Sink In Your Claws

  “One complication. How do we explain what we’re tracking?”

  “That’s your area,” Michael said. “You’re the monster man.”

  *

  The county sheriff, undersheriff and six uniforms met them at Algonquin Alpine Resort two days later. It had snowed overnight, a white blanket on roads and trails. The weather meant poor visibility but delighted those who lived for outdoor recreation.

  They set up a control center in the lodge office, the closest location with meeting space for vehicles and people—coordinating actions in deep snow and navigating narrow access roads would be difficult if not impossible. Einar, Michael and the sheriff staked out trails, familiarizing themselves with access points that fit the killer’s MO. After conferring, they focused on a winding cross-country ski trail bordering the river. All the while, in steady snow, couples, individuals and families in colorful winter gear skied, talking and joked. Other visitors snow-shoed along the river, enjoying the snow-covered woods.

  Evening approached. Einar and Michael divided the trail into two sections, sheriff in the middle, each accompanied by a uniform. The sheriff parked his four-wheel drive at the mid-point. They followed groups at a distance, working their way along the path. Einar, expert on skis, shadowed a family with two children, young kids only learning how to handle the equipment. They glided, slipped, fell, and laughed. Their parents picked them up, encouraging them to try again. Michael, who’d refused to put on snow tramping gear, followed a family with a young boy, steps soft and deliberate in an old pair of leather hiking boots. Einar had made fun of his footwear, calling them an outdoor fashion disaster—but he could walk easier in them than those damn wide snowshoes. The families skied and kidded, moving in tandem, skis shushing. They wound through fragrant pine forests toward a river clearing, large flakes floating around them. Snow continued to fall.

  Michael moved along the trail, watching the boy laugh and step wide in his snowshoes. The parents smiled. He remembered his brother. Snow hit his face, stung as it melted. He squinted to see. Why did people enjoy this?

  A flash. Blinding light.

  Shit.

  The uniform yelled.

  Michael bolted. No second thoughts. He leapt, catapulting forward. Crashed through the brush, careened in front of the parents and grabbed the boy, reaching him before the creature.

  It slammed into them.

  Michael tackled the child into his coat. The creature screamed. It pulled detective and boy into the icy water, slashing at them. Michael gasped, water rushing into his lungs as it shoved his head underwater. He couldn’t see. It hacked with its claws, shrieking, and dragged them into the middle of the river. The boy’s family panicked on the shore. The uniform sprinted for help.

  Claws sank into his shoulder. White hot pain.

  Michael swore, mind reeling. It dragged him under—he braced, trying to stop it.

  Hold on to the boy. Don’t let go.

  He bear-hugged the trembling child in his right arm, coat twisting into a sopping wet anchor. Michael balled his left hand into a fist and smashed its face and neck. The thing slapped his hand away, shredding his glove and fingers.

  This kid’s not going die. Not going to disappear. You will not win.

  Teeth shattered his left shoulder, hitting bone. He screamed, swallowed more icy water. It slammed him into a rock. Claws slashed his arms, mutilating his hands. He blocked out the pain, fought. It dragged him like a broken rag doll up the river, smashing him against tree limbs, rocks, logs.

  He held on to the boy.

  In the dark, underwater, bleeding, he was loosing his grip. Couldn’t see, swallowed more water, gagging. He smashed his knee into it, yanking around in the opposite direction, trying to throw it into the freezing river. Rushing sounds in his head like a tidal wave. His fingers went numb. He tightened his arm around the child.

  Goddamn it, you’re not getting this kid. Fuck you.

  Consciousness slipping, the water became viscous.

  Don’t let go.

  It dragged him under. He closed his eyes, strength ebbing. Blood ran into the river. He disintegrated into liquid with it. His brother’s face appeared and drifted away, he was the ten-year old boy who lived in the woods, played in them, loved them. Billy ran along the bank yelling ‘you can't get me, Mikey’ and Michael followed, taunting. ‘I’ll catch you! You can’t hide.’ Young legs glided along the path, kicking stones, catching a crayfish and waving it at Billy, skidding to a halt on top of his brother, laughing . . .

  Time disappeared. He didn’t feel water or cold. Just pain. In his fading mind, he heard hoarse roars in a deep tunnel. Something grabbed him and pulled. He shook it off, kicking. Held the child but fell, pitching forward. His legs wouldn’t work—he crashed into the water. It grabbed with more force. He struggled. It was stronger.

  “It’s Einar! Don’t fight us. It’s gone. You’ve got the boy.”

  They dragged him from the river. He was numb. Einar pried his arm open from its iron grip to free the boy. A uniform grabbed the terrified child, wrapped him in an emergency survival blanket and rushed him to a patrol car at the top of the bank. The sheriff and undersheriff helped get Michael onto shore. Two uniforms tore down the riverbank tracking the thing.

  Fuck. Wake up.

  His knees buckled, wet clothes sinking like lead. He collapsed, falling onto a solid form that held him up. It was cold. He jerked backwards.

  Einar scared? Not good.

  Is the boy okay?

  He shivered. Couldn't stop.

  Einar heard the screams, ripped off his skis and tore down the bank, sheriff behind him. Something was anchored to Michael's shoulder. It slammed him into the water again and again. Snow fell fast, creating a blurred nightmare. The uniforms fired warning shots, but couldn’t take it down—no clear aim without shooting the detective.

  It shrieked and dragged cop and boy up the river. They followed. Michael somehow flipped it and jammed a knee into its gut. Einar grabbed him, yanking it off—it lashed out, just missing his hands, and fell. As shots echoed, it surrendered, escaping in a catapulting gait down the middle of the river.

  Einar and the sheriff dragged them from the water, Einar shouting his name. He fought, beyond comprehending friend or foe. Einar wrapped his arms around Michael and pulled the boy away. Two uniforms ran alongside with floodlights. Sirens wailed.

  In the eerie shine Einar saw his hands, coated in bright arterial blood.

  He looked at Michael. “Hang on, kid.”

  Jesus Christ—it was horrific. Multiple massive bites mangled his left shoulder, jagged gashes surrounding deep punctures. Wounds were catastrophic—flesh gone, muscle torn and shattered bone exposed. Einar couldn’t tell what was holding the bloody mess together.

  Fuck. His partner was going to die.

  He locked his arms around Michael’s torso, the sheriff grabbed his legs and they ran to the access point, heaved him into the four-wheel drive, sheriff screaming into his cell for an ambulance.

  The sheriff cranked the heat and sped down the narrow road, skidding in the snow. He tossed a first aid kit and towels to Einar.

  “In the kit,” the sheriff yelled. “Emergency survival blanket. Israeli hemorrhage bandages.”

  “How the—”

  “Special Forces in a past life.”

  Einar ripped them open and pressed them against the wounds to stop the bleeding. His hands were soaked.

  “Michael, can you hear me?”

  No response.

  Blood was everywhere. The sheriff yelled into his cell to have the trauma team on standby. Einar yanked off Michael’s boots and wrapped the survival blanket around him. He wound his wool scarf around clenched hands, fingers shredded and lacerated. Put more pressure on his shoulder.

  “Answer me!”

  Michael shivered nonstop. Blood ran down his face and neck, covered his hands, soaked the seat and soaked Einar. His lips and hands were blue. He was clamm
y, pupils dilated.

  “Damn, Mikey. Don’t do this. Hang on.”

  Einar couldn’t feel a pulse.

  Michael’s eyes glazed. He slumped, losing consciousness. Curled into a fetal position.

  “Fuck. You’re not going to die on me. That’s a damn order. Are you listening?” Einar pulled the blanket tighter around him, tried to staunch the bleeding and yelled at the chief to gun it.

  CHAPTER 14

  2011 Late November

  He ebbed and flowed.

  Not cognizant of time or distance.

  Why am I?

  Wasn’t sure who he was—didn’t care. In suspended animation, his mind wandered, slipping and skimming in nothingness.

  Where do I go?

  A gradual bright haze reflected on his eyelids. Warmth. Smells of disinfectant and antiseptic lingered. Heard the beep of monitoring devices. He meandered weightless, floating in space. Voices drifted into focus. Go away. Wanted to stay cocooned without concrete being.

  “Michael.” A hand on his forehead.

  He blinked. Squinted.

  “Hey,” Kait said.

  Was she crying?

  He tried to reach her. Couldn’t move his fingers, couldn’t lift his wrist. He blinked. Couldn’t talk. Tube in his throat. Tried to shift his head. Again, no movement. Another figure appeared beside her.

  “Christ.” Einar was pale.

  “Rest,” Kait said.

  He drifted away.

  Again light and sound intruded.

  He was heavy, returned to earth. Moved an inch. Pain. Squinted.

  They sat by his bed.

  Kait smiled, fear in her eyes. She looked exhausted. Why?

  “Mikey, you’re insane,” Einar said.

  He tried to remember. It was a blur.

  “Brave, selfless, but crazy insane.” Einar leaned over the bed. “I’ll never take you anywhere in winter again. Promise.”

  He looked up. Einar’s sweater was dark red.

  “Don’t worry. It’s just a sweater.”

  Realization seeped in. Blood.

  “You scared the hell out of us,” Kait said. “But you saved the boy’s life.”

  “Kid’s going to be alright.”

  A nurse hovered. She checked IV lines and told Kait and Einar to go home. The patient needed rest.

  “Sleep.” Kait touched his face. “We’ll be here.”

  He woke, grounded. Couldn’t move without pain. His throat hurt. Everything ached. Shit—his neck and right shoulder were immobilized, covered in bandages. Tubes and wires ran everywhere.

  It's bad.

  A fight—fucking monster. What'd it mean? He sank back, wishing for unconsciousness.

  Hospital. How’s the boy?

  Heard scraping and glanced up.

  Einar pulled a metal chair to his bedside. He was in a suit and tie. He sat and folded his arms on the rail, resting his chin. He peered down.

  “Christ, Mikey.”

  Michael looked at him, tried to focus.

  “Glad you’ve rejoined the land of the living. Damn glad.”

  He didn’t know what to say.

  “Don’t do that again.”

  He opened his mouth. Tube was gone from his throat.

  “Kait’s sleeping,” Einar said, voice low. “As much as possible in a hospital armchair.”

  Michael was fogged, several beats slow. “What . . . time . . . is it?”

  “Six in the morning. You’ve been here for five days.”

  “What?” He blinked, confused.

  “Relax. You were sedated.”

  God.

  “Floating in a Dilaudid haze. They’re backing you off . . .”

  “W . . . why?”

  Einar glanced over his shoulder.

  Checking to make sure Kait was asleep wasn’t good.

  “Michael, I—”

  “What . . . happened?” His mouth was dry.

  “Take it easy.”

  “Christ. How bad?”

  Einar bent close. He was exhausted. “Shit, Mikey.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I don’t . . . okay, not going to lie. You’re lucky to be alive. Don’t know how you held onto the kid, but you did. We dragged you from the water in bad shape. You . . . ”

  “What?”

  “Thought I was losing another partner. You almost died in the sheriff’s car. Never seen so much blood not at a murder scene. Trauma staff stabilized you. Needed seven pints.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah.”

  Michael tried to lift his hands. Einar put an arm across the bed.

  “Give it time. Your fingers are lacerated, but your hands will be okay. You escaped frostbite.” He fell silent.

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “I don’t want to—”

  “I’m not stupid. What?”

  “It bit you, Mikey, twice.” He hesitated. “Bad. Deep—crushed bones. Doc’s worried about infection.”

  “Shit.” His mind exploded with weird recent conversations, Laina’s ghastly tales. Einar and Kait’s talk of evil. “Fuck—”

  “Relax, okay?”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Take it easy.”

  “But . . . what . . . why? I’ve been out of it for a week?”

  “They sedated you. Be thankful. You had to be unconscious.” Einar cringed. “Extensive injury debridement and saline lavage every ten hours.” He hesitated. “You didn’t need more pain than necessary.”

  “It bit me.” Michael closed his eyes.

  “Yeah . . . but you saved the boy.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Don’t—”

  “What if—”

  “Don’t panic.”

  “Shit.”

  Einar laid a hand on his arm. “Don’t. Calm down. For now—”

  “What if Laina’s myths—”

  “You need to heal. Understand? Can’t worry about phantoms.”

  “But you . . . ” Michael opened his eyes and peered at Einar. “No. This is your area. Don’t lie. What do you think?”

  “We’ll figure it out later.”

  He drifted away again.

  Dawn filtered through the window. The attending physician came in and reviewed Michael’s charts. He lifted the gauze and examined his shoulder while a nurse checked the pulse oximeter and IV ports in his arm.

  I’m a freak show.

  “Welcome back, detective.” The doctor glanced at the monitors. “You’re lucky. Lost a lot of blood. Wounds are deep and you almost died from hypothermia. You’re on intravenous antibiotics including ceftriaxone and strong painkillers. We’re monitoring for local or systemic infection—animal bites can be contaminated. Sepsis is a threat in cases like yours.”

  It all sounded bad. He hated being on display in the ICU.

  Kait stirred and opened her eyes. She sat up, stiff, stretching legs in front of her. Pulled her jacket from behind her head and tugged it over her shoulders, hair a tangled mess. Einar leaned against the windowsill, legs crossed. When he saw she’d woken, he edged forward, put a hand on her shoulder and whispered, ‘good morning beautiful.’

  She looked up at him, and then turned to Michael and the doctor.

  “Can’t identify what got you—bites don’t match anything we’ve seen. Not a dog, none of our local predators. Called a State Police forensic odontologist. Police couldn’t find the animal,” the doctor said. “We’ve started HRIG and we’re beginning rabies vaccine shots. Can't take chances.”

  Crap. Michael closed his eyes. “Shit. Heard horror stories about those shots. I’m bad with needles.”

  “He is.” Kait nodded. “Worse than kids. Michael Lewis, homicide detective. Deals with terrible crimes and grisly killers but petrified of needles.”

  Einar glanced at her and nodded.

  “Well.” The doctor crossed his arms, pondering Michael’s hesitation. “Aren’t as bad as they used to be. The large stom
ach shots haven’t been used since the 1980’s.”

  “That’s good.” Einar turned to Michael and smiled. “See, it could be worse.”

  Michael stared. “Easy for you to say.”

  Einar shrugged and raised an eyebrow. “Be positive. You have to get them. Don’t want to lock my rabid, foaming at the mouth partner in the back of a cop car one afternoon.”

  “I really hate needles.”

  “We give them in the upper arm,” the doctor said. “One now and three more at specific intervals over the next fourteen days.”

  “Suck it up, Mikey.” Einar put his hand on Kait’s shoulder. “You get them like it or not.”

  “Won’t be bad. I’ll hold you down.” Kait smiled. “You might not mind that.”

  *

  Michael’s wounds healed with unusual speed despite the severity. Amazed medical staff assumed it due to massive doses of antibiotics and a hearty constitution. The forensic odontologist took molds and conducted tests but couldn’t identify the bites, other than affirm they weren’t human or domestic animal. A type of carnivore, but not one found in the region. Flustered, she suggested police look for reports of escaped zoo or circus animals. But everyone admitted—exotic wild beasts running amok was a long shot. Meanwhile, Michael submitted to rabies shots with trepidation. Ten days after the attack, the doctor released him with the caveat that he return for the final shot and not push himself.

  It bit me.

  He shuddered when he looked in a mirror. Fear permeated like fog. His face was a bruised mess, shoulder throbbed despite massive doses of painkillers—had to fight the constant urge to down half a bottle of Vicodin.

  The boy is alive.

  The wounds healed but they were gross. Large chunks missing from his shoulder, red scars, deep punctures surrounded by mottled purple and brown bruises. He felt deformed despite Kait’s reassurances. His hands ached. It was difficult to flex fingers or make a fist. Einar said he was lucky to be alive.

  I hope it’s true.

  Dark thoughts saturated—Laina’s stories, Einar and Kait’s discussion about demonic creatures. They’d filled his mind with crap. Had to be crap. Right?

  *

  Michael dreaded the media dog and pony show—made his skin crawl. Hated pushing through the crowd. Hated the dress uniform. It itched. Hated the focus on him.

  Leave me alone. Let me do my job.

  Didn’t want to talk about what’d happened.

  Seward City Police media spokesperson Rand Stosky—cops called him ‘Weasel’ and it wasn’t a compliment—flitted through the assembled mass with an air of twitchy importance, escorting them into the station for the official briefing. Seward City had a new cop hero, with Life Saving Medal and Law Enforcement Purple Heart to prove it. A feel-good story demanded publicity.