Daybreak

by Viktor Arnar Ingolfsson

  Also by Viktor Arnar Ingolfsson

  The Flatey Enigma

  House of Evidence

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 2005 by Viktor Arnar Ingolfsson

  English translation copyright © 2013 by Björg Árnadóttir and Andrew Cauthery

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Daybreak was first published in 2005 by Forlagid as Afturelding. Translated from Icelandic by Björg Árnadóttir and Andrew Cauthery. Published in English by AmazonCrossing in 2013.

  Published by AmazonCrossing

  PO Box 400818

  Las Vegas, NV 89140

  ISBN-13: 9781611091014

  ISBN-10: 1611091012

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2012922276

  My father, Ingólfur Viktorsson, radio operator from Flatey in Breidafjord, died during the creation of this story. This book is dedicated to his memory.

  CONTENTS

  DAYBREAK

  MAP

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ABOUT THE TRANSLATORS

  Only one who has woken in the early hours of an autumn morning, risen from his bed, dressed, ventured out into the darkness, and experienced dawn in the cold, clear sky can truly comprehend the sublime glory of returning day; only one who has, all alone, sensed the night slowly surrender to the first pallor in the east and felt the pleasure of the rising sun bringing the promise of warmth upon his shoulders. These are the sensations owned by the goose hunter as he sits motionless, waiting for his prey, listening to the deep silence as a new day breaks.

  THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 21

  06:10

  In a remote spot in the western district of Dalasýsla sat a lone hunter. Sheltering behind a tumbledown stone wall—remnant of a long since ruined hut—he gazed across the waters of Hvammsfjördur toward Fellsströnd, where the first rays of the sun, breaking through clouds in the east, lit the very tips of the mountains. The slopes below, the lowlands, and the fjord still lay in deep shadow.

  The man was in his forties—in good shape with sharp features. He wore high-quality camouflage gear and a thick cap, and the exposed parts of his face were painted in the same mottled earth colors as his clothing. On his comfortable camping stool, he could wait here in shelter and shade unnoticed. Leaning against the wall in front of him was his shotgun in its green-and-brown shoulder bag.

  A black dog lay in the grass next to the man, its head on its paws, eyes closed—perfectly still but for the occasional flick of its ears and twitch of its snout. Now and again the man leaned toward the dog and stroked its back gently. They were waiting for the morning flight of the greylag geese.

  Below the ruin was a small cultivated hayfield with a fenced-in potato patch beside it where fourteen geese could be seen among the plants, eight of them grazing, four resting, and two on guard, their long necks erect. In the dim light, only an experienced eye would spot that these were artificial birds, decoys. The man had arranged them in a tight group so there was plenty of space for another gaggle to settle on the patch in the face of the wind. The range was just right—about thirty meters.

  There was a faint rustle as two field mice scurried along the wall, and across the hunter’s arm resting on it, before disappearing into their hole. Silence returned. The man inhaled the earthy scent of vegetation half decayed by the onset of fall. Here, against this wall, sheep had sought shelter during summer, when the midday sun’s heat was too much for man or beast. Now, however, it was near freezing, and the man felt chilly despite his warm clothes. He crossed his arms and waited for the new day as he looked out over the fjord, its waters still cloaked in semidarkness.

  The dog opened its eyes and sniffed at the air a second before the man detected the first sounds of the geese beginning their morning flight. It was a while longer still before he sighted them in the west. Flocks winged their way across the fells without moving in his direction, but he was not worried; his geese would show up this morning as they had always done before. Fall after fall the same families of geese returned to this patch to feed and gather strength before the migration south over the Atlantic Ocean. This was reliable stock that had not suffered from overhunting, and the force of habit was strong. He shot a few geese each week, and still the flock returned to the potato patch again and again.

  The dog pricked up its ears and lifted its snout, every muscle tense and yet completely motionless. The man took his shotgun carefully out of its bag and loaded it. A newish, five-shot, pump-action 12 gauge, with magnum cartridges. A sturdy and easy-to-handle weapon.

  Another flock of geese now appeared, heading closer than the earlier ones. The man counted nine birds. If they came within range, he would be able to bag his prey with the three shells loaded in the gun. That would be enough, and he could head back to the car for his morning coffee and a much-needed cigarette.

  The geese circled wide over the potato beds, seeming to assess the situation. The decoys told them this was safe ground, and, circling more closely, they warily approached.

  The man stopped thinking about coffee and took careful aim. The geese descended farther and made for the patch, flying into the wind. Suddenly, with about a hundred meters to go, they took fright and, with much honking, gained height again; before long the whole flock had disappeared north.

  The hunter cautiously stuck his head out from his hiding place and tried to determine what might have caused this disturbance. He could see no movement anywhere. The dog also got to its feet, raised its snout into the air, sniffed, and softly growled.

  “Good boy, Kolur,” the man said, as he continued to scan the surroundings. About thirty meters from the ruin, just by the edge of the hayfield, was a shallow ditch overgrown with tall, yellowed grass. On the hillside just above, over to one side, were some large boulders that had been carried there by a landslide long ago. The lowland was still in the shadow of the mountains, so visibility was poor.

  Suddenly, there was a loud bang as a shot hit one of the decoys in the potato patch, knocking it over.

  “Hello, who’s there?” the man called out. He paused for an answer and then shouted louder, “Who’s there? This is private property.”

  Hearing no reply, he shouted again, “Trespassers are banned from hunting here.”

  There was utter silence, apart from the dog’s quiet growling.

  “Kolur!” the man snapped at the dog, silencing it.

  “Hello?” the man called again, but still there was no answer.

  He peered out from his sheltered spot, seeing no sign of the other gunman. Then another shot rang out, throwing up a mass of grass and earth as it hit the ground a few meters in front of him. Swiftly ducking down, he considered the situation in disbelief. Somebody was firing heavy bird shot at him. Who the hell was playing a game like that?

  “Hello,” he yelled at the top of his voice. “Stop shooting!”

  He tore off his cap and hung it over the muzzle of his gun. Hesitantly, he lifted the gun above the wall and waved. There was another shot, and some pellets hit the cap and the barrel of the gun. By now the dog had had enough and launched forward, barking and running toward the gunman.

  “Kolur!” the man cried, but a shot
rang out and the dog yelped once and fell silent.

  “Kolur!” the man yelled, peering over the wall. The dog lay in a pool of blood, halfway between the ruin and the edge of the ditch. The man knelt down again. He was petrified and took shelter by curling up below the wall. What the hell was going on? The dog had been his best friend for seven years, but uppermost in his mind now was fear for his own life. He was caught in something that was way beyond his control. There was someone out there in the dawning light who meant to do him harm.

  He thought of phoning for help but realized he had left his cell phone in the car. Anyway, there was no reception here. Then he remembered that he always carried three emergency flares in his ammunition belt; they were very old, but they might still work. He unloaded his gun, replaced the shells with the flares, and fired once, straight into the air. The flare exploded high above his head and shone brightly for a few moments, though the lightening sky reduced its impact. He quickly fired twice more—three shots in sequence being a recognized distress signal. Then he reloaded with magnum shells, first removing the pin that normally limited the capacity of the magazine so that he could get two extra shells in; now he had five shells loaded—one in the chamber and four in the magazine. Normal hunting laws did not apply here; he might have to defend his life.

  Another shot rang out, this time from an altogether different direction—behind and to one side of him—and he felt the pellets hail down on his back. Instinctively he jumped over the wall to find cover again. The range was long enough that the shot did not penetrate his parka, but it hit him with uncomfortable force nonetheless; it was as if someone had thrashed his back violently with a cat-o’-nine-tails.

  He knew he had to do something to escape this ambush. Frantically, he reviewed his options. He could try to get away by running across the potato patch and down the hay field, but that left him without cover. Perhaps it would be better to shoot back and see how the other guy reacted. He steadied his gun on the wall and fired blind toward his invisible assailant, who immediately responded with two more shots. The man couldn’t tell where these landed. Again he poked his gun over the wall and fired. Stillness followed.

  In silence he waited. Then he heard a shot ring out from one side and felt the pellets clattering against his parka again, and something hit his cheek. He threw himself facedown and lay still. The pain in his cheek was sharp, but it quickly subsided. He wiped his cheek with his gloved hand and saw that the wound seemed to be bleeding quite a lot. It stung somewhat, but it wasn’t too bad. Besides, he had other things on his mind. Two more shots rang out, hitting the ground in front of him. Either there were two gunmen, or one who moved position very quickly.

  He discharged his remaining three shells in the direction from which he thought the last shots had come and then tried to hide behind the ruined wall while he reloaded. Three shots rang out, the pellets lashing his parka like hailstones in a wild storm, but the range was still far enough for his clothing to protect him.

  Adrenaline was pumping through his body now, and he wasn’t really scared anymore. He was angry, determined not to let his adversary control this game to its finish.

  Three more shots were fired, and the sharp impact where the pellets hit his less-well-protected calves was painful. The gunman must be moving closer, and that would mean a swift end to things if he didn’t act.

  Suddenly he had an idea. The shots had come in threes. His assailant likely had a gun that took only three shells at a time; each time he had to reload, it would take a few seconds. Maybe this was his chance. He fired two shots, reloaded immediately, and fired once more. Again three shots reverberated around him. The other guy must now be reloading. It was worth the risk; he jumped up and sprinted toward the ditch, firing off one shot as he made for the tuft of withered grass. He was only a few steps from his goal when he heard a loud bang and felt a blow to the front of his left thigh just above the knee. With his next stride he felt as if he were stepping into a deep hole. He landed flat on his front, dropping his gun. With difficulty he lifted his head and looked behind him. A ways off lay a solitary leg. He felt down his left thigh in disbelief, finding where it ended in an open wound, the artery pumping tepid blood into his hand. He became aware that someone was crouching down next to him, picking up the gun he had lost. He tried to look up. He was helpless.

  “Who are you?” he asked. “Wh…wh…why?”

  He heard no reply, nor did he hear the shot fired into his head.

  You ask why. I don’t know if it’s possible to answer or explain it. This action is so completely beyond all understanding. To take a life, a human life. To feel the nearness of a person and engage with him to the death. Then he exists no more. All that is left is a pile of meat, bones, and blood. Memories, emotions, skill, and a lifetime’s experience are gone. It is an overwhelming thought…

  You ask why. What do you want to hear? A detailed analysis of the animalistic qualities still buried in man’s DNA? The qualities that enabled him to survive an evolutionary period stretching over millions of years and become what he is, or thinks that he is…

  You ask why. Will that change anything? It is done and cannot be undone. What is that urge that drives the hunter a far distance into the predawn cold to bag a few geese he will hardly bother to eat? Or the urge that prompts some people to go fishing and then release their catch in the hope that the fish will either live and breed or be caught again?

  My nature is to kill. I hunt men and I never let go.

  10:20

  “I fell.”

  There were three of them in the reception area of the emergency room at the National University Hospital in Reykjavik—a petite young woman with red hair wearing the uniform of a student nurse; a detective; and a boy lying on a gurney, who answered all the questions being directed at him with two words: “I fell.”

  Livid swellings almost completely hid his eyes, both lips were split, and his bleeding gums were missing their upper front teeth. Two fingers on his left hand were obviously broken, and there were ugly burn marks on the back of his right hand.

  “Who did this to you?” the detective asked for the tenth time, gazing out the window, his dark-brown almond eyes dulled with boredom.

  “I fell.”

  Patrolmen had discovered the kid lying on a traffic island earlier that morning, summoned an ambulance for him, and called in the detective division.

  “Do you owe anybody money?” the detective asked.

  “I fell,” the boy groaned.

  The student nurse surreptitiously checked out the policeman. He was of Asian origin, short with jet-black hair. She put his age at just under forty. He looked fit—slim and muscular—but apart from that he seemed rather ordinary; he didn’t look anything like the cops on TV.

  “I’m in pain,” the kid said to her. “Give me more morphine.”

  “I can’t increase the dose without the doctor’s permission,” she said firmly, continuing to eye the policeman, who was busy adjusting a digital camera. His sleek hair was still damp after his morning shower, and she caught a masculine scent, maybe some kind of aftershave. He was wearing a well-pressed gray suit, a dark-blue shirt, and a neatly knotted black tie. He had evidently just started his morning shift.

  Actually, not too bad-looking, she thought, although perhaps a bit old. The ID pinned to his jacket pocket read BIRKIR LI HINRIKSSON.

  The patient seized her arm with his unbroken hand and said menacingly, “More morphine.”

  The policeman grabbed the hand and carefully loosened its grip. The girl rubbed her arm.

  “I’m in pain,” the boy said.

  “I’m not surprised,” Birkir said, “and they’ll do this again if you don’t tell us who these people are.”

  He aimed the camera and took some photos of the kid’s injuries.

  The nurse watched Birkir. “Where are you from?” she asked.

  “Iceland,” he replied.

  “Yeah. But I mean, originally?”

  He gla
nced at her testily and was about to give a sharp answer, but her innocent expression made him change his mind. “I’m sorry,” he said. “My parents were from Vietnam.”

  The nurse smiled. “Have you been there?” she asked.

  “I was born in Vietnam, but I haven’t been there since I was very young.”

  “Do you want to go there?”

  Birkir shook his head.

  Another woman, considerably older, entered the room—a doctor, her ID indicated. After greeting them brusquely, she looked at the patient, who whispered, “Morphine.”

  “We’ll see about that, but first we must deal with this mess,” she said. She clipped an X-ray of his hand to the backlit glass on the wall and peered at the broken bones.

  Birkir leaned over the kid. “They’ll end up killing you,” he said. “Not on purpose, because then they’ll have to write off the debt. By mistake. They’ll hit you too hard in the wrong place. That’s all it takes.”

  The boy thought about this for a bit and said, “I fell.”

  Another detective entered the room. He was tall—nearly six foot five—and fat, with a red face marked by a heavy double chin that almost hid his thick neck. He had large blue eyes and close-trimmed strawberry-blond hair around a shiny pink bald spot.

  “Any news?” he asked, biting into a half-eaten sandwich.

  Birkir looked at his colleague and shook his head.

  “Can I please ask you to eat outside?” said the doctor.

  The newcomer wrapped the food in a plastic bag and shoved it into his jacket pocket. The nurse watched with disapproval as he wiped his greasy hands on his pants. His ID read GUNNAR MARÍUSON.

  “Did you manage to find a witness?” Birkir asked.

  “No, but we stopped a car that was cruising the neighborhood. There were three guys, and one of them was wearing steel-capped shoes. Said they’d just left a party.”

  He licked a finger. “Sharp dressers when they go visiting, these kids. We took them in for questioning and sent their shoes to forensics. Looked like there might be blood on them. Maybe high command will feel generous enough to book a DNA test, and then we can compare it with this kid.” Gunnar nodded toward the patient, who groaned quietly.