Sink In Your Claws

by S. E. Chase

  He couldn’t stop shaking.

  “Tell me about the monsters.”

  “You believe me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why? They didn’t.”

  “I’ve seen unexplainable things.”

  Like watching your broken shell struggle to converse.

  Einar was at a loss. What if he hadn’t been on duty? It was impossible for them to be sitting in his living room.

  What happened, Michael?

  “I saw things. It was cold, I— ” He hesitated. “I was stoned. One taller than the other. They slit her throat . . . ” He avoided Einar’s eyes.

  “What?”

  “Drank her blood. Dumped her.” He shivered. “Didn’t imagine it.”

  Loki moved closer and watched him with the clear guileless gaze of a confidante.

  Einar leaned forward. “Look at me.” His wariness and confusion was obvious. How had he survived? “We'll get them. I promise. Forensic techs will go over the scene. They’ll report back.”

  Michael shuddered. “Won’t believe me.”

  “Marta . . . I mean . . . the Medical Examiner, will.”

  “I’m crazy.” He shrank into himself. “Took bad shit. Saw shit.”

  “Take it easy.”

  “Nightmares. Seeing things. Crazy, fucking crazy . . . ”

  “You weren’t seeing things. Police will be hunting monsters. Whether they realize it or not.”

  This time we’ll catch them.

  “No. Me. They'll hunt me. Cops wanted to bash my head into a wall.”

  “Not this cop, okay?”

  “Yeah.” Michael stared at the floor.

  Allison brought food and coffee and handed it to him. He looked up, frozen. She repeated her gesture with more emphasis. He stared.

  Einar put the cup and plate in his hands. Still he hesitated. Finally understood it was for him. God. When was the last time he’d eaten? Where’d he been? He ate a little and drank, shaking. Einar closed his eyes. Whatever drugs and booze in his system, withdrawal was coming. Sickness screamed in those drugged eyes. It’d be hell.

  Lulled by the fireplace and mind numbed by Vicodin, he fell into weary sleep, head on the sofa arm, dog beside him.

  Allison covered him with a wool blanket. Laid a hand on his shoulder. He didn't stir. She sat by Einar, hands threaded in her lap.

  “What are we going to do?” she said.

  We. So like her. Immediately invested and on his side.

  He shook his head. “Want to tell him I know him, but don’t want to freak him out.”

  “He doesn’t remember?”

  “Don’t know.” He rubbed his neck. “Not that I can tell. He’s wreckage. Wasted. Brain damage, PTSD, a realm of terrible possibilities. Christ . . . ” That case ended in fire and destruction. Nothing made sense.

  She glanced at the sleeping figure. “His condition . . . might be irreversible.”

  Einar took off his glasses and sank into the sofa. “I can’t leave him this way.” He was determined to pull something out of the shell.

  “Talk to Kait,” Allison said. “She can help.”

  “I haven’t told anyone. Don’t have an explanation. Don’t want to say anything in the department.”

  “Why? I mean, besides Phil.”

  “We believed he was dead. I witnessed the inferno. We held his funeral and went on with our lives while he existed on the street like an animal.” The mourning band across his badge in Michael’s memory had been surreal, serving on the honor guard for a funeral without a coffin even more so. Three dead partners. He’d taken a leave of absence after it happened.

  “Wasn’t your fault . . . ” She pulled him close. “You know that.”

  “If—”

  “He went in without backup.”

  “He saved Kait’s life.”

  She leaned back. “Everyone makes choices. Then we live with them. Or not.”

  Pragmatic Allison. He took her hand. They’d had this conversation a thousand times. Guilt wouldn’t leave him alone.

  “Tell someone. He needs help. This is out of your league.”

  “Problem. Iceland goes around telling people his dead partner is alive. Who’s going to believe me?”

  Allison sighed. “Kait should know. Won’t be easy but she might spur his memory. And he needs professionals. Addiction’s a bitch—not something you just sleep off for a night or two.”

  “I know.” He took a breath. She rested her head on his shoulder. “You’re right. But I have to find out what happened, what—”

  “Stubbornness—a trait the three of you shared. Share.” She raised her head, looked at him. “Can’t keep the truth from her.”

  “But, how . . . do I break this news?”

  “I don’t know.”

  A knife pierced his throat, blade slicing flesh. Screams echoed in the abyss. Creatures raged, howled, mutated, not identifiable. Rushing water. A gun. Warm liquid seeped down his face. He doubled over, took a blow to the back. Rolled, fought them. Faces crept closer, whispering and then mocking, loud and violent. Screams.

  He swung.

  Thud. Pain woke him. He bolted upright, eyes wide. A nightmare. He didn’t understand. His heart pounded.

  Why now?

  Didn’t want to remember, terrified of what he might find out. Where was he? He muttered, incoherent. “No, where’s the boy, damn, get away, no, get away . . . ”

  A hand grasped his shoulder.

  “Breathe. You’re safe.”

  He froze, needed shit to silence the demons. “Gotta find Rat, I need it, just one just one, need a fix . . .” He wanted to OD.

  “No.” The hand pressed his shoulder.

  What? He rubbed his face in repeating motion until someone pulled his hands away. In a fog, he remembered murder and monsters.

  The detective.

  “Only a dream. Sleep.” Einar sat beside him, legs propped on the coffee table.

  A wet nose prodded him. Loki shifted and curled closer.

  *

  Christmas morning. But the dead demanded attention.

  Autopsy done on last night's victims, Marta removed her protective mask and gloves. The tech rinsed the table, covered the woman’s body and pushed the gurney to cold storage.

  Einar stood silent, shoulders hunched and arms crossed. Coat open, old clothes rumpled on his tall form. He hadn't shaved. Looked like he hadn't slept.

  Marta took a breath. “As suspected. Death by sharp blades—claws—and exanguination.”

  He nodded.

  “I'll get tests done on the drug vial. It's not something I've seen before.”

  “Nor I.”

  She walked to his side and leaned against the counter. Rare to see him dressed like a slob.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  He didn't answer.

  She wasn’t afraid of death, had no qualms about her chosen career. Patients didn’t complain. By the time they ended up on her tables, they may have suffered unspeakable traumas. But they were no longer in pain.

  She long ago lost sentiment at death's stark reality after years spent helping her grandparents herd and butcher sheep on their Idaho ranch. As the youngest, her three brothers teased mercilessly and in return she’d toss sheep guts at them. It became their singular messy family signature. Always the one most likely to examine remains and help with cleanup, no one was surprised when her medical career morphed into pathology.

  Death was a puzzle to be solved. Its impact on the living was another matter.

  She looked at him.

  He said nothing, arms tight. His face was drawn.

  “You look like hell, Einar. What’s wrong?”

  “Fuck them.”

  “Agreed. I'm damn sorry for the reappearance.” Marta knew those five bloody slashes haunted him. In the last two years, his laconic independent mindset had curdled into ugly anger. They’d been friends for more than seventeen years, early on realizing their backgrounds i
n less populated corners of the world made them kindred souls. She was pleased when they partnered him with Michael after the previous two jackasses. Watched them go from boss and bemused trainee who took whatever Einar threw at him to efficient working team and friends. Claws destroyed that.

  “Marta.”

  “What?”

  “You deal in death. But do you . . . believe in ghosts?”

  “Einar—”

  “Resurrection? Life after death?”

  “What does—” Where was the sudden glimpse of faith coming from? He wasn't religious. Knew she wasn't.

  “No? Neither do I. Or didn't . . . ”

  “What's wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Liar.”

  “Everything. The same.”

  “What's going on? Let me help.”

  “No.”

  “Don't shut me out.”

  He turned to go. “Merry Christmas Marta.”

  “Wait, Einar . . . ”

  But he was gone. His footsteps faded down the hall.

  She stared.

  It doesn’t have to be merry, but I wish you’d find peace.

  CHAPTER 10

  2011 Early November

  Kait sped over the dirt road, gunning her Mazda around the curves. This fools’ errand was not in her job description but it got her out of the office. She headed into farmland, the hinterland of nowhere. Geez, looked like northern Michigan. She shook her head.

  I wanted to escape where I grew up. How'd I end up in ruraltopia?

  Still, she drove. Where'd the chemist live?

  ‘Arriving at destination,’ the GPS announced. She pulled down a rough road to a small clapboard red-trimmed farmhouse. A makeshift assemblage of empty train cars, a Quonset hut and shipping containers surrounded it. The corrugated steel structures resembled a twentieth-century Stonehenge, weeds exploding around their edges. She cursed her luck, convinced that yet again some bad cosmic joke made her the magnet for weirdoes, whackos and the disaffected.

  She stepped from the car, threw her sunglasses on the seat, grabbed her messenger bag and headed to the front door. The knocker, a simplified version of the Russian satellite Sputnik, shone in the sun. After a moment’s hesitation, she banged it. Then again. Someone had better be home. After several minutes the door opened.

  “Hello?” The man was forty going on ninety, fastidious in navy cardigan sweater and white polo shirt buttoned to his throat, dark hair oily and small eyes close-set. His gaze roved from her feet to her face.

  “Kaitlyn Jenret, curator, Willard Museum.”

  “Oh!” His eyes lit up. “I’m Donnie Litsos. Come in, please do come in.”

  “Thanks.” She stepped through the door. The house was small, crammed with knick-knacks, Disney figurines and cheesy wooden carvings. Metal yellow and black fallout shelter signs hung on the walls.

  Creepy. Don’t laugh. Someone cherishes these things.

  “Hope you had a fine trip out here. We don’t get many visitors.” He gestured for her to sit in an overstuffed floral chair in the living room. She hesitated. No need to visit longer than necessary.

  He motioned with more emphasis. She sat down.

  “Thanks,” she said. The space was claustrophobic.

  “What’s your research specialty?” Donnie sat next to her. Crossed his legs and rested his hands on his knee, settling in. “Field of study?” He smiled.

  “Anthropology. I’m in charge of the archaeological and anthropological collections at the museum. But today we’re talking about your gift.” She steered the conversation back to the reason for her visit. “I understand you’re making a generous donation.”

  “Well, yes.” He clasped and unclasped his hands. “I am considering it.” He rose and stood, rocking on the balls of his feet. “I’m definitely considering it.”

  She sighed.

  Considering it? I’m picking up things he’s offered for the collection, not entering into negotiations.

  She studied his nervous movements.

  Two smiling elderly people entered. They walked to Donnie and stood beside him. Kait rose.

  “Mom, Dad,” Donnie said. They wore matching light blue fleece jackets with the Futura Atomic logo and script saying Quarter-Century Club. He beamed. “I’d like you to meet Kaitlyn Jenret from the museum.”

  “Such a pleasure, dear.” His father offered a hand. “We’re happy you’ve come to visit Donnie.”

  “Donnie’s been looking forward to your visit all week,” his mother said. “Would you like some ice cream?” She had an air of dottiness, as if she didn’t understand her son was an adult.

  “Nice of you to drive out to the country to see our son.” Father had a glint in his eye. “He’s a smart one, has three PhDs in science.”

  “A little ice cream? Donnie loves ice cream,” mother said. “He loves ice cream almost as much as science.” She rubbed his arm, gazing at him as she discussed his food fetish. He blushed.

  “No ice cream, thank you,” Kait said. “I’m here to pick up the donation and head back to work. I’ve another appointment this evening and it’ll take a while to drive back to the city.”

  The three people in the small space watched her.

  She was a caged zoo animal, on display and expected to perform. Didn’t want ice cream, didn’t want to hear about his academic career. It was creepy. Did his parents believe her visit equivalent to a date? Might be as close as he got to the real thing.

  “Oh.” Donnie was crestfallen. “Dr. Thompson said you’d be available all afternoon. I wanted to talk. Get acquainted.” He slumped, small eyes narrowed.

  “Dear,” mother said, “ Kaitlyn? Stay a while. You and Donnie can share some ice cream. He’d like to get to know you. That’s how it works.”

  “Getting to know people is the hard part,” father said. “Mum and I had the benefit of working together. Nuclear glory against the Ruskies.” He smiled and she beamed at him. Donnie chuckled and turned to Kait.

  “Stay and talk,” he said.

  “My boss doesn’t know my schedule.” Kait took a deep breath to lower her blood pressure.

  “Accompany me for a tour? My work might interest you. As a fellow scientist.” Donnie motioned for her to follow to the kitchen. “I’d like you to see my laboratory. It’s where the bottles are anyway.” He headed to a back door and opened it, holding it for her.

  “So nice to meet you, dear,” repeated father from the living room. He dusted a fallout shelter sign with his hand. “Don’t be a stranger.”

  “Come back, soon,” mother said. “Hope to see you again.”

  Not a chance.

  Kait followed Donnie around the yard. He walked with measured steps, following a cement stone path, avoiding puddles and dirt. Stooped to wipe mud off his shoes. He was major-league OCD.

  They sidestepped a muddy patch on the walkway between the backyard and the nearest train car. He told her to step over two concrete light posts on the ground. Large rusting turbines and a generator sat near a pile of aqua glass insulators. How'd he drag massive pieces of equipment to his property? Vents protruded from the ground along a line to the north. What did he do in his lab?

  He tugged her sleeve and smiled. They neared the train car. He pulled out a massive key ring, flipped through keys until he found the right one. Undid the lock and slid the boxcar door open, using his body as leverage. He pushed. It creaked and moaned.

  An acrid chemical smell assaulted her. Her mouth fell open.

  A mad scientist’s wet dream.

  She stepped into a maze of shelves, drawers and storage cabinets. Donnie’s fastidiousness extended to organization skills. Metal shelves held thousands of pieces of early scientific equipment—scales, Geiger counters, meters, beakers, test tube holders, rheostats, vacuum tubes, telescopes. He’d organized each row, objects labeled and protected by clear plastic sheeting. Another wall held lines of mounted animal and bird skeletons, arranged and classified, stari
ng blankly from their perches. Three large laboratory scales under glass bordered the hallway. In the next room, antique laboratory glass sparkled under fluorescent lights.

  “Quite a collection.” The man was an OCD hoarder.

  “Yes. I’m always interested in new specimens. There are many untapped secrets, scientifically speaking . . .” He motioned for her to step on walkways he’d created, covered by heavy plastic carpet guards.

  All the cars and containers were connected—in winter, he could move from one to the other without going outside.

  He’s created his own Branch Davidian compound of science.

  It was fascinating but unnerving. He didn’t appear to work outside his home. What did he do with his old equipment? How was he connected to Thompson? They couldn’t function in the same social circles. How had they met?

  “Please Kait, this way.” He led her into the next car, shelves filled with antique chemical and apothecary bottles, arranged according to color and compound, faded handwritten labels clinging to some. Like sinister warnings of poison dart frogs and other deadly creatures, the array of colors in the bottles was beautiful. Vivid greens signaled copper compounds, brilliant yellows arsenic sulfides and sulfurs, scarlet powers red oxides and cinnabars.

  She smelled a sharp chemical tang. Many bottles had evidence of off gassing—crystallized deposits around lids, seepage down sides, clues to adverse chemical reactions. The unstable substances screamed disaster. She looked around as he continued his tour.

  Some day this compound will blow.

  Many were poisonous chemicals, toxic on contact. Others, including a jar of picric acid, were combustible. Pressurized steel containers sat in the corner of one car labeled chlorine triflouride. Christ, that was dangerous stuff. Get the bottles and leave. Now.

  No one strike a match in the next fifteen minutes.

  “Impressive.” She turned to Donnie, hands tight at her side. “Aren’t you concerned about safety? Where’d you get these chemicals? They’re unusual, not normally in the hands of private individuals.”

  “Oh,” he said, “I’m a recognized authority. I search all over the world. Have secret sources and networks.” Enthusiasm bubbled. He rubbed his hands together. “I buy some, barter for others. Fire department used to give me things they confiscated from city limits. Always got my eyes open for rare precious chemicals.” He swept his arms wide in the middle of the narrow space, gesturing like king of his country, eyes glued on her. He waited for her to react, but she didn’t, so he stepped to a storage bay and lifted a cardboard box from the shelf. Turned and presented it.