by S. E. Chase
Einar shielded Michael from rapid-fire press questions and television cameras. Reporters gathered on the sidewalks and lined the street, yelling.
“Detective Lewis, how do you feel?” “You’re a hero!”
“Detective—what was it?”
“Can you describe it?”
“Have you talked with the boy?”
A reporter with severe dark hair pushed to the front. She gripped her microphone with long polished nails, shoving it in Michael's face. “Was he scared? Were you grandstanding? Was it a monster or are you angling for positive publicity? Any progress on the child killings?”
“Leave him alone, Evie.” Einar shook his head.
“No comment,” Michael said. Evie Cresson pursued her job with an evil purr and shark’s eyes, circling potential stories with single-minded focus. She and Phil deserved each other.
“Two of a curdled pair,” Einar whispered.
Michael wanted to block out the cacophony about hero cops, boys and monsters. They didn’t understand, considered it a carnival or celebration of some bullshit kind.
Go away. Leave me alone.
They jogged up the stairs, dodging people, Stosky’s hair standing on end like a rooster’s comb. He was chummy and cajoling at the same time. “How’s it feel to be story of the moment?” he prodded. They crammed through the throng and pushed open the door. “Ready for the show?”
“Trying not to think about it.”
“Come on, Lewis, play along.” Stosky fidgeted and waved to a few reporters. Then he clapped Michael on the back.
Michael took a faltering step. Pain shot up into his shoulder.
Einar slapped Stosky’s hand away. “Weasel. Careful. He’s injured. Remember?”
Michael swore under his breath. Fucking oblivious Weasel.
“You okay?” Einar whispered.
“Everyone wants to interview the cop who saved the boy from a monster,” Stosky said. “You’re the star in this media circus. Embrace it! Grab the spot light.”
“Not a sideshow freak,” Michael muttered.
“Circuses are creepy,” Einar said.
“Detective, they want to know you! Please cooperate,” Stosky said. “Bask in the glow of good news—for once?”
“Press can bite me.” Michael ducked his head, agitated at Weasel’s desire to throw him to the vultures. He’d agreed to the press conference. Put on the damn uniform. Wasn’t that enough? He ached all over. No amount of drugs could make it go away.
“Detective Lewis, play along. Improve our image. Parlay your spotlight into celebrity.” A false smile plastered Weasel’s face. He seemed determined to convince the reluctant hero to participate in community relations. “Everyone wants fame. Be a roll model. Media star.”
“You kidding?” Einar stepped between them. “Enough of this shit. Detective Lewis wants them to go away.”
Michael moved closer to Einar. “Need a place to hide for a while.”
“Oh,” Einar whispered, “your own island with moat and drawbridge?”
“Yeah, fuck it. The bridge will be up.”
“Glad you feel better, Mikey.” Einar put a hand on his arm. “No need for drama.”
“Want to do my job. Without the three-ring freak show.”
*
Seward City devoured the tale of attack. In the midst of a long wet fall heading to winter, it seemed as if all 30,000 residents hung on every word. Newspapers, television stations and other media outlets spread the story of the boy’s rescue, sensationalizing the ‘crazed monster bites cop’ angle with hyperbole worthy of the Weekly World News, the black and white tabloid once common in supermarket checkout lines with tales of UFOs and children fathered by Bigfoot. For press desperate to spit out stories ahead of competitors in the twenty-four hour news cycle, the tale proved tantalizing. They spun the drama for all it was worth and dredged up additional details, from how much snow had fallen on the trail and what the boy had for dinner to whether the parents were good people or not and where the detective had gone to high school. Several sources mentioned his FBI father and missing brother.
So much for privacy.
The story also caught the attention of others, who realized the unique potential of the situation. It had bitten the detective, twice, and the cop had lived. The bites offered possibilities, but first the creature would have to be rounded up. Forty days was up—time to harvest the gains. It would be killed for the mistake of being tracked and allowing itself to be exposed. But it would have been killed anyway. It had served its purpose.
*
Michael was limited to desk duty. He needed reconstructive surgery and extensive physical therapy—despite vehement protests, he’d be holding down a chair for the foreseeable future. Cap requested he speak with the department shrink, but Michael balked. Einar didn’t push him. Stubbornness wouldn’t let him change his mind until he was good and ready.
Frustrated, he spent time on menial tasks. Stared into space, worried about the bites, and looked up vampire mythology online. Spent hours researching everything from Dracula to demons, devils, and the chupacabra. Read stories in the tabloids, historic accounts from Europe, and devoured a battered copy of Varney the Vampire.
Einar told him to stop. Kait threatened to confiscate his laptop. He wouldn’t listen. Freaking himself out was his new compulsion.
What if what if what if . . .
He carved out hours each day tracking Thompson’s past. The man was a phantom, but he uncovered fragments of info. An intriguing investigative report from The London Times traced the mysterious disappearance of Bulgarian prisoners. No one knew what had happened and among the interviewees was Thompson, who’d been working in the country in a local museum. Someone claimed they’d seen a missing prisoner unloading paintings from a van into museum galleries. ‘We don’t hire those people’ Thompson replied. Michael tried to track down the reporter but he’d died of undetermined causes right after the story ran. Disconcerting.
*
Einar returned at shift’s end, most cops having gone for the evening. He dragged through the room with ubiquitous coffee in hand, footsteps heavy, ignoring a small cluster of uniforms preparing to go on duty. They stepped back as he passed.
“The monster hunter approaches,” one whispered.
Einar turned and scowled.
Miserable week. Press was still swirling in frenzy and they had no new leads. Cresson was serving on a regional task force and Einar had been temporarily paired with Villarna. He hated it—Villarna spent more time preening like a schoolgirl than he did engaged in police work. The man should give up law enforcement and get a job at GQ.
Einar finished the coffee and tossed the cup in the trash. He missed, swore. A uniform scrambled over and threw it away.
He peered across the darkened room. The janitor moved through the space with his push broom. A single desk light was on.
Crap. Michael was glued to his computer, scribbling notes with halting motion. Wait . . . writing?
Time for intervention.
Einar approached his desk, but Michael didn’t look up. He’d duck-taped a pencil to his bandaged left hand. The resulting scrawl was barely legible. What was he researching? Better not be related to vampires, demons, evil spirits, undead, fangs, blood suckers or Kait’s boss—the obsession had gone on too long. He needed to concentrate on healing.
Yeah, well, irony sucks.
Einar blamed himself. He’d pushed the monster thing, joked about Bigfoot and trolls, engaged in countless conversations. He’d wanted an open-minded partner. Tormented other cops about it. Now Michael had gone off the deep end. Divine justice?
He wheeled his chair to Michael’s side. Sank into it and folded his hands.
“Stop, okay?”
Michael sighed.
“What’s up with the duck-tape? Researching things that bite? Again?”
Michael gave him a pointed stare.
Einar reached over, lifted his hand
and peeled away the tape. The pencil fell to the floor. “You’re done. It’s wrong on so many levels.”
“I—”
“Don’t do more damage.”
Michael sighed. “I know. But I need to do something . . . ”
“I understand, but—”
“No. I'm bored. Brain cells dying. I need to work.”
“Sorry, Mikey. Not ‘til everything heals, doctor says okay and you pass the tests.” He looked at Michael’s hands, bandaged and stiff. Still couldn’t understand how he could be out of the hospital. “Have to re-qualify with your sidearm. Grip a gun with fingers. No duck-tape. And the re-orientation period. Understand. It’s going to be a while . . . ”
Michael was silent.
Einar tossed a plastic packet to him. BBQ flavored mealworms. “Al sends her regards. She's worried about you and saw these while shopping. Unusual therapy.”
“Tell her thanks.” He slumped, gave Einar an odd stare.
“That look. Spit it out. What’s on your mind?”
No answer.
“Where are you?”
Narrowed eyes.
Michael’s state of mind was worrying. He needed to talk but Einar hadn’t pushed the shrink thing—knew he wasn’t ready. Also wasn’t sure it would help. What good would conversation do without admitting the reality of monsters?
“Thinking.” Michael hesitated. “Was it stupid?”
“What?”
“Jumping in after the kid?”
“You saved his life.” Einar leaned closer. “Cop’s job. Selfless. What’s this about?”
“Fear and prudence.”
“You acted on instinct.”
“Alone.”
“Well, it’s an issue. We’ve discussed it. But in this case—”
“I was rash.”
“No.” He tapped his arm. “We were there to protect people, track it down. You weren’t alone. It didn’t kill you. Be patient. You’ll heal.”
Michael looked at him. “What if—”
“Jesus, Mikey, let it go.”
“I'm poisoned.”
“Come on—”
“I’m serious. What if it infected me?”
“With what? Calm down.” Stupid answer. He didn’t have a better one.
“But, I—”
“Don’t dwell on it.” Einar took off his glasses and rubbed his face. “Don’t surrender to delusions. I understand your concern, but it’s my fault. I’ve freaked you out . . . ” He’d barraged Michael with so many tales. Now he didn’t know what to think. Was the believer a skeptic at heart?
“I think . . . you were right. About monsters.”
Einar looked him in the eye. “You feel okay?”
“Yes. No. I guess, sort of.” Michael took a deep breath. “There are thousands of evil myths out there. Don’t they come from a grain of truth?”
“Mikey. Stop.”
“But—”
“Ekki fara brjálaður á mér. Don’t go crazy on me. Please. I'm afraid I sent you over the edge.”
Michael shook his head.
“What happened to rational?” Einar rested his elbow on the desk. “After the teasing and mocking. Now you believe me?”
Michael shoved an envelope to him.
Einar raised a brow but opened it. The contents fell on his desk—a small plastic troll with shock blue hair, odd symbols scrawled on it in red.
Einar picked it up and stared. Speechless.
“It was Billy’s. A troll. It’s yours.”
“I know what it is.” A shiver crept up his spine.
“Can’t sleep. Can’t focus.” Michael sank back in his chair. “Last night, found a website about runic—”
“Runes. Icelandic grimoire symbols. Sorcery.” Einar folded his fingers around it. The ancient magical beliefs had swirled around him from childhood.
“They’re for—”
“Protection. Avoiding ghosts and evil spirits.” How many times had his father ranted about the runes’ strange power? Funny. He considered them superstition. “But . . . they’re written . . . in blood—”
“Geez, no. It’s red marker.”
“Where is your head, Mikey? Why?”
“To protect you.” He looked away. “I also hid one in Kait’s messenger bag.”
“Christ. From what?”
Michael’s voice had a hitch in it. “Me.”
CHAPTER 15
2013, December 30
Einar trudged up the steps. Wind whipped and snow blew a white haze. Save for essential personnel, streets were quiet of normal post-holiday crowds. He didn’t notice the calm, preoccupied wondering what’d rendered Michael wreckage.
The division inside buzzed with activity. Bantering personnel, blaring media, bright lights and acid aroma of bad coffee accosted him. Press hovered around Stosky, clamoring for information about the Christmas murders. Regional media fanned paranoia by spreading gruesome details, true or not—‘woman’s head cut off and eaten,’ one screamed at the eleven o’clock broadcast. ‘Monsters invade in droves,’ declared another. With the murders that preceded it, reporters tagged it a monster slasher crime spree.
Proved the dark limits of humanity. Gory and grisly drew spectators.
Evie Cresson commanded the front of the pack, snapping questions. She saw Einar and bolted to him. He gave her a warning glance. “Don't. Not talking.”
“You will. Why did you release a suspect? You'll be looking for absolution . . . ”
“Stay back. Leave me alone.”
“Give me a statement.”
“No.”
“Something.”
“Fuck off, Evie.”
She mouthed an insult and turned away.
Einar shook his head, weary of press and the crush of responsibility. What did it matter? He stomped to his desk. Sank into his chair without removing his winter coat. Same station, same twenty-four hour death cycle . . . but what the hell had happened in the universe to return someone from the dead?
Weasel ushered several reporters from the office despite protests. Phones rang. Someone turned on a TV to catch the latest update. Two guys awaiting booking started arguing. God, it was loud. Einar covered his ears against the clamor but then gave up. Turned on his computer and gave his current partner a cursory nod.
“Well, Detective Hannesson.” Detective Second Class Robert Layton rose and crossed his arms. “Returned from the Christmas dead. Hope you had a nice long weekend fighting crime.”
“No, I didn’t.”
Layton leaned over his desk. “I'm your partner. Remember?”
Einar didn’t look up. “Fuck all that means.”
“Don’t leave me in the dark, man. I want in.”
“What’s your problem?” Einar muttered an expletive. Layton was a young hotshot too eager for approval.
“Don't exclude me.”
In his head, Einar repeated his standard response—talk to someone who cares. So far he’d not said it out loud.
“Should’ve filled me in.” Layton pursed his lips. “Two mutilated dead bodies, raging press. I find out two days later on Channel Five’s website, after Cresson clued me in . . . ”
“It was under control.”
“Christmas murders. Prime stuff.”
Einar didn’t look up. “You wanted time off with family in New Haven.”
“Could have called.”
“Why?”
“Cut the crap. Don’t use my holiday to excuse your poor communication. Should’ve let me in on the action.”
“In, in, in. In what? It's not a thrill ride or fucking private club with secret handshake. People died. ”
“I know. But my career— ”
“Leave me alone, Robert.” Einar hadn’t wanted another partner. Not another fresh-faced buck from the uniform ranks with too much testosterone and no common sense. But they forced this one on him. Why didn’t the brass take three dead partners as a sign he should work solo? He caught himself. The
third partner wasn't dead after all.
Layton sank into his chair.
They reviewed paperwork in silence.
Layton gave in first. “Any leads?”
“No.”
“Where are we with suspects?”
“Running killers’ descriptions through state criminal databases and other networks. Forensics dusted the alley and surrounding areas for prints. Hoping Marta calls this afternoon with preliminary tox reports.”
“Sounds like a start.” Layton leaned back, combed his wavy hair and straightened his tie. He’d transferred in a year ago from Vice and wanted high profile cases. And a raise, to cover the cost of his wardrobe. Cresson had drummed into him dressing for success and media attention. Promised he'd get an interview with Evie after his first big bust. But Einar didn't give him opportunities to lead a case, which meant less exposure.
Einar didn't think he could handle it.
“Speak to the press yet?” Layton peered over his computer. “Should, you know.”
Einar didn’t respond.
“This'll stoke the drug wars again.”
Couldn’t he be quiet?
“Arch told me about the muttering junkie at the scene.” Layton enjoyed commenting on the homeless. He had no love for the unwashed squatters in the city’s underbelly and didn’t hide it. “They thought he did it.”
“They're assholes.”
“Brought him in?”
“Yeah.”
“Did he have information? Arch said he wasn’t pretty. Bony, cracked out and raving.”
Einar closed his eyes.
“Said he was high as a kite. But you released him?”
Christ, Robert. The man couldn’t tell me much. I couldn’t charge him. So I let him go.”
“Damn,” Layton said, “I like to converse with the downtrodden.”
“Maybe next time . . .”
“Let’s drag his ass back in. I’ll interview him. He'll talk.”
“No.”
“I hear it claimed monsters did it.” Layton huffed. “Monsters, of all things.”
“Yeah, well—crack heads.” Einar stared into space. What was he going to do?
“Damn, Iceland. I’d lock ‘em in a big old firetrap, get ‘em so fucking high they can’t see straight. They’d claw eyes out. Torch the building. Urban renewal.” He chuckled, pleased with his vision to combat homelessness.
