The Raven (A Jane Harper Horror Novel) Page 3

  “What would your father think?” Jakob says.

  Somewhere deep in my mind, a countdown commences. I’m about to go nuclear on Jakob. Bringing the Colonel into this argument is a low blow. I haven’t even been able to return to the States to say good-bye at his grave. Jakob should have known better than to pick at that fresh scab.

  It takes all of my effort to walk away, and I’m sure Willem is calling after me. But I’m not really hearing him. I yank open the bridge door and step out into the frigid October air. The sun is low on the horizon, casting the distant islands and line of docks in a striking orange glow. But I hardly notice as I storm down the exterior steps to the main deck. I don’t see a ramp bridging the ship and dock, so I head for the rail.

  A large man turns at my approach. His eyes go wide when he sees me. It’s Malik. He’s talking to me. By the look on his face, he’s probably apologizing, even though he had every reason to want my head bashed in. Rather than listen to his apology, I climb the rail and hop onto the dock. When he looks over the rail at me, I flip him the bird and say, “Fuck off.”

  I’m not only the queen of bad first impressions. I’m the dark overlord of even worse second impressions, mostly because the first could be chalked up to alcohol consumption. This one’s all me.

  Not that it matters. Malik, like the rest of them, will be just another dead seaman at the bottom of the ocean soon enough.

  “Idiots,” I mutter as I charge up the dock, my feet stomping over the old wooden beams. “Stupid Viking macho idiots.” I don’t look back as I walk away, not because I don’t care, but because I might change my mind. I’m sure they’re standing there, watching me leave like a bunch of pitiful sad puppies. The thought is too much, and I can’t help but look back.

  There are no puppy-dog eyes beckoning me back. No one is watching. Part of me is grateful—it means I can go without an extra layer of guilt—but part of me is hurt by how easily they let me go. It’s a stupid girlie thing to do. The Colonel would call it “acting nancy,” but I am a girl.

  I’m about to turn forward again when I catch the bright white name stenciled on the back of the jet-black ship. Raven. I shake my head. Are they inviting ironic deaths? “Idiots,” I say again, and then start the two-mile walk back to my apartment.

  5

  My apartment is a two-room gem on the tenth floor of the second Jagtvej tower. Together, the twelve-story buildings are the tallest in the country, which means I nearly have the best view in Greenland. While the people on the two floors above have slightly higher elevation, it’s really the people on the other side of the building—the ocean side—who got the best view. The view from my side is all mountain. Beautiful, but stark and unmoving. When the sunset reflects off the snowy peaks, it’s quite striking, but I’d prefer a view of the ocean, especially now that I’m wondering if Willem and Jakob really did set sail without me.

  I haven’t changed my mind. Hell, I’m eating a freshly nuked Hungry-Man dinner—Salisbury steak, though how much cow is really in this thing is debatable—with slippered feet propped up on the cardboard box serving as my coffee table.

  I’ve only been here for two months and haven’t bothered properly furnishing the place. My bedroom has a mattress on the floor and stacks of cardboard boxes for shelves. The kitchenette has a frying pan, a single pot, and a few utensils for cooking, left behind by the previous tenant. But I mostly use the microwave for cooking or order out. The flat-screen TV is my nicest possession, but I didn’t buy it. I found it in the trash and fixed it by replacing a five-dollar fuse. I’ve used it primarily for watching Star Trek reruns and movies. The reruns play on TV quite frequently, but the DVDs are pirated copies from a guy on the third floor.

  It’s not that I’m a spendthrift or have bad taste—I just don’t think I’ll be staying here long, whether I’m allowed to head home to the States or carted off in the paddy wagon. That’s not entirely true. I’ve toyed with the idea of staying, mostly because of Willem, but I’m not sure what, if anything, is really between us. And after the way I’ve acted these past few months, I’m not sure he’d want there to be anything between us, except maybe the Atlantic Ocean. Which is likely now the case.

  My stomach churns, but it might be from the still half-frozen corn I just swallowed or from my growing fear that I’ll never see Willem, or Jakob, again. Should I have gone? Should I have embraced my inner Viking and sailed to battle a mythical creature in search of a glorious death or even more glorious victory? Despite what most people think of me, I’m still sane and logical, and that Spock-like part of me says no. Going in search of Draugar, whether on land or on the ocean, is idiotic. But the part of me that listened to the Colonel tell tales of standing by his brothers, of dragging their dying or dead bodies to safety, of taking a bullet to save a comrade—that part of me feels ashamed for staying behind.

  I drown my guilt in a greasy mouthful of Salisbury slop and turn on the TV. I don’t bother changing the channel. I watch the same thing every evening—the local news—watching for signs. But mostly I see stories about art fairs, prize-winning goats, the fishing industry, and the infrequent crime. This time the top story is about fishing, with an Inuit reporter and the usual closed-caption translation to English scrolling along the bottom of the screen. Another record haul. Interviews with fishermen, fish market owners, and consumers come and go as I chisel out my dessert brownie, which resembles a hunk of coal. Everyone sees the upswing in the fishing market as a boon. After all, it’s the economic backbone of this nation with little else in the way of natural resources. So no one stops to think about why there are more fish.

  “It’s because there are no predators,” I growl before taking a bite of brownie. After nearly chipping my tooth on the brownie, I lean back in my yard-sale-acquired chair and take aim for the cardboard box serving as my trash can. My throw is wide, and the stone-like confection slips beneath the small fridge to join a bevy of prior missed shots.

  I turn back toward the TV and see a still photo of a large cruise ship. My eyes flit to the closed-caption translation.

  The Poseidon Adventure was last seen picking up passengers in Ireland before embarking on an Arctic cruise with a final destination in Nuuk.

  An Irish man in a suit appears on the screen. The label at the bottom of the screen identifies him as Sean O’Reilly, an executive at the company who owns the cruise ship. “We’re still investigating the ship’s disappearance. While it is likely a simple technical issue, we’re not ruling anything out at this point.”

  The Inuit reporter returns, as does the translation.

  That statement, given yesterday, seems to be less likely as the Poseidon Adventure missed a scheduled docking check-in this morning. Search crews have been dispatched to the North Atlantic between Iceland and Greenland in hope of spotting the ship carrying two thousand passengers and five hundred crew on what was to be the final Arctic voyage of the season.

  I’m perched so close to the edge of my seat that I nearly fall to the floor. Had I not just heard Jakob’s missing-boat theory, I might not have thought twice about a cruise ship going missing. After all, what can a whale or walrus do to a ship that size? The answer is “Nothing,” but given the other ships going missing, it fits the larger pattern. I pick up my phone, hoping the Raven is still within cell range. I may not be going with them, but I can at least let them know about this—

  “The hell?” I shout when my face appears on the screen alongside Willem and Jakob. I lock my eyes on the translated text and am so angry that I have to scan each line several times to retain the words.

  Authorities are searching for the whereabouts of all three survivors of the seafaring disaster that claimed dozens of lives, including many local Greenlanders. Jakob Olavson, captain of the whaling ship Bliksem, and his son, Willem, along with the American Jane Harper, raised eyebrows and ignited fears of foul play when they returned with a tale of treachery and fantastical mythology. All three were treated for physical wounds and psychologica
lly evaluated before being released with orders to not leave the country while their claims were investigated. Local police had no comment on the progress of their investigation but confirmed they were recently alerted that the trio might be attempting to flee.

  “I’m right here!” I shout. “I’m not going anywhere!”

  A police officer appears on the screen. His words are translated a few moments after he speaks them.

  The Olavsons and Ms. Harper wore ankle monitors, which allows us to track their locations. We don’t constantly monitor their positions, but if they roam to certain forbidden locations—out to sea, or to an airport—the trackers send a warning signal.

  “I’m right here!”

  But in this case, the warning signal indicated that all three individuals removed their ankle monitors, within minutes of each other, earlier today in downtown Nuuk.

  My eyes go wide. I swear I can feel the thing still wrapped around my ankle, but I yank up my pant leg and look down. Sonofabitch. I’ve got an ankle bracelet all right, but I’m pretty sure the duct tape and cigarette box don’t transmit my location very well.

  “Assholes!” I shout, tearing the duct tape away. I can’t believe they did this to me. Whether or not I’m found guilty of whatever crimes they determine to have been committed on that island, I’m going to spend some time in jail for removing the monitor. In fact, they might not let me out again until the trial. “Assholes!” I repeat.

  More text rolls onto the screen.

  Authorities tracked the three signals north to Holsteinsborg, where they believe the trio has gone into hiding, or perhaps continued north, where their trail will be harder to follow. At this time, the police aren’t certain why the three are acting together, or what their ultimate goal is, but one thing is for certain—a nationwide manhunt is under way. If you have seen—

  I turn away from the screen, head reeling. I want answers to a slew of questions, but I can’t focus on them. I’m in fight-or-flight mode. On one hand, I could call the police right now. If they believe me about what happened, I might be okay, but I’d be implicating Jakob and Willem in the removal of my monitor and also in kidnapping me, at least temporarily. If they use a lie detector on me, they might even figure out I know what Jakob and Willem are up to. I may not have joined their suicide mission, but I’m not going to turn them in.

  Which, I realize, they know.

  “Assholes!” The word is becoming my mantra. The Olavsons have given me no choice. I have to go with them or go to jail and be forced to turn against them.

  My TV dinner tumbles to the floor as I rush to the bedroom. I grab my backpack, stuff my few outfits inside, add what I call my “Draugr emergency kit”—a foldable hunting knife, an ultrabright, long-lasting LED flashlight, and a Glock 19 handgun, which I would certainly go to jail for if it were discovered. I have an aluminum baseball bat, too, but decide that might draw too much attention.

  With my bag packed, I return to my closet and take the one item I retained from my encounter with the Draugar, the black hooded cloak that kept me warm and resulted in my Raven nickname. The cloak originally belonged to Greg Chase, the Sentinel’s D&D-loving first mate, who started out a coward and later died fighting for his friends. The memory of Chase and his sacrifice brings fresh guilt to the surface. Am I acting like he did at first?

  I push the question aside. I have no choice now. Guilt be damned. Time is short. I button the cloak around my neck and raise the hood. It will hide my face nicely. I throw the backpack over my shoulder, turn to the front door, and freeze.

  A shadow shifts beneath the door frame.

  Someone is there. A firm double knock confirms it. “Ms. Harper,” says a deep masculine voice. “Open the door.”

  6

  My feet don’t make a sound on the fluffy blue rug as I tiptoe to the door. During my silent transit, the man outside knocks again, but he doesn’t call out this time.

  Isn’t he supposed to identify himself as police? I think, but then remember I’m not in the States. Things are no doubt different in Greenland. I really don’t know. Nor do I care. Anyone standing outside shouting my name is a bad thing. Could even be a neighbor hoping to turn me in.

  I slip up to the door and put my eye to the peephole. The fish-eye lens stretches out the body of an already lanky man standing outside the door. He’s wearing some silly, thick-rimmed hipster glasses that look too young for his fortysomething face, rough skin, and brown hair that’s been combed over to disguise—or not disguise, as the case may be—his thinning hair. I’ve grown accustomed to the area’s big, burly fishermen, so the man isn’t intimidating physically, but the tan trench coat screams “detective.” Of course, he could be a flasher, too, for all I know, but I’m not taking chances.

  The man looks down the hallway, searching in both directions for a moment. Then he steps closer and raises his fist to knock again. His coat shifts, revealing a holstered weapon. Definitely a cop of some type, but that changes nothing. I’m committed. After his first knock, I grip the door handle. As his fist comes down again, I twist the handle and yank open the door.

  The man’s second knock finds nothing but air, and his fist extends into the apartment. I snatch his wrist and pull. With a surprised yelp, he stumbles forward, right into my fist. A wheeze squeaks from the man’s lips. As he bends forward, I reach around his waist and free his gun from its holster.

  Before the man can recover, I step back and mimic a wrestling move I’ve seen a thousand times. Normally the opponent would be thrown into the ropes and bounce back for a clothesline strike across the throat, but my adversary finds the room’s only chair far less flexible. He catches the chair back at waist level and pitches forward.

  A moment later, from the hall, I hear him spill to the floor with a groan, landing atop my cardboard coffee table and hastily discarded Salisbury steak. When I push the elevator call button down the hall and the doors slide open immediately, I know there is no way the man will catch me. Even better, I managed to keep my hood down for the duration of the attack. He won’t be able to ID me, and claiming that my disheveled apartment had been burgled won’t be much of a stretch. Of course, my current plan of action will either end in my death, never returning to Greenland, or my return with evidence that clears my name.

  As the elevator descends ten floors, I tuck the man’s small Ruger handgun, what my father would have called a “ladies’ weapon,” behind my back. When the doors open on the bottom floor, I exit casually and head toward the exit. I pass a couple entering the building but only see their feet as I keep my head down and face concealed.

  A brisk breeze billows the cloak out behind me as I exit the building. A lot of people in Nuuk don’t have cars. When it’s warm enough, many people walk or bike wherever they’re going, but that’s just a small portion of the year, so Nuuk sports a good number of taxis, and there are always a few outside the country’s largest and most populated buildings. I flag down the first one I see and slip into the backseat, never revealing my face.

  “The docks,” I say.

  “Fishing or pleasure?” the cabbie asks in perfect English. He’s a local Inuit, but Nuuk sees a lot of tourism and the best cabbies know that Americans tip well. So they learn the language in search of tips. Some even fake an accent.

  “Fishing,” I say. “Quickly.”

  I leave the cab five minutes later and hurry to the dock, my pace quickening. I’m a fugitive, after all, and the Raven’s hidden by a string of ships. An old coot with a thick tan mustache watches me approach, one eyebrow perched high on his forehead.

  Ten seconds later, I have my answer.

  “Shit!” I shout. “Son of a bitch!”

  The Raven is gone.

  They left without me.

  They gave me no choice but to come with them, and then they left without me?

  “Assholes!”

  “’Scuse me, ma’am,” says the old man from the bench.

  Fuming, I keep my back to him.

&n
bsp; “Ma’am?” the man says.

  I spin around. “What!”

  He’s right there, just a foot away. His mustache twitches as one side of his mouth bends up in an awkward smile. “Couldn’t help but overhear your filthy mouth.”

  I’m about to treat him to a second dose of my filthy mouth when his accent registers. I pause, confused, and ask, “You’re from Texas?”

  He gives a nod. “Born and raised.”

  The mustache fits now, but the winter cap and thick jacket seem out of place. I squint at him. “You’re not a cop, are you?”

  “Texas Ranger for twenty years,” he says.

  I take a step back.

  “No offense, ma’am, but you wouldn’t make it three steps.” He lifts his jacket, flashing a six-shooter. “Not that I’d pop you,” he says with grin.

  “What do you want?” I ask.

  “Friend of mine asked me to sit for a spell on this here bench.” He motions to the bench. “Told me to wait on a lady who’s not all that ladylike. Said I’d know it was you on account of your filthy mouth, that you’d be cussing like a fox with its tail on fire—could foxes speak. Turns out it was a perfect description.” He looks me up and down. “Physical description wasn’t too far off, neither. Raven indeed.”

  “Jakob,” I say, though it’s more of a grumble.

  “The same,” he says, then raises a finger. “Quick disclaimer. I had nothing to do with the shenanigans that brought you here. Fact is, I thought it was a bad idea.”

  “Doesn’t really matter,” I say. “I’m here now. Like it or not.”

  “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to be on your good side, ma’am. You’ve got a reputation, and I’d rather not be Tasered or thrown over your living room chair.”