The Man on Little Sweden

by Sam Harding

  Crunching the letter tightly in my grasp, I get out of my Bronco and storm through the front door of the apartment complex. I start up the stairs leading to Kate’s apartment, taking them two at a time, moving quickly even with my prosthetic leg.

  I pass an older couple as I head up the stairs, they say something to me, I think “Happy New Year’s” but I’m too focused on what I’m doing to reply to them. I’ve seen them before I think and find myself trying to remember their names as I close in on Kate’s place. I blink, forcing the distraction from my mind as I climb, my anger boiling even hotter now than it was before.

  I’m nearly out of oxygen when I get to Kate’s door and have to take several deep breaths in order to get myself under control. I work out a game plan in my head, trying to mentally form a way to do this without making a scene, without disturbing the neighbors and getting the cops called for a noise disturbance or a loud argument.

  A final deep breath calms my heartbeat just enough to slow things down. It’s like I’m about to shoot a rifle, or release a bow. Everything around me seems quiet, like I’m in a tunnel or a coffin underground. I can hear the ticking of a clock, from where I don’t know, but it’s there, ticking away in the otherwise perfect silence.

  I knock.

  Almost immediately, I hear Kate move towards the door from the inside. The peephole darkens briefly as she looks out, and then, the door swings open wide with Kate standing in the doorway with a perplexed look on her face. But, even in her look of perplexity, she’s as beautiful as ever, her hair is pulled into a tight ponytail, her clothes tight and form-fitting.

  “Micah? What are you doing here? Is everything alright?”

  The mere phoniness of the question, the fake tone of her voice, makes me forget her beauty as if she’s become the ugliest thing on the planet. I push passed her without saying a word, and, as soon as I hear her close the door behind me, I turn and face her.

  “What’s going on? What the hell happened to your neck? Micah did—?”

  She doesn’t have time to finish the last question because I reach out with my right hand and clamp it around her throat. Her green eyes widen and I feel her larynx shift under my palm as my fingers dig in around it. I pull her away from the door with one hand as if she weighs nothing and slam her hard against the wall.

  The force of her back hitting the wall jars a painting loose from its nail, sending it clattering to the floor, splitting the wooden frame. Kate squirms under my hand, her fingers clawing at my wrist, her eyes bulging from her head. I know she can’t breathe, and as badly as I want to see her lights go out, I know I can’t do that.

  Not yet at least.

  I loosen my grip, but I don’t dare let go. Kate inhales a sharp breath of air and then starts coughing harshly, sending droplets of saliva onto my face, but I stand my ground.

  “Micah, what the fuck?” She gasps. “Let go of me!”

  Her screams are no louder than a raspy whisper. “Why?” I ask.

  “Why what?”

  “All this time you’ve lied to me Kate. All this time you’ve pretended to be something you’re not—pretended to love me—to love Thomas.” I nearly squeeze her throat again, but stop myself from closing down.

  “I do love you! I do love Thomas!”

  “Liar!” I scream, a little louder than I intended, and so I lower my voice. “I know you work for him, Kate. I know you work for the Butcher.”

  Kate’s wide eyes narrow into slants. “What? Micah let me go, I can’t breathe—”

  “I saw you, Kate. I saw you drop off the letter at the trailer park.”

  “You followed me?”

  “No. I didn’t have to. I followed him, the Butcher—or at least I thought he was the butcher until I talked to him. Before I killed him.”

  Her eyes widened again. “You killed him? You killed David?”

  “Was that his name?” I feel drops of sweat roll down my face. “Good to know.”

  “David—David was the butcher?”

  “Don’t fucking play games with me. You know he’s a replacement. A fake. Just like you. A fake.”

  “I don’t understand. I’m not a fake, I never lied to—”

  “Bullshit! You delivered the letter to him, I fucking saw it, Kate. I saw you. You didn’t see me, but you drove right past me to do it.”

  I feel her head trying to nod up and down underneath my grip. “Yes, I gave him a letter.”

  “I know you did.” I hold up the crumpled paper with my left hand. “This is it, right here.”

  “I don’t understand. I don’t know what it says.”

  “Like hell you don’t. You delivered it. You delivered it for him. For the Butcher.”

  “I—”

  “I know you’re not the Butcher. David said as much. But I know you work for him, Kate. So help me God if you lie to me one more time, I’m going to break your fucking neck.”

  Tears roll down her face now and her breathing is further impaired by her own sobs. I loosen my grip even more, afraid the combination of my hand and her crying will suffocate her and leave me with nothing but a murder I wouldn’t be able to get out of. The murder of a woman I love.

  A woman that I love. The thought momentarily stops me, the realization terrifying me to the core. In spite of everything, I still love her. No, no, I say to myself. Not her. What she pretended to be. Not her at all.

  “Micah,” she starts, able to speak easier now with my loosened grip. “I delivered that letter, yes, but I never read it.”

  “Bullsh—”

  “It’s true! Micah, I love you—I love you more than anything in the—”

  “Stop it, Kate. Fucking stop—”

  “David was my last stop for the night. He’s always my last stop. I delivered to four others before him. Four others who my father insists I deliver to—”

  “Wait, what?” I nearly release her now. Did she just say—?

  “My father is sick, you know that. He’ll be dead any month, maybe any week. He can’t see his patients anymore, so he has me send letters out to them—to the ones who needed extra help, the ones he felt like he was abandoning.”

  I release her completely now and stagger backwards. Kate goes into a coughing fit, grabbing at her throat, desperately trying to massage it back so that she can breathe normally again. I can see my handprint around her neck, where the tips of my fingers had been in her flesh.

  “Your father sent the letters?”

  “He’s done it for nearly a year,” Kate croaks. “That’s where I go when I say I’m going to help him. I deliver his mail for him—”

  “To the man in the trailer?”

  “To David, yes. His name is David Meltzer—he’s one of my father’s patients.”

  “No.” I continue to back away until I feel the corner of Kate’s kitchen bar press into my lower back. “No, no, no.”

  “Micah, what the hell is going on? Are you saying David’s the butcher?”

  Even though I nearly killed her, Kate takes a step towards me, a look of concern in her teary eyes. How can that be? How can she have any concern for me after what I’ve just done? What if she’s playing me? Still playing me?

  No, I don’t think she is. “He replaced the Butcher.”

  “He replaced—?”

  “Before I killed him, David said he started working for the Butcher at the beginning of last year. That he’s taking over. That you are the messenger linking the bridge between himself and his Master.”

  “Master?”

  “The real Butcher.”

  “No,” Kate rubs her throat and steps forward even closer. “Micah, that’s not true. I deliver mail for my father, I make sure his voice gets out to his patients. What you’re saying—it doesn’t make any sense.”

  I look down at the floor for a second and then back up at Kate. “Yes, it does.”

  I’ve been played this entire time, but not by Kate. The revelation hits me in the face like a hammer, sending a splitting headache c
racking through my skull, nearly bringing me to my knees.

  “I’m so sorry, Kate. I’m so sorry—”

  “Micah!” She grabs my shoulders. “I don’t understand—”

  “He’s him.”

  “Who is him?”

  “Your father.”

  “What?”

  I look up, staring into Kate’s eyes. “Your father is the killer, Kate. Heinrich Shultz is the Butcher.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  Sorry

  THE SLAP TO the side of my face is so hard, it snaps my head to the right and causes my left ear to start ringing as if a gun has just gone off next to it. In the corner of my eye, I see Kate winding up for another hit, but I do nothing to stop her. I deserve this, I deserve this and a whole lot more. This time, her blow hits me in the shoulder, slamming me hard against the bar. Again, I don’t react. I let her do what she needs to do.

  “How dare you?” She says. “How fucking dare you.”

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper, looking back at her. “I’m sorry, Kate but it’s true.”

  “No, no it’s not. First you accuse me of being this—this messenger for the Butcher, and now you’re saying my father is the Butcher? You’re saying my father killed my little brother? That he killed your wife and sawed your leg off and killed all those other children?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fuck you, Micah.”

  “Kate—”

  “Get out.”

  “What?”

  She points to the door. “Get the fuck out of my house. Get the hell away from me.”

  I hold out the crumpled letter. “Would you recognize his handwriting if you saw it?”

  “Y—yes. Of course, I would.”

  “Take this. Take this and tell me it’s not your father’s. Tell me it’s not Dr. Shultz’s and I will leave, Kate. I will leave and you will never have to see me again. I swear to God.”

  She stares at me for a long moment, her eyes ablaze with anger and contempt for me. I can’t blame her, not at all. If she wants to hate me after this, then so be it. I’ll have deserved every bit of it. But if I’m right about her father, she needs to know the truth.

  Hesitantly, she takes the paper, wipes her tear-filled eyes and looks at the page. Before she even starts reading, I see the recognition in her eyes.

  She knows the handwriting.

  After a long moment, her lips begin to tremble and she drops the paper. She looks back at me, her eyes wide, and then her knees buckle. I move forward and reach under her arms, catching her just before her legs completely give out.

  I hold her up and bring her close to me, and she buries her face in my shoulder and starts sobbing a sob that I’ve only heard once before. A sob that only someone with a shattered heart can sob, a sob from a soul on the verge of dying from intense, torturous pain. The last time I’d heard that sob, was from myself, laying in the hospital bed, after waking up and being told Dani was dead.

  “Why?” She manages. “No, no, no!”

  I hold her even tighter and stroke the back of her head. “I’m so sorry, Kathryn. I’m so, so sorry.”

  I hold her, not knowing if she will hate me after she’s done crying, not knowing if I have any future left with her, but knowing one thing: I still love her. I will hold her until the sun comes up, and even longer than that if I have to.

  I would hold her forever.

  I’m so sorry.

  *

  Kate and I sit across from each other in her living room. She’s on the couch and I’ve moved a chair closer to her so that I can hold her hands while she tries to calm herself down. Most of the tears have stopped by now, and she will nod or shake her head, but she’s yet to speak to me. I don’t know how long we’ve been sitting like this, but I don’t really care. What’s been discovered is more than most people can handle, and yet, in her own way, she’s handling it.

  When she finally speaks, it takes me by surprise at first, but I’m glad she’s finally coming back to me.

  “Were you going to kill me? If I was who you thought I was.”

  I think about the question for a moment, and decide I’m not going to lie to her. “Probably. I don’t know.”

  She nods, seemingly relieved I didn’t lie to her. “I would have.”

  “What?”

  “If you were associated with the person who killed my brother—I’d have killed you.”

  I don’t say anything, I just look at her, anticipating what she’ll say next.

  “I don’t hate you.”

  “I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”

  “But I don’t.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  She nods and for the first time since sitting down, she releases my hands and stands up. I look up at her, and she looks down at me. She looks like she’s going to say something else, but instead, walks passed me without saying anything and disappears into her bedroom.

  I sit in silence as I watch the bedroom door, listening as she rummages through a drawer and then reemerge into the kitchen with a black purse over one shoulder. She’s also wearing a pair of high black boots. She doesn’t say anything to me as she moves over to the bar, her heels clicking on the floor, and grabs her car keys without breaking stride.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, getting to my feet.

  “I’m leaving.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Dad’s.”

  I move over to her and catch her by the arm before she reaches the door. She fights against my hold, but I spin her around anyway and pin her against the door by both arms. I look at the red marks around her neck, and then up at her eyes.

  “I’m sorry for what I did to you.”

  “Don’t be,” she says. “Can I go now?”

  “Are you really going to your fathers?”

  “Yes.”

  “To do what?”

  “I haven’t decided.” She does her best to solidify her expression, but I can see the pain in her face, the slight sparkle of mist coating her beautiful eyes.

  I think about what she said for a long moment and go to speak but she cuts me off.

  “You can’t convince me to stay.”

  “I’m not trying to convince you to stay.”

  “Then what do you want? Let me go.”

  “I want to go with you.”

  She stares at me a moment. “You want to come with me?”

  “Yes.” I don’t know what she plans on doing, but at the same time, if I go with her, I don’t know if I plan to stop her from doing anything, either.

  “Then let’s go,” she says, breaking free of my grasp and opening her door. “But I’m driving.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  Mary Sue

  THE SWAT TEAM had gone in first, a team of four kitted up with plate carriers, shotguns, and AR-15s. Detective Blake smoked a cigarette outside the trailer, waiting for the team in the light snowfall, not at all expecting them to run into anything needing the attention of all their firepower.

  He couldn’t help but think about Donovan, about how his hate for the man had completely clouded his judgment. About how Alexander Irving, an innocent man, was now dead because his pride had gotten the best of him when all he had to do was listen to Micah. Then, there was West and the kidnapping of Micah’s kid, and now Micah had almost died. Blake knew Micah’s near death had mostly been due to his own recklessness, yes, but that recklessness wouldn’t have been necessary if Blake had of just done his own damned job. Blake knew when tonight was over, he was most definitely facing suspension, and if Art wanted, maybe even termination. Although losing his job was the last thing Blake wanted, he told himself he wouldn’t fight it if it came to that.

  Micah Donovan was an asshole, but he had been right. And although Donovan was an asshole, Blake had to admit to himself that he was no better and a drunk, on top of that. Maybe being fired wasn’t the worst thing that could happen, maybe the department would be better off without him.

  He’d go
to work every day thinking his colleagues were assholes, but maybe, just maybe, he was the asshole and they were the ones having to put up with him.

  “Shit,” Blake muttered to himself, taking a long drag on his cigarette, nearly burning it down to the filter.

  “Clear!”

  Blake dropped the cigarette in the snow and snuffed it out with the heel of his shoe as he watched the tactical team descend the steps of the trailer’s rickety front porch. The lead operative tonight was a man named Phillips, who’d recently been promoted to team leader not long after Christmas, and so Blake approached him for the update.

  Phillips was a large man at well over six feet. He wore a military-style crew-cut with a sharp goatee. Normally, nothing got to the man, but Blake could see something in his eyes that told him something sinister had been found in that trailer.

  “It’s bad, man.”

  “Define ‘bad.’”

  “Body. Female. Probably mid-twenties, but it’s hard to tell. The cold weather helps with the smell, but trust me, go past that front door and you won’t be able to breath without gagging.”

  “How long?”

  “She’s probably been in there for about a month, I’d say.”

  “Jesus.”

  “She looks like it.”

  “What?”

  “Go see for yourself, Detective. You’ll know what I mean when you see how she’s displayed.”

  “Displayed?” Blake said, more so to himself than anyone else. “Thanks, Phillips. Good work.”

  The team leader gave Blake a courtesy nod and joined his team at the SWAT van a little ways down the road. Blake watched them mingle for a few moments, partly jealous of the camaraderie amongst the group of men, and then forced his attention back towards the trailer.

  The CSI team was already making their way inside, decked out in full-fledged bio hazard suits with respirators and goggles. They didn’t even wait for word from the lead Detective to go in, they just knew by the type of environment they were in that it was time to work once the SWAT team came out.