Available Dark: A Crime Novel (Cass Neary) (23 page)

“Black metal.” Pétur frowned. “Look, I can’t leave. I told you, I just got here. It’s my only free time: I have to return to classes at the end of the week.”

“This is totally fucked.” I kicked the wall in frustration. “I can’t be here. This is all a mistake.”

“But you are here. Maybe it’s your
wyrd.
” He tapped the skull lantern. “Everything you’ve ever done, coming back to bite you in the ass. That’s what Galdur would tell you, anyway.”

“Yeah, well, that would be just about my goddamn luck.”

I paced back to the center of the room. I felt exhausted and suddenly ravenous. But I couldn’t see much that looked like food, not unless you counted those cases of wine beside the door. Iron-gray light seeped through the windows, canceling out the glow of the kerosene lamps. Even indoors, I was trapped in this infernal, endless dusk. I looked up and scanned Galdur’s handmade star map. There were other black-and-white images there, stapled alongside the printouts of constellations unknown to me.

And while I couldn’t see them clearly, I discerned faces in the photographs, a telltale burst of radiance sparking from an eye or tooth. I walked to where Pétur had settled on the sofa with his laptop and nudged him.

“Who are those pictures of?”

He glanced up. “I don’t know. Friends of Galdur’s, I guess. I never really looked at them.”

The bedroom door opened. We both looked over to see Galdur pulling on a black anorak. He gave Pétur a sharp look.

“I’m going to put more gas in the generator. You obviously didn’t check when you turned it on.”

“I did, it was almost empty. The gas can was empty too.”

“There should be some in the van. You should have checked first.” Galdur pulled up his hood and walked outside.

I turned to Pétur. “He’s going to siphon gas from the van?”

“No—he stores extra containers in it so they don’t get buried by the snow. I don’t think there’s any left; he hasn’t been to Reykjavík for a long time. Or anywhere else,” he added.

“I thought he just got back from Helsinki.”

“Helsinki?” Pétur laughed. “I don’t think so! He’s never been to Finland, I don’t think. And he hasn’t been to Norway in years. When he was young he did time on that island prison, Bastøy. Manslaughter. I suppose he could return to Oslo if he wants, but he always tells me how much he hated it there and would never go back. Sometimes a promoter will try to get in touch with him, to see if he will perform, but he always says no. And of course he lost his passport. I wanted him to come with me to Rome for the holiday, and he couldn’t find it. But he never travels, so it’s not a problem.”

“He never travels? Are you sure?”

“Yes, of course. He wouldn’t go now, anyway. Jöl night, and he knew I was coming this week. No, he would never go to Helsinki,” he ended with certainty. “He has bad memories about someone there.”

I stared at the floor, cracked laminate made to look like wood. It had started to peel in yellowing strips that resembled fingernail parings. Frigid wind blasted into the room as the front door opened and Galdur stormed in, his hair and anorak covered with snow.

“What is this?”

To my shocked amazement, he held up Ilkka’s Speed Graphic camera. I had a glimpse of my own face in its reflector before he set it down, then threw something at me—the
askur
—followed by my satchel. The
askur
’s lid flew off, its grotesque relic spilling onto the floor. Pétur gagged and pulled his T-shirt over his face. I fell to my knees and grabbed my satchel, pulled my camera from the nest of wadded clothing and checked that it was intact, then clambered to my feet.

“Where did you find this?” I demanded.

“It is yours?” Galdur’s cheeks had gone pale with fury. “I found it where you put it—in the van.” He picked up the hand, walked to the door, and tossed it out into the storm. “Along with that. And my
askur,
which was stolen from me last fall.”

“The van? What the hell are you talking about? I’ve been inside this whole time. It was—”

Too late I tried to snatch my bag. Galdur grabbed it, turned it upside down so that my clothes went flying, along with the bulky cylinder wrapped in my shirt. He swooped on this, ripping the T-shirt open so that Ilkka’s prints scattered across the floor. Pétur caught one and stared at it, dumbfounded. Galdur bent to pick up another just as I reached for it. He straightened, lunging for me.

“What is this? What have you done? Why do you have these things?”

“Einar,” I gasped.

He dragged me to the wall, pinning me there. “Einar? My brother Einar? What are you saying?”

“Your brother kidnapped me.” I fought to keep my voice steady. “In Reykjavík. He said he was coming here and then he dumped me out there somewhere—” I gestured at the door. “He left me to die. I walked here; I don’t know how but I did. That’s all I know.”

“No.” Galdur shook his head. “This is your bag, your cameras. These clothes are yours, yes? And these photos—how did you get these photos? Tell me.”

So I told him. At the news of Ilkka’s death he grabbed me again. I thought he’d strangle me, but Pétur pulled him away. Finally I fell silent. Galdur remained where he was, breathing heavily. Then he slapped me, hard enough that blood sprayed from my nose across the wall.

“Again. I want to hear it again.”

I tried to stanch the bleeding with my sleeve and recounted it all a second time. Pétur retreated to the couch but said nothing. His gaze flicked from me to Galdur and then to the photo in his hand. By the time I was done, Galdur’s tawny eyes had grown so bloodshot they appeared crimson in the lantern flame.

“You’re lying,” he said.

“Lying? Who the hell could make this shit up?”

Galdur didn’t reply. He stepped away, staring up at the trompe l’oeil constellation formed by the photograph of him and Ilkka and their trophy skull. His face contorted—with rage, I thought, and I flinched, fearing another blow. But when he turned to me once more, I saw that he was weeping.

“This should not have happened,” he whispered.

“What in hell
did
happen?” Pétur shook his head, holding up the Jólasveinar photo of the man beneath the ice. “Who is this man? Who killed him?”

“I don’t know who he was. A vagrant,” said Galdur. “We found him in the forest one day, where he should not have been. Near my friend’s cabin. He was drunk and propositioned me.”

Pétur gave a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “And you killed him?”

Galdur turned that malefic, unblinking gaze on Pétur. I edged away, but Galdur didn’t seem to notice. Neither did Pétur, who returned Galdur’s stare fearlessly.

“Yes,” said Galdur. “I do not regret it. I made an offering: His death was a gift. The salmon were very grateful.”

“I can’t believe this.” Pétur began to pace, running his hands through his long hair. “Do the police know?”

“No one knows,” said Galdur.

“Was Ilkka there with you?” I asked. “In the woods?”

“Yes, of course. Ilkka was always there. It was two, three months in the winter; we moved from one place to another place. There are always people who are where they should not be.”

“Why did you stop?”

Galdur’s gaze remained fixed on Pétur. “The police began paying attention to other people we knew. Ilkka returned to Oslo to do other things. When I was arrested for manslaughter, he would not have contact with me: He was afraid the police would ask questions and learn about the Jólasveinar sacrifices. Ilkka left the country, and when I was released I had no more reason to be there, so I came back to Niceland.”

He went to the table where he’d set the Speed Graphic, picked it up, and turned it gently in his hands. I could see a fine line across the blue flashbulb that Ilkka had hoarded for so long, for nothing. After all that time and care, the fragile glass had finally been damaged.

“It was Ilkka’s idea,” Galdur said, and stared at the camera. “That we should resanctify the Jólasveinar. He had such great passion for many things. Every day for the last fifteen years, I have thought of him.”

Pétur glanced at me, then at Galdur. “So you didn’t kill him?”

“Why would I kill him?” Galdur retorted angrily. “How could I kill him? I have not left here in months. And Ilkka would not speak to me. I have not seen him in all this time!”

He stepped to the pile of rocks in the center of the room, bent, and placed Ilkka’s camera directly behind the sunstone. I could see the reflector’s eye staring back at me through the clouded crystal, its flawed iris a darker blue than it had been, almost violet. “‘We know that love will be reborn,’” he recited softly, “‘that death holds its own marvels, that both worlds hold joy.’”

For several minutes no one spoke. I touched my nose gingerly, drew away a finger flecked with blood. Then I picked up my leather jacket and withdrew the photo I’d hidden in the lining. I stared at it, then handed it to Galdur.

“Remember this guy?” He looked at the photo, his mouth grim. “Who was he?”

“This is the basement at Forsvar. I don’t know his name. Someone who owed Anton money.”

“That’s Anton?” I pointed to the stocky man with thinning hair. Galdur nodded. “Who are the others?”

“Ilkka Kaltunnen. Brynja Ingvarsdottir. Myself. Quinn O’Boyle.” His ran a finger across one of the shadowy forms. “Nils Pederson.”

“What happened to him?”

“He hanged himself a few months later.”

“Why was Quinn there?”

“He was there because Anton paid him.” Galdur rested his hands upon his knees and bowed his head, as though praying. “Quinn disposed of things for him.”

“Like this guy?”

“Among others.”

“Is this when you made the tape?” He nodded. “Why? Why would you make a recording of something like that?”

“Ilkka thought we should. As a ritual, but also as a competitive thing, he thought, with some of the others in the scene. To prove we’d really done a blood sacrifice. I was the one who thought we should use it on the track. We only played it that once, in the studio, and then Ilkka destroyed the tape.”

“He didn’t destroy it. He kept it in his darkroom. I didn’t know what it was; I took it and then I played it in Einar’s car.”

Pétur stood. “This is crazy. This conversation, both of you…” He shot me a desperate look. “
You
know these people too? Maybe you killed them all, right? Maybe that’s why you’re here now.”

“He set you up,” I said slowly, and looked at Galdur. “Your brother. That’s why your passport disappeared. He needed money. Ilkka or Anton told him about the deal for the photos; he killed them and took the cash and the photos. Did he know about the Jólasveinar?”

Galdur’s eyes widened. “Yes. I told him, once, a long time ago. A year or so after this all happened. Einar and I had been drinking. It was before I went to prison. He was the only one I ever told, because … he is my brother. I wanted someone to understand.”

“Yeah, well, he understood, all right.” I walked over to the skull lantern and stared into its guttering flame. “He had your passport and used it when he went to Oslo and Helsinki four days ago. Even if he didn’t need it to travel, he could flash it around and someone would have a record that you’d been there. You look enough alike. I don’t know what he did to Baldur; but the others, he set it up like one of your Yule guys. He broke Suri’s neck in the door, and I guess he took her hand, because…”

I looked at Galdur questioningly.

“Because he’s a fucking freak,” said Pétur.

“He knew it would work.” Galdur stared at the skull lantern and then at the stone altar. “The police would come here and see all these things and remember that I was in prison, also some other events.”

“Were there tire tracks outside?” Pétur asked, and walked to the window and peered out. “Now it’s snowing hard.”

“I saw no tracks. But the wind would have covered them.” said Galdur. “She left no tracks, either.”

“‘Winter swallows everything,’” I said. I got the bottle of Focalin from my bag and popped three of them dry. “That’s what Ilkka told me.”

“You spoke with him?”

“Yeah. That was the whole point of this enterprise—to look at his photos. Anton wanted my eye.” I laughed. “He got the whole shooting match.”

“What did you tell him? Not Anton—what did you tell
Ilkka
?”

I looked at Galdur, and for a second saw the same boy Ilkka must have known, long blond hair framing a face so beautiful and fraught with expectation that I had to turn away.

“I told him they were amazing,” I said at last. “The most beautiful photos I’ve ever seen.”

Galdur was silent. He took my chin in his hand, tilted my head, and gazed at me, his finger tracing the scar beside my eye and the open wound left by the raven. “You have his eyes,” he said.

He let go of me and sank back onto the couch. “Einar has betrayed everyone he ever knew.”

I sighed. “Well, he thinks on his feet, I’ll tell you that. He dumped me out there, dumped my stuff in your Econoline, and hightailed it back to Reykjavík. Would he know Pétur was here with you?”

“Why should he? We don’t talk. Pétur’s car is parked in back; probably Einar didn’t see it there. So…”

Galdur clapped his hands and stood. “I have an alibi. Lots of alibis,” he added with a glance at me.

“You’ll need them.” Pétur turned from the window, his face grim. “Because someone is coming.”

23

I ran to the window behind Galdur and peered through the filthy glass. Between grime and the snow swirling around outside, it was like staring into a cement mixer. I saw no one. Then with a screech of wind the door flew open. Something hit the floor—something big—then rolled over to stare at me with blood-swollen eyes.

It was Quinn. One side of his face was livid blue; a deep, upcurved gash sliced through the Inuit tattoo, as though someone had tried to carve a grotesque smile. I knelt beside him, frantically wiped snow and blood from his battered cheek as he whispered my name.

“Cassie. Don’t—”

“
Villast!
Get lost, move—!”

A voice shouted as Pétur grabbed me and I stumbled to my feet. The shouting grew panicked; Pétur staggered back as someone lashed out at him.