“Mikey, you okay?”
No answer. Michael shook his head, muttered and walked away. A uniform raised an eyebrow and followed.
“Survivor?” Einar tried to focus on the scene and Michael. Where was he going? What was he thinking? He wasn’t sleeping, and the dark circles under his eyes were worse.
“Einar?”
“Sorry, Marta.” Einar exhaled. “Guess I’m as distracted as he is . . .”
“Give him some space. This one’s bad. Maybe the worst I’ve seen.”
“I know. But—”
“Age and experience.”
He smiled. “Point taken. I want to keep him around. So, survivors?”
“Yes.” She nodded to the gathered emergency vehicles. “Over there. Young sister, saved by their dog. It caught the killer off guard. He bolted without the blood-gulping fest that followed the other kills.”
“Christ.” Einar stared at her.
“He, it, left before draining the boy dry.”
“What is it?”
“Wish I knew. But we’re not imagining it.” She looked him in the eye.
“Christ. No. We’re not.”
“Mother found her daughter and dog and called 911,” Marta said. “She also found her son’s body.”
Einar shook his head. “þetta er spurning um tíma. It’s a matter of time. We’ll find the monster.”
“Hope so. Now would be optimum. I’m sick of kids ending up in pieces on my table.”
“I promise, Marta. We’ll catch the creep. He won't escape punishment.”
“You know better than to promise, Einar.” She touched his shoulder. “I know you mean it.”
He nodded.
“If . . . you catch it, let me rip its damn head off. Show it how these kids suffered.”
Einar raised an eyebrow.
“Don't give me that look. You feel the same.” She gave a sad smile and headed to her tech near the smaller segment of human remains, and then halted. “The dog might have evidence in its mouth. I need your help to swab it. The only forensic tech available tonight is terrified of dogs.”
“You’ve got it. We’ll meet you there.” Einar turned and scanned the scene, looking for his partner.
Michael strode along the river, heart racing.
Why here?
The rushing current tumbled over the shallow bottom, flooding his memory. This stretch was etched in his life. He and his brother spent summers in it, more fish than boys, their mother forcing them each evening to come out of the water—but that’s what she wanted. He must’ve had ADHD as a kid, always restless and looking for something to do, running from place to place, flitting from thing to thing, Billy following. He was a perfect candidate to be dulled by Ritalin, but his mother refused. She sent them outside. ‘Play in the water,’ she’d say. They ran until exhausted. The river had been playground and refuge.
Now kids were dying on it. Again. Something was wrong. The wilderness had been violated—but by what?
The uniform followed him, marking bits of human remains with small flags.
He tried to focus, fought the images in his head.
Why?
A strange mark in the mud near a rock caught his eye. He scrambled closer to examine it.
A footprint?
He rubbed his unshaven face. Must be imagining things. This was messed up. The print resembled a human foot but mutated. Five long toes ended in large claws. He stared, head pounding. Wanted to smash his hand into the mud, press fingers into it and blot it out. Looked like a dinosaur or lizard foot, but that was ridiculous outside of horror movies and comic books. Did the killer wear a disguise? Why one ungodly footprint?
He dragged fingers through his hair. Closed his eyes. Swore under his breath. Tension knotted his shoulders.
No such thing as monsters. They do not exist. Don’t believe in demons.
He opened his eyes. Print was still there. Fuck. Focus.
He scoured the river near it, noticed a red rock out of place among the dark river stones. He crouched, slipped on a glove and lifted it. Its smooth surface ended with sharp edges and shattered corners, geometric lines gouged in a pattern. Nature hadn’t created it. He’d spent enough time around Kait’s archaeology books to know it might be part of a larger object. He dropped it into a plastic bag and shoved it in his pocket, unsure if it was evidence.
I’m losing it.
Was his mind playing tricks? Where was Billy? Why another dead child? He stood, wandered the bank and found another piece. He was peering into the water when a hand touched his shoulder.
Einar felt him flinch.
Michael looked up, startled.
“Jesus. Partner’s not supposed to scare you at a crime scene. We're the good guys, remember?”
“Sorry. I mean— ”
“Again. You okay?”
“Yeah.” Said with lack of conviction. “Fine.”
“I'm serious.”
No answer.
“Mikey—”
“Christ. Lay off . . . ”
It was time for the blunt approach. “Cut the crap. You need sleep, I can tell you’re exhausted. You’re worrying me.” Einar crouched next to him. “Child scenes are tough and this one's a real bitch. I sympathize, but I need you focused and coherent. Maybe you should speak with the department shrink. I can set you up with peer counseling. You’re not handling this case well.”
“I’m fine.”
“I disagree.”
No shrink. I’m okay.”
“No. You’re not. Might be a good idea.”
Michael remained motionless, crouched at the river’s edge.
“It’s not a sign of weakness. Might help.” Easy for him to say, but he’d refused help whenever his boss brought it up.
Michael shook his head. He crossed his arms and stared into the water.
“I’m serious.” Einar sighed and stood. “Look. I’m not your mother and I know you don’t want a lecture . . . but take my advice. Get some rest. You need tomorrow off? Just ask. Clear your head. We have to catch whatever’s causing this bloodbath. Can’t have you going into meltdown. If you need time, let me know. But you’ve been warned.”
No reply.
He took a deep breath. Maybe he’d been a bit harsh. “Okay . . . enough lecture for the moment. What’d you find?”
“A rock.”
Einar looked around. Rocks everywhere. Shit. Maybe his partner had already lost it.
“A red rock. Never seen anything like it in the river.” Michael stood, mud sucking at his shoes. “Grasping at straws. It’s nothing. And I’m not melting down.”
“Didn’t say you were. Just said I was concerned.”
“Right. That's why you suggested the shrink. What, wondering if I’m coming undone?”
“No. Even when you’re too tired for your own damn good, your instincts are sound.”
“Are they? I’m grabbing colored stones. That’s desperate.” He shrugged and walked along the bank.
Einar followed.
“How can it disappear so fast?”
“Good question. Don’t have an answer.”
Michael looked out over the river. He seemed a thousand miles away. “This stretch doesn't have easy access. Someone has to know it to remain near the water but out of sight.”
“Or something is using instinct.” He wasn’t joking.
Michael was silent.
“Mikey . . .”
“Shut up. Stop with monsters. Kids are dying. I don’t get your nonchalance.”
“I’ve seen too many murders. I’m the jaded Iceland, remember?”
No response.
Great. Another pissed partner. “Michael, I’ve been at this a long time.”
“Right.”
“Cut yourself a break. You're human. You’ll learn to handle it. Nothing about this part of the job comes naturally. Nothing.” In truth, police and criminals weren’t that far apart. Everyone handled the darkness their ow
n way, some more constructive than others.
Michael looked at him.
“Bad ones come along. Afraid you’ve caught one of the worst.”
“No kidding . . .”
He sighed. Case was preying on Michael’s mind to an unusual degree. Why?
“It’s carnage. We tromp the bank and collect mangled flesh. Bodies pile up. It’s watching, laughing. No clues. We’re nowhere.”
“It? Did I hear you right?”
Michael grabbed his sleeve and pulled him to the footprint. “Explain.” He pointed. “Not human.”
Einar signaled a uniform to mark it and have the forensic tech make a cast. Why hadn’t Michael flagged it? Einar looked at him. He was unhinging. Shit. A partner I like after years of assholes and he comes undone. “Michael, do not get lost in this case.” He knew the glazed expression of clouded reason when cops drifted into instability. It was staring at him.
“Right.” Michael said.
“Stay focused.”
“I know.”
Einar slung an arm around his shoulder. “Come on. Help me with a DNA sample from a dog, per Marta’s request. Kait tells me animal whispering is a strength.”
They retraced their path across the marshy shallow. An ambulance parked with lights flashing but sirens off near the berm of the narrow dirt road. In back sat a middle-aged woman, a girl wrapped in a blanket and a large wet dog. Marta held the woman’s hand. The girl hugged the dog.
“Okay, Marta,” Einar said. “We’re here to help.”
She pulled swabs and test kits from her case, handed them to him and asked the girl if they could borrow Rocky for a moment. She shook her head, held on to Rocky.
“Hold on,” Michael said. “Don’t separate them.” The dog refocused him. He climbed into the ambulance and sat beside the girl, crossing his legs and letting the dog sniff his hand.
“Hi.” His voice was calm. “I’m a policeman. Sorry about what happened.”
“My brother’s gone.”
It rocked him for a moment.
“Rocky saved me.” Laura buried her face in his fur. “Couldn’t save us both.”
“Your dog was brave.” Michael fought the desire to scream.
“Yes . . .” She gripped Rocky tighter.
Focus. Fucking focus.
“How about if Rocky helps us?” He looked at her. Hoped she didn't see his instability.
She brushed a tear away. “How?”
He pulled a glove from his pocket and motioned for Einar to hand him the swab. “Your mom tells you to brush your teeth because stuff gets left behind after you eat, right? Get Rocky to open his mouth, and we can sort of brush his teeth, too. What we find may help us.”
She didn’t let go of the dog but pondered his question, and then scratched Rocky under the chin. “Come on, Rocky,” she whispered. “Smile.” The dog opened his mouth and Michael swabbed along his teeth. He handed the swab to Einar. Ran another along a bloody strip on the dog’s jowl. Handed that to Einar, too.
“Thanks,” Michael said. “One more thing.” He pointed to the dog’s front paws. “Can he lift his paws so I can look at them?”
“Okay.” Laura looked Rocky in the eye. “Gimme paw.”
The dog lifted a paw and didn’t flinch when Michael touched it, separating toes to look for residue. He pulled a strand of sticky substance off a claw with his glove and motioned for Einar to hand him a small evidence bag. He did the same with the other front paw. Job done, he pulled a dog biscuit out of his coat pocket.
“I have a dog, too.” He hugged her. “Give Rocky a treat. He’s been a big help.” He handed her the treat and she gave it to Rocky, who devoured it.
Michael edged down from the ambulance. His feet hit the ground, knees buckling, and he held onto the open door for support.
“Nicely done,” Marta said. “Kait was right. You’ve a deft touch with children and animals. I’ll remember that for future reference.”
“Interesting.” Einar crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow. “Haven’t witnessed those skills before. I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be. Just trying to help,” Michael watched Laura and Rocky. His hands were shaking.
Einar interviewed the mother, who described what she heard and saw in as much detail as she could. But like the others, the attack ended before she could react. A flash of light, screams, and quick movement. But one thing she mentioned was new. The killer wasn’t massive. Fast, yes, but the dog’s presence had thrown him off and he ran without going after the animal. Wasn’t much to go on, but did provide a small clue. Combined with the footprint and swabs, evidence gave a glimmer of hope.
Einar headed to the car. Michael zipped his coat and walked in the opposite direction.
“Where are you going?” Einar ran to catch up.
“I need a drink,” Michael said.
“You need sleep, not a drink.”
“Want a drink.”
Einar eyed him. Not good. “You’re not going by yourself.”
“Fine. Join me.”
“I will.” Out here?
“Let’s go.”
“You know a place within walking distance?”
“Yeah. Tavern around the corner.” He shrugged and headed up the hill. “We should talk to patrons anyway, see if they saw something. Not a long walk.”
“Right.” Einar fell in step beside him. “Are we on or off police business?”
“Whatever. I don't care.”
The Tumble Inn came into view, perched near a bend on the winding road into the small logging town of Gates. Two battered neon signs, one with rotating yellow light, sent signals into the dark. It had beckoned passersby since the 1920s.
The outer wood door slammed and inner metal one clattered as they entered. No one looked up. Michael walked over and sat on a battered stool at the U-shaped wood bar like he’d been there often. Einar followed.
The place was decorated in sputtering neon and plastic beer advertising signs, especially Genesee Twelve Horse Ale and Utica Club. Glass shelves behind the bar were crammed with old beer cans, beer trays and character steins.
Men and a few women downed cheap beer. An unshaven drunk with bloodshot eyes and vulture tattoo on his bicep hit on a female bartender between gulps of beer. She tended to customers and he tried to get her into conversation. She ignored him as long as she could and then retreated to the other side of the bar.
Michael motioned to the other bartender, an old woman with gray hair and a no-nonsense air. Bar patrons wouldn’t hit on her this evening. He caught her eye. She nodded, grabbed two chilled pint glasses, poured the drafts and set them on the bar.
“Been a while.” She brushed his hand.
“Yeah . . .” He chugged the beer, ordered another. Einar pulled out his badge.
“I know. Cops. Don’t want trouble,” she said. “You pullin’ someone out?” She slung a dishrag over her shoulder and glanced at several young men on the other side, empty shot glasses lined in front of them.
“No one’s getting arrested,” Einar said. “Just want to talk to a few people.” The toughs were probably familiar to local law enforcement, but tonight they could get plastered without cops intervening. Unless they started throwing punches.
Michael ordered a third beer. The bartender whispered to him. He shook his head.
Einar scanned the bar. “Investigating a series of deaths,” he said when she returned. “Children. Crimes happened in the area, down the ridge.”
The bartender nodded and set the beer in front of Michael.
“Might’ve heard about them.” Einar had the feeling he was missing something.
Michael looked up. “Want to see if customers know anything. That’s all. Anyone here done illegal shit? None of our business. We’re looking the other way.”
Einar nodded. He leaned close to the bartender. “No trouble, no arrests,” he said. “Conversation.”
“We’re off duty anyway.” Michael downed his third draft
.
“Right,” said the bartender.
Einar caught the comment, decided not to let him order a fourth.
The tattooed drunk overheard, ears tuned like radar to the word ‘cops’ even in his inebriated state. Striking out with hottie bartender and frustrated that she’d retreated, he turned to them. “Cops at the Tumble Inn,” he snorted. “You’d better just be wantin’ to talk. Everyone here’s done things you wouldn’t like. We fend for ourselves.” He finished his bottle, plopped it on the bar and rammed a finger into Michael’s forearm. “Hey cop. Heard about that kid. Drove by on my way here. Lookin’ for the killer?”
“Yeah.” Einar peered over Michael’s shoulder. “Seen anyone or anything odd in the area? Out of place?”
“Every day, man,” the drunk said, “every damn day.”
“Anything specific?” Michael said.
“Yeah, man.” The drunk didn’t elaborate. He leaned forward to get the older bartender’s attention. “Want another beer.”
The bartender looked at the detectives. “So?”
“Can’t run me a tab,” he said. “My debit card got pulled.”
“What do you want me to do about that, Chuckie?” She turned to the taps, pouring a draft for a customer.
“Want more beer.”
“Chuckie.” Michael patted his shoulder, signaling the bartender with a wave. “Let me buy you a beer.”
Chuckie smiled, mouth sporting a gold crown and missing teeth. “Cop buys the beer. You’re alright.”
“Don't need to be doin' that . . . ” The bartender shook her head, pulled Chuckie’s favored brand from the cooler, uncapped it and set it in front of him. He grunted and took a swig.
“Chuckie,” Einar said. “Tell us about the odd stuff.”
The drunk leaned back and cleared his throat. “Well, you understand, we know everyone around here. We’re from here, born here, die here. My whole family’s never left here ‘cept once, when granddad went to fight the Japs in World War II. After the summer people go, we know who drives the red beater, who has the loud-ass bike, who left their skank underwear in the ladies room, and who ran off the road around the Ramp Four bridge, taking out the guard rail but not botherin’ stoppin’. . .” He chugged his beer. “Ain’t many folks up here are strangers.”
“Not at this time of year,” Michael said. Chuckie nodded.
“Fascinating,” Einar said. “But what’ve you noticed unusual?”
Chuckie frowned. “I’ve heard strange screams, in parts of the woods I wouldn’t go at night anyway, if ya know what I mean.” He winked. “Bigfoots live out here, I seen one once, smelt it, too. My daddy told me they been here for centuries, specially up near Whitehall . . .”