Sink In Your Claws

by S. E. Chase

  Einar squeezed his shoulders. “Sorry. She told you it’d hurt.”

  “Right, cop. No needles sticking in your face.”

  Einar stared at the floor. Must hurt like hell, even with Lidocaine.

  Twenty-eight stitches and prescriptions for antibiotics and Vicodin later, the medical staff finished. Einar stepped aside to let the nurse get the pills. Troll edged off the gurney, unsteady. Einar grasped his arm and didn’t let go when he tried to shake him off.

  “Told you. Don’t try to fight me. Kyrr. Calm down.” No way was he bolting—street was out. Clean bandages covered his wounds. He looked like something out of a horror movie. Ironic. Michael would’ve appreciated that.

  The nurse returned with a pill and a glass of water. She gave them to Troll, then turned to Einar and handed him two bottles of pills, gauze patches and printed instructions.

  “He’ll need another Vicodin when the local wears off,” she said. “Antibiotics three times a day for ten days. Wounds cleaned twice daily for the first couple days. Signs of infection, return immediately. Wounds stay covered for the first twenty-four hours. Bring him back to have the sutures checked in four days. We’ll be able to remove them then.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Einar said.

  “It’ll be rough when he starts to withdraw from whatever he’s on.” The nurse glanced at Troll then peered at Einar, eyes narrowed. “Detective, do you know what you’re doing? He should be in a rehab facility. I can call with a advance notice at Detox.”

  “He’s coming with me.”

  “I’m guessing he’s not well situated for follow-up care in his home in the suburbs.” She crossed her arms. “You should call social services.”

  “No.” He looked at her. “I’ve got it.” He reached for the dirty shirt and coat, then stopped and handed them to her. “Throw these away.” He took off his coat and draped it around Troll. It hung from his shoulders to the floor.

  “I’ll take care of it.” The nurse shook her head. “He got lucky tonight. You’ve gone above and beyond the call of duty. Merry Christmas.”

  Thanks.” Einar walked to the checkout counter with reluctant charge in tow, paid with his personal credit card and headed for the exit.

  Troll pulled away. “Said . . . I wasn’t . . . under arrest,” he mumbled, face dulled by anesthetic.

  “You’re not.” Einar didn’t let go.

  “Please.”

  “Sorry. You’re stuck with me.” He wrapped his fingers around the chain between Troll's cuffed hands and led him through the door. “You're not going to die in the alley doped on painkillers.” They trudged through the snow-covered parking lot. Wind whipped clouds of flakes into dervishes.

  Einar opened the passenger door of a battered Range Rover with improvised two-tone paint. “Get in.”

  “Let me go. Wanna sleep it off.”

  “No.” Einar shook his head, shivering without his coat. “You need help. No getting juiced again. Could freeze to death.”

  “It’d be preferable.”

  A chill crept through Einar and not because of the cold.

  “Freezing to death’d be peaceful. There, then gone. Other things haven’t worked. Keep trying. Already dead inside. Why should the outside be different? But, fuck. I’m still alive.”

  Einar shoved him into the seat.

  “Fuck, you’re worse than the other cops. What do you want?”

  “Nothing.” Einar blocked the open door. Laid hands on his shoulders, pinning him in place. Surreal. Here he was, on a frigid night begging the wreck of his dead partner to let him help while the guy wanted to die in an alley. A car edged out of the lot, tires spinning. The driver stared at the couple fighting in the snow.

  Great. We’re on display.

  “What are you? Some whacko pervert asshole? Let me go.”

  “Yeah. I’m a whacko. Who doesn’t want you rotting in the cold.” Einar took a breath. “Trust me. I believe you about monsters. Doesn’t that count?”

  “I guess.” He sank into the seat, pain meds kicking in.

  “Let me help.”

  “Why?”

  “Need a reason?”

  Troll slumped and shook his head. Docile. Drugged.

  Einar undid the cuffs, tossed them into the back seat and closed the door. He jogged around the vehicle’s front and climbed into the driver’s side, brushing snow off his suit jacket. He slammed the door and turned to his passenger. Jesus, whatever was left of Michael looked like hell. “Give me a chance, okay? Buckle your seat belt.”

  The vehicle left the city, crossed the steel-span bridge and wove through the maze of overpasses. It headed onto the highway following two solitary tire tracks open in a sea of white. Snow flew horizontal in the headlights. Wiper blades struggled to keep the front window clear.

  A small plastic troll with bulging eyes and spiked blue hair dangled from the rear view mirror. It had strange red insignia scrawled on it.

  Troll pointed. “Fuck. It’s a troll.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  “A . . . friend . . . gave it to me. For protection.”

  Troll looked flummoxed.

  Einar glanced at him. “Let’s get this straight. You’re not a troll. In Iceland, they’re giant, dim, foul-tempered man eaters.”

  “Oh.”

  “You’re none of those.”

  Silence.

  “Okay?”

  “How do you know?”

  “You’re not giant or stupid. Do you eat people?”

  Troll looked at him. “Fuck, no.”

  “There you go. Not a troll.”

  Silence. The highway led to less populated territory, only light coming from the rover’s headlights. Outside, forest and snow.

  “Why do you care?”

  “Christmas. You know? Peace on Earth, angels, elves, the Twelve Yule lads and all that shit. We’ve covered trolls.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t realize it was Christmas . . . ” He stopped. “Guess I shouldn’t discuss drug deals with a cop.”

  “Perhaps not.”

  “Doesn’t matter on the street. Never know the day. Don’t do Christmas anyway.”

  “No?” At least he still had humor. “Not surprised.”

  More silence.

  “Whatever killed them . . . ”

  “Yeah?”

  “Wasn’t human.”

  CHAPTER 3

  2011 Late September

  The girls sprinted the dirt road to the weedy cut bordering the railroad tracks. They shouted and followed a spur paralleling the river, pushing and shoving to gain advantage. Fall leaves swirled and crunched under their feet. They jumped the worn tracks, gangly legs clearing rotted ties, and halted near clustered pines and a large sycamore. Branches spread skyward and white-blotched bark reflected early evening sunlight. Two girls laughed and joked, panting and exhilarated. The third pouted.

  “I win! Beat you both,” yelled the small blond girl in neon pink sneakers. She raised her hand and pumped her fist in the air.

  “Nuh Uh. I won. You cheated.” The taller girl tugged her ponytail and smoothed her brown hair. “You always cheat, Lisa.”

  “Please, Margie. You both cheat.” The third girl bent over, picked up a green walnut and threw it at the tree. It splatted and bounced off the trunk, rolling to the ground. The smell of fragrant husk permeated the air.

  “Hey, Denise, let’s go to the river,” Lisa Volner said, the blond, the leader. She always came up with the ideas and had the biggest mouth. Denise, in blue nylon jacket and neon green sneakers, nodded.

  “I can’t do that,” Margie said. “My mom says not to get close to the water. She’ll kill me. Riverbed shifts and people drown. Remember last summer—the ambulance came screaming down the road? Timmy Brown drowned when he went swimming with friends. Don’t want to see floating bodies.” Margie Fitte shuffled her feet, head downcast.

  “That’s stupid.” Lisa glared. “You’re not
gonna see a body.” She snorted and dismissed Margie with a wave of her hand.

  “Chicken.” Denise chimed in. “Margie is a chicken.”

  Lisa turned and headed down the shallow bank from the sycamore, passing the rusted shell of an abandoned Dodge truck. Flecks of blue paint had faded to mottled grey and weeds climbed out its busted windows. Lisa wove her way through tall grass, flinging branches aside, Denise on her heels. Margie sighed and followed, trudging a pace behind. They wandered single file along the rocky shore, stepping over fallen logs and river debris, leaving footprints in the muddy sand.

  “What if we find a dead person?” Margie couldn’t let it go.

  Lisa rolled her eyes. “We’re not gonna find a body.” God. Margie worried all the time about finding dead bodies. She was so weird.

  “What if we do?”

  “Shut up,” Denise said.

  “Dummy.” Lisa shook her head.

  Lisa and Denise looked at each other and rolled their eyes. Margie was annoying. She whined about everything. She’d even whined when they went to see Moneyball at the Strand—okay, the movie was boring, Lisa admitted later—but they got free popcorn, free Junior Mints, and Brad Pitt was in it. Margie didn’t like the movie, the popcorn, the candy, the soda, and complained her seat was broken. She was a total whiner.

  Lisa whispered to Denise. They ignored Margie and kept walking, jabbering about boys, school, clothing, boys, and the latest pop song. Denise picked up a long maple stick and traced a line in the muddy bank as they passed, smacking it into a messy pattern.

  The sun dipped low and red in the sky. Brown bats began their forays. Lisa decided to turn around. They’d wandered as far as they could go before the river took a steep bend into rocky terrain. They wouldn’t be able to see the path once it got dark. Yesterday, Denise’s older brother swore that the abandoned truck was haunted. Besides, Lisa’s mom warned she’d better get home in time to go to parent’s night at school. Her teacher wanted to discuss her behavior toward other kids in the cafeteria, especially the incident with the cheese pizza.

  “Come on,” Lisa said. “Turn around! Let’s head back. It’s getting dark. My mom’s not gonna be happy . . . ” She and Denise turned around in exaggerated high steps, laughing, pushing one another into the weeds. They marched the way they’d come, in lockstep along the trail. Margie tagged along at a distance, face glum.

  “Let’s run back.” Lisa mimicked running in place and breaking a finish line ribbon. Denise laughed.

  “Come on.” Margie stopped in her tracks, lips pursed. “Don’t need to run. I don’t wanna race . . .”

  “Baby, baby, Margie is a baby.” Denise turned and made faces. “Baby whiner Margie.”

  “Am not,” Margie said.

  “Please,” Lisa said, “you so are.”

  Lisa and Denise broke into a trot, giggling. Margie lagged behind, feet kicking pebbles along the path.

  After a while, Lisa and Denise stopped and turned around. They didn’t see Margie. They had to squint to see the trail. Lisa heard a rustle in the bushes. Maybe a possum had passed through the weeds. Or Margie was being annoying.

  “Margie. Quit messing around.” Lisa narrowed her eyes and cupped her hand over her brow.

  “We need to get home.” Denise yelled into the weeds. “Don’t mess with us.”

  No answer. Denise and Lisa looked at each other.

  “Margie, stop it.” Lisa marched back. “You’re never coming again. I mean . . .”

  A flash of light, a scream. Quick. Efficient.

  Lisa was gone.

  Silence.

  Denise didn’t wait to see what happened. She ran like hell.

  *

  He watched from the shadows, crouched on a boulder. Cops converged. Of course the girl ran and told her parents. Crybaby. A team of uniforms followed the trail, crossed the tracks and found the body along the rails. Two more headed to the riverbank and came upon the other one.

  He’d drained their blood and dismembered them. Cursed that he’d let one get away, but he’d not needed her and she hadn’t seen him. He’d fed with abandon, gluttony splattering flesh everywhere, on the tracks, rocks and in the weeds. Crime scene would be a bitch to process.

  He smiled—their problem.

  Fall leaves’ scent mingled with the metallic tang of blood and death. Wind rippled the water. He licked his lips, jumped off the boulder and slipped through heavy brush. More cops. He smiled. Sharp teeth glinted in the moonlight.

  He enjoyed being spectator to the crime scene. Uniforms cordoned it off. One cop dogged everyone entering with a login sheet and made all arriving personnel sign it. Two detectives crouched under the tape and approached the first uniform on the scene, stepping with caution. They walked a grid search pattern, uniform accompanying them. She placed small markers where they found bits of flesh, evidence to be examined by forensic techs.

  The detectives crouched by the blond girl’s body, one leg attached. A pink shoe hung off the foot. The tall detective, well dressed and efficient, motioned to the girl’s head with a gloved hand, examining the gash in her neck. The younger detective, slender and less put together, looked pale. But he was intense, focused, jotting notes and snapping photos before placing paper bags around her hands. A woman in grey rain jacket, ID badge on a lanyard around her neck, came up beside them. They stood, removed gloves and shook her hand. She crouched and motioned for two forensic techs.

  Uniforms expanded the perimeters. The detectives left the first body and headed to examine the other victim.

  He watched.

  They conversed. The woman rejoined them. The tall detective crossed his arms and looked around the river bend, surveying the crime scene’s scope. The young detective pointed. The second body hung in a tree, almost decapitated, guts hanging from a low branch. They stepped over logs and debris, clambered over rocks and approached the bank. A uniform and the forensic techs followed.

  “Arch, no one moves them until Marta gives the okay,” the young detective said. “No one touches them. She’ll tell her techs to bag them. However long it takes. Right, Marta?”

  The woman nodded, said a few quiet words.

  The tall detective scowled. “No unnecessary personnel. Give the techs space to dust for prints—anything they might have touched, been dragged over. No press. Don’t care about excuses.” He turned to her. “Will the autopsies be priority in the morning?”

  Again, she nodded.

  The detectives left her and followed the river. They paced, tracking the ground. Voices echoed. More photographs, more notes.

  He shadowed them in the brush and then shifted to the far bank, moving north. Witnessing the aftermath was interesting. But he had prey to stalk.

  CHAPTER 4

  2011 Early October

  He dashed through the rain, hands in pockets. Dodged puddles and crossed the street, getting soaked. His eyes darted from one business to another while a million comments ran through his head, all sarcastic. Einar was going to pay for this.

  There, next to the building with sagging awning. He wiped hair out of his eyes and tugged his coat collar.

  Detective Michael Lewis shook his head and smiled.

  You wanted this life. Suck it up. No complaints about working on a rainy Saturday.

  He’d joined the force after graduating from Boston College. As a kid, he dreamed of being an explorer, wandering to places unknown—but that’d been before Billy disappeared. At sixteen, smart-mouthed and bright but alienated, he wanted to be drummer for Green Day or The Offspring. He and friends spent hours in Bruno’s dive basement, pounding out songs, yelling raunchy lyrics and drinking cheap beer. But hot alt bands weren’t hiring in Western Massachusetts.

  For the hell of it and because his mother disapproved, he majored in Criminal Justice and Philosophy. After college, searching for direction, he went to a job fair and spoke with police reps. Father had been an FBI agent and grandfather a Boston cop. It made sense.
Was inevitable, like gravitational pull into the family vortex.

  He proved an ambitious academy cadet—if a bit hyperactive. Making up for misspent youth is what he called it. He joined Seward City and rose through the ranks, serving with distinction in a series of narcotics investigations, including two stints undercover. Wasn't a stretch. He knew alienation and drug culture, played the roll well. Two years ago, he'd made detective third grade. So now he was running through the rain meeting Einar Hannesson for reasons unexplained over the phone.

  End of the block—Rauleaux’s Books. He sprinted across the street. Pushed hair out of his eyes again and took the steps two at a time to the building’s front porch. Shook his coat, grasped the brass handle and pushed.

  The heavy wooden door creaked. Silver bells on the handle jingled. The shop smelled of leather, brittle paper and weathered wood.

  An old woman at the sales counter looked up and smiled. “Welcome to Rauleaux’s. Can I help you?”

  “Thanks,” he said. “I’m meeting someone. Tall, grey and over-caffeinated. Where are your weird books?”

  She laughed. “In the back. He’s there. My best customer.”

  “Not surprised.”

  “Let me know if you need anything.” She motioned to a bookshelf filled with recent publications and popular hardcovers. A hand-written sign declared Staff Favorites. She handed him a bookmark with the store logo. “Make time for a good book. Stay and browse. Better than being out in that rain.”

  “True.” Michael smiled, put it in his pocket.

  “Mikey, back here,” called a voice from the store’s rear.

  He rolled his eyes. He hated the nickname so Einar used it all the time, saying it kept the young guy on his toes.

  He headed in the direction of the voice. Wandered two aisles over, through literary classics, military history and cookbooks, then turned the corner, ducking low to dodge an exposed ceiling beam. He shook his head. Einar sat in a worn leather chair in the store’s Cryptozoology and Medieval Myths section, large coffee in one hand and book about Bigfoot in America in the other, a garish roaring hominid monster on its cover.

  “Hey Mikey. Love the wet hair look.” Einar peered up from his reading.

  “What's with casual wear? Can't recall the last time I didn't see you in a suit.”