by Sam Harding
“Are you Donovan?” He asks, stepping towards me with squinty eyes. The knit cap is sitting sideways on his head, probably disturbed from his battle with the truck’s seatbelt. I’m getting Gomer Pyle vibes from the movie Full Metal Jacket.
“Yeah.” I don’t move, I just stand there. My feet are on the dry concrete of my shop and I don’t much feel like stepping out onto the icy driveway.
“Where are they?” Duane demands, probably unaware his most intimidating voice has a sharp crack to it. Like a thirteen-year-old boy first hitting puberty. Fear.
I sigh as if bored. “Where are what, Duane?”
“The goddamned photos!” He’s loud enough to cause an echo in the valley this time.
“Language, Duane. My kid’s sleeping and his mother was never one for that word.” This was true. Whenever I said that word, Dani wouldn’t let me get away with it. Some traditions shouldn’t be broken.
“Are you fucking kidding me, man?” Duane steps forward, his toes nearly touching the concrete floor of my shop. “You’re going to give me a lecture on language? Where’s the photos?”
“I deleted them.”
“You deleted them?” He looks surprised.
“Yeah. I assume you’re referring to the photos of you and Cindy screwing each other at the hotel across from the bank, right? Deleted.”
“How dare you?” Duane shrieked. “How dare you spy on me? How dare you follow me and get into my business?” He took another step forward, this time he’s actually on the concrete. This, although Duane doesn’t know it, is an unforgivable mistake.
“At least I never cheated on my wife with a high school girl,” I say, hoping this might be enough to end the conversation the way I hope it will end.
Duane’s a predictable animal. I knew exactly how to follow him to get the photos I needed for my job, just like I knew he’d throw a punch at me if I pressed the right button. It was a stupid move, but it was one I was eagerly waiting for the second the asshole pulled into my driveway in his red truck.
“Motherfucker,” Duane growled just as the threw his exaggerated haymaker.
When a haymaker is thrown, usually the untrained will try and back away from it, but that’s the wrong move. With a haymaker, the best defense is to move into the strike and close the distance. I lunge forward and grab Duane’s right shoulder with both hands. I then plant my left foot on the ground and bring my right knee upwards as hard as I can, sinking it into the spot between Duane’s gut and bottom set of ribs. There is an explosion of air as Duane’s lungs are cleared, and his entire body buckles in on itself as he falls face first on the concrete floor gasping for oxygen. Usually, I don’t end the fight there, but in Duane’s case, I don’t feel the pussy can handle much more without needing an ambulance called.
“I know you didn’t realize it at the time,” I say, kneeling next to Duane’s prostrate form. “But you just picked a fight with a cripple. You just lost an ass-kicking contest to a one-legged man.” Duane looked over at me with tear-filled eyes and tries wheezing a reply. Now, I get serious. “Duane, you have three options. Number one is simple: you get off your fat ass and leave my property and never come back. Number two is a little more complicated but I don’t mind: I’ll call the cops, which isn’t too much of a hassle since I used to be one of them. Now number three, it’s my favorite and I really hope you pick it: I kill you right here and right now. I’ll tell the cops it was self-defense and they’ll believe me.”
“You – you can’t,” he gasps, finally regaining his air.
“I can. And honesty, I think I just might. Unless of course, you pick option one.”
“But option two . . .”
“I don’t get good cell service here, Duane. I honestly probably wouldn’t even bother with option two.”
Slowly, the defeated man pushes himself from the concrete and staggers to his feet. Holding his midsection, he says, “This isn’t fair.”
“You’re right. It’s not fair. Karen should have killed you.”
Instead of anger, I am surprised to see a flash of pain in Duane’s eyes, like I’d just stabbed a knife in his blubbery heart. I don’t really give a shit, though. Duane put himself in this mess by being a piece of shit. Fuck Duane.
Slowly, the Wal-Mart manager walks back towards his truck. Thankfully, he doesn’t pull a gun from under his seat and instead climbs back behind the wheel. He doesn’t say a word and neither do I. In clear and obvious shame, he puts the truck into gear and completes the loop of the driveway, leaving my property via the same way he’d come in.
I shake my head in disgust. I’d be a liar if I said a part of me didn’t want him to come back, giving me a reason to resort to option three. If you can’t be loyal to your own spouse, then who can you be loyal to? There’s no place on this earth for snakes disguised as human beings.
I decide to leave the garage door open, giving me a view of the property as I carry on with my workout. By the time I get into it, the cold morning air won’t be affecting me too much anyway.
Once I’m done here, I can check my messages and see if a new job awaits me.
CHAPTER THREE
My Healing Scars
I decide to check my email before I shower. There’s something about work that draws me in, a calling that I can’t get away from. I don’t like spending time away from Thomas, but sometimes I feel it’s better for him if I’m not always around. For the past few years, people don’t typically end up hanging around me for too long. They try to put up with me, try to be there for me, and some even try to help me sort through my problems, but in the end, I just wear them down. Thankfully, Thomas is only seven, but I fear at some point, just like in my dreams, he will grow to hate me too. That’s why it’s best I consume myself in work, that way Thomas won’t be worn down as fast as everyone else.
My Outlook account opens on my laptop, the inbox shows one unread email. There’s typically only one person out there who sends me emails this early in the morning, and I’m about to click on it when I hear a creak in the floor just outside the open office door. I look up from my screen and see my son stepping out of his bedroom down the small hallway to the left. A part of me hopes he’ll simply cross the hallway to use the bathroom, but he stops and faces me, sleep still heavy in his innocent eyes. It’s not that I don’t want to spend time with Thomas, it’s just that my mornings are usually the only real time I ever get to myself. It’s unlike Thomas to be up this early.
“Dad,” he says, rubbing his eyes with his fists. Like my own hair, his is messy from his full night’s sleep. A reminder that I need to get him to a barber soon. I always procrastinate that kind of stuff. Dani wouldn’t have liked that.
“Hey buddy,” I say, slightly closing the lid to my MacBook. “It’s early, why don’t you head back to bed?”
“Because,” he begins, stepping into the office. “I saw you were up. I wanted to see you.”
I suddenly feel bad. The one person who can actually still tolerate me and I’d rather check my emails than spend time with him. Thomas is the one person in the world who doesn’t try to see through me, who doesn’t judge me based off the obvious pain in my eyes, or the anger that creeps into my voice when I don’t intend for it to. What kind of fucked up dad am I? I close the laptop fully now. “I just thought you’d like to sleep in as much as you could being that it’s Christmas break.”
Thomas shrugs. “I’ve gotten used to getting up early.” His eyes avert from my own to the tattoo on my right arm. He’s seen it a million times but he rarely asks about it. I guess this morning is different. “What is that?”
“It’s a tattoo,” I say.
“I know that,” he says with a playful voice. “But of what?”
“They’re Viking symbols,” I say, and then continue when I realize he probably doesn’t have a clue what the hell a Viking is. “They’re old warriors – kind of like soldiers back from a long time ago. They worshiped a bunch of different gods, and that’s what my tattoo is.�
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Thomas blinks as if soaking in this new bit of information. I can see the gears turning in his little head, knowing another question, probably another of many, is about to come. “But I thought there was only one God?”
I smile. “There is, son. These gods are all myth – just stories I like.” Dani was always the one who made sure Thomas was raised Christian, but I’m not so good at it. It’s not that I don’t believe, it’s just that God and I don’t exactly see eye to eye. These past three years – well – let’s just say if God had a neck, I’d like to get my hands around it. I typically keep that last bit to myself, though.
“So why do you have those gods? Is it because they’re cool?” He thinks and then adds, “Like Spider-Man?”
I shrug, trying to suppress a smile but I fail miserably. It’s not often I smile anymore, but Thomas seems to almost always find the right words to get it out of me. “That and I think it’s a cool way to honor my heritage. Uh, I mean – my family from a long time ago.”
“Your father was a Viking?” Thomas’s voice grows louder with excitement.
Just the words “your father” is enough to wipe the smile from my face, even though the question is as innocent as a seven-year-old’s question can be. There are times I want to explain to Thomas what kind of man my father was, but I don’t think he’s quite old enough for that. How can you tell a seven-year-old that his grandfather was a monster? How can you admit to your son that you killed his grandfather and that you were glad you did it?
“Dad?” Thomas presses, growing impatient with my silent remembrance.
“Sorry, buddy,” I say, trying to refocus myself. “No, he wasn’t a Viking. Vikings were many, many years earlier. My mother, your grandmother, her last name was Thorsdottir. It’s an old Islandic word meaning Daughter of Thor.” I see what I’m saying doesn’t really mean shit to Thomas so I try to simplify it. “In other words, your grandmother had Viking ancestors, which mean you and I also have Viking ancestors.”
“And you have Viking tattoos because you’re a warrior like a Viking?”
I smile again. I have to admit, I do like the sound of it. “I just think they’re pretty cool. I also think you’re pretty cool. Know what?”
“What?” Thomas perks up.
“Why don’t you go to the kitchen and sit at the table. Give me ten minutes to do some work and then I’ll come in and make you some breakfast. Deal?”
Thomas’s blue eyes light up. “Deal!” And just like that, he turns around and makes a beeline straight for the kitchen, his Batman pajamas a little blur in the doorway.
I sigh, remembering my nightmare. In that world, Thomas hated me. He held me down so Dani, with half her face blown off, could saw me to pieces. But the Thomas that just stood in my office doorway, he didn’t hate me at all. He loved me and, my God, do I love him. I just hope I can keep it that way for as long as I live. I can’t let the entire nightmare become a reality.
I open the laptop back up again, bringing my email account back to life. I click on the unread message just as the sound of a chair scraping on the wood floor echoes through the house. I’m about to loudly remind Thomas not to scratch the floor, but my fascination overrides my will to correct my son. As expected, the email is from the man I thought it would be from. But it’s not the sender that has me perplexed, it’s the email’s subject:
The Man on Little Sweden.
Henry West was always a cryptic man, but why he’d title an email with the common nickname for the old German psychiatrist living in the mountain above Solace is beyond me, especially since he knows good and well what kind of memories those words will conjure up. I haven’t been to that area for a long time, and for a good reason.
Little Sweden was the starting point for my life turning into a living hell.
I can’t help but look at the calendar on my wall next to the window. December 24th is coming quick. A date I’ve tried to forget, but how can I when that date is Christmas Eve? West’s subject text somehow makes that date seem even more unforgettable than it already is.
I swallow hard, not sure whether I feel more surprised or angered by the words. I force myself to read the main body of the text, two short but clear sentences:
0830, corner coffee shop. Come with an open mind.
Henry
I look at my iPhone sitting on the desk next to the laptop. I consider picking it up and calling West, demanding an answer for the meaning of his subject line, but I decide against it. If West wants to meet with me, then it’s probably for a good reason. He knows enough about my past to know what can truly hurt me, and so I’m sure his choice of words was probably for a good reason. Either way, I plan to find out.
I look at the digital clock on my laptop screen. It’s a little after seven which gives me enough time to make breakfast for Thomas, shower, get us both dressed and get into town.
Closing the lid to my laptop, I stand from the desk and make my way towards the kitchen.
*
Through the diner’s front window, I see Henry already seated in a booth at the far-right corner of the restaurant. There’s a cup of steaming coffee in his hands, and for a split second, I’m amused by the thought of dumping it in his lap. I realize being angry with him for his email is a little absurd, especially without any context to go off of, but he knows how my brain works and yet he still wrote what he did.
I grip Thomas’s hand tightly in mine as I move towards the door. The sidewalks are already shoveled, leaving a thin sheet of ice that I hope doesn’t get the best of Thomas or I. Traffic is picking up in the little city, people going to and from work. Main Street also happens to be State Highway 395, so Solace gets traffic on its way to Spokane to the south as well. For a city of only seven-thousand, Solace is a booming place.
I enter through the diner’s front door, triggering a bell at the top of the door, alerting the staff and other patrons to my presence. I can hear faint music playing, a Billy Joel tune from back in the eighties, an effort to add to the old-timey feel of the establishment. Out of habit, I make a scan of the room with my eyes as I make my way towards West. There’re three other pairs of people, all elderly and oblivious to me, but very aware of the cute seven-year-old at my side. I ignore the smiles and waves from the old women, but Thomas seems to eat it up, smiling and waving back.
I make it to West, he’s sitting in the booth facing me and the front door. I scowl. “You’re in my seat.”
“I didn’t see your name on it,” he says, rolling his eyes.
I can’t help but act like a prick with this sort of thing. My past careers have always made it a necessity for me to sit facing a doorway with my back to a wall, but at the same time, West also had been raised in the same career fields as myself, minus the military service. He had just as much of a right to that seat as I did.
I don’t bother with the subject as I half shove, half coax Thomas into the booth ahead of me. I slip in behind him, not bothering to offer West my right hand. I’m sure he can tell I’m pissed, and I know damned well he knows why. Before engaging West, I say to Thomas, “Remember what I want you to do when grown-ups are having a private talk?”
“Yup.” Without fuss, Thomas pulls an old iPod from his down coat pocket and pops the headphones into his little ears.
Now, I look at West. He’s in his early sixties with gray hair and piercing blue eyes. Under his coat and polo shirt I can make out the top of a white T-shirt, something he always wore due to some rule or guideline in the Mormon Church, which was funny to me because he still drank coffee. As always, West has his laptop and phone readily available on the table next to him, no doubt a habit from his old days as a cop.
Once upon a time, West had been my sergeant when I was a rookie cop and before he’d made the rank of Sergeant, he’d been in charge of the department’s computers and work phones – he’d kind of taken on the roll as cop / IT guy, practically preventing other cops on the force, including myself, from saying “fuck it” and putting a bull
et hole in our constantly malfunctioning computer systems. Following retirement, West went into the private detective business but only for a short time. He had an entire family that depended on him, and he decided that if he was going to be retired, he wasn’t going to spend any more time away from them. Before hanging up the PI hat, he introduced me to it after I’d healed up enough from my injuries. In both cop world and in private cop world, I’ve always considered West something of a mentor.
“Well jeez, you don’t look happy to see me,” West says with a half-smile.
I’m about to reply when I’m interrupted by a young waitress. She has a fresh pot of coffee in her hand and asks, “Would you like some coffee?” I nod and she fills one of the empty mugs in front of me. I decline any food and West says he may order something a little later.
“Why do you think that?” I finally ask West. “Your subject header wasn’t exactly pleasant.”
He nods, almost apologetically. “I’m sorry, Micah, but I knew it would get your attention faster than anything else.”
I feel myself relax a bit, but I’m still not entirely happy with the situation. “You definitely got that right.”
“Look,” West says, leaning forward as if to not be overheard. “The subject header is the reason why I asked you to meet. The man on Little Sweden needs your help.”
I feel my blood run cold and I suddenly feel as if every scar that’s ever healed or has tried to heal is about to be torn open once again.
CHAPTER FOUR
Demon Slayer
His cold gray eyes scanned the busy streets, looking for a suitable candidate to tidy him over for the main event. He was always the neurotic type, but getting this close to the 24th had him on edge more than usual. He couldn’t screw this up, it had to be perfect. The anniversary of Butcher’s Eve had to be perfect.
The man was wearing a heavy jacket to combat the cold. His hands were shoved deep into his feather-lined pockets and his face was concealed with both a scarf and a thick hood which was pulled as far forward over his head and face as possible. His work boots crunched on the ice as he moved, and he couldn’t help but fancying himself as a Snow Leopard, gliding gracefully across the ice in search of his prey.
