“Welcome, Mr. Price,” he said before turning back to Karen. “A drink first, I think, then I’ll show you around. Then lunch. How does that sound, Miss Tyler?”
“It sounds wonderful,” she said, returning his smile, “but you must call me Karen.”
“Very well, Karen,” the old man said. “And now, allow me to introduce myself. Wulfgar Anderman, at your service.” He executed a small, formal bow, and then he straightened, smiling in the sunlight, a little glint of humor dancing in his incredibly blue eyes beneath thick, perfectly white brows. He turned and led the way into the house.
Even as she’d been expecting it, the revelation came as a shock to Karen. She stood still for a moment, absorbing this new information, staring at the retreating figure leaning on the cane as the shadows of the interior of the house engulfed him. Mr. Graves stood politely aside, waiting for her. She glanced over at Don Price, whose face was almost a comical picture of astonishment, his eyes wide, his mouth hanging slackly open. Of course, she thought. He hadn’t been told; he hadn’t known the subject of today’s assignment until this moment. But, as a resident of St. Thomas, he’d be well versed in the subject of the Harper/Anderman affair. No wonder he looked surprised. It would be like meeting Elvis or Marilyn Monroe. Or, more to the point, Jack the Ripper.
Wulfgar Anderman, she thought. This man is Wulf, one half of the most infamous duo in the history of the Virgin Islands, one of the most infamous people on earth. A murderer at fourteen, a convict for more than half his adult life, a legend that had grown over the years ever since. Fifty years ago, this courtly, elegant gentleman had taken the lives of five people in cold blood, in an act of unspeakable violence, for no apparent reason….
With an effort, she banished these thoughts and moved forward, accompanying Wulf Anderman into his fortress, her journalistic mind already arranging a hundred questions. Don Price and Carl Graves followed, and the big oak door closed behind them, shutting out the halfhearted sun.
—
Rodney Harper’s Diary
D ECEMBER 23, 1958
I’ve decided just how we shall do it, and I’ve even chosen who will eventually be blamed for it. I’m already working on the anonymous letters. Everyone will believe it because I have history on my side.
In the early days of these islands, there were two tribes here, the Arawaks and the Caribs. The Arawaks were the peaceful group, with well-set-up communities where they grew crops and raised livestock and strung beads and whatever. They had lots of land and large stores of food and tools and jewelry. The Caribs were fierce warriors, more nomadic and certainly more violent. They preyed on the Arawaks, killing and raping and plundering, taking whatever they wanted. They eventually obliterated their peaceable neighbors, claiming their land and making the surviving women and children their slaves. And what they did to the men was spectacular! It has inspired me in this plan. It involved knives and machetes.
With all that rich history among the local natives, there’s something rather fitting about my choice of a scapegoat. Who’s to say that their descendants wouldn’t behave the same way? I won’t have any trouble getting the cops to believe it.
I’ve chosen the ideal date: Friday, March 13, eleven weeks from now. I love the significance of Friday the thirteenth. The tradition goes back so far that no one is certain where it began. There’s a theory it was the day in 1307 when the Knights Templar were rounded up and killed, but other stories go back further. Jesus was crucified on a Friday, and some say it might have been the thirteenth of the month. The best early source is Norse mythology: When Christianity came to Scandinavia, the goddess Freya, for whom Friday is named, was cast out of the pantheon. On her day of the week, she called together eleven demons and the Devil himself to plot
“It sounds wonderful,” she said, returning his smile, “but you must call me Karen.”
“Very well, Karen,” the old man said. “And now, allow me to introduce myself. Wulfgar Anderman, at your service.” He executed a small, formal bow, and then he straightened, smiling in the sunlight, a little glint of humor dancing in his incredibly blue eyes beneath thick, perfectly white brows. He turned and led the way into the house.
Even as she’d been expecting it, the revelation came as a shock to Karen. She stood still for a moment, absorbing this new information, staring at the retreating figure leaning on the cane as the shadows of the interior of the house engulfed him. Mr. Graves stood politely aside, waiting for her. She glanced over at Don Price, whose face was almost a comical picture of astonishment, his eyes wide, his mouth hanging slackly open. Of course, she thought. He hadn’t been told; he hadn’t known the subject of today’s assignment until this moment. But, as a resident of St. Thomas, he’d be well versed in the subject of the Harper/Anderman affair. No wonder he looked surprised. It would be like meeting Elvis or Marilyn Monroe. Or, more to the point, Jack the Ripper.
Wulfgar Anderman, she thought. This man is Wulf, one half of the most infamous duo in the history of the Virgin Islands, one of the most infamous people on earth. A murderer at fourteen, a convict for more than half his adult life, a legend that had grown over the years ever since. Fifty years ago, this courtly, elegant gentleman had taken the lives of five people in cold blood, in an act of unspeakable violence, for no apparent reason….
With an effort, she banished these thoughts and moved forward, accompanying Wulf Anderman into his fortress, her journalistic mind already arranging a hundred questions. Don Price and Carl Graves followed, and the big oak door closed behind them, shutting out the halfhearted sun.
—
Rodney Harper’s Diary
D ECEMBER 23, 1958
I’ve decided just how we shall do it, and I’ve even chosen who will eventually be blamed for it. I’m already working on the anonymous letters. Everyone will believe it because I have history on my side.
In the early days of these islands, there were two tribes here, the Arawaks and the Caribs. The Arawaks were the peaceful group, with well-set-up communities where they grew crops and raised livestock and strung beads and whatever. They had lots of land and large stores of food and tools and jewelry. The Caribs were fierce warriors, more nomadic and certainly more violent. They preyed on the Arawaks, killing and raping and plundering, taking whatever they wanted. They eventually obliterated their peaceable neighbors, claiming their land and making the surviving women and children their slaves. And what they did to the men was spectacular! It has inspired me in this plan. It involved knives and machetes.
With all that rich history among the local natives, there’s something rather fitting about my choice of a scapegoat. Who’s to say that their descendants wouldn’t behave the same way? I won’t have any trouble getting the cops to believe it.
I’ve chosen the ideal date: Friday, March 13, eleven weeks from now. I love the significance of Friday the thirteenth. The tradition goes back so far that no one is certain where it began. There’s a theory it was the day in 1307 when the Knights Templar were rounded up and killed, but other stories go back further. Jesus was crucified on a Friday, and some say it might have been the thirteenth of the month. The best early source is Norse mythology: When Christianity came to Scandinavia, the goddess Freya, for whom Friday is named, was cast out of the pantheon. On her day of the week, she called together eleven demons and the Devil himself to plot
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