Colm made his way back to the storeroom to try to catch a moment to think. He did not think quickly, but given a little time, he could often solve a problem. Just inside the doorway, Gwyneth grabbed his arm. “You've got to do something!"
"Do? Me?” Why was everyone looking to him for help?
"If they don't find that necklace, then some slave girl will be made victim!"
That was true enough, thought Colm. Someone would pay for this crime and it might well be a slave. Even Gwyneth! He looked into her blue eyes. “I'll do what I can. Tell me what happened at the women's table when the fight broke out between Halldor and Gunnlaug. Where was the necklace then?"
"The young women sitting below Gerda were admiring it. I was at the other end, near Ingveld, and didn't see what happened to it,” Gwyneth said. “I looked up at the ruckus—everyone looked that way—and when I looked back, the necklace was gone!"
"So one of the young women took it?"
"None of them had it on her when the women were undressed and searched. Anyway, which of them would have the courage to do that? I think this was done by someone very audacious, yet young enough not to be able to control her desires."
Colm knew who she meant. “Gerda certainly desired that necklace."
Gwyneth nodded. “And she was right there with her friends as it was passed around."
Colm thought a moment. “Who else was there near the young women?"
Gwyneth spread her hands. “No one."
"No one at all? No slave girl waiting on them?"
"Wait! Braga was there, before the fight, then I didn't see her. No! I saw her stand up later. She was down on the floor picking up the cups that were knocked off the table. But Braga hasn't the sense to be this thief!” Braga was thick and dimwitted. The other slave women teased her, and Braga always responded with an uncomprehending stare and a slow, broken-toothed smile.
"How did the cups get on the floor?"
"They must have been knocked over when the fight started."
"Do you think Gerda looked at the fight or the necklace?” Colm was forming an idea. “After all, she didn't raise her eyes from the necklace to Halldor before that, not even when her betrothal was announced."
"All right, but how did the necklace disappear?"
Colm smiled. “See if you can get Braga here."
"Braga? I can get her, but...” Gwyneth shook her head. “That's impossible!"
Colm said, “She's the only one around the necklace who wasn't searched. Once you eliminate all the others, you have to accept the only possibility that's left.” Gwyneth began to speak, but Colm stopped her. “Quickly now, before Gerda speaks to her."
Gwyneth left and Colm stepped into the corner of the storeroom, just beside the door. The lamplight from the longhall illuminated a small area inside the door, but it was dark in the corner. That rule about elimination that he told Gwyneth was a pretty good one, he thought. He'd have to work it up into something memorable. Let's see: Eliminate the impossible ... Gwyneth's return interrupted his thought.
Braga was protesting. “Mistress Gerda wants me. I got to go."
Gwyneth soothed her. “Just a moment, Braga, that's all. Just in here."
Gwyneth persuaded Braga into the storeroom. Colm came up behind her and slipped his hand under Braga's apron. The slave girl started and jumped back. “None of that,” she said. She gave Gwyneth an accusing glance. “I thought you was better than that!” Braga ran out the door.
Gwyneth wasn't certain yet whether to be angry or not. “So,” she said, “did you make me fetch Braga just so you could fondle her big bottom?"
For answer, Colm held out his hand so that Gwyneth could see that he held Ingveld's gleaming necklace. “It was Gerda,” he said. “When the fight started, she knocked the cups onto the floor. Then, when Braga was down on her knees picking them up, Gerda hooked the necklace on her skirt under her apron. There it would stay until she was ready to take it. No one would search her again."
"Of course! And if it was discovered then Braga would be blamed.” Gwyneth looked at the glass baubles shining in the light from the hall. She said, “Any woman would be glad to own such a thing!"
It was true, thought Colm. The necklace was perhaps the most beautiful thing he had ever held in his hands. A cunning and seductive notion crept into his brain then. Colm raised his head and met Gwyneth's gaze. There he could see the same notion glittering in her eyes. Then both of them blinked and beheld reality. Colm saw the thin apron of second-grade cloth that Gwyneth wore over threadbare skirts, a cord of hemp making do as a belt. And he knew what she saw before her: a thin young man in a ragged shirt and trousers with patched knees. They owned nothing, not even their own bodies; what could they do with this bauble that was worth twenty slaves like themselves? Even so, if Gwyneth wanted it, she might have it, Colm thought. She might accept her certain doom and his, too, for a moment of pleasure. There would be few enough in her life.
But Gwyneth was a woman of sense. “Now you must find a way to get it back,” she said. Colm nodded. A woman shouted, then another. Gwyneth turned to go, “They'll search the slave girls now that Gerda can't find her loot.” She turned back to Colm, parted her lips as if to speak, then thought better of it and left the storeroom.
Colm squatted, his back against the turf wall, and thought about what he should do next.
It was an uneasy night and Colm woke before dawn, lying in the straw in the cowshed with some other slaves. He lay, listening to the snores of other men, as the first birds began singing and light began to break. He heard the murmur of women making their way to the shrine for their own secret ritual. Tense, he listened and waited. Soft chanting rose from the shrine, then.... A sudden shout! Colm knew that meant the necklace had been found.
The night before, Colm had crept to the shrine. There was no moon and only starlight lit his path. The shrine entrance was a black hole before him. Stifling a sudden terror, Colm ducked inside. He crouched, letting his eyes become used to the darkness, straining to see just a little. The chamber stank of blood. Suddenly, Colm saw two great eyes staring into his own. He started and almost screamed before he realized that he was looking into the carved orbs of Thor's face. The beloved god! The friendly god! Thor's cold stare pierced Colm like a weapon-thrust. This was no friend of his!
Colm broke free his gaze and examined the other idols in the shrine. Each of the three great stone slabs bore some sign of the deity it represented. Thor held a carved hammer, Njord's idol was decorated with a ship, and Freya bore breasts of stone. Smaller figures of carved stone or bone or wood stood up from the earth around the large idols. Lesser gods? Great kings? Ancestors? Perhaps no one but the godi knew.
Colm drew Ingveld's necklace from his shirt and examined Freya's statue. He had thought the Goddess might have her arms extended to drive her cart, as they were on the pendants women wore around their necks. But the only protrusions on this slab of granite were the two hard breasts. Probably they were formed by wind or water on this stone and, being noticed, caused it to be selected as an idol. Two sets of carved concentric circles were Freya's eyes and below them, a great semicircle meant to be her woman's smile. But now Freya's mouth was full of clotted blood that ran down her breasts toward a bowl at the idol's base.
Colm shuddered. He thought of pitching the necklace into the bowl but was afraid it might not be seen. If only this thing had a neck! Finally, Colm set the necklace on top of the idol so that the big red stone hung on Freya's forehead. “Be satisfied with that,” he whispered, “You heathen creature!” Freya grinned at him but did not answer, something for which Colm was very grateful.
Colm let several of the other slaves get up and wander out before he rose. People were buzzing about in the new day like bees on urgent missions. Their eyes were bright and excited as they chattered about Freya having Ingveld's necklace! Oh, yes, thought Colm, that greedy goddess! He smiled.
A hand clutched his arm and drew him to one side. Colm's belly plunged i
n fear and then he found himself looking into Gwyneth's face and he felt his spirit rise and fill his chest. She was smiling, then her face dropped and her eyes widened in horror, and Colm was afraid again. “Here,” said Gwyneth. She pulled him into the shadow of the cowshed and rubbed at his forehead. She spat on her thumb and rubbed again. “That's better.” Gwyneth looked at her reddened thumb and made a face. “Pah! Horse blood!” She looked Colm over, head to toe, but found no other traces of blood.
"Can't have people thinking I took part in the ceremony,” said Colm.
"No,” said Gwyneth seriously, “They shouldn't think you put on the airs of a free man. Or that you were mocking them somehow."
"Well, that's easy enough to do,” said Colm, “as I suppose you know."
Gwyneth smiled. “You did well. Everything should be all right now. Ingveld has presented the necklace to Gerda as a gift."
"So Gerda has everything she wants."
Gwyneth shrugged. “For the moment. I suppose she wishes for a different husband, but Gunnlaug has little to offer."
"It was you who told me how to do it, you know,” Colm told her, “When you said that about any woman wanting the thing—well, there was only one that could have it without blame.” Colm started in then with some tongue-honey about her being intelligent as well as beautiful but stopped when he realized Gwyneth was not listening but looking past him. She gave him a quick smile, then slipped away, and Colm turned to find Bjorn, his master, bearing down on him.
"Well, that turned out not so bad,” said Bjorn. He was in a cheery mood. Probably he expected to win some credit with Thorolf for this turn of events, Colm thought. “Now I promised you a reward if things went well, didn't I?” Oh, yes, you did, thought Colm, but do I want it or dread it? One never knew what the master had in mind.
Bjorn was interrupted as Thorolf walked up. The two men greeted one another and Thorolf echoed Bjorn, “That turned out as well as it could.” He took Bjorn's hands in his. “You have my thanks. And I have a gift for you as well as thanks."
Bjorn smiled and ducked his head. So he won favor, thought Colm. That would benefit him as well: A well-fed slave has a prosperous master. Thorolf turned his way. “Don't I know this slave?"
"He was present when we found Hastein's body."
"Ah. Yes. Another situation that could have gone wrong."
"Yes,” said Bjorn. “In fact, I was about to reward this man. For, ah, his excellent service and so on."
"I see,” said Thorolf. “What reward were you planning to give him?"
"I thought a sheep, one of the new lambs. I might let him choose the one he wants."
"Well, he seems a lucky slave to me. It is always a good thing to have lucky men about and one should encourage them. Would you allow me to give this man a sheep of his choosing as well?"
"Of course,” said Bjorn. “Luck must be encouraged.” And the two men smiled and dissembled and blathered at each other, but Colm paid no attention. Two sheep! He would choose ewes, of course, and this time next year he would have four! And eight the year after! Six sheep was a good price for a slave, but ... No! He would wait another year, until he had sixteen sheep. Then he would offer Bjorn ten of them for his freedom. No! He would offer him twelve! So that Bjorn would recognize what a man of worth he was!
Copyright © 2009 Mike Culpepper
Editor's Note: Some readers may have noticed that this story follows “The Icicle Judgment” (January/February, 2009); look for “The Trollfarm Killing,” the concluding story of this trilogy, in next month's issue.
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Novelette: RUMBLE STRIP by Loren D. Estleman
I ran off the road in the Lake Superior State Forest, straight at an old-growth pine. It was a rumble strip that woke me. The rubberized chevrons in the asphalt made my tires buzz and my hands tingle on the steering wheel and I stomped on the brake.
I'd driven eleven hours one way, following a bad-check artist clear from Detroit to Manistique, giving him time to lay down a paper trail long enough to hang himself. Now that he was in the capable hands of the state police and off my client's, I was on my way back and hoping to make Mackinaw City before I turned in. A judge in Detroit expected me in the Frank Murphy Hall of Justice at two p.m., dewy eyed and with my head chock full of salient facts in an unrelated case.
The trunk of the tree I'd almost smashed into was so wide my lights didn't show around it. The woods were as black as Lake Michigan on the other side. There wouldn't be any motels for a while.
I hate the woods at night; doesn't everyone? They're okay by day, with Disney creatures scampering about, but after dark, give me any gloomy alley and keep those black holes for yourself. When I'm in a deep funk I'm convinced I'll end up in some shallow depression covered with dead leaves instead of a cozy luggage compartment in Long-Term Parking. The Upper Peninsula is a great place to visit, but I don't want to die there.
I took the last tepid swallow of Mountain Dew from the two-liter jug I kept in the car for surprise marathons—my hand had begun to shake from the delayed reaction—backed around, and got back onto Highway 2 to look for a place that poured coffee. A modern one, I hoped, with cheery fluorescents and expired hot dogs revolving on a carousel.
No such luck. Happy's Diner looked like a New Deal roadhouse, built low and square from local pine and covered with cheap stain that still showed in shiny patches like peanut brittle. More recently it had been a bowling alley, but from the condition of the six-foot wooden pin by the entrance, no strikes or spares had been rolled there this century. The windows and glass door looked new and ground spots illuminated the name on a square sign in the little parking lot. All the lights were burning. I pulled in next to a new Escalade with heavily tinted windows and got out. Crickets serenaded me with their sprightly little ode to Restless Legs Syndrome.
The SUV was backed into its space, concealing the license plate from the road, but my instincts were on low battery. I got a whiff of coffee and pushed through the door like a herd smelling water. A gong sounded when it opened.
The air was dense with roasted beans, pine, and layer upon layer of fried grease. Machine-embroidered tapestries of deer in the wild hung from gilded ropes like Rotarian banners, and Windsor chairs surrounded eight or ten round wooden tables, deserted at present and probably usually. There was a counter with stools upholstered in green leather, separated by a sliding frosted-glass panel over a pass-through. I sat on a stool and asked for coffee.
"We're closed.” The woman behind the counter, a creature of pumpkin-colored hair, sharp bone, and skin like Saran Wrap, stood in a pink uniform and white utility apron with her hands hugging her upper arms. She wasn't looking at me. I didn't know just where she was looking at first.
"The sign says you're open all night."
"Cook's got the flu."
"All I want's coffee."
"Last batch boiled away. You don't want coffee the way I make it."
"I thought everyone was born knowing how to make coffee. If you think it's too strong it's just right."
"Closed, sorry.” Her voice went up half an octave.
I followed her eyes then. The pass-through panel was open a crack. That woke me up. An airhorn next to the ear would have been too subtle.
"Well, tell him get well soon.” I got up and headed toward the door, moving as casually as a marching band.
Which wasn't casual enough. The gong rang again and I lunged for the bar across the glass door, to pull it shut on the hand coming around the edge with a gun in it, but the panel behind me opened with a whoosh and a bang and a shell slid into a chamber with an oily metallic slam that can't be duplicated any other way. That was to get my attention; the shell that was already there made a brassy tinkle when it landed on the floor.
"I'd stop,” someone said.
I was already stopped. The door was open now, and the man standing there held a deep-bellied Magnum braced against his hip. He was big and broad, soft looking, in a gray hoodie
and old black jeans, which with his dark, mixed-blood face had blended with the shadows inside the tinted windows of the Escalade out front. “I should flag you for trying to bust my wrist.” His tone was a bottomless guttural. A hundred fifty years ago he'd have worn buckskin leggings and plaited his hair. It was as black as the woods at night.
"Plenty of time for that. Feel him up."
This was one of those hand-me-down Swedish singsongs you still hear sometimes in the North Country. I turned around and held out my arms while the Indian went over me with one hand top to bottom. The man leaning inside the square opening to the kitchen—the owner of the singsong voice—might have been his photographic negative, drawn thin: colorless hair cut close to the skull, narrow pale face, and a tubular torso in a plaid flannel shirt over a black Zevon T-shirt. The hand resting on his stainless-steel nine-millimeter had a swastika tattooed on the back. Maybe there's hope for peace when skinheads and redskins start hanging out together.
The Indian pried my wallet out of my hip pocket. “Amos Walker. Private investigator, from Detroit."
"I knew he was a cop when he made for the door. Where's your piece, Amos?"
"I left it home. It's not big enough for bear."
He watched me. He didn't appear to have developed eyelids. He raised the semiautomatic.
"Don't!"
He looked at the woman behind the counter. She had her hand to her mouth. “He some kind of friend of yours?” he asked.
"I never saw him before. Just don't kill him—please."
"Suppose I decide to kill you. Think he'll beg for you?” He turned the pistol on her. He held it sideways, the way you see in movies. I hoped he was that green.
I made a decision and started toward the counter. The muzzle swung back my way and squirted white flame. The slug smashed through a glass display case containing a slice of coconut cream pie on a stand and buried itself in drywall. The woman screamed hoarsely. The echo of the shot rang like raining hubcaps.
AHMM, November 2009 Page 5
