Season of the Witch (6 page)

My headline isn’t, after all,
Rage at Reydin
. It is:

SENSITIVE TIMES IN REYDARGERDI
says chief of police
Seven in custody on the weekend after bar brawl

I submit my piece online, and Jóa sends her photos in. I’m not looking forward to the four-hour drive in the dark across the highlands back to Akureyri. Then I remember the woman who fell into the river. I phone Akureyri District Hospital
.
The patient is still unconscious. It appears that she suffered a severe blow to the head, although she was wearing a safety helmet. She is believed to have hit the rocks face-first when she fell into the icy water. They can give no information about the woman’s prognosis, but I learn that the husband regained consciousness soon after the incident and was discharged. He is as well as can be expected and is with his wife.

So we employ the latest technology to send our account and photos of the trip that ended so tragically. And finally Jóa and I embark on our own journey into the wilderness.

I am jolted awake as I sit in my closet with my feet on the desk, dozing. Someone’s shaking me and shouting. What’s up? Is this, finally, the End of the World?

I swing around in my chair. Ásbjörn is standing there, his bloated face deathly pale with distress. I’m still confused.

Are we under attack by terrorists?

“Pal’s missing! Einar! Pal’s missing!”

I rub my eyes. I’m dog-tired. Jóa and I took turns at the wheel on the way home. We didn’t get back to Akureyri until almost two o’clock last night. Jóa’s probably still fast asleep in bed.

I glance at my watch. It’s nearly 1:00 p.m.

“Sorry, Ásbjörn. Would you mind saying that again?”

“Pal is missing.”

I’ve never seen him so upset. I want to laugh, but I can’t find the energy. So I say:

“I’m sorry to hear that. What happened?”

Ásbjörn paces back and forth across the floor, two steps each way. “Karólína took him for his walk this morning as usual and let him off the leash for a run on the hillside below the church.
She’s been doing it every day since we came here, and there’s never been any problem. Pal’s well brought up. He knows what’s allowed and what isn’t. He always comes back, and he always obeys when we call him. But this time…”

He takes out a polka-dot handkerchief and blows his nose.

“What happened this time?” I inquire.

“Some woman stopped Karólína to ask for directions. When she was gone, and my wife started looking around for Pal, he wasn’t there. Disappeared. Into thin air.”

Ásbjörn repeats the fact, as if unable to believe it.

“She called and called and searched and searched…”

“And Pal had simply vanished? Into thin air?” I remark.

He shakes his head, over and over again. “You may find this amusing, Einar. But it isn’t, not for Karólína. It isn’t amusing for us.”

I stand up and pat him on the shoulder. “No. I understand that it’s been a shock for you. But have you contacted the police? Perhaps someone’s found Pal and taken him down to the station?”

He doesn’t seem to hear me. “We’ve been all over the town center, and we’ve driven all around the suburbs. It’s as if…”

“As if the earth had swallowed him?”

He gazes soulfully at me.

“I say again, Ásbjörn—and please listen to me—what about the police? Have you called the police?”

“Yes, I have an old friend on the force here, and he’s been asking around. But no one has contacted them. In fact, he’s even exceeded his authority and asked the police officers on the beat to keep their eyes open. But nothing…”

“Hang on. When did this happen?”

“Nine o’clock this morning.”

“But that’s only four hours ago. You must be patient. Of course the dog will turn up.”

“You don’t understand, Einar. Pal’s no ordinary dog. He’s very sensitive to change. New people. New places…”

He’s not the only one
, I think to myself. I don’t know what to say next.

I lead Ásbjörn to the break room and pour us both a coffee, black without sugar. We stand there for a while, sipping at our drinks.

“Where’s Karólína?” I ask.

“She’s out looking for him. She’s absolutely devastated. I don’t know…she might…I don’t know.” He shakes his head again, as if he hopes to shake something loose.

“I suppose Pal has a collar with his name and address?”

“Only for our address in Reykjavík. During the move, we forgot to update it.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” I cautiously offer.

He hesitates, then summons up courage. “Could you do a short interview with Karólína for tomorrow’s paper, with a photo of Pal? Maybe someone will recognize him.”

I’m lost for words.

“It would make her feel so much better,” he adds with an expression that combines embarrassment and entreaty in about equal proportions.

“Well, Ásbjörn, that would hardly count as news. You know that as well as I do.”

He looks down. “I know. Of course. But I was hoping you could find an angle. Human interest. Something like that. For the inside pages.”

I think about it.
Dog Goes Missing
isn’t much of a headline. Then I have an idea.

“Maybe we could place Pal in a wider context. The move to a new home, getting lost. We could see Pal as a newcomer here, just like us. Or the outsiders in Reydargerdi…”

Ásbjörn flings up his hands in delight and smiles from ear to sticking-out ear. Quite unprecedented, and more than a little disquieting.

“Brilliant! Abso-fucking-lutely brilliant!”

Never before have I heard this overgrown Boy Scout use such language. He’s clearly beside himself.

“Einar!” he exclaims. “That’s pure genius! Thank you, with all my heart.”

I think I spot a tear in his eye.

And when I’ve created a little canine drama, with an interview with a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and sent it south to the head office accompanied by a photo of the Missing Mutt, I find myself at a loss. What on earth am I doing here? What have I got myself into? Has the world become a madhouse? And am I the maddest, baddest of them all?

I have the impression that news editor Trausti Löve would have answered
yes
to the last of my questions. “Excuse me, but do you think we’ve launched an Akureyri branch, at vast expense, just so that we can advertise for lost dogs?” he snapped.

But I’d got all my ducks in a row. I’d called Hannes and explained the situation.

“I feel we should do this as a favor to Ásbjörn, my dear sir,” he said. “But it will be up to you to ensure the paper is not flooded with more stories of lost dogs, or cats, in Akureyri. We can’t allow this to become a precedent. We have more important uses for our column space. Such as the article from Reydargerdi you and Jóa contributed to today’s paper. Excellent work.”

I thanked him, on both counts. Then I went on: “I have my doubts about this Akureyri business, Hannes. I’m not at all sure it’s going to work. I don’t like…”

“Nonsense!” replied Hannes. “Things are progressing in the right direction. We’re already seeing increased sales in the north and east of the country—subscriptions are up, and also retail sales and advertising. It’s all going as planned. You must give it time, sir, time.”

In my case, giving it time is largely a matter of hanging in here until my daughter comes to visit me.

What are those naked people up to?

I gaze up at the painted ceiling of the whitewashed Café Amor on Town Hall Square. But I soon get a stiff neck, so instead I look at the view from the window, at the
Afternoon News
offices across the square, and the National Bank next door, like a miniature version of their Reykjavík headquarters. And the square itself seems like a miniaturized version of Ingólfstorg square in Reykjavík.

Then I swing my head back again to contemplate the naked people on the ceiling.

The café takes its name from the god of love. Are the naked people Doing It? Nope. They’re dropping glasses and cups… I make no more progress in my critique of the ceiling art. Jóa sweeps in and joins me at the table.

“What are you having?”

“Cappuccino. You want one?”

“Not now. I’m going to take a look around town and take some pics for our files. Can I have the car?”

“No problem,” I reply, handing her the keys and pointing out my heap of rust, parked outside a shop on the left of the square.

It is four o’clock this Monday afternoon. The weather has warmed up, overcast and windless. I should think the locals may be worried about the lack of snow on the ski slopes. They’ve been advertising for weeks that ski conditions would be excellent on the Akureyri pistes over Easter.

“But I really think we should be allowed to go home early, after all the rushing around we did over the weekend.”

“I agree,” says Jóa. “When shall I pick you up?”

“Oh, about five thirty. Ásbjörn’s on his way over here. Asked me to meet him. Don’t know why. He’s awfully upset about the mutt.”

“Poor guy. His wife’s a bit odd, don’t you think?”

I shrug and light a cigarette.

Jóa stands up. “Have you stopped drinking completely, Einar?”

I make a face. “I don’t know. How do you ever know whether anything’s stopped completely?”

“But why did you stop?”

“Well, Hannes made it clear to me that the paper’s tolerance quota had run out.”

“Surely that wasn’t the first time?”

“No, not at all. But somehow I couldn’t go on like that. I’d had enough of myself. I didn’t feel I could spend the rest of my life with Jim Beam as my only companion. You know, Jim once said to me:
I’m good company along the way, but I’m not good at being in charge.
I wanted to show Ole Jim that I’m in charge, not him. I suppose that was it…”

“But why didn’t you go into rehab, like everyone else?”

“Oh, I can’t do what everyone else does. I loathe uniforms. Can you imagine me in regulation pajamas, robe, and slippers?”

She grins. “Maybe not.”

“It’s OK. I’m doing fine.”

Lying through my teeth.

“Good,” says Jóa with a farewell salute.

As I order another cappuccino I see Ásbjörn bustling across the square toward me.
Is he feeling like I did last summer, when Gunnsa went missing on our vacation?
I wonder.

He orders a beer and takes a seat next to me, sweaty and shaky.

“I just want to thank you again, Einar, for being so helpful to Karólína and me.”

“I’m glad to help, Ásbjörn. I just hope it leads to something.”

He sits in silence and drinks deeply of his beer before changing his mind and returning most of it to the glass.

I wait for him to speak.

He takes another drink, a big one, swallowing this time. “I, um…,” he mumbles, then clears his throat. “I…Something odd is happening, Einar. I know we haven’t been close friends—far from it. I know you find me…how can I put this…”

“Not necessarily the best company?”

“Yes, that’ll do. And the feeling is mutual. But I want to ask your views on something…” He hesitates. “Something odd is happening. I’m getting mysterious phone calls. At work and at home. Sometimes at night.”

“Ah,” I remark. I lean toward him across the table, my curiosity aroused. “What’s so mysterious about these calls?”

“The person always hangs up when I answer. Karólína has answered twice, and those were hang-ups too. It’s driving her crazy.”

“Do you have caller ID?”

“Yes, but it just says
unknown number
.”

“Isn’t it possible that you’re using a phone number that someone else had before? That the caller’s trying to reach another person?”

Ásbjörn takes another sip of his beer.

“And it could be more than one person trying to reach them?”

“Yes, I’ve considered that. Thousands of times. But it doesn’t make sense. Then I wouldn’t be getting calls at work too. Those phone numbers are new.”

I have a thought. “That’s true. Have you spoken to your policeman buddy?”

He shakes his head.

“Have you any idea who it could be? Can you think of anyone?”

As I finish speaking, the café door is flung open, and the good ship Karólína steams over to our table. I don’t like the expression on her face, but Ásbjörn has his back to her and doesn’t notice the trouble heading our way.

“What is the meaning of this!” she shrieks.

Taken aback, Ásbjörn awkwardly struggles to his feet.

“Little Pal’s missing, and you sit here at the bar enjoying a beer! I just don’t know…”

“But Karó dear, it’s only a half-pint of beer…”

I haven’t heard his nickname for his wife before.

“…and I haven’t even drunk half…”

“You half-wit! You’re coming with me right now, Ásbjörn Grímsson, to help me search. I’m speechless…”

And with that, Ásbjörn Grímsson is led away in custody.

I’ve just gotten back to my desk, and I’m about to pick up the phone to call the hospital when the goddamned cell phone starts yapping at me.

“Listen, great doggy detective,” cackles Trausti Löve, “are you forgetting
Question of the Day
? It was supposed to be in an hour ago.”

Son of a bitch.

“Ohhh,” I groan. “Yes, I’d forgotten that ridiculous bullshit. I’ve been toiling away all weekend and all day. Can’t you let me off…?”