Viking Vengeance

by Maggie Foster

  The Cooperative Hall had been built adjacent to the loch, abutting it, but private. The Laird sauntered along the path, spotted Monroe without trouble, and wandered up to the bench, sitting down on it and greeting the young man pleasantly.

  “A bonnie nicht.”

  “It is.”

  “A canny man might be thinkin' o’ going oot fishing.”

  Monroe blinked at the Laird, then turned his eyes to the sky, then back to the surface of the water. “Not much moon.”

  “True. E’en a guid fisherman might trip and fall o’er board on a nicht wi’ nae moon. Could be lost. Ye’d need tae be careful, but the catch might be worth th’ risk.”

  Monroe’s eyes narrowed. “It would be a good place to do some thinking.”

  “Aye. Ye’d ha’ th’ loch tae yerself. Nane tae disturb ye.”

  Monroe nodded slowly. “Do you know a good place to go night fishing?”

  “Reggie does. He was plannin’ tae go oot this nicht. Loch Lavon, I think. Ye know it?”

  “Yup.”

  “Tis mild fer a February nicht. Ye could make do wi’ just yer tackle and a flask maybe, and yer coat, though ye could leave that on the seat o’ the boat if ye wanted tae ha’e yer hands free tae cast.”

  Monroe nodded.

  “Ha’e ye one o’ the floating key bobs?”

  “No.”

  The Laird climbed to his feet. “Come wi’ me, then. I’ve one I can let ye ha’e.”

  Monroe rose and followed him to the parking lot. The Laird opened the trunk of his car and pulled his tackle box to the edge, making sure it could be seen by anyone watching. He dipped into his supplies, fished out the device Reggie had given him earlier that day, and turned to Monroe.

  “Here, lad. This will see ye hame.” He dropped his voice as Monroe leaned in to inspect the contents of the tackle box.

  “There’s a homing beacon in the bob, already activated. Swim ashore away frae th’ lights then walk tae th’ edge of the pavement. Reggie will pick ye up and take ye tae th’ Homestead. I’m tae remind ye tae take nothing but th’ fishing gear.”

  Monroe nodded, dropping the beacon into his pocket. “Where do I go after I pick up my tackle?”

  “Reggie should be callin’ any minute noo.”

  The phone went off and Himself answered it, leaning against the trunk of the car while Monroe pulled a lure out and held it up to the light.

  “Ye’re nae able tae go, then? Ah weel. Ye and Charlie will ha’e tae go another time.” He hung up the phone, then turned and leaned into the trunk.

  “Lavon, Little Ridge Park.” He stood up and handed a lure to Monroe. “Ye can borrow this one fer when ye do get tae go and let me know how it does fer ye.”

  Monroe nodded. “I’ll do that.”

  * * *

  Friday Night

  Lake Lavon

  Charlie Monroe stood in the bass boat and looked out over the dark water. He had taken a moment to pull Lake Lavon up on his computer and had seen a power plant warm water outlet next to Little Ridge Park. It made an excellent place to go overboard. He would be wet, but not frozen.

  He baited his line by the light of the electric lantern, then cast it out over the water, watching the lure sink. He wondered what kind of fishing there might be in Canada.

  He’d been trying not to think about what he was doing, but now the reality swam up to him from the depths, surfacing and disturbing the waters of his mind. He’d never much cared for cold weather. Well, that had better change, and fast.

  He would never see any of his friends again. Or his family. He had a brother, five years older than he was, and a sister-in-law. Both were dentists and seemed to be perpetually abroad, caring for the needy somewhere in Africa. He hadn’t seen them in years, might not even recognize them if he did.

  He’d visited his in-laws and given them a few things he thought they might like to have, to remember their daughter and grandchildren by. That had been a hard visit. He’d been careful not to tell them what he planned to do. No need to distress them further. He’d liked Mandy’s parents and they had liked him.

  His own parents were dead, killed in an airplane crash, along with his maternal grandparents, when he was seven. He would never visit their graves again. Or Mandy’s. He put his hand to his eyes, pressing hard, trying not to weep.

  He’d left the Navy when his paternal grandfather died of a heart attack, to come home and care for his remaining grandmother. She had Alzheimer’s and was in a facility run by the Homestead. She hadn’t recognized him the last time he went to visit.

  He pulled back on the rod and cast again, not caring where the lure fell.

  He didn’t have to go. He could stay and take his punishment. He had killed a man. He deserved to be punished. If he confessed, and didn’t get sent to the looney bin, that meant time in prison, in the company of hardened criminals. They would become his new family. It was that thought, as much as anything, that had made up his mind for him.

  He watched the lights of a car move along the edge of the lake and wondered if it was Reggie MacDonald, coming to get him. He’d met the man, once, when he’d been sent down into the caverns to work on a covert communications project.

  He’d had a promising future until last August, until that monster had taken everything from him. He found a lump in his throat and swallowed it with difficulty, his vision blurring.

  What was he doing out here on the lake, planning to fake his own death, to escape into the night? Why had he let Ginny Forbes talk him out of shooting himself?

  Had he been afraid? Afraid to die, to be with Mandy and the girls? Maybe he believed that suicides didn’t get to go to heaven. Maybe he’d just been unable to pull the trigger.

  He didn’t understand that. He should have been able to kill himself without a second thought. He’d gone to the park and tried to make himself feel how bad it hurt, how his heart stopped beating when he thought of his girls. Annie’s birthday present was still in the closet, wrapped, ready to give to her. He’d been close. Why had Ginny stopped him? Why had he let her stop him?

  He reeled in the line and cast again, his eyes on the ripple it caused on the surface of the lake.

  The psychiatrist had talked to him at length. He’d been sympathetic, had said what he was feeling was normal. He’d also said the pain would fade, that he’d be able to face life again, in time. What if he didn’t want to feel good again?

  If the psychiatrist was right, then starting over made sense. Mandy would want that. She was always supporting him, encouraging him. Charlie felt a tear trickle down his cheek and brushed it away.

  He’d done as told, except that he could NOT leave without a picture of his girls. He’d put the flash drive inside three layers of plastic baggies, then duct-taped it to his skin, inside his clothes. It would be safe there. Eventually he’d find a computer he could use. He’d have his girls back.

  He tugged gently on the line, trying to imagine the fish at the bottom of the lake. The fish was hungry and would take the bait thinking it was safe to eat. It would be wrong.

  Charlie, too, was facing a lure, only, unlike the fish, he knew there was a hook inside. He could give himself up and endure whatever came. Or he could kill himself. Or he could leave everything he had ever loved behind and start over. Which of those was the honorable choice? Was there any way to tell?

  His ancestors believed the Norse gods sent omens, messages to mortals, to guide them. What he needed was a sign. ‘Mandy,’ he pleaded, ‘give me a sign. Tell me what to do.’

  The line he was holding tugged suddenly as a fish took the bait. Charlie jerked back on the pole to set the hook. He let out some line and tugged again, feeling the fish pull, then slide to the side. Charlie followed it in the dark.

  The fish was pulling hard. Must be a big one and probably a bottom-feeder. Catfish, most likely. Charlie pulled too, trying to get the fish off the bottom, then gave him some slack and pulled again. This time the fish seemed to be coming toward him,
rising. Charlie leaned back, keeping the tension on the line, but he couldn’t see what he was doing. He stumbled over the bench and tripped, then, with a startled cry, went over the side and into the water.

  He had sense enough to drop the line and let himself sink, then drift. The water was murky and for a moment he wasn’t sure which way was up, then his head broke the surface and he could see the shore. He had lost one of his shoes. He kicked off the other, took a breath and submerged, heading for the edge of the lake.

  He had already identified a landing spot. He surfaced, then pulled himself onto the rocks as quietly as possible. The key fob was still there, clipped to a belt loop. After a bit he rose and started to walk along the shore, carefully, since he could not see the ground and he was shoeless. Ten minutes effort brought him to the edge of the picnic area. A careful look around showed him one car, lights out, visible against the backdrop of the city. As he watched, a thin shadow detached itself from the side of the car and came over.

  “You all right, then? Not drowned?”

  Charlie swallowed hard. “Not drowned.” He followed Reggie MacDonald over to the car.

  “Here.” Reggie handed him a blanket.

  He climbed into the passenger side of the car and drew the blanket around him as Reggie put the car in gear and drove off.

  Charlie found himself responding to the vibration of the car, the warmth of the heater, and the aftermath of the immersion. His gaze rested on the lights of Dallas, his home no longer, then he took a deep breath and closed his eyes. An image of his dead wife rose before him. He could see her, smiling at him, nodding to him. He smiled back.

  * * *

  Chapter 9

  Saturday

  Forbes Residence

  It was their last prep day and Jim was on the phone with the Laird. Ginny could hear his end of the conversation.

  “I understand that.” There was a pause. “I agree it’s a good choice for the first leg of the trip, but we’re still going to need something that can handle ice and snow.” Jim looked over at her and made a face. “Okay. I’ll wait to hear from you.” He put the phone away and shook his head.

  “Himself says they’ve got a small commercial truck that will hold all the gear and both of us and Monroe. The windows are tinted and hard to see through and the second row of seating is moveable so we can put him on the floor, completely out of sight.” He sighed. “He’s right about wanting to make sure no one sees a third head in the car as we drive off into the sunset.”

  “We’re going east.”

  “Sunrise, then.” Jim added his trauma bag to the pile of items to be packed.

  Ginny pulled out a small black velvet bag and emptied the contents onto the table. She watched as Jim’s eye widened.

  “What’s this?”

  “Four thousand dollars’ worth of small gemstones, suitable for turning into cash or barter on either side of the border. It was Himself’s idea. In case we get into a liquid assets pinch.”

  She tucked the gems carefully back into the bag and tied it shut, securing it in her purse, then caught Jim’s eye. “I just wanted you to know I was carrying them.”

  * * *

  Saturday Midmorning

  Monroe Residence

  On Saturday, Detective Tran drove to Monroe’s house, parked on the street, and waited for the patrol car to pull up behind her. She rang the doorbell, then knocked. When no one answered, she moved around the side of the house and let herself into the back yard.

  There were toys scattered about the yard, the brightly colored bits of plastic splattered with mud. Nothing had been picked up. Nothing had been cleaned. The implication was clear. The children were gone and nothing mattered any more.

  Detective Tran moved to the back windows and looked in. There was no evidence of life inside. She pounded on the back door and called out.

  “Charles Monroe?”

  Still no answer. She moved across to the other side of the yard. The garage was closed, but had windows set in the doors. She stretched up and looked inside. No car.

  “Gone fishing.”

  Detective Tran turned and found an old man leaning on a fence across the alley. “I beg your pardon?”

  “He went fishing. Last night. I saw him drive out.”

  Detective Tran pulled out the small book she carried with her at all times. “What time did you see him leave?”

  “’Bout eleven.”

  “You are sure he went fishing?”

  “Put his tackle in the car. Drove off. Didn’t see him come back.”

  Detective Tran asked a few more questions, but it was clear her informant had told her everything he knew. She thanked him and made her way back to the front of the house.

  He might be at the lake, of course. Or spending the night with a friend. It was too soon to put out a missing person’s report. It was a nuisance not to have found Monroe at home, but no more than that. Not yet.

  * * *

  Sunday Morning

  Hillcrest Regional Medical Center

  Ginny yawned as she made her way to the parking garage elevators. It was seven-thirty on Sunday morning and she was thinking about nothing but bed.

  “Miss Forbes?”

  She looked up to see a petite Vietnamese woman standing in front of the door leading to the ambulance bays. “Detective Tran!” Ginny smiled. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

  “I am sorry to have to catch you coming off shift, but I would like to ask a few questions, if I may, before I have to speak to someone else.”

  Ginny tried to express pleased puzzlement. “Yes, of course! What may I do for you Detective?”

  “I would like to know if you’ve seen Charles Monroe since that incident on the playground.”

  Truth was always best, where possible. “Yes, of course.”

  “When, please?”

  Ginny wrinkled her forehead. “I was with him most of Friday.”

  “The day before yesterday.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he say anything to you?”

  “Not much. He’s still pretty depressed. We talked about how important it was for him to take his medication and keep his appointment with the psychiatrist on Monday.”

  “Was he drinking?”

  “Alcohol? Not while he was with me.”

  “Did he say anything to you that made you think he was planning something?”

  “No, nothing.” Ginny frowned. “Is there a problem?”

  “He may be missing.”

  Ginny’s frown deepened. “Missing! Have you spoken to Himself, Angus Mackenzie, I mean?”

  “That is my next stop. I was hoping you could tell me a little bit about Mr. Monroe.”

  Ginny outlined the story for the detective, seeing her nod. “He was released on condition that someone stay with him and we’ve been taking it in turns. Oh, dear. I hope nothing has happened to him.” Ginny firmly kept her mind off the plans for the trip.

  “You are concerned for him?”

  Ginny kept her frown in place. “Yes. He was suicidal on Saturday. Last Saturday, I mean. He might have had an accident, I suppose, but yes, I would rather know he’s safe.”

  “We’ll be checking into both possibilities. In the meantime, if you hear from him, or of him, would you please let me know?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Thank you, Miss Forbes. Good day.”

  Ginny waited for the elevator, worrying about what the detective might have read on her face. She hoped nothing. She had told the exact truth, except that she had no intention of calling in when Charlie did appear, if he did, that is.

  She rode up to the fourth floor, let herself into her car, locked the door, then pulled out her phone. She tapped out a carefully worded message to Himself.

  Detective Tran caught up with me at the hospital this morning, looking for Charlie. I couldn’t help her, since I haven’t seen him since Friday night so I referred her to you. He seemed depressed when I talked to him. I
hope he hasn’t done something stupid, poor man. Will you let me know when you find him?

  With any luck, Himself would see it before he had to face the detective, but whether he did or not, it would be clear to everyone that Ginny believed Charlie was in town, possibly in danger, and that the Scots were actively looking for him. It had all the appearance of innocence. Which was all she could hope for at the moment.

  * * *

  Chapter 10

  Sunday Midmorning

  Auld Kirk

  Angus Mackenzie spotted the detective before she spotted him. She was scrutinizing each face as it left the church, clearly looking for someone. He glanced at Ginny’s note again, then started across the grass.

  “Was it me ye were lookin’ fer?” he asked.

  She turned round. “Good morning, Mr. Mackenzie. I am hoping Charles Monroe is here.”

  “Charlie?” Himself gave a start. “What’s amiss wi’ Charlie? He’s no been threatening tae shoot hisself agin’?”

  “Not that we know of. We would like to have a word with him, though.” The detective’s eyes continued to examine the faces of the people as they streamed onto the lawn. Angus waited beside her, his brow furrowed.

  The working relationship between the clan and the local police was distant, but cordial. There was no reason for the police to suspect collusion, but there was always a chance someone had let something slip. The fact that they had sent a homicide detective, rather than a regular police officer, was ominous.

  When the last worshipper had left the building, the detective stepped inside and looked around, then turned to Himself.

  “Did Mr. Monroe come to church this morning?” she asked.

  Himself shook his head. “I didnae see him.”

  “Miss Forbes said you were taking it in turns to keep an eye on him. Is that correct?”

  “Aye.”

  “Whose turn would it be today?”

  Himself blinked. There had been no need to assign anyone after Reggie collected Charlie from the lake on Friday night. He wrinkled his brow. “Let me see.” The entire council had been present when Charlie had chosen exile, and most of the clan. Who among them could be trusted to help fabricate a careful half-truth?