Troll Bridge Read online

  Moira tried to heave the table up against the wall but it wouldn’t budge. She stepped back to consider. Even if she managed to get it to move, she’d never be able to climb up onto it. No—the answer was simpler.

  She went around the table, grabbed the ribbons, and pulled. It took three tries before the fiddle even began to move on its single nail, and ten more pulls after that before it finally tumbled off. Moira had been terribly afraid she might snap the neck, but clearly it was a magic fiddle and nothing short of a troll’s foot on its fingerboard was going to do it any harm. It fell end over end and she caught it in her arms.

  Running over to the window, she bound the fiddle to her back using the ribbons, and went hand over hand up the curtains. It was quieter than trying to open the back door again.

  Besides, I’m getting good at this, she thought, which surprised her. Gym had never been her best subject.

  Foss was waiting below the window as if he had known she would be there.

  Of course he knows, she thought. He’s been listening in on my thoughts the whole time.

  She sat on the sill, legs hanging down outside. Carefully, she unbound the fiddle from her back, and began lowering it to him. When it was halfway down, she noticed something for the first time. Shadows were creeping toward the house from the trees. They looked like cartoon shadows, and moved jerkily.

  “Foss,” she called softly, “what’s happening?”

  He stood on his hind legs and grabbed the fiddle with his outstretched paws. Then he placed his mouth around the body of the instrument, as softly as a spaniel picking up a shot bird. Once he held it safely, she dropped the ribbons. The light around him changed, becoming softer, grayer.

  His voice came into her head, gentle, sad. “The sun goes down again, human child. Aenmarr wakes to visit his wives.” Then he raced away, leaving her alone.

  Come back! she cried. Don’t leave me. She said it only in her head, of course. She didn’t dare call out loud. And then she cursed him, with every bad word she knew, which didn’t take very long. Only then did she look down at the ground. It was much too far to jump. Especially if Aenmarr was around to hear her.

  She looked behind her. Maybe she still had time to get down from the sill, hand over hand, and out the back door.

  To her horror, she saw that the back door was now wide open and the troll woman—Trigvi—was bending over, flinging something onto the dung heap. She was huge, but not quite as large as the figure in the water, Aenmarr.

  Moira wanted to scream. She wanted to throw up. She wanted to hide her eyes, and weep. But silently she went hand over hand back down the curtain as fast as she could, scrambled over to the box where the other Dairy Princesses lay, climbed in, shoved herself in between Helena and Kimberleigh, and covered herself with their pouffy skirts.

  She lay still, trying to slow her frantic breathing. In her mind, she thought she heard a soft barking chuckle. If she were lucky—and her luck had not been very good of late—trolls would be too stupid to count to five.

  2 · Brothers Three

  Teller, teller, tell me a tale,

  Of love and fear and duty,

  I want to die in the arms of love,

  I want to die for beauty.

  For beauty is the only truth,

  And death the only lie,

  I want to sing a final tale,

  And love before I die.

  So tell me quick,

  If I’ve been heard,

  Else, maim with a phrase,

  Kill with a word.

  Princess, princess, give me a kiss,

  A kiss of love, of pleasure,

  I want to lie in the arms of love,

  I want to sing of treasure.

  For passion is the only truth,

  And death the only lie,

  I want to know your lips on mine,

  And love before I die.

  So tell me quick,

  If I’ve been heard,

  Else, maim with a phrase,

  Kill with a word.

  —Words and music by Jakob and Erik Griffson and Moira Darr, from Troll Bridge

  Radio WMSP: 10:00 A.M.

  “And now, with more on the missing Dairy Princesses, Jim Johnson. Jim?”

  “Yes, Katie. More is not the right word. There’s nothing more. And that is the story. Despite two days of the biggest manhunt in Minnesota history, with sniffer dogs and everything.…”

  “Everything?”

  “They’ve had divers in the river, and that’s some cold rushing river, Katie. But police have found no evidence at the site where the twelve Dairy Princesses went missing: the Vanderby Trollholm Bridge.”

  “What were they doing there, Jim?”

  “They were gathered for a photo shoot. They were to stand in the spot where the butter sculptures were normally left.”

  “Oh, that’s right. The heads weren’t left there this year were they, Jim?”

  “No, Katie, they weren’t. The girls’ cars have been removed to the police lab. Aside from those cars, though, there is no evidence whatsoever. No fingerprints, no footprints, no eyewitnesses. Nothing. It’s as if the twelve young ladies disappeared off the face of the earth, leaving behind only the butter sculptures of their heads still sitting in the refrigerators at the State Fair.”

  “Have there been any ransom notes?”

  “Nope.”

  “Phone calls?”

  “Nothing that has led anywhere, Katie.”

  “That’s frightening, Jim.”

  “Very frightening. The police are mystified and there are thirteen desperate families out there just wanting their loved ones home.”

  “Thirteen, Jim?”

  “Don’t forget the photographer. Man named Sjogren. He has a wife, stepdaughter, is well liked by his neighbors, a solid citizen. Not even a parking ticket.”

  “Well, wherever they are, at least the girls will have Sjogren’s help.”

  “His wife says she’s sure of that.”

  “So what’s next, Jim?”

  “The police say they’ll be broadening their search, looking at the boyfriends of the various princesses and any underworld connections.”

  “And the search at Vanderby, Jim?”

  “Groups of concerned citizens have been searching the area from dawn until just before nightfall, Katie, but the police are keeping them well away from the bridge itself. They just don’t want the good folk of Vanderby messing up any possible evidence.”

  “Thanks, Jim—and now here’s Bob with sports.”

  6

  Jakob

  “Dad…” Galen Griffson ran his fingers through his hair, something he did only when he was nervous, though the fans all thought it made him look incredibly cool. “Dad…”

  His father looked up from the pile of papers on his desk and glared at Galen. Jakob could see that glare, could feel it, from the safety of the hallway. As usual, he and Erik were letting Galen do the talking. Front man in their band—and in their lives.

  “Dad, we’re exhausted. We’re going to take a couple of weeks off.” Galen’s voice had an unfortunate whine in it, Jakob thought. Dad would notice. Would go for his throat.

  “Your mother and I are exhausted, too,” their father said. “You don’t see us taking two weeks off. Where would the band be if we decided to go off on a spree?”

  “We’re not talking about a spree, Dad.”

  Uh-oh, bad idea to argue with him, Jakob thought. There was nothing their father liked better than to beat any of them in an argument.

  Galen must have realized his mistake and tried a different tack. “Think of the boys,” he said. “Think of Erik and Jakob. Especially little Jakob.”

  Little Jakob is fifteen and a half years old, thank you very much. Jakob glared at his father sitting ramrod straight, the old man’s mouth a thin disapproving line. But he realized that Galen was only doing what he always did, putting the blame on younger shoulders when things weren’t working out. Because that way
Dad would feel sorry for them. Jakob felt like poking Galen in the small of the back with a guitar pick. He could pretty much guess the rest of the sentence, even unspoken. Mom used it all the time and Galen parroted her. Poor little Jakob with his panic attacks. Poor little Jakob who was in the hospital with pneumonia last year.

  Jakob bit his lip. Well, rot Galen’s hide! Without little Jakob and his little songs, there wouldn’t be any Griffson Brothers. Jakob wasn’t really bitter, just realistic. If there was one musician in the family, he was it. The other two just faked it.

  He could hear his father shift in his chair. That was a cue for Jakob and Erik to move out of sight, leaving Galen with no backup at all.

  “Jakob is fine now,” their father was saying. “The wonders of modern medicine. Which leaves you with no excuses, son.” The sarcasm was laid on thick. He could maim with a phrase, kill with a word.

  For a moment Jakob stopped to consider those lines. Was there a song to be mined from them?

  Meanwhile, Galen—who hadn’t noticed his brothers going AWOL—continued as if they were both there behind him, backing him up. They could hear his voice from down the hall and Jakob realized that Galen had suddenly found real courage. Maybe for the first time.

  For a moment Galen continued pleading with their dad. Then suddenly he shifted tactics again. “Whether you like it or not, Dad, we’re out of here.” His voice was tight, the way it always got at the end of a long set.

  Probably, Jakob thought, Galen’s hands are back raking through his hair. That thick dark fall of hair the girls were all wild about. “Go Gale!” he whispered.

  “One week,” came their father’s voice, full of military authority, as if he were still in the Marines. “You’re due in the studio a week from tomorrow. I had to fight for the time as it is. It’s then or not for another three months, which we can’t afford. You will be back then. And return with some new songs. Put your foot down, boy. Make those two come up with something. You’re the oldest, the leader. Even if Jakob had to teach you how to play guitar.”

  Jakob could hear his father’s chair scraping on the floor. Having gotten off the killer last line, the interview was clearly over.

  Galen escaped out the door without looking back. He walked stiff-shouldered down the hall. When he was far enough from the door, he finally slumped.

  Erik got to him first. “My hero!” There was admiration in his voice, along with an echo of their father’s sarcasm.

  “Let’s get out of here. Now!” Galen said. “Before the general changes his mind.” Though their father had only been a colonel when he retired, not a general, they all called him that.

  “Duffels are packed and in the town car, sir,” Jakob told him with a mock salute. “Chocolate, too.”

  They almost ran out the front door, past the pillars of the fake plantation porch, racing down the five steps as if they’d just robbed the house that their own royalties had bought.

  A tune plunged through Jakob’s head. Tunes always did that, especially when he was stressed out. He’d been stressed out since he was nine years old and their first record, recorded in their basement on a borrowed ADAT, had been picked up by Virgin Records and gone platinum.

  They piled into the car, Jakob in the back with the cooler, Galen in the driver’s seat. At nineteen he was the only one of them old enough to drive. Erik would serve as navigator. No roadies, no sound man, no chauffeur. And especially no Mom or Dad. Just the three of them on their own.

  How long had it been since that was possible? Jakob couldn’t remember. That’s how long.

  “Go! Go! Go!” Erik urged and the motor came alive, purring. Galen swung them around the circular driveway and out along the lake road.

  They were free.

  * * *

  THE FIRST FEW MINUTES THEY were all elated, but by the time an hour had passed, elation had given way to a kind of pleasant numbness. They listened to music, mostly Top 40 tunes and spent raucous moments dissing most of it. The shows were interrupted often by odd bulletins about missing Dairy Princesses. Twelve of them, disappeared somewhere north of Duluth. Seemed the girls had gone AWOL two days earlier.

  “Maybe we should listen to the news more often,” Galen mused.

  “Nah … too depressing,” Erik said, and they both laughed.

  Jakob barely paid attention to them. Instead he was staring out the window. As usual, music was running through his head. He tapped on the window in six-eight time, matching the music, and watched the shining expanse of Lake Superior slide past.

  Erik noticed the tapping fingers and poked Galen on the shoulder. Then he pointed back at Jakob.

  “You got something?” Galen, asked. He looked at Jakob in the rearview mirror.

  Jakob nodded at Galen, unruly dark hair with its several cowlicks falling into his eyes as he did. He brushed it away with his left hand. His right kept tapping. He was ambidextrous, a useful trait for a guitar player.

  “No words though, right?” Erik asked, a touch malicious, a touch jealous. He never had music come into his head unasked. Even asked, it rarely made an appearance. Just words. Rhymes. Bouncing, bumping, sometimes even inventive. But not music. And all he wanted to do was be able to write tunes that people could sing. He moaned about it all the time.

  On the other hand, Jakob reminded himself, I have music running through my head constantly. Though, unlike Erik, he could rarely seem to fit words to it. Sometimes a phrase or a line. But only occasionally a whole lyric. Jakob didn’t think any of Erik’s lyrics were particularly deep, but that didn’t stop people from buying their CDs. Enough to go platinum again and again.

  And Galen …

  Well, Jakob thought, Galen is pretty. Their mother’s high cheekbones, their father’s deep dimpled chin, and the only set of teeth in the family that hadn’t needed serious remodeling from the orthodontist. Plus the ability to charm audiences single-handedly.

  And that, he thought with a wry smile, is the secret to the Griffson Brothers’ success: great music, catchy lyrics, and a real pretty frontman who can kind of, sort of sing and strum the requisite chords. There were worse boy bands—like all the rest.

  He let the new piece of music wash through him. Fingers tapping, he gave himself over to the tune. That’s what he did best. And, after all, he didn’t need to worry about anything else. Their manager father, their publicist mother, and a whole passel of producers, engineers, sidemen, promoters, sponsors, and roadies took care of the rest, and the music sold in the millions. A teenage boy’s dream.

  “Dang, I’m tired,” Galen said, turning his head a little and smiling that infectious grin.

  “Dang?” Erik laughed. “We’re not being interviewed on TV, Gale. You can actually swear.”

  Galen grinned some more. “I’m saving it for something big.”

  “Big as Dad?” Erik teased.

  Galen ignored him. “How would you like to drive so I can get some rest, you little pest?”

  “Hey, you remember what Dad said, ‘Provisional license means I set the provisions.’” Erik bellowed the last bit like a drill sergeant. “You know I’m not supposed to drive without him in the car.” His hands went up in the air. “But if you’re that tired.” He winked at his big brother.

  “We’re all tired, Galen,” Jakob said. “Just like you told Dad.” He knew Galen had only been speaking the truth, the truth the three of them had agreed upon. After all, they’d been touring for eighteen months straight and their father had been getting ready to book them for eighteen more after two months in the studio. Sometimes a dream can become a nightmare. Well, they now had one week free. It was more than they’d expected. Their father had never fallen for Galen’s charm before.

  Galen pulled the car over to the side of the road. “Your turn, kid.”

  “I’ll get my full license in two—” Erik began.

  “Two more months and five more days,” Jakob broke in. Two more months and five more days. Like a lot of musicians, he was mathematically i
nclined. Erik was nearly seventeen. Two more months and five more days. He liked the rhythm of that and a new tune snaked into his head. He liked it even better than the first one.

  Meanwhile, Galen got out of the driver’s side, Erik out of the passenger’s side, and they changed seats.

  “Hey, hold on,” Jakob called, swinging open his door and jumping out after them. “I’ve really got something.” He ran to the back of the car, then leaned around it and called, “Erik—pop the trunk.”

  Erik reached down by the driver’s seat and pulled up on the little handle. Once the lock clicked, Jakob lifted the trunk door, then dug around, tossing duffels and sleeping bags aside until he found his guitar. Only the one instrument. His brothers had left theirs at home. “This is a vacation,” Erik had said. “Why would I want to bring my work tools along?”

  But Jakob was never without his guitar any more than he could be without one of his limbs. Pulling the Taylor from its case, he sat on the back bumper, strumming chords, searching for the right key.

  Erik got out again and strolled around the car. “All right,” he said. “Let’s hear it.”

  Jakob didn’t respond. He had found the key, and was playing what was in his head. Six-eight and major, the melody danced on the high strings while he plucked a walking baseline on the low E with his thumb.

  “That’s really good,” commented Galen. Jakob hadn’t even noticed him come up. “Sounds kind of old timey.”

  “Yeah.” Erik cocked his head to one side, thinking. “Needs some contemporary lyrics to set that off. Something out of the news.” He listened for a minute more.

  Jakob changed keys for a bridge, then drifted back into the main theme.

  “I’ve got it!” Erik said. “That news story we just heard on the radio.” He began to sing to Jakob’s tune.