Sink In Your Claws

  Someone was awake. Reflected in the glow of fading fireplace embers, Einar sat on the sofa, holding an amber drink in an old-fashioned glass. He stared at the trawler model on the mantle.

  Michael sat beside him.

  Einar didn’t move or speak, but didn’t seem surprised he was there.

  “Sorry. Don’t mean to disturb you. Couldn’t sleep. Too much . . . sleeping. Time to come out of my coma.” Michael sat back, slouched into the cushions. Ran his fingers through his unkempt hair, feeling suddenly obtrusive. He brought his hand down. His wrist brushed against the long facial scar. He shivered. What caused such ugliness? He was a freak show.

  “You’re not disturbing me. Weren’t in a coma.” Einar hesitated. “Least not in the last month or so.”

  “Couldn’t sleep?”

  “No . . . ”

  “Because of me?”

  “I’ve a lot on my mind.”

  “Like . . . why you picked up a stray?”

  He swirled the remaining liquid in melting ice, watched it spiral. “You aren’t a stray.”

  Michael sat silent.

  Einar set the drink down. “What are you thinking?”

  “I remember you.”

  Einar turned to him.

  “I mean . . . I remember that I know you.”

  “That's good. It's a start.”

  “But I have a question . . . who’s Mikey?”

  Einar shook his head and smiled. “That’s your question? I called you that to annoy you. Of all things to stay in your mind—suppose that’s why parents tell kids not call each other wussy or crybaby.”

  “Oh.”

  “Never occurred to me teasing would be one of the first things you remember. I should apologize.”

  “I didn’t like it?”

  “No. You hated it. That never stopped me.” He took another drink. “I'm sorry.”

  They sat for a few minutes, only sound the clink of ice and crackling embers.

  “Thank you,” Michael said in a whisper.

  Einar looked at him, brow raised. “For teasing?”

  “No. Saving my life.”

  Einar began to speak. Hesitated.

  “I—” Michael stared at his hands.

  “What?”

  “Thought about death.”

  Einar looked at him.

  “A lot.”

  “And now?”

  A deep breath. “Not so much.”

  “Good.” Einar leaned back, his shoulder touching Michael’s.

  More silence.

  “Said we were working a case. Did we solve it?”

  “No.”

  “That sucks.”

  “Yeah. It does.”

  An ember popped, shooting a spark into the grate.

  Neither spoke for several minutes.

  “What’s the ship?”

  “Icelandic fishing trawler, replica of one we owned. Parents ran a fleet out of Ólafsvík. My family worked there, fishing the North Atlantic. My parents struggled until an offer came along to start a new venture. That’s when we moved to the US, to Washington State. I was thirteen.”

  “Do you miss Iceland?”

  He thought for a moment. “I left a long time ago, but yes I do. Too much yammering here about everything. People speak when they don’t need to open their mouths. They posture and preen. They’re obsessed with material status. Focus on the wrong priorities, get caught up in superficial things. When shallowness seeps in, as it always does, they wonder why they’re miserable and messed up. Superficial fakers . . . ”

  “Hmm.” Michael glanced at him. “You don’t like people?”

  “Not all people.”

  “You believe in monsters?”

  “I did. Then I didn't.”

  “And now?”

  Einar looked into Michael's eyes. “You know I do.”

  “Why do you trust me?”

  He laughed softly. “Is this the Inquisition?”

  “Trying to understand . . .”

  “What?”

  “Why you’d help me.”

  “Why wouldn’t I? Most people are callous selfish assholes. You weren’t. Aren’t.”

  “But—”

  “During that case . . . you threw yourself into danger to save a child.”

  “What does—”

  “You don’t remember—”

  “No—”

  “I do. Unfathomable danger, way beyond run of the mill . . . not many people would have done it. And, if they had somehow stumbled into the situation, they would have groveled for publicity. You know, the whole posturing and preening thing. It's bullshit. God, Besides . . . once someone makes it past my formidable reserve, I don’t take friendship lightly.”

  “Hmm. That dim view of humanity why other cops don’t like you?”

  Einar laughed. “Yes.”

  *

  Two days after the recycling yard murders, Cresson and Villarna got called to another death in the industrial district.

  Villarna drove.

  Cresson bitched the whole way. He hating investigating zone murders—they were difficult to solve and didn’t result in press and accolades unless they involved spectacular gruesome crimes. Or monsters. Evie wanted him to focus on high profile cases to bolster his, and her, reputation. She wanted the scoop on important nefarious deeds. A drive to the dead zone for another homeless murder wouldn’t please her.

  He dreaded the fallout.

  “Time to bulldoze the whole damn cesspool,” Villarna said.

  “We can dream.” Cresson shook his head. They pulled alongside a black and white.

  A sanitation worker discovered a mutilated body in a parking lot near the boundaries of the derelict yards and outer blocks of old brownstones in a revitalizing neighborhood. The guy waited with the responding officer until the detectives arrived. He led Cresson and Villarna to the remains, answered questions and hurried to his truck, late for the rest of his morning rounds.

  “Guess garbage waits for no man,” Cresson said.

  Villarna snorted.

  The victim had been hacked to pieces with a jagged shard of unidentified substance. Blood pooled around him and tracks circled in the snow. Rigor had set in, and his arms were bent as if praying. For what, another fix? Multiple vials of the strange drug were found in his pockets.

  Five hours later, on Marta’s direction, forensic techs conducted a thorough casing of the wider secondary crime scene. They found another victim wedged into a half collapsed doorway—the homeless person who’d most likely perpetrated the hacking, dead of a self-inflicted shard of automotive glass to the gut. Cresson and Villarna were called back to the scene. They spoke with the techs and crouched over the body. Cresson looked disgusted, Villarna bored.

  “Goddamn crazies,” Cresson said. “Enough inconvenient shit. Time to round ‘em all up. Eliminate the problem.”

  Villarna nodded, pointing to multiple stab wounds. “What makes a guy so whacked he does this? There’re easier ways to off yourself.”

  “Bad junk, that’s what.” Cresson stood and scowled.

  Great, here comes death battleaxe.

  Marta approached. She annoyed him. Her calm efficiency and imperturbable air flummoxed him. She never did as he asked, not in the way he requested. And she respected Hannesson. Made no attempt to hide her regard. That pissed him off most of all.

  “Gentlemen,” she said. “What do we have?”

  Villarna eyed her. “The usual. One way trip on the drug train—”

  “Another cracked lunatic.” Cresson pulled off his gloves and rubbed manicured hands, peering at her with narrowed eyes. “Took himself out of the gene pool. More creative cutting. Open him—need to know cause of death.”

  She shook her head. “Get in line. Business has been good. Too good.”

  “Come on,” Villarna said. “Move us to the front of the list.”

  “What is this,” Marta said, “a contest?”

  “Damn right,” Cresson
said.

  Marta eyed them. “We’re working on your other victim this afternoon. We’ll get to this one ASAP. Would have found him five hours ago if you’d done a more thorough search.”

  Cresson glared. How dare she tell him how to do his job? “Don’t override—”

  Marta cut him off. “When we have results, I’ll call you. In the meantime, tracking the drug source is imperative. Wherever it originated, it’s circulating. Fast. Won’t take much for it to jump beyond the homeless. Focus your laser attention on that problem.”

  Cresson snorted. “Have to get rid of the whacked crazies. Then it wouldn’t be a damn problem.”

  Villarna smirked.

  “If you'd look closer, you'd be better detectives. Something is poisoning the homeless.” Marta pointed to a veering trail in the snow. “And it's not human.”

  A line of clawed footprints disappeared into the alley.

  Cresson dismissed them. “Fucking Halloween costume. Wrong holiday . . . ”

  She shook her head and walked away.

  *

  Einar dreaded the morning. Cap had called a full squad meeting. The boss’s big bosses—the Police Inspector and Deputy Police Chief—would be attending. Mandatory. A ball-buster. They were riding everyone to solve the drug murders. Of course, no one mentioned the fucking monsters.

  They crowded into a small conference room, elbow to sweaty elbow. Cresson, Layton and Villarna stood near the door, commiserating. Narcotics and Vice cops gathered in cliques. Victim photos were circulated, timelines reviewed and the ME’s findings discussed.

  “Let’s get on it. Get this shit off the street,” the Captain said. “Find the dealer or dealers selling it, track the manufacturer.”

  Einar agreed. But the cynic in him suspected ulterior motives for the urgency, concern wrapped up in public relations. Cap was pissed that press had picked up the story with gleeful malice, counting the number of murders, sensationalizing gory details and dubbing the drug “lunatic lightning.” Made Seward City seem depraved and the department look like they couldn’t control the streets. As long as the stuff was out there, jumping to the wider population after rampaging through the homeless, press would run with it, creating a nightmare as they tried to solve crimes and avoid panic.

  The vultures complicated effectiveness.

  Cap demanded ‘do what you have to solve this one.’ No vacation, no leave until they had a break in the case.

  Villarna groaned.

  Einar smirked. Cap had just crushed a trip to Jamaica with a new girlfriend.

  The Captain paid no attention. Solving the murders was priority one, coming from the Chief above him. He stood before the squad, left hand gripping the podium, pounding the point home with his white-knuckled right. Upper level department brass made statements as well, talking heads spouting angry words, backing the course of action.

  The meeting ended. Side conversations buzzed. Layton cleared his voice. Pointed at Einar.

  “You have a witness, the raving junkie. Track him down.”

  “We cleared him.”

  “No. You let him go. More murders, circumstances change. He had the drug, lurks in that part of town. Was there when two people were murdered. If you can’t do it, I’ll find him. Break his bones until we get answers.”

  Einar shook his head. “Police brutality your solution, Phil?” Layton wasn’t interested in solving crimes. He wanted to beat the shit out of somebody. And attract press.

  Cresson eyed him. “Yeah Iceland. Heard monsters did it. Like last time—but, hey, maybe no one will vaporize on you this go-round.” He gestured, fingers mimicking flames. “Bust your junkie and improve your clearance rate. Hell, maybe he is the monster.”

  “You call me an asshole,” Einar said. “Look in the mirror.”

  “Find your witness,” Layton said. “He knows something.”

  “Let it go.”

  “Beat it out of him if we have to.”

  “Calm down, Robert.” Einar shot him a withering stare. “Not beating information out of anyone. Last I heard it was illegal.”

  “He can identify the dealer. Don’t piss around. We need the drug source.”

  The Captain overheard them. He excused himself from the top brass and approached. “Einar, bring him in.”

  Cresson beamed, Layton nodded.

  Einar opened his mouth. “I—”

  “No.” The Captain held up a hand. “Understand. Do it legally. No one gets beaten. Don’t need bad press for police brutality. Go by the book. But he’s the only witness.”

  Cresson crossed his arms. “Hell, after more murders he's a suspect. Who knows what rock he might crawl out from under. Won’t be easy to find him—start looking.”

  Layton smirked. “I agree.”

  “Situation's going to get worse,” a narcotics cop added. “Get him off the street before more drugs circulate.”

  Einar stared at the floor. He wanted to ram a fist through Layton’s mouth.

  “That’s an order, detective,” the Captain said. “Track him down and bring him in. Consider him a confidential informant. Use him as bait if you have to. Drag him in, arrest him, but bring his ass back.”

  Shit. Michael will freak.

  Einar weighed his options.

  “Now,” Cap said.

  He had none. He stormed out of the room.

  “Hannesson.” Layton shouted. “Where do I find him?”

  “Hey, Iceland. We’re not done,” Cresson yelled.

  Einar slammed into his chair. Threw a pen at Layton’s desk. Damn. He had to bring Michael in. Cap was right. Einar pulled off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Wished for a better answer. Had no alibi that didn’t reveal things they didn’t understand. Lost in thought, he was startled by a finger prodding his shoulder.

  Layton stared. “Don’t sit there. You heard the Captain. Let's go. Or tell me where he might be. I’ll get his ass.”

  “No. I’ll have him here tomorrow.”

  “Right. You think I—”

  “Relay that to Cap.”

  “Better know where he is, or you’re wasting our time. I’ll tell him to hold you accountable if he doesn’t show.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure you will,” Einar said. “þú ert asni. You’re an asshole.”

  “Whatever.” Layton slammed down at his desk and brushed aside the pen.

  An hour later, Marta called. Layton’s head shot up. Einar stomped into the hall.

  “Einar. I’m sorry. Can’t hold the drug information,” she said, voice heavy. “Press knows it's new, unidentified. Two more murders raised the stakes. Vultures are hounding my office and calling my boss. He wants me to give them something, stall them while the investigation is ongoing. Lab tests haven’t provided answers. Shit, only more questions. FBI is studying the drug chemistry profile. The press’ll pick up on it. The drug is spreading. Even if I don't mention his name, at some point they'll ferret out the human connection. I’m very sorry.”

  “Marta. Give me—”

  “I can't. Wish I could help.”

  “Please, just—”

  You know that. But it's out of my control.”

  Christ.

  He called Kait. Took her about a second to pick up the concern in his voice. He needed to speak to her and Michael. He’d be home within the hour and they needed to stay calm. He relayed the morning meeting and conversations, barking into his cell as he sped along the highway. Distracted, he almost rear-ended a semi, swearing into the phone. He slammed on the breaks.

  “Einar, are you okay?” Kait said. “Calm down.”

  “Damn Layton,” he yelled. “It’s his fault.” He laid on his horn. The semi veered into the left lane. “I lied to my asshole partner, told him I had an appointment to pick up medical records related to the homeless junkie. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I’ll explain. It’s not good.” He paused. “I’m getting too acc
ustomed to lying. Worries me.”

  “I know how you feel,” she said. “But please hang up and drive.”

  *

  Kait and Michael sat at his kitchen table in uneasy silence. Einar dreaded their reactions. Didn’t have a choice, but it sucked.

  Please understand.

  He couldn’t disobey a direct order and needed their cooperation.

  Michael wouldn’t look at him.

  Einar tried to hide his apprehension. He feared a confrontation. What if Michael snapped as his memory was returning?

  “Einar?” Kait said. “Spit it out.”

  He took a deep breath, then another. His voice bristled with an edge he knew damn well Michael hadn’t heard since the night of the murders.

  “You look ready to explode. What’s going on?” Kait leaned forward. “Tell us.”

  “You’re angry.” Michael folded and unfolded his hands, Einar’s agitation rubbing off. “It’s in your eyes. Same as when they dragged my sorry ass to you. What’s wrong?”

  “Einar . . .”

  “I’m pissed. But not at either of you.” He hesitated then let it out, telling them about the recent murders, press reaction, the drug’s appearance, its terrifying effects and growing street presence. He described the morning’s ‘Come to Jesus’ meeting in vivid detail, giving a profanity-laced description of Layton’s comments. He outlined Marta’s concerns, without explaining why he feared facts about the drug coming out.

  Michael wrapped his arms around himself. “It’s me, isn’t it?”

  Einar nodded. “You connect to it. Somehow.”

  “Shit,” Michael muttered.

  “Six dead bodies. Claw marks. Footprints. Four victims with drug vials.” He reached over to Michael, tapped his sleeve. “The kind we found on you. Look, you're the only living witness. My boss ordered me to bring you in for more questioning.”

  Michael lowered his head.

  Kait stared. “No.”

  “Can’t avoid it. It’s on the record.” He exhaled. “I’m to . . . arrest you if you don’t come . . . willingly.”

  Michael's eyes widened.

  “You can’t arrest him for no reason,” she said. “That’s against the law. Isn’t it?”

  Michael closed his eyes, opened them. Ran a hand through his hair, receding into a feral shell.