“Dude!” Gonzo waves to me from his protected spot behind a parked car. But I can’t stop staring at the snow globe. It’s got an angel inside. Her hands are pressed against the glass and her tiny plastic mouth is open in a scream.
“Dude! Now!”
I’m dazed and my body hurts. Gonzo half drags me behind a dune, leaving the snow globe behind. I try to fight him to go back, but I don’t have the strength, and the beach is crawling with USGW employees.
Down on the beach, Balder’s still kicking ass. No matter what they throw at him, it bounces off. They can’t catch him, and they can’t kill him. Suddenly, Balder looks out to the horizon, and with a shout of glee, drops the driftwood.
“Ringhorn!”
In a flash, USGW Employee #457 grabs the stick and plunges it into Balder’s back. It comes straight through his chest. Balder looks surprised, especially when he can’t pull it out. But it doesn’t stop him; he runs straight for the water, ducking under the waves, disappearing from sight.
I want to run after him, but we can’t chance it, so we stay hidden behind the dune, watching. Two of the vigilantes wade out and drag Balder back in, laying him on the sand. More cops are on the scene now. One kicks Balder with his foot.
“There’s your terrorist,” the cop snickers. “A yard gnome.”
Statements are taken, witnesses’ phone numbers given. The last people to leave the scene are the vigilantes.
“Should we take the gnome in for processing?” Employee #458 asks.
“Nah. Just leave it,” answers Employee #456. “Let’s go back to the hotel. They have Casino Cash on the channel options.”
“Can I have him?” a little girl with a plastic shovel asks.
“Sure,” Employee #458 says, and the kid starts burying our yard gnome in the sand.
“At least we got this one.” Employee #458 flips the snow globe in his hand, and my heart flips along with it.
As I watch, frozen, they cover Dulcie in bubble wrap, pack her away in a box of other snow globes, and load it into their truck. I memorize the license plate number: USGW 3111. They drive it across the street and park in the lot of the Ancient Mariner hotel. They secure the door with two different combination locks, and my heart sinks.
“Dude,” Gonzo says quietly. “Balder.” And I know there’s nothing else I can do right now.
We run out to rescue our valiant Viking, who is buried up to his neck, the driftwood still sticking out on the sides.
I offer the kid ten bucks. “For the yard gnome.”
We carry Balder to a more secluded spot. “I saw it. I saw … Ringhorn.” We help him to his feet. He winces. “Cameron? Are you … all right?” he asks.
“They got Dulcie. They turned her into a snow globe.” I’m trying not to cry. My eyes sting.
“I am … sorry,” Balder says. He pulls on the driftwood spear but can’t dislodge it.
It’s really wedged in there. “Could you?”
Together, we manage to yank it free. The end is slippery and it stains my hands red.
“Oh. My,” Balder says. He stands there, arms wide, gazing at his chest in total wonder. And that’s when I see it: a small trickle of blood burbling up and spilling down the front of his shirt. Balder is bleeding.
Gonzo’s eyes are wide.
“Oh my,” Balder repeats. He puts a hand to his chest and the blood seeps between his closed fingers, a thin red waterfall. “That stick …” He examines the end. A small cluster of white berries sprouts from a tiny knob. Balder rubs the berries between his fingers, inhales their scent. “Mistletoe.”
“Balder!” I shout as his legs give out. I grab hold and we drop to the sand, Balder cradled in my arms, as his warm, sticky blood pools in my hands. “Balder.”
Our Viking’s breath comes fast and shallow. “All pledged no harm to Balder … save for the mistletoe, who was too young. But Loki, Loki the trickster … he must have known. …”
“Shhh, don’t talk. We’ll get you in the car.”
“No,” he says, and coughs. “No. Leave me here on the beach. For Ringhorn.”
It’s gotten dark. The fishing boats are heading in. Their lights cast lonely pools of white on the water. There’s no Ringhorn.
“We’ll come back for your ship,” I lie. “You need a doctor.”
“No. Ringhorn will come. Wait. Wait with me,” Balder urges.
When I look over, Gonzo’s got his arms crossed. He’s kicking at the ground and crying without making a noise except for a little strangled sob deep in his throat.
