Sink In Your Claws

  “That’s sick, Robert.” Einar shook his head. He hated Layton. Hated his smarminess, arrogance and attitude. He knew he should make nice. If it went down in flames, he’d be failed partner number nine. But he couldn’t do it. He’d given up two years ago.

  He left Marta another message, hoping for results from the vial. He didn’t want to be in the station with this aggressive cowboy. He'd rather deal with the monsters.

  He'd told Marta to call him with the results. She didn’t question when he gave his private cell number.

  Einar’s phone vibrated. He rose from his desk.

  Layton jumped up. “Where are we going?”

  “Nowhere,” Einar said. “I’m walking across the street to get coffee that doesn’t smell like shoes and taste like tar. I’m going to drink my decent coffee and clear my head.”

  “Come on partner,” Layton said, “I’ll come with you.”

  “No.”

  *

  Einar strode down the narrow hallway, past the examination rooms and forensics laboratory. His footsteps echoed in the gleaming tiled hall. The place creeped him out—coming to the Medical Examiner’s Office was entering a foreign landscape. The quiet antiseptic finality, the sterile atmosphere of death organized, the glare of stainless steel and florescent lights. He knocked on the concrete block wall next to Marta’s open door and walked in.

  She looked up.

  “I got your call. Thanks for getting in touch so fast.”

  “Sit down, Einar.” She motioned to a chair. Her eyes didn’t meet his.

  Her reticence unnerved him. She shut the door and returned to her desk, clenching and unclenching her right hand as she shuffled paperwork.

  “Marta—”

  “Analysis came back regarding the vial. Ran tests twice, will review again to verify.”

  “Three times? Isn’t that unusual?” Normally, they ran a test and one verification in drug cases.

  “It is. Wanted to be sure of results.”

  Why does she look freaked? Marta is the calmest person I know.

  She was upset. Not good. “What’s wrong?” He reached out and touched her sleeve.

  Marta’s eyes met his. “I don't—here's what I know. Drug is new. I’ve heard rumors about it, or something like it, coming from Europe. Hallucinogenic, builds up over time.” She took a deep breath. “The first time, it doesn’t have too dramatic an effect other than a typical high. After more doses, the user becomes crazed, euphoric at first but then violent and psychotic. It’s been the catalyst for horrible crimes throughout Europe.”

  “Street drug with a powerful rush.”

  “Not a normal drug. Synthesized from a disturbing variety of substances, several toxic. Also a human source altered by genetically mutated DNA. We don’t know what caused the mutation.”

  “Is that possible? Drug made from human DNA?”

  She stood. “Made from human blood, transformed through chemical processes into a drug. But the base blood is not normal. It’s been . . .” She hesitated. “Re-engineered. Manipulated at a fundamental level. Once human but mutated. Contains strange aggressive antigens—they may have been introduced but now they’re inherent.”

  “I don’t understand—”

  “Appears to be in a continual change cycle.”

  “Marta. What aren’t you telling me?”

  She paced her office. “Lab ran the DNA through their databases. Basic procedure. Didn’t expect a hit. Got one. Results match a single source. DNA had mutated, but fragments of the trace strain were present. What I'm trying to say, Einar . . . shit. Remember the eviscerated children? Course you do . . . can't forget it. Found identical strains to the markers in that evidence.”

  “And?” Einar reached across to halt her pacing. He'd never seen her like this. “Marta. The result?”

  She looked at him.

  “Who?”

  “Einar, I—”

  “The source?”

  “It's Michael's DNA.”

  Einar stared.

  “Michael Lewis.”

  Mutation? His friend and partner, now battered human wreckage, was . . . what, back from the dead or not? Marta was saying he wasn’t human.

  “Einar.” She said it several times before he refocused. “I’m sorry. It doesn’t make sense.” She sat. Her voice quivered.

  “How?”

  “I—”

  “Is that possible?”

  “I have no answer . . .” She shook her head. “Never seen such altered DNA or a drug produced from these substances. Wish I had better news. I’m sorry. We’re running tests, but they may not provide an explanation.”

  “But that means—”

  She couldn't meet his eyes. “Don't know. I'll call when I hear anything.”

  He left struggling to wrap his head around it. Nonhuman mutation? His cell rang. Layton. Einar turned off his phone. His mind spiraled back to that case—it was connected. But how? He balled his fists while he walked, stomping through slush to the rover.

  Let Layton take the lead today.

  He called Allison. Told her he was coming home to take over guardian duties.

  He walked into the bedroom.

  Al looked up with tired eyes. She sat in the armchair watching over Michael, who’d had four difficult days and nights of withdrawal—terrible muscle spasms, delirium, convulsions, chills, pain and constant anxiety. He hadn’t eaten, hadn’t said much, but was calmed by the dog’s presence at the foot of the bed. Loki never left his side.

  “Go,” Einar whispered. He leaned down. “Relax, walk, and get some rest. I’ve got this.”

  She stood. “He fell asleep two hours ago. Exhaustion won. I think acute withdrawal’s over, but that’s just the first step. And . . . I’m not telling you anything you don’t know. Still think we’re in over our heads. And you won’t listen.” She kissed him and left.

  Einar sank into the chair. The damaged man tossed and lay still again. Questions churned.

  Did you come back from the dead? What are you?

  He couldn’t process Marta’s words. The bites—had Michael been right? There was no explanation for someone reanimating. Other than Jesus and Lazarus, and Elvis, it didn’t happen often.

  Einar took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Then he remembered. He couldn’t do it alone. Allison was right. But he regretted throwing someone else's life into turmoil.

  He got up, walked to the window and pulled out his phone. Paused. Punched in a number. And called Baylor University, asking for the Forensic Anthropology Department to speak with Kait Jenret.

  CHAPTER 16

  2014 Early January

  Einar paced the terminal, one of two people in the waiting area outside the security checkpoint, rows of stainless steel and black leather chairs sitting vacant. Arriving passengers moved with slack motions. They trudged through makeshift barriers that marked the path out of the secure area. TSA screeners on late-night duty eyed them. Some meandered dragging carry-ons while others looked for baggage claim. The plane had arrived from Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport three hours late due to weather—in the early morning, passengers’ faces betrayed displeasure at the winter wonderland of the Northeast.

  She came last off the jet way. Scanned the empty space, slung a worn travel bag over her shoulder and tossed a folded newspaper into a wire garbage can. He tried to assess her mental state. She looked lean and athletic, severe, tanned from hours in the desert at dig sites. Her hair, cut to shoulder length, was sun-bleached and unstyled. She wore a faded brown leather jacket. Michael's jacket.

  She walked slow, looking out the window at the plane still at the gate. Perhaps she was stalling or tired from the flight. Then she saw him and headed in his direction.

  He walked to her. “Kait. Sorry . . . your flight took so long.”

  “Einar.” Their eyes met but then she stared past, fingers tugging her jacket hem.

  “Good to see you. Wish to hell it was under different circu
mstances.”

  “So do I.” She hesitated.

  “I know it must—”

  “How is he?”

  Of course she would cut right to the point.

  “The same.”

  “Do you think—”

  “He’s been through hell, whatever happened. Not sure his memory will return.”

  She stood silent.

  “I appreciate you coming. You didn’t have to answer my message.”

  “Yes I did.” She looked him in the eye. “That’s why you called me.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t have answers. Must have been a shock.” He hesitated. “You’re exhausted. We don’t need to do this right away. I can drop you at the hotel and—”

  “I want to see him.”

  She shifted, emotions on edge, and pulled the bag off her shoulder to readjust it.

  Einar took the strap and put a hand on her sleeve. She started to cry and he wrapped his arms around her.

  Kait struggled when Michael died. She’d led him to it, couldn’t fathom what he’d done. Her world fell apart—she stopped feeling, stopped functioning. Had been a zombie dealing with victim services and needed Einar to tell her what to do. Had only made it through the memorial services with massive doses of tranquilizers and Allison to lean on.

  She refused to return to the museum. Working with art objects in shiny vitrines, hosting receptions and touring donors with fat wallets but little taste or understanding became untenable.

  She left the East Coast, accepting a position at Baylor University, a Baptist school. It would’ve amused Michael, what with her sardonic humor and interest in things not religiously acceptable. She shifted her career back into forensic anthropology to help identify remains of illegal immigrants who died trying to cross the Mexican-Texas border. The job had a mission without veneer of society fluff. But there was more to it. A way to make amends for another’s selfless act. She worked out of the public eye, with a small group of skilled people and students, doing fieldwork in unpopulated desert areas.

  When she listened to Einar’s message, she considered not returning his call. At first she didn’t believe it. Made no sense, a cosmic ‘fuck you’ as if having Michael die wasn’t enough. People didn't return from the dead.

  It was bad, he’d said. I need your help.

  Sounded so unlike Einar.

  She replayed it several times. He was serious, convinced of the reappearance. They had both been thrown into alternate reality. Apprehensive but determined to help, she boarded a flight to her past.

  *

  He lay tangled in blankets, flannel sheets soft against his bare scarred chest, awake but not lucid. His face ached but healed faster than expected. After agonizing days of detox he could make it twenty-four hours without drugs to sink his mind into haze. Or antibiotics and Vicodin chasers kept the desire at bay. As mental fog lifted and his system cleansed itself, bits of life gnawed their way into his damaged brain.

  Memory returned in a terrorizing mosaic. He woke screaming. He’d killed—slashing blades, disemboweled corpses.

  He didn’t understand the detective and his wife, bringing him into their home. Generous, yes, but why? They’d cared for his wounds. Took turns through the night, which was disconcerting and comforting. They weren’t phased by his condition, allowed their dog to remain with him.

  If he was dangerous he might harm them. What kind of gratitude would that be? What if he reverted to the behavior in his dreams? He worked up the courage to mention his fear.

  “I don’t trust me.” He couldn’t hold the detective’s gaze. “I might hurt you.”

  Einar looked him in the eye. “No you won’t.”

  Now he sat beside him, hand on his shoulder. What time was it? He sat up, willed his eyes to open. The dog stepped across the bed and licked his forehead. The detective handed him an old sweatshirt, told him to put it on and keep the sleeves down. He had a visitor and didn't want them shocked by the scars on his arms. He didn’t understand but pulled it over his head. He wrapped himself in a blanket, dog at his side. “I don’t want to scare anyone.”

  “It’s okay,” Einar said.

  Einar watched him fumble into the shirt. How’d he end up destroyed? He wanted to jolt his consciousness and infuse memories. And beat the fucking life out of whoever had done the damage.

  He worried about Michael’s questions. Nightmares raised fears of hurting people, but the dreams were fragments of the case. He was more coherent. But how to reconnect the pieces? Maybe information could spur memory.

  Time to tell him who he was, that the nightmares weren’t things he’d done. Those violent images were from a cop on the job and not a killer. Einar pushed the armchair to the bed and grabbed a footstool. He sat and extended a hand. Loki craned his neck toward him.

  “Let’s talk about your past.”

  Michael shook his head.

  “Your nightmares.” Einar scratched Loki’s neck. “Don’t freak out. You’ve asked questions. I can give you answers, if you’ll let me.”

  Michael ran fingers through his hair, haunted eyes staring.

  “Okay?”

  No response.

  “Don’t be afraid.”

  Another head shake.

  “It's alright . . .”

  He looked empty, bewildered. White-knuckled fingers grabbed sleeve edges, holding on to some unseen barrier against fear.

  “I want to help. Trust me.”

  Michael stared another moment then slowly nodded.

  A breakthrough.

  “I've asked a friend to join us.” Einar rose. “Okay?”

  Another nod.

  Einar walked to the door, opened it.

  Kait entered, hand on the doorframe. She glanced at Einar then turned to Michael. She looked and drew back, eyes wide.

  He froze.

  Loki whined. He wagged his tail and jumped across the bed. Her nose met his and she hugged him, burying her face in his fur.

  Seeing the dog's reaction, Michael relaxed. “He . . . likes you.”

  Kait lifted her head. “He knows me.”

  “You his owner?”

  She looked at him, eyes watering. “I’m Kait.”

  Michael leaned back, took a halting breath. “Don’t know who I am.”

  She hesitated.

  “Do you?” his rasping voice whispered. “That why you're here?”

  Kait closed her eyes.

  “Have I seen you before?”

  Her face drained of color.

  Einar put an arm around her shoulder and motioned to the armchair. “Sit,” he mouthed. “It’s okay.” She backed into it, eyes on Michael. Loki plopped on the floor beside her.

  Einar cursed silently. He should have insisted she take her time, ignored her demand to see him right away. Shit. Allison was right. They rivaled each other in stubbornness. Would Kait be okay?

  Michael’s questioning eyes flitted between them.

  Einar sat. He leaned forward, folded and unfolded his hands.

  Spit it out. He’ll be shocked. Get it over with.

  “At the station. I recognized you.”

  Michael sank back. “You know me.”

  “Yes.”

  “How—”

  “That’s why I want to help.”

  “But . . .” He jerked from Einar to Kait. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “It's complicated,” Kait said. “Don’t want to scare you.”

  “I killed someone.” He flailed fingers through his hair. Einar stopped him.

  “No,” Kait said. “You’re not a killer.”

  “Who am I?”

  “Trust us,” Kait said.

  Michael stared. “Not . . . good at that.” He tightened the blanket and hunched against the headboard.

  “Understood,” Einar said. He wouldn’t trust anyone either. Kait looked shocked, but she was more composed. Or faking it.

  She inched closer. “We’re friends
. You’re not alone. Understand?”

  Second thoughts swirled.

  Is this the right thing? Are we helping or torturing him?

  “I hear screaming,” Michael said. “My mind’s a mess.” He pulled shivering hands into his shirtsleeves, cuffs in his fists. “I might hurt you.”

  “No,” Einar said. “You were injured two years ago, memory returning in fragments. You’re screaming.”

  That hit him hard. “Why? Fuck. What did I do? Fuck. If—”

  Kait pried open his hand and wound her fingers through it. “Breathe. Listen.”

  Michael froze. Didn’t pull it away.

  “Kait’s right,” Einar said. “You’re remembering.”

  Michael stared.

  Did he believe them? Einar couldn't tell. Trust would be an alien instinct after two years drowning in the street, fighting to stay alive.

  “Your name is Michael Lewis. You’re a cop, a homicide detective. My partner. We worked a strange case two years ago. It was bad. You were trapped in an explosion.”

  We saw the fireball. You died.

  Einar’s eyes drilled into him. “You’re our friend.”

  He shuddered. “Don’t remember . . .”

  “How could you?” Kait squeezed his hand. “You don’t want to remember. I can't forget.” For a moment she seemed lost.

  Michael looked at her. “You . . . were there?”

  She nodded.

  Einar nodded, too. He was asking a lot of her.

  “I’m a cop,” Michael turned to Einar.

  “Yes.” Einar hesitated. How should he describe a relationship that ended with death? “Kait was your fiancée.”

  Michael closed his eyes.

  “It’s a lot to take in.”

  No reaction from the bed.

  “Is your fiancé.” Kait glanced at Einar.

  So she hadn't gotten over him.

  “We know you.” Einar paused. “You’re a cop, a good one. Besides—if I knew you killed people, you’d be in jail.”

  Michael opened his eyes.

  “I had you at the station.”

  He narrowed his brow.

  “Easy arrest.”

  “Oh. Yeah.” Michael understood. His mouth hinted at a smile.

  The flash of humor was reassuring.

  “You're safe here.” Kait squeezed his hand.

  “Look. We’re not sure your memory will return. Someone beat the living shit out of you and left you for dead.”

  “Why?”

  “It's . . . a long story, and an unfinished one.” He hesitated. “Still have to solve it.”

  “Why didn’t I die?”