*Valhalla* 
by Doug Allyn
       
       Stalking the stage in Detroit's Cobo Arena, Jimmy Callaway belted out his show's final number, "Chubby Lover." A strong song. Jimmy jumped on it, hammering the lyrics like Mike Tyson in his prime. Angry, shirtless, sweating, Jimmy screamed the final verse on his knees, bringing the crowd to its feet with a roar, whistling and applauding as the FX cannons spewed potassium flashpowder fireworks at the rear of the stage. A spectacular finish.
       For me, business as usual. I've heard Callaway and the BluesCrew perform "Chubby Lover" live at least forty times in twelve states. But I've never actually seen him sing the song. I'm always facing the other way, in the center of the security line, scanning the crowd, looking for trouble.
       And finding it. Before the Cobo concert my security crew busted a half-dozen kids at the gate packing weapons, mostly blades, but two had pistols. We held the gunslingers for Motown P.D., booted the others, kept the knives.
       A girl collapsed in the lobby, probably an Ecstasy overdose. We popped her into one of the standby ambulances; they got her to the Samaritan E.R. in good shape.

       Security cameras caught two punks hustling crack in the john. We grabbed them up, stuck them in a storeroom with the two gunslingers.
       All that before the show even started. I figured we were in for a long night. I was right. As BluesCrew cranked out their opening notes, a dozen schoolgirls rushed the stage.
       Grappling with half-dressed teenybopper chicks doesn't sound like heavy work. More like an adolescent's wet dream.
       It's not. Handling a wild-eyed female pumped on adrenaline and Xena: Warrior Princess  flicks is tricky business. Punching out a girl in front of six thousand hostile witnesses isn't an option, nor is grabbing her anywhere in the vicinity of a private part. No breasts, thigh, crotch. It's like trying to wrestle an ostrich with one hand.
       Meanwhile, your squirming bird is free to claw, bite, stomp you with a spike heel, or make you a soprano with one wild kick. All in the name of young love. Or something like it.
       I haven't been a teen for a while but I still understand that craziness. It keeps me going. The buzz. The energy. The sheer spectacle of the shows.
       Working concert-tour security pays well. So does bouncing at casinos or collecting for finance companies. But no straight job can match the blood-pumping rush of a road tour with a real artist.
       Sure, sometimes it's a grind. Working the northeast leg of the BluesCrew tour we did twenty-one shows in twenty-six nights. You forget which century you're in, to say nothing of which state. Screaming crowds. Overbooked halls. Stowaways. Bomb threats. Sound checks. Tear-downs. Junk food, fast food, road food, no food.
       Dumb-ass jokes are funnier by a factor of ten when you're exhausted. All-night philosophizing on the bus. Easy silences. Sudden violence when a psycho comes charging out of the crowd....
       But no one rushed us tonight. I glanced down the line at the security crew. Seven guys in BluesCrew Tour T-shirts, all big, evenly spaced, facing the audience, heads up. Most were local hires, and all of us would be paid off at the end of the night.
       End of the road. Last show of the American tour. Time to give Jimmy Callaway the bad news.
       BluesCrew got two standing ovations and played an encore. Then vanished while a deejay from WRIF Detroit plugged CD and T-shirt sales and upcoming Cobo concerts.
       My security line held position until the hall cleared, then double-checked the aisles for stowaways and contraband while I went backstage to find my boss.
       Cobo Arena's dressing rooms are all business, more like a hospital than a rock palace. Jimmy and his manager, Marv Kerabatsos, were in the star suite, surrounded by a cluster of press people. I waited at the back of the room while Jimmy fielded the last few questions, then helped Marv shoo out the reporters. Marv's big enough to work security himself, wide as a buffalo, coarse features. Too smart for rough work, though: a memory like a Pentium chip.
       Jimmy looked whipped. Gaunt as a Russian icon, shaggy blond mane damp with sweat, body art running down his arms. His tattoos are repainted for each show. He looks surprisingly ordinary without them. In shades and a baseball cap he can shop at Wal-Mart without drawing a second glance. Marvin's idea. Fame and flash onstage, anonymity off.
       Jimmy glanced up, reading my face. "She didn't show up, did she, Ax?"
       "No. I watched the gate myself, Jimmy. Scanned the stands with binoculars. All my guys had her picture. No Monica. Sorry."
       "Okay, I guess that's it." He opened a bottle of Evian water, slugged down half of it. "If she won't see me, it's time to move on. To Montreal, for openers. London next week."
       "Why did you expect her in Motown?" I asked. "Why not Cleveland or wherever?"
       "Her family's from Detroit. With Christmas coming, I thought she might be home for the holidays, you know? I met her here at a press party, last tour. Been together most of a year. Then six weeks ago she just ... took off. My fault."
       "Did you two have a fight?"
       "An ugly one," Jimmy acknowledged, sipping more water. "Monica turned up pregnant. I didn't handle it well."
       "Have you tried to contact her?"
       "Every damned day. Her parents hang up on me. I don't know if they forward my messages or not. And being on the road, I couldn't exactly drop by for a chat. It's okay, Ax, forget about it. Maybe it's fate, karma, whatever. Your guys did a good job on the tour, tell 'em I said thanks. I gotta hit the showers. See ya. Take care."
       "You, too."
       Stripping off his shirt, Jimmy vanished into the john. No handshake, no tip. No need. Road dogs. Mercenaries in a rock-'n'-roll army.
       "Got a minute for me, Axton?" Marvin asked.
       "I can spare a week, now. What's up?"
       "You used to run a detective agency, right? Are you still in that business?"
       "Sort of. Keeping a P.I. license makes it easier to get a concealed-weapons permit, but I'm no Sherlock Holmes. I mostly work security or collect bad debts, contracts, whatever. Why?"
       "This girl, Monica Sorenson? Do you think you could find her?"
       "Jimmy just said to forget it."
       "Jimmy's the purest poet of his generation." Marvin shrugged. "That doesn't make him a genius about women. Monica isn't some band-aid, she's a really nice kid. Jimmy's hung up on her and she's carrying his child. They need to sort this out, one on one."
       "If it's important to you, any legit agency could -- "
       "I don't know them," Marv interrupted. "I know you. And I trust you to keep your mouth shut. This mess is a perfect supermarket-tabloid story: 'Heiress Carries Rock Star's Love Child.' Besides, I figure you're better equipped to find her."
       "How so?"
       "You know this life we're in, you know the street, you're used to dealing with whacked-out kids. Monica didn't take off because of some little spat. She and Jimmy fought like _Rocky III_ the whole time they were together."
       "Then why did she bail?"
       "She was developing a semiserious drug problem. I think she split to clean up, to keep from hurting her baby."
       "What's she into?"
       "Speed. Started with diet pills. Moved up to black beauties, white crosses."
       "Not crank? Methedrine?"
       "No, she doesn't shoot anything. She's just young, paranoid about her figure. Tried better living through chemistry, got hooked. S.O.S."
       "And if I find her, what do you want me to do? Buy her off? Scare her off?"
       "Neither," Marvin said, surprised. "Monica's no gold digger, her family's loaded. But this thing's eating Jimmy up. He's in love with her and he really wants this baby whether he admits it or not. And unhappy stars make for lousy shows. Find Monica, ask her to contact Jimmy or get a number he can call. Beg and plead, threaten, do what you have to, but get them in touch."
       "You want me to play Cupid? That's it?"
       "No offense, but you'd be the butt-ugliest Cupid on the planet, Axton. Just find the girl. Bill my agency and keep me posted. Okay?"
         * * *
If America is a melting pot, Detroit must be cooking on a low flame. Motown is subdivided into a checkerboard of ethnic sectors. Some, like Greektown and Chinatown, are obvious. Others aren't. But they're just as touchy.
       Dearborn has more Arabs than Oman; Hamtramck has Poles and Hungarians. Warsaw Heights used to be Polish but the Russian Mafia owns it now. Murderous thugs that make Motown's street gangs seem like amateurs. And the crime rate shows it.
       Grosse Pointe and the outer burbs are separated by more subtle markers. A green line. Money. Mostly old money, but new money's acceptable if you've got enough. Marv was right, Monica Sorenson definitely didn't need Jimmy Callaway's cash. God bless the child who's got her own.
       The Sorensons' three-story neo-Gothic could have tumbled out of a Currier and Ives greeting card: Streetlamps glowing in the snowy dusk, Christmas decorations glistening in the windows. The American dream. Home for the holidays. I felt like the Grinch as I rang the bell.
       The woman who answered was tall and blond. And startled. My face affects people that way sometimes. I have a few scars from a motorcycle accident. They're not pretty, but they're useful in my line of work. Supermodels trade on their looks. So do I.
       "Mrs. Sorenson? My name's R. B. Axton. I'm a private investigator. Can I have a minute?"
       "What is it, Helen?" Her husband joined her in the doorway, taller, more silver than blond. Equally handsome. Matched thoroughbreds: cardigans, slacks, deck shoes. If Sorenson was intimidated by my size, scars, or black leather coat, he didn't show it.
       "What do you want, Mr....?"
       "Axton. I'd like to ask about your daughter, Mr. Sorenson. Monica."
       "What about her? Is she all right?"
       "I don't know. I was hoping you could tell me."
       "What do you mean? What do you want with Monica?"
       "Just a word. Could we talk inside, please? It's breezy out here."
       He hesitated, annoyance wrestling with common courtesy in his eyes. Courtesy won. "Come in, but keep it short. We have guests. Could I see some identification, please?"
       I showed him my license and a business card, glancing around as he checked them. The foyer was expensive but tasteful: Swedish kilim rugs, jagged modern art on the impeccably white walls. In the great room beyond, a half-dozen people were sipping wine around a floor-to-ceiling fireplace, Mantovani murmuring "Winter Wonderland" in the background.
       "What's this about?" Sorenson asked, handing me back my ID.
       "I'm trying to locate your daughter, sir. If -- "
       "Did that lowlife she's been seeing hire you? Callaway? If Monica's finally come to her senses and left him I couldn't be happier. Tell him to forget about her and leave us alone."
       "It's not that simple, Mr. Sorenson. When did you speak to Monica last?"
       "What business is that of yours?"
       "Monica left Jimmy more than a month ago. He hasn't heard from her since and he's concerned. Has your daughter contacted you recently?"
       "Not since Thanksgiving," Mrs. Sorenson put in, worried. "She called from ... Omaha, I think. But she was still traveling with Callaway then. Is anything wrong?"
       "Not that I know of, ma'am. Is it normal for her to be out of touch for a month?"
       "She's young and headstrong, but she's always been quite good about calling -- "
       "Until recently," her husband finished. "It's my fault. We had a few arguments over the people she's with, the life she's been leading. We want better things for her."
       "I understand. Do you have any idea where she could have gone? Who she might be staying with?"
       "I wouldn't tell you if I did," Sorenson snapped. "We're done here. And as I said, we have guests. Good night, Mr....?"
       "Axton."
       "Whatever. Come, Helen." He wheeled and stalked off. His wife stayed, frowning at my business card.
       "Is Monica in any trouble, Mr. Axton? I mean with..." She swallowed. "Drugs? Anything like that?"
       "Why do you ask?"
       "She wasn't quite ... herself the last few times we talked. I thought she might be, you know, using something."
       "Then the sooner I find her, the better, don't you think? If she had a problem that she wanted to work out, where do you think she'd go?"
       "I don't know. Maybe Burns Cove."
       "Burns Cove?"
       "It's a northern resort town on Lake Michigan. We have a summer cottage there. Sometimes Monica goes up there to be alone, think things through. If something's troubling her she might be at the Cove. I've called several times but sometimes she turns off the phone. If I give you the address, will you let me know if she's all right?"
       The answer should have been no. Client confidentiality, conflict of interest, etc. But she was a worried mom whose daughter hadn't come home for Christmas.
       "Yes, ma'am, I'll be glad to. Could you jot down the address for me, please? And do you know what kind of car Monica might be driving?"
       "A silver Mercedes roadster. An older car, early eighties, I think. A graduation present. I'm afraid I don't know the model number. My husband might."
       "A silver Benz is enough. And I wouldn't worry too much. Sometimes kids get wrapped up in their own problems and forget everything else."
       "I suppose they do. Please don't mind my husband. Harold never likes Monica's boyfriends, Jimmy Callaway least of all."
       "No offense taken, ma'am. I'll be in touch."
       "Thank you. And Mr. Axton? Have a merry Christmas."
       "I'll try," I said. "And a merry Christmas to you."
       I wasn't being sarcastic. I meant it. I've got a soft spot for Christmas. Not the reality, of course. The virtual one.
       Reality is a fall-to-February marathon of sham sales, rent-a-Santas, and tots with dollar signs dancing in their eyes.
       The Christmas I love is the one on TV. Jimmy Stewart grinning up into the falling snow in _It's a Wonderful Life._ The "White Christmas" Bing Crosby sings about.
       Unfortunately, all that wintry white stuff can make for dicey driving, especially for a good ol' boy raised in the sunny South.
       My suitcase was still packed for the tour so I headed upstate that night. Straight into the teeth of the first serious storm of the season. The freeways were plowed, but my old Camaro kept slipping and skidding like a cockroach on a coal stove.
       With eighty miles yet to go, I gave it up, pulled off the freeway, found a Best Western, and crashed for the night.
       Or tried to. I couldn't sleep. Maybe too much adrenaline from the tour still pumping through my system. Or too much Monica on my mind.
       I'd only seen Monica Sorenson once; she and Jimmy split up soon after I joined the tour. Pretty girl. Straight blond hair, Nordic features, good smile. She had it all: rich parents, a rock-star boyfriend. And baby makes three.
       A lot for a kid to deal with. I could understand her dumping Jimmy to clean up and get her head straight. But why would she drop completely out of sight?
       Rebellious? Possibly. Pregnant, definitely. Maybe she was trying to avoid an ugly scene with her father. But that didn't fit the image of the scrapper who fought with Jimmy like _Rocky III._ And if she was the good kid Marv described, why would she leave her mom twisting in the wind?
       Best guess? Kicking the drugs was a lot tougher than she expected. It always is. Unless she decided not to kick at all.
       Either way, Mrs. Sorenson wasn't the only one who was worried now. Marv was right, I do know the street and the life we're in. There are some seriously dangerous people standing in the shadows of the music business. And a pretty girl with a drug problem might meet some of them in a hurry.
       Morning dawned clear and cold. Twenty-five crisp degrees, ice-blue skies without a cloud in sight. The plows had been out all night and the freeway was clear and dry.
       Not that it mattered much. Burns Cove is nowhere near a freeway. It's barely on the map at all. If Michigan looks like a mitten in a mud puddle, Burns Cove could be a hangnail on the fickle finger of fate. A little harbor town perched on the tip of a narrow peninsula. One road in, thirty miles of two-lane blacktop that snakes through forested hills to the northern shoreline.
       As I drove I kept catching glimpses of Lake Michigan through the snow-dusted pines, a deep, cobalt blue dappled with startling white ice floes the size of Buicks. Breathtaking. No other word for it.
       The village of Burns Cove looked as rustic as its name, snowbound, dreaming on the shores of "the shining big sea water."
       Not much going on, the harbor closed for the season, a dozen touristy shops in the downtown district, Wal-Mart, Home Depot, and a BP full-service truck stop on the outskirts near the turnoff to the interstate. Welcome to Smallville.
       Except that I wasn't going there. The Sorensons' cottage was up in the hills northeast of the Cove, out in the middle of nowhere. But easy enough to find, as it turned out. Signs at the mouth of each lane listed the names and addresses of the cottage owners. Very convenient. A shopping guide for burglars.
       The Sorensons' private lane wasn't plowed, but the storm had been milder up here, only a few inches of snow on the ground. The cottage wasn't visible from the road so I decided to risk driving in.
       And risky it was. The blacktopped lane wound upward into the forest, threading between century-old pines, slippery as a ski slope. A tense, white-knuckled drive. And for nothing.
       The lane ended at the cottage driveway, atop a bluff that overlooked Lake Michigan. The view was spectacular and the home wasn't half bad either, a rambling split-level log cottage with a two-car garage and a back deck hanging in space at the bluff's edge. A seventy-foot drop to the stony beach below, a magnificent view of the far shore.
       And nobody home.
       No tire tracks, no smoke from the chimney, no lights on. The drapes were open, so I climbed out and circled the house, peering in through the windows like a Peeping Tom.
       Definitely empty. But not necessarily unoccupied. No dust covers were draped over the furniture, and there was an open newspaper on a coffee table. Couldn't make out the date. Damn. Maybe the place had been unoccupied since the summer. Or maybe Monica was staying here and just happened to be away at the moment.
       One quick way to find out. The date on that newspaper should tell me one way or the other. And I hadn't driven all the way up here to walk away wondering.
       The cabin locks were top of the line Schlages. It took me all of fifteen seconds to pick the front door mechanism. Easing in, I listened to the utter silence for a moment, then yelled hello. Didn't expect an answer. Didn't get one.
       Inside, the cottage wasn't quite as pricey as the Sorenson home in Grosse Pointe, but it was still top drawer. Danish modern furniture in loden green leather, with carpeting to match. Unfortunately, the newspaper on the coffee table was from mid August. Which meant Monica probably wasn't here and hadn't been. Double damn.
       I did a quick case of the place anyway. No sign of anyone in residence, but the cottage didn't feel truly empty, either. For one thing, it was too immaculate. No dust, not a cobweb in sight. I guessed it had been cleaned recently. Nothing suspicious about that. The Sorensons could obviously afford maid service. Still, something didn't feel quite right about it.
       To me, the house looked more like a department-store display than a home. And maybe it was. Maybe this is how the rich relax, artfully arranging their expensive paintings and pottery just so. A bit fussy for me, but then I collect Lonnie Mack LPs and drive a '69 Camaro.
       I may not be artsy, but I'm thorough. I checked the garage. Which was as clean as the house and just as empty. No Mercedes roadster, no machinery, period. Not even a lawn mower. But as I turned to go, something registered.
       An oil spot. In the middle of the floor. It would have been perfectly normal in most garages, but this one was practically antiseptic. And the spot looked fresh.
       Kneeling, I touched it, rubbing the residue between my fingertips. Definitely motor oil. Definitely recent. Motor oil usually dries after a few days. In a cold, closed garage it might stay moist a little longer, but not more than a week or two.
       Which meant ... what? That someone had been here? A cleaning lady or a caretaker? Or Monica. I decided to give the house a closer look, toss the bedrooms and baths for openers.
       Didn't get the chance. As soon as I stepped in the house, I knew something was wrong. Big time. A black and white prowl car was parked across the driveway, blocking my Camaro in.
       A big cop was leaning casually against the passenger door. Blond guy, blue uniform, no hat. Just relaxing, enjoying the day. With a Winchester Defender twelve-gauge shotgun cradled in his left arm.
       I stepped out the front door, keeping both hands in plain sight. He looked me over curiously but with no particular hostility.
       "Good morning. I'm Sheriff Lofgren. Swede, to my friends. You can call me Sheriff Lofgren. Who might you be?"
       "My name's Axton. I'm a licensed private investigator from Detroit. I'm going to show you my license and ID. Okay?"
       "Good idea, why don't you do that." He had an easy, apple-pie grin. His face was weathered, roughened by the wind. He was probably forty-something, but that smile erased the years, made him seem almost boyish. Still, it never quite reached his eyes. Deep blue and as chilly as the big lake.
       The shotgun was pointed away from me and he didn't shift it as I reached inside my coat. But I had the distinct impression that if I brought out anything bigger than a wallet, the coroner would have to scrape up my carcass with a spatula.
       I carefully eased out my identification and handed it to Lofgren. He scanned it, then scanned me. That cheerful smile never wavered. Nor did the shotgun. Mr. Welcome Wagon with a twelve-gauge.
       "According to this, you're a licensed P.I. all right. We don't get many up here. So what kind of a case are you working?"
       "I'm looking for the girl who lives here, Monica Sorenson. Has she been around?"
       "Nope, not that I'm aware of. I keep a list of who's in town, who's away, and we check every empty cottage almost every day. Extended surveillance, we call it."
       "It sounds efficient."
       "Mostly it just passes the time. Burns Cove isn't exactly a crime hot spot. But every once in a while we get a live one. Some guy comes up here from Detroit, sees a quiet little burg with ritzy summer getaways and a hometown cop. Looks like easy pickings, doesn't it?"
       "I wouldn't know."
       "Well, it's not. I was on the Detroit force eighteen years. Detective for the last six. Frank Murphy Hall of Justice. You know that building, Axton?"
       "I've been there a time or two. On business. We might even know people in common. Do you know a lieutenant named Lupe Garcia? Metro Homicide?"
       "Loop was still a sergeant when I left. Made lieutenant, eh? Good for him. So what?"
       "So if you call him, he can identify me."
       "Why would I want to do that? You just showed me your license and up here folks pretty much take a man at his word. You've been in the city too long, Mr. Axton."
       "I thought you might have some doubts. Since you're still holding that shotgun."
       "Maybe that's because you're kind of a scary-lookin' fella. What happened to your face, if you don't mind my askin'?"
       "Motorcycle accident. Lost an argument with the freeway."
       "Looks like it hurt a whole lot. Are you about finished here?"
       "Pretty much."
       "Then I won't keep ya. It's a beautiful day for a drive, you can probably make Motown by dark."
       "Are you running me off, Sheriff?"
       "Me? Of course not. You said you were looking for Monica Sorenson. Since she's not here I figured you'd be headin' south. Not much to do up here in the winter but ice fish, and the lake's not frozen yet. Are you a fisherman, Mr. Axton?"
       "Not really, but I thought I might ask around about Monica, see if anyone's seen her."
       "It'd be a waste of time. The Sorensons are summer people, they don't mix much with the locals. Come here, let me show you something."
       I followed him around the side of the house to the edge of the bluff. The wind off the lake had a real bite, dropping the temperature ten degrees. I hugged myself, trying to keep my hands warm. Lofgren didn't seem to notice, and he wasn't even wearing a coat.
       "Beautiful, isn't it?" he said quietly.
       I managed a nod.
       "If you look down the west shore there, you can see the house where I was born. I mean born right in the house. No hospital, no doctor for forty miles. Most local families had their kids at home in those days. Hardy folks, the locals. The town was settled by Swedes and Norwegians, mostly. Vikings. Like me. Only it wasn't Burns Cove then. Know what they called it?"
       "No, what?"
       "Valhalla. It means Viking heaven. They say this coast looks a lot like Norway. Cliffs, blue water, icebergs, and all. A developer bought up these hills in the sixties, built fancy chalets for city folks. Petitioned the state to change the name of the village to something more American. Said Valhalla sounded too foreign."
       "Let me guess. The developer's name was Burns, right?"
       "You oughta be a detective." Lofgren grinned. "Anyway, the locals went along with it. Fishing was played out by then and they needed the work. Some guys had to commute two hours one way, five days a week to work in Midland, Saginaw, Bay City. Drove home every night. Because they wanted to be here, you know? Raise their families here. But most of the young people moved south to find work. Like I did."
       "Why are you telling me this?"
       "Just trying to save you some trouble. I was born here, Axton, grew up here, played in these hills when I was a raggedy-ass kid. Not cowboys and Indians. Viking raiders and Englishmen. I was always a Viking. Eric the Red, Leif the Lucky." He shook his head, smiling.
       He waited for me to comment. I didn't.
       "So maybe that makes me a hick in your book. But I was a big-city cop for most of twenty years and I know what I'm doing. Monica Sorenson's a pretty girl and she's summer people. If she came up to the cottage I would have heard about it before she got unpacked. She didn't. So there's no point in you goin' around bothering a lot of people. No offense, but some of these folks moved up here to get away from guys who look like you."
       "You've got no right to shut me down, Lofgren."
       "Rights?" His grin widened but his eyes went as icy as the floes floating below. "I could bust you right now for unlawful entry, Axton. Unless you can show me one of these." He held up a key ring. "See the label on this one? It's a key to the Sorenson place. Got one?"
       I didn't answer. Which was answer enough.
       "I didn't think so. You should be more careful when you pick a lock. You left a little scratch mark by the keyhole."
       "I'll try to remember that."
       "Good. And just so we understand each other, sport, if I wanted to lean on you, you'd know it. If you want to pad your bill by asking local folks a lot of dumb-ass questions, be my guest. But this is my territory, my people. If I hear one complaint, you'll find out how nasty an old-time Viking can be. Understand?"
       "I read you loud and clear."
       "Thought you would. You seem like a smart fella. Enjoy your stay in Valhalla, Axton. Or Burns Cove, if you prefer. Either way, keep it short."
       Lofgren climbed back in his prowlie, flipped me a mock salute, then rumbled off to continue his extended-surveillance rounds.
       Leaving me alone with my one crummy oil spot. Which was probably about nothing. Still, I'd made a very long drive.
       Assuming Lofgren was right, Monica wasn't here. But somebody had been. Somebody who parked in the garage. If it was Monica, she hadn't stayed long or Lofgren would have heard about it. So maybe kicking her speed habit was more than she'd been able to handle. She came, laid low a few days, got the jitters, and split. To where?
       To see the doctor, most likely. Doctor Feelgood. Since she came to get straight, she probably didn't bring any dope along. But if her cleanup program crashed, she'd need a hit in a hurry.
       Which meant she'd have to buy locally. Right here in Viking heaven. Lofgren claimed he knew his job. I wondered how tough it would be to find a speed dealer in his quiet little town?
       At least I knew where to ask. To get hard drugs, heroin, cocaine, even high-grade reefer, you need a contact. Speed's cheaper and a whole lot easier to find.
       As easy as a quick lunch at the BP truck stop outside Burns Cove. Not many truckers use serious speed, but most will pop a hit now and again to make one more town, one more leg of a three-day run. And they all know where to find it. I chatted up a few long-haul drivers, came up with a name in ten minutes.
       In Burns Cove, hit a tavern called Finn's Waterfront. See a skinny kid named Gunnar.
         * * *
The village reminded me of a movie Christmas. The main drag running downhill to the harbor. Brick streets and sidewalks, old-fashioned globular streetlamps. Most of the buildings were nineteenth-century, beautifully restored to their original Victorian splendor: cast-iron facades, shop windows sparkling with holiday displays while carols swirled in the wintry air.
       Christmas in Valhalla.
       Even Finn's Waterfront was cheerier than a harbor bar had a right to be. The back wall was one long picture window, offering a marvelous view of the lakescape: dark water and drifting icebergs as far as the eye could see. I could have gawked at it for hours. None of the locals gave it a glance.
       There were roughly a dozen customers in the place, rough being the key word. Unshaven laborers in plaid coats, baseball caps. A few stone alkies at the bar drinking lunch. Three hard-eyed types at a back table were playing dominoes. Which isn't a game you see much outside of Warsaw Heights. One was smoking, held his cigarette cupped in his palm. Russians? If so, they were a long way from home, no matter how you measured it.
       My guy was at a corner table, facing the front door. Mid twenties, Detroit Lions jacket and cap, his left hand encased in a dirty plaster cast. Narrow-faced, with razor-cut sideburns and goatee. And the jittery eyes and papery skin of a true believer. A speed dealer wired up on his own product.
       I didn't approach him immediately. Ordered a draft beer and watched him work from the end of the bar. Gunnar made two sales in the first half-hour, first to a young roughneck trucker, second to an older guy, almost certainly a foreigner from the way he held his cigarette.
       I caught an odd vibe, and realized the domino players were checking me out. One of them met my stare with a cold, thousand-yard glare of his own before returning to his game. Nothing subtle about that look. A mind-your-own-business warning a stranger gets in any hard-case bar from Maine to Mississippi.
       Gunnar wasn't subtle either, taking care of business right at the table. Kept a pitcher of beer in front of him; his customers joined him, had a glass, chatted, shook hands as they left, making the exchange. Strictly minor league.
       After his third buyer left, I carried my beer over to his table.
       "Mind if I sit?" I eased down opposite him without waiting for an answer. "You'd be Gunnar, right? My name's Axton. People call me Ax."
       "Is that supposed to mean something to me?"
       "Nope. If we'd met, you'd remember."
       "Face like yours, you got that right. What do you want?"
       "A trucker named Mikey told me where to find you."
       "Don't know any Mikey. And I definitely don't know you. Take off."
       "For a guy in your line, being rude is a mistake that can cost you. I'm not lookin' to cause you problems. I'm looking for a girl. This girl." I slid Monica's photograph across the table to him. He glanced at it, didn't react.
       "Never saw her before."
       "Sure you have. Her name's Monica. Speed's a small world, Gunnar, so I figure you've done business with her. Tell me about her and it's worth fifty to me. Jack me around and you'll need a cast for your other hand."
       "Hey, no need to cop an attitude." He jerked his injured paw off the table, dropping it to his lap. "Fifty for what I know, right?"
       "If I like it."
       "Her name's Monica Sorenson. Family has a cottage up the shore someplace. Strictly summer people. Last I heard she was running with some rock star."
       "Tell me something I don't know. When did you see her last?"
       "Monica?" He chewed on his lip, thinking. "Early in the summer. June, maybe July. She was here for a week with her folks."
       "Not since?"
       "No."
       "Does she have any friends around here? Anyone she might be staying with?"
       "Nah, like I said, summer people. Rich pricks. Fancy cars, fancy boats. They don't mix with the local riffraff."
       "Unless they want to buy something. Like speeders, for instance. Monica's got a habit."
       "She used to cop a pop now and again but she was never a regular and I haven't seen her lately. That's all I got for you. That worth fifty?"
       "Not hardly."
       "Then take a hike, Axton. You're bad for business."
       I eyed him, trying to get a read on him. He was young and wired up. And spooked. I'm used to that, my face tends to make people uneasy. Not this time. Gunnar was way too pushy. He might be afraid of something, but it wasn't me. Maybe I'm slipping.
       "Here's a twenty and my card," I said, tossing them on the table. "Ask around about Monica, then call me. It's worth another C-note."
       "Yeah, right. Go home, wait by your phone."
       "I've got a cell," I said, leaning across the table, my battered nose an inch from his. "You can reach me anytime. But don't make me wait too long. You're real easy to find."
       "Okay, okay, I've got the message. I'll call you. Now take off, eh?"
         * * *
Leaving Finn's Waterfront was a relief. Afternoon sunshine, fresh air, no secondhand smoke.... I hesitated. Deja vu. I'd had this feeling earlier. When I stepped out of the Sorenson cottage to face that cop. Only I'd been too distracted at the time to notice. Shotguns have that effect on me.
       Fresh air. That's why the cottage felt lived in. There was a taint of secondhand smoke. I'm so used to it in clubs and concerts I didn't give it a thought. But I should have. Because it was out of place.
       There were no ashtrays at the cottage, nor had I noticed any at the Sorenson home. They didn't smoke. But someone at that cottage did.
       Maybe a girl trying to take her mind off a bad case of amphetamine-withdrawal jitters?
       One of the best /worst things about cell phones is that they work almost everywhere. Which means a moron teenybopper chick two rows behind you in a movie can tell her friends how the flick's going. But it also means I could stroll down to the lake, find a bench on the pier, park, and make a few calls.
       But I didn't. Not at first. It would have been blasphemy. Strolling along the pier with the lake swells lifting floating bergs, white as refrigerators, I was awestruck by the sheer beauty of the view. The biggest freshwater sea in the world. Steep cliffs on the far shore wreathed in silvery mist. The foothills of the Porcupine Mountains? Or maybe a rocky fjord somewhere in Norway. What had Lofgren called it? Valhalla.
       Viking heaven. I could see why the first settlers chose the name.
       The old Vikings in their dragon ships would have felt right at home here. Sheltered harbor, towering trees to build their longhouses and repair their war boats. And easy plunder for the taking in any direction.
       They could raid Chicago, Detroit, Milwaukee, Buffalo, or fifty ports on the Canadian shore. For a moment I pictured hard men in horned helmets storming the casinos at Windsor or Detroit. Come to think of it, swap the ships for motorcycles and they'd probably fit right in.
       Back to business.
       I hit Marv Kerabatsos's number on the speed dial. And actually got him. A rare thing.
       "Marv, it's Ax. Quick question, does Monica Sorenson smoke?"
       "You mean reefer?"
       "I mean anything."
       Silence as Marv scanned his memory banks. "No. Definitely not. Monica's a health freak. Yogurt, granola, megavitamins, that whole trip. Not a smoker."
       "Amphetamines aren't exactly health food."
       "She was only popping them to stay slim. Probably thought of them as one more vitamin. Which they're not. Never used anything else, though. If a doobie came around at a party she wouldn't even toke it to be polite. Any luck so far?"
       "Yeah. All bad. I'll be in touch." I rang off. Then did a little thinking myself. Bottom line, if Monica wasn't here I had no idea where she might have gone. Maybe to stay with a friend her parents didn't know about. If so, I might be able to trace her through her credit cards eventually. Assuming she still had them.
       The secondhand smoke at the cottage was bugging me. Not just because it was there, but because it was strong. Like the smoke in Finn's Waterfront. Coarse tobacco. Unfiltered. Not many Americans smoke unfiltered cigarettes. It's a European thing. Even if Monica tried smoking to settle her nerves, I couldn't see her starting out with ... Russian cigarettes?
       Maybe that's why the stench had lingered. Or maybe my imagination was working overtime. Either way, I was getting a bad feeling about this.
       Since I couldn't find the girl, I decided to try tracing her car.
       I made a call to Monica's mother and caught a break. Since the car was a present, the Sorensons were still carrying Monica's Mercedes on their auto insurance policy. She said she'd find the paperwork and call me back.
       I took a long last look at the lake. The silvered mist was drifting down from the north, darkening the swells with a sense of foreboding. Maybe there really were ghostly dragon ships lurking out there in the haze. I headed back to the warmth of my car.
       Mrs. Sorenson called me back before I got there and gave me the model number, the year, and even the VIN number for Monica's Mercedes. When she asked why I needed it, I said I might be able to locate Monica by tracking down her car. Which wasn't entirely true.
       Fetching my laptop computer out of the trunk, I found an Art Deco coffee shop with an Internet hookup, bought a tall (small) cup of mocha java, and went car shopping.
       Pundits expected the Internet to revolutionize the world, and for a while it looked like it might. But for most of us it's basically e-mail, airline tickets, and a monster sheet of electronic want ads.
       I keyed in the model and year of Monica's Benz and promptly got twenty-one hits. Only sixteen were for sale in the U.S. and five of those were in California. I left them for last. Instead, I started in the Midwest, beginning in Detroit, then on to Toledo, then Chicago.
       Each time I'd phone the number given and chat up the seller, getting details, then I'd ask where the cars came from originally. One was from Alabama. Three were from Florida. But the first car listed in Chicago was from Michigan.
       "No rust, though," the salesman promised. "It's practically mint."
       "It's also possibly stolen. Can you check the VIN number for me, please?"
       He did, muttering the whole time. "I knew the deal was too good to be true." He read the VIN number off the title. They matched. Damn it.
       "What do I do now?" he groaned.
       "For openers, take it off the market. Since you bought it in good faith you're in the clear. I'm only interested in the guy who sold it to you. It was a guy, right? Not a young girl?"
       "No, definitely a guy. Shoulda known it was hot by lookin' at him."
       "What name did he give you?"
       "Gary Danielson. It's bogus, right?"
       "Probably. But Danielson used to quarterback the Detroit Lions and my suspect is a big Lions fan. What did he look like?"
       "Like a Backstreet Boy on welfare. White kid, maybe twenty-five, ratty little bastard with skinny sideburns."
       "Was his left hand in a cast?"
       "Yeah, it was. Hey, do me a favor? If you see him, put his other damn hand in a cast for me."
       "It'll be a pleasure."
         * * *
I didn't go back to Finn's Waterfront. Gunnar was dealing openly there. All he lacked was a neon sign out front saying Friendly Local Dope Dealer Inside. Which meant he probably had some kind of an arrangement with the tavern owner. And maybe with the local law as well. Either way, the bar was no place to brace him. He had friends there and I didn't. And when I talked to Gunnar again, I didn't want any interruptions. Or any witnesses.
       I parked a half block up the hill from Finn's Waterfront next to a small playground. No need to be subtle; Gunnar didn't know my car. I opened the coffee from the cafe and settled in to wait.
       Not for long. Five minutes later someone rapped on my window. Sheriff Lofgren. I rolled it down.
       "Hey, Axton. I thought you'd already be halfway back to Motown."
       "Probably will be, soon. Kinda hate to leave. I can see why the locals called it Viking heaven. What's that word again?"
       "Valhalla."
       "Valhalla, right. I'll try to remember that."
       "You waiting for someone, Axton?"
       "Nah, just enjoying the view."
       "The view's better down by the harbor."
       "I was there earlier. Got cold. Besides, I'm a city boy. I prefer seeing things from a car."
       "Suit yourself," Lofgren said with a shrug. "Sun will be down before long, though. Then there won't be any view."
       "And I'll probably move on."
       "Pity. I was just getting used to having you around." Lofgren smiled, aiming his finger at me like a pistol, dropping his thumb. Perfect shot, right through the head. He sauntered off, whistling along with an airborne carol.
       I rolled my window up, watching him go. He didn't look back. Ten minutes later, Gunnar walked out of Finn's tavern. He scanned the street, then hurried toward me. Kept glancing over his shoulder, checking his backtrail. No need. The street was empty. Which suited me fine.
       As he passed my Camaro, I kicked open the passenger door, sweeping him off his feet. I was on him before he could react, gave him a stiff-finger jab to the diaphragm, driving his wind out, doubling him over. Grabbing the front of his jacket, I tossed him into the Camaro's backseat like a sack of potatoes. Did a quick three-sixty check. No witnesses. No noise, unless you counted Perry Como crooning "God rest ye merry, gentlemen..." from a storefront speaker.
       Cranking up the Camaro, I pulled out, heading south. Gunnar got his breath back before we cleared the city limits. "Man, are you nuts? This is kidnapping!"
       "Shut up."
       "Listen, I got rights -- "
       I backhanded him, slamming him into the corner of the seat. He cowered there, blood running down his mouth. Good. I'd hit him harder than I'd intended, but not as hard as I wanted to. And I needed him afraid.
       A few miles out of town I spotted a dirt road, turned off, and followed it till we disappeared into the woods. Then I jammed on the brakes, skidding to a stop, bouncing Gunnar off the seat back.
       While the car was still rocking I popped my glove box, pulled out my Browning Hi-Power automatic, jacked a round into the chamber, then faced Gunnar.
       "Here's how it is. You lied to me. That was a big mistake and you only get the one. I'm not the law, I don't run by their rules. You've got no rights, no lawyer, nothin' comin' to you. Lie to me again and I'll cap you right here, kick your carcass out, and scatter some black beauties around. Dope dealer whacked in a ripoff. Even your mama will believe it. You with me?"
       "Okay, okay! I get it. Jesus, I'm dead anyway. What the hell do you want?"
       "The same thing I asked before. Where's Monica?"
       "I don't know -- "
       I cocked the hammer.
       "Wait! I really don't!"
       "You sold her car, Gunnar. I traced it to you."
       "The Swede told me to, he -- "
       "Swede?"
       "The sheriff, Swede Lofgren. He told me to peddle the ride. Get rid of it. Said I could keep the money but no paperwork, no questions."
       "And you just went along? Didn't ask him where he got it?"
       "Man, I wouldn't ask the Swede the time of day. I got crossways of him once. Never again, man! He's crazier than you!"
       "How do you mean?"
       "He's got his own rules. Lets me move speed and weed but no hard stuff, no dealin' to kids. Couple months back I peddle a couple pops to some downstate teenybopper. Who'd know, right? Next thing I know Swede kicks in my door, shoves my hand in the garbage disposal, turns it on! Look at it!" He waved the cast in my face. "I'll be screwed up for months. Swede says next time he'll grind my freakin' arm off to the elbow. And I believe him, man!"
       I could see that he did. "How is the Swede tied into Monica Sorenson's car?"
       "I don't _know, _man! Swede said sell the car, I sold it. If he said fly to the moon I'd start flappin' my arms! That's all I know!"
       But it wasn't. He was lying. Had to be. A sheriff who maimed him for selling dope to a minor but didn't want a cut from a hot car? It didn't compute. There was something he wasn't telling me. But I'd only get one chance to ask him what it was.
       Opening my door, I stepped out, keeping the gun centered on his chest.
       "Get out." He didn't move, paralyzed with fear. Reaching in, I grabbed his jacket collar and yanked him out over the seat, sending him sprawling in the snow.
       "Get on your knees, Gunnar. I want this to look righteous."
       "Ax, don't, please -- "
       "I told you not to lie to me again. We're done. Now get on your knees or I'll pop you right where you are."
       "I'll pay you, man. I got money!" He was groveling, fumbling for his wallet, eyes wild.
       "I'll pick you clean after." Moving behind him, I pressed the muzzle against his neck. "Close your eyes. Unless you want to see it coming."
       "Please, man, don't!"
       Leaning down, I whispered, "Last chance, Gunnar. The truth or you're gone."
       "What truth, man? What do you want?"
       "Straight up, what's the Swede's hustle? What's he into?"
       "He'll kill me!"
       "Wrong answer."
       "Okay, okay! It's people, man. He's moving people!"
       "What kind of people?"
       "Illegal aliens. Russians. Russian mob guys, I think. Sometimes they buy dope from me, speed, weed, whatever. He uses the county patrol boat to smuggle 'em in from Canada."
       "Then what happens to them?"
       "I don't know. Sometimes their people pick 'em up. Or the Swede delivers 'em later on. Patrol car, patrol boat, he can take 'em anywhere he wants. No questions asked."
       Except maybe one. Like, where did he stash them while they were waiting for their friends? Motel clerks would remember foreigners.... I felt sick to my stomach.
       "What are you going to do with me?" Gunnar pleaded.
       I didn't answer. He flinched when I slammed the car door. I left him kneeling by the side of the road, sniveling, waiting to get his head blown off. Not one of my prouder moments. But I could live with it.
       I headed back to my starting point, the Sorenson cottage, lost in thought all the way.
       The pathetic part was that I'd needed a loser like Gunnar to point out what was right under my nose. Burns Cove was in the middle of nowhere. But also in the middle of everywhere. By boat, car, or even a snowmobile when the lakes froze over, you could jump from any spot along the Canadian coastline to Chicago, Detroit, or Green Bay in a matter of hours. Anywhere at all.
       Slipping across the mid-lake border would be a snap for the Swede. The Americans only patrol the invisible line hit and miss, the Canadians even less. And Lofgren would know their routines. Hell, they'd probably keep him posted as a professional courtesy.
       For a Viking throwback raised in these waters, dodging the border patrols would be child's play. A boyhood game. No need for a dragon ship, a police launch would work even better.
       Leif the Lucky? More like Swede the Smart. It was a beautiful scam. Foolproof. Almost.
       Why risk arousing suspicion by checking the illegals into motels? When you have hundreds of vacant cottages, all neatly listed on an extended-surveillance sheet.
       Clean up afterward and no one would even know they'd been there.
       Unless a lovely young girl looking to shake a drug habit shows up at her family digs unexpectedly. And blunders into some Russian mobsters stoked to the gills on Gunnar's speed.
       I didn't like thinking about what happened next. It didn't matter what I thought anyway. I couldn't prove any of it.
       Unless I could manage to do what I'd been hired for in the first place. Find Monica.
       At least I knew where to start. Parking my Camaro in front of the cottage, I began circling the house, widening my spiral by a few feet each time. Wasn't sure what I was looking for, exactly. A sign. Anything at all.
       On the third loop, I found it. A discolored, dime-sized stain a few yards from the back deck, sheltered by an overhanging shrub. In the open, the snow was several inches deep. Here, only a light dusting.
       Kneeling, I brushed the area clear with my fingertips. A cigarette butt. Unfiltered. Un-American. The brand was marked with a single Cyrillic letter. Russian. Damn.
       So some of Swede's illegals had been here. And Monica must have walked in on them. And afterward the Swede told Gunnar to peddle her car. No paperwork, no trace. Which meant she wasn't coming back. So where was she?
       One obvious place was in the deep water below. But it would be a long, slippery climb down to the beach toting a corpse, and I doubted they'd risk throwing a body down to the surf. Lake tides are tricky. Floaters can turn up at inconvenient times and places.
       Smarter to bury the body in the woods. With luck, the snow would cover their handiwork and she wouldn't be found until spring. Or never.
       But counting on a blanket of snow to cover a corpse isn't risk-free, either. Unless the body is deep-frozen, decomposition begins almost immediately and soon generates enough interior heat to make the process of decay self-sustaining. Only sub-zero temperatures will stop it completely. And it hadn't been that cold yet.
       If the grave wasn't deep, I wouldn't need to find footprints or a trail of cigarette butts. Only a low spot in the snow.
       After fetching the army-surplus foxhole shovel I keep in the Camaro's trunk, I continued my spiral search. Made three false starts -- dips in the snow caused by the wind or uneven ground. But in each case, a few scrapes of the shovel revealed undisturbed earth below.
       But on the fourth...
       The spot looked likely, hidden behind a copse of pines. And as I scraped away more surface snow, I knew. Churned earth. The topsoil along the shore is only a thin layer of mulch bonded to the sand cliffs by beach grass and the root systems of juniper and jack pines. They'd tried to camouflage the grave by spreading the earth around evenly, but the beach sand mixed in with the topsoil was ... a dead giveaway.
       Still, I had to be certain. Shedding my leather coat, I scraped the area clear of snow, revealing a disturbed patch of ground roughly three feet by six. Grave size. Damn it!
       Beginning at what I hoped was the foot of the hole, I began scooping out the soil one shallow shovelful at a time, working carefully in an eighteen-inch square, trying to disturb the site as little as possible.
       A little over a foot down, I bumped something. The sole of a shoe. Tossing the shovel aside, I knelt and began scraping the earth away with my hands. I didn't intend to uncover the body, just enough to be sure.
       But the more I probed, the less sure I was. The sole was too damned big. It wasn't a woman's boot at all. It was a man's. What the hell?
       Baffled, I started burrowing in the dirt like a coyote at a rabbit hole. Quickly pawed the leg clear. And discovered a second limb below it. An arm. Of another man. Both of them decomposing. The humid stench of decay welled up from the grave, gagging me.
       I rose unsteadily, staring stupidly at the bodies in the earth, trying to make sense of it. And realized that I wasn't alone. Sheriff Swede Lofgren had eased out of the pines, watching me, the twelve-gauge shotgun cradled in his arm. He shook his head.
       "That face of yours fooled me, Axton. I figured you for hired muscle."
       "Sometimes I am."
       "But not all the time. You're smarter than you look."
       "Considering my looks, that's not saying much. I was listening for your car. That wasn't smart."
       "Not very. I told you I've been prowling these woods since I was a kid. Don't."
       "Don't what?"
       "Try to reach that shovel. Or pull your weapon." He shifted the shotgun muzzle slightly, centering it on my midsection. "You'll lose."
       "Looks like I've lost already. What the hell happened here?"
       "Bad judgment all around. My daughter has cerebral palsy and a county sheriff doesn't make much. A million Mexicans jump the Texas border every year. I figured if a few Russians want to buy their way in from Canada, what's the harm?"
       "Even if they're mobsters?"
       "That was my big mistake. I should have been choosier about my clients. Their mistake was killing that girl and expecting me to cover for them."
       "Monica?"
       "She showed up at the wrong place, wrong time. The Sorenson cottage is on my surveillance list, closed for the season. What was she doing here this time of year?"
       "Had a fight with her boyfriend, needed a place to think. She was pregnant."
       "My God." Lofgren swallowed, hard. And I glimpsed the rage and despair in his eyes. Which was probably the last thing the two Russians saw. Before he put them in the ground.
       "What happens now?"
       "I don't know." He took a deep breath, glancing around, as if seeing the bluff for the first time. Or the last. "It's a real mess, isn't it? Amateurish. It was my first time on the wrong side of the law. I guess it shows."
       "Maybe you're not cut out for a life of crime. It's not too late to straighten out."
       "Sure it is. The thing is, I'm not cut out for prison, either."
       I heard the finality in his tone. He'd been chewing over his options as we talked. And he'd decided. The same way he'd decided about the two Russians. I dove to the left, clawing for my weapon. But the Swede was right. I lost.
         * * *
I woke in a grave. Facedown, dirt in my mouth. Breathing the foul stench of decay. But breathing. Opened my eyes, but couldn't see much. I was sprawled across the bodies of the Russians. But I hadn't joined them in death. Not quite yet.
       Risked raising my head an inch, looking around. Didn't see Lofgren. Which didn't mean he wasn't there. But it didn't matter. I couldn't bear one more second of the godawful reek. I staggered to my feet. A big mistake.
       The earth lurched, I stumbled over a dead Russian and went down again. Hard. My head was buzzing and I could feel blood trickling from my earlobe. Touched my temple gingerly with my fingertips. They came away bloody. Tried to remember what happened.
       I'd reached for my weapon. Lofgren must have clipped me with the shotgun butt. My gun was gone. So was Lofgren.
       Wasn't sure how long I'd been unconscious. Looked at my watch but couldn't seem to make sense of it. I'd been out awhile, though. I was freezing, cold to the bone, and the blood on my face was already drying.
       I stood up again, more carefully this time. Wobbled a little, but managed to stay upright. Looked around, took stock. I was standing in the grave. Injured. Couldn't tell how seriously. Which was a bad sign. Concussions can kill you and the first symptom is disorientation. I qualified. In spades.
       Needed help. Fumbled for my cell phone. Gone. Like the gun. Probably just as well. 911 might bring Lofgren back. To finish the job.
       Started for my car, one unsteady step at a time. Didn't make it. Kept hearing a buzzing in my head. Took me a moment to realize the noise was real. Coming from the bluff.
       I stumbled back to the deck, following the sound. The buzz was an engine. A powerboat roaring out of the harbor at Burns Cove. A county patrol boat, throttle wide open, rocketing through the bergs and breakers like a maritime half back, headed for the open water where he could swing northeast toward the Canadian shore.
       I had to find a phone. Unless I alerted the Coast Guard, Lofgren could vanish into Canada. If that was his intent.
       I'll never know. Half a mile out, the patrol boat slammed into an ice floe at full speed. Maybe he misjudged the distance. Maybe he meant to hit it. I only know the boat never swerved. Punched into that berg like a truck hitting a train.
       The collision flipped the powerboat. It went airborne, engine howling, then smashed to splinters on the floe. And exploded. Sending a greasy fireball roiling up into the steel-gray overcast, smoke churning skyward as a curtain of snowflakes descended, whiting out my view.
       It didn't matter. I'd seen enough to know there were no survivors. Which was probably just as well. Swede was right. He wasn't cut out for prison. He was better off ... wherever he was now.
       In hell.
       Or maybe ... in Viking heaven. With Eric the Red, Leif, and the rest. They weren't saints, those old raiders. Sacking cities, looting churches. The Swede's mistakes were small stuff compared to theirs. Maybe they'd make room at the table for him. Drink a toast to his luck. In...
       Viking heaven. I tried to focus. Couldn't seem to think.
       What was the name of that place?

Copyright (C) 2002 by Doug Allyn.