The Opal (Book 2 of the Matt Turner Series)

by Michael Siemsen

  The next window looked into a living room, but this one Paul approached slowly because he could hear a TV. It sounded like an old Western movie, judging from the music and the distinct inflections of the characters’ dialogue.

  Paul stood beside the window frame and moved his eye ever so carefully to the corner of the glass. From his angle, he could see the TV—the old tube type—sitting atop a stand away from the wall. The screen was pointed away from him, toward a couch that someone had probably found dumped on the side of a road. Beside it was a recliner covered with a yellowed sheet. No one appeared to be in the room, but he could see the flickering light of the TV reflecting off the brass-colored coffee table.

  Suddenly hearing the slap of running feet in the mud behind him, Paul spun around to see Matt charging toward him, his face twisted in fury.

  * * *

  Matt lay prone in the dark, leafy tunnel and watched with detached guilt as Paul crept along the side of the old house, unaware that he was, in fact, bait. Fando was watching, and Matt knew it. He couldn’t see him, but he felt him.

  From his position near the house’s back corner, he could see across the yard to the fenced-in dog run and the ivy-covered wall beyond. There was a space of about ten feet from the back of the house to the start of the dog fence, and this was where Matt’s eyes focused. He had taken to cocking his head to the left in quick twitches to differentiate the “read” images before him from those of here and now. The real world remained level while the paused view from the past tilted counterclockwise with him.

  Haeming was frozen in a hunched stance, one hand planted on the ground in front of him, one knee barely kissing the soft soil. Ten paces in front of him were the silhouettes of bushes, tree trunks, and an infuriated, drunken Atli.

  Matt had the imprint queued and primed—in his mind, it was like a cocked gun that he could fire when needed.

  Across the yard, a boot and then a leg emerged from behind the curtain of ivy. A second later, the familiar square jaw and goatee, the buzz-cut head with deep-set eyes and pockmarked cheeks. Fando waited there a beat, glancing at the trailhead at the back of the yard, then turned straight past Matt toward the front of the house. He didn’t suspect Matt’s presence at all. Perfect. Fando came out the rest of the way and was now fully exposed in the sunlight. He pulled his shades from his shirt’s collar and put them on, quietly checked his pistol’s chamber, and tiptoed out of sight around the house.

  Matt looked left and saw Paul peeking into the second window, oblivious of the killer about to intercept him. Paul moved on to the next window as Matt snaked his way forward, out of his hiding spot. Pause . . . still pausing . . . almost there . . . Pulling his feet beneath him, he shifted his stance to match Haeming’s.

  Beyond Paul, Matt could see a front corner of the house, and the edge of the raised porch with its white lattice border along the side and front. Through the diamond-shaped holes in the lattices, Matt could see the sunlit front yard and then, as Paul rose up on his toes to peer in the third window, a shadow moving across the holes, blocking the light. Matt inhaled a deep breath and unpaused the imprint.

  Haeming continued forward, gradually accelerating as he closed the distance between himself and Atli. Matt positioned Atli’s semiopaque outline in the emptiness at the corner of the front porch. His instinct told him Fando would step out to shoot Paul, rather than poke his head out for a peek first. As his bare feet padded across the cool mud, he hoped his instincts were correct. If they were wrong, at the very least he was giving Paul a warning, and perhaps a fighting chance if Fando should react in time to kill Matt.

  Matt saw Paul spin and aim at him as he passed. He sped up, his legs driven forward by Haeming. Atli’s surprised face drew near as Matt reached the end of the house. Fando’s thick arm appeared, gun in hand, followed by his leg, torso, and head. Matt’s footfalls were now deadened by the moist grass. Fando stepped out into the open, right where Matt had predicted. Haeming leaped, with his sword tucked behind him.

  Fando turned to see Matt in the air, hurtling toward him. Putting his arms up, he let his legs fold beneath him and rocked backward. Matt’s forward momentum, redirected by Fando’s drop-and-roll, sent him flying over Fando, who rolled up onto his feet. Matt’s body curled into a ball, and his head swung back and to the side as Haeming bashed into Atli. Matt landed on his shoulder and face, legs cartwheeling awkwardly over him before he slid to a stop in the tall grass. His arms and legs spasmed as Haeming struggled to pin Atli.

  He tried to pause the imprint again, but it kept rolling, and then Fando was all over him. A kick to the head, another to the neck. Fando dropped a knee onto Matt’s diaphragm, knocking the air from his lungs. The gun came down hard on Matt’s forehead, and Matt’s gyrating body fell limp.

  “Don’t move, asshole!” Paul shouted. “Throw the gun to your right, hands up, and get off him!”

  * * *

  Fando smiled. This was just what he had wanted—more players, situations, keeping busy.

  Without turning, he said, “Isn’t that, like, a cliché or whatever? Where the cop says don’t move but then tells you to do a bunch of shit that requires you to move? And I’m supposed to say ‘but you told me not to move,’ and then you say the same shit again but louder, and you leave out the ‘don’t move’ part?”

  “Or I could just shoot you in the back of the head and call it a day.”

  Fando laughed. “That’s true! Shit, if dumbass cops did that in the movies instead of talking to the bad guys, they’d save themselves a lot of trouble! And not as many of ’em would get dead.”

  “Great. Now throw the gun to your right.”

  “Uh-oh, now yer repeatin’ the same shit, bro! Why haven’t you shot me in the back of the head yet? You a rookie? You gonna cock yer gun to show me yer serious?”

  “It’s already cocked, Bane. Last time, then I shoot. Throw the gun and get off him.”

  “Wait—who the hell’s Bane?” Fando said as he turned his head to the left, making eye contact with Paul.

  “Big-ass villain from Bat—”

  Fando sprang up and spun, firing before the gun’s muzzle had made it around to his target. It was intentional, causing Paul to cringe and shrink back, losing his aim.

  Paul squeezed off two panicked rounds as he tripped back behind the porch’s meager cover. Fando fired again, hitting the corner of the house and sending splinters flying at Paul’s face.

  Fando glanced back at Matt’s motionless body to be sure he was down for the count—or maybe even dead, finally. No change, and his only weapon, apparently, had been his own scrawny body, flying through the air at his enemy. Fando snorted “Dumb shit,” and continued toward the young cop who was afraid to shoot his own gun. He poked his head quickly around the corner before popping it back. The side yard was empty. Fando hurried after him before he could get too far, before he had time to think or grow a pair of huevos.

  * * *

  Paul sprinted across the back of the house, panting. Shit shit shit! Why didn’t you shoot him? Just shoot him! Him or you, him or you, him or you . . . He rounded the corner and put his back to the cracked and peeling white paint. He checked his pistol: fourteen rounds left, two more full magazines in holster pouches. He tried to calm his breath so he could hear. There was no sound from the backyard. Was the guy coming back around the front? He had played this game before as a kid, only right now he didn’t have the length of the whole house to run before the boy that was “it” caught up with him. A bullet could cover the distance in an eyeblink. “You’re on the defensive. Get on the offensive!” Some sergeant at the academy had said that.

  A noise to his left made him jump. It came from the front of the house. He snapped his head toward it but saw nothing. There it was again—a muffled voice.

  “Rrm-m-m-m!”

  He looked down and saw a square, concrete-lined pit beside the house. It was the well leading to the crawlspace, and inside it was a bloody bald man, bound and gagged. This must
be Rheese . . . Paul poked his head around the corner to the backyard. Nothing. Shit! Where the hell is he? Fando must be thinking the same thing he was—the chase-around-the-house game—and had decided to come back around the front. With guns involved, the only way to win this game was to stop the back-and-forth and get away from the house. He shot a final look around the corner, then to the front of the house. All clear for the moment. Holstering his gun, he squatted down and grabbed Rheese by the armpits.

  Without another backward glance, he shoved Rheese to the ivy curtain, and after a few encounters with a prickly, unyielding bush, the two disappeared from sight.

  * * *

  Fando watched the cop’s face poke out from the opposite corner of the house. His face was soaked with sweat and panic. A moment later, he dared another look, probably wondering which side Fando was coming from. Neither, idiot. You’re coming to me.

  Lying beneath the dense shrubbery surrounding the house, Fando held his .45 in front of him, elbows resting in the dirt. The cop hadn’t shown his scared-shitless face for a minute—must be daring a walk around the house. That was fine; he’d be back in front of Fando’s .45’s muzzle in a few, thinking they both had sneaked around the house at the same time. Or he’d start thinking Fando was in the house. Either way, he wasn’t going to expect a big, scary son of a bitch like Fando to be hiding in the bushes.

  A noise in the distance, to the left, prompted Fando to peer through the leaves toward the front of the house. Humming and pops and clanks—it was a vehicle, driving on the rocky dirt road to the house. The engine revved as it turned the final curve into the front yard. He had to wonder if they had run over Turner. Ha ha! That’d be the shit!

  Voices, male and female. The woman was talking shit—telling the guy he needed to slow the hell down before the truck fell apart. Dude says, “Yeah, yeah.” The screen door swung open, the spring squeaking, and they went inside, the screen slamming behind them. Well, this was going to get even more interesting, Fando thought. Cops always had to warn civilians that they were in danger, but the dumbasses never learned—just always assumed that the bad shit would happen to “other people.” Fando felt warm inside. Again, this was just the thing: keeping busy, more players, situations. He had heard somewhere that dictators and criminals of all sorts—bad guys, essentially—never thought they were the bad guy; they always justified themselves somehow so that they came out righteous in the end. But as Fando pulled himself out of hiding, he mused, No, I’m the bad guy now. And he was perfectly fine with that.

  From the other side of the house, Fando heard the woman screaming at someone to get off her property. “¡Fuera de mi vivienda, que pedazo de mierda!” Chuckling to himself, he bent over and shuffled along the side of the house, back toward the porch. He peeped around the corner and spotted the woman hanging out the doorway, double-barrel shotgun aimed at the cop on the other side of the porch. He had his hands up and was pointing and whispering in hilariously awful Spanish, “Me policía . . . Peligro hombre . . . pistola . . . su casa . . . um . . . el trucko you go . . . ¿rápido?” Fando held back from laughing aloud.

  She screamed at him again and fired a shot to his left. Fando peeked again and saw that the cop had run off. Inside, the woman’s meek companion was trying his best to calm her down, to no avail. Fando leaned forward, away from the house, to check the front yard. He could still see Turner’s toes sticking up in the grass. Apparently, the truck hadn’t run him over, after all.

  Fando ducked back down and ran in a crouch alongside the house to the back corner, where he lay down and elbow-crawled the rest of the way. No one in sight. He put an elbow on the ground in front of him, aimed his pistol, and waited. Come on, pig. You know you only got one way to go now . . .

  A sharp crack came from near the fenced-in dog cage, then angry, hissing whispers. Fando turned his attention to the bushes where he had originally hidden, before Turner and the cop showed up. He had almost forgotten about fat-ass Rheese, and now he could see him through a small gap in the curtain of ivy, rustling the bushes, slowly crawling beyond the fence. Fando smirked and took aim. Rheese’s ass disappeared into the foliage, and the cop’s face appeared. They were still arguing—probably the cop telling Rheese to hurry the hell up, just as Fando had till he wanted to kill the guy. The cop moved a little and waited again, his torso now framed in the gap. Perfect. Through the lung, the heart . . . at least a lung. Fando closed one eye, lined up the shot, and gently squeezed the trigger.

  FORTY-TWO

  Haeming held his sword as he walked again into Southland’s warm mountain city. He scanned the townspeople for potential threats. Many had retreated into their houses, while others simply averted their eyes, busying themselves with tasks real or feigned. Behind Haeming walked his elite fighters, adorned in their iron plate armor, with weapons drawn. The last time they had worn their armor was in Markland, seven months ago, as they stood against an army of outraged Skraelings. Haeming’s second visit to the mountain felt a bit more like being on the Skraeling side of things this time—wronged, and with only one motive in mind.

  He spotted Bodvarr, the “king” of the land, shuffling half-dressed to his stone throne.

  We’re unexpected, Haeming mused. Excellent.

  “Welcome back, friends,” Bodvarr announced in his booming voice. “Welcome . . . ah, so many this time . . .”

  Haeming walked up to him and stared him in the eye. “You know why we have returned,” he said.

  Bodvarr’s disingenuous smile slowly melted as he gazed up through bushy white eyebrows. Haeming watched him scratch feverishly at his groin. Truly, a revolting individual.

  “I can’t say that I do know why, son of the vile Grim,” Bodvarr finally said. “But your intentions look less than peaceful.”

  “You’ve a keen tactical eye,” Haeming said, and leaned close so that only Bodvarr could hear him. “I’m going to take off your head and burn down your pitiful excuse for a city.”

  Bodvarr appeared unshaken and even chuckled a little, his great belly bouncing. But Haeming could see the fear behind his eyes, and watched where those eyes looked first: to a house at the far west end of town.

  Haeming turned to Olaf and Atli. “That house, there! Empty it and bring anyone inside to me.”

  They ran off. Behind him, he heard Finn, his mentor, say, “Haeming, don’t lose sight of your stated goal here. There is but one task. Complete it, and let us be off.”

  “Quiet!” Haeming growled. One task, he thought. There was never only one task. He hadn’t expected Finn to make it up the mountain. He wasn’t supposed to be here. Haeming could hear his men behind him, murmuring among themselves.

  “Now, that is a beautiful piece,” Bodvarr said, indicating Haeming’s sword. “It certainly doesn’t look Norse, though.”

  “It isn’t,” Haeming said. “You’d first like to see it.”

  Bodvarr looked up at his eyes. Haeming observed that he’d caught his meaning. Would you like a closer look at the blade that will soon kill you? Atli and Olaf returned with three children: a girl of perhaps 12, and two boys between 7 and 10, their skin tanned dark, almost like the Skraeling boy he had saved.

  Bodvarr shifted on his throne. “May I?” he said, and held out his palm.

  Haeming gave a bow and held out the jewel-encrusted sword.

  “A wonder,” Bodvarr said. “Truly a wonder.” I could break it at least, Bodvarr thought. That would be something. He’s going to kill my children before my eyes . . . all for greed and envy. “Unique in the world, I would imagine.” I could attempt a thrust at his neck. Ha, old fool. He wouldn’t have handed it to you if that was a possibility. It’s too late. Everyone is dead—the mountain is over. He looked back at his three youngest. They are so frightened. End this.

  “You may hand it back now,” Haeming said, and Bodvarr complied.

  “Tell me something, son of Grim,” Bodvarr said. “Your Jesus Christ—what would he think of this visit. Of your intentions?”


  Haeming smiled. “You still fail to grasp. It matters not . . .” He spread his legs into a new stance, changed his grip on the sword.

  “Finn!” Bodvarr shouted, holding up a hand. “My fellow old-timer. Come . . . please.”

  Haeming glanced back, saw Finn shrug and shake his head. “I . . . I have nothing to say to you.”

  “No, no, of course not, my friend. But come here . . . come close.”

  Finn reluctantly approached and stood at Bodvarr’s side.

  “Careful,” Haeming said.

  Bodvarr gestured at Finn to lean closer, then gently pulled at his shoulder until he could whisper in his ear. Haeming watched, intrigued. Was he going to try to stab him? Take out the easiest target? Even with Finn in the way, Haeming knew he could hack off Bodvarr’s arm should he reach for a weapon. But he made no provocative moves. Instead, he let go of Finn’s shoulder and leaned back in his great stone chair. Finn straightened, with a strange, confused expression on his face. His eyes fell on Haeming’s, and he frowned as he slowly shook his head.

  “Is it . . . is it true?” Finn said in a tone of quiet desperation.

  “What . . .” Haeming said. “Tell me what he said.”

  “You see, young man, I grasp perfectly,” Bodvarr whispered as he leaned forward. “I know what you believe. Of yourself. And your friend here knows it, too. Tell him, Finn. You know it is so.”

  Haeming froze. His face changed, and his lip quivered subtly. How . . . ?

  “It’s an insanity you have,” Bodvarr continued. “Not unlike my old friend Othormir over there. He thinks he’s a young boy some days; other days, a squirrel. Gets into baskets, snatches food with his teeth from the children. It’s the same sort of thing.”

  Haeming swallowed and took a deep breath. His men were hearing this. Finn stared at him with shame, disappointment, incredulity.