Troll Bridge (5 page)

Suddenly Moira felt cold. “Are there more male trolls than Aenmarr?”

“Only his sons,” Foss said. “Open the door.”

This door was as big and as heavy as the other door. Moira ignored Foss and went around the side. Obviously second wife Trigvi was not at all interested in flowers, dead or alive. There was an open window but no trellis.

Moira's heart sank like a boat hitting an iceberg.

“What is an
iceberg
?” asked Foss, trotting behind her.

“Something cold and unmovable,” she told him. “Like your heart.”

He gave a little yip of a laugh. “Go around the back then.”

Around the back was a smaller door with a dung heap by its side. It smelled worse than anything Moira had ever come upon—musky, acrid, foul. She turned and said to Foss, “Roll in that, and we're done.”

He drew himself up on his hind legs. “I am not a dog.” Then, because the pose was too uncomfortable for long, he dropped down again onto all fours.

Skirting the dump, and refusing to look in it in case she spotted any bones, Moira tried the smaller door. The handle was only slightly above her head. To her relief, she found she could jump up and pull it down. Then by pushing hard against the door with her shoulder, she managed to crack it open a sliver. It was enough, though the door made an awful groan.

Moira stood very still by the open door for a long while, waiting, worrying. She strained to hear, but there was no sound of movement inside. No snores, either.

“Go on … go on!” Foss said in her head. “See if the fiddle is here.”

To shut him up, she went in.

The door led into the larder, this one more elaborate than the first. Knives hung on the wall, but on an ironwork lattice. An ax lay on the table atop a suspicious dark stain.

As she tiptoed past the table, the door suddenly groaned again and closed with a loud
snick
.

Moira froze, scarcely breathing. From the bedroom, she could now hear light snoring that indicated the trolls—Trigvi and her son—were still sleeping.
But how soundly?

Going as quickly and quietly as she could, Moira headed into the living room. Another big box sat beside the fireplace. Inside it, Helena and Kimberleigh lay side by side, with Shawneen and Ali next to them, their long princess dresses carefully smoothed down.

“Psssst,” Moira tried to wake them, knowing they wouldn't—couldn't—answer. She poked Helena's arm, Kimberleigh's brow. They were as unmoving as the girls in the first box.

Only then did she turn and look at the rest of the room. It was only a little less sparsely furnished than Selvi's house. There was a rag rug on the floor, the colors an unimpressive black and blue. A cloth over the wooden dining table was embroidered with wobbly stitches that looked as if a five-year-old had done it. Where Selvi was a failed gardener, Trigvi seemed to be a wannabe artist.

Above the table, on the wall, was the fiddle. Moira was impressed despite herself. Strange, interlocking patterns were drawn all over the body. Four gleaming strings stretched over the mother-of-pearl inlaid neck, though there were eight tuning pegs. But Moira knew that four more strings ran
under
the neck; she'd seen a fiddle much like this one when she'd played a series of duets two years earlier with Norwegian violinist Arvid Reiersen for a local festival. His instrument had not been quite as beautiful, and boasted a carved head of a maiden as a headstock. Foss', of course, had a fox's head. Its sharp ears pointed toward the fingerboard and black and blue ribbons twined the scroll. The ribbons were so long, they hung down all the way to the floor.

Moira tried to heave the table up against the wall but it wouldn't budge. She stepped back to consider. Even if she managed to get it to move, she'd never be able to climb up onto it. No—the answer was simpler.

She went around the table, grabbed the ribbons, and pulled. It took three tries before the fiddle even began to move on its single nail, and ten more pulls after that before it finally tumbled off. Moira had been terribly afraid she might snap the neck, but clearly it was a magic fiddle and nothing short of a troll's foot on its fingerboard was going to do it any harm. It fell end over end and she caught it in her arms.

Running over to the window, she bound the fiddle to her back using the ribbons, and went hand over hand up the curtains. It was quieter than trying to open the back door again.

Besides, I'm getting good at this,
she thought, which surprised her. Gym had never been her best subject.

Foss was waiting below the window as if he had known she would be there.

Of course he knows,
she thought.
He's been listening in on my thoughts the whole time.

She sat on the sill, legs hanging down outside. Carefully, she unbound the fiddle from her back, and began lowering it to him. When it was halfway down, she noticed something for the first time. Shadows were creeping toward the house from the trees. They looked like cartoon shadows, and moved jerkily.

“Foss,” she called softly, “what's happening?”

He stood on his hind legs and grabbed the fiddle with his outstretched paws. Then he placed his mouth around the body of the instrument, as softly as a spaniel picking up a shot bird. Once he held it safely, she dropped the ribbons. The light around him changed, becoming softer, grayer.

His voice came into her head, gentle, sad. “The sun goes down again, human child. Aenmarr wakes to visit his wives.” Then he raced away, leaving her alone.

Come back!
she cried.
Don't leave me.
She said it only in her head, of course. She didn't dare call out loud. And then she cursed him, with every bad word she knew, which didn't take very long. Only then did she look down at the ground. It was much too far to jump. Especially if Aenmarr was around to hear her.

She looked behind her. Maybe she still had time to get down from the sill, hand over hand, and out the back door.

To her horror, she saw that the back door was now wide open and the troll woman—Trigvi—was bending over, flinging something onto the dung heap. She was huge, but not quite as large as the figure in the water, Aenmarr.

Moira wanted to scream. She wanted to throw up. She wanted to hide her eyes, and weep. But silently she went hand over hand back down the curtain as fast as she could, scrambled over to the box where the other Dairy Princesses lay, climbed in, shoved herself in between Helena and Kimberleigh, and covered herself with their pouffy skirts.

She lay still, trying to slow her frantic breathing. In her mind, she thought she heard a soft barking chuckle. If she were lucky—and her luck had not been very good of late—trolls would be too stupid to count to five.

2 · Brothers Three

Teller, teller, tell me a tale,

Of love and fear and duty,

I want to die in the arms of love,

I want to die for beauty.

For beauty is the only truth,

And death the only lie,

I want to sing a final tale,

And love before I die.

So tell me quick,

If I've been heard,

Else, maim with a phrase,

Kill with a word.

Princess, princess, give me a kiss,

A kiss of love, of pleasure,

I want to lie in the arms of love,

I want to sing of treasure.

For passion is the only truth,

And death the only lie,

I want to know your lips on mine,

And love before I die.

So tell me quick,

If I've been heard,

Else, maim with a phrase,

Kill with a word.

 

—Words and music by Jakob and Erik Griffson and Moira Darr, from
Troll Bridge

 

 

 

Radio WMSP: 10:00
A.M.

“And now, with more on the missing Dairy Princesses, Jim Johnson. Jim?”

“Yes, Katie.
More
is not the right word. There's nothing more. And that
is
the story. Despite two days of the biggest manhunt in Minnesota history, with sniffer dogs and everything.…”

“Everything?”

“They've had divers in the river, and that's some cold rushing river, Katie. But police have found no evidence at the site where the twelve Dairy Princesses went missing: the Vanderby Trollholm Bridge.”

“What were they doing there, Jim?”

“They were gathered for a photo shoot. They were to stand in the spot where the butter sculptures were normally left.”

“Oh, that's right. The heads weren't left there this year were they, Jim?”

“No, Katie, they weren't. The girls' cars have been removed to the police lab. Aside from those cars, though, there is no evidence whatsoever. No fingerprints, no footprints, no eyewitnesses. Nothing. It's as if the twelve young ladies disappeared off the face of the earth, leaving behind only the butter sculptures of their heads still sitting in the refrigerators at the State Fair.”

“Have there been any ransom notes?”

“Nope.”

“Phone calls?”

“Nothing that has led anywhere, Katie.”

“That's frightening, Jim.”

“Very frightening. The police are mystified and there are thirteen desperate families out there just wanting their loved ones home.”

“Thirteen, Jim?”

“Don't forget the photographer. Man named Sjogren. He has a wife, stepdaughter, is well liked by his neighbors, a solid citizen. Not even a parking ticket.”

“Well, wherever they are, at least the girls will have Sjogren's help.”

“His wife says she's sure of that.”

“So what's next, Jim?”

“The police say they'll be broadening their search, looking at the boyfriends of the various princesses and any underworld connections.”

“And the search at Vanderby, Jim?”

“Groups of concerned citizens have been searching the area from dawn until just before nightfall, Katie, but the police are keeping them well away from the bridge itself. They just don't want the good folk of Vanderby messing up any possible evidence.”

“Thanks, Jim
—
and now here's Bob with sports.”

6

Jakob

“Dad…” Galen Griffson ran his fingers through his hair, something he did only when he was nervous, though the fans all thought it made him look incredibly cool. “Dad…”

His father looked up from the pile of papers on his desk and glared at Galen. Jakob could see that glare, could feel it, from the safety of the hallway. As usual, he and Erik were letting Galen do the talking. Front man in their band—and in their lives.

“Dad, we're exhausted. We're going to take a couple of weeks off.” Galen's voice had an unfortunate whine in it, Jakob thought. Dad would notice. Would go for his throat.

“Your mother and I are exhausted, too,” their father said. “You don't see us taking two weeks off. Where would the band be if we decided to go off on a spree?”

“We're not talking about a spree, Dad.”

Uh-oh, bad idea to argue with him,
Jakob thought. There was nothing their father liked better than to beat any of them in an argument.

Galen must have realized his mistake and tried a different tack. “Think of the boys,” he said. “Think of Erik and Jakob. Especially little Jakob.”

Little Jakob is fifteen and a half years old, thank you very much
. Jakob glared at his father sitting ramrod straight, the old man's mouth a thin disapproving line. But he realized that Galen was only doing what he always did, putting the blame on younger shoulders when things weren't working out. Because that way Dad would feel sorry for them. Jakob felt like poking Galen in the small of the back with a guitar pick. He could pretty much guess the rest of the sentence, even unspoken. Mom used it all the time and Galen parroted her.
Poor little Jakob with his panic attacks. Poor little Jakob who was in the hospital with pneumonia last year
.

Jakob bit his lip.
Well, rot Galen's hide! Without little Jakob and his little songs, there wouldn't be any Griffson Brothers
. Jakob wasn't really bitter, just realistic. If there was one musician in the family, he was it. The other two just faked it.

He could hear his father shift in his chair. That was a cue for Jakob and Erik to move out of sight, leaving Galen with no backup at all.

“Jakob is fine now,” their father was saying. “The wonders of modern medicine. Which leaves you with no excuses, son.” The sarcasm was laid on thick. He could maim with a phrase, kill with a word.

For a moment Jakob stopped to consider those lines.
Was there a song to be mined from them?

Meanwhile, Galen—who hadn't noticed his brothers going AWOL—continued as if they were both there behind him, backing him up. They could hear his voice from down the hall and Jakob realized that Galen had suddenly found real courage. Maybe for the first time.

For a moment Galen continued pleading with their dad. Then suddenly he shifted tactics again. “Whether you like it or not, Dad, we're out of here.” His voice was tight, the way it always got at the end of a long set.

Probably,
Jakob thought,
Galen's hands are back raking through his hair.
That thick dark fall of hair the girls were all wild about. “Go Gale!” he whispered.

“One week,” came their father's voice, full of military authority, as if he were still in the Marines. “You're due in the studio a week from tomorrow. I had to fight for the time as it is. It's then or not for another three months, which we can't afford. You
will
be back then. And return with some new songs. Put your foot down, boy. Make those two come up with something. You're the oldest, the leader. Even if Jakob had to teach you how to play guitar.”