Sink In Your Claws

  “If I don’t bring you in, someone else will. I’d rather it be me.”

  Layton would beat the shit out of you because he hates the homeless and then I’d beat the shit out of him in retaliation.

  Michael shook his head. “I can’t.”

  “Einar, isn’t there another way? He’s not ready.”

  “I'm not . . . can’t go back . . .”

  “Stall them.”

  Einar put his head down. “I’ve stalled the entire time. Since . . .”

  “You took the junkie in?”

  “Stop it. We have to clear you as a suspect. They don’t know—”

  “You’re harboring a fugitive?” Michael eyed him.

  “Don’t be dramatic, Mikey.”

  Michael sank back in his chair.

  “Christ Einar, this is the last thing he needs.”

  Einar glanced at Kait. She was pissed, but she had to understand. Right? And the dead or undead question swirled in his head. They had to figure out what was going on.

  He'd brooded about it on the drive home. After he missed the truck.

  They had to let someone in—if he trusted anyone, it was Marta. She’d respected Michael as a detective and a person. If she knew why he’d asked her to keep his name out of the investigation, if she could test blood from which the drug was synthesized, maybe it’d provide answers. Maybe she’d hold it under wraps longer—buy time.

  And back to the dead or undead thing.

  We have to tell him.

  He was struggling back from a chasm, trying so hard. But might not be human, could be dead. Could be . . . what? Einar had run the conversation through his head, was at a loss.

  Something’s changed. Blood work will tell us how fucked up you are . . .

  Too much for a mind in pieces. Spilling it without answers would be terrible. He and Kait decided to lie until they knew what was happening. She agreed with hesitation, fearing they might regret it later.

  Watching, listening, Michael had gone pale. Kait folded his hand in hers.

  “Someone I trust will do blood work. The ME, Marta Lantanna. You didn’t kill anyone. We need proof. I have to take you in.”

  “No.”

  “Understand. I’m trying to help. I won’t throw you to the wolves.”

  “Really?” a whispered response.

  “I don’t have a choice. I’ll be there.”

  “No.”

  Einar felt like shit.

  Michael shivered. “I’m dead.” He shook his head. “I’m fucking dead. Knew this was . . . a reprieve. Life reverts to the shit hole. They’ll arrest me, need to blame someone. Cops are desperate. Want to close this case. Shit, shit, shit. Proves—should’ve run, should’ve . . .” He closed his eyes again, body shaking. Kait wrapped an arm around his left shoulder. A firm hand gripped his right.

  “Don’t go away, Michael,” Einar said. “Look at me.”

  He opened his eyes and stared.

  “I won’t let anything happen. You’re not going back to the street. Not going to jail. You’re not alone. Understand?”

  She nodded. “We’ll figure it out.”

  “You can’t promise that.”

  “I damn well can. If for some fucked up reason, they throw your ass in jail? I’ll plant mine beside you.”

  Kait raised an eyebrow.

  Michael shook his head. “That’s stupid.”

  “Look, besides the fact that I know you didn’t do these crimes, you’re my friend.”

  It took a moment to register.

  “You . . . mean it.”

  “Yes, idiot.”

  “I . . . shit. Thanks.”

  “And . . . one more thing.”

  I’m shoveling the shit pile into an avalanche.

  “What now?” Kait said.

  “Have to find the dealer. Might connect to the drug source. You know him.”

  Michael exhaled. “What do you want me to do? You saved my life. I owe you.”

  “Point of clarity.” Einar squeezed his arm. “You don’t owe me. Get it through your head.” His cell rang. Layton. He turned it off. “Need to retrace your steps, find the dealer. Think of it as a return to police work.”

  Kait gave him an unconvinced glance. “I don’t know . . .”

  Michael nodded. “I can do it.”

  “Good. Tomorrow, early, we go to Marta’s office. She’ll be there before anyone else. We’ll get you in and out without notice. Then to the station. And Kait.” He glanced at her. “Mikey’s not walking into any interrogation without a lawyer. You’ve been a witness in countless cases over the last two years. Layton doesn’t recognize you, and you know how legal vultures act.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Einar, that’s —”

  “You’re his lawyer. Allison will lend you a suit. Brush up on lawyerly indignation.”

  CHAPTER 21

  2014 Early February

  Michael blinked. The fluorescent lights were harsh in contrast to morning darkness. Einar and Kait flanked him like bodyguards. He’d pulled a sweatshirt hood over his head and wore one of Einar’s old jackets.

  Aromas. Antiseptic and alcohol unnerved him, reminded of . . . a laboratory. Where? He fought a gut reaction to flee.

  They neared Marta’s office. Einar stepped ahead and peered in. She sat at her desk reviewing reports. He knocked. She rose, surprised. Hesitated and asked why he was there. She meant what she’d said about not being able to withhold information.

  “Marta,” Einar said. “You'd wished you could help. ”

  “Yes, but—”

  I can get a sample from the original blood source.”

  She stared. “You can’t, Einar. Impossible.”

  “No, it’s not . . . ”

  “Look, I know this is difficult, but— ”

  “I'm serious, Marta.” Facing her, he motioned into the hall. Kait entered first, cajoling Michael to follow.

  “Kait? I don’t understand.” Marta said. “What’s this about?”

  “We believed Michael died in the explosion.”

  “He did. No one survived.”

  “We were wrong.”

  “No. Whatever you think, it's impossible. You're under stress— ”

  “We never found remains.”

  “There was nothing left to find.”

  “Wrong . . . ”

  Einar nudged Michael. He pulled down the hood with shaking hands.

  Kait shut the office door.

  “My God.” Marta wavered, almost knocking coffee off her desk. Einar steadied her. “It can't be . . . those buildings were destroyed . . . ”

  Watching her reaction. Michael backed up. His heart pounded. He’d scared her. Hell, it was everyone's reaction. Freak show.

  Kait wrapped an arm around him. “Take it easy,” she whispered.

  “Einar.” Marta couldn't hide disbelief. “How?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Marta stared.

  Michael blinked. He opened his eyes, met hers but looked down. Couldn't deal with her fear.

  Marta leaned on the desk, steadied herself.

  “Explain.”

  “Can’t.”

  “How? The explo—”

  “I have no answers,” Einar said.

  “Where has he . . . been?”

  “Long story. No time now to go into it. Been on the street for the last two miserable years. Living in the zone. No memory.”

  “Christ.”

  Michael faltered. “Sorry to scare you. I have that effect . . . ”

  Kait grasped him tighter.

  “Can’t be. The fire.” Marta shook her head. “I’ve nev —”

  “Marta,” Einar said. “We need blood samples and toxicology. You know it. The drug. Need to . . . figure out . . . what the hell’s going on with his chemistry.”

  Michael stared at Einar. Chemistry and toxicology? Drugs? Wasn’t the blood test to eliminate him as a suspect?

  “þa?
? er allt í lagi. It’s alright. Let’s get the tests done. Trust me.”

  “Fuck.” He shook his head. “What’s wrong with me?”

  “Look. Yes. Something’s going on. With your blood—it’s . . . altered. Changed. Don’t know how. Can’t focus on it. Gotta get you and your lawyer to the station.” He sighed. “Sorry, Mikey. Believe me, you can only absorb so much. And this, er . . . situation’s a major league crazy trigger.”

  Kait stared at Einar.

  “I know what we decided,” he said, “but it doesn’t seem fair—”

  “He doesn’t know.” Marta met Einar's eyes.

  “No.”

  “Shit,” Michael said. “Know what?”

  “Come on. I can get it done. Quickly.” Marta led. She swiped her electronic ID and they entered the lab, cabinets and examination table stainless and spotless. Tile floor gleaming. Cold, sterile air permeated the space.

  Michael spun around.

  No. Not again.

  A metal table, him strapped on it.

  Get out.

  He wheeled and pivoted into Einar. “Christ, let me go!” Shoved him off and bolted.

  Einar grabbed his shoulders. “Calm down. This is more than a fear of needles, isn’t it?”

  Michael nodded, frantic.

  “I don’t know what happened . . . but please, we have to do this. It won’t be bad. Marta is a pro.”

  “No. It’s . . . I . . .”

  “What?”

  He shook his head. “Don’t know. Can’t remember. Terrible familiar . . .”

  “It’s okay.” Einar walked him into the room. “Relax. Let’s get it over with.”

  Marta put a hand on his shoulder. “Take off your coat and sit here.” She led him to a phlebotomy chair near a bank of windows.

  He did as she asked. She laid his forearm on the armrest.

  He yanked it away.

  “Michael, I won’t hurt you,” she said. “Roll up your sleeve. Trust me. We're trying to figure out what happened. That’s all.” She grasped his arm.

  He tensed. “What do you mean?”

  She didn’t answer, but her look frightened him. He didn’t protest a second time. She rolled up his sleeve, exposing the scars. He waited for her reaction, but Marta had none.

  “Fucking ugliness,” he muttered.

  “I'm not judging you.” She looked him in the eye. “Whatever happened, I've seen much worse over the years.”

  She pulled out her equipment—blood collection tubes, elastic tourniquet, syringe and needles, cotton balls, disinfectant and adhesive tape—and slipped on a pair of latex gloves. Tied the tourniquet around his upper arm and felt for a vein.

  He flinched.

  “Relax, okay?” Her fingers had a light touch. She sterilized the area with a swipe of an alcohol-soaked cotton ball and inserted the needle. Michael closed his eyes and looked away. Again he wanted to flee.

  Kait put a hand on his shoulder.

  “You still hate needles,” Marta said.

  Kait nodded.

  Michael opened his eyes. “You know me.”

  “Yes. You and your Icelandic cohort made—make—a good team.”

  Michael glanced at Einar.

  He nodded. “It’s true, swear to God. Hell, you put up with me.”

  Marta touched his arm. “You're a friend. Let me help.”

  “Fine. But . . . what’s wrong with me?”

  Marta glanced at Einar.

  “We don’t know,” she said.

  “It's true,” Einar said. “We think . . . something happened . . . but—”

  “We’re working on it,” Kait said.

  Marta filled three vials with unusual dark thick blood. Held one close and scrutinized it. She looked very serious.

  Not good. At all.

  Einar and Kait watched. Marta shook her head, undid the elastic and bandaged the needle insertion point.

  “I’ll call soon as I have results.”

  “Use my cell,” Einar said. “Layton doesn’t know any of it. Want to keep it that way.”

  “What do you think?” Kait said.

  Marta pulled off her gloves, put the vials in a holder. “I don’t know. Not human blood, too many red platelets. Higher viscosity. Never seen anything like it. Except . . .” Her eyes met Einar's.

  Michael went numb. She just said he wasn’t human. What the hell?

  Kait reached for his hand.

  “Don’t freak out.” Einar looked him in the eye. “I promise, when we have answers, you will too.”

  “It’ll take several days for results, depending on tests.” Marta paused. She put a hand on Michael’s shoulder. “Won’t be easy. I’ll try my damndest to keep your name out of the press.”

  He jerked around. Press?

  Marta leaned to Einar. “I understand. I don’t want to feed him to the media frenzy, either.”

  Michael closed his eyes, a thousand questions running through his mind.

  “We owe explanations,” Einar said. “We’ll get to them. When we know something.”

  *

  Einar stormed through the doors, coat open and flapping, hard-soled shoes echoing on the linoleum. He elbowed two uniforms out of the way. They muttered about asshole Iceland but he didn’t acknowledge them.

  Layton sat in his chair, hunched forward, pen in hand, engrossed in a report on the computer, oblivious to activity around him. Einar banged his hand on the desk three times, hard. The penholder, stack of papers and stapler jiggled. Unmoored pencils rolled off and across the floor.

  Layton jerked up. “What?”

  “Heads up, Detective Layton. Snap to it. Homeless man is on his way with his lawyer.”

  “He has a lawyer?” Layton looked confused. “How does he have a lawyer?” He swiveled his head to the door and stood, straightening his tie and jacket. Smoothed his hair.

  Kait walked into the office, hair pulled up and away from her face in a chignon, makeup flawless. She was dressed in a blue pinstripe suit and cream blouse, pearls around her neck, pearls in her ears, carrying a leather briefcase. High heels stabbed the floor. Every man in the office looked up. Michael came behind, large long coat askew, sweatshirt hood up, face dirtied and hair in chaos.

  Einar was impressed. She looked like a million bucks, attractive, efficient and pissed off. He’d want her as his lawyer, surprised she did uptight bitch so well. And Michael, with help from her makeup brush, had slipped back into junkie mode, wary and on edge. He looked a disheveled mess.

  I hope he's acting.

  They were putting him through hell without answering his questions.

  The lawyer and her only client halted. Michael crossed his arms and stood silent, fidgeting on the balls of his feet. He eyed Layton then swung to glance around the station in an exaggerated leer.

  The lawyer offered her hand to Einar.

  “Detective Hannesson.” Kait feigned an aggressive edge. “Corin Jenner, attorney and advocate for the city’s homeless. My client is here for a conversation as requested.”

  Einar held her hand with a firm grip.

  She turned to Layton.

  “Ms. Jenner,” Einar said. “My partner, Detective Robert Layton.”

  “Sir,” she squeezed Layton’s hand. Hard. He yelped but tried to hide it.

  Michael stood shoulders tight, feet shifting, furrowing his brow. He stared at Layton and mumbled. Einar watched, corner of his mouth upturned in a subtle smile.

  Layton shook his head. “Are you kidding me? Why do we have lawyers for the homeless?”

  While they conversed, Michael absorbed the station activity, listening to phones and computer keyboards, file drawers slamming, cops’ voices, the teasing banter about women— good, bad, nasty, stacked and otherwise—sports and politics. He smelled stale coffee, lingering odor of unwashed suspects and overworked cops, funk of cleansers, air fresheners, and other municipal cleaning products chosen for cloying unpleasantness. Uniforms stared as they walked by.


  He stood motionless, taking it in.

  A sudden sensation slammed into his brain. Complete, unquestioning.

  I knew this world. Worked here. Solved cases.

  A past life shimmered into view, familiar but removed, like looking through a portal in a deep underwater tunnel. He recognized Einar’s desk—the same mess and paperwork overload—and knew where everything belonged, the briefing room, Captain's office, hallway to evidence control and lock up. But wait . . . his desk was gone. A new one intruded. The other detective standing by Kait babbled with a strange mix of déjà vu and disorientation. Young guy, aggressive in his attempt to seem official. Who the hell was he?

  God. Another partner.

  Across the room, Cresson looked up from his computer with keen interest—a malevolent prairie dog sticking its head out of its hole, ready to interrupt, all activity his business.

  Michael frowned.

  He’s a dick. Wait . . . Phil Cresson. Einar hates him.

  Michael wheeled around. He almost blurted something out but held his tongue. Ran a manic hand through his hair. The three people in conversation stopped and looked at him. Dumbfounded, he stared.

  I know you. Where have I been?

  Layton shook his head. “Great. A junkie and psychotic. This interview should be fun. Anyway, back to procedure, then we’ll have to—”

  “Book and fingerprint me? I’m a witness. You’re posturing.” The words spilled as fast as the rush of information in his brain. “I’m not a suspect. You have no cause. I willingly gave a statement, covered under Criminal Justice Act s9. It wasn’t compelled—”

  Kait turned to him, brow raised.

  Einar struggled to find his voice. “Hvað segið þer? What did you say? You—”

  “I’ve . . . been arrested before,” Michael stammered. Shit. Crank it back. Not the time to lose crazy homeless man. He shook his head, scratched his neck, and slid back into character.

  Einar tried to keep his mouth shut. He knew something had changed.

  Layton stomped his foot. “Let’s get started. We’ll be efficient, ma’am. Let’s not waste time.”

  “After you, sir.” Kait motioned for Layton to take the lead. He grumbled and did so. She caught Michael's eye and he saw the questioning look.

  Layton led them to the interrogation room where Einar had recognized Michael on Christmas Eve.

  “Please, sit.” Layton closed the door and sat by Einar, facing Kait and Michael. He folded his hands and cleared his throat, back ramrod straight in the chair, tablet and pencil in front of him. “For the record, state your name.”

  “A problem. Don’t know.”

  Act crazy.

  Michael shook his head like a wild man. “Don’t know, cop, don’t know who I am.” Stared without blinking. “On the street, they call me Troll.”