Comes a Horseman (41 page)

He nodded. It was a database of articles from magazines, journals, newspapers. Very comprehensive. Having been published, the articles tended to be more thoroughly researched and better written than the average Web site. As a graduate student, he'd tapped into the database regularly.

“That article is from the
Journal of Archaeology
,” she said.

He began reading it silently.

The abandonment of the Western Settlement of Greenland in AD 1350 is one of the great mysteries of medieval history. Ninety families—there one month, gone the next, according to the records of Ivar Bardarsson, an Icelandic clerical official. In the spring of 1350, friendly Inuits brought word to the Eastern Settlement at the southern tip of Greenland that there was no one left in
Vesterbygd
—as the Western Settlement was known at the time. Bardarsson joined a group of men who went to investigate. They found dinner on the tables, kettles of stew over burnt-out fires, starving livestock in pens, but no people. Were they slaughtered by local Inuit? Did the particularly harsh winter of 1349–1350 drive them . . . somewhere? No one knows for—

“Where are you?” Alicia interrupted.

He told her.

“Okay, that's enough of that one. Here . . .” She pulled the stack of paper toward her and flipped through it. She tugged out a page and handed it to him.

“From the
Journal of Speculative Archaeology
.”

“The what?”

“It has something to do with establishing theory based on known facts; I don't know. The writer is a professor in the Archaeology Department at the University of Ontario. Check it out. Just what I underlined.”

This time he read out loud:

“‘Far from the monastic cleric history books make him out to be, Ivar Bardarsson was a ruthless “missionary of torture.” He had a penchant for stoning to death pagans who refused his efforts to convert them to Christianity, even children as young as eight. So ruthless was he that in 1341 he was exiled from Norway and sent to Greenland's Eastern Settlement, then known as Osterbygd. There, under the guise of ombudsman of the Bishop of Bergen, Bardarsson continued his practice of coerced conversion, under penalty of death.

“‘History does not tell us when Bardarsson first learned of the Western Settlement, known as Vesterbygd, but when he did, he must have felt like a child set loose in a candy store. For unlike other settlements, which were largely Christian by this time, Vesterbygd was populated entirely by pagans. When Erik the Red left Norway to settle Greenland in 984, Christianity had already begun sweeping through his motherland. His ships bore both Christians and pagans. To maintain peace in his budding new world, Erik separated the religions. The pagans settled in Vesterbygd. Generation after generation, Vesterbygd not only held on to its pagan beliefs, it became fiercely anti-Christian. When the Norse, as a people group, converted to Christianity, the violent passion it applied to plundering and conquering the Saxons now turned to converting unbelievers. Indeed, Bardarsson's barbaric conversion techniques were nothing more than a product of his heritage. To the pagans in Vesterbygd, Christians were seen as a bloodthirsty people.

“‘By the time Bardarsson set sail for Vesterbygd . . .'”

Brady stopped and looked at Alicia. “This guy's not trying to say Bardarsson wiped out the Western Settlement, is he?”

“It's even stranger than that. Read on.”

“‘By the time Bardarsson set sail for Vesterbygd, he had been planning the excursion for some two years. Word of his intentions reached Britain, where it piqued the interest of a pseudo-religious organization called
Excubitor
. This organization shared Vesterbygd's disdain for Christianity. In a letter from the Archduke of—'”

“Just what's underlined.”

Brady's eyes darted ahead. “‘The group reached Vesterbygd ahead of Bardarsson. It convinced the settlement's leaders to travel north, where the organization's fleet would meet them in late summer. They made a pact by which
Excubitor
would become their benefactor and help them preserve their beliefs and culture in exchange for their pledge of fealty to . . .'”

Brady read the words, then flashed his bafflement at Alicia. She smiled. He went back to the page.

“‘Fealty to the coming Antichrist, who was prophesied to defeat Christianity and restore the world to Asetru.'”

“That's the Viking religion. I looked it up.”

“But it's not even true. The Antichrist doesn't defeat Christianity.”

Alicia shrugged. “Anything can be spun. He goes on to say he believes the people of the Western Settlement relocated to the wilds of the Northwest Territories, Canada, where their descendants are still waiting for the Antichrist.”

“Does he have proof?”

“Some . . . In the 1890s, a guy in authentic Viking garb walked into Fond du Lac, Saskatchewan, claiming to have escaped a closed community way up north. The local newspaper interviewed him and took his picture, but by the time representatives of larger papers and universities showed up, the guy had vanished. The professor cites archaeological evidence that implies the same community of people kept establishing a village and abandoning it about once every generation to move deeper into the Territories.” She shook her head. “I didn't understand half of it.”

Brady looked at her a long time. Finally, he said, “So what you're saying is that the Pelletier killer came from this lost Viking settlement?”

She threw up her hands. “I don't know, Brady. I'm just doing research, and this stuff popped up. I think it's pretty interesting. Is it pertinent? I don't know. Is it a coincidence these Vikings are waiting for the Antichrist and all the Pelletier victims are linked by their interest in religion? I don't know. But let me show you one more thing.”

His head lolled back.

“Just a few sentences, okay?” She found the printout she wanted. “Right here . . . ‘The Vikings of Greenland and later of Newfoundland and Labrador were fierce and accomplished hunters. Their success can be credited in no small part to their skills as breeders and trainers of hunting dogs. The first recorded crossbreeding of a gray wolf and a German shepherd can be traced to the village of Brattahlid in 1062. Within two decades, every Norse hunter in Greenland owned a wolf-dog hybrid, which was trained to bring down an animal or incapacitate it until the hunter arrived.'”

She looked up.

Brady said, “Wow.”

Alicia nodded.

Lost in thought, he stood and headed for the bathroom. “I need a shower,” he mumbled. Then he turned to her. “What are we supposed to do, find a Norse tribe that's been lost for seven hundred years?”

“Not necessarily. If the
Excubitor
is still their benefactor, maybe all we have to do is find it.”

“An organization, probably
older
than seven hundred years?” Brady said. “No problem.” He paused. “
Excubitor
. . . did you search the Net for that too?”

“I did. No hits, except for
Lanius excubitor
. It's a bird. Oh, and I found out
excubitor
is a Latin word.”

“For . . . ?”

“Watchmen or watchers.”

Brady nodded absently and strolled into the bathroom, still trying to get his mind around all she had laid on him.

WHEN HE came out, Alicia was cursing at her computer.

“Uhhh!” she said loudly and slammed her laptop shut.

“What?” Brady asked.

“We've been locked out of the system, out of the National Crime Information Center.”

“What? Try my password—”

“I already did.” She waved off his baffled expression. “I've had your password since the day we started working together.”

“Of course. Who would've . . . ?” He sat on the edge of his bed. “They've connected us to Malik's and Apollo's deaths already.”

She shook her head no. “Last night, after you'd been attacked, I asked you a question.”

“Who knew where to find me.”

She nodded. “The same person who knew I went to New York to pursue the Father McAfee lead.”

“Gilbreath,” Brady said.

John Gilbreath, head of the Bureau's laboratory and training divisions. The Evidence Response Team Unit was part of the laboratory, while profiling inexplicably fell under the banner of “training.” Since the experimental team of which Brady and Alicia were a part was composed of personnel from both divisions, Gilbreath was their immediate supervisor.

She nodded. Her jaw was tight.

“Wait a minute,” he said. He tried to envision their boss as betrayer, as murderer. The man was a go-getter with political aspirations, but did that mean he'd do
anything
to achieve his goals—assuming their deaths would somehow boost his career? Even with his education in psychology, Brady couldn't imagine how a person so seemingly together could hide this level of malice.

“Why him?” he asked. “I mean, anyone could have hacked into the Bureau's system and gotten my address. No computer is impenetrable.”

“The person who knew where to find us had to know two things. First, he had to know where to find you at that precise time yesterday. So he not only had to have your home address, but he also had to know you were home from the investigation. Second, he knew I
wasn't
home. In fact, he knew I wasn't even in Colorado. But in New York, of all places. Finding one of us . . . okay, a hacker could do that. But both of us at the same time and with me in a new location? No, that's a combination lock that only one person has the right numbers to.”

She saw that he wasn't convinced. She rose from the chair and began to pace.

“All right, Brady. For whatever reason, somebody wants to kill us. He needs to know where to go and when to go there, right? And just for argument's sake, this person is not Gilbreath. What does he do?”

“He taps our phones.”

“Okay. You probably called Zach to let him know you were coming home, right?”

He nodded.

“When I called Gilbreath last night to ask him to let me pursue the McAfee lead, I was on the hotel phone. Did this UNSUB tap that too?”

“Maybe Gilbreath's line was tapped.”

“At his home, to find
us
? That's a long shot.”

“What about someone else in the Bureau?”

“Okay,” she said, nodding appreciatively. “I can count on one hand the colleagues who probably know my address. You?”

“'Bout the same.”

“So it's someone with enough clout to get into the personnel files. Now, when Gilbreath gave me permission to go, he said it was off the record for one day, just to see what I could uncover. He didn't want to step on any toes, so he didn't even tell the investigation's team leader what I was up to. You know how tight-lipped the Bureau is, even within itself. Who would he tell? The deputy director? That's who
he
answers to.”

She almost had him. Almost.

“And remember, Brady,
I
didn't know I was coming to New York until after midnight on the day we were attacked. That's moving pretty fast.”

Nudging him a little closer to her way of thinking.

“Let's say it's somebody totally outside the Bureau,” she said, on a roll now. “The same person controlling the killer. To piece everything together—where and when to find us—he'd have to have access to the Bureau files and credit card processing databases and probably tap a dozen phones or so.”

She stopped pacing.

“Or . . . ,” she said, “he could be John Gilbreath and have all the information at his fingertips.”

He nodded slowly.

“Look, he's the place to start. If it's not him, no harm, no foul.”

“Okay,” Brady agreed. “So what do we do?”

“We have to go see him.”

“He leaves early on Fridays,” Brady said. “If we leave now, we'll just make it.”

“No,” she said, a devious expression touching her eyes and her lips. “I have something else in mind.”

54

J
ohn Gilbreath awoke suddenly at 12:37. Jaundiced light from a nearby street lamp filtered through sheers on the windows that flanked the bed. Jet shadows clung like putty to the edges of the room. Something had woken him, but what? His wife, Candice, inhaled loudly beside him. It sounded nasal, almost a snore. Not at all like the demure respiration he'd come to find so soothing on restless nights.

“Hon?” His gravelly whisper grated against the house's tomblike silence.

Another loud breath, this time the mother of all snores.

He shifted onto his left hip, propping himself up with an arm. His other hand fished forward, and he found Candice under their light quilt and cotton sheets. He could just make out the shape of her face in the dark. He shook her gently.

“Candice?”

Another shake, another snore.