The Man on Little Sweden

by Sam Harding

  She kisses me deeply now, and I kiss her back. She starts to touch me and I her, and just when she gets on top of me, her legs straddling me, it all comes to a screeching halt.

  “Daddy! Are you coming?”

  “I wish,” I grumble, grumpily pressing my head into the pillow.

  “Micah!” Kate slaps me in the chest.

  I groan and force myself out of bed.

  *

  When we finish breakfast, everyone having had had their fill of pancakes, Kate informs me she needs to go grab some clothes from her apartment because my closet space is, apparently “far too empty.”

  I kiss Kate goodbye and loan her the keys to my Bronco before watching her leave the driveway, putting new trails in last night’s fresh snowfall. I take a deep breath and smile, taking comfort in knowing she’ll be back soon, fully realizing she’s basically moving into my house even though she hasn’t actually said the words.

  “Daddy?”

  I turn around and see Thomas standing there, looking up at me. “Yeah, buddy?”

  “I had some nightmares last night.”

  “About the bad man?”

  Thomas nods with exaggerated movements of his head. “I drew some pictures of him. I want to show you them.”

  “Uh, yeah, sure, buddy.”

  I follow Thomas around the corner and into his bedroom. The curtains are pulled far away from the large window facing the front yard, bathing the entire room with sunlight. This was something Thomas had done since being home, and although I never have asked him about it, I know his experience has made him afraid of the dark. On his retro grade school desk in the corner, I can see a few pieces of typing paper splayed across the wooden surface, each of them covered with swirls and slashes of crayon and color pencil.

  Thomas goes to the desk and riffles through the pages until he finds the one he wants. He pulls it from his small stack and holds it up for me to see. It’s a figure dressed in total black, his face covered like a ninja.

  “This is the bad man,” Thomas says. “I dream about him.”

  I nod. “You know that bad man can’t hurt you anymore right?”

  “The policeman who talked to me said you hurt him really bad.”

  “That’s right.” I realize this is the first time Thomas and I have actually spoken about that day. I’ve wanted to bring it up a few times, just to see how he was handling it, but I decided it was probably best for him to revisit it on his own terms.

  “Did you shoot him?”

  “I did,” I say, deciding now’s not the time to lie. Thomas is being a little man right now, embracing his fears, looking them in the eye and, so, I will treat him like a little man.

  “So, he’s hurt?”

  “He is,” I say. “Uncle Jason shot him, too. He’s way too hurt to come after you again.” Whether or not that’s a lie, I don’t know, but the thought comforts even me.

  “Here,” Thomas holds out the page. “I want you to have it.”

  I take the page and look at it closely. I’m about to put it down when I notice something about Thomas’s drawing, causing me to freeze. A chill races up my spine. “Thomas, you told the police you couldn’t recognize anything about the man. You said he was too covered up for you to get details.”

  “Yep.”

  “But in this picture,” I point turn it towards Thomas and point at it. “you made his eyes silver.”

  “He had silver eyes.”

  I feel my legs weaken. “You never told the police that—you said you didn’t know.”

  “I forgot. I didn’t remember it until my dream last night,” Thomas stated, looking worried. “I’m sorry, daddy. Are you mad at me?”

  “No, no, of course not!” I drop to a knee and hug my son, holding him tightly, partly because I love him, and partly because I want to get his head out of my way so that I can continue to look at the drawing.

  I’ve seen silver eyes only once in my entire life, and it was recently. Days before Butcher’s Eve—where was it?

  Solace. The crosswalk in town.

  I remember now, the man staring at me as he walked next to the pretty blonde girl. His eyes had been as silver as quarter dollars. I remember the black hair peaking from under his snow jacket’s hood, his taught, boney face, his tall and lanky build.

  I had seen him. I had seen the Butcher. And he had most definitely seen me. I swallow hard, suddenly hit with the realization that the monster, the man who’s plagued Solace county for five years, lives here.

  And, not only does he live here, he has a fucking wife or girlfriend, too.

  “Daddy, I can’t breathe.”

  Micah, you idiot. I allow my son to squirm away, not realizing I’d been suffocating him against my shoulder. “Sorry, buddy. You okay?”

  “Yep.”

  “Do you need to talk to anyone—you know—about what happened?”

  Thomas thinks about it for a minute and then shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m okay, though. I don’t hurt. He didn’t really hurt me.”

  “Right.” I say, not really sure what else there is to say.

  “Are you okay, daddy?”

  “I’m great!” I say, faking a smile. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

  “Yep!”

  “That’s all that matters.”

  I hug my son again, only this time I don’t accidentally nearly squeeze the life out of him. My mind wanders again, though, unable to get the image of the silver eyes from my head, unable to un-see the face of the man at the crosswalk.

  I’d been looking right at the piece of shit. Had he recognized me? Is that why he looked at me the way he had?

  Guess I’ll have to ask him in person, I think to myself, relishing the thought of going face to face with the son of a bitch for one last time.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Stakeout

  IT’S BEEN EQUIVALENT to a week’s worth of fishing, only I haven’t caught a single thing. I knew it was a long shot from the start, but I don’t have any other alternatives, not yet anyway. If the man with silver eyes really is a resident of Solace, then chances are he’s still here and, unless he’s dead in a hole somewhere, he will be in need of long-term medical help after his encounter with Jason and I.

  For the past week, I’ve searched hospitals and even dentist offices and veterinarian clinics, but I’ve come up with nothing. That was to be expected, though. To go to a doctor or break into an animal hospital would be to expose himself and risk capture, and the Butcher is far too smart for that. That left pharmacies; buying medical supplies, antibiotics, and painkillers off the shelf, but I’ve yet to have any luck with that either.

  Since the shootout at the farmhouse in Cedar Falls, I’ve been on Jason about the results of the blood tests the crime scene technicians had taken on scene, but it turns out, nothing the lab had tested had yet to come back as conclusive. Whether or not that meant there was no record on file for the blood, or that the blood had somehow been contaminated, I don’t know, either way it leaves me with nothing.

  I’m sitting in my car, the heater on, my radio tuned to a 1980’s era rock station. This is my third stop of the evening. I’d gone to Walmart, Safeway, and now I’m outside a standalone pharmacy, sitting in the parking lot, watching people go in and out. My system is far from foolproof. I have no idea what hours of the day the Butcher is getting his supplies, no idea which pharmacy he’s using, or if he’s even going to a pharmacy in the first place. As far as I know, I’m just wasting my time, out staking out pharmacies when I should be home with Thomas, who’s now at Jason’s, waiting for me while I “run some errands.”

  Kate said she had to help her father with a few things tonight, or else I would have left Thomas with her, but Jason is the next-best option. I don’t think my friend minds—he and Thomas seem to get along well, and to be honest, I think Jason likes being referred to as an uncle.

  I glance at my half-empty pack of Marlboros in the cupholder under the radio, think about fishing one out,
and then decide against it. I haven’t quit smoking, but I’ve been trying to cut back, hoping to set a good example for my son and also in an effort to get Kate to quit, as well. She smokes the long, skinny cigarettes that women often do, but I can’t shame her into quitting if I can’t even fucking do it myself.

  A light snow is falling now, barely sticking to the asphalt on touchdown. The weather has gotten significantly better since Christmas, and has even warmed up a bit. Lots of people lost power during the snowstorm on Christmas Eve, and some people even had to leave their homes due to the wind knocking trees onto their roofs. One family reported a tree had literally landed in their living room while they were watching “A Christmas Story” with their kids.

  I’m thinking about this when something catches my eye. I look towards the front of the pharmacy and because I’m parked at the far end of the parking lot, I have to lift my binoculars to my eyes in order to clearly view what I’m trying to see.

  I rotate the knob on top of the binoculars to clear the image, and then feel my grip tighten. A man is exiting the old brick building, he’s wearing a pair of baggy track pants, Romeo shoes, and a thick winter jacket with the hood up. Although I can’t see the man’s face or eyes at this distance, I can tell he’s clearly limping, almost to the point where he’s dragging his left leg. In his right hand is a full grocery bag, but his left is empty, just a white glove—no—not a glove—a bandage!

  My hands start to shake as I hold the binoculars up, watching the figure limp across the parking lot to one of only five cars in front of the building, directly under an overhead street lamp. The car’s an ugly greenish-brown Oldsmobile from the 1990’s, the rear driver’s side window is a mixture of duct tape and plastic sheeting.

  It takes a while, but eventually the man gets the door open with his right hand, and slowly climbs behind the wheel. I watch as he leans over and grabs the door with his right hand in order to close it, confirming my suspicion that his left hand is in fact impaired.

  I blew the Butcher’s left hand to pieces on Christmas Eve. There’s no way this is a coincidence.

  I wait for the man to start his vehicle before I start up my own, and don’t even turn on my headlights until we both are out of the parking lot and on one of the main arterial roads running through Solace city limits. I make sure to keep my distance, which isn’t too hard because there’s another car in between myself and the Oldsmobile, most likely someone heading home after a long day at work.

  After waiting briefly at a stoplight, the Oldsmobile hangs a left, and the middle car continues straight, forcing me to go left without having another vehicle to buffer the tail. We drive a few more blocks before the Oldsmobile hangs another left, and I nearly follow, but quickly correct myself and continue straight. The Oldsmobile had turned onto a narrow residential street that I know from experience has only one way in or out.

  The street leads into a trailer park, one that I’ve had plenty of experience with while on patrol years ago. I slow my Bronco to a stop, make sure nobody is coming behind me and then flip a U-Turn, making my way back towards the residential street and then turning onto it.

  Up ahead I can barely make out the Oldsmobile’s taillights just before it rounds the corner, disappearing behind a row of old trailer houses lining the side of the road. I slow way down, barely giving my vehicle gas as I continue down the road, and just before getting to the bend, I turn my headlights off, using only the street lights and porch lights to navigate by.

  I move up the street a little further, slowing to a complete stop in between two houses on the right side of the street. I put the Bronco in park so that I’m not illuminating myself with my break lights, and pick my binoculars up from the passenger seat.

  I watch through the high-powered lenses as the Oldsmobile slows and awkwardly turns left into a parking space underneath a dilapidated awning in front of an even more dilapidated trailer home, no fewer than six rows ahead of where I’m parked.

  The driver’s door swings open, and out crawls the bundled-up cripple, stumbling to free himself of the seatbelt while simultaneously holding his door open and grabbing the grocery bag that, I assume, is carrying his medicine and medical supplies. Finally, he manages to figure it out and climbs out of the car, closing the door behind him with the heel of his shoe.

  I watch as he slowly climbs the steps of his small porch, and after fumbling with the keys in an agonizing lack of dexterity, he makes it through the front door, promptly closing it behind him as if he doen’t want anyone to see what he has inside.

  I smile from behind the binoculars.

  “Got you.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  What Could Have Been

  I SIT COMPLETELY still, watching the outside of the trailer house, waiting for any signs of movement from inside. I don’t even realize how long I’ve sat here until I glance down at my Citizen and see it’s been close to forty-five minutes. I’m paused by a dilemma, deciding whether or not I should go inside and confront the monster in its own element, or wait for him to come out again so I can face him somewhere else.

  Although the latter is far more appealing, I realize I could very well be waiting here all night for that to happen, and the last thing I want to do is try to stalk this guy during the day, especially since I’m not entirely sure what I’m going to do to him when I finally corner him one-on-one.

  I feel the H&K pressed against my left hip and wonder if I really could go through with what it is that I so badly want to do. Could I really murder someone? Even if that someone was a monster? I’ve spent my entire adult life in either the military or law enforcement up until a few years ago, but I’d never murdered anyone. I have killed, yes, but I have never murdered. There is a very distinct difference, one that comes with a line in the sand that I never planned to cross. Not until now.

  Just do it, I say to myself. It’s a trailer park, most of which is inhabited by druggy shit-bags who really couldn’t give a shit if someone got shot on their block. Just do it and then leave. End this. End it now. End it before another innocent has to die.

  I take a deep breath and reach for the door handle. I’m just about to pull it when I’m suddenly illuminated by white light to the rear. Instinctively, I lower myself in the seat, scrunching my body as small as I can make it in order to hide from whoever’s coming.

  A car passes me, moving up the street at a slow speed, its tires crunching on the compact snow, and I peak my head up over the steering wheel just high enough to get a look at the vehicle. My body tenses at the sight of the vehicle, and my breath seizes in my chest. I can’t believe my eyes as I watch it pull ahead of me by about six rows and then park outside of the silver-eyed man’s trailer.

  The car is a silver BMW. It’s Kate’s car.

  I find myself praying, hoping to God that Kate isn’t the one driving the vehicle, but much to my horror and surprise, the driver’s door swings open and Kate steps out into the snowfall, her raven black hair pinned down by a thick beanie, one I’ve seen hear wear a thousand times.

  A part of me is screaming at myself to get out of my car and confront Kate, but the rational side of me is telling me to stay put, to wait and see just what in the hell she’s up to.

  I watch as she climbs the steps of the Butcher’s front porch, not even taking the time to glance around to see if anyone is following or watching her. It’s bad enough she didn’t recognize my vehicle coming in, but I don’t understand why she’s not at least showing a sign of caution while approaching the house of a mass murderer.

  I put the binoculars to my face to get a better view of what she’s doing, and watch as she pulls a white envelope from the inside pocket of her black vest. She studies it for a moment, as if making sure she’s got the right address, and then places the envelope on the doormat in front of the front door. She then knocks on the door and, although I can’t hear it, I can see by the movement of her hand that’s she’s doing it in a specific pattern. Instead of leaving, she waits an agonizin
g couple of minutes and then repeats the same knock again. This time after the knock, she turns away from the door and heads back down the porch steps. Again, she makes no effort to see who may be watching as she climbs back into her BMW.

  Horrified and utterly confused, I watch Kate as she performs a U-turn and then starts back down the road the same way she’d come in. Quickly, I duck down in my seat, making myself as small as possible as the white lights of the BMW wash over me, and then continue on past. I sit up again, look into my side mirror and see her red tail lights disappear around the corner and out of sight, completely oblivious to my presence.

  I feel sick to my stomach and my head begins to swim. None of this makes any sense. This cannot be happening. I tense with anger, and I try to tell myself that what I saw wasn’t real, that it was either that, or it was a complete coincidence that she’d been there – but I know I’m only lying to myself. She was here to deliver a message.

  A message to the Christmas Eve Butcher.

  The murderer of her own little brother.

  My eyes blur as I think of what could have been, of what I’d hoped my life would have become with Kathryn in it. But I know the truth now. There was never a future with her, only an end. She’d used me, pretended to love me so that she could tag along on my investigation, so that she could remain a step ahead of me while I tried to find the man who’d taken my Dani from me.

  Alexander Irving. It all made sense now. I’d told Kate about Lex before I’d visited him—I’d told her everything. I’d given her plenty of time to warn the Butcher and create the ultimate contingency plan.

  Anger grips my body even harder, a white-hot rage that burns so hot it literally hurts from the inside. I curse loudly and slam my fists against the steering wheel and punch the roof above me. I’m breathing hard, my heart thumping in my chest like a war drum.

  My eyes settle back on the Butcher’s trailer, and even though I’m not looking through the binoculars, I can still see part of the envelope illuminated in the yellow porch light. Without thinking, I reach for my door handle. I don’t know what I’m going to do exactly, but I do know I will get some answers, I will get some closure, and I will get my fucking revenge.