Sink In Your Claws

by S. E. Chase

  “Not everything’s understandable,” Laina said.

  “Monsters, trolls and Bigfoot do not exist.” Michael shook his head. “I tolerate you, but hello, monster man? We live in the twenty-first century, not the fifteenth.”

  “What difference does that make?” Einar smiled. Michael's bewilderment was obvious. He deserved credit for remaining there.

  “Don't bullshit me. You believe this stuff?”

  “Ég get ekki að puí gert,” Einar said. “Can’t help it.” His grandparents swore elves and trolls lived in lava fields along the road to Ólafsvìk. His parents didn’t disbelieve it. Hell, even now some Icelanders tried to halt highway construction projects claiming they interfered with elf habitat. One nation’s weird was another’s normal.

  “Not seeing things doesn’t mean they aren’t there,” Laina said.

  “Like God and radio waves,” Einar countered.

  “Or gravity.” Laina glanced at her cousin and laughed.

  “Proof. You're deluded.” Michael raised an eyebrow.

  “Never said I wasn't.”

  “But he's smart.” Laina smiled. “Best cop on your force.”

  Michael shook his head. “Yeah. And crazy. Can’t believe we’re having this conversation.”

  Laina wasn’t angry. “Michael, you’re right to be skeptical. I’m not saying beyond a doubt that monsters are flying around murdering children.”

  “But they might be,” Einar said.

  Laina ignored him. “Someone knows this lore, studies mythology. They might be using it to commit crimes. Descriptions of light flashes that resemble corpse candles, the forty-day time frame, the violence—it ties to cultural myths.”

  “Corpse candles?”

  “Yeah, spectral—”

  “Don't.” Michael rubbed his face. “Too much.”

  “Someone’s using obscure mythological and pre-Christian ideas. They travel,” Laina said, “suggesting an educated, intelligent socially marginal nonconformist.”

  Michael pointed to Einar. “Laina, that's your cousin.”

  She laughed. “Can’t argue the point.”

  “Mikey, I’m hurt,” Einar slumped in mock dismay. “Betrayal. After everything I’ve taught you.”

  “You mean, subjected me to?”

  “Yeah. I’m weird. Hell, I revel in it, but you owe me beer for that. Good beer.”

  “When do I buy you bad beer?”

  Laina looked at them. “Seriously, gentlemen, you never know what lurks out there. We don’t corner the market on the world’s mysteries. Who knows? Maybe creatures exist . . .”

  “You’re crazy.” Michael stared. “I can’t fathom it. I don’t believe you.”

  “Stay in homicide long enough, you see the worst humans do,” Einar said. “Reinforces ideas about evil. People are monsters, capable of acts that make gods and devils gasp.”

  “Dark and philosophical, Detective Hannesson,” Michael said. “Sure everyone in the division wants to hear it. How about at next staff meeting?”

  “Good luck with that.” Einar didn’t talk much at department meetings anymore because it usually didn’t go well.

  “Michael,” Laina said. “Admit it, darkness and evil are possible. Didn’t you believe in as a child? Scary stories and legends often have basis in fact. ”

  “Come on.” Einar poked him. “You’ve spent your share of time in the realm of ghosts, ghouls, and haunted houses. You converse too well about it—gives you away.”

  Michael scratched his head. “Yeah, that shit interested me—and creepy places no one dared enter. But North Adams sucked for fifteen year-olds. I was bored as hell. Any hole rumored to be haunted, game on, something to do.”

  “Right,” Einar eyed him. “Just a distraction. Never tried to scare anyone?”

  Laina watched them.

  “Never said that.” Michael grinned. “South of North Adams, old railroad tunnel through a mountain.” He relaxed into the booth. “Hoosac Tunnel. Almost five miles long. Built in 1800s to connect Upstate New York and Boston.”

  “You’re a fount of knowledge.” Einar smirked. “My history professor partner.”

  Michael ignored him. “Dragged kids there to scare them. Men died building it. Had to blast through the mountain—fires, explosion, drowning, all sorts of nasty ways to perish below ground. Nicknamed bloody pit. Rumored to be haunted.”

  Laina smiled. “You have some dark explorer in you, too.”

  “I suppose . . . anyway, me and a friend took another kid one Saturday to see how far we could get. Was used for freight—still is today—and posted with NO TRESPASSING signs. Added to the challenge. People got killed every year.”

  “Didn’t you think about that?” Einar eyed him.

  “No. Course not. We started walking. It was cold, dank, slimy, smelled of surfaces that never saw the sun. Unnerving, crawling below the earth. Got an hour in, freaking each other out, whispering about ghosts and eyes in the dark. Then the kid who’d never been in it, Ritchie Vortner, swore a hand grabbed his feet. He turned and ran. Bolted. When we caught up with him, he’d pissed his pants. Never lived that down. We went home coated with tunnel dust. We lied but it was obvious where we’d been. Grounded for a month. Can still hear my stepfather yelling that we should’ve been arrested for trespassing.” He dropped his voice low in imitation. “You shits should spend a night behind bars. Train shoulda hit ya. Cops’ll bust your worthless punk asses.”

  Einar raised an eyebrow. Michael's mimicking was rueful.

  Michael shrugged. “He wasn't going to stop us . . .”

  “Was there something in there?” Einar glanced at him.

  “Who knows? If a place was haunted, it'd be that tunnel.”

  “A shred of belief.” Einar crossed his arms. “I win.”

  “It wasn’t a contest.” Laina smiled. “You don’t have to win everything.”

  “Whatever . . .” Michael hesitated. “Enough memory lane crap.”

  “You're so sentimental,” Einar said.

  Michael ignored him. “Back to the case. Suggestions of other sources to explore?”

  “I’ll send you a list when I return to Stockholm. My field’s a small area of study and we consulted colleagues in other Nordic universities…. but didn’t find firm connections to the Oslo or Stockholm crimes.”

  “Without clues, prints or evidence, it’s difficult to generate supernatural leads,” Einar said.

  “Shut up,” Michael smiled and shook his head. “Shit. You are strange.”

  “Gentlemen,” Laina touched Einar’s hand. “I have to get back to the Hilton for a panel discussion in an hour. Review the files. Relay questions. Wanted to help if I could.” She stood and they followed. “Einar, tell Allison I said hello. If I have time, I’ll stop by. This schedule change was last minute, my time is tight.” She turned to Michael. “You’ve persevered longer than others in his world. Maybe there’s hope . . .” She hugged him. “A pleasure meeting you and sympathies on putting up with my cousin. ”

  “No sympathy needed. He’s interesting. Weird, yeah, but I gravitate toward odd.”

  Einar gave her a hug. “Good luck with the panel. Stop by if you can, even after midnight. We’ll pull out the Brennevín and tie one on like the summer before grad school.”

  She blushed.

  Einar's cell rang. A brief conversation ensued, his face clouded. He hung up.

  “Mikey, let’s go. Another murdered child north of the city.”

  CHAPTER 5

  2011 Early October

  The river stretched before them, an undulating liquid ribbon, deep in places, shallow and riffled in others. Thick pine forest and steep rock ledges bordered it in the distance. Most nights would have been peaceful, mesmerizing with flowing water and shifting reflections. Not tonight. Large construction lights erased the darkness, blotting out the moon’s shine.

  They descended a shallow embankment to access the scene, spread beyond the parking lot and pic
nic area. Einar went first and Michael followed, grabbing branches to avoid falling along the muddy makeshift path. He tried to concentrate, to forget earlier conversation. Good luck with that. Demons? Monsters?

  Marta was there with a forensic tech, documenting locations of splattered body pieces. She led the detectives on a grisly tour.

  “Watch your step.” She pointed to the ground. “Bits and pieces of the poor kid are everywhere. Worse than the last one. Parents found her. Happened while they were by the picnic tables.” She knelt at a pile of flesh that was once a small human torso. Gaping wounds exposed organs, entrails dragging, large bite marks evident but oddly bloodless. Next to a large rock, the child’s head sprawled half in and half out of the water. Ripped away at the neck. The eyes remained open, clouded and unseeing. Severed limbs lay in all directions.

  “Jesus. Who did this to a child?” Michael's mouth was dry and his heart pounded. Again, he was sick to his stomach, glad he’d had only coffee in the last few hours. He swore to himself that he wouldn't puke. Again. He'd never live that down. The most disturbing crime scene he’d ever seen. Who ripped a kid’s guts out with abandon?

  “Someone . . . or something,” Einar said.

  Michael ignored him and turned to Marta. “How’d they do so much damage so fast?”

  “Don’t know. He—it—tore her to pieces in a feeding frenzy.” She hesitated. “Don’t know what else to call it. Very little blood left. Found human tissue as far as the rocks along the middle eddy. Kill site is on the shore, but not far from the water. It appears . . . if I didn't know better . . . that it drank her blood.”

  “So mutilation was done after death.” Einar crossed his arms.

  “Yes.” Marta stood. “The question is why. We’ll do what we can to get the pieces back to the lab. We’re working against time. Gets dark earlier and remains are strewn like confetti. Tomorrow’s forecast is rain. Doesn’t help. No footprints, no drag marks. Strange killer.”

  “þetta er sjálfsagt,” Einar said, voice soft. “Goes without saying. No drag . . . she was killed as soon as it took her.”

  “Parents said she was out of their sight for a moment.”

  “How’d they grab a child, kill and dismember so fast?” Michael jerked his head around to face Marta. “You're saying it climbed rocks, hugged the shore, grabbed her, killed her, gutted her . . . ” He ran his hands through his hair. “Drained her blood and left? Without leaving a mark?”

  “Yes,” Marta nodded.

  “Shit. Don’t envy you,” Einar said.

  Michael was silent. Nothing running through his head was appropriate to say out loud.

  “And you’re the pair that caught the case.” She glanced from one to the other. Her eyes stayed on Michael. “We’re in this together. Our karma sucks.”

  Einar nodded. “Won't argue with that. But I have faith in your skills. Let us know what you find out.”

  “Hmm. Glad you have faith.” She touched Michael’s sleeve. “You okay?”

  “He’ll live.” Einar gave him an appraising look. “I’ll make sure of it.”

  Marta squeezed his arm. “It's a bad one, Michael. Takes a while to build up your armor.”

  “I’m alright . . . ” He wasn't even convincing himself.

  “At least you’re in competent hands. I’ll call with results when we have them.”

  Marta left to continue her work.

  Einar headed to the river. “Come on, Mikey, just focus on the scene.”

  Michael willed himself out of his confused stupor. Had to be trace evidence. He shook his head, followed Einar, and tried to concentrate. They stopped at the water's edge. Beyond the lights, the river disappeared into darkness. He drummed fingers nonstop on his leg, each tap a disjointed thought. Another dead kid. What created carnage then walked away? Where did it go? It? How could it be an it?

  “I know what you're thinking.” Einar stood beside him. “What lurks out there?”

  “Who. Who lurks.” Michael forced monsters out of his mind. God, be professional. “Press’ll devour this story when they hear about another dead child. Won’t be able to suppress it for long.” He stared across the river.

  Why here of all places?

  “It’s evil.” Einar sighed. “How do we explain that?”

  “Shit.”

  “You know, it's okay to admit it has you freaked.”

  Michael looked up at him. Christ, what was he, telepathic? “I'm fine.”

  “Right. You looked like a deer in the headlights back there. Marta doesn't miss much.”

  “I'm alright.” He walked away.

  Einar caught up with him. “Calm down. Let's get this done.”

  They asked a uniform about the witnesses. She pointed to a patrol car. The dead girl’s parents sat in the back, father silent and mother weeping. Einar leaned into the open passenger door and Michael took the front.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Rithen . . . ”

  They seemed not to hear.

  “Detectives Einar Hannesson and Michael Lewis. So sorry for your loss.”

  “She was nine.” Her voice had a strangled quality to it.

  Michael closed his eyes. Same age as Billy.

  “We understand this is difficult. But we need to ask some questions.”

  “Told her not to go to the water.” Sarah sobbed.

  “Water didn’t do this,” the father growled, not looking at her.

  “She wouldn’t listen. If she had listened, if only—”

  “Sarah, a maniac got her!” Tom trembled with rage. He turned to Einar and Michael, his fists clenched. “Get this monster. Why is he on the loose? Can’t cops catch him?”

  Questioning ensued without helpful information. Recriminations flew, anger and grief co-mingled. Sarah cried and Tom yelled, but neither had seen anything out of the ordinary. They’d heard a scream and ran toward it.

  One scream.

  Thinking each parent might be more approachable without the other, Michael took the mother aside and Einar spoke the father—but neither remembered unusual details. They didn’t know what happened, other than their child was gone in an instant. Sarah repeated that she told Carla not to wander, not to go too far away, not to chase the ducks. Tom directed his anger at his wife and the failure of the police to catch the killer.

  When Sarah and Tom returned to the patrol car, anguished shouting began again. Michael bent his head. Einar pulled aside two uniforms, whispered to them. They separated the parents into two patrol cars.

  Michael and Einar walked to their vehicle.

  “Collateral damage, ” Einar said. “Christ, losing a child. This family won’t survive tragedy without more human carnage. Familiar story.”

  Michael didn't say anything.

  *

  Einar made Michael drive back to the city. Wanted to give him something concrete to focus on.

  Instead, he detoured. “I need a drink.”

  Einar glanced at him. He was tense, not his talkative amused self. His hands gripped the steering wheel hard, knuckles white. Unease had been etched on his face as they studied the victim, agitation in constant tapping as they walked the river.

  What was going on?

  Michael sped through a maze of back roads edged by pines, then pulled into the gravel parking lot of the Wandering Trail Inn. Einar’d never heard of it. The paint-peeling ramshackle dive sat low-slung on a desolate road, faded sign listing to ground, victim of careless drivers and distracted snowplows. Odd. Why’d he know of it?

  They stepped inside. The dim space smelled of grease and unwashed souls, stale beer and lingering cigarette smoke. The woman on duty for bar and restaurant motioned them to sit where they wanted—at the bar or any of three battered knotty pine tables with red faux leather benches. A dust-covered faded stuffed beaver stood atop a 1950’s cigarette machine in the corner. A hand-lettered sign exclaimed Taxidermy by Bambi. He hoped Bambi had a day job.

  “Excellent choice.” Einar scratched his nec
k, looked around. Two patrons with glassy eyes gave a cursory once over before they returned to drinking. Three old men didn’t bother to turn around, lost in alcohol oblivion. Einar tapped Michael’s shoulder. “Nice place, Mikey, come often?”

  “You have your strange. I have mine.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I need to . . . get the crime scene out of my head.”

  “True. But here?”

  “It’s anonymous. No one bothers you. They respect privacy.”

  “That’s antisocial.”

  Michael headed through the bar, distracted. Einar shook his head and followed. He didn't always notice their age difference. But sometimes, like tonight, inexperience and youthful stubborn impatience reminded him—his partner was young enough to be his son. He caught up and tapped Michael's sleeve. “Sad view of humanity. God help you when you’re fifty. You’ll be worse than me.”

  “So what.” Michael walked to a booth, hands in his pockets.

  “Come on. Give your fellow man a chance.”

  “No.” He spun around and leaned close, voice low. “I spent half the evening listening to crazy talk. Then walked a scene where a human blender tore a twelve year old into a million chewed pieces. Ripped off her head. Drank her blood.” He sank into the booth.

  “Michael—.”

  “Humanity sucks.”

  “Time out, Michael. Answer me. You okay?” Einar eyed him. “You don’t look good.” Brutal realism was crushing the last shreds of idealism. Child murders could do that. His first case involving children had been decades ago. He’d been disgusted at the senseless death. It’d left him temporarily unmoored, but had been tame compared to what they’d seen tonight.

  “No,” Michael said. “Of course I’m not. Should I be? You know, like, what the hell, another corpse—”

  “Mi—”

  “Fuck. Three eviscerated kids, nothing to go on.”

  “It’s hard.” Einar looked him in the eye. “Listen to me. Distance yourself.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Understand? It’s not in your control.”