She looked at the nightstand clock and yawned, forcing her mind elsewhere. Mr. Pups, her cat, chasing the red dot of a laser as she streaked it across her apartment floor.
TWENTY-TWO
Haeming worked his way up the steep hill, his small scouting patrol following close behind. He had come this far yesterday, though not on the path and not in view of the sentries. On this trip, they intentionally walked through the small village of Tainos at the base of the mountain to see how the natives would react to their presence. Haeming’s group received only silent stares.
Yesterday, he and Ulfr had avoided the village, instead negotiating the dense tropical forest to find the mountain people’s town. They discovered the entire hilltop was encircled with a sturdy wood fence. It was by no means an impenetrable barrier, but its builders had strung twine along the inside, attaching shards of broken pots that would ring out should anyone attempt to break through or sneak in. Haeming knew he could easily have disabled the crude warning system if he wanted, but his mission yesterday had not been to infiltrate or attack. Nor was it today. He just wanted to meet these mountain people.
As he walked, his head hurt. His jaw had been clenched most of the past two days, since meeting a white man living with the Taino—an inexplicable presence until the man spoke to them in Norse, told them of the mountain people. Haeming tried to remain aware of his mouth and relax it, but each time, his thoughts snaked inevitably back to the intolerable, to this place, to losing. And without realizing it, he would again clamp his jaw. Despite his serene outward expression, he burned with rage inside.
They neared the tall gate, and the guards posted in the two towers above simply watched as Haeming stopped a few feet away and smiled up at them. The towers infuriated him. The gate infuriated him.
“Hello, there,” he said.
“Welcome, strangers,” the one on the right replied in Norse. He was a gaunt fellow with a short, wispy brown beard. He wore no shirt, and his necklace hung down as he leaned over the platform’s edge. His skin was bronzed by years of sun. “Please leave your weapons there. You will have no need of them inside these walls.”
“We are a peaceful people,” the blond young man in the left tower said. He was perhaps fifteen and also shirtless.
Haeming turned around and made eye contact with each of his men. He gave them a tiny nod and they began disarming. Haeming kept the Damascus sword, in its jewel-encrusted sheath, strapped around his waist. A dagger remained concealed in the small of his back. He hadn’t gone completely unarmed in half a decade, and he wouldn’t start now by entering this loathsome village without a weapon.
“Very well, my friends,” he said. “We have put aside our arms. We come in peace.”
Haeming watched the bearded man’s eyes, which were riveted on the bejeweled pommel of the Damascus.
“Ah . . .” the bearded man stammered, “I’m afraid you all must leave your weapons.”
“We have,” Haeming said, smiling earnestly. “If you mean this decorative trifle here, it is purely ceremonial, like a crown or chest piece—nothing to worry about, I assure you.”
The man turned around and spoke in low tones with an unseen woman beyond the gate. His face returned a moment later.
“We extend our deepest regrets, good sir . . .” His nervousness amused Haeming. “. . . but I’m afraid there can be no exceptions. If you prefer not to leave it, we can keep it for you.”
Behind his back, Haeming gave one of his men a hidden signal with his left hand.
“Outrageous!” his man, Ulfr, bellowed. “Sir, let us leave this vulgar place at once! I told you they would be uncivilized Norwegians.”
“Open the gates!” a deep voice called out. “Stop this nonsense. They are guests!”
Ulfr grinned and whispered to Haeming, “The day will come when you are wrong.”
Haeming replied softly, “That day has already passed. It was horrible.” He said it as a joke, but inside, he knew it to be true. He had been very wrong—and not only once.
The gates parted to reveal a stout old man with a bushy gray beard. He had the demeanor of someone exhausted by life yet trudging on. Already walking away, he glanced at Haeming’s group with mild interest before disappearing from view behind the fence.
“You may enter Bodvarrston,” the man on the right tower said.
A middle-aged woman leaned cautiously into view and smiled politely to Haeming. “Welcome,” she said.
Haeming bowed his head to her and returned the smile. Crossing the threshold into the village, he looked around as if he had never seen it, and, indeed, spotted structures and people not visible from his earlier scouting mission.
The townspeople seemed to be busying themselves with fruitless tasks, no one aware of Haeming’s group walking into their village. A man took baskets one by one from a stack and restacked them a few feet away. Two children “washed” garments in an empty bucket. Haeming peered to his left and saw the old man, now seated in a tall stone chair. A throne. Beyond him, several strong-looking men hammered rocks into smaller rocks. He counted people in his head: twenty-seven that he could see.
The town enclosed by the fence was bean shaped: elongated, with rounded ends, and bent in the middle. Haeming wondered how many people were inside the houses, which looked like a blend of traditional Norse design—log walls, turf roof—and the round palm-thatched huts favored by the native people. The mountain people had kept the log walls, but opted for thatch roofs—likely better for the heat, but he wondered how they held up to prolonged rain.
The old man waved impatiently for Haeming and his men to approach. “Step lively, if you don’t mind, son. This is a busy day, as you can see . . .” He gestured around him as if this were obvious.
Haeming walked up and halted a few steps away. He noticed that the throne was tall enough for the seated occupant to look down on anyone standing before him. The old man wore a threadbare woolen shirt with no sleeves. Between his spread legs hung a tattered green tunic. They have no sheep—no new wool. Haeming stood and waited.
“I am King Bodvarr,” the old man said, looking Haeming over. “Welcome to my island, Southland, and my city, Bodvarrston.”
My island . . . The words repeated in Haeming’s mind. This was supposed to be Haeming’s island. Unoccupied, lush, perfect.
“Who are you, and what brings you so far from home?” Bodvarr said. Then he muttered, “As if I need ask.”
“I am Haeming Grimsson of Reykjavik. We come as explorers.”
Bodvarr snorted, and Haeming could detect the smile beneath the gray beard. The man’s eyes alit on the Saracen sword at Haeming’s waist, though they did not linger there.
“Lovely. And I congratulate you on your journey. When do you plan to leave?”
Haeming had expected this.
“We are not sure,” he said. “It appears to be a fruitful land.”
Bodvarr peered past Haeming, to the men standing behind him. “The rest of your party are camped somewhere along my north shore, I take it?”
Haeming ignored the question, surveying the village as if assessing it for a good fit. “You must house close to a hundred here.”
Bodvarr’s smile disappeared.
“Well beyond that, Icelander. Did you say Grimsson?”
“I did.”
“I wonder if I knew your father.”
“Not likely.” Haeming brushed it off. He wished to control this conversation. “I find it strange that you live on this island so clearly dominated by its native owners, and yet you possess no armaments. Seems quite a vulnerable position to be in.”
Bodvarr’s eyes turned cold, but his smile returned. The disinterested front he had put on turned to defiance as his eyes locked on Haeming’s. They held their gaze in silence for an uncomfortable length of time. In his peripheral vision, Haeming noticed that the two men previously breaking rocks had ceased their toil and stepped closer to their king, though not closer than Haeming.
Bodvarr final
ly broke the silence. “Are you Christian?”
“Yes,” Haeming said.
“Interesting. I studied this Jesus back in Norway. A very modern outlook, as I recall. His stories lack intrigue—no tradition.”
“Your studies mustn’t have—”
“What’s more, he seemed a bit of a weakling,” Bodvarr interrupted. “Such a passive participant in his own life. Certainly not a religion for a strong country to take on or dictate to its citizens. Very Icelandic.”
Now Haeming smiled, satisfied with his decision to come here. Bodvarr was making it easy for him.
“Norway, too, is Christian now,” Haeming said. “You must have been gone a while.”
Bodvarr’s face twitched as he tried not to react. Reaching over the armrest of his stone throne, he picked up a cup and gulped its contents noisily, then wiped his beard across his hairy arm.
“I am almost certain I knew your father,” Bodvarr began again, wagging a knowing finger at Haeming. “Grim the Black, or something of the like?”
Haeming remained silent. Grim Blackface, he corrected in his head.
“Most assuredly not a Christian, this man I recall.” Bodvarr spoke dreamily, studying the clouds above. “Truly a vile man. Hated by all. May I ask—I don’t wish to offend—was your mother a slave?”
“It was a pleasure to meet you, Your Majesty,” Haeming said with a nod, and began to turn. Do nothing now—not enough men. Walk away.
“Oh, well,” Bodvarr continued, feigning surprise at the sudden departure, “just wished to be sure. When were you born, exactly?”
Haeming stopped and turned his head toward the self-declared king. “One thousand years after the death of Jesus Christ on the cross. Good day.”
“I meant in what month, my friend!” Bodvarr called after him. “Was it in a harsh winter?”
Haeming and his men walked out of the village and heard the gates close behind them as a woman chastised Bodvarr.
“Are you trying to incite them?” she shrilled. “Do you not think for a moment of the children?”
Haeming’s men retrieved their weapons and buckled them on. Haeming continued walking down the hill, taking in the beautiful view of the lower hilltops and, beyond them, the uneven blues of the ocean. This was supposed to be mine. Everything we went through . . .
Footsteps trotted up from behind, and he turned as Ulfr approached.
“Do you think he wanted you to kill him?” Ulfr asked.
“I believe he thought I would try but that others would then have grounds to kill me in my clumsy haste. He thought it a good opportunity to decapitate the invaders in his land while most of us were unarmed, and with so few of us present. Now he knows what happens next.”
“And what happens next?” Ulfr asked. “Finn won’t allow a full-scale unprovoked attack—there are women and children up there.”
“Finn is not in charge,” Haeming said as they continued down the wide path toward the Taino village.
“Yes, we know this, but . . . I just don’t see how . . .”
“You don’t need to see how yet,” Haeming interrupted. “But there is only one path forward.”
TWENTY-THREE
“Why are we stopping here?” Rheese asked, peering about at the quiet, seemingly impoverished neighborhood.
“We need to get some things,” Garza answered, grabbing his cell phone from the center console. “Just stay in your seat.”
Rheese glanced behind him to where Fando sat, arms spread across the back of the bench seat, eyes looking dead behind the semiopaque sunglasses. Rheese wished he could find a way to cut these two criminals loose.
Fando said softly, “Turn your fuckin’ ugly-ass face around.”
Rheese turned around, in the process catching a glimpse of Turner beside him. The fingers of his left hand, resting on the opal on his lap, quivered ever so slightly. The timer read “00:16.” Outside the van, Garza was shaking hands with a skinny Cuban in cutoff jeans and a white tank top. The Cuban winced and acted as if Garza had squeezed his hand too tightly. Rheese thought he looked like a clown. Garza turned around and walked to the patchy front yard and paced for a few minutes before returning to the front door. The Cuban handed him a black backpack and two long, black cases. At that point, Garza turned and gave a quick nod toward the van.
Fando leaped up and climbed past Rheese to the driver’s seat. “Stay put, asshole!” he growled. “Something’s goin’ down!”
As Fando started the engine Garza slid open the door and sent one of the big hard-shell cases whizzing past Rheese’s head to the backseat, then opened up the other case on the floor.
“What’s going on?” Rheese asked.
“Shut up and sit tight,” Garza said as he lifted from the case the biggest rifle Rheese had ever seen. He shoved in a loaded magazine, grabbed another one from the case, and slipped that into his hip pocket.
“Flip a bitch, slow,” Garza said to Fando. “Meet me on the alley west end in two.” Then he slammed the door and ran off down the block. Fando checked his watch and brought the van around to the other side of the street. A moment later, gunshots rang out.
“He’s shooting!” Rheese gasped. “He’s bloody shooting!”
Fando ignored him as more shots were fired. Then Fando took off, made a left at the end of the block—sending Turner’s limp head against his window—and stopped the van.
“Open the door—now!” Fando shouted. Rheese jumped and fumbled with the handle until it finally slid open. Now he heard bursts of automatic fire. It sounded like an all-out war to him, and he ducked for cover. The van lurched forward, tires screeching, and Garza jumped in and slid the door shut.
“Who was that, bro?” Fando asked.
Garza ejected the magazine from the rifle and began reloading it with rounds. “American law. I think I only took out the vehicle, though. We need to get out of town,” he said, reinserting the loaded magazine.
Rheese turned on his charming voice. “I . . . I think we’ve had a bit of a breakdown in communication amongst us, gentlemen. How can we better work together—you know, moving forward?”
Neither man bothered to answer.
* * *
Tzzzzz . . . tzzzzz . . . tzzzzz.
Matt inhaled sharply and his left hand jerked up off the gem, while his right went to the timer and stopped the pulses. He grabbed his other glove from the seat beside him and slipped it on. His eyes darted around nervously as he continued the heavy breaths, as though he’d been fully aware of the gunfight. He looked at Rheese, who seemed even more troubled than before.
“What happened?” Matt asked. “Did something happen?” He twisted around to see Garza in the backseat, a huge black rifle lying across his lap. Matt knew that smell. It had to have been fired pretty recently. But who was Garza shooting at?
“Nothing to worry about,” Garza replied while busily texting someone on his cell phone.
Matt peered past him, out the rear window. Something big had clearly happened, but no cars appeared to be following them. No massive plume of smoke rose from an exploded building. No plume of smoke . . . rising up into the clouds . . .
That piece-of-shit king—he just doomed his people. Matt was still shaken from Haeming’s encounter in the village. He felt angry and eager to hurt someone or break something. The pure rage in Haeming’s head . . . the plan that was percolating as he walked away . . . so many details all at once. He was thinking of women and children, but not how to keep them safe. No, he was orchestrating their inclusion in the coming mayhem. What happened to protecting children? Matt’s stomach was churning, and he felt the bile in his throat. Fando’s driving didn’t help—he was taking corners too fast and making the van lurch violently as he accelerated and braked.
Matt thought back to his encounter with Atli, over an hour ago. It’s Haeming’s encounter, damn it! he reminded himself. Gotta stop doing that. Longer reading sessions could sometimes cause blurring, his own identity subordinating itself to the imprinte
d persona. It reminded him of something his father had tried to explain before Matt could grasp the concept.
“We are our memories,” his dad had said. “But you need to distinguish between your memories and theirs.” Looking back on those words while in his angst-ridden teens, Matt had wondered whether his father worried that by living inside the minds of depraved murderers and other criminals, he would somehow become one. He later learned that his father did indeed have this fear, caused in part by Matt’s sudden change, at age 10, from being right-handed to fully ambidextrous. A serial arsonist Matt helped put behind bars had been left-handed. If Matt’s imprint experiences left behind traits as important as hand dominance, what else was staying with him? This concept of imprints imprinting on him was one of the main reasons he avoided prolonged sessions.
What Matt thought his dad really meant was, We are our memories, but I want you to ignore the bad ones I subject you to.
Matt wondered whether he could kill a person. In self-defense, perhaps? He didn’t think so, and he prayed he would never be put in a situation in which he had to decide.
He thought of being back home in Raleigh, close to his sister. He thought of his Xbox, just sitting there, lonely. The boxes he still had to unpack. His twelve-thousand-dollar mattress, the most comfortable thing upon which he had ever lain. He remembered Tuni’s iron resolve never to touch it, for fear of imprinting on it. It made him regret ever telling her about the couch incident. She had asked, “Did you get another bloody new sofa?” “Yes,” he told her. “It was quite disturbing to lie down on it and find myself kissing myself. It had to go.” With that, he had inadvertently injected a heaping dose of his neurosis into her, and there was no going back. She saw the world through his eyes a little more each week, and it made him feel guilty. He could have lied to her to spare her such a burden, but he didn’t. Maybe he had wanted her to feel guilty. For all her kind understanding of his quirks and rules and need for special handling, he had often suspected she was growing tired of it . . . or at least frustrated by their constant presence. There were no breaks when it came to a relationship with Matt. But this was probably all simply fear-based thinking, borne of his prior record with girlfriends, he consoled himself.
The Opal (Book 2 of the Matt Turner Series) Page 16
