Jessica moved further to her left, drawing Moon's eyes from Josh. Josh was now fewer than five linear feet from where Nicci was. If Jessica could just get the man to drop the rope for a second…
"I believe people will come back here," Jessica said.
"Do you think so?" He reached over, started the record again. The sound of the steam whistles once more filled the room.
"Absolutely," she said. "People are curious."
Moon went distant again. "I didn't know my great-grandfather. But he was a seafaring man. One time, my grandfather told me a story about him, about how, as a young man, he was out at sea and saw a mermaid. I knew it wasn't true. I'd read it in a book. He also told me that he helped the Danish people build a place called Solvang in California. Do you know that place?"
Jessica had never heard of it. "No."
"It's a genuine Danish village. I'd like to go there someday."
"Maybe you will." Another step to the left. Moon looked up quickly.
"Where are you going, tin soldier?"
Jessica stole a glance at the window. Josh had a large rock in his hands.
"Nowhere," she answered.
Jessica could see Moon's expression shift from affable host to utter madness and rage. He pulled the rope taut. The mechanism of the crossbow groaned above Nicci Malone's prone body.
94
Byrne sighted down his pistol. Inside the candlelit room, the man onstage stood behind a coffin. A coffin with Nicci Malone in it. A large crossbow aimed a steel arrow at her heart.
The man was Will Pedersen. He had a white flower in his lapel.
The white flower, Natalya Jakos had said.
Take the shot.
Seconds earlier Byrne and Vincent had approached the front of the schoolhouse. Jessica was inside, trying to negotiate with the lunatic on the stage. She was working her way to the left.
Did she know that Byrne and Vincent were there? Was she maneuvering out of the way to give them a clear shot?
Byrne raised the barrel of his weapon slightly, allowing for the distortion of the path of the bullet as it passed through the glass. He wasn't sure how the slug would be affected. He sighted down the barrel.
He saw Anton Krotz.
The white flower.
He saw the knife at Laura Clarke's throat. Take the shot.
Byrne saw the man lift his arms, the rope. He was going to trigger the crossbow mechanism. Byrne couldn't wait. Not this time. He fired.
95
Marius Damgaard pulled the rope as a gunshot thundered through the room. At the same instant, Josh Bontrager slammed the rock through the window, smashing the pane into a shower of crystalline glass. Damgaard staggered back, blood now blossoming on his crisp white shirt. Bon- trager gained his footing on the icy shards, then lunged across the room, onto the stage, toward the coffin. Damgaard reeled, fell backward, his full weight on the rope. The crossbow mechanism triggered as Damgaard disappeared through the shattered window, leaving a slick scarlet trail on the floor, the wall, the windowsill.
As the steel arrow launched, Josh Bontrager reached Nicci Malone. The projectile slammed into his right thigh, passing through it and into Nicci's flesh. Bontrager shrieked in agony as a great burst of his blood shot across the room.
A moment later, the front door crashed in.
Jessica dove for her weapon, rolled on the floor, aimed. Somehow Kevin Byrne and Vincent were standing in front of her. She scrambled to her feet.
The three detectives dashed over to the stage. Nicci was still alive. The arrowhead had cut into her right shoulder, but the wound did not look serious. Josh's injury looked far worse. The razor sharp arrow had sliced deeply into his leg. It may have hit an artery.
Byrne tore off his coat, his shirt. He and Vincent lifted Bontrager, tied a tight tourniquet around his upper leg. Bontrager screamed in pain.
Vincent turned to his wife, held her. "Are you okay?"
"Yes," Jessica said. "Josh called for backup. The sheriff 's office is on the way."
Byrne looked through the shattered window. A dry canal ran behind the building. Damgaard was gone.
"I've got this." Jessica applied pressure to Josh Bontrager's wound. "Go after him," she said.
"Are you sure?" Vincent asked.
"I'm sure. Go."
Byrne slipped his coat back on. Vincent grabbed his shotgun.
They ran out the door into the black night.
96
Moon is bleeding. He makes his way to the entrance to StoryBook River, winding his way through the darkness. He cannot see very well, but he knows every turn of the canals, every stone, every display. His breathing is wet and labored, his pace is slow.
He stops for a moment, reaches into his pocket, retrieves his matches. He remembers the story of the little match seller. Barefoot, and with no coat, she found herself alone on New Year's Eve. It was very cold. As the evening grew late, the little girl struck match after match for warmth.
In each flare she saw a vision.
Moon lights a match. In the flame he envisions the beautiful swans, shimmering in the springtime sun. He strikes another. This time he sees Thumbelina, her tiny form on the lily pad. The third match is the nightingale. He remembers her song. The next is Karen, graceful in her red shoes. Then Anne Lisbeth. Match after match glows brightly in the night. Moon sees each face, recalls each story.
He has just a few matches left.
Perhaps, like the little match seller, he will light them all at once. When the girl in the story did that, her grandmother came down and lifted her to heaven.
Moon hears a sound, turns. There is a man standing by the bank of the main canal, just a few feet away. He is not a big man, but he is broad-shouldered, strong looking. He throws a length of rope over the crossbeam of the huge trellis spanning the 0sttunnelen canal.
Moon knows the story is ending.
He strikes the matches, begins to recite.
"Here are maidens, young and fair."
One by one the match heads ignite.
"Dancing in the summer air."
A warm radiance fills the world.
"Like two spinning wheels at play."
Moon drops the matches to the ground. The man steps forward, ties Moon's hands behind him. Moments later Moon feels the soft rope coil around his neck, sees the gleaming knife in the man's hand.
"Pretty maidens dance away."
Moon is swept from his feet, high into the air, moving skyward, heavenward. Below him he sees the beaming faces of the swans, of Anne Lisbeth, of Thumbelina, of Karen, of all the others. He sees the canals, the displays, the wonder that is StoryBook River.
The man disappears into the forest.
On the ground the matchlight flares brightly, burns for a moment, then grows dim.
For Moon, there is now only darkness.
97
Byrne and Vincent searched the grounds directly adjacent to the school- house, flashlights held over weapons, finding nothing. The tracks leading around the north side of the structure had been Josh Bontrager's. They dead-ended at the window.
They walked along the banks of the narrow canals that snaked through the trees, their Maglites cutting thin beams through the utter gloom of the night.
After the second turn of the canal they saw the footprints. And blood. Byrne caught Vincent's eye. They would search on separate sides of the six-foot-wide channel.
Vincent crossed the arching footbridge, Byrne stayed on the near side. They hunted through the turning tributaries of the canals. They came upon the decayed displays, all decorated with fading signs:
THE LITTLE MERMAID. THE FLYING TRUNK. THE STORY OF THE WIND. THE OLD STREETLAMP. Real skeletons sat on the displays. Rotting clothes swaddled the figures.