The Man on Little Sweden

by Sam Harding

  There’s a metallic click as the bolt is unlocked and then a slight screech as the door opens a crack. It’s a terrifying image, but I do my best to keep a neutral face. Karen looks more like Princes Fiona from Shrek than a human being, a green face-mask covering the entirety of her normally somewhat pleasant face.

  “It’s late, Mr. Donovan,” she says with a tired voice. “Probably for the best. Please, come in.”

  I look down at Karen’s slippers, a now quiet Pomeranian mix is standing between them, its tongue hanging from one side of its mouth. I like dogs. I actually like dogs a lot, but I don’t like dogs that aren’t even bigger than a cat. They’re not dogs – they’re furry, leg-humping rats. But that’s not the reason I don’t want to go inside. It’s late and I’m tired.

  “No, thank you. What I have to show you –” I pause for a second, trying to find the right words. “What I have to show you will only take a second.”

  Surprisingly, Karen only nods. This is usually where those who’ve been cheated on start to cry, but not Karen. It’s like she knew this was coming – as if she’d already accepted the reality of the situation and only needed me for the solid proof. I’m even more surprised when she reaches into the pocket of her robe and pulls out a fat manila envelope.

  “Five thousand, right?” She asks.

  “Uh, yes—yes, ma’am, but you haven’t looked at what I have.”

  “Is he fucking someone?”

  Again, she surprises me, but there’s no sense in sugar-coating it now. “He is.”

  “How young is she?”

  “Young. I have pictures if --”

  Karen waves her hand. “Cindy.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Blonde girl, probably sixteen or so, tits like watermelons?”

  I remember back to nearly half hour ago from my hiding spot at the bank. “That would be her.”

  Karen shakes the envelope of money, gesturing for me to take it. “I don’t need to see the photos, Mr. Donovan. I just needed to hear the truth for myself.”

  I take the money without saying a word and give my client a polite nod. There’s nothing to say. She will deal with it in whatever way she sees fit. Karen closes the door and I turn away just as the little dog begins barking again.

  I make my way back towards my Bronco, its gray paint glinting in the reflection of the full moon, snow, and street lamps. I climb in and set the money down on the seat next to me without opening the envelope. I know it’d probably be wise to count the cash, but after doing this job for the past year, I’ve got a pretty good grasp for the types of clients that will cheat me and the types that won’t. Karen’s entire reason for hiring me was based around honesty and loyalty. Honorable traits that I believe she possesses even though her husband does not.

  I unsling the Nikon from around my neck and open my digital photo album. One by one, I delete every photo that I’d taken of Duane and Cindy. The job was done, and the Klimek’s business was the Klimek’s business.

  I put the camera next to the money and start the Bronco. I pull away from the curb, do a U-turn on the empty street and head in the direction towards home. Just as I’m nearing my first turn onto a new street, a red Ford F150 passes me in the opposite lane, its driver never bothering to look at me.

  Like my life had three years ago, Duane Klimek’s life was also about to change. The only difference is, whatever change he will have to deal with, will not be my problem.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Three Options

  THE WARM SUN beats down on my face as I dangle my feet from the dock and into the water. I can hear seagulls screeching all around me, along with the gentle splashing of the tide as it goes in and out. I’ve never seen water so blue and clear, so inviting and calming.

  I wiggle the toes on both of my feet, flicking off droplets of salt water as I do so. I curl and flex my toes, a feeling and sight that, for some reason, puts me at ease. A hand touches my right shoulder and I look up to see Dani looking down at me, her face framed by the clear blue sky. Her black hair is waving in the gentle ocean breeze, her smile is as bright and radiant as ever.

  “I love you,” she says to me, touching the side of my face with her fingertips.

  I grab her hand and kiss it. Then let go of her hand and look back towards my soaking feet. My breathing stops. Something is wrong. The blue water is no longer blue, but a sea of thick dark crimson. I try to lift my feet out of the water but only my right leg obeys my commands, the left leg – the left leg is missing. A bloody stump is all that remains, a few inches below my knee.

  I scream in horror, unable to process what I’m seeing. I scramble backwards on the dock, the wooden planks digging slivers under my fingernails as I claw to get away. I can see Dani’s bare feet moving backwards, away from me, as if she too, is trying to get away.

  I look up at her, desperate to understand what is happening, but Dani, my sweet Dani, my wife, is no longer the same woman who’d been looking at me only moments ago. Her face is as red as the ocean, at least what’s left of it. Half of it is blown away, as if by an up-close shotgun blast. Yet, despite her deformity, she is still able to speak, her voice as clear as ever.

  “You failed me, Micah,” she says. “You failed us.” A little boy, my son Thomas, walks into view from behind her. He isn’t bloody at all, but the look on his seven-year-old face shows nothing but hate. Hate towards me.

  “I tried!” I cry out, feeling it is the only thing I can say. I don’t know what else I can possibly do to save my wife, turn the water blue again, and regain what I have lost.

  “No, you didn’t,” Dani says, her voice never changing tone.

  Suddenly, a bone-saw materializes in her hand and I can no longer move. I am on my back now, pinned against the rough planks of the dock. Thomas is holding me down by my shoulders, his small body somehow much stronger than my own. I can feel myself crying and shaking, but for some reason, I can’t hear any of it—I can only hear Dani now. She slowly walks around to my right side, and squats down next to my remaining leg. She smiles at me and slowly places the teeth of the saw just under my knee. I thrash as hard as I can but it is no use; Dani begins to cut. Back and forth, slowly and delightfully. I cannot hear myself scream, but I can hear the saw cutting through bone and ligaments. Blood sprays from my leg, and before I know it, it is nothing more than a grotesque stump, matching my left.

  “There we are,” Dani says. “This is a good start.”

  She picks up my severed lower leg and waves it at me, the foot flopping on the ankle like some sort of dead fish. Then, as if it is a piece of trash, Dani throws it off the dock and into the crimson tides.

  She then turns the saw on herself, placing the blade against her own throat, smiling at me with what little of her face still remains. I can hear myself screaming now, and feel Thomas let go of my shoulders. I sit up as fast as I can, reaching out for Dani, doing everything I can to try to stop her from doing what she’s about to do.

  *

  I find myself in a new place. I can’t catch my breath, but realize I am sitting up in my own bed, a cold sweat drenching my entire body. I notice my left hand is outstretched, reaching for the far wall of my darkened bedroom that had once been my dead wife’s ghost on the tropical hell. I lower my arm and run my hand through my thick hair, pushing it back and out of my eyes. I feel myself shaking, my heart is racing, and there’s a familiar nauseating pit in the recesses of my stomach. Even after almost three years, every night for the past one-thousand-eighty nights, I have the exact same dream. And no matter how hard I try, I cannot change its outcome.

  I look to the wall next to my bed just under the pulled down blackout shades. There it sits, an abomination of titanium and black carbon fiber. I’ve heard it’s a very expensive device, but I wouldn’t know. I didn’t pay for it, and I’ve yet to find out the identity of the anonymous donator who paid for both it and my surgery. Instead of the usual sleeve-type prosthetics most amputees apparently have, I have the fancy ki
nd that connects to a metal rod that’s been screwed into my legbone. Most people tell me they think it looks “cool.” What had once been a titanium rod connected to a flexible foot on an artificial joint, is now encased in a 3-D printed cover giving the prosthetic the thickness of an actual lower leg. Like the sleeve tattoo on my right arm, the prosthetic has traditional Nordic symbols cut into the 3-D printed add-on. I can just make out the shape of Fenrir in the darkness, the monstrous wolf and child of the god Loki and giantess Angerboda. I suppose I can see why people would find it “cool,” but all it does is remind me of how I got it in the first place. The day I lost both my leg and my wife. My Dani.

  I yank the covers the rest of the way off of myself, revealing my naked form and the scars that came with it. I slide what remains of my left leg and my right off the bed and put my head in my hands. My breathing is calmer now and the sweating is gone, but the feeling of being sick to my stomach remains. It never really goes away.

  I take a deep breath and stand from the bed on my right foot and hop the few feet to the wall and grab hold of the prosthetic. Using the windowsill for balance, I click the metal rod extending from my stump into the prosthetic. There’s a metallic clink, telling me the leg is properly attached. I remember when this routine used to hurt – now, I hardly notice the pain. At least, the physical pain.

  Now, standing on both “feet,” one flesh and one some sort of rubberized plastic, I effortlessly make my way through the darkness of the bedroom and slip into the master bathroom. I flip the light switch, momentarily blinding myself with the bare bulbs situated over the mirror. The bathroom is designed the way Dani wanted it, as is the rest of the house, and even after all this time, I’ve made sure nothing about it changes. I refuse to even let it get dirty. She wouldn’t like that.

  I look at myself in the mirror, finding it silly I’m glad I woke up with the same amount appendages I’d gone to bed with. As I do every morning, I scan the few scars on my torso, one being a jagged scar across my chest, another reminder of three years ago. It’s a cut I’d received only seconds before losing my leg. But despite my deformities, I am relatively fit.

  I’m a touch under 6’2”, weighing in at around 215 pounds. My physique looks more Leonidas from 300 than medically retired cop with PTSD, but that was by my own design. A steady weight-lifting regimen keeps my body lean and hard, allowing for a visible thick vein to carry blood through the Nordic designs on my right arm. As I take care of my body, I also take care of my grooming. Although shaggy and craggy from the pillow, my auburn hair is usually combed back and my thick beard and mustache are always trimmed as perfectly as I can possibly make them. I know this may make it seem like I am a little self-absorbed, but that could not be further from the truth.

  I take care of myself for one true reason.

  I’m scared.

  I’m afraid if anyone could see the inner me, that I would be done for. Exposed. Destroyed. What may seem like a tough, capable, fit man on the outside despite the fake leg, is only a façade for a terrified little man afraid of his own nightmares.

  At least, that’s how I see it.

  I splash some cold water on my face and return to my bedroom. In the darkness, I find a pair of sweats in my dresser, put them on and step into the adjoining living room. I walk the length of the small double-wide house and stop just outside Thomas’s bedroom door. It’s open a crack and so I peak in just to make sure he’s okay. As every seven-year-old should be doing at five in the morning, Thomas is sleeping soundly. His memories of three years ago haven’t quite seared into his mind the way it has mine. Perhaps being that he was four at the time and even more innocent than he is now has something to do with it. Maybe his innocence is what shields him from the nightmares.

  I backtrack through the house, stopping in the kitchen to turn on a light above the sink so I can see what I’m doing in order to make coffee. I like all sorts of coffee, but my all-time favorite is called the Jack Carr Revenge Blend from Black Rifle Coffee Company. It seems to jolt my senses faster than anything else, and this Wednesday morning feels like a Revenge Blend kind of morning.

  As the coffee prepares, I peer out the kitchen window and take a look at my back yard. It snowed again last night, maybe three inches. The pine trees beyond the yard are covered, their branches bent under the frosty weight. I can’t help but wonder what kind of animals are amongst the trees. For sure deer – but maybe a few moose too. The bears are surely hibernating, but maybe there’s a handful cougars out and about. Do they hibernate like bear? I’m not sure.

  I pour myself a cup of coffee and, as usual, top it off with a shot of Jameson whiskey. I once knew guy from the military who liked cream and honey in his coffee, but I prefer whiskey, myself. I’m not the cliché alcoholic ex-cop, but I do like to drink. Sometimes I like to drink too much, but would I call myself an alcoholic? No. Would someone else? I take a sip and push the thought aside. It’s nobody’s fucking business what I am.

  I think about checking my emails on the MacBook in the study, but stop myself. It’s not even six in the morning and I’m in no hurry to start my day running. I finish my cup of coffee, decide against a second, and throw on a Washington State University sweatshirt. I never attended the college, just like I don’t fancy myself a Viking but like my Nordic tattoos, I happen to like the Cougars. I slip on an old pair of boots that I’d worn in the military and just before stepping out into the cold, I grab the Bear Divergent EKO compound bow hanging from a hook near the front door.

  Before I step off of my covered porch, I test the slickness of the fresh snow before taking off across my walkway and onto my circular gravel driveway. I live on six acres in total, a few miles south of town in the surrounding forestland. Most of what I own is open area, but a good portion of it is wooded, as is the area surrounding my property. I have neighbors on both the left and the right, but they’re hidden by the trees and half the time I forget they even exist. I know one’s a retired motorcycle mechanic and the other is some sort of electrician, but that’s about all I know, and that’s fine with me. Keeps things simple that way. In the center of my circular driveway is a frozen pond, which in the spring and summer is a haven for all sorts of birds and is a frequent drinking spot for deer and the occasional elk. Running parallel with the circular driveway to the right is my shop.

  I make it through the cold and get to the shop, entering through the door next to the locked garage door. I flip on the light switch, illuminating a workout area with a plethora of free-weights against the left wall, my newer Ford Bronco in the middle and a make-shift archery range against the right wall next to my collection of power tools. It’s a 30x40 shop with fourteen feet ceilings, which gives me enough room to at least practice fundamentals with a bow without having to stand in the cold and retrieve lost arrows in the snow.

  I stand squared to my target which is a little over ten yards away. I remove the first of five arrows from the quiver attached to the bow and nock it, feeling the double click as it properly sets on the bowstring. I lift the bow with my right hand, take a deep breath, making sure my body is tight, and, using more back muscle than arm, I pull the seventy-pound bowstring back with my left arm. I gently place the tip of my nose on the bowstring, finding my anchor points. I line up my shot, placing the front sight pin in the center of the peep-sight on the bowstring. I gently feel the trigger of the release with my left thumb, and slowly let my air all the way out. My thumb presses the trigger.

  Thwack!

  The bow does its job, sending the arrow directly into the “heart” of the foam deer at the other end of my shop. Already, I feel the terror of the nightmare slip back to what I consider normal levels and I reach for a second arrow.

  As I do every morning, I repeat the process until I’m out of arrows. If any arrows miss the heart, I do it all over again. This morning, all five arrows are touching one another, all five are a dead-on kill shot.

  Some people meditate to release their demons, I shoot my bow. I also hunt wi
th my bow. It’s just one of those things, like my cigarettes, that keep me from going completely fucking crazy.

  I set my bow down on a shelf next to me and turn my attention towards the free weights on the left wall. Another form of daily meditation. The first thing I do is crank out ten pullups followed by twenty pushups. I repeat the process five more times, making sure my body is warm enough to proceed with the planned workout.

  I’m just about to grab a couple heavy dumbbells from a rack in the corner when I hear the distinctive sound of an engine getting closer. I listen for a second, certain it’s on the stretch of driveway just off the main road. By the time it reaches the beginning of the circular portion of my driveway, I’m already lifting my garage door. It slides upwards easily on its tracks, revealing to me it’s still dark out and the sun is still a couple hours away. It also reveals a set of headlights rounding my driveway and heading in my direction.

  The outside light on my shop is dim, but it gives me just enough. The headlights belong to a cherry red Ford F150. I only got a couple hours of sleep this last night, but I have a feeling Duane Klimek has gotten zero.

  I try to keep as low of a profile as possible, but sometimes that’s hard in the world of being a private detective. All the bastard had to do was Google the name on my business card that his wife had and find out enough about me to run a search on the county census page to get my address. At least, that’s how I would have done it.

  Duane must have noticed me in the shop because he slams on the truck’s breaks right in front of me. I watch him struggle with his seatbelt for a second before he throws open his door and jumps down from his truck. He’s still the same middle-aged, overweight douchebag from a few hours ago, only now he is wearing warm clothes as opposed to no clothes.