The Wild One Read online

  ALSO BY NICK PETRIE

  Tear It Down

  Light It Up

  Burning Bright

  The Drifter

  G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

  Publishers Since 1838

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  penguinrandomhouse.com

  Copyright © 2020 by Nicholas Petrie LLC

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  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Names: Petrie, Nicholas, author.

  Title: The wild one / Nick Petrie.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019046077 (print) | LCCN 2019046078 (ebook) | ISBN 9780525535447 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780525535454 (ebook)

  Subjects: GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3616.E86645 W55 2020 (print) | LCC PS3616.E86645 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019046077

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019046078

  p. cm.

  Map by Jeffrey L. Ward

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  This book is for all those who have found themselves far afield without a map

  Contents

  Also by Nick Petrie

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  A Note on Icelandic Pronunciation

  Map

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Fall down seven times, stand up eight.

  —Japanese proverb

  He not busy being born is busy dying.

  —Bob Dylan

  A Note on Icelandic Pronunciation

  Icelandic is a challenging language. Here’s a brief, unscientific guide to pronouncing some key names and places in the book. Emphasis is always on the first syllable, and the R is rolled.

  To avoid confusion, I’ve kept accent marks but omitted special characters not used in the English language. Apologies to Icelandic speakers for this gross oversimplification of your mother tongue, not to mention my inevitable mistakes.

  NAMES

  Eiríkur—EYEE-reh-kur

  Grímsson—GRIMS-son

  Óskar—OH-scar

  Eiríksson—EYEE-reeks-son

  Hjálmar—HYOUL-mar

  Bjarni—BYAR-nee

  Freyja—FREY-yah

  Axel—AHK-sel

  Ingo—ING-go

  Yrsa—IR-sah

  Thorvaldur—TOR-val-ther

  PLACES

  Reykjavík—REYK-ya-vik

  Seydisfjordur—SAY-this-fyur-ther

  Egilsstadir—EY-eel-stah-thir

  Mývatn—ME-vatn

  Akureyri—AK-oo-rai-ree

  Blönduós—BLUN-du-os

  Skagaströnd—SKA-ga-strond

  Vatnajökull—VAT-na-yo-kut

  OTHER

  Lögreglan—LOH-reh-glan

  Mathöll—MA-thull

  Bakarí—BAKK-er-ee

  1

  TWELVE MONTHS EARLIER

  Óskar wakes them both by jumping into their bed, a warm and wiggly bundle of excitement. Erik groans, and Sarah buries her head under the covers. It’s barely dawn, and the Air and Space Museum doesn’t open until ten, but Óskar doesn’t care. He wraps himself around his father’s neck. “Happy Sunday,” Óskar whispers loudly, seven years old and unable to contain himself. “Happy Family Day!”

  Sunday is Family Day, when Óskar gets to choose an activity they will all do together. For more Sundays than Erik cares to think about, the Air and Space Museum, with a food truck lunch on the Mall, has been Óskar’s choice. But Erik is still mixing batter for Family Day pancakes when Sarah’s phone rings with a work emergency. She gives Erik an apologetic look and runs upstairs to put on work clothes.

  Erik can’t face yet another Sunday fighting the tourists for a glimpse of the moon lander without her. Instead, he drops to his knees on the dirty kitchen floor. “Óskar,” he says, “I have an idea. What would you say to a Viking adventure in Rock Creek Park?” They have been reading Neil Gaiman’s book on Norse mythology together, and the big park has plenty of wild sections and epic landscapes.

  Óskar cheers and jumps around the house, climbing the furniture while Erik stuffs a backpack with sandwiches and extra clothes and a thermos full of hot chocolate, knowing that Óskar will happily wander all day if he’s warm and fed. December weather in Washington, D.C., is nothing for a pair of real Vikings.

  * * *

  —

  After a long and muddy day of exploration, they arrive back home at the last unrestored town house in Adams Morgan. Óskar sprawls on t
he floor amid a chaos of Lego and buttery crusts of toast, while Erik stands at the open refrigerator, waiting for Sarah to text him back.

  It is unlike Sarah to ignore her phone. Erik reminds himself that his wife runs her own small cybersecurity company, and a client emergency could well be a very serious thing. She might not be home until midnight or later, and dinner won’t wait with a hungry boy in the house.

  Erik is the one who likes the predictable pleasures of domestic life. Sarah, on the other hand, thrives on emergencies. She still loves late nights dancing in clubs where the floors are sticky and the music is loud enough to lose yourself until daybreak. Erik is happy to be her designated driver because his pleasure comes from watching his brilliant, buttoned-down wife slam around the dance floor in ripped Levi’s and an ancient biker jacket, alarming the bartenders. On the wildest nights, she pulls him into the back of their minivan, where she frees him from the confines of his pants, then wiggles her tight and sweaty jeans down to her ankles to get him inside her with delicious and slightly alarming efficiency.

  His family, of course, loves Sarah’s wild side.

  Erik has chicken thighs braising and a green salad coming together when, to his surprise, Sarah bangs through the back door, her scuffed leather bag slung over one shoulder.

  As usual, Sarah’s crisp, professional look has come undone during the course of her workday. Her sandy hair falls free from its ponytail, wisps hovering around her forehead like stray thoughts. Her good wool coat is unbuttoned and the weight of her bag pulls her starched shirt askew and up the lush curve of her hips, making visible a crescent of pale skin at her waist.

  Erik always finds this aspect of his wife profoundly sexy. His plan is to put Óskar to sleep as soon as possible, pour her a drink to vanquish the day, and then do his utmost to kiss his wife out of her clothing. The calendar says she’s ovulating. Erik wants nothing more than another child.

  Yet when he steps in to press his lips to hers, she holds him back with a hand on his chest. Her eyes remain dark and he knows she has not yet resolved her emergency.

  “I need to show you something.” She slips her bag off her shoulder. “Where’s Óskar?”

  “Busy.” Erik tilts his head toward the tinkle of Lego and Óskar’s voice mumbling numbers in the living room. “What’s up?”

  Sarah sets her laptop on the counter and types in her long and complicated password, automatically positioning her body to shield her keystrokes from prying eyes. Nothing personal, Erik knows, just long habit and sensitive client materials. She doesn’t even use their home Wi-Fi, preferring a dedicated secure cell modem.

  Then she steps sideways to make room for him at the counter, but keeps her torso angled to block the view from the door to the dining room. The door Óskar would come through. She hits a key and a paused video frame comes up on the screen.

  It shows a dim room, two pale bodies entangled on a dark leather couch.

  She presses Play. The bodies begin to move. There is nothing remotely sexy about it. Erik can tell immediately that something is profoundly wrong.

  It takes him several moments, however, to realize exactly how wrong. The body on top is significantly larger than the body on the bottom. One is a grown man, his pants down to his knees. The other is just a girl. And she fights to get free.

  Erik turns from the screen. “Sarah, what is this?”

  “Wait.” She checks over her shoulder for their son. “Keep watching.”

  “I’d rather not.” Erik puts out a hand to block his view.

  “Watch,” she commands, and pulls his hand out of the way. The camera zooms in. The girl’s face is a mask of pain and terror. She looks very young. The man’s face is rapt, mesmerized by his own pleasure and power. He holds the girl down with a practiced grip on the back of her neck.

  Erik stabs out a finger and the video vanishes.

  Sarah touches a key and the video returns. Her voice is calm. “Look at him, Erik. Do you recognize him?”

  Erik blinks. He looks. He does recognize the man. He fumbles for the remote and turns on the small television in the corner of the kitchen. And there the man stands, as he does so often, on a futuristic set with his crisp haircut and a fresh shave and a microphone on his lapel, wearing a midnight suit and a blood-red tie.

  The same man in the video with the girl.

  That same face. Mouth moving, always talking, charming his viewers. Right now his topic is regional stability and the protection of American interests overseas, but Erik doesn’t hear a word. He can’t stand it. He feels sick to his stomach. He unplugs the TV and looks at Sarah.

  “Where on earth did this come from?”

  2

  PRESENT DAY

  Peter Ash woke, gasping for breath, from a dream of gunfire. He could still feel the desert heat on his skin, and the memory of spent powder lingered in his nose.

  Beside him, his elderly seatmate strained upward, one finger stabbing the call button overhead.

  Peter blinked away the nightmare, wondering what he’d said or done in his sleep. He was a tall, bony man with shaggy black hair, a tired face, and the thoughtful eyes of a werewolf five minutes before the change. His green hiking pants were frayed at the seams, his Counterbalance Brewing T-shirt ghosted with old stains.

  A beefy male flight attendant advanced up the aisle, broad face expressionless, hands open and ready. Watching him approach, Peter could tell the man had some physical training, and was probably tasked with controlling unruly passengers on this packed transatlantic flight.

  Peter raised a hand and caught the other man’s eye. “Sorry.” It was hard to get the words out, his throat choked with the panic raised by the memories still burned into his brain. His T-shirt was damp with sweat and his mouth was dry as a dust storm. “Just a bad dream. Give me a minute, I’ll be fine.”

  He bent to his bag stuffed under the seat and fumbled the flap as he dug for his pills. His seatmate had shrunk himself against the window, minimizing any contact. Passengers across the aisle were looking anywhere but at him.

  “Sir.” The flight attendant was almost on him. Peter’s chest was tight, his lungs fighting for air. The cabin of the wide-body jet closed in hard. His fingers closed on the prescription bottle and he straightened up.

  “I’m all right.” He tried to believe it. “I just need my meds.”

  He fumbled the top off and shook four of the small pink circles into his hand. Then he found the last intact mini bottle of Reyka vodka in his seat pocket, twisted it open, and swallowed hard, pushing the pills down.

  * * *

  —

  The dreams were new.

  He’d come back from Iraq with claustrophobia bad enough to make living outside seem like a good idea. For more than a year, he’d slept alone under the stars or under a rain fly, high above the tree line of one mountain range or another, barely able to manage resupply in small-town grocery stores.

  The post-traumatic stress came from kicking in doors in Fallujah, he figured. All those weeks of fighting house to house, room to room, clearing insurgents one doorway at a time.

  Along with everything else he’d done.

  He called it the white static, that feeling of electric overdrive that sparked up his brainstem, calculating firing angles, searching for exits. Nerves jangling like bare electrodes under the skin, his chest so tight he couldn’t breathe, his fight-or-flight reflex gone into overdrive. When he first mustered out, he could only handle twenty minutes inside before the static turned into a full-blown panic attack.

  In the time since then, he’d found a way forward. He’d made friends with the static, in a way, and a start at a new life. He’d found a veterans’ group. He’d met a woman he didn’t deserve, a woman named June Cassidy.

  But he’d never had dreams, not like this. Not until after Memphis.

  Something had broken loose inside hi
m there. Something he’d thought he had under control. Now it was roaming around in his head, knocking pictures off the walls, breaking the goddamn furniture.

  In retrospect, this trip was a bad idea. He’d been in a hurry, had booked his tickets for same-day travel. Seats were limited and the schedule was brutal. He’d started in Portland, Oregon, changed planes and airlines in Minneapolis, then done it again in New York.

  Long hours spent in the stale fluorescent clatter of airports, televisions blaring CNN and the Senate hearings at every turn.

  More long hours with his oversized frame jammed into undersized seats, trapped in a cigar tube at thirty-five thousand feet.

  His only exercise was pacing the aisles, his only sleep a few fitful naps. He’d hoped the Valium would help keep the white static at bay, but he’d been stuck inside for too long.

  The static was losing patience.

  The werewolf was coming.

  He touched the little screen on the seatback. The plane icon was over Greenland now. Only ninety minutes to Reykjavík, Iceland, in late December. Where it snowed or rained for days at a time and the sun never truly rose, only brightening the sky for a few hours at midday.

  He got up and went to the tiny restroom and splashed his face with water. He didn’t look at himself in the mirror. He knew he wouldn’t like what he saw there. On his way back to his seat, he plucked two more mini vodkas from the flight crew’s service area and tossed them down in one go.

  Maybe the dreams came from the Valium, fucking with him. It wasn’t supposed to be a long-term solution. He’d read up on the side effects, and they weren’t good. He sure as hell wasn’t supposed to be chasing it with vodka, although the pills alone had stopped working months ago.

  Maybe it was simply the price to be paid for getting back to some kind of meaningful work.

  Or maybe he was just running away.

  He told himself he’d quit the Valium once he got off the plane. He’d pick up his rental, find a place to park outside the city, and sleep it off, all of it. He had plenty of practice sleeping in a vehicle.