Nathan Ballingstead had told me Birdhouse raised sheep on a remote island, the Faeroes or Hebrides or Orkney. He’d been right: he just had the wrong island. I tried to imagine how a middle-aged one-hit wonder could become the person who’d shot the photos in Skalltrolleri.
But just like the rest of the planet, the music world has no lack of white nationalists and white supremacists, especially these days. Hard-core rock and rollers and fingerpickers in the American heartland, Scandinavian metalheads and folk singers, and, apparently, an English folk-rock balladeer. At some point, Birdhouse’s nostalgia for an England that never was had tipped over into hatred for those he believed had destroyed it.
Was it enough to turn him into a killer?
I had no proof that he’d done anything except contribute to the planet’s vast landfill of forgotten vinyl, cassettes, and CDs. Birdhouse’s songs had always shown a love for puns and clever wordplay; any die-hard fan might have decoded the anagram before I did, but how many of them would know about Skalltrolleri? The book had such a limited print run that only a few members of his extremist cohort might ever have seen it. Same with fans of bands like Jötunn’s Egg. If they were in on the joke, they might have been reluctant to blow his cover. If word ever got out beyond his Nazi fan club, his mainstream career would be over. But that had pretty much deep-sixed a long time ago.
Yet could Birdhouse have known about The Book of Lamps and Banners? Nathan had recalled talking to someone at a book signing, someone who’d gotten wind that Harold Vertigan had a line on an extremely rare volume. Had that person been Birdhouse? Had he then killed Harold and stolen the book?
I’d found darts and that eerie eye-shaped target in the woods, etorphine and a Svarlight poster in a nearby shed. How hard would it be for a sheep farmer to get his hands on a half gallon of animal tranquilizer?
Probably not very. I’d seen a documentary where a biologist nailed a charging grizzly between the eyes with a single tranquilizer dart. At close enough range—in a small room, or somehow hidden in a crowd, or at point-blank range if you were shooting a dog—someone who’d spent hours at target practice might do pretty much the same thing.
That could explain Harold’s death and the theft of The Book of Lamps and Banners. What about Tindra’s disappearance?
I sank onto the bathroom floor, staring at the piece of paper. I’d believed that Tindra had returned to Kalkö to confront her father and the man who’d abused her.
But her father was dead.
I’d assumed the other man must be Erik—but what if he wasn’t? What if he was the same man who’d taken the photos in Skalltrolleri—Gwilym Birdhouse?