Einar fell silent.
Don’t know that you didn’t.
“You suffered severe trauma.” Kait didn't release his hand.
“I’m a nut case?”
“No,” she said. “Amnesia. Might have erased things you couldn’t process.”
“You were in wasted oblivion on the street,” Einar said. “If we hadn’t crossed paths—”
“I should thank your asshole cops?”
“Well, I wouldn’t give them credit.”
Kait scratched Loki’s head with her free hand. “This black beast might jog your memory. He’s your dog.”
“He knew you immediately,” Einar said.
Loki's tail wagged nonstop.
“That’s why you’re glued to me.” Michael leaned to the dog, pushing his sleeves up and revealing the twisted red scars and mottled burn marks that slashed to his thin wrists.
Kait gasped.
Michael yanked them down. “Shit. Sorry. I’m sorry. Sorry.”
“No.” She rose. “Don’t apologize.”
She went from scared to pissed in an instant. Sat beside him, looked him in the eye and brought his arms forward. Pulled up the sleeves. He recoiled but she held firm. She ran her fingers along the scars, tracing them to his wrists. “Damn. What did they do to you?”
*
Einar and Kait made a pact with Michael. They’d help him recover his memory, however much was left. But if they decided he needed more serious help, he wouldn’t argue. They’d take him to trained medical authorities.
It was risky. Einar hoped they could reach him—Marta’s words were disconcerting. The fewer people who knew he’d resurfaced, the better.
They threw themselves into it, hoping patience and gradual reintroduction might pull him back from the void. They spelled each other in shifts. Allison stepped in when both needed relief. Michael made it through withdrawal, promising them and himself he’d stay clean. His wounds healed. He began to sleep with fewer nightmares, Loki his vigilant guardian.
They didn’t press his memory, didn’t want to exhaust him. He rarely left the room. Slept a lot. Had good days and bad, at times unable to focus on anything. They encouraged him to write things down. Some days they just served as calm presences or listened to music. Kait handled that part. The stuff was noise—pounding and raucous lyrics. Einar had never heard of the Offspring or Green Day but if they sparked his memory, what the hell, play them all day.
Neither was trained for it—but it seemed to be working. Without knowing what’d happened, Michael was safer if people, including cops, didn’t know he was alive.
Besides, how would they explain it?
He accepted their help. Understood they knew him and he trusted them—remembered them only in vague flashes, but it was better than wasted solitude. They gave a damn.
Einar and Kait pieced together that he’d resurfaced at Crown General Hospital, a small facility a hundred and fifty miles north of Seward City. Thinking medical staff might speak more openly to—or feel less threatened by—a forensic anthropologist than a cop, Kait volunteered to ferret out information.
“Be discrete,” Einar said. “We don’t know who was involved.”
“Don’t worry.” Kait nodded. “I’ll lie if necessary.”
*
She approached the reception desk in the hospital lobby. “Excuse me. I’d like to speak with someone about a patient brought to Crown in winter 2011-2012, some time after December 10.” She gave the receptionist her business card. “I’m consulting on a case downstate. We’re tracing the history of a John Doe whom we believe was admitted during that time period.” The receptionist studied the card and eyed her, then made phone calls.
What am I doing here?
She looked at the floor. Michael had re-emerged like a ghost on her life.
“Through the double doors, he’ll meet you at the end of the hall. Attending physician was Doctor Thayer. You’re in luck. He’s here this morning.” She hesitated. “He might not be able to help—HIPAA regulations, you know?”
“I’ll take my chances.” Kait thanked her and headed down the hall.
Dr. Thayer, a short man with a slash of red hair, greeted her with a firm handshake. He escorted her to a wood-paneled conference room. “Not sure how much we can share,” he said.
“I know. But do those rules apply to someone without memory or connections? Reviewing the case may help with an identification.”
“Good question.” Thayer paused. “Look. The case was strange. Disturbing. Never found out who he was. If you promise not to—”
“Done.” She looked him in the eye. “No one will know.”
He decided to take the chance. She sat at a long conference table. He stepped around a counter and typed on a computer terminal, pulling up case files. He nodded.
“Here it is. Impossible to forget.”
“Why?”
He peered over the computer. “Weirdest case I’ve ever had. John Doe should have died. Was a cold December, one of the coldest on record. Duck hunter found him submerged, wrapped in a tarp and chained to cinder blocks in frozen muck on state lands.”
Take it in. Do not react.
Under the table, she twisted her wool scarf into a tight ball.
“Nine-one-one report came in, hunter had found a corpse. Game preserve. Cops arrived, affirmed he was dead. ME transported the body to the morgue. I’m sure they documented it. Unwrapped it. Tarp is probably still in evidence with local police. Might have other records in their files, but you’d have to speak with them. Body was frozen. Had been there for days. Hell, temp outside was twenty at the highest. We’d already lived through two ice storms and weeks without power before January.” He paused. “Body warmed once inside. A tech began the external exam in preparation for autopsy. He was cleaning the body, felt a pulse start again, then the heartbeat. That’s how he described it. The man had come back to life—like a horror movie about reanimating corpses. Staff was unnerved. Shouldn’t happen. But it did. They brought him here, but we thought he’d be dead by evening.”
“How . . . bad was he injured?”
Damn the assholes.
She steeled herself to remain professional.
“Cold didn’t kill him, should have . . . but . . . well, he was dead from gross trauma.” Thayer shook his head. “Jugular was cut, he’d been beaten. Broken bones. Internal injuries, deep gashes carved in his arms and face. No blood—someone bled him out. Whoever wanted him dead, they must have believed they’d finished him. His fingers were sanded and dipped in acid, so we couldn’t run a good search. No missing persons reports matched his description. Was in a coma for a month. Lab ran blood tests but got contaminated results. Sent backup samples to another lab, but they made the same mistakes.”
“Shit,” Kait said.
Thayer looked up. “I’m sorry. Are you okay? This is tough to take.”
“Keep going.”
“Need a break?”
“No.”
“Okay . . . anyway, it was shocking, given how damaged—his physical wounds healed fast. Massive scarring, of course. Don’t know how he survived. Wounds should have killed him.” He moved from the computer and sat across from her. “Mentally, psychologically, that was another issue.”
She stiffened. “What . . . do you mean?”
“He woke screaming. No identity, no memory, no language, no ability to communicate. Didn’t know he was human. Scared our staff shitless. No one wanted to be on the wing with him overnight. Nightmares, gibberish . . .”
She didn’t know what to say.
“I’ll never forget how one ICU nurse described it.” Thayer peered down at the table. “Humanity seeping into a husk.”
She closed her eyes.
How did he come back?
Thayer sighed. “Something was very wrong, but we have a small psych staff and limited mental health treatment capabilities. Strange, like he wasn’t a being and then was, but had to r
elearn everything. We couldn’t reach him and he was too terrified to understand we were trying to help. He remained for another month and a half. When we thought he might be coherent enough to have a rudimentary conversation, we brought in the police, but he bolted.” He hesitated. “Should have gone after him. But had no reason to hold him. We were ill-prepared.”
“Sounds like a trip through hell.” Her heart pounded.
“Hell and back.” Thayer nodded. “Can’t explain it. He was dead. Then wasn’t.”
Kait looked at her scarf. It would never come unknotted.
Will Michael?
“May I ask,” Thayer said, “why you’re researching this case?”
“We’re trying to identify a body.” It wasn’t a lie.
They finished and shook hands. Thayer escorted her to the lobby. She asked if the state game preserve was nearby.
“Yes,’ he said. “I’ll give you directions.”
Armed with a hand-drawn map, she drove into marshland, winding through the icy landscape. Parked at a hunting lot, log barriers covered by snow. She walked into the black muck, shivering, and hiked to an observation stand. The crust cracked under her feet, boots sinking. She stepped wide and forded to higher ground.
Damn it, I shouldn’t have listened to you.
She stood on the overlook, felt the air sucked from her lungs. Gazed into the frozen expanse, punctuated by dead marsh reeds and broken cattails. A person could not survive being dumped at that time of year. She pulled out her cell and looked up the NOAA National Climatic Data Center, punched in data for regional temperatures in winter 2011. Thayer was right. It had been cold.
Too cold.
She returned to the car, laid her head on her hands on the steering wheel. Closed her eyes, mind spinning. He’d died. What did they do? What was he? She reached for her cell, dialed Einar’s number but stopped. Threw the cell on the passenger seat and broke down.
*
Einar caught the call for another murder that morning.
He dragged himself to the office in pre-dawn hours to finish paperwork before people arrived to distract him. Didn’t want to deal with whining or complaining. Anti-social attitude but screw it. Besides, he didn’t want prying eyes as he searched for reports about the strange drug. He found one article in English translation from a case in Denmark and started to read but was struggling to understand it when his concentration was interrupted.
“Look who decided to come to work this morning,” Cresson ambled to Einar’s desk. “The disappearing detective. Where the hell have you been? Ever consider letting Layton into your secret world of intrigue?”
Goddamn. Einar bookmarked the site and hit minimize.
“Monster research, Iceland?” Cresson snorted. “Should be. Maybe this time you’ll catch them. Creeps and crawlers, your specialty.”
Einar said nothing.
“You know, by the way, Layton has potential. Try not to drive him insane.”
Einar whipped around. “Shut up.”
“Don’t get anyone killed.”
“Bite—” The phone rang. Einar grabbed the receiver, held it like a weapon.
Cresson walked away.
Layton arrived as he hung up. Distracted and foggy without his morning caffeine jolt, Einar couldn’t think of an excuse to avoid his partner’s participation.
Now they headed to the industrial area where he’d encountered Michael. Einar offered a silent prayer.
Let this be a normal murder.
Layton's aggression dismayed him. The man was pumped for the adrenaline rush of a murder scene. He urged Einar to drive faster. The veins in his temple throbbed, eyes shining. Yeah, young guys tended to be enthusiastic, but Layton lived for the prospect of combat—or the thrill of the chase. Why’d he get stuck with the idiot?
They pulled into the fenced lot of a seedy metal recycling facility, steel sign bolted to the wall proclaiming Smash Trash for Cash. The rusty gate stood open. Their arrival was expected. The responding officer greeted them but Layton sprinted ahead when they stepped from the car. The factory manager, a rotund messy man in parka and steel-tip boots, lumbered from his small office to meet them.
Layton reached him first.
“City’s going to hell,” the manager said. “Druggies and deadbeats skulking at all hours. What do we pay you guys for?” He grunted and nodded toward the yard. “One a my workers found ‘em when he reported for his shift.”
Layton puffed out his chest. “Detectives Layton and Hannesson, sir. We're in charge. Tell us more.”
Einar sighed.
The responding officer shook his head and walked back to position.
“Two homeless cranks broke through security fencing. Hacked each other to death. Fuckin’ bloody mess. What’s the world coming to?” The manager pointed at the bodies. “I’m around if you have questions. Got a business to run.” He headed inside.
They lay sprawled, appendages bent at odd angles. Blood pooled at impact points—they’d stabbed each other with sharp metal objects. One gripped a large piece of scrap steel. A long rebar fragment with bloody jagged edge lay near the head of the other. Around them footprints danced in crazed patterns, struggle reflected in the snow. But there were three sets of prints, one of the bodies raked with claw marks. Einar swore in Icelandic. He walked to Layton, who stood over them.
“Two less deadbeats.” Layton shifted. “Either of these your junkie?”
Einar glared. “No.”
“Too bad.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Shit, you—”
“Robert, we don’t know their story. Don’t judge them. Look for evidence.” His vehemence surprised him. He didn’t mean to preach the virtues of the homeless but recent events had shaken his worldview. He reined himself in. Layton was exhibiting his normal distain.
Layton shrugged. “Don’t care about their story. They’re dead. Want to solve the case.” He scanned the lot, following footprints to where they entered the property. Einar hung back—Layton’s impatience was difficult to stomach. He should be disciplined and methodical. Of course, he’d never considered the ass his partner, so never trained him like . . . he forced the thought from his head. Stared at the claw marks on the second victim.
How do we stop them?
Layton paced two steps at a time until he came to a ripped fence panel, dried blood on it. “Look, Iceland. Crazy one and two did a strongman act.”
“Explain, Robert.” He remembered Marta’s description of the drug.
“Ripped it with their hands. They were whacked.”
Einar stood in the morning light, warning bells going off in his head. Sirens wailed. Vehicles converged on the scene. He signaled to two teams of uniforms stepping out of cars, told them to tape off the scene and limit access of unnecessary personnel.
Layton returned to the bodies. “Someone was good with a knife.”
“Claws.” Einar said.
“Bullshit. Don't pull weird crap on me.” Layton huffed.
“Suit yourself,” Einar muttered.
Layton kneeled, slipped gloves on. Searched the victims’ coats and pants pockets. “Shocking.” He held several vials. “They doped up and attacked each other.”
Einar's heart sank. Vials. Identical to the one Arch and Marlen had given him from Michael. How were the vials and claws connected? He crouched in the bloody snow. “How many?”
“Three with this guy.” Layton nudged the first victim and then shifted, crouched over the second. Found more vials in his coat. “Four in this one. Must have been raging. Wonder if he felt anything?”
Hope it was over fast. Christ, what's happening?
Einar pulled plastic evidence bags from his pocket. “Drop the vials in. I’ll give them to Marta.”
Layton handed them over and resumed his search. “If the press arrives, I want to update them,” he said. “Let me have the honor . . .”
Einar walked away. Like hell. He marked the
bags. Layton wasn’t paying attention, eyes focused on the bodies.
Beyond the police tape, Marta stepped out of her car. Einar caught her eye and motioned for her. She approached him. “Going to tell me it's another mutilation, aren't you?”
“Two victims.” He hesitated. “There's more . . . I need your discretion.” She looked puzzled.
He held out the bags. “Claw slashes on a vic. And drug vials. Identical to what I gave you on Christmas.”
“I don't—”
He lowered his voice. “Please don't mention Michael.” He looked at Marta, touched her arm. “As long as possible.”
“Einar, I can't . . .”
“Please. He doesn't . . . didn't . . . deserve to be damned by connection to these crimes.”
She caught the hitch in his voice. “I agree. You know that. But not sure . . . ”
“It's not lying. An error of omission.”
Marta glanced at the scene then turned back to him. “I’ll . . . see what I can do. May not have a choice. Have to speak to the press if the problem explodes—and I’m afraid that’s what we’re seeing. Can’t conceal information about a possible drug epidemic. We’re calling in expertise to decipher the strange chemistry. Lives depend on it.”
“Marta . . . ”
“I’ll be discrete. I sympathize with not wanting to disturb the dead.”
“Thanks. That’s all I’m asking.” She’d try her best. A gnawing fear churned in his gut as she strode to the techs preparing to bag the bodies.
Lives depend on it. But not in the way you think.
*
Einar pulled into his driveway and stared. He felt helpless. They thought Itsos and Thompson had been killed. If Michael was alive, were they? No remains were found, not surprising given the explosion and fire.
He was obstructing the case by concealing Michael's existence. Were the drug murders related?
How far over the line was he willing to go?
Marta had agreed to withhold Michael’s connection from the press, for now. Layton had been in the dark for over a month and getting angry about it. He and Kait were trying to bring a traumatized addict back from oblivion without professional help.
None of it was appropriate but he didn’t care.
He left the car and stepped through the door. Loki bounded up with a stuffed rat in his mouth. He rubbed the dog’s forehead and threw the toy. Loki ran after it with unbridled enthusiasm, grabbed it and returned. He smiled. Might be nice to be a dog. Loki’s life was immediacy. He was loyal, motivated and didn’t worry about tomorrow.