t know! Only that’s what I heard.”

  Her eyes went in and out of focus. There was more etorphine in her system than crank. I had to keep her moving. “Okay, you can tell me while we’re walking.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “I don’t know. Come on.”

  Chapter 64

  After Tindra climbed out, I shut off the battery lantern and followed her up the ladder, lowered the trapdoor, and rolled the carpet back across the floor. Everything looked as it had before. For a while, terror and adrenaline had canceled out the pain in my knee. Now that I had a moment to breathe, the ache returned.

  I walked gingerly to each window and peered out. The trees tossed, branches raking the cabin’s roof and walls. The wind had come up considerably. The sky had brightened, sunrise still a little ways off, but not for long. I saw no footprints or any sign that someone had followed me.

  I turned to Tindra. “Do you know where we are?”

  “Solstrålens Stugby—the Sunbeam Cottages. It’s an old holiday camp, he owns it now.”

  “Who owns it?”

  “Ville.” Her voice caught. “It was—I grew up there. Here. It belonged to my parents. When my mother died, my father stopped the business. He got weird, and it got like this…”

  She kicked at a wall black with mildew. “Ruined. He fucked up everything.”

  “We need to get out of here.” I limped to her side. “Here, let me lean on you…”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. My knee, I banged it, that’s all.”

  Once outside, I started toward the shoreline. Tindra stopped me.

  “Not that way. There’s no tide in the Baltic, but this is a gale.” She wrapped her arms around herself and tilted her head toward the water. “That stream there, it will be too big now to cross—the wind pushes the water up from the beach.” She turned and pointed at the woods. “That way is safer.”

  I stared into the trees. If we continued straight through the forest, we’d eventually reach the homestead, only from the opposite direction I’d taken earlier. “It’s too close to the house.”

  “Are you afraid?” I looked over to see her bouncing on her heels. The crank had kicked in; she was wired. “Are you afraid?” she repeated.

  If Quinn had asked me the same thing, I would have lied. Instead I nodded.

  “You don’t need to be.” Her eyes glinted in the faint light. “I’m going back there.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “He has the book and my mobile. I know where they are. Do you know what he’ll do with them?”

  “I have a pretty good idea. But isn’t the app encrypted?”

  “Yes, but it doesn’t really need to be. What’s stored on the mobile is a binary, compiled from the source code. Which is stashed in the cloud. The mobile is the least important thing in the long term. But I couldn’t bear to lose it—it’s a…” She gave me an odd smile, wistful and also desperate. “It’s a talisman for me. Like a camera might be for you.”

  “Yeah, but none of that’s going to do you any good if you’re dead. Or me.”

  “We won’t die. The house is never locked. They’ll still be asleep. But we need to go now. Come on, this way…”

  I avoided her gaze—going with her really would be crazy. But there was no doubt that the wind was now a gale. It would be impossible to cross the channel behind us.

  And despite everything that had happened, the memory of The Book of Lamps and Banners still worked in me like a drug. If Tindra was telling the truth, I could accompany her to the house and nab the book, then figure out some way to get back to the car, and Quinn. I didn’t care about the app—just thinking about it made my skin go cold—but if Tindra was given an ultimatum, I suspected she’d choose Ludus Mentis over The Book of Lamps and Banners.

  “All right,” I said.

  Chapter 65

  When we reached the shelter of the trees, I asked, “You sure you know the way from here?”

  “Yes. There’s a path. I used to run back and forth between the cottages and the house all day long.”

  She walked on ahead of me, holding back branches so they wouldn’t smack me in the face. Once my eyes adjusted, I could see the path, bordered by the stumps of trees felled decades ago. In summer, the ground would be thick with ferns and wildflowers and tall grass, difficult to navigate. Now thin snow covered everything. The dense firs provided some protection from the wind.

  I was running on fumes. It had been hours since I had a drink. My skin itched, my eyes swam with random blots of light, eyes and arrows and indecipherable letters.

  “Your app,” I said. “I think it imprinted on my brain.”

  “It’s supposed to do that.”

  “Why? It’s horrible. Like an acid flashback forty years after the fact.” She remained silent, so I tried another tack. “Back there—what were you saying about someone else, a girl?”

  “In the kitchen. Freya said, ‘We can’t have another one,’ and they argued about it.”

  “Who argued?”

  “Her and Erik.”

  “Shit.” I struggled to process this information. “So this guy Birdhouse, he assaulted you when you were a kid, and you’re telling me he kidnapped someone else and murdered them?”

  “I don’t know. I think so.”

  “Do you know who it was?”

  “That’s all I heard. They stopped talking when Ville came in. I think that’s when he drugged me.”

  “Freya and Erik—I saw them at the rally in London. Who are they?”

  “Erik worked the farm when he was younger, for my father. They were very close, like brothers. This was before my father met Ville. I think Erik, maybe he was my mother’s boyfriend—I think they had an affair, but I didn’t understand. I was too young. Maybe I’m wrong. But I always thought that was why Erik seemed to hate his own wife. And when my father died, he left the farm to Ville, not Erik.”

  “Why?”

  “Ville had enough money to keep the farm alive. It never earned much—the holiday cottages, that was how we made money when I was little. Then my mother died, and Solstrålens Stugby closed. And my father met Ville and gave him the farm. Erik was upset, but he got over it. Now he and Freya run the farm for Ville.”

  “She’s his wife?”

  “Yes. But he treats her like a slave. Like an animal. He beats her.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I saw it.”

  I recalled how Erik had spoken to Freya in Victoria Park; how the sleeve of her sweater rode up to expose a valknut tattoo and a band of raw skin above her wrist. I started when Tindra touched my arm.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” I scooped up more snow and pressed it against my knee. “Tell me what
happened, whatever you remember.”

  “First, tell me how you found me.”

  I gave her an abbreviated version. When I stopped, Tindra frowned.

  “Meth? I can’t believe you gave me meth. Is there more?”

  “No. How much further?”

  “A while—it’s over two miles to the house. When I was a girl, I could get there in twenty minutes.” She glanced at my leg. “Maybe you need a doctor.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me your father was dead? And a white supremacist?”

  “My father? Why would I even think of telling you that?”

  “How did he know Birdhouse? Was he a fan?”

  “I don’t know. Probably. I was too young to know about his music then. My father met him at a dog breeder’s in Scotland. They were both raising Kalkö sheep—they’re quite popular in Scotland. There was a woman who bred border collies, she had a litter, and my father and Ville were looking at the puppies on the same day. They both wanted the same dog. They ended up going to the pub to decide who should have her. By the end of the night they were friends.”

  “Who got the dog?”

  “My father. But he said Ville could have breeding rights when she was old enough. Ville started coming to the island to visit. He and my father had some kind of business arrangement—Ville gave him money. Ville kept sheep, too, but he was more of an amateur—what do you call that?”

  “A gentleman farmer?”

  “Yes. It was a hobby for him. But Ville’s sheep did really well, better than ours, because someone else actually ran the farm for him. When I was eleven, he started spending his summers here on Kalkö. He was at our house all the time. He always paid a lot of attention to me, and I crushed on him—he was good-looking and still kind of famous, right?”

  She ripped a curl of birchbark from a tree, tearing it into ribbons as we trudged through the snow. She spoke quickly, but her tone remained detached. I wondered how many times, if any, she’d told this story; if Ludus Mentis had truly made it possible for her to overcome the traumas she’d experienced, or simply deadened her, the neurochemical equivalent of smack.