Deep Midnight
Page 39

“They think he’s Slavic.”
“I don’t know him. Do you?”
He shook his head. For once, she was certain he was telling the truth. “No,” he said.
“Why do you think he was killed?”
“I don’t know.”
Now, she wasn’t so certain he was telling the truth. But he leaned toward her then. “Don’t go running out alone.”
“Now wait a minute. You’re telling me?”
“I’m telling you not to go running out alone.”
“You don’t ever explain anything.”
“I can’t explain.”
“Oh?you have a hunch?”
“Something like that.”
“We always talk in circles.”
“So let’s talk about something else.”
“All right?let’s talk about you.”
“Let’s talk about you.”
Their pasta arrived. Jordan took a bite. It was delicious. Ragnor knew Venice, and he knew his restaurants.
She took a sip of her wine, studying him. “I’m an open book. I live in Charleston. I was born in Charleston. Jared and I both grew up with my grandmother, Granny Jay. We have her eyes. I’m short?he’s tall. He started dating Cindy in high school. They adore one another.”
“That’s Jared and Cindy. What about you?”
“Well, I did leave Charleston to go to Brown. I majored in English and Comparative Literature. I write articles now and then, but mostly I do book reviews, fiction and nonfiction. I’m syndicated, and in the last few years I’ve done very well.”
“And your personal life?”
She took another sip of wine. “I told you. I was engaged to a cop named Steven. He was killed. I’m sure you’ve heard the grisly details?that’s why I supposedly went so out of my mind at the contessa’s party, seeing real evil in her entertainment.”
“And after his death?”
“I’ve been working. Don’t you want to ask me about my life before Steven? There was a guy named Zachary my first year of college. He was cute?had great hair. Then there was Jimmy Adair. He wanted to move to the wilderness in Montana and rough it. Go back in time. Live in a cabin with no electricity and study wolves.”
“You’ve got something against wolves.”
“Nope?I’d love to visit him sometime. I just didn’t want to live there. Oh?I love movies, too. Well, there you have it Steven came along, and ...”
“He was perfect.”
“You’re supposed to say you’re sorry, or something like that.” He shrugged. “So ... you’ve been in deep mourning.”
“Something like that.”
“I’m honored.”
“Thanks,” she murmured casually. “So?just who are you?”
“Ragnor. Wulfsson.”
“Your real name?”
“It is my real name.”
Their main course arrived. They smiled and talked to the waiter. He left.
“And you’re really from Norway?”
“Yes. Originally.”
“You’ve traveled a lot.”
“Quite a bit.”
“Doing?”
“Different things over the years. But mainly, spending family money. Parting with antiques here and there.”
“And learning languages. You must be very bright.”
“No more so than the next man. I travel, and I listen. And take the time,” he murmured ruefully.
“Time?time in a place helps a lot.”
“So you knew the contessa before.”
“I don’t really care to go into that.”
“But you think she’s evil?” Jordan wiggled her brows, as if half teasing.
“I know she’s evil,” he said.
“You think the contessa caused that man to be murdered, don’t you?”
“I have no proof.”
“You should tell the police.”
“Oh? And the police will arrest her because I think she caused a man’s death?” Jordan shrugged. “It would help if you went to the police. Then they might take me more seriously.
Though I must say, Roberto Capo?” she broke off.
“Roberto Capo what?” he demanded.
“He doesn’t think I’m crazy. You should tell him what you think. Maybe it will matter. Maybe they’ll get someone in there to investigate the woman.”
“It won’t matter if they do.”
“Why not?”
“Trust me, she covers her sins well.”
Again, the waiter came by. It was time for coffee and dessert. They both decided just coffee, and it was then that Jordan remembered to ask, “Have you heard from Tiff?” His expression became guarded. “No.”
“Aren’t you worried?”
“What would my being worried do?” he returned, sounding tired.
“We have to make someone look into the fact that she’s missing.”
“I believe the police are looking into her disappearance.”
“What makes you think so?‘ ”
He hesitated. “I called.”
“Oh.”
“Look, I’ll go down there and insist they find out about Tiff tomorrow, all right?” She nodded, pleased. Their waiter brought the check; Ragnor paid and they started out. The streets were quieter now, but with him, she saw no shadows.
And heard no whispers.
“You really insist they do something?” she asked as they walked.
“Yes.”
When they returned to the hotel, he followed her to her room. She watched as he went through all the motions he had gone through the previous evening.
“You’re more neurotic than I am.”
“I’ve told you that I’m worried about you.”
She was silent a moment as he watched her. Then she asked, “Are you staying?”
“Yes,” he said softly.
She bolted the door.
A minute later, she was in his arms.
Later that night, hours later, she turned to him and asked, again, “Who are you? really?” He was silent for a moment, stroking her hair. “I’ve told you the truth. I am from Norway; I have lived all over the world. And my name is Ragnor Wulfsson.” He drew her against him, as if falling asleep.
But he wasn’t asleep, she thought.
She pulled away slightly. It was very dark in the room, but she could see the planes of his face.
She traced them, thinking that his features were exceptionally fine, that he was an incredible lover, and that she liked him, liked being with him .. .
That she wanted to know him more, that she loved his touch . ..
That she had never felt as she did when she was with him.
Except that...
“Okay, then, what are you?” she asked very softly.
“A man,” he murmured. “A man.”
He didn’t stir again.
Yet, she thought, he still wasn’t sleeping.
CHAPTER 13
When he was a small child, he was unaware of the world of violence and cruelty into which he had been born, of the strange heritage due to come his way.
His village by the sea was productive and peaceful. Fanners tilled the earth; fishermen went to sea; shepherds tended their flocks. In spring and summer, the fields were rich, and the forests were filled with game. During the long, cold winters, men carved fine images from blocks of wood, and the storytellers entertained young and old alike with tales of the daring of the gods, the wars with the giants, the follies of all creatures upon the earth. There was law and order among his people; disputes were settled in the great central house, where his great-uncle had the final word. Sometimes, of course, a grievous complaint would be settled in battle, and the clash of arms was like a war among gods in which Odin blew the north wind and Thor, in his fury, sent down lightning and thunder. There was no dishonor in dying in such a battle, for Valhalla was open only to those who fought with the greatest courage and defied the realm of Hel, goddess of the underworld. Religion and storytelling were one and the same.
Despite the richness of his village and the customary peace and domesticity within it, he was, from an early age, taught the rudiments of battle. His father was nephew to the jarl and held a place of honor within this realm. His father was also greatly feared as one of the most powerful of the warriors; he was often gone, and his name was spoken softly and with a strange whisper of both awe and dread. As the seventh son of this incredible man, the boy was watched expectantly, and he knew, from the time he could talk and walk, he would one day go forth into the world, where he would be required to outdo other men with his prowess and courage. He would not be allowed to fail. This in itself was not in the least strange, for most young men of noble families were taught the virtues of strength and power. Despite the fine location and lush fields of his homeland, it would remain rich, and give plenty only if its sons went out upon the seas, settled new homelands, and brought back the wealth of others.
He always knew he would go a-Viking. It was a way of life. His brothers before him had gone, and they returned, sometimes years later, to boast of great conquests, to bring back foreign gold and art. They told about the monks who had inscribed the books they brought back, helpless fellows who cried to their one God but received no help from him as they battled the men they called demons who had come to their shores.
Often when his father was gone, his mother would speak of her husband, then lower her head and whisper a prayer to Freya. As he grew, he began to wonder whether she prayed that her husband would return, or that he would not.
As he neared his thirteenth birthday, he was already taller than most of the men, and they were a tall breed. He was also singularly adept in his training with arms.
Some of his first memories were of going to the docks to see the returning warriors, bold men, fierce men, berserkers among them, who had sailed the seas through wind and storm to strike the coastal towns of other peoples. There they sought gold and treasure, wreaked havoc, and sometimes returned not just with riches, but with a cargo of humanity as well, slaves to work for noble men’s wives, to till the fields, gather the harvests. Theirs was an intriguing community, for dauntless valor and steadfast bravery were the greatest traits in a man, and a slave who proved his mettle might one day become one of them, and strike out upon the seas himself. When the warriors returned, the longhorns would sound, and the village would come out to welcome the returning heroes, to hear their stories of battle and conquest, and marvel at the goods from civilizations across the seas.