Sink In Your Claws

by S. E. Chase

  “See? He's out there,” Einar said.

  Michael ignored him.

  Chuckie kept talking. “In the last few weeks, I seen a vehicle around that I know, know don’t belong to any of us. An old shit-brown Bronco, late 1980s. Rusted beater, man, even for these parts. Seen it last week along the river down from here. Couple a days ago not far from the bar. Can’t tell who’s in it, but it ain’t a girl. Unless it’s the ugliest girl I ever seen.” He motioned for another beer.

  “Put it on my tab,” Michael said to the bartender.

  “Honey, you don't have to . . .” She reached for it anyway.

  Einar glanced from her to Michael.

  Chuckie grabbed the beer. “Don’t know anyone’s talked to him. Ain’t seen it at a bar, rest stop or gas station. It’s round late afternoon to early morning. Never after ten in the morning or in the middle of the day.”

  “License plate?” Michael said.

  “Yeah, man,” Chuckie said. “New York State, the old statue of liberty. Hell, that one went out in what, 1999 or 2000?”

  Einar sighed. Damn, the vehicle didn’t have valid registration.

  “Anything else?” Michael said.

  “Not really, man. There’s always somethin’ off goin’ on up here. Most of it normal weird. You’re talking weird weird. Can’t say I seen anything other than the beater shitty Bronco. I’ll keep my eagle eyes open now I know your lookin’.”

  Michael handed Chuckie a business card. “If you see the Bronco, call us,” he said. “Odd happenings, something out of place, call us. I’ll buy another beer. Two if you help us crack it.”

  “I will, man.” Chuckie smiled and peered at the card. “Lewis? Last name’s Lewis? You related to Jacker Packer Lewis?”

  The bartender nodded.

  Einar looked at her. She knew him?

  “Yeah. Grandfather on my father’s side. I have his shotgun and logging mark.”

  The drunk slapped him on the back. “Jacker! Dude, I should buy you beer. Guys who remember talk of his ability. Awesome is what they say. Man could scale a tree like no one. King of the Adirondack lumberjacks! I’m honored, cop.” He extended his large hand. Michael shook it, his disappearing into the massive grasp.

  “Thanks.”

  “Man.” Chuckie paused. “Richard Packer Lewis was your father?”

  “Was,” Michael said. “Yeah, he was.”

  “Double cool.” Chuckie edged around on his seat and pantomimed hands up. “FBI! Dad was cool, man. That’s serious family history. One of us.”

  Einar wheeled around. This was not a backwoods dive—he knew it and they knew him.

  Michael stared at the bar counter.

  “He was a good man,” the bartender said.

  Chuckie paused. “Sorry bout what happened.”

  “Yeah . . .”

  “But he was a hero. Damn. Still got his picture over there.” Chuckie cocked his head to the wall in the corner. Rows of faded framed 8 x 10s hung below an old handwritten poster that said ‘Hall of Thank Your Ass These People Existed.’

  “All these years.” The bartender turned to the wall. “Don't make it easier . . .”

  “No,” Michael said.

  “Thanks for the beer, man, you’re a life saver,” Chuckie said. “Jacker’s grandson. FBI’s son. You do them proud. Not one a those pole-up-the-ass flatlanders. Better believe—I see something, I’ll call ya.”

  Michael nodded, eyes downcast. He glanced at the photo, then swung around and motioned for another beer. The bartender laid a hand on his arm and whispered to Einar who then cajoled Michael out of the bar. They trudged the road in darkness except for the moon glow in the night sky. Gravel crunched under foot.

  “What'd she say?”

  “Take care of you . . .”

  “Oh.”

  They walked for a few minutes in silence.

  “Jacker Packer?” Einar interrupted the solitude. “FBI Man. Didn’t know . . .”

  “Didn't tell you . . .”

  “I knew your father was law enforcement. But FBI?”

  “Yeah . . . whatever.”

  “Shit, Mikey. You’ve never mentioned your family. Two years. All the time we’ve worked together.”

  “Not relevant.”

  “Of course it is.”

  “No. It isn’t.”

  “You know these dives. You grew up here, didn’t you?”

  “Sat at those barstools while dad bought beer. Bartenders and waitresses knew us. They’d give me free maraschino cherries.”

  Christ. No wonder the dives were nostalgic. It wasn’t their isolation. They connected to his past.

  “How long?”

  “Until I was ten.”

  “Same age as our victims.”

  “So what.”

  Einar had a sinking feeling. Case was too close, churning up bad memories. No wonder he was freaking out.

  “Michael. What happened to your father?”

  “He died.”

  “How?”

  “Why's it matter?”

  “How?”

  “Killed in the line of duty, hostage situation, apprehending suspect near Hogansburg, near the Canadian border.”

  “Shit—”

  “I was nine. It won him the spot on the wall.”

  “Sorry.” Einar turned to him. “Shit. But I thought you lived in Western Mass?”

  “We moved.”

  They got to the rover. Einar walked to the driver's side and opened his door but peered over the roof. He suspected more. “Why?”

  Michael lowered his head.

  “Michael?”

  No answer.

  “What happened?”

  “My brother Billy . . .”

  “You have a brother?”

  “ . . . went hiking with friends . . . ”

  “Where—”

  “ Along the river near Gates.”

  “Wait a minute. Here?”

  “He disappeared. Never found him.”

  Einar slammed the door. “Jesus, Michael. I’m sorry.”

  “My mother wouldn’t let me look for him.”

  “Shit—”

  “I should've helped . . . ”

  “You were a kid.”

  “No excuse.”

  “This case—”

  “I’m fine. Happened a long time ago . . .”

  “How can you—”

  “Don’t remember. It’s in the past.”

  “You're not fine.” A cement wall could tell he was lying. Einar bolted around the rover. “Step back for your own sake. Can’t you see what it's doing?”

  “No.”

  “You’re a mess, don’t have objective distance. I get it. Christ, Cap will understand.”

  “No.”

  “Michael. You’re too close.”

  “No.”

  “You didn't tell me because you knew what I would say—”

  “I never mentioned it because I’m a private person.”

  “What does that—”

  “My life isn’t an open book. I deal with it.” He was shouting. “I don’t talk about it. To anyone. I cope. Have my entire damn life. Lived through the fallout. Got through my fucked-up-over-it phase. Went into law enforcement so it never happens to other kids. It’s not affecting my work.”

  “I don’t believe you.” Einar threw a hand in the air. “It fuels you. Your father was killed when you lived here. Your brother disappeared here. This case involves kids. You’re obsessing.” He looked him in the eye. “I have to take you off this case. You know that. For your own good.”

  “Don’t. I can do the job.”

  “You can’t.”

  “I can.”

  “No.”

  “Don't jump to conclusions—”

  “Michael—”

  “Please . . .”

  Einar hesitated. He couldn’t ignore the information, was disturbed Michael hadn’t disclosed it after the first attack. What was he thin
king? And yet, they worked well together. He was good at research. Cap wouldn’t let anyone take on this case alone. If he removed Michael, who’d be assigned to it? Cresson? Dreading that scenario, Einar backed off. “Okay.” He took a deep breath. “I’ll trust you.” Another. “For now . . .”

  “Right.”

  “But, I'm worried. I see anything, the smallest hint—”

  “Fine. Whatever. You’re the boss. Do what you need to do. Don’t let my incompetence hold you back.” Michael got into the passenger seat and slammed the door.

  They drove to Seward City in silence.

  *

  Marta called Einar early the next morning. Half awake, he slugged down coffee, listening—was he tired or was that hesitation in her voice? He wandered from his desk to an interview room. Others didn’t need to eavesdrop.

  “Don’t know what to make of preliminary results,” she said. “Evidence collected last night creates more questions than answers.”

  “Hit me,” Einar said. Anxiety was becoming his constant companion. It weighed like lead in his gut and he was sure something was gnawing at his insides.

  “Because of the other murders, we put a rush on testing. Blood from swabs taken in the dog’s mouth . . . contained unidentifiable mutated cells. Not human, not identifiable animal. Unusual shape. Same for the substance on its paws.”

  “How can that be?”

  “Sent samples to the FBI Nuclear DNA Unit for testing with more sophisticated equipment. We’re trying to narrow down the mutations.”

  “Mutations?” Gnawing became a chasm.

  “Swab samples contained blood biotransformation. Under a microscope . . . ” Her voice trailed off.

  “Marta?”

  “Never seen it before.”

  He hesitated. “Never heard of anything like that. What caused it?”

  She sighed. “I don't know. Nothing natural. Tox screens showed no narcotics, hallucinogenics, depressants or alcohol in the killer’s system. Whoever’s murdering these kids, common substance abuse is not a factor. Found no unidentified hair fibers, no synthetic substances, no other unidentifiable bodily fluids and no fingerprints. Victim’s cause of death was identical to the others—stab wounds, evisceration, exsanguination. More blood on the scene. Massive deep bites. Had the child survived the attack, he’d have died of sepsis.”

  “Shit,” Einar said. “Shreds of evidence tell us nothing.” He rubbed his forehead. “What's going on?”

  She exhaled. “We’re dealing with something unusual.”

  “Not helpful.”

  “Sorry. Oh, one more thing . . . footprint stumped my techs. Might be fake, but why create a single fraudulent impression? From the weight distribution pattern, it doesn’t scream hoax—unless someone understood how a bipedal creature would step in mud elongated toes first with heel following. Compared it to the stab marks on the body. If real, it has . . .”

  “Marta?”

  “Retractable claws. Five toes, elongated bone structure. Not human.”

  Icy fingers pricked his spine. “What was it?”

  “Staff looked for comparisons. Closest match? Mix of large reptile and carnivore like a cat.”

  What?

  I’m not awake. Need more caffeine.

  “Marta. Did I hear you? Reptile and cat?”

  “Yes. Insane, right?”

  CHAPTER 9

  2013 Christmas Eve

  Einar drove through a tight grove of conifers and old oaks, darkness enveloping the vehicle beyond the headlight beams. His passenger rocked and mumbled as the rover cut through blowing snow. Finally a small cedar-shingled cabin came into view, single light in the window. He stopped by the house and turned. The man wouldn't look at him.

  “I live here,” Einar said. “I’m not a psychopath.”

  “Right,” he mumbled.

  “Stay, heal, and detox from whatever you’re on. I know you don’t trust me, but I want you off the street. For your own good, as . . . a witness. Forecast sucks next week—blizzard conditions and arctic temperatures.”

  A dog barked. The man’s head snapped to freaked attention. The porch light came on. He stared.

  “I’m not holding you. You’re not under arrest.”

  His eyes darted.

  “I’m inviting you as a concerned citizen.”

  How do I reach you?

  Einar removed a glove and held out his hand. “Friend. Deal?”

  Troll hesitated.

  “I promise. I don’t bite.”

  “What the fuck . . . deal . . . I guess.” Troll took his hand in slow motion then pulled back and curled it to his body. He stared out the window.

  Einar came around and opened the passenger door. “You should know . . .” He helped his patient to the ground. “This is unusual. Cops call me an asshole. Don’t try to change their minds. We don’t socialize.” Troll slumped against the vehicle, unsteady, drowning in the large coat, fogged from painkillers. Einar closed the door and wrapped an arm around his waist to steady him. Christ, he was thin. Was anything left to salvage?

  Allison opened the door and halted.

  Einar saw her confusion. He felt bad. How else should she react? The man—filthy, thin, unkempt, and bandaged—was a shocking contrast to him.

  A large black dog stood at alert, ears pricked. When they came closer, it whined and pranced.

  “Einar, glad you’re home.” Al looked at him. “Company. How unusual. What’s going on?”

  “Al, Merry Christmas. Brought a friend.” He shoved him into the house and shut the door.

  The dog bounded up and sniffed. More whining. Troll froze. Tail wagging, body quivering, the dog laid his head against his thigh and pressed into him, long nose touching his hand.

  He hesitated and then rested his hand on the dog’s head.

  Allison pulled Einar to the kitchen. “Explain. Loki hasn’t reacted like that since Michael died.”

  He hesitated. “Can’t explain it. Makes sense if it’s his dog. Even if he doesn’t know it.”

  It took her a moment. “But he’s dead.”

  Einar shook his head.

  “Michael's dead.”

  “That’s what we thought. That’s what everyone thought.” His shoulders sagged. He motioned to man and dog. “Loki knows better.”

  “How?” Allison closed her eyes.

  “Don’t know.”

  “Where?”

  “Among the homeless in the industrial zone. He witnessed a double murder tonight. Uniforms chased him, freaked him out. He bolted. Climbed a razor wire barrier but smashed into it.” He rubbed his face with his hand. Allison helped him remove his suit jacket and laid it over the counter. “Caught the case by luck, if you could call it that. Layton’s on vacation, Cresson’s out of town and Villarna on medical leave. Otherwise, I’d never have known. Didn’t realize until I got him to the station. Recognized him in the light of the interview room.”

  “God. He looks like a lost soul.”

  “He is.”

  “Does he know you?”

  “No. Doesn’t know who he is. Resisted help. Had to cuff him to get medical attention. His face was a mess. He’s strung out on some poisonous shit. Like hell was I going to drop him on the street. What if Cresson had got the call? All this time . . . Christ, Al . . . ”

  She put a hand on his arm. “Einar?”

  He looked at her. “Sorry. Hell of a Christmas. But I didn’t know what else to do.”

  She hugged him. “You’re not an asshole. Don’t apologize.”

  “Thanks, Al.” He kissed her and held her close. “You might be the only person who’d say that.” Her embrace offered trust and security. And love, which still blew his mind. She was his buffer against the crap in the world.

  Allison sighed. “He’s a mess.”

  “Yeah.” Einar glanced back to the hall.

  “Okay . . . small steps first. Burn his squalid clothes. Let’s get food in him.” She hesitated.


  He knew that look. “Al? You're concerned. What?”

  “Homeless have high rates of mental illness and substance abuse. You don’t want to hear it, but are we putting ourselves in danger?”

  “Don’t know.” She was right, as usual. “He’s a shell. Don’t think he’s violent . . .” He closed his eyes. “But— ”

  “He needs help. I trust you.”

  She returned to them. Einar followed.

  “Welcome,” she said.

  Hollow eyes hesitated. “Your dog likes me.”

  “He does,” she said. “Loki’s a good judge of character. But we’re only caring for him. He belongs to someone else.”

  He rubbed the dog’s nose. Loki leaned closer.

  Einar swore he saw a flash of recognition in those drugged eyes.

  “Let’s go upstairs,” Allison said. “You can shower but don’t get your face wet. Toss your cloths in a pile. They’ll be burned.”

  He looked at her in surprise.

  “Consider this a new start,” she said with matter-of-fact finality. “I’ll put out clean clothes. We’ve got tons of gear around from family visits—something’ll fit you.” She led him upstairs, black dog following.

  Einar hung back, exhausted and relieved, appreciative of her calm competence.

  Am I dead? Or dreaming?

  He stood in the warm water, eyes closed. It poured down his spine and pelted his bony shoulders, flooding his damaged body. Couldn't remember experiencing the sensation. He bent his head to the side, letting liquid wash over lank hair while keeping the stitches dry. Held out his hands, let water run through his fingers. Watched it fall. Brought his arms back down to his sides.

  Why now?

  He remained motionless for almost an hour, water carrying away filth and the street’s isolation.

  When he returned to the kitchen, dog on his heels, he wore a thick black wool sweater and faded jeans, hair wet, clean clothing hanging on his gaunt frame. Allison and Einar turned at the sound of his footsteps. He peered around, nervous and hesitant.

  “Better, right?” Einar handed him water and a Vicodin. “Nurse said you’d need one of these about now.”

  He downed the pill, water glass shaking. God, he needed a fix.

  Einar took the glass and steadied his hand. “I meant it—let me help.” He grasped quaking shoulders and led him to a wood-paneled room with a stone fireplace. Old hunting gear and a fishing trawler model graced the mantle. A fire warmed the space, casting an orange glow on the Christmas tree in the corner. Einar motioned for him to sit. He did. The dog followed. Einar sat next to them, rubbing Loki’s neck.