Valhalla (22 page)

4 December
Eagles' Cleft
Seal Harbor
Mount Desert Island, Maine

Barnaby rode in the backseat of the Jeep, his massive head enclosed in a black cloth hood that had breathing holes for his nose and mouth. Men sat on both sides of him to block access to a passenger door.

He was astonished to still be alive, sure that the commando leader was about to kill him at the cottage when Grubb's boat had turned around and disappeared into the night. His right ear was still bleeding from the blunt force of the pistol barrel.

Barnaby had watched the Norwegian's facial muscles quiver as he fought to control himself. Finally stepping away, he had made a call on his cell phone, requesting in Norwegian that a helicopter be dispatched immediately to track the path of Grubb's boat. The request was apparently denied, after which he smashed everything within reach, including the living room window.

Sitting in the silence of the SUV, Barnaby pondered how they could have been tracked down so quickly, concluding that Delia must have revealed the information, almost certainly unwillingly.

Still weak from the fainting episode, he found himself dozing off, coming awake again when the car began bumping heavily over a road surface studded with potholes. One of them elevated him off the seat.

“Langsamer du Narr,”
spat a voice in German, breaking the silence.

A few minutes later, the car rolled to a stop.

It was raining again when they hustled him out of the car and into an open field. His shoes sank into soft, marshy ground and his clothes were soaked by the time they made it across. He heard the low whine of an idling helicopter engine. Someone helped him inside the machine and strapped a safety harness over his chest.

The jet engine surged to life and he felt the helicopter leave the ground. About thirty minutes later, he sensed they were descending again. After another short run in a car, he heard the soft crunch of the tires on a gravel driveway; then it came to a stop.

Outside, the rainy air was scented with pine needles. The men on each side of him walked him into another building and up two sets of stairs. He could smell wood smoke as he heard a door close behind him. The hood was removed.

A young red-haired woman in a scarlet pantsuit welcomed him with a convivial smile. They were alone in a high-ceilinged bedroom decorated with fine old English pine furniture, wide plank floors, and a stone fireplace. A log fire crackled in the grate as rain pelted the windows.

“The prince thought you might like a hot bath and a refreshing libation after your difficult journey,” she said.

“You don't know how difficult, my dear,” he replied. “Tell the prince, whoever he is, that both ideas sound bloody marvelous. And feel free to join me.”

She blushed furiously before leaving him alone with a snifter of brandy. He went to the windows and looked out into the rainy night. In the distance, he could see the revolving beacon of a lighthouse. Heavy rollers hammered into a rocky shoreline.

*   *   *

It was finally starting to make sense, the reason he had not been liquidated. Hjalmar Jensen hadn't been able to decipher the rune inscription or effectively interpret its clues. Apparently, their only hope for a quick discovery lay with him or Lexy. What was the urgency? he wondered. And who was the prince?

When he climbed out of the Jacuzzi, Barnaby found a pair of silk pajamas waiting for him on the bed, along with a thick flannel dressing gown and padded slippers. There had to be a secret video camera in the room, because as soon as he was dressed, there was a knock at the door.

A butler in white tie and tails led him down a mahogany staircase and into a vast great room in which another log fire was roaring. Two of the commandos he had seen at Grubb's cottage flanked the entrance. A blond woman in a black cocktail dress stood in front of the fire with an elderly man in a blue suit.

As he drew closer, he saw that she was at least sixty. Nature or plastic surgery had kept her face unnaturally taut, with wide cheekbones and full lips. Her figure was still slender and athletic.

The man was much older, with a thin, long-nosed, aristocratic face. His face was seamed with lines of trouble or pain and his skin looked like delicate parchment. They were both holding cocktail glasses.

“Welcome to Eagles' Cleft,” said the woman without formally introducing herself or the old man. Barnaby was sure he had never met him, but there was something familiar about the woman. The butler asked Barnaby if he wanted refreshment, and he asked for another brandy.

“I'm told that you were forcibly blindfolded before being brought here, Dr. Finchem,” said the old man. “That was the grievous mistake of an overzealous subordinate.”

His accent was unmistakably German, cultured, and aristocratic.

“I assumed it meant I had a better chance of surviving the night,” said Barnaby.

An oil painting of the mansion towered over the mantelpiece. It was the kind of house the Astors and Rockefellers once called a summer cottage, ten thousand square feet of oceanfront elegance, fifteen-foot-high ceilings, fireplaces suitable for human sacrifice, and walls of glass facing the sea.

Barnaby remembered who the woman was. She had been one of the television successors to Julia Child, who had ridden her intelligence and magnetic smile into a personal empire of branded housewares, clothing, furnishings, and decorator items. For many years, it had been hard to turn on a television set without seeing her face. Then she had dropped out of sight.

“I am told you are a renowned Norse archaeologist, Dr. Finchem,” she said with the radiant smile he remembered. “Do you follow the Order of the Ancient Way?”

“I'm in full retreat from all organized religion,” said Barnaby.

“I pity you,” she said. “You will never know the salvation of Valhalla.”

“You're very perceptive,” he replied.

“Dr. Finchem is a true skeptic,” said von Falkenberg. “But he and I have much in common, I believe.”

“Really,” said Barnaby.

“We both share a deep and abiding love of Norse culture, its gods, and its noblemen who shaped our world.”

“The Norse culture, yes,” said Barnaby as the butler returned with his brandy.

“Let me be direct,” said the prince. “I would be deeply grateful for your assistance in finding the final resting place of my personal divinity, Leifr Eriksson.”

“I'm sure you would,” said Barnaby. “My colleague Hjalmar Jensen has apparently failed to interpret the clues.”

“Dr. Jensen is indeed one of us.”

“He told me quite a bit about your church,” said Barnaby. “At the time, it sounded like you were worshipping at the holy grail of Josef Mengele.”

“We are trying to save the world from destroying itself,” said von Falkenberg.

“Not the world, just the chosen ones,” said Barnaby. “I met one of your acolytes a few hours ago. He reminded me of a boy I knew growing up who used to pet kittens with one hand while dousing them in gasoline with the other, and then lighting them up to enjoy their agony.”

“I'm afraid you do our cause an injustice,” said von Falkenberg, his pallid face showing the first trace of color. “And he is not one of our leaders.”

“You look like you've probably led a privileged life,” said Barnaby. “As far as I'm concerned, you just benefited from the luck of the draw. A microsecond later you might have been born into a beggar's family in Calcutta. Those are my views on racial superiority.”

“To the contrary,” said the prince. “That was my destiny. As for racial superiority, your adopted country of the United States led the way in fostering it. Your founding fathers saw the threat of the indigenous subspecies right from the beginning, and addressed the challenge by selling the Native Americans blankets diseased with smallpox. They eradicated eighty-five percent of the tribes of North America in less than a hundred years.”

“I do not condone that evil,” said Barnaby.

“And America also led the way in eugenics in the last century,” said the old man. “Have you never read of the Human Betterment League and its national campaign to sterilize millions of minority Americans? Mr. Gamble of Procter and Gamble was one of the proud sponsors.”

“The world has made a lot of progress since then,” said Barnaby, “including stamping out Hitler and National Socialism in your country.”

“How do you define progress, Dr. Finchem? At this moment, millions of young African predators languish in your prisons, at ten times the rate of the rest of the world. And they are there for celebrating the same culture their forebearers brought with them from Africa, murdering those in authority and turning their women into whores. That is progress?”

“You've obviously never read Shakespeare,” replied Barnaby. “He summed it up four hundred years ago. With all our human flaws, we are all of us about possibilities, every one of us, for better or worse. No race is immune or superior.”

“Thank you for enlightening me,” said von Falkenberg, his scarred and heavily wrinkled hand beginning to tremble as it held the glass.

“You don't have much time, do you? I can see it in your face,” said Barnaby. “That's why you need my help.”

“If you choose not to cooperate with us, I will be forced to ask Dr. Larsen to extract the information,” he said, trying to maintain a tone of civility. “It would be a pity to do that, because after he is finished, I doubt you will ever remember who you are.”

“That's more like it,” said Barnaby. “I won't help you.”

Von Falkenberg motioned to one of the guards, who immediately left the room.

A moment later, the prince seemed to stagger forward. From the shadows on the other side of the fireplace, a badly scarred, old, white-haired man rushed toward the prince with a pronounced limp.

The blond socialite turned her cold blue eyes on Barnaby.

“I pray that you die,” she said.

4 December
Off Orr's Island
Maine

“I'll give you another two thousand dollars to take us farther up the coast,” said Lexy, careful not to reveal their ultimate destination.

Mike Grubb pointed to the boat's gas gauges, both of which were approaching empty.

“There's no marina to buy gas between here and Thomas Bay,” he said. “I don't think there's enough to even get me home.”

“Take my advice,” said Macaulay. “Don't go home tonight.”

“Why not?” asked Grubb.

Macaulay debated how much to tell him.

“All I can tell you is your life would be in danger. Trust me.”

“Trust you?” repeated Grubb, glancing at the pistol in Macaulay's belt. “I'd sooner trust my ex-wife, Greta.”

“Where are we now?” asked Lexy.

Grubb checked the GPS monitor.

“About halfway up the back side of Orr's,” he said.

“Do you have a map of these waters?” asked Lexy.

“In the chart locker,” said Grubb.

Down below, Lexy spread a water-stained nautical chart on the galley countertop.

“The closest place from here to reach Monhegan Island is Boothbay Harbor,” she said, pointing to a seaside village farther up the coast. “It looks to be about ten miles farther north.”

Macaulay gave the chart a closer look.

“This dotted line from Boothbay to Monhegan indicates there is a ferry service going out there,” said Macaulay, speaking loudly enough to be heard over the engines, “but it probably isn't running this time of year.”

Lexy glanced up through the open hatch of the cabin and saw that Mike Grubb had placed himself in a position to observe them while he continued to navigate the boat from the wheelhouse. She moved to block his view of the chart.

“Even if we had the gas, it would take us too long to get to Boothbay by boat,” said Macaulay. “We need to find another car. From Orr's Island, it shouldn't take us more than an hour to get there.”

Returning to the deck, Macaulay told Grubb to put them ashore right away. Slowing the engines, he turned on a searchlight, and trained it on the shoreline. In the distance, Macaulay could make out a long finger-shaped pier jutting out from one of the oceanfront homes. Grubb steered toward it.

As they were approaching the dock, Macaulay pulled out the boat's Motorola CM200 marine transmitter from its cradle above the steering console and clipped the power cord with his knife.

“Sorry but there's a lot at stake,” he said.

“Goddamn reality shows,” said Mike Grubb, glowering at him. As soon as they were on the pier, Grubb gunned the
Dorothy B
. in reverse and headed back into the murky night.

It was spitting rain as they crossed the grounds of the shuttered estate. Macaulay was about to search the garage, when a dog started barking stridently from the porch of the neighboring home. They kept on going to the front edge of the property and began walking north along a two-lane road.

Macaulay tried to think through their next possible steps. He had no idea how many agents were on their trail, but a few had obviously managed to track them to Harpswell with no apparent difficulty. There had probably been a global tracking device in the SUV, he concluded, angry with himself for not foreseeing the possibility.

They needed to find transportation that was untraceable. If he stole another car or truck from one of the occupied homes along the road, it would almost certainly be reported to the police right away. It had to be a vehicle that wouldn't be missed, which meant no more human interaction.

They had walked half a mile when the outline of another darkened summer cottage loomed up off to the side of the road. Macaulay crept to the window of the attached garage and flashed a light inside. It was empty.

He checked out four more seasonal cottages along the country road with the same result before he spied a long, tree-lined driveway leading off the road. A sodden newspaper was sticking out of an overstuffed mailbox with the name
GROVER
CONNELL
painted on it. Using his flashlight, Macaulay pulled out the newspaper and checked the date: August 31.

At the end of the driveway, an old Victorian manor house with wraparound porches faced the sea. Approaching the kitchen door, Macaulay began looking for the wiring components to its electronic security system.

“This is Maine,” said Lexy. “They don't need security systems up here.”

Smiling, she turned the knob of the unlocked door and stepped inside. It felt colder in the kitchen than it had outside. Macaulay found the family liquor supply in the butler's pantry, along with two glasses, and poured them each a stiff shot of Laphroaig scotch.

“We need dry clothes,” said Macaulay as they walked through a family room adorned with photographs of four generations of Connells, the family that owned the home.

“I feel like we're trespassing,” said Lexy.

“We are,” said Macaulay as they climbed the center staircase to the second-floor bedrooms. Ten minutes later, he was dressed in a cargo shirt, work pants, and an Irish wool sweater. Lexy found two insulated ponchos in the mudroom. They joined each other again in front of the wall of family photographs. Lexy gazed admiringly at the new crop of Connell grandchildren.

“I don't want to destroy their illusions about this place being a safe refuge,” she said.

“If we survive this thing, I promise that we'll come back and make full restitution,” said Macaulay, carrying the bottle of Laphroaig.

The garage was a separate building, a two-story affair that matched the colored trim of the main house. Macaulay's heart sank as he surveyed the interior. There was no car, truck, or any other four-wheeled transportation. A polished mahogany Chris-Craft speedboat sat on a car trailer in one bay. Several bicycles hung from hooks on the wall, along with water skis and sea kayaks.

He briefly considered the idea of launching the speedboat, but it probably ate gas. He flashed the light into a shadowy corner and saw a large object wrapped in a tarp. Tugging it open, he uncovered an ancient motorbike, already a relic when Calvin Coolidge was president. It had a wire basket in front of the handlebars and a small sidecar.

The controls were antiquated, but someone had lovingly restored it. The high-gloss paint job looked fresh. Amazingly, the tiny engine roared to life on the first pull of the starter wheel. Macaulay was wheeling it out of the garage when his Suunto wristwatch began throbbing. Its storm-warning sensor was registering another incoming storm in the next six hours.

He met Lexy in the driveway after shutting the garage door.

“Please assume your new throne, milady,” he said, pointing to the sidecar.

“And you said Barnaby was conspicuous,” she said, climbing into it and tucking the leather wind protector around her.

“It's a black night,” answered Macaulay as they headed down the driveway.

*   *   *

A weary Mike Grubb tied off the bow and stern lines of the
Dorothy B.
at the dock below his cottage. He had been lucky to make it back. He had nursed both engines at their lowest rpm in order to conserve fuel; one of them ran out of gas just as he was approaching the pier.

All he wanted to do now was crack open a Sam Adams twelve-pack and order an eighteen-inch pizza from the Domino's in Brunswick. He was sitting on thirty-two hundred dollars, not bad for an afternoon's work even if he had to replace the power cord to his radio. If he didn't go crazy again at the high-stakes bingo game in Falmouth, the money would carry him until Greta got back.

It had been a wild day, starting with the visit of the circus freak and then the idiotic run out to Ragged Island. He couldn't wait to tell Greta that the contestants were now using guns on reality TV. She watched them all.

Leaving the dock after buttoning up the boat, he saw that the SUV they had arrived in was gone from the front yard. Just in case the guy hadn't been bullshitting him about some danger, he took the boat hook with him. Its tip was sharpened like the point of a stiletto.

As he approached the house, he saw the smashed picture window in his living room. Only jagged edges of the glass remained in the wooden frame, with the rest littering his yard in front of it.

He pushed the back door open and stormed inside with the tip of the boat hook held out in front of him like a lance. In the shadowy light from the single bulb in the kitchen, he could see that someone had trashed his place.

The furniture was overturned and his most prized possession, the huge swordfish he had caught off St. George's Bank, was broken in several pieces on the floor. Leaning the boat hook against the wall, he went over to pick it up.

“Welcome home,” said the Lynx, sitting in Grubb's favorite chair near the woodstove.

Grubb tried to make him out in the gloom. The guy had a foreign accent.

“Are you with the rival team?” he asked.

“Rival team?”

“From the TV show,” said Grubb.

Instead of answering, the Lynx pulled out his automatic.

“You people all use guns on the show. Is that the deal?”

“You have one chance to save your life,” said the Lynx, picking up the boat hook. “Tell me where they are going.”

“Where who are going?” said Grubb.

“The man and woman you took out in your boat.”

“Do I get to use my lifeline?” asked Grubb with a knowing grin.

“What are you talking about?” demanded the Lynx.

“They always give you a lifeline.”

“All right, I'm your lifeline.”

“That's not the way it works. It's gotta be somebody I choose.”

“I'm your deathline,” said the Lynx. “If you don't answer my next question correctly, I will shoot you in the knee.”

If the other contestants were willing to give him three grand for running them out to the island, Grubb decided, who knew how much this question was worth?

“Five thousand,” said Grubb, “and that's my final answer.”

The silenced bullet exploded in his knee and he collapsed to the floor.

In his agony of pain, Grubb gazed in horror at his ruined leg. The Lynx got up out of the chair and stood over him with the boat hook.

“I have no more time,” he said quietly.

“How do I know . . . you won't kill me anyway?” he asked.

“You will have to take my word. You have five seconds.”

“Boothbay,” said Mike Grubb. “I heard the guy say Boothbay Harbor.”

“Thank you,” said the Lynx, driving the boat hook through his heart.