Norwegian by Night (37 page)

Not any more. Now they are calloused and scarred. They are bloody and alone. They seldom even have each other for company anymore. They have grown indifferent to one another. There isn't so much to clap for any longer.

Most of the men in his squad took to snipping off the index finger of their gloves and then sliding it back on unattached. It was possible to lose it this way and end up with one cold finger — which happened, but only rarely. Being gloved was important, and all the men knew it. It was the best way to keep their hands supple and warm. The raiders protected their hands the way that surgeons protect theirs. The way that violinists and pianists will not remove hot food from the oven.

They would remove the leather finger only at the last moment before the kill.

Sheldon looks back over the ground he's covered. He is impressed with himself. The clothing does have a way of making the man. A soldier stands taller in his uniform. A doctor acts more authoritative in his white smock. The sniper creeps lower. Is sneakier. Gets closer.

The red house moves like the sun across the horizon. He has tracked it across this forested sky, and it is now coming to rest at his extreme right. It is larger than he expected. He has always imagined it as a single-room shack of coarse pinewood with a steep roof. A sort of outhouse or dog shed on a swept tundra that never thaws in the summer. A little photo on the refrigerator on his way to the iced coffee.

In actuality, it is rather larger than that. Sheldon reckons the house is a one-storey, with two bedrooms and an attic. Maybe one hundred and ten square metres. It is raised off the ground slightly, so there is a crawl space beneath the house. It is probably designed that way to keep it dry in winter snow and during the spring run-off.

There are two steps leading up directly to the closed door. He is much too far away to see footprints, but there is no need to check. Lucifer's tracks came back to the truck from the woods, but Mr Apple and Logger Boy left the scene only once.

There is nowhere else they could have gone. They are inside.

With the bike overturned, Sheldon can only hope that Rhea and Lars are there, too.

A little farther now and … is that it? He scans the spot with his binoculars. The edge is straight. Clearly man-made. It is a structure of some kind, about one hundred metres from the house. Sheldon creeps over huckleberry shrub and fallen birch. He avoids a dead badger, and is grateful there are no crows there to be startled and give away his location.

Yes, there it is. That is the sauna he has imagined. A single room with a roof — large enough to seat half-a-dozen people and dry the firewood. A spoon inside to douse the rocks with cold water and build up steam. Where fair bodies simmer into a blistering rouge like a harlot's cheeks after a firm roll.

Sheldon comes at the sauna from the back side, allowing it to eclipse the main house. He stands now for the first time, and feels the pain shoot up his back.

The door is on the far side facing the house, but there is a small window in the back that he can see inside if he stands fully erect.

It is dark inside, but not pitch black. There is also a round window on the door itself that lets in enough light to scout the contents of the room. There is a bench that runs around all sides except on the door itself, and on the left wall there is a second, higher bench. The seats are worn, and even though there is no fire he can smell the wood. It reminds him of being young and full of spunk. The feeling comes as an unwanted diversion. He tries immediately to repress it, but the memories that come from smells are the hardest to send away.

Is this the kind of place a man would store a weapon?
Surely it is not. Ammunition is not likely to ignite at the reasonably low temperatures at which humans bake — otherwise the Middle East wouldn't be armed. But it can warp delicate woods, and force metal to expand just enough to throw off the precision of a fine instrument.

So where is it?

Sheldon stands and looks through the window some more, but the idea doesn't come to him.

‘How's it going?'

‘Bill?'

‘Yeah.'

‘I can't find the guns.'

‘Where have you looked?'

‘Well, I've looked through this window here.'

‘Sounds thorough. Might as well pack it in.'

‘All right, sunshine, what's your bright idea?'

‘Actually, the idea is yours. If the sauna is too hot, then it can't be in the sauna.'

‘So it's outside the sauna.'

‘Well reasoned.'

It's with the wood!

Sheldon walks left and peers around the corner. He can see the house, and is pretty sure the house cannot see him. But there, as Bill suggested, is a second, small shack. There is no window. It stands about two-and-a-half metres tall, and is less than two metres wide and a metre deep. More of a closet than a shack. In these parts, given that the property is not a farm, it could not be mistaken for anything other than a wood-and-toolshed. It is an utterly unremarkable place worth no one's attention.

It is a good place to store a weapon, Sheldon figures. It might grow cold, but the damage to the gun is far less than the risk of robbery from the main house. There is always the risk of accident, too. This is why Sheldon never owned a gun once he got back from Korea, unless one counts the old pirate gun that Saul used to play with in the antique shop.

Bill, meanwhile, had a decommissioned musket, so when the two of them started going at it there was no getting any work done.

The door to the shed is secured with an old-fashioned Master Lock in a red-rubber encasement. It was always a popular lock. There used to be a commercial on television of someone shooting the lock. Then, with the bullet hole shown in close-up, someone would try it and, lo and behold, it was still locked. The company even ran a second ad, claiming that the trigger-happy doubters weren't able to open it. Sheldon always suspected he'd be able to, but the opportunity never arose.

Under other circumstances, this would have been an excellent occasion — if only the rifle he needed to test the theory wasn't behind the lock he planned to test it on.

None of which, right now, is a helpful line of thought.

What is useful is that, when he tries it, the lock is actually open. The inverted U of the lock has been set into place but not pinched closed. There is little point now in wondering why, though. He has to go in. He can only hope that no one has been here before him, and taken what he needs.

The door hinge is on the right, and so it swings towards the house. Sheldon steps into the shed and closes the door behind him. It is dark inside, and warm. It is so confined that, for the first time, he can smell himself. His body odour reeks, he is smeared with dirt and fungus, and he is streaked with the excrement of birds and worms. Every part of him blends with the earth and the soil — everything but his blue eyes that still take in the sharp rays of light from the cracks in the roof.

There is a rake, and three shovels of different sizes. There is a paintbrush that is stiff from neglect, and a coil of rope that was once dependable but has been too long near the petrol fumes and is now suspect. There are archery targets and fishing tackle. And there, above him, hanging just off the shelf because it is too deep for the shelf itself, is a leather case half the length of a rifle.

Sheldon presses up on the case and tries to keep it from scraping as he pulls it off and down. It is heavier than it looks. Or perhaps he has grown weaker.

He wants to leave here immediately, but knows that a rifle without ammunition is useless to him. If he is caught here, he could be killed without a fight. It is too much of a risk, though, to leave and assemble the rifle, only to come back. It needs to be done here.

Trying not to knock anything over, he lays the case gently on the dusty floor, listening intently for any sound from outside. Still there is nothing. The case is old, and has a combination lock on the front with three digits that can be rotated by thumb. In the 1960s, a common code was 007 in honour of Sean Connery, and Sheldon tries it without success. The factory default on most cases is 000, and he tries this as well without success.

‘This could go on all day,' says Bill.

‘Why's it always Bill? Why not Mabel? Or Saul? Or Mario? Or someone I passed on a highway. Why do you come here dressed like the drunken Irish pawnbroker from next door?'

‘I thought he was dear to you.'

‘He was, and I miss him. Which is why I resent you dressing up like him. Over burning bushes, are you? Now you want to be Irish?'

‘It's been a long time since we really spoke. I miss our conversations.'

‘I have no more to say to you than I did before. It's you, if anyone, who has some explaining to do. So piss off, I'm busy.'

Sheldon silently turns the case around so the hinges face him. He wedges the knife blade under the first brass hinge. By inserting a small stone under the blade, he creates a fulcrum, and then he presses down hard on the hilt of the knife, successfully prying it off.

He repeats this on the second hinge, and they both come off without a fuss.

He checks his watch. More time has passed. That is all he's prepared to admit.

Knowing it will creak slightly, he now lifts the case lid to expose the contents. To his surprise, there is only one rifle.

‘Which one are you? Moses or Aaron? The damaged one, or the brother who makes it to the Promised Land?'

Sheldon gently takes it from the case and feels its weight. It has been decades since he handled a rifle. He never intended to hold one again. But here, in the improvised Ghillie suit, on the floor of the dusty shack, he remembers who he once was, so long ago, with a confidence and clarity that has been missing for years.

The rifle is a Remington Model Seven with a 20-inch barrel that Donny wishes were a 22-inch, for added accuracy. Ammunition is supposed to be stored in a separate location, but Lars obviously trusted the hiding place and the lock box. There are five rounds of .308 Winchester, which look and feel familiar because they are about the same size as a NATO 7.62mm. They are the sort of rimless bottleneck round that he used to squeeze off — at a rate of 100 or 300 a day — back at New River.

The Remington, though, is a single-shot, bolt-action rifle. It is the sort of rifle that a father and son might own. Nothing fancy. Just a good, dense-wood deer hunter with a walnut stock and an old Bausch & Lomb scope.

Donny assembles the weapon, and then opens the bolt and slides it back. It is smooth and well oiled. With his finger, he checks the chamber to be sure it is empty, and then he slides in a round and presses forward — hard but quietly — on the bolt. He then locks it down into its groove.

With the safety on, he takes the remaining four rounds out of the box, and puts three of them in the breast pocket of his jacket under the suit. He places the final round above his right ear.

Sheldon checks the shed one last time to see whether he might be missing something — a clue, or the other rifle. There are paper targets and duck decoys, a pair of snow shoes and a set of skis, some odd strings dangling from a hook with brightly coloured ends, an empty tube of some kind that looks like it may have been used to carry architectural drawings, and two aged and worn-out tennis rackets probably used on days just like this to whack the ball around the mews.

He debates the merits of closing and replacing the box, and decides it is worth taking the few extra seconds involved. He is not used to working in a crisis situation like this. Not used to the pressures of a hostage situation. As a sniper, he worked alone or with a spotter. He was dropped off someplace, and then — usually in his own sweet time — made it to the objective and set up his position. He did not run around like a nervous cop wondering what to do like he had to do now.

Camouflaged and armed, Donny's countenance changes. He stops sweating, and his back no longer feels pinched in the lumbar region. Even his hands feel looser.

And then the objective changes.

As he advances on the house from the shed, he sees two figures making their way up the mews towards the front door.

There is a tall one and a short one. The tall one is pulling or dragging the small one. They are more than one hundred and fifty metres away, through trees and bush.

How long has it been since he drank water? Could it be this morning? No, it was on the truck.

He stays low and hunched as he slips up the path towards the house.

It is a bad angle. A terrible angle. One of the worst possible angles. He is moving perpendicular to a possible target, giving it the longest time to detect his movement. They are converging on the same vortex. Sheldon is closer and may make the house sooner, but he will have no time to set up. He'll be entirely exposed. And he has no idea who this is.

And then there descends a small gift. From the edges of Lapland comes a breeze, carrying with it with the scents of juniper and snow. The breeze rustles the trees surrounding Sheldon in a whirl of protective movement and hum.

At only fifty metres from the house, the ground cover begins to thin, and he knows this is it. He drops to his belly and slithers off the path to the left, where the ground has eroded a few inches because the earth is less densely packed here than the dirt on the footpath. He lies low and adjusts his Ghillie suit.