by Nick Petrie
Past the turnoff for Skagaströnd, the road changed from lumpy asphalt to washboard gravel. The few farms in the flatter places became even more distant. The midnight land felt vast and wild. The plow hadn’t passed by for twelve hours or more, yet he saw only two other sets of tire tracks in the snow. He did not find this reassuring.
As the road climbed a hill, the gravel turned to potholes and the truck rocked with the full force of the blizzard roaring across the Greenland Sea. He stopped on the high ground and stood on the running board with his binoculars raised, although he could still only see clearly from one eye.
The fallen snow brightened the land below, and the ambient light reflected off the bottoms of the clouds so that the cold, windswept plain lay before him, dark yet gleaming. The road ran through a wide network of hayfields lined out by drainage trenches, their geometry from that distance looking like the remnant of an ancient alien civilization laid out still visible on the earth.
To the east, above the fields, a steep promontory rose up five hundred meters, a stone wave waiting to break. In a semicircle around its base stood three clusters of buildings. The family farm, more than two hundred years old.
The family wouldn’t be happy to see him.
* * *
—
But he wasn’t going there just yet. When the tire tracks turned into the unmarked driveway, Peter kept driving. The blizzard would cover signs of his passage soon enough.
After twelve curving kilometers, he came to the place he was looking for, a derelict barn not far off the road. The structure’s concrete walls were mostly intact, but the windows and doors were empty sockets, the wood rotted away long ago. It was the broken line of the collapsed roof that had caught his eye on the Norwegian’s big satellite map. He’d needed a place to hide the Land Rover from the road, and he didn’t want to worry about visitors.
The only sign of a turnoff was a high spot in the ditch. He eased across and found himself following deep frozen wheel ruts under the snow, an old tractor or cart path that led him around the side of the structure. The Defender’s heavy-lugged tires churned through the knee-high drifts.
Behind the building, he saw an opening where the barn door had once stood, but realized there was something blocking the way. He pulled the Defender tight alongside the structure, hoping it was enough to get the truck out of sight from the road. He’d have to backtrack and check.
The storm roared and the snow swirled madly around the corners of the structure. He had a moment of dizziness and had to wait for his vision to clear. He was sweating again, and very thirsty. When he opened his door, the wind took it from his grasp and bent it back on its hinges with a rending croak. “Oh, hell.”
He got out and tried to push the door back in place, but it no longer fit into the opening. He looked closer and saw that the steel was bent and the hinges torn. The door wouldn’t latch without major surgery.
He found a length of rope, sat in the driver’s seat, and held the door closed as he tied its handle tight to the steering wheel. The repair would make it hard to turn a corner. He figured he’d better just keep moving forward.
He peered through the passenger window at the shadowed shape inside the barn. It was a big round-cornered box, half-hidden in dark drifts.
No, it was the back of an old camper.
He thought again about what the Norwegian had said about places to hide.
Suddenly Peter had a bad feeling.
With a flashlight in his hand, he climbed out of the Defender and walked into the dark barn.
The camper was a boxy cream-colored Winnebago Minnie Winnie with the distinctive orange W on the side, built on a Dodge van cab and chassis. From the late seventies, Peter guessed, and not treated kindly since. The aluminum shell was dented, the corner trim patched with peeling caulk.
There was no sign of life. The windows were frosted over. Peter looked up. Flakes fell through the barn’s broken rafters but the roof was still mostly intact over the vehicle. A searching aircraft would never see it. A good place to hide.
The Winnebago’s side door was dented, the lock broken. When he pulled it open, he caught the faint scent of cold iron. His bad feeling got worse.
Shining the light up through the open doorway, he saw a large, dark stain, thick on the threadbare carpet.
Shit, shit, shit.
Peter knew old blood when he saw it.
52
TWELVE MONTHS EARLIER
In the parking lot across the street from the Reykjavík bus station, Erik stands with his bags at his feet and Óskar heavy in his arms.
The day after his mother’s murder, Óskar hasn’t really stopped crying, even in his sleep. When awake, his arms and legs are wrapped around his father like a desperate octopus. He buries his face into the hollow of Erik’s neck and whispers warm, damp numbers into the darkness.
When Bjarni rolls up in the ancient caravan, Erik’s heart sinks. The old camper looks far worse than he expected. But he must remain positive for Óskar, so he bounces the boy in his arms. “Isn’t this great, Óskar? We’re having a real Icelandic adventure now.”
Óskar lifts his head to regard the ragged beast. He pinches his mouth sideways as if cauliflower has landed on the dinner table, and Erik knows Óskar is not fooled.
Things are very bad, and this crap caravan is no improvement.
* * *
—
On Erik’s way to Dulles International the day before, his phone began to ring. The caller ID said Thomas Wetzel. When it went to voicemail, Wetzel called again. Then again, and again, and again.
Past Dupont Circle, Erik saw an open parking spot and pulled over to turn off his ringing phone. Then he realized he needed the phone to buy plane tickets. He was right in front of Philz Coffee on Connecticut, so he turned off cell service and borrowed Wi-Fi from Philz. The only available seats were first class, but he bought them anyway. He wasn’t going to be able to use that credit card much longer.
Everything he’d heard over Sarah’s phone was burned on his brain, especially this: Brunelli had a D.C. police detective on his payroll. Erik couldn’t go to the authorities. Having seen the videos on Brunelli’s server, Erik had no illusions about the man’s reach. If the police put Erik in jail, even overnight, he wouldn’t see morning.
He couldn’t even think about what might happen to Óskar.
With the tickets handled, he turned cell service back on to call his cousin, who listened to Erik’s impossible story in silence. Then said, “I’m so sorry. How can I help?” It was Bjarni who suggested the caravan, already for sale by a friend of a friend. He’d buy it that afternoon, and “forget” to register it in his own name.
When the call ended, Erik’s phone immediately began to ring again. Soon it wouldn’t be Wetzel calling, he thought. It would be the police, tracking the signal. He needed to get rid of it.
His phone was filled with pictures of Sarah, all he had left of her.
They were backed up in the cloud, but he was pretty sure they could track that, too.
As he pulled into traffic, he held the ringing phone out the window and let it slip through his fingers. The car behind him crushed it into a thousand tiny pieces.
* * *
—
Now Bjarni climbs down from the caravan. “It’s not pretty, but the tires are good and the transmission was rebuilt last year. She’ll take you where you need to go.”
“It’s wonderful, Cousin. Thank you so much.” Erik takes out his envelope of emergency cash. “How much do I owe you?”
Bjarni waves away the money. “You’re family. Also it was a bargain, because the bathroom doesn’t work. But I filled the gas tank and bought the things you asked for.” Groceries, winter coats and boots, a good map. “But better not to call again, not for a while.”
Erik understands. With the police on his trail, he is a d
anger to everyone he touches. But after Bjarni hugs them and walks away, Erik feels the desolation wash over him like the tide. They are alone. Sarah is dead. He wishes he, too, could cry for her loss, but he can’t, not yet. They aren’t safe. He can feel it.
Still, with the caravan rumbling beneath him and Óskar strapped into his passenger seat clutching his backpack, Erik feels something like hope for the first time since this all began.
The familiar sound of his own language in his ears, the cold wind of home.
* * *
—
The weather is good and the road north is clear of snow. He considered going east to his uncles, and he may yet ask for their help to get him to England, but Erik is tired of exile, tired of the life that drew him abroad. Without Sarah, he can imagine nothing better than raising Óskar in a crowd of cousins, mowing hay and shearing sheep for the rest of his days.
But he can’t go to the farm, not yet. Not until he’s sure the police have given up on finding him. His family will help him deal with Brunelli when the time comes. Sarah’s death won’t be for nothing. Óskar still carries the encryption code in his head.
For the last two hours of driving, he worries that the abandoned barn has collapsed in the dozen years since he’s been there. But while more of the roof has fallen, he manages to nose the caravan inside and out of sight without having to do more than clear away a few rafters. Now he worries about the forecast. Erik needs fresh snow to cover his trail. Because Brunelli will use every bit of his influence to find them. The police will come looking. And after them, Fitzsimmons.
What can Erik do against them? How can he protect his son?
With Óskar in his arms again, he walks out into the darkness and looks up. The sky is filled with stars. The empty landscape shines crisp and clear in the cold night air. The waves boom against the shore a kilometer away.
“Óskar, do you see that big hill, with that flat spot on top?” He points away from the road, where the narrow plain rises into a rocky saddle. It is not a hill. It is a small mountain.
Óskar raises his head from his father’s shoulder to look, then nods.
“On the other side, down below, is amma Yrsa’s farm, where I was born. We were there two summers ago. You remember?”
Óskar gives his dad a look. Of course he remembers. Óskar remembers everything.
Back inside the little caravan with its brown cupboards and orange cushions, Erik seats Óskar at the table and spreads out Bjarni’s map, its scale small enough to show buildings as dots. Erik puts his finger on the dot for the barn. “We are here. This is the hill. These are called topographic lines, their little numbers show the hill getting taller. Do you understand the map?”
Óskar nods.
Erik puts his finger on the saddle. “Here is the flat spot we looked at. Here is the way across. And here is the way down to amma Yrsa’s farm. Can you take a picture to keep it in your head?”
Óskar nods again.
“Okay,” Erik says. “If anyone comes, you run up this hill quick as you can, okay? Like a real Viking, all grown up. But here is the hard part. Are you ready?”
He locks eyes with his son. He does not want to say this, but he must.
“You do not wait for me, Óskar. Okay? You do not stop, you do not rest, you do not look back. You run. When you get to the flat spot, you keep running, across the top and down to amma Yrsa’s farm.” He retraces the route with his finger. “They will take care of you until I get there. Do you understand me?”
His seven-year-old son stares at him without blinking. He refuses to answer.
“Ós, this is very important.” Erik clears his throat. He can barely get the words out. “If anyone comes, you must do this. You must run without me. Say yes, that you understand. That you will do as I say.”
Óskar’s eyes fill and he launches himself from the couch into his father’s arms.
With bottomless sorrow, Erik knows that his son understands perfectly.
* * *
—
The snow falls while they sleep and they wake to a softer world. After a breakfast of skyr and bread, Erik challenges Óskar to a Viking race up the hill. The rules are simple. Run flat-out, no stopping, no looking back, and hot chocolate is the prize. Óskar doesn’t stop and he doesn’t look back. Erik lets him win, but just barely. At the top, he points the way across the saddle toward grandma Yrsa’s house.
Ten days pass in the little camper. They eat skyr and bread for breakfast, cheese and bread and carrots for lunch, fish cakes and potatoes and cabbage for dinner. They play every card game Erik knows. They remember Sarah and cry. Erik tells stories of heroes and witches and pirates and monsters, the stories he learned as a child, but now he gives every story a happy ending. If Óskar is skeptical, he does not complain.
Each morning and each afternoon, they race up the hill. Like Vikings, Erik says.
Óskar doesn’t stop. He doesn’t look back. And with each trip, he gets a little faster.
Aside from themselves and the derelict barn, they see no other signs of human life. Just the snow, the mountains, and the sea. The caravan’s electric heater works well, but Erik uses it sparingly. To charge the batteries and warm themselves, they only run the engine for a half hour during meals, but soon the caravan will need more gasoline. Soon they will need more food. The snow keeps falling, getting deeper. Erik is worried again, this time about getting the boxy old camper back to the road.
But he needn’t have worried.
On the eleventh morning, while they eat breakfast and talk about superheroes, while the engine runs and the battery charges, a gray plume of exhaust rises through the barn’s broken roof. On the dark road, a silver SUV approaches. Its headlights illuminate the faint, swirling cloud.
The SUV stops.
Two men get out.
Their doors close with a double thump.
They walk toward the barn.
53
Erik has been hiding blind for more than a week, and his ears have learned to sift through the variable noise of the wind for other sounds. The clatter of rockfall down the cliff face, the croak of timbers settling under the snow.
The caravan’s diesel rumble blocks out these other sounds, but not this new double thump, which Erik recognizes instinctively. He scrambles into the driver’s compartment to kill the engine, but he’s too late. He hears the crunch of boots in the snow, then a voice.
“What a lovely spot for a hideaway.”
The boots crunch closer. Erik drops to the floor and gathers Óskar into his arms. At the caravan door, a sharp knock.
The voice again, louder now. It sounds Irish.
“Begging your pardon for the intrusion, but I’m an investor from Ireland hoping to purchase land. Would you have a moment to chat?”
Erik says nothing, just puts a finger to his lips. Óskar buries his face in Erik’s neck.
Again, the voice. “I know you’re inside. I saw your exhaust from the road, and heard the engine running just now. I wonder, is your barn for sale? With a bit of work, it would make a lovely vacation home.”
Erik’s heart beats so loudly he is sure they can hear it. His mind races but gets nowhere. What should he do? How can he fight back?
The man knocks again and keeps talking. “I’m sorry to bother you, truly I am. I can tell you’re a man prefers his own company, living way out here. But perhaps just a quick chat? If you’re not the owner of the property, we’re willing to offer a finder’s fee if you can steer us toward him. Say a thousand euros? I have the money with me.”
The Irish lilt is charming, but Erik doesn’t believe a word. Who comes looking for vacation property in northern Iceland in late December? But he sounds so damned reasonable.
Erik tries to think of a way to see the man without being seen. He detaches himself from Óskar, then creeps away from the door to pee
k out the window over the sink. The glass is nearly opaque with wear, but a man stands directly outside, grinning right up at him, a dark shadow of beard in a pale face.
Behind the man stands silent, looming Fitzsimmons, looking like a statue in the cold.
Erik jumps backward into the darkness as if pulled by a string, but of course he is too late. They have seen his face.
The camper’s thin door rattles and creaks as they test the lock. The metal is not strong.
The Irishman says, “You had a good idea, hiding here. I’ve done the same thing myself, finding an empty place to wait out the coppers. I was a copper, too, once upon a time, so I know how they think. Or how they don’t think. Most coppers are so comfortable, they don’t really understand a desperate man. But I do.”
The door creaks again, then bangs in its frame under the force of a fist. Óskar attaches himself to his father. Erik says, “What do you want?”
“As you know, there was an unfortunate accident. A misunderstanding. In addition, your wife took some video files that don’t belong to her. The police believe you killed her, but we know this is untrue. If we get our files, and proof that no further copies exist, you will be exonerated and walk away a free man.”
More crunching of boots in the snow. It’s the sound of a large dog breaking the bones of a small animal. Erik imagines Fitzsimmons prowling around the caravan, looking for another way inside.
Then he realizes they haven’t seen Óskar. They don’t know he’s there.
“Sarah saw some strange footage, that’s all,” Erik says. “She just got scared. She didn’t take any files.”
“I’m afraid you’re misinformed, lad. Your Sarah was in a hurry, perhaps, and not as careful as she might have been. She didn’t actually reformat her laptop. Our own expert went through that machine with a microscope. We know she downloaded the files. We know she uploaded them to another server before deleting them on her machine. We only want those files, and the server’s data record as proof that there are no copies. That’s all.”
