Viking Vengeance

by Maggie Foster

  Her entire case against Charles Monroe was based on circumstantial evidence, and not much of that. What’s more, he had a solid alibi for the time of death. She might be convinced he was the killer, but the D.A.’s office would need more.

  Well, the first thing to do was pick him up for questioning. If he was on the run, and if Dr. Mackenzie was helping him, she had grounds for warrants.

  She pulled up the forms on her computer, a U.S. detain and extradition and a similar process on the Canadian side. It took her the better part of three hours to get all the paperwork done. Now she had to wait. In the meantime, she needed to update her files. She walked over to the whiteboard, pulled out the green marker and got to work.

  * * *

  Tuesday Afternoon

  Baileyville, ME

  Ginny watched the final leg of the relay on a screen set up on a picnic table. She was surrounded by the Wildes family and a dozen more Team Steven supporters, all cheering hysterically as the third man approached the handoff point. Vincent was alternating between sitting beside her, his arm around her waist, and leaping to his feet, roaring. The weather was cooperating, with golden sunshine and temperatures hovering just above the freezing mark.

  The official start of the race had been at the headquarters of the Moosehorn Wildlife Refuge. The first leg looped through the woods to a safe zone where each contestant fired from both standing and prone positions.

  The second leg started from there and moved toward Old Hwy 1, south of Baring. The firing range this time faced south, away from town. The third leg headed southwest, toward Bearce Lake, the most rugged of the four sections. The last leg circled back and ended here, at the junction, but required the skiers to stay south of the intersection, to avoid collisions with motor traffic.

  The teams were being shuttled to and from these points by support crews, all dressed in distinctive colors and all celebrating as hard as they could. They, too, were sporting fake casts (or leg immobilizers for the less committed), making the number of men in casts in the area today something in the neighborhood of three hundred.

  The times were hardly Olympian. In a standard biathlon, the skiers averaged two minutes per mile on groomed tracks and with two good legs. The contestants in this race were lucky to finish a mile in half an hour. There had been a lot of falling down and getting back up again and a few disqualifications as competitors shrugged off the temporary disability and went at the race full tilt.

  Ginny had been astonished to see how many men were competing. Each team had four members and there were three levels of competition: “Just Kidding”, “Mine’s Bigger Than Yours”, and “Don’t Even THINK About It.” Team Steven fell into the last category. The beginner class (Just Kidding) had twelve teams; the intermediate, ten; and the advanced, fifteen; for a total of one hundred forty-eight contestants. The officials had been starting the teams in volleys all day long. The premiere event, however, was this one, the last of the day.

  Team Steven was in the lead and Charlie had the anchor spot. They had taken him out early this morning to let him get used to the borrowed rifle and his accuracy had convinced them to put him in last.

  Ginny knew he could shoot. She’d even heard him say he could ski. What she didn’t know was whether he was physically up to this level of exertion.

  There were spotters along the route, watching to make sure no one fell hard enough to need rescuing, and each of these, apparently, had a phone with a video feed. There was no lack of coverage, just discipline. The images bounced and slewed around, making it hard to recognize what she was looking at. Every now and then, though, she could identify the acid green jersey Team Steven had adopted flashing through the trees.

  The handoff had happened and all eyes were on Charlie. For a full twenty seconds she had a clear view of him, moving his body from side to side, using the poles as if they were an extension of his skeleton, poised and balanced and tremendously strong.

  “Look at that!” someone said.

  “He’s a natural.” There were murmurs of agreement, then the image was lost and the party resumed.

  Ginny was biting her nails before the final sprint. Charlie had performed the miracle, ten clean hits, and was headed for the finish line, in front of all the other competitors, but he no longer looked like it was easy.

  “Come on! You can do it!” They were cheering for him, for him personally, as well as for the team. He was approaching the finish line. He was over it. He was down.

  Ginny felt her heart stop, but it was just the excitement of the team, they had jumped on him, knocked him down. They were picking him up again, pounding him on the back, lifting him above their heads and carrying him to the truck, then heading for the reviewing stand.

  Ginny watched the ceremonies with a dry mouth. Here was something else she hadn’t counted on, photographic evidence of Laredo Pete Harmon winning the Busted Bum Biathlon for Team Steven. When they finally let him come to her, he moved as if he had nothing left.

  “Pete?”

  He pushed the cheap plastic trophy at her. “I won, Bonnie.” He was grinning like an idiot. “Makes up for that last bull.”

  She shook her head at him. “You are one tough hombre,” she said. “Now what?”

  “Now,” Vincent said, “we eat and we drink and we celebrate into the night!”

  Ginny shook her head. “He needs rest. Look at him.”

  Vincent turned and studied Charlie, then nodded. “I keep forgetting his leg is really broken.”

  They loaded Charlie into the truck and took him back to the Wildes house. Ginny settled Charlie on the couch, then waited on him, making sure he ate and got lots of water. The rest of the team had followed and the party surged around them. Ginny found herself pulled into the celebration.

  “Bonnie Jean, darlin’,” Charlie called, “you behave yourself.”

  Ginny waved from the arms of the man who was swinging her around the living room. It was time to see if she could put her plan into motion. She maneuvered her way into Vincent’s arms, smiling up at him. He was happily inebriated and bursting with pride.

  “I’m the one who found him! You should be thanking me!”

  Ginny smiled up at him then reached up and took both of his ears in her hands and pulled his face down so he would see her.

  “Remember our bet?”

  “Yeah!” he grinned. “I remember. He wins, I give him a ride on the dogsled tomorrow. He loses I get to take you to bed tonight.” He gave her a lopsided smile. “I don’t supposed you’d let me do that anyway?”

  “Tell you what, if you’re still on your feet when this party ends, I’ll let you kiss me goodnight.”

  “All right!”

  Ginny kept a weather eye on Charlie while the party raged on, then spilled out into the night, taking Vincent with it.

  “I’ll be back for my kiss!”

  Past midnight Ginny found herself pulled off the sofa and into Vincent’s arms. It turned out he was a good kisser and still both drunk enough and happy enough with the win to let her push him into his own room and return to the couch with only a moderate amount of wrangling. She found Charlie watching her.

  “Bonnie Jean Bowie!”

  “Yes, Pete?”

  “What did you promise that boy?”

  Ginny came over, sat down on the edge of the sofa beside Charlie, and lowered her voice.

  “I made arrangements for you to ride his dogsled across the river tomorrow. Not the whole race, just a short bit of it. I’ll meet you on the other side.”

  “And what did you promise him in payment?”

  “It was a wager.” She explained the bet.

  Charlie’s eyes grew large. “I’m really glad I didn’t know about that when I was out there today. It would have taken all the fun out of it.”

  “That’s why I didn’t tell you.”

  “I seem to be in your debt again.”

  She shook her head, smiling. “Not this time. You won. So I don’t have to pay up. Vincent d
oes.”

  Charlie looked at her, the corner of his mouth curving up as he shook his head. “You’re a braw lass, Bonnie Jean. I just hope Jim knows how lucky he is.”

  * * *

  Chapter 38

  Wednesday, One a.m.

  Baileyville, ME

  Jim pulled his phone out and looked again for a response from Ginny. Nothing. He hauled his arm back and swung, but stopped short of flinging the thing into the distance. It wasn’t the phone’s fault. It was just that today had been incredibly frustrating.

  It shouldn’t have been that hard to find one man in a leg cast, even among all the impersonators. Jim had gone about it systematically, eliminating the women, then any man who had dark coloring, then any man who had a cast on the right leg, since Charlie’s was on the left.

  He’d seen scores of fair haired men, tall enough to be Charlie, who turned out not to be Charlie. He’d also seen more than a dozen redheads that might have been Ginny, but who weren’t. There had even been a moment when he’d seen a tall blonde with a redheaded woman. Still not them.

  The problem was the shifting, moving mass of humanity. He was pretty sure he’d seen and eliminated the same people over and over again. They wouldn’t stay put.

  It turned out there were dozens of places where the revelers were congregating. There were the official venues: the reviewing stand, the judges’ tent, and so forth. There were vendors’ stalls, picnic areas, bars, pubs, restaurants, and any place with a fire or central heating. And there was the rolling stock.

  Jim had never been to a truck rally. Had he done so, he wouldn’t have been so surprised to see trucks coming and going, at speed, making doughnuts in the fields and buzzing the crowds.

  In defiance of the rule that no live thing should ride in the back, each pickup was filled to overflowing with celebrants, each truck louder and more excited than the last. Jim predicted nothing but disaster before the day was out and was glad he wasn’t on duty at the First Aid station.

  There were snowmobiles, too, though most were upriver, on the trails. The ones down here were conveying revelers from place to place, like the golf carts they used at the Games back home.

  Jim had hitched a ride to the National Wildlife Refuge and spent some time walking the biathlon course. He’d come back along the second leg of the relay, then crossed Old Rte 1 into Baring, then walked down to the edge of the St. Croix River. He looked across into Canada, wondering for the umpteenth time if the other two were already over the river and on their way to Halifax.

  By that time, the day was waning. The last race had been run and the officials were clearing the track, making sure no one was left behind. Jim accepted a ride back to his car.

  He managed to find a pub with an empty chair and wedged himself in, sympathizing in silence with the harassed waitress. It took more than an hour to get his meal, during which time the crowd, arrayed mostly in red rugby shirts, seemed to be grieving a close second place finish in one of the races.

  “But did youse see dat guy? He’s da real ting,” one of the men at the next table said.

  “It’s ‘cause his leg is broke!”

  Jeers and catcalls greeted this.

  “No, I’m serious. For real. Not faking. Said he was from Texas. Broke it being thrown by a bull.”

  Jim had choked on the word ‘Texas.’

  “You wouldn’t tink a guy from Texas could ski.”

  “He sure could.”

  “Took the trophy,” a third man said. “We’ll never hear the end of it.”

  Jim finished his meal as rapidly as he could, then moved in on them, buying drinks all around and inserting himself into the conversation. His careful interrogation elicited only the fact that the interloper was tall, blonde, and from Texas. They didn’t know which leg was broken.

  “What did he say his name was? Mic! I’m talkin’ ta youse! Pete, wasn’t it? Laredo Pete! That’s it.”

  Laredo Pete. Jim had trouble controlling his expression. Charlie had embellished his fake ID, adding a backstory and a nickname.

  “Look! There’s his picture.” They were pointing to the TV. Jim twisted around in time to see Charlie, outfitted in acid green, posing with three other men. There was too much noise for the voiceover to be heard, but the caption read, “Team Steven wins Busted Bum Biathlon.”

  “How can I find him?” Jim asked.

  His companions shrugged. Look for the acid green jerseys. Ask them. And why do you want him, anyway? You a reporter? We got better stories than that. Now you just take the snowmobile races. Tomorrow and the day after, with the finals on Friday. That’s a real competition.

  Jim extricated himself with a promise to go upriver to the snowmobiling venues tomorrow, then started canvassing the remaining watering holes in town. He found a number of acid green jerseys, but none that could tell him where the hero of the day could be found. Past midnight he finally gave up.

  The celebration had been loud and volatile. Under cover of that much alcohol, Ginny might have seen an opportunity to grab Charlie and slip away. Should Jim go prowl the river bank? It had looked too wide and too cold to swim, but maybe he was underestimating Charlie.

  One of the things Ginny had added to the packing at the last moment, to Jim’s mocking laughter, was a pair of binoculars. He pulled them out now, wishing she’d gone one step further and added night vision. He lifted them to his eyes, scanning the waterside.

  There were patrols along the edge, with dogs, on both sides. He watched for several minutes. Was it just here? Because of the crossing? Or because of the festival? Or was this every night, the entire length of the border?

  He jumped when a hand fell on his shoulder, turning abruptly to find an officer of the law beside him.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Jim swallowed his heart. “Looking at the river. There’s something going on.”

  “Why do you want to know about that?”

  Jim shook his head. “No reason. I’m still too keyed up from the festival today. Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d take a walk,” He nodded toward the water. “Didn’t expect to see patrols. Got curious.”

  “May I see some identification?”

  Jim handed over his wallet.

  “Texas, huh? I heard about the Busted Bum. Was that you?”

  “No. A friend. That was some performance.”

  The patrolman nodded. “So what are you doing out here after midnight with binoculars?”

  Jim’s mind was racing, right along with his heart. He shrugged. “I heard some people talking about swimming the river on a dare. Came to see if anyone was really drunk enough to try it. Found the patrols. Thought they might be looking for a body.”

  “Uh, huh. Turn out your pockets, please.”

  Jim complied. Ten minutes later, the patrolman seemed satisfied. He handed back the wallet.

  “You’re an MD?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sorry for the inconvenience. It’s the drug runners we’re after.” He gave Jim a hard look. “I’ve got nothing to hold you on, but I strongly suggest you stay away from the water. Do I make myself clear?”

  Jim nodded. “Yes, officer. Thank you.” He turned immediately and went back to the car, put the binoculars away, then drove back to the truck stop.

  Jim examined his face in the bathroom mirror. Did he look like a drug runner? Needed a shave, of course. But a fine upstanding citizen such as himself? He lifted an eyebrow. Did his guilt show in his eyes? Maybe that was what law enforcement looked for, a guilty conscience, and he was a rank beginner. It was a miracle he’d gotten away.

  The encounter made two things clear. One, Ginny and Charlie were not crossing the river under cover of darkness. Not tonight. Wherever they were, they were still in the U.S. Two, Ginny was going to need help from someone who knew all about the border patrols.

  Jim went back into the cafe and searched the tables until he found an abandoned program. It outlined the rules for each of the competitions, explaining to the
public what to expect. This included safety and security information, with a plea to cooperate with the officials and a carefully worded precaution against straining Canadian-U.S. relations. He tucked it into his jacket and drove back to the Lodge.

  Once in his room, he went to work, studying the trail maps. What they needed was a way to cross the border as part of the fun. He marked each place where the routes crossed either into or back from Canada.

  Both snowmobiles and dogsled races were on the docket for tomorrow. Of the two, it seemed more likely Charlie could handle a snowmobile. If Ginny could figure out how to get the hero of the Busted Bum into that race, then he could disappear on the other side.

  Jim lay awake for another hour, trying to think of ways for Laredo Pete to enter, then disappear from, a high-profile, heavily monitored international race, and coming up with nothing. Tomorrow there wouldn’t be any fake casts. If Charlie got into a race, any race, that cast would mark him. After his triumph today, though, the question was whether anyone would care.

  * * *

  Chapter 39

  Wednesday Morning

  Baileyville, ME

  Vincent woke with a hangover and it took some effort to persuade him he couldn’t just go back to bed. Ginny made sure Mrs. Wildes was warmly thanked for her hospitality, then the trio set off for the truck stop.

  From here, Vincent would drive to the dogsled staging area. Ginny and Charlie would meet him at the rendezvous. Ginny put a hand on Vincent’s arm. “This is for you.” She tucked a hundred dollars into his hand.

  He looked at it and tried to protest. “I can’t take that.”

  “For expenses. You’ll need more ammo at least.”

  He hesitated, then smiled. “Thanks.”

  “And Vincent,” Ginny stepped closer. “Thank you, for everything.” She put her arms around his neck and kissed him, thoroughly. He blushed, then kissed her back.

  “You’re welcome!” He gave her a hug, then headed off.

  Charlie was grinning as she got into the car.