Free Comes a Horseman by Robert Liparulo Page B

chest. Of course, he’d known the boy occupied this position on the list. But here he was, the next to die. It made him think of his own sons. His hand rose to trinkets that dangled from braided hemp round his neck. He fingered a wood-carved Othel —a diamond shape with legs continuing beyond its bottom point. It was his people’s symbol for family. Seven-year-old Jon had spent a month whittling it in secret to present to him upon his departure. The child had kissed him and pushed his face into his breast. His tears had felt like blood trickling through Olaf ’s chest hair.
    His hand moved to a rabbit’s foot from his other son, Bjorn’s, first kill. It meant the world to the boy, so it had deeply touched Olaf when he had handed it to him. Eleven-year- old Bjorn, thinking himself a man, had held back emotionally and physically. He had hugged his papa and wished him a safe trip, and then quickly stepped away. Bjorn’s determination to be strong had meant as much as Jon’s tears.
    And now this boy, Trevor Wilson. How his parents will mourn.
    Olaf stiffened his jaw, began refolding the list.
    What must be done, must be done.
    Turning back to the exposed compartment, stashing the paper, he resolved to grant what mercy he could. He slammed down the false floor and nodded. Yes, he could do at least that. His clan’s edict to always face one’s enemy, to look him in the eye, granting him the chance—however small—to fight and triumph over his own death, did not apply to children. He would visit the boy late at night, when he was certain to be asleep.

    NEARLY HALF a world away, a cell phone rang. A man awoke, blinking against the morning sun that filled his hotel suite. He squinted at the infernally chirping device on the nightstand and picked up a jewel-encrusted watch beside it—8:50, which meant 6:50 in his own time zone. He slipped on the watch and picked up the phone.
    â€œWhat is it?” he said gruffly in his native tongue.
    The caller spoke his name. The words were filtered through an electronic voice changer, jarring him fully awake.
    â€œYes. Who is this?” He realized it was a stupid question.
    â€œSpeak English,” the caller ordered.
    He complied. “How did you get this number?”
    â€œPippino Farago is ready.”
    â€œPip?” The man sat up. “Ready for what?”
    â€œFor you. He has what you want. Be persuasive. Do it now.”
    â€œWhat do you mean? Hello?”
    The line was dead. He looked at the phone. The screen informed him that the caller was “unidentified.” Of course. But did that matter? If his information was correct, he had just received an extraordinary gift. His heart was racing when he started scrolling through the phone’s memory for Pip’s number.

9
    A licia’s lights panned into the kitchen and almost immediately captured the screaming horror of Cynthia Loeb’s severed head. It was perched upright on the edge of the counter, its chin hanging over the edge, in front of a stack of unwashed dishes and an open box of Cheez-Its.
    Alicia hitched in a sharp breath, which through her helmet’s little speakers sounded like a squawk and reverberated back to her as a piercing crack. Her shoulders came back instinctively, a slight move, exaggerated by the bulky lights mounted to them. Detective Lindsey, who was standing immediately behind her in the hall, caught one of the lights squarely in the forehead.
    â€œHey!” he yelled painfully. “Watch it now!”
    â€œSorry,” she whispered.
    He pushed past her, rubbing his head. Then he saw the thing on the counter and made a sharp choking sound.
    The tech, Fleiser, entered next, squeezing by her on the other side. He didn’t make a sound, but Alicia felt a hand grip her arm.
    â€œSo this is a Pelletier killing.” Lindsey’s voice was flat, like a documentary’s narrator. Until now, he’d had to trust the