The Opal (Book 2 of the Matt Turner Series)

by Michael Siemsen

  Coming into view of the huts, he slowed his pace. No one had yet noticed him, but this would quickly change. The one eating in the chair actually glanced directly at him, then went back to his meat, likely thinking Haeming was one of his own, back after a piss. Haeming now stood less than forty feet from the nearest warrior, a man breaking branches for the fire. Haeming checked his periphery, careful not to pass beyond the first two huts, though he still needed them to see him before he proceeded. No one should be able to get around behind him without his seeing them first. He stood there for what seemed a long time before the seated man looked at him again.

  “Who’s that?” he said around a mouthful of meat.

  “Who’s what?” someone else answered.

  “Is that Arni?” the eater called out.

  “I’m right here, Randvér,” the man snapping branches said. “Seems you aren’t yet drunk enough.”

  This man Arni sounded sober and clearheaded.

  “Then who’s that?” The one called Randvér tried to block the firelight with the ragged cooked arm, holding it by the exposed bone as if it were a giant goose leg.

  Heads turned, laughing and talking ceased, and a large figure stood up from the stump beyond the bonfire. The pop and crack of the fire seemed to grow louder, as did the sizzle of the ghastly cadavers roasting above it. The far house, the one with the screaming woman, was the last to go silent. Haeming hoped that on the ridge above him, bows were now being bent by well-practiced archers, their breath falling into the slow rhythm of that perfect pre-shot calm that he himself had never mastered.

  The figure from the stump staggered as he walked past the fire to get a better look at the silent intruder. He stopped several paces from Haeming and rubbed his eyes before tilting his head to the side. He looked old, finished with life. His long brown beard hung to his navel, and his face was decorated with two decades of battle scars.

  “Who are you?” he finally asked.

  “I am Haeming. You are Atli.”

  Several heads shared questioning glances. Atli seemed to ponder for a moment. “How many are with you?” he asked with no sign of concern.

  Haeming said quietly, “I wish to speak with you alone for a moment, if you would.”

  “That means not many.”

  “Atli . . .” one of his men began.

  “Arni,” Atli interrupted. “Handle this little boy and then gather the men to hunt down the rest of his group. They surely have food.”

  Haeming stood quietly with his right hand still resting on his sword hilt.

  No arrows had yet flown—perfect. They knew that either Haeming would signal them or the need to fire would become clear. As long as they were in position. Surely they were already in position . . .

  “Atli,” Haeming said again. “As I said, I only wish to speak with you alone for a moment. There’s no need for a fight.”

  The only way this could work was if Haeming allowed Atli to save face. Their conversation couldn’t happen in front of his men.

  Atli shot a look behind him and barked, “Arni, I said to handle him. Go!”

  Arni hesitated for another second and then picked up a sword from the dirt beside the fire. Hefting it with confidence, he walked toward Haeming, not slowly but certainly not with brash imprudence.

  Haeming said to the man walking toward him, “You are following orders, so I apologize.” With a whisper, the Saracen blade left its sheath, and with a continuing whisper, it opened the man’s throat.

  Atli yelled “Arni!” as the second strike stabbed down through Arni’s shoulder and deep into his chest.

  Arni went from one knee to facedown on the ground just as the man eating by the fire staggered to his feet. Someone else yelled “Arni!” and a clamor ensued as men ran about in search of weapons or, perhaps, simply in panic.

  “Calm them, Atli!” Haeming yelled. “We can still talk!” Though the man didn’t seem to be hearing his words at all at this point. The giant Norwegian didn’t even bother finding a weapon. He stomped toward Haeming as Randvér, the arm-eater, followed clumsily, wielding a large battle-ax. Haeming raised a forestalling hand to the ridge just as one of the archers released the first shot. It struck Randvér in the chest, and he grunted, looking down at the protruding arrow without comprehension. He shuffled to a stop, but by then at least twenty Norwegians were charging toward Haeming and the body on the ground beside him.

  With Atli nearly on him, Haeming held his sword before him in a passive guard stance. He still hoped that they might talk like civilized men, but perhaps not.

  Atli suddenly stopped with a jolt and bounced back, as if striking an unseen wall, and for a moment Haeming had to wonder whether God, or maybe the old gods in whom he had ceased to believe, were intervening. The towering Norseman’s head craned down and twisted, reminding Haeming of a snake examining a nest of bird eggs.

  Atli threw a hand behind him to stop the charging throng of Norwegians. They flung their arms out to their sides to stop themselves and each other, and their shouts died down to silence.

  Atli’s voice, suddenly sober, seemed to come from somewhere deeper within him than before: “Are you . . . are you the son of Grim?”

  “Yes, I am the son of Grim, for whom you fought many years ago.” Haeming hoped this declaration might pacify the older man—until it was half-said. Atli’s chest heaved as he looked down at the body of Arni, then up to the sword in Haeming’s grip, and finally at Haeming’s face. He released a sudden, explosive growl, and his whole body seemed to expand like a great bird puffing up. Haeming flicked open his palm to signal the watching eyes on the ridge.

  Arrows whizzed as Atli charged at him. Haeming dodged the clumsy attack and sprinted toward the foot of the hill, out of the way of the archers. Atli rose from the dirt, turned his head toward Haeming. Atli was a large man, and Haeming wasn’t interested in feeling one of his charges actually connect. Instead, he lowered his body, swung his sword around behind him, and dashed at the larger man’s midsection. As Haeming and Atli struck the dirt, the Damascus sword fell to the ground beside them.

  * * *

  “I’ll not touch it again,” Atli said and again glanced around the corner of the building, toward Norway’s grandest church.

  Solva looked at her husband. He was small and weak, frightened of everything. She took a deep breath, shoved the Saracen sword and scabbard against his chest, and said with teeth bared, “You will carry it to the foot of those steps, get down on a knee before him, and put it in his hands. When you stand again, you will stand tall and proud like a man. It is not for him, my love, it is for you.”

  He clutched the sword before it fell and looked back at her with despair.

  “You don’t understand. It’s an insult. He gave it to me . . . as recompense for Arni . . . and for peace.”

  “It has never been that, only a reminder. It is the worst sort of punishment. And if he is the good man you always claim, then you will not keep for one more day the weapon used to slay your brother. Go now or I leave. Neither the boys or I will live our lives with half a man for husband, half a man for father.” She spun and trot down the alley.

  Atli watched her go and grumbled. Haeming and King Harald were both seen entering the church. Atli knew the risk. Haeming or one of his men could see him coming and think it an attack. He looked down at the sword and scabbard, Arni’s wise young face flashed through his mind. Atli took the hanging belt and wrapped it tightly around the scabbard and over the guard, around the grip, tying the end tightly. It was now clearly inaccessible as a weapon, and he had nothing else on his person. He closed his eyes for a moment, then rounded the corner toward Nidaros’s church.

  After only a few minutes, Haeming and King Harald walked down the tall, wide staircase, Haeming’s eyes spotting Atli at once. Unafraid, he walked directly to Atli, down to the same level stair as he. King Harald hung back with his men, a keen eye on Atli.

  “Well met, Atli,” Haeming said. His tone and posture were gra
cious, friendly even. It was disarming. Only 21 years old and he looked like a wise old sage with his short-trimmed black beard, knowing eyes, and humble clothing.

  Atli dropped to a knee, bowed his head, and held out the Saracen sword on both palms. “Haeming, with all honor, respect, and appreciation . . . I wish for you to have and keep this.”

  Haeming was silent. Atli looked up to his face. It appeared concerned, unsure.

  “You know that I returned it to you in the same vein . . .” Haeming said.

  “I do,” Atli said, his arms still outstretched. After a beat, he felt the weight of the sword lift from his palms.

  “I think I understand,” Haeming said. “But I want you to know that it is yours at any time you wish. You need only ask. I will have not a single thought.”

  Atli nodded, rose to his feet, gave the king a respectful bow, and turned to walk away.

  “Atli,” Haeming called. Atli halted and looked back. “I have a proposal for you and your family.”

  * * *

  The Reykjavik Emporium was Iceland’s biggest social gathering place. Haeming and Atli leaned against the rails of the horse corral and watched fishermen and traders from all over the country come and go. With no moon, and an invisible shroud of cloud cover, the darkness was near-absolute. The Emporium had a lit torch on each side of its great barn doors, but even the light from these seemed unable to reach more than a few feet.

  “Look at that lot,” Atli snorted. “Plenty of mead money on them tonight, I’d say. Where are Olaf and Finn with our so-called navigator?”

  “Olaf’s fond of mead, as well,” Haeming replied in jest. “Perhaps he was thirsty.”

  “I don’t think your friend Finn would allow that.”

  Haeming nodded in agreement.

  “You know him from around here?” Atli asked.

  “No. We met a few years ago . . . in Sicily.” Haeming caught himself too late. He tried to avoid mention of Sicily around Atli. “He taught me everything I know about Christianity. He owns a real Bible—practically a priest. You should talk to him sometime, away from your men. Be warned, though: his words will outlast your ears.”

  Hearing slow footsteps in the corral behind them, Haeming elbowed Atli. Thieving was rampant this winter, and a corral full of unattended horses was an obvious target. Haeming kept his hand on the pommel of his sword, but Atli seemed uncharacteristically opposed to a fight. He turned around suddenly and called out to the nothingness, “I’m not in a face-smashing mood tonight, but that doesn’t mean the hankering won’t strike at any moment.”

  The footsteps paused, then reversed at the same slow pace with which they had approached. Atli and Haeming chuckled.

  Haeming felt Atli’s eyes on him and peered right to catch him gazing at the tiny glint from the Damascus sword’s pommel. While Atli had always insisted he bore no more ill will toward him about the Saracen blade, Haeming knew it could not be so simple.

  Haeming looked back at the lit doorway and said, “I told you, it’s yours to take back whenever you wish it.”

  “No, no, I wasn’t . . . it wasn’t that. It’s yours forever. I could never . . . forget it.”

  Haeming knew that Atli would never be free of the blade’s history, but he wouldn’t ever speak of it. Atli cocked his chin toward the raucous scene within the building. Olaf appeared in the doorway, his beefy hand around the neck of a slightly built man, well into his forties and with a pronounced hunch. Finn emerged a second later, leaning on his walking stick. Olaf nodded at the dark figures of Atli and Haeming, barely illuminated by the torches. Olaf escorted the little man, and Finn followed behind, tucking his gray beard against his throat for warmth.

  “Got ’im,” Olaf said as he approached. “Tried to gut me with this.”

  He held up something, and Haeming leaned close to see what it was: a wooden spoon with a broken handle.

  Finn rested on his walking stick and chuckled. “Look at the point—not sharp enough to split an ant.”

  Haeming smiled, then addressed the scowling man before him. “I’m Haeming Grimsson. You’re Skamkell, of Borg.”

  The man’s suspicious eyes examined Haeming and Atli for a beat. He sighed and dejectedly answered, “Aye, Skamkell. Aye, from Borg.”

  “You’ve been to Vinland,” Haeming said.

  Skamkell’s expression changed to one of surprise and relief. He surely had thought they had come to kill him, but Haeming needed the old man to join their crew and guide them across the Atlantic, to Vinland.

  FOURTEEN

  Jessup Canter—Jess to everyone but his mother—got the call from Roger while wrapping up some business at the Essex County Morgue in Newark. With surprisingly little traffic on the interstate, he made it to the Turner house in Secaucus in less than twenty minutes. While his old partner, Roger Turner, had retired as detective sergeant, Jess had stayed on the force and was now detective lieutenant, running his own special task force in the Major Crimes Division.

  He let himself in the door and called out, “Guys?” The house smelled of coffee and dryer sheets.

  Beth leaped up from the couch in the den and called, “In here, Jess!”

  He stepped down into the sunken room and hugged her tight. “I’m so sorry,” he said quietly in her ear. “We’re gonna find him. Don’t you worry about nothin’, you hear me?”

  She cried into his chest. Roger hadn’t looked up from his old laptop, whose blue glow emphasized his weathered face.

  “He always said it was going to happen, J,” Beth said. “He knew it. He always said, someone’s gonna find out and they’re gonna take him and make him track something down.”

  “I been saying it for goddamn years,” Roger grumbled. “Kid doesn’t listen to a goddamn thing I say, though.”

  Jess squeezed Beth’s shoulders and looked in her eyes, his silvered brows furrowed. “We’re gonna find him,” he said. “You trust me?” She nodded. “Good. Now, lemme sit down with Rog for a bit and talk over some things, yeah?”

  She nodded again. “I’ll go make some more coffee. You want?”

  He gave her a nod and smiled, and when she left the room, he took her place next to Roger on the couch. He felt odd having Beth leave for the “man talk.” His own wife would have given him a pop in the mouth for such “caveman-days chauvinism,” but it had always been this way with Beth and Rog.

  “What do you got so far?”

  “Starting point is Bora Bora—part of Tahiti. They took his plane with his pilot.”

  “Matty’s got a plane? Jesus.“

  “Exactly,” Roger said. “You see what I’m saying now. He ain’t being smart about it at all. Two days ago, they flew to an airport in Australia. City’s called . . .” He peered through his bifocals at the notepad beside him. “. . . Brisbane. It’s still there. Pilot says local PD’s holding him, looked for drugs, lots of questions. Anyway, guy hasn’t a clue where they were going from there. If you look at this map, they could either still be there or be headed south to Sydney, north to any number of places, or God knows where else.”

  “You know if he has his phone with him?”

  “I tried it a bunch of times. Straight to voicemail.”

  “Well, we can see where it last checked in. I’ll call Ben at DOJ, too. See if he gets any hits on air travel or border crossings. This British guy—you know anything about him?”

  Roger gave him the rundown on Garrett Rheese. Jess didn’t take any notes—he never needed to. Sometimes Roger got a kick out of it; other times it annoyed him. At the moment, he seemed to appreciate the skill. He didn’t have to repeat anything and could talk as fast as he needed to.

  Jess stood up. “Got it. I’ll go make a few calls. Hey, real quick: Matty happen to have a tablet computer? There’s usually a separate tracking program on those.”

  Roger looked up from the screen. “Not sure. Iris would probably know . . . shit.”

  “What?”

  “Haven’t told her yet.”

  He p
icked up the cordless phone and called his daughter. She was someplace loud. She reacted as expected, and announced that she would be on the first available flight to Newark.

  “Honey, do you know if Matt has one of those iPads . . . or whatever?”

  She said he had a couple of them, and gave Roger a few potential passwords to try. They hung up, and he tore the page out of his notepad and handed it to Jess. Jess left the room to make his calls, and returned ten minutes later, smiling.

  “One of his iPads is in his house in Raleigh. The other one connected briefly to a Wi-Fi access point at the Chateau Habana in Cuba. Two hours ago.”

  Roger tossed his laptop aside and launched up off the couch at the same time that Beth appeared in the kitchen doorway.

  “Cuba?” Roger said to himself, trying to think. “Why the hell would you go to Australia to get to Cuba?”

  “Matty?” Beth said. “He’s in Cuba?”

  “I’ve got folks contacting the Swiss embassy and the U.S. Interests Section there. We don’t have our own embassy, but there are systems in place to help us out.”

  “What’s that mean?” Roger demanded. “Help us out? As in, their law enforcement will get out an APB and search parties? Or they’ll call us if my son pops up somewhere?”

  “I don’t know yet, Rog. Take it easy—I’m doing everything I can with a cell phone, okay?”

  “Can those U.S. Interests people get Americans into the country?”

  “Oh, that’s not a problem at all,” Jess said. “Our governments don’t have formal relations, but things have apparently loosened up quite a bit in recent years as far as business and tourism travel goes. Ben says there are even direct flights to Havana from JFK now. What are you thinking? You at least wanna wait for a response from down there, or what?”

  “I’m not waiting for nothing. He’s there, and no one else is gonna make more of an effort than me to bring him home. There’s just no way.”

  “I’ll help you pack, hon,” Beth said as they went into the hall.