Sink In Your Claws

by S. E. Chase

  “Remove me! You want to anyway.”

  “Don't throw this back on my ass!”

  Michael yanked away. “Don’t bark at me. I’m not a dog.”

  “That’s it. Off the case.”

  “Fine.”

  “Take time. That’s an order. Get your head out of your ass—I can’t let you put other peoples’ lives at risk.”

  Cresson looked at Villarna. They traded high fives.

  Michael walked away.

  Einar was rooted in place, staring at his partner's back. Fuck. He'd lost in, in the office. Reamed out a young guy who was struggling over one of the worst cases he'd ever seen. What had he been thinking?

  Michael trudged to his desk, reached into his pockets and dropped muddy shards on the desktop. They scattered across the calendar, knocked into the lamp and landed with dirty smears. Several clattered to the floor.

  “You process the evidence.” He didn't look up.

  “Michael—”

  “I found more.” Motionless, hands caked in mud.

  Einar was speechless. Laughter and whispered comments echoed. Everyone was staring, pointing at his silent disheveled partner.

  He glared.

  Fuck this case.

  He walked with deliberate calm to Michael, who sat dripping wet and staring at the floor. Sounds behind him grew louder—someone chanted “Iceland flame out!” Villarna sang Another One Bites the Dust in a coarse yodel.

  Cresson clapped. “Curtain coming down!” He sauntered to them, hands swirling circles on either side of his head. “Honeymoon’s over, Iceland. Your little boy took the one-way trip to la la land. Go figure. New low, too. You drove him mad.”

  “Shut up.” Einar turned his back on the taunting.

  Cresson leaned to Michael and cuckooed. Picked up a stone and threw it on the desk. “Excellent work, junior. You can pick up rocks. Who needs evidence bags? Maybe next case, daddy will let you gather twigs.” He grabbed another and threw it, hitting Michael's jacket. It bounced off.

  “Fucking asshole.” Michael caught it and shoved it in his pocket.

  Cresson poked Villarna, who’d ambled to his side. They laughed.

  “Houston, we have a problem,” Villarna said. “Score Iceland zero, partners eight.”

  Cresson slapped Einar’s back. “Have fun playing with rocks.”

  Michael gave him a shove. “Go away.”

  He just laughed. “Go ahead and push me, psycho. Poor Iceland. No more perfect clearance rate. Babysit little nutso while you walk him to crazy land lockdown. Don’t know who they’ll assign you now. A dog? You’ve run through every division detective.”

  “Christ. Shut up, Cresson,” Einar said.

  Cresson circled Michael. “Crawl to traffic patrol, junior. No more detective. Couldn’t cut it.”

  “Get out of my face, Crasshole,” Michael muttered. “Stay away from me.”

  Cresson snorted and grabbed Villarna’s arm. They returned to their desks. The uniforms gawked.

  Michael sank into Einar’s desk chair, smearing mud and blood over everything. He gathered the stones. “I’m not crazy.”

  “Michael—”

  “I . . . am . . . not crazy.” Closed his eyes. “It follows the water, murders as opportunity presents itself along a trajectory, leaves a path . . .”

  Einar leaned against his desk. Caffeine overload had given him a pounding headache. He took a slow breath and perched closer to his disturbed partner. He blamed himself.

  It’s my fault. Should’ve pulled him. He was struggling. I’ve no excuse.

  A calmer inner voice warned to tread lightly. “Michael . . .”

  No answer.

  “Detective Lewis.”

  “Sir.” A growl.

  “Don’t do that.”

  “Do what.” He coughed. “Sir.”

  “Sorry I barked.”

  “You're an Nordic asshole.”

  “Agreed. Why’d you go wandering?”

  “Searching for clues. Sir.”

  “Where?”

  He wiped soaked hair out of his eyes and looked up. “River along the first two crime scenes. Searching the bend beyond the third. Sir.”

  Einar closed his eyes. Christ. Since leaving at dawn, he’d been on the road for hours, tramping alone in the river in November rain and wilderness—probably without eating or drinking, in a place with terrible personal memories where four children had been murdered. A killer was out there. Kait said he hadn’t slept much the night before. Looked like he hadn’t slept in a week.

  “Why?” He sat in Michael’s chair and wheeled to face him.

  Michael stared at the floor.

  “What were you thinking?”

  “Retracing steps.”

  “Because?”

  “Why? Need to ask? It’s fucking eating kids . . . ”

  “Take it easy. Michael, you should—”

  “It's not going to stop . . . ”

  “Look, you need—”

  “ “Can’t . . . get them out of my head.” His shoulders sagged. “The boy’s sister. The parents. Chuckie and the brown Bronco . . . ”

  “This is why you need to take time—”

  “Can't. Have to stop it. Red stone. Showed it to Kait. Not local, had incised marks, broken. Part of something larger. Dropped on purpose. Left a trail.” He rubbed his face. “Couldn’t let it go. Nightmares. Why sleep? Do something, think like it. Get in the killer’s head, return to the river, stop it before it kills again. More beyond Tumble Inn, past Gates . . . I stopped . . . in Gates . . . and drove by . . . my house. Fuck. Billy. What is it? It leaves a trail . . . ” He laid his soaked head on the desk. “Fuck it. I’m tired.” He closed his eyes.

  Einar sat silent. Despite the craziness, his words made sense. But address the immediate issue first—he needed to not be on display, melting down to the amusement of Cresson and Villarna. Then Einar glanced at his computer. The skeleton photos were up on the screen. Shit. Now wasn’t the time to discuss monsters and Laina’s email. He reached over and turned it off.

  Michael lifted his head and ran muddy fingers through his hair. It stuck up in dirty disheveled spikes. He shifted his back and slunk further in the chair. “I can't—”

  Einar stood and pulled him to his feet. “Let’s go. I drive. Get your car in the morning.”

  He didn’t argue.

  Cresson yelled ‘crazy man walking’ and clapped again.

  CHAPTER 12

  2011 Early November

  “Thanks, Einar.” Kait met them at the door, Loki on her heels. “Now I can sleep tonight.” She removed Michael’s soaked jacket and brushed wet hair out of his face.

  “He needs sleep.” Einar crossed his arms. “And perspective . . .”

  “Sorry K.” Michael bent his head. When had he become unmoored?

  “You scared me.” She looked into his eyes, voice quaking.

  Must have been worried. She was relieved. Unlike Einar.

  She sighed. “Hope you found what you were looking for. Not good when he calls me trying to find you.” She glanced from one to the other.

  “All yours,” Einar feigned nonchalance. “Called me a Nordic asshole.”

  She sighed again.

  Michael leaned against the hall table, hand clasping its edge. He yanked off his boots in a muddy pile, leaving them where they fell.

  She opened the door and threw them onto the porch.

  He shivered, awash in defeat. Review of the day’s accomplishments? Wet clothes, a bunch of fucking stones and getting kicked off the case. He was coming undone. Wished they’d stop staring.

  “You’re a disaster,” she said. Then saw his bloody hand. “And injured. What on earth were you doing?” She pushed him to the kitchen, held his hands under warm running water and dried them with a dish towel. Then she wrapped his cut hand in it.

  “Good thing one of you is coherent,” Einar said.

  Michael shot him an angry glance. />
  Kait hugged Einar. “Thanks,” she whispered. “I owe you.”

  “No you don’t.”

  Michael pretended not to notice, stubbornness giving way to guilt. They were right. Should have let them know. Should’ve returned calls—but shit, hadn’t realized how many times they’d tried to reach him until he saw the missed calls at day's end. He’d gone out of his head, so focused on the river that everything else disappeared.

  What’s crazy, anyway?

  He yanked out a handful of stones. “Had a reason. Remember? These.” He held out his hand. “Our conversation, last night.”

  Kait took one and turned it over. Her demeanor changed. “Rinse them off.”

  He dug the rest from his pocket and held them under the water.

  “Bring them into better light.” She strode to the living room, pulling a floor lamp close to a low coffee table. Motioned to him and he dumped them in front of her. Einar followed. Loki padded over and sniffed them until Michael pulled him away.

  Einar sank onto the sofa. Kait, hand on the lamp, stood in front of him. Michael took two steps. She stopped him with an upturned hand. “Change. We’ll wait. Put antiseptic on your hand and bandage it.”

  He let her tell him what to do. Grateful. Didn’t want to think. Didn’t want to care. He trudged up the stairs, limp fingers dragging on the rail.

  They watched him go.

  Einar looked up at her. “Didn’t know he had a brother. Two years working together. Never said anything until last night. Christ. I had no idea.”

  “You couldn’t have known . . .” Kait patted his shoulder. “Name was Billy. Disappeared summer, 1991. Michael wasn’t with him. It eats at him.”

  “Why keep it secret?”

  “Control? Of information, pity, questions . . . guilt. If less people know, he doesn't have to talk about it. Thick façade, you know?” She hesitated. “Ties to his family history. You know about his father?”

  “Found that out last night, too.” He shook his head. “I don’t get it. He never told me his father was FBI. I understood in a vague way he was a cop. Shit. Guess I wasn't paying attention. Didn’t know he was killed in the line of duty.”

  She sat. “Family history haunts him. He believes he’ll fall prey to what happened to them. As if tragic violent death was contagious.”

  “But—”

  “Haven’t you noticed? He never talks about the past. His funny, sarcastic persona is a front. Went through a difficult time in his teens. Almost off the rails. Won’t discuss it with anyone. Including me.”

  “Denial . . . doesn’t solve anything. Never heals wounds.”

  “Can’t explain it, Einar. What I’ve told you I dragged out of him after I found scrapbooks and photo albums he'd cleared from his mother’s stuff. After she . . .”

  He looked at her. “What?”

  She hesitated.

  He took a deep breath. “Another family destroyed by tragedy. I see it so often. Why didn’t I pick up on it?”

  “Suicide. Blamed herself for Billy. They moved to be near her family, but over the years she became convinced she’d abandoned her dead son. Remarried but floundered. Let her surviving son drift. Her mother died six years ago and she killed herself a year later. Couldn’t live with it anymore.”

  “Christ. I’ve commented stupid shit, like . . . I’m not your mother . . .”

  “Not your fault. Didn’t know.”

  “No excuse. I’m a fucking detective.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up. He hides it. Pushes himself to compensate. Wants to right the world.”

  Einar shook his head. “That’s impossible.”

  “Yeah. It ends up freaking him out.” She glanced at him. “Didn’t know he’d not mentioned his past. Sorry. I should’ve told you. I’ve never seen him this bad.”

  “He’s too close.” Einar rested his chin on his knuckles. “Spent all day on ground he knew as a child, haunted by family demons. No wonder he—”

  “Spaced out?”

  “Told him he was off the case—we fought. I was angry.”

  “Einar—”

  “Chewed out his ass. In front of everyone.”

  “Shit.”

  “I don’t want to remove him. I value his skills, need his help.” He took a deep breath, exhaled. “But I’m concerned. Be forewarned. He’ll hate me if I do follow through.”

  Kait put a hand on his shoulder. “Pull him, Einar. He’ll be pissed. But he’ll get over it. You won’t—” She saw him and stopped.

  He wandered down, didn’t say anything. Of course they were talking about him. Sudden silence gave it away. No surprise. He was the topic of conversation these days.

  When did I slide off the deep end? Idiot.

  He slouched on the sofa without meeting their eyes. Loki jumped up. He buried his hands in the dog’s thick fur.

  Einar started to speak but hesitated.

  Michael whispered in Loki’s ear. “Don’t go near Iceland. He yells at dogs.”

  Einar shook his head.

  Kait rearranged the fragments. “It’s porphyry. Volcanic, igneous with varying shades of red due to iron content. Fragments have chisel marks—manmade. Think it’s imperial porphyry, from one area in Egypt.” She turned to Michael. “Most people wouldn’t have noticed it, wouldn’t have realized it didn’t belong.” She lifted one to the light.

  “Egypt,” Einar said, “is not local.”

  “They were dropped in the river.” She matched fragments like a jigsaw puzzle. “They form a carved figure.”

  Einar turned to him. “Your madness was constructive. Next time? Let me know where you are. I apologize.”

  Michael didn't look at him.

  I fucked up.

  “I repeat. I'm sorry.”

  “Right. You think I’m crazy.” Einar never apologized. Might be first time in his life. Did he cringe to admit he was wrong?

  “I should trust your instincts. I was pissed you wandered off, but . . . you wouldn’t have found these without going AWOL.” Einar held out his hand.

  “Not that easy.”

  “Michael—”

  “Damage done. You removed me . . . sir.” He was humiliated. Einar was his superior as well as partner, and the dressing down stung. Bruised ego. Made worse by colleagues’ delighted stares. “Could there be any mistake I'm your lackey? You tolerate me if I obey . . . ”

  “Bullshit. Not true. You know better.”

  “Just want to increase your partner count.” He sank back and closed his eyes. “Whatever. Sir.”

  “That’s not—”

  “Don’t care. Too tired to give a damn.” Loki curled by his side.

  Einar exhaled. “I’m sorry.” Reclined beside him. “I mean it.”

  “Right.”

  “You’re not off the case. I take it back. I was angry.”

  “Right. Sir.”

  “Mikey, lighten up and cut the crap. You’re a friend, but I’m responsible for you—professionally and for your safety. Shit. There’s a reason for procedure.”

  “Think I don’t know that?”

  “Sometimes? No. If you do, you choose to disregard it.”

  He couldn’t argue. It was true.

  “You pissed me off because I was worried. We’re working a multiple homicide with an unidentified killer. We’re concerned about you.”

  Kait nodded.

  Einar undid his tie and laid it on the table, removed his suit jacket. “Stay angry as long as you want. But hear this—you’re partnered for a reason. It’s safer. Make no mistake. If it happens again, I’ll pull you for your own good.”

  “Yes, sir—”

  “Come on, I'm not—”

  “I know . . .” Michael regretted his behavior, hadn’t been thinking.

  Einar tapped his arm. “Killer could’ve gotten you.”

  “Not funny.”

  “Not joking. Walking murder scenes alone was dumb, dangerous.”

  “Listen.”
Kait took his hand, pressed her fingers into his. “Don’t take on things by yourself. Please. You’re not alone.”

  Michael wasn’t sure he believed them.

  “Two against one, losing battle,” Kait said.

  “Can’t win,” Einar added. “Besides, you want to piss off the eye candy?”

  She smiled. “He told you about that.”

  “Yeah. Better than being called a pile of horseshit, I suppose. People are just assholes.”

  Michael bent his head. Anger took too much energy. “I’m sorry,” he muttered.

  “No lectures,” Einar said. “Fyrirgefðu, Mikey, I’m sorry.”

  “I lost track. Exited my head. Should have let you know.”

  They nodded.

  “Apology . . . accepted.”

  “That’s a relief.” Einar eyed him. “Didn’t look forward to partner eight. Didn’t want to break in another goddamn newbie. Pain in the ass.”

  “Coming from Iceland . . . that’s praise, I think. I’m somewhat honored.”

  “Good to hear it.” Einar rose and headed to their kitchen, jacket in hand. “I’ll make up with beer.”

  Michael took a slow breath and rubbed Loki behind the ears. “Means more if isn’t our beer.”

  “Saranac,” Kait said. “Bottle opener on the counter.”

  Einar returned, hands grasping three cold ales. “It’s the thought that counts. I’ll buy you more.”

  “Hold you to it, monster man.” Michael took a bottle.

  Einar handed one to Kait. “You need a drink. I need a drink.” He tipped his bottle to Michael. “I apologize for roaring. You’re not a dog.”

  “Sorry for being an ass. I set you off.”

  “Yeah . . . you did.”

  Michael shook his head. “My barking comment was stupid. Cresson and Villarna have ammunition for the next six months.”

  “I don't give a shit what they think.”

  “Yeah but . . .”

  Einar lifted the bottle to his lips. “You’re reinstated. Need your research expertise. I’ll drink to prove it.”

  “Michael, Einar,” Kait interrupted the peace treaty. “Stones form a figurine. I’ll review my references, but I think it’s Shezmu.” She sat bathed in the incandescent glare, head bent to the table. She’d fit nine shards into a partial lion-headed figure.

  Michael put down his beer. “Shez-who?”

  “Shezmu or Shesemu.” Einar said. “Shit. Ominous.”

  She nodded. “Weird. Who’d choose this mythology?” She turned to Michael. “An obscure Egyptian god.”

  “What kind? Do I want to know?” His fiancée and partner exchanged glances. Another mythology connection. How’d they know this stuff?