Heritage of Darkness (36 page)

“But …” Sigrid peered at them anxiously. “Where are your

coats? Shouldn’t
you
go—”

“We’re
fine
,” Chloe said. All she wanted was to get Sigrid over with the other concert-goers. “We’ll be right along.” She and

Roelke watched until Sigrid had crossed the street and disappeared into the church.

“Where should we look?” Roelke asked grimly. “If the house is

locked—”

“I’ve got a key.” Chloe led him into the entryway. Sheltered

from the wind, she worked the lock and burst into the Valdres

House. “Mom? You still here?”

305

A gust rattled the windows. Lamps in the main room had been

extinguished, but coals still glowed in the open hearth. Chloe felt a hitch in her chest and pointed at the embers. “That’s not right.”

“Why not?”

“Mom would never leave an historic structure without thor-

oughly dousing the fire.” Chloe felt another hitch beneath her ribs, tighter and colder.

Two doorways led left from the living space to smaller rooms.

She darted into the closest. Roelke followed, shining his flashlight beam about. A large loom took up most of the space, but a huge

immigrant trunk also stood against one wall.

“Please, no,” Chloe whispered, fumbling at the heavy lid with

numb fingers. Roelke snatched the lid and let it bang back against the wall as he flashed the beam inside.

Mom lay in the trunk, crumpled and still.

“Go get help,” Roelke barked. “Chloe! Go!”

Chloe swallowed hard, fighting nausea. This wasn’t a stranger

dumped in a trunk. This was Mom. Dear God, this was
Mom
. She wasn’t moving. Was she still breathing? Chloe’s knees banged into

the floorboards. Her hand went inside the trunk, trying to find

warmth, trying to find a pulse, trying to provide a shred of com-

fort if these were Mom’s final moments.

“OK,
I’ll
go.” Chloe heard Roelke’s footsteps pound from the room, around the corner, out the door.

Then she heard a startled exclamation and a muffled thump.

“Roelke?” she called. No response. She bit her lip, hard.

“Roelke?”
Her voice quavered this time. He’d taken the flashlight.

Darkness shrouded the weaving room. Heart racing, she scram-

bled silently to her feet and tiptoed to the main room—just as

306

some haunted creature burst through the front door. In the dying

fire’s faint shadows, she recognized the Satan who’d accosted her

earlier—same tall hat, same wig, same hideous mask. He lifted the

same stick-mounted wooden goat head high over his head.

Chloe stumbled backwards, skirting the hearth, scrambling

past the table, into a corner. The
julebukker
came after her with eerie certainty, as if he were indeed part of the band of undead

roaming the skies. Whatever he was, this—this
thing
had almost certainly killed Petra Lekstrom. He may have killed Mom.

Chloe felt the same scorching rage she’d summoned at Emil’s

farm. No way in hell was she going to let this apparition crack her skull with a goat head.

The flax hackle she’d admired was still on the windowsill, its

wicked bed of sharpened nails affixed to a sturdy wooden base.

She grabbed that base with one hand and lunged forward, swing-

ing the hackle with all her strength.

Her attacker jumped backwards. The goat head dropped with a

wooden clatter. Chloe was thrown off-balance when the hackle

ripped air instead of flesh. She fell hard against the table but managed to stay on her feet. As he gathered himself and snatched up

his own weapon, she swung the hackle again.

This time she felt it connect. She heard his unearthly howl. She

saw him stumble away, clutching his left arm.

“Come on, you bastard!” She clenched the wood, raised the

hackle, readied for another swing.

Another shadow roared into the room. Roelke seized the long-

handled waffle iron Mom had left propped against one wall. He

held it like a baseball bat and swung with a force that ripped the 307

air. The iron connected with the
julebukker’s
right arm. The creature cried out in pain as he fell to his knees.

“Lay down on your belly,” Roelke growled. He planted himself,

iron still held at the ready. “Do it!
Now!
”

The
julebukker
complied.

“Chloe. You OK?” Roelke asked, not looking at her.

“Yeah.” Her chest was heaving. “But Mom—”

More heavy footsteps sounded in the entryway. Another strong

flashlight beam sliced the darkness. The policeman Chloe had met

earlier entered the room cautiously, with Sigrid hovering behind

him.

He whipped his gun from its holster when he saw the tableau.

“What’s going on here?” he demanded. Sigrid gasped and pressed

both hands over her mouth.

“Call an ambulance.” Roelke waited until the officer pulled his

radio free, pressed a button, and made the call. “I’m an off-duty

cop,” Roelke added. “This man attacked us. He may have killed

Petra Lekstrom, and I believe he also attacked Marit Kallerud.”

“What?”
Sigrid wailed.

“She’s in the big trunk,” Chloe told Sigrid. “Please—go be with

her.” She couldn’t turn away from the thing on the floor. Sigrid

darted into the weaving room.

The cop pulled out his handcuffs. “His left arm is bleeding,”

Roelke said. “His right arm is probably broken.”

“He’s not going anywhere.” The young man put one foot lightly

on the man’s back. “We’ll wait for the EMTs.”

Roelke reached down and roughly pulled off the
julebukker’s

fur hat and wig. Then he grabbed the rubber mask and jerked it

free. The ancient specter of icy winter nights disappeared.

308

Roelke staggered backwards. “Emil.” The word was an exhala-

tion, full of grief. “You?
You
did all this?”

Emil didn’t move. One cheek was pressed to the floor. In the

deep flickering shadows, Chloe couldn’t read his expression.

“Emil!” Roelke implored.

“I …” The old man sighed. “
Ja
. I killed Petra. I think I killed Marit—”

Chloe launched at the carver. The cop pushed her away. “Let

the law handle this,” he said.

“You’ll be tried for murder.” Roelke sounded dazed. “How

could … why did … how could you look at me all week? Talk with

me all week?”

“You just remember what I said. You got the makings of a fine

carver.”

Roelke shook his head.

“It’s all right,” Emil said. “I’m tired. I’ve been fighting for a long time.”

Roelke dropped onto a bench.

“It’s all right,” Emil said again. “Someone needed to stop me.”

He blew out one long sigh. “Sometimes the darkness is inside.”



Chloe pressed herself into one corner of the curtained cubicle.

Mom had regained consciousness by the time the ambulance ar-

rived at the hospital, groggily mumbling about a headache, but

Chloe couldn’t breathe normally until the doctor finished her ex-

amination. “I think your mother’s going to be fine,” the young

309

woman said. “But we don’t take chances with head injuries. I’m

going to send her up for a CAT scan.”

“OK.” Chloe struggled to squeeze even two syllables past the

salty lump in her throat.

“We’ll keep her for observation for a while, but I expect to

release her either later this evening or tomorrow morning.

Chances are good that the only lingering effects will be headaches for a day or so. If she experiences dizziness, nausea, or loss of

memory, contact us at once.”

Chloe swiped at her eyes. “OK.”

“You can wait out in the reception area.”

“OK. Um … see you soon, Mom.” Chloe waited until Mom had

been wheeled away before retracing her steps to the waiting room.

Roelke and Sigrid jumped to their feet. Howard, who’d arrived

at the Valdres House just after the ambulance crew, was waiting

too. “She’s going to be all right,” Chloe told them. “They just want to run another test and watch her for a while.”

Sigrid dropped back into her chair, sniffling. Howard closed his

eyes.

Roelke pulled Chloe against him and wrapped both arms

around her. After a moment he whispered, “Emil was in the shad-

ows beside the house when I dashed out to find a phone. He hit

my knees and I went down and slid down that drop. I came back

as fast as I could. When I saw him going after you …”

She pressed her face against his shoulder. “I’m all right,” she

whispered back. “What about you?”

“I talked to a nurse. I’m fine.

310

Chloe was glad that Roelke had been checked for signs of frost-

bite or fever, but that wasn’t what worried her. She stepped back so she could look him in the eye. What she saw hurt her heart.

While they all waited in still-stunned silence, Chloe struggled

to sort through the evening’s events. A young couple rushed past

carrying a child wrapped in a blanket. A woman’s voice paged a

doctor. A janitor began mopping the floor, leaving a strong disin-

fectant smell behind. Finally Chloe asked, “Does anyone know

why Emil would do what he did?”

“He’s obviously mentally ill,” Howard muttered.

“But his attacks weren’t random,” Chloe said. “Why Petra? Why

Mom?” Roelke gave her a tiny warning headshake, but she already

knew better than to share their speculation about Adelle.

Chief Moyer appeared in the doorway, natty as ever in another

plaid sports jacket. He pointed at Roelke and beckoned. Chloe fol-

lowed too. She deserved—needed—to hear whatever was to be

said.

They huddled in a quiet corner. “I’m very glad your mother is

recovering,” Moyer told Chloe.

“What about Emil?” Roelke asked curtly.

“He’s getting his broken arm set,” Moyer said. “Investigator

Buzzelli is with him. Bergsbakken also needed stitches and a teta-

nus shot.”

I did that, Chloe thought. The memory of swinging that hackle

made her sick to her stomach … until she remembered why she’d

done it.

“Now,” Moyer was saying, “we’ll need a statement from each of

you—”

“Can we go to the farm?” Chloe asked.

311

“No,” Moyer and Roelke said in unison. “I’ve already got peo-

ple there,” the chief added.

Roelke said, “And I don’t want you anywhere near anything to

do with Emil Bergsbakken.”

“I understand all that, but—the thing is, I really,
really
need to go back there.”

“Why?” Roelke asked.

This was not the moment to describe what she’d perceived

swirling through the layers of time in Emil’s farmhouse. “I think I can help figure out what’s been happening.”

The men exchanged a glance.

“Please do not patronize me,” Chloe snapped, before Moyer

had a chance to launch into a
Don’t worry your pretty little head
speech. “Just give me a chance. The best cops in the world might

miss something that I would understand.”

“She may be right,” Roelke said quietly. “She’s helped me with

stuff like this before.”

Moyer spread his hands in acquiescence. “All right. My car’s

outside.” He started to shrug into the overcoat he’d been holding

over his arm, then frowned. “Don’t you two have coats?”

“We’re
fine
!” Chloe shouted, and headed toward the door.



Ten minutes later Moyer eased his car into Emil Bergsbakken’s

drive. Three other vehicles were already parked by the house. Light streamed from every window.

“You sure about this?” Roelke asked Chloe.

312

“Yeah.” She was worried about him, actually, but this had to be

done. As they started up the front steps she paused, looking up at the night. The phantoms were gone.

Chloe and Roelke followed Moyer into the front hall. He held a

whispered conversation with his officers. When Roelke toed off his boots Chloe did the same, and they both accepted the booties one

of the techs offered. “To the best of our knowledge this isn’t a

crime scene,” the chief said. “But I don’t want to take chances.

Please don’t touch anything.” He nodded to Chloe. “After you.”

Something indefinable, ephemeral, still vibrated in the house.

She straightened her shoulders. “Let’s start upstairs.”

She stopped at the top of the steps, trying to open herself.

When Moyer started to speak, she held up one hand to silence

him. The vibes were definitely stronger up here, but she sensed

that she hadn’t gone far enough.

She walked slowly down the hall. The quivering beneath her

sternum increased, pulling her past both bedroom doors to the

end of the corridor. I don’t get it, she thought. Maybe I’m about to make a fool of myself.

Then she looked up and saw a small rope loop dangling from a

square wooden hatch in the ceiling. “Up there.”

Moyer grabbed the loop and pulled. When the hatch creaked

opened, a narrow set of steps eased down to the floor. Chloe felt

Roelke’s stern gaze upon her:
You will
not
bolt up those stairs
.

The chief called two of his men to join them. “The lady wants

to see the attic. Take a look around.”

She waited impatiently as footsteps creaked above her head.

The officers came down brushing cobwebs from their clothes. “It’s

clear,” one of them said.

313

Chloe climbed to the cold attic with Chief Moyer and Roelke