Viking Vengeance

by Maggie Foster

  She and the man, Geordie Hamilton, had looked through Mr. Monroe’s house on Sunday. It would have to be done again, with a warrant and evidence collection team, but she had seen no indication of a hasty retreat. It certainly looked as if he planned to return to the house after the fishing expedition.

  There had been only one thing, a pamphlet on the subject of creating a new identity. It was face down on the bedroom floor and half hidden under the bed. She had been careful not to disturb it, and it might not mean anything, given Mr. Monroe’s mental state, but, then again, it might.

  Which brought her reluctantly back to her alternate theory. It was at least possible he had faked his death and left town. The only people who did that, in her experience, were those with something to hide.

  * * *

  Chapter 12

  Monday Evening

  Brochaber

  The Laird met them with a typewritten sheet that started, “The police are probably listening in. Say nothing about Charlie.”

  Jim could see Reggie’s hand in this. His grandfather was shrewd, but Reggie struck him as twisty as an eel. As the meal progressed, Himself passed around detailed instructions on when and where to pick up Charlie. They included an elaborate set of stage directions that had Ginny grinning and Jim wondering if any of this was really necessary. He took a pen out of his pocket and wrote on the latest piece of paper. Why?

  Himself offered coffee or something stronger and borrowed the pen. The police think he killed the man in the Viking ship.

  Jim felt his blood run cold. For the first time, he realized he was planning to help a murderer escape justice. That was a crime and, if caught, he could lose everything, his license to practice medicine, his job, maybe even his freedom.

  He looked up and found his grandfather’s eyes on him.

  The Laird rose, went over to the sideboard, and poured three fingers of whisky into a glass, handing it to Jim.

  “Ye were suggesting we age th’ whisky a mite longer. See wha’ ye think o’ this.”

  Jim took a sip. “Very nice. How old is it?”

  “Tha’s th’ twenty year old. We’ve got some hundred year stashed awa’ waitin’ fer a suitable occasion.”

  Ginny rose and came around to stand beside Jim. She reached for the glass. “May I?” He handed it to her and she took a tiny sip. “Oooo, that is nice.” She handed the glass back and put her head down beside his ear. “We need to talk.” He nodded and reached for his pen.

  Is there anywhere safe to talk?

  Himself nodded, writing. The caverns.

  “I don’t suppose you have a bottle of this twenty year old stuff you could let me have?”

  “Auch. Aye, but ‘tis o’er tae th’ Homestead. Would ye be wantin’ it tonight?”

  “Yes, please. I’d like to take it with me on this trip.” Jim turned to Ginny. “Tell me again why we have to drive north in the dead of winter?”

  She laughed. “Because if I don’t use up my accumulated vacation days, I’ll lose them. Also, the schools are in session, which means the reference librarians will be available. And the tourists won’t be there so we’ll have the archives to ourselves. I love traveling in winter! Besides,” she teased, “if you take enough of that twenty year old antifreeze, you won’t even notice the cold.”

  Jim nodded. “All right. Let’s go get it.”

  * * *

  Monday Evening

  The Caverns

  Himself steered the golf cart along a series of passages, none of them marked, and Jim was soon lost.

  “We keep th’ good stuff awa’ frae th’ masses, ye ken.”

  Jim nodded. “Of course.”

  They pulled up beside a rack bearing labels with years and lot numbers. His grandfather handed Jim three of the bottles. “One fer each o’ ye and more when ye get back. Gi’e th’ third tae Charlie when ye say, ‘Goodbye’.”

  Himself picked out two more bottles, tucking them carefully into the golf cart, then drove to a lighted space furnished with couches, coffee tables, and rugs. It was a genuine room with a ceiling, walls, floor, and doors with locks.

  “Ha’e a seat, Jim.”

  Himself handed one of the bottles to Ginny, who took glasses from the cabinet and poured each of them a drink, then retired to a spot just out of Jim’s line of sight.

  Himself sat down facing Jim. “Now, lad. Y’er wonderin’ whether ye should be mixed up in this criminal activity, am I right?”

  Jim swallowed hard, then nodded.

  “Ye’re no required to do sae. ‘Tis yer choice.”

  Jim licked dry lips. “If I get caught, I could lose everything I’ve worked so hard for.”

  Himself nodded. “Yer takin’ a risk, aye.”

  “Why are you willing to break the law for this man?”

  “Had ye been here, Jim, ye would ha’ already heard all o’ this. As ‘tis, I’ll gi'e ye th’ short version.” He took a sip of his drink, then licked his lips and began.

  “Th’ rot set in after th’ end o’ World War II. Politicians reshapin’ th’ world tae their own ends. Killin’ unborn babes and destroyin’ families wi’ easy divorce. Th’ welfare state makin’ it cost effective tae be idle. Cowards trying tae strip us o’ our right tae feed our families and defend our homes. Freedom ha’ been stolen, bit by bit, in th’ name o’ safety, but nane o’ us is safer now.” He shook his head.

  “We’re photographed and listened in on and chronicled and it does nae good. They open th’ borders tae all comers, but th’ foreigners are no required tae obey th’ rules, nor be gainfully employed. Whatever problem they create, th’ government raises taxes on the law-abiding and th’ number of those is shrinking.” He took a breath.

  “Criminals get protection, their victims nane. Schools canna teach for fear o’ th’ bullies bred there. The truth is murdered in th’ name o’ political correctness. In th’ land o’ th’ free, it’s as much as yer life is worth tae speak yer mind in public, or attend church, or go about yer own business wi’oot government interference.

  “I’m no talkin’ about illegal activity, ye ken. No drug runnin’ or bank robbery. I’m talkin’ about farmin’ and buildin’ houses, and selling bread ye baked in yer own oven. We’re nae longer a free country, Jim.” He sighed.

  “There’s still good in it, but th’ government is nae longer on our side. Wee Charlie is a fine example. Th’ police want him caught and tossed in prison for th’ crime o’ killin’ th’ man who murdered his family. Had th’ murderer been in prison, Charlie would no be in this pickle. Th’ justice system fails and blames th’ wronged man.

  “Charlie is nae killer, nae more than his ancestors were. Put him in prison and he’ll either die or be changed for th’ worse. Send him into exile and he’ll ha’ a chance to turn his life aroon’d, tae start agin. He’ll be punished, ye ken. ‘Tis th’ lesser o’ two evils, but still an evil.”

  Himself shifted in his seat. “Th’ council sat on it and voted and Charlie was gi’en th’ choice. We ha’e a duty tae him and tae th’ clan, tae deliver him safely. But you ha’e nae duty to do th’ deliverin’. Some other man can do tha’.”

  Jim sat quite still, his drink in his hands, trying to sort out what he was feeling. Charlie had certainly gotten the raw end of the deal. Why should a law-abiding citizen (bar the murder, of course) be imprisoned when an illegal alien (also a murderer) who has gate-crashed a country and thumbed his nose at the law, get off with no punishment at all?

  Himself was also correct in pointing out that, had the justice system delivered justice, Charlie would not have been obliged to kill anyone (except possibly himself, but that was another discussion).

  The clan had judged Charlie. He had submitted to the council and accepted his fate, stoically, Jim had thought. He would not have wanted to face that choice himself. So what was his role in all of this? He took a sip of his drink.

  Among the things Jim had studied in school was how to resolve an ethical dilemma. They came up fairly regula
rly in health care.

  Jim recognized this one as a Locus of Authority dilemma. There were two authorities, both of whom were claiming jurisdiction over Charles Monroe. Jim understood the clan system and recognized the chain of command. He knew that the clan dealt with its own offenders and that a laird could stand in loco parentis for any of its members. In theory, at least, he recognized the authority his grandfather was claiming.

  If he conceded that the council had the right to try and condemn one of its own, did it follow that all the members of the clan had a duty to help make that judgment happen?

  There was more than DNA involved. Being a clansman meant being a member of a culture, a rather unusual one. The trappings didn’t matter. You could still be a Scot even if you never put on a kilt.

  But there were certain things that were required. These he had learned from his parents: the work ethic that made it possible to get into medical school and graduate with a respectable ranking, the self-reliance that allowed even the poorest member of the clan to hold his head up in public, the mandated hospitality that meant no one, clansman or not, would ever be denied food and shelter when in need.

  Jim was, by blood, by breeding, and by conscious choice, a Scot, and the Scots had a long history of fighting for what they believed in.

  He rose to his feet and looked around. Ginny sat on the end of one of the sofas, silent, her eyes on him. He turned on his grandfather.

  “Is what you’re doing here education or indoctrination?”

  “Some would say one, some th’ other. We teach th’ bairns history, all of it, not just wha’ gets inta th’ local school books, then we teach them how tae think. They’re given opportunities tae build strength o’ character, and tae practice virtue. ‘Tis a community tha’ prides itself on givin' its young th’ tools tae function, then getting oot o’ the way and lettin’ them find their own ground.”

  Find his own ground. The clan would expect its next laird to be a true leader, in deeds as well as words. If Jim declined the honor of accompanying Charlie to Canada, it would prove he was unfit for the job. He turned and looked at Ginny.

  “What about you? Are you willing to risk your career and freedom for this man?”

  She nodded. “In the cause of justice. Yes.”

  Jim believed in justice. He had to, for he also believed in mercy and without justice there could be no mercy. He also believed that a man was responsible for himself and his family and that the obligation could not be handed off to a government, no matter how benign. What’s more, he believed that self-respect required making the right choice, even if that came with a price.

  If he was a member of this clan, if he wanted to lead them, he needed to decide right here, right now, how he was going to handle difficult choices. The risk to himself was not the issue. Courage was not the issue. Obedience to the Laird was not the issue. The issue was which course of action would an honorable man choose? Framed that way, he had his answer.

  Quite unconsciously, he squared his shoulders, drew himself up to his full height, and pulled in a deep breath. Ginny rose to her feet, her face calm, her eyes on his.

  “I’ll go,” he said to her.

  She smiled and nodded, then walked over, bringing her glass up to touch his. “And I will go with you.”

  * * *

  Chapter 13

  Tuesday Morning

  Forbes Residence

  Ginny pulled her eyes open again to find Jim laughing at her.

  “Wake up, sleepyhead! It’s time to go.”

  They had finished packing last night and agreed that Jim should have breakfast at her house before they took off. Her mother had cooked and Ginny was grateful, but Ginny was not a morning person. She spooned another bite of eggs into her mouth, finished off the juice, poured the coffee into a travel cup, and shook her head, trying to clear it of the cobwebs.

  “Okay. I’m ready.”

  “You are not!” He was laughing again.

  “What?”

  He pointed at her feet. No shoes.

  “Oh.” She put the cup back down, then hurried upstairs to finish dressing. Her mother followed her up.

  “Are you all right, darling?”

  She nodded through the toothpaste. “I’ll be fine. What about you? Will you be all right without me?”

  “Of course. Himself will take good care of me.”

  “We’ll call when we get in tonight, but it may be late.”

  “Call anyway.”

  Ginny slipped on her shoes, hurried down the staircase, handed Jim the coffee thermos, then gave her mother a hug.

  “Have a safe trip,” Mrs. Forbes said.

  “I’ll take good care of her,” Jim promised.

  Ginny climbed up into the passenger side of the van. Jim closed the door on her, then took his place behind the wheel. He grinned at her as they turned the corner.

  “Alone at last!”

  “Don’t get any ideas,” she warned. “Remember, this is just a cover story, not a honeymoon.”

  She saw his eyes light up at the word, but he said nothing, just continued to smile to himself.

  * * *

  Tuesday Morning

  Dallas, TX

  Jim steered the van northeast to the suburb Reggie had chosen as a rendezvous point. He still wasn’t happy about the choice of vehicle, but it handled okay and he had to admit that it made a very unlikely get-away car. No one would give them a second glance.

  Ginny pointed out the store. “There it is.”

  “What’s our excuse for pulling off the road so soon?” Jim asked.

  “I need Texas souvenirs to use as hostess gifts and they have to be purchased before we leave the state.”

  They located the Texas knick-knacks and selected amusing items for each of the Homesteads they would be visiting, then made their way to the camping section.

  Reggie had been specific. They were to purchase something large enough to require the loading dock.

  They settled on a generator. It was small enough to fit easily in the back of the van, but heavy. It would require male muscle to get it in. They paid for their purchases, then drove around to the back of the store.

  Jim examined the set-up and silently approved Reggie’s choice. The area had a recessed approach, an overhanging roof, parking spaces you could pull into that protected customers and staff from the rain, and poor lighting. He looked for, but did not see any cameras.

  He parked, then got out and went around to open the back. Ginny did the same on the passenger side, opening the side door and re-arranging something in the middle compartment. Two workers in safety vests approached, the generator perched on a dolly between them.

  Jim stepped out of the way and let them hoist the box into the space he had cleared for it, then closed up and walked back to the driver’s side door. He glanced up in time to see one of the workers re-enter the store with the dolly. The other had vanished.

  He waited until Ginny was settled, then put the car in gear and backed out, looking over his shoulder to make sure he didn’t run into anything.

  “You all right back there?” he asked.

  “Fine. Thanks for the lift.”

  “You’re welcome. Keep your head down.”

  Jim maneuvered back out onto the highway. In ten minutes they were beyond the immediate metropolitan area and on their way.

  * * *

  Tuesday Midmorning

  Forbes Residence

  Detective Tran pulled up in front of the Forbes’ house and got out. The door was opened by Mrs. Forbes.

  “I would like to speak to Miss Forbes, please.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve just missed her. She and Jim, Dr. Mackenzie, left this morning. Is there something I can help you with?”

  “She is gone?”

  Mrs. Forbes nodded. “For two weeks, maybe a bit more.”

  “May I ask why? I mean, why now?”

  “She said finding the body upset her. She had some vacation time available and decided to
use it.”

  “I see. Thank you very much.” Tran took her leave and headed back to her car, thinking hard.

  It could be true. It could be that the artless Miss Forbes who had been visibly distressed by the discovery of the body had truly needed a vacation to recover from the shock. The smitten Dr. Mackenzie would leap at a chance to take her away and spend some quality time with her, just the two of them. No surprise there. Why drive, though? Winter vacations usually meant an airplane ride and lift tickets.

  Mr. Monroe had been missing now for four days. There was no reason to think he had waited around, then hitched a ride with the young couple. He would just be in their way. Nor was there any reason to think that either Miss Forbes or Dr. Mackenzie would knowingly engage in criminal behavior. Both had too much to lose. And yet—

  Detective Tran put the car in gear and drove back to the office. She had some thinking to do.

  * * *

  Chapter 14

  Tuesday Afternoon

  Little Rock, AR

  Ginny was stretching her legs at a road side park just outside Little Rock, Arkansas. The winter sun was already low on the horizon and they had another hour to go before they would reach Memphis, then three to Nashville and thirty minutes, minimum, to locate their destination. She zipped up her jacket, smoothing the collar and feeling for the chain that should have been around her neck, the one that held her talisman. It wasn’t there.

  She hurried into the restroom and looked in the mirror. No talisman. She had forgotten to put it on! She could see the rowan wood charm lying on her bedside table and recall telling herself the journey would be full of chances to lose their way. She hurried back to the van.

  “Jim! I’ve forgotten my talisman!” She grabbed her phone. Ten minutes later her mother had confirmed the talisman had been left behind, and promised to send it on by Homestead courier to Settler’s Cabin in Pittsburgh, their second stop.

  “That’s a relief! It should be there before we arrive.”