The Wild One

by Nick Petrie

  It was off-season, not to mention almost dark, so nobody saw four men climb out of the small inflatable dinghy at the tender’s dock and walk across the boatyard into the parking lot, where Novak sat waiting in a black four-door Silverado pickup.

  Even in jeans and a sweatshirt, he still looked like the D.C. Metro cop he’d been for twenty years. The Norwegian had run a background check on him. He was married to Catherine’s cousin. His only visible assets were his pension, the truck, and a small condo in Anacostia.

  Peter said, “Did you get the stuff I asked for?”

  “On the floor.” Novak nodded at the paper bag at Peter’s feet. Ingo and Axel opened the back doors and climbed inside, pushing Bjarni into the middle seat. The big truck sank on its springs. The uncles put the windows down and sniffed the air.

  Novak looked at Peter. “Who the fuck are these guys? What are you looking to do here?”

  “They’re Vikings,” Peter said. “They came to see the Air and Space Museum. For myself, honestly, I’m still figuring it out.” He dumped the contents of Novak’s bag into his day pack. Zip ties, duct tape, nitrile gloves, a half-decent folding knife you could buy at any hardware store. “Let’s just take a look around. What’s the security setup?”

  Novak put the truck in drive and got out of there. “The place is huge,” he said. “There are two U.S. Marshals at the front, and a pair of cars blocking the driveway. They have four more men watching the doors, and two men patrolling the grounds.”

  “Only eight guys? For a five-acre property?”

  “That’s because they’re focused on keeping Brunelli inside,” Novak said. “Not keeping someone else out.” His eyes flicked to the backpack, then at Peter. “Really. What are you thinking here?”

  Novak, in his heart, was still very much a cop. Peter reminded himself that Novak had already gone way out on a limb, acting as the driver for a wanted man. That alone was a crime.

  “What I’d like,” Peter said, “is to find a way to put Brunelli in an orange jumpsuit with a big horny cellmate for the rest of his life. But I’m worried he’s going to weasel out of everything. Did you talk to that Metro detective, Phil Moore?”

  Peter had suggested Novak reach out to the man who’d run the investigation into Sarah’s death, who’d also identified Erik Grímsson as the primary suspect. The Norwegian investigator had recently turned up several overseas bank accounts in the name of Moore’s first ex-wife.

  “Moore wasn’t at work, and he didn’t answer his phone, so I went to his apartment. He didn’t answer my knock, either.” Novak kept his eyes on the road. “But I knew that smell coming under his door. He wasn’t going to be talking to me or anyone else.”

  “How did he die?”

  “I got the M.E. report two days ago. Tissue samples put the cause of death as alcohol poisoning.”

  Peter raised his eyebrows. He hadn’t read Moore as an amateur drunk. He’d seemed like a deliberate professional, self-medicating his way toward retirement.

  Novak said, “The tox report also showed traces of ketamine in his system. You know what ketamine is?”

  “A club drug,” Peter said. “Also a date-rape drug.” He thought of the syringe in the hotel bar in Akureyri. “Someone’s tying up loose ends. Which reminds me. When you were working with Catherine, did you ever run into an Irishman? Smaller guy, very pale, black hair, heavy beard? Maybe went by Seamus?”

  “Brunelli’s main bodyguard is an Irishman named Fitzsimmons,” Novak said. “But he’s the opposite of small. He went to Iceland with Wetzel and vanished into thin air. What’s the story with your guy?”

  The Norwegian had finally tracked down Seamus from the photo Peter had taken in Iceland. His real name was Seamus Conner. A Belfast policeman until he was arrested for murdering four of his fellow officers for the IRA. He disappeared from police custody in 1995, surfacing later in South Africa, Jamaica, and Russia, where he’d worked as an enforcer for various criminal organizations.

  “I’d really like to get hold of him,” Peter said. “Aside from Brunelli, Seamus is the only guy left standing.”

  They dropped the Icelanders at the Kimpton in Dupont Circle just after seven. They really did want to see the Air and Space Museum, along with the National Mall at night, and Peter really didn’t want them crashing through the woods in his wake.

  Peter and Novak arrived in Potomac after nine.

  * * *

  —

  Novak cruised the neighborhood, avoiding Brunelli’s street while giving an overview of the wealthy suburb. Most houses stood on large, wooded lots. Many residents had thoughtfully planted evergreen trees for tasteful year-round screening from the neighbors and the road.

  Peter had spent part of the drive with a good map. Now he directed Novak down MacArthur Boulevard, with the dark woods of the C&O Canal National Historic Park on the left and a dense veneer of weedy scrub hiding high fences on the right. Past Falls Road and into the park, Novak continued until he came to VFW Post 5633, a low brick building with decommissioned artillery pieces mounted in the yard. He turned into the circular driveway and paused just long enough for Peter to roll out of the truck and disappear into the trees.

  The night was moonless and he was effectively invisible in the narrow band of forest between the road and the high iron fences of the houses. Snow stood only in patches where sun would not fall. Peter had the map in his head now, and when the road veered left, he kept his line along the shoulder of an irregular slope, steps muffled in the soft winter loam. He carried his day pack with water and energy bars and the things Novak had bought.

  He smiled in the dark, knowing he was home.

  He went to the top of the slope with his binoculars and spotted Brunelli’s place a half mile away, lit up like a museum on the night of a gala. Every window shone, and the terraces and formal gardens were bright with accent lighting. The house had been built on a level spot where it would look down on the river. Outside the fenced gardens, the terrain rose and fell from angular ridges to steep ravines that drained to the river. Peter marked a modest rise close to the estate, where he could set up for a better view, then set out again.

  He hadn’t lied to Novak. He had no plan of action other than a night of surveillance. On the other hand, if an opportunity presented itself, he would be ready.

  Slow and silent, he worked his way upwind toward the rise. He wondered if there were sensors in the ground or cameras in the trees. He told himself there was too much world out here to monitor all of it, and that any electronic measures would be on the fence itself or inside it. Then the breeze rose, carrying the faint acrid tang of cigarette smoke.

  Peter froze in place, ears straining for sound. He heard nothing. The smell of smoke faded. He held that way for several minutes before he moved on, creeping more slowly still, marking each footfall. He didn’t want to meet an armed U.S. Marshal in the dark.

  The rise turned out to be a cluster of ancient granite boulders too stubborn to wash down to the river. He stood still and silent at its base, eyes searching for a path up, when he heard a soft phut overhead, and the distant tinkle of breaking glass.

  Peter knew those sounds. He tucked himself into a fold in the granite and waited. The shooter would prize speed over quiet now. A faint mechanical rattle, above and to his left. He circled that way, face down and ears wide open. The brittle crack of a stick. The whisper of fabric against stone. He circled faster, feet soft and sure. The rough rock was cold against his bare hands. Then the scrape of a boot directly above him. He reached up and got a hand around the man’s ankle as he sidestepped, pulling him, face-first, six feet down to the ground.

  The man hit without crying out, already gathering his feet under him, scooping up a scoped hunting rifle as he came. Tough little fucker, Peter thought, then kicked him in the head and it was over.

  * * *

  —

  His bac
k to a tree, the Irishman’s eyes fluttered open as Peter zip-tied his arms around the trunk. He cleared his throat and spat. “I’m a changed man, lad. Handing out justice. On the side of the angels now.”

  “I can see that.” Peter used another zip-tie to cinch the man’s neck to the tree. Hard to get out of that one. “You don’t like your old boss anymore?”

  “I didn’t mind him,” Seamus said. “He paid well enough. But I’ve a new employer now, pays much better. Wants to clean up a big mess.”

  Peter smiled. “Me, too.” He pulled the clip knife from his pocket and flicked it open with his thumb.

  Seamus dug his boot heels into the dirt to get away, but he was tied up tight. “Surely we can come to an arrangement. There’s money enough for everyone.”

  Peter put the point of the knife to the underside of the Irishman’s chin and murmured, “Everyone thinks it’s about the money.” He pressed the tip gently into the soft skin. Seamus held himself very still. A dark drop of blood welled against the polished steel.

  Then Peter took the knife away and, without his hands touching the rifle, smeared the collected blood into the textured plastic of the butt, just where it would meet a sniper’s cheek.

  Seamus twisted against his bonds and got nowhere. “Ach, lad, you’re killing me.”

  “Actually,” Peter said, folding the knife back in his pocket, “I’m not. No matter how much I’d like to.”

  He heard the crackle of radios as the Marshals moved across the estate’s lower gardens. Soon enough they’d venture past the fence. The Irishman’s fingerprints would tie him to his Interpol warrants. If he talked to the feds, he might avoid getting strangled in an Irish prison. Or maybe not.

  “Peter,” the Irishman called out. “Peter!”

  Peter didn’t answer. Instead he turned away and angled downslope toward the river. As he walked, the breeze came up again, carrying the smell of wet dirt and rotting leaves and the coming promise of spring.

  Acknowledgments

  Some books are easier to write than others.

  For various reasons, this book was one of the others.

  First and foremost, I owe an enormous debt of gratitude to Margret Anderson Petrie, Duncan Petrie, my parents Pete and Lucia, and my siblings Bob and Maryl Petrie. Your kindness, not to mention your tolerance of my whining, lies beyond even unreasonable expectations. Thank you.

  I owe a different but no less enormous debt to every creative professional I know, including (but by no means limited to) Lori Rader-Day, Charles Todd, Mark Greaney, Gregg Hurwitz, Dana Kaye, Michael Koryta, Owen Laukkanen, Erica Ruth Neubauer, Tim Hennessey, Katrina and Chris Holm, Andrew Gross, Bill Schweigart, Don Bentley, John Dixon, Graham Brown, Dan Oko, Jennifer and Andy Rash, Kathleen Kavanaugh and Julio Rivera, Bob Crais, and many, many others. Your words of encouragement were what turned the tide. My community truly is the gift that keeps on giving.

  Thanks are due especially to my editors at Putnam, the talented Sara Minnich and Tom Colgan, whose insight and talent are invaluable to this writer, as is their patience. They watched me sail past my deadline with every appearance of Zen calm; if they gnashed their teeth, I never heard it.

  I remain, as always, hugely thankful for my agent, Barbara Poelle, whose attitude of semi-benevolent ferocity is alternately a source of inspiration and terror to all who have the privilege to know her.

  Next, I must extend my apologies to the people of Iceland. The epic Icelandic landscape is very much as I’ve described it, but the violent and surly behavior presented in this book comes entirely from my imagination. Over more than three weeks in Iceland, each person I met was unfailingly polite and helpful. Everyone under the age of fifty spoke better English than I did. And more to the point, nobody tried to kill me. Takk fyrir for your kindness, your hospitality, your bakeries, and your beer.

  As always, this is a work of fiction. I’ve played with the map and made stuff up to tell a better story.

  On the Iceland research front, thanks are due to Alda Sigmundsdóttir, for her smart and thoughtful take on modern Iceland, and to Nanna Gunnarsdóttir and Audur Ösp, whose blogs are both witty and informative. I only wish I could have used more quirky Icelandic sayings, several of which have entered my daily conversation. On with the butter!

  Thanks to the Litla Guesthouse, a comfy and friendly place, which is actually in Ísafjordur, not Reykjavík, but was too good not to include in the book.

  Many thanks to Duncan Petrie, my Iceland travel companion, who came up with the idea of a backpacking trip across the Hornstrandir National Reserve in 2017. For our 2018 Ring Road trip, Duncan planned our itinerary, took gorgeous photographs, and drove long hours on questionable roads. To see Duncan’s astounding Iceland photos, check out his website at DuncanPetrie.com. His ongoing work, along with his terrible horrible no-good very bad puns, can be found on Instagram at @probablyduncan.

  Duncan also turned me on to the work of Chris Burkard, whose Icelandic surfing documentary Under an Arctic Sky provided inspiration for the big winter storm in this book. I cannot recommend this film highly enough. Find it on Netflix or at UnderAnArcticSky.com. The mini-documentary about the making of the film is equally interesting as a testament to the rewards of persisting in the face of a challenge.

  Thanks to the New York Times for its excellent ongoing reportage about war and its aftereffects, including several articles about promising experimental uses of MDMA—also known as Ecstasy—for the treatment of post-traumatic stress. If you’d like to learn more, the May 1, 2018, article by Dave Philipps is especially illuminating. Further reading should include Michael Pollan’s book about the science of psychedelics, How to Change Your Mind.

  I’m not suggesting everyone go get high—these are serious drugs administered in a clinical setting by trained professionals—but it’s truly wonderful to see such positive results in this still-experimental treatment.

  I’m indebted to writers Ken Bruen and Roddy Doyle, whose excellent novels are responsible for all that is lovely about my Irish accent, and none of the shite. I highly recommend their work. Ken Bruen’s The Guards and Roddy Doyle’s The Commitments are great places to get started.

  Often, something small makes a huge difference. Years ago, I heard Irish poet and Nobel laureate Seamus Heaney give a talk and reading in Seattle, during which someone in the audience asked what he considered to be the most challenging part of writing. He replied, “Getting started, keeping going, and getting started again.” How like a poet, to capture in eight words the entire practice of writing: the challenge and failure inherent to the work, along with the necessary effort of always beginning again. Heaney has been gone since 2013, but I hope he wouldn’t mind my Irish villain taking on his name. For a taste of his poetry, read his poem “Digging,” on the Poetry Foundation’s website.

  Neil Gaiman’s Norse Mythology brought brilliant new life to old stories.

  Bill Schweigart contributed nautical knowledge and generous wit.

  Peter’s ice-skating truck was inspired by a man on Washington Island, Wisconsin, who told me about a storm that had blown his parked truck down his icy driveway. This was many years ago, but writers never forget a good story. Be careful what you tell us.

  Thanks to Ginger Mulanax, whose generous donation to the St. Louis County Library put her wonderful name in this book, and to Reed Farrel Coleman, mensch among men, for his friendship and an invitation to Suspense Night.

  Thanks to Matt George for the right words at the right time. Thanks to Dr. Dean Ziegler for reassembling my shoulder after a gnarly bike accident. Thanks to Dan Oberneder, Physical Therapist Extraordinaire, for his knowledge and humor and gleeful infliction of pain to get my shoulder back to 100 percent.

  Thanks to the great crew at Putnam, including Ivan Held, Katie Grinch, Emily Mlynek, Alexis Welby, Ashley McClay, Christine Ball, Tricja Okuniewska, and everyone else on the world-class publicit
y and marketing and sales teams—your work gets mine into the world, and for that I am grateful. Thanks also to Linda Rosenberg, Meredith Dros, Kylie Byrd, Claire Sullivan, John Sharp, Maija Baldauf, Nancy Resnick, Steven Meditz, and Jeffrey Ward for making this book both beautiful and readable.

  Thanks to independent booksellers everywhere, for putting my books in readers’ hands, and for introducing me to astonishing books and authors. You are the heart and soul of the book world. An algorithm will never replace a human recommendation. Thanks especially and always to Daniel Goldin of Boswell Books in Milwaukee and Barbara Peters of The Poisoned Pen in Scottsdale for essential and unflagging advice and insight and support.

  As you can see, I’m a lucky man surrounded by wonderful people. I owe the world.

  But my greatest debt, dear reader, is to you.

  Your support and enthusiasm, whether simply reading, at a book event, or online, powers me forward.

  Without you, I’d just be howling into the darkness.

  About the Author

  Nick Petrie is the author of four novels in the Peter Ash series, most recently Tear it Down. His debut The Drifter won both the ITW Thriller award and the Barry Award for Best First Novel, and was a finalist for the Edgar and the Hammett awards. A husband and father, he lives in Milwaukee.

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