The Man on Little Sweden

by Sam Harding

  This time, I actually hear the crack of the pistol, no more than thirty feet on the other side of the truck. The shooter is literally standing on the front porch! I’m starting to wonder just what in the world Jason is doing, when I hear the booming blast of a 12-gauge shotgun from the wood line followed by another scream from the farmhouse shooter and the shattering of glass from a window.

  The shotgun I loaned Jason carried buckshot, which meant from the distance he was at, the grouping would have expanded beyond the width of a person, but that didn’t mean one or two of the pellets couldn’t have found their intended target, which is exactly what I think just happened, while the others sailed through the window behind the shooter.

  Just before moving again, I notice blood in the snow underneath me. At first, I think maybe one of the .22 rounds actually had penetrated my vest, but I realize the blood isn’t mine. Apparently, I’m not the first person to use this truck for cover today.

  Pushing that thought from my mind, I steel myself and take another deep breath before coming back up behind cover, my weapon up and ready to start punching holes into the target—into who I assume to be the Christmas Eve Butcher.

  But there’s no one there.

  I remain still for a moment, keeping my rifle up, scanning the porch of the house for any signs of movement. The window closest to me, on the left side of the front door, is shattered, and I can see blood splattered on the white walls around the windowsill from where Jason had nailed him with the buckshot. I can also see the body of an old man lying in the front doorway, he’s on his back looking up at the overhanging roof above him, but unable to actually see it with his lifeless eyes. As I cautiously approach the old man, I see a series of bloody dots covering his body, a few in his legs, one in his stomach, and then another in the center of his throat.

  I carefully pass the broken window, climb up onto the porch and step over the body, doing my best to not actually step on it, and move through the front door of the house. My heart is beating even faster now, just as it had been when I was a part of the SWAT raid that had gone into Lex’s house.

  There’s a staircase running up the length of the wall to my immediate right, and then to the left of that is an open, cabin-like living room, with old wooden floors and a large brick fireplace next to a small TV with a white screen full of static that reminds me of the storm outside. The recliner and couch are empty, although the couch has a pulled aside blanket on it, making it look like someone had recently been sleeping there.

  I push forward and turn to the right, going through a doorway under the stairwell that leads into the kitchen.

  There’s blood everywhere.

  On the floor, in the center of the black and white tiles, is an old woman in winter clothing. She’d been shot at least twice in the chest and her throat was slit wide, leaving what looks like a gaping red smile from ear to ear under her actual mouth. Her blood is pooled underneath her on the floor, and there are streaks of it from where her throat had been slashed along the cabinets and refrigerator.

  I look up from the body I assume to be the wife of the old man on the porch, and see the kitchen window above the sink. It’s the smaller window, the one the shooter had been in before I’d shot his fingers. The glass is shattered from where he’d bashed it out with the end of the rifle, and the rifle itself, an old Henry Repeater, is laying in the sink, smeared with blood, its barrel bent and distorted from the bullet I shot into it.

  From the window, sink, along the floor, and out an open door at the rear of the kitchen, I see a blood trail heading outside towards the river. I ready my rifle and follow the trail, stepping out onto the wraparound porch with my weapon at the ready.

  I look left and right, and then out towards the river, hoping to see the Butcher’s back as he runs away, but I don’t see anything. Even the blood trail stops at the end of the porch, as if he’d found a way to stop his bleeding while on the run.

  I do see footprints in the snow, though, heading towards the river before being lost in the haze of the storm. A part of me badly wants to follow them, to hunt the motherfucker down and execute him like a rabid dog, but I stop myself. As bad as I want to kill him, I want to find my son even more.

  With a frustrated growl, I turn away and reenter the house, moving as fast as I can back into the living room. I look around again, desperately trying to find a sign that my son had been here.

  “Thomas!” I call as loud as I can. “Thomas, are you here?”

  Thunk!

  I hold my breath, can swear I heard something bump upstairs, like a chest lid closing, or something hitting the floor. I ready my rifle and step onto the first stair, the old wood creaking loudly under the weight of my body.

  “Thomas?” I ask hopefully. “Son, is that you? It’s dad!”

  I continue upwards, slowly, slowly, until I reach the top. There’s a hallway extending to my left, from the top of the stairs to a single window at the end, the only source of light in the whole hallway.

  I step into the hall, feeling the thick carpet even underneath my boots, and move forward.

  A door about halfway down the hall to the left flies open, banging hard against the wall on the other side, rattling what looks like old family photos hanging in heavy frames from nails along the walls. I drop to a knee, raise my weapon, put my finger on the trigger and am ready to shoot when –

  “Thomas!”

  I lower my weapon and instantly feel my breath crack, a dry sob of relief hitting me like a sledgehammer. He’s standing in front of me, wearing plaid pajama pants rolled up at his legs to suit his height, the draw string pulled tight, and an oversized white t-shirt that looks more like a gown than an actual shirt. His cheeks are flushed red, his eyes are filled with fearful tears.

  “Daddy?” He looks at me, almost as if he doesn’t believe what’s he’s seeing.

  “It’s me, buddy,” I say, hanging the rifle off to the side and holding out my hands. “It’s me. I’ve come for you.”

  “Daddy, there’s a bad man. He –”

  “He’s gone,” I say. “He’s gone, I have you now.”

  Thomas runs to me and hits me hard with his body as he embraces me in the biggest hug I’ve ever received from him. I wrap my arms around him and hold him tight to my chest, so tight I fear I might accidentally hurt him.

  Hurt. Is he hurt?

  “Did he hurt you?”

  “No,” he shakes his head. “I hurt my wrists though.”

  I push him away and look at them. They’re still red, but they’re not seriously injured. Just minor battle wounds earned during his escape from the warehouse, an escape that more than likely saved his life.

  I suddenly feel a sense of pride for my son, a pride I’ve never felt before, mixing in with the overwhelming relief that I’ve finally gotten him back, alive and safe.

  Remembering Jason outside, I give Thomas one final hug before standing to full height and then lifting him up into my arms. I position him so that he won’t be able to see the carnage downstairs through my own shoulder.

  “Where are we going, daddy?” He asks.

  “My friend Jason is here. He’s going to help us.”

  “Jason the policeman?”

  “Yep.”

  “Uncle Henry was a policeman, too.”

  I close my eyes. “Yes—he was.”

  “You are one, too. That’s why you found me.”

  I almost correct him, but decide to just let it go. All that matters is that I found him.

  Thomas is alive, and I’ve got him back.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  6:30 P.M.

  I’M ALONE, WELL aware this moment is the calm before the storm, before someone comes through the door and starts yelling at me before I have a chance to explain myself. After all, why wouldn’t they? The detective with the Sheriff’s Office had done that, so why should I expect anything different from the Solace PD detective when he gets here?

  I’d spent two whole hours at the Sheriff’s
Office, fielding questions from one of their lead homicide detectives, a guy by the name of Vasquez. After he was done with me, he’d calmed down a little once he heard my entire side of things, and then, after seizing my rifle and shotgun and tactical vest for evidence, he informed me Solace PD wanted me to stop by and go through the exact same process again, only with them.

  And so, that’s where I now sit, in a tiny little office with a bad cup of coffee in front of me, like some kind of criminal about to be interrogated for some kind of heinous crime. It’s a little eerie, especially since I’m more used to sitting on the other side of the table, the memories of my detective days still fresh in my mind.

  I think about Thomas as I wait, glad he’s safe and sound in the Sergeants’ Office, no doubt asking a million questions about why they had three gold chevrons on their uniforms when nobody else did. I smile at that, elated that his imagination and curiosity are currently protecting him from the no-doubt terrible memories of the past few hours.

  The kid has been through a lot—far too much, and I know I’m to blame for it. I brought the Butcher into our home, I got Dani killed, I’m the reason Thomas was taken. I’m supposed to protect people, or, at least I was supposed to protect people when I wore the badge, but how could I be expected to protect people if I can’t even protect my own family?

  I sigh and take another drink of coffee, wincing at the terribly strong taste. Whoever made this, clearly ignored their regular brew and instead used the quick-make powder shit, because this is probably worse than any coffee I’ve ever had. Definitely something Blake would do.

  Blake. I think about shooting the Butcher in the fingers, how they exploded the way they had in a clump of red, and can’t help but wonder if Blake has all ten fingers still. I still haven’t ruled it out, his family trip to the neighboring county is all too convenient, but I suppose it could be legit, although unlikely. I know if it is him, then there will be no denying his innocence if the blood samples taken by the forensic unit in Cedar Falls comes back a match for him.

  A part of me hopes it does, the part of me that hates the man, but another part of me, an even larger part, prays to God a cop couldn’t be responsible for the terror of the past five years. That wouldn’t only stain the badge forever, but it would also mean the killer was right under my nose the entire time, making my fault in Dani’s death even greater.

  Muffled voices outside the door tear me from my thoughts and I straighten up in my chair, ready for round two. A part of me hopes it’s Chief Art—at least I can reason with him. Hell, I can reason with most people on this department except for—

  The door clicks and swings open, and standing in the doorway, is none other than Detective William Blake. His goatee is surrounded by a full five o’clock, and he’s wearing a Seahawks sweater with oil-stained Carhartt pants. His oil-blackened hands, each containing five digits, are down at his side. It looks like he’d just been interrupted from working in the shop and forced from his vacation to come into work. That would explain the angry look on his face.

  Knowing he’s about to start yelling, I decide I’ll start first, put him on the defensive for a fucking change. “You got here fast for being away in Pend Oreille County.”

  “I was at a friend’s out of town helping him with his farming equipment. Pend Oreille was supposed to be tomorrow morning. But you had to go and ruin that.”

  “At least I can cross you off my list, now.” I take another sip of coffee, making damned sure not to give him the satisfaction of seeing how miserable the drink makes me.

  “Excuse me?” He glares at me, puts his hands on his hips.

  “Well, I don’t see any gunshot wounds. Your hand looks intact. Congratulations, Detective, you’ve been officially crossed off my suspect list.” But if not him, then who the fuck could it be?

  Blake blinks at me, goes to say something, stops, and then finally with a shocked tone, “Suspect? You thought the Butcher was me?” He looks genuinely hurt by this—I kind of like that.

  I take another sip. “Not anymore.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me, Donovan? You’ve got to be fucking shitting me. Really?”

  I see his anger building, and so, I take another sip, my expression neutral.

  “You’ve got some fucking nerve, Micah, some real fucking nerve. Henry West, remember him? Yeah, he’s fucking dead because of you and what did you do? What did you and Officer Kohl do? Fucking nothing, that’s what. You got a good man killed and then said nothing about it, you just went about your day playing policeman while more innocent people got killed.”

  “Is that how you see it, Bill?” I set my coffee down and lean forward. “Because I already explained this to the Sheriff’s Office. Did you not read or listen to the interview?”

  “Oh, I listened to it alright—”

  “Then you should know I did what I did to get my son back.”

  “You ‘did what you did,’ really? Really, that’s how you fucking justify it? You get some people killed and say ‘I did what I did,’ like that makes it all fucking better?”

  “What about you Bill, huh?”

  “Fucking what about me?”

  “Alexander Irving, let’s start with him, you piece of shit. I told you something was wrong, I fucking told you, and you ignored me and got an innocent man killed. You got played like some fucking amateur and then went home at the end of the day, patting yourself on the back, not thinking twice about the fact you may have gotten an innocent man killed.”

  “The Butcher –”

  “No!” I slam my fist down on the table, spilling coffee over the lip of the Styrofoam cup. “Not the Butcher. You! You killed him, you. The SWAT guys did their job, but they were only there because you put them there. You’re so fucking bad at your job that you’d really think I’d give you a call to come help me out with my missing son?” I almost stop there, but decide to add, “So fucking bad at your job, or so fucking corrupt. Which one is it, Bill? A bit of Both?”

  “You fuck!”

  Blake takes a step towards me, and I quickly get to my feet, knocking my chair over behind me. I ball my hands into fists, hoping like hell he keeps coming towards me. “You want round two, cocksucker?”

  Just then, the door to the interrogation room swings open and slams hard against the wall. “Just what in the hell do you two think you’re doing?” Art demands, standing in the doorway, an angry scowl stretched across his face.

  “I’m about to fuck this guy’s world, that’s what—” Blake starts.

  “Like hell you are, Detective. Turn around and get the hell out of here.”

  “What?” Blake turns away from me and looks back at the chief. “Are you serious?”

  “Do I look like I’m joking?”

  “Are you not caught up on what he’s been doing today?”

  “Oh, I’m caught up just fine. As a matter of fact, had it of been my kid out there and then you come at me like this after I got him back, I’d probably kick you in the balls so hard, you’d be pissing purple for a week.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “Are you kidding me?” Art takes a step into the room, his face inches from Blake’s. “I told you to get out of here, and yet, here you stand, arguing with me. Arguing with your superior. You must enjoy vacation time, because you’re exactly one word away from being suspended without pay.”

  For a second, I think Blake is going to hit Art, but then, the hot-headed detective backs down and gives the older man one of his signature snarls. Without another word, Blake storms from the interrogation room, and disappears around the corner without so much as a wave to the few officers standing by outside.

  “The hell is it with you two?” Art asks, turning back towards me.

  “It’s always been like that. He’s an asshole.”

  “Yeah, so are you.”

  “At least I know I’m an asshole.”

  “Fair point.”

  “How’s Jason?”

  Art takes a
deep breath. “He’s good. When he called us to come get you at that farmhouse, we immediately got him onboard an ambulance and had him transported to the hospital. Thankfully his wound wasn’t too serious because it took forever just to accomplish that much in the storm.”

  “How much trouble is he in?”

  “Some. But, considering the circumstances, it could be worse. A few pay-less weeks, but not much more than that. As far as I’m concerned, violation of department policy or not, Jason did the right thing. I’m proud of him.”

  I nod, relieved. “And Kate?”

  “You mean that beautiful thing that happens to be your new employer’s daughter?”

  “That would be her.”

  Art whistled and gave me a funny look. “We gave her a ride to her apartment in Solace. She kept asking about you, but we told her you’d give her a call after we were done with you here.”

  I nod. “What about the blood trail going out back?”

  “Both ours and the County’s K-9s lost the trail in the blizzard. He got away for now, but from what you said to Vasquez, about blowing his fingers off, and Jason pumping him full of buckshot, I doubt he’ll get too far. CSI is taking the blood for analysis too, but that could take a while, and if his blood isn’t even on record in the first place –”

  “Right.”

  “Are you alright?”

  “I got Thomas back.”

  “That, you did.”

  “But West –”

  “Yeah,” Art puts his head down for a moment, and takes a breath. He and Henry had been friends for years while working together on the force. I feel terrible for him, but he does a good job at hiding his emotions. “Henry died fighting. He died doing what he was meant to do, and that was protecting others. He was a hero.”

  “I got him killed.”

  “You did not!” Art looks at me sternly now. “Henry chose to care for your boy while you hunted the Butcher. He knew the risks, he always knew the risks. Don’t take that from him.”