The Man on Little Sweden
Page 1
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Acknowledgements
Dedication
Quote
Part One - Tearing Open Old Scars Chapter One - Micah
Chapter Two - Three Options
Chapter Three - My Healing Scars
Chapter Four - Demon Slayer
Chapter Five - End the Nightmares
Chapter Six - Darkness and Light
Chapter Seven - When Shit Hits the Fan
Chapter Eight - Mary
Chapter Nine - A Road I can Never Forget
Chapter Ten - Walking Chunk of Muscle
Chapter Eleven - Living With Your Ghosts
Chapter Twelve - Welcome Back to Hell
Chapter Thirteen - Going to Be a Problem
Chapter Fourteen - You Had Your Chance
Chapter Fifteen - A Dark Bloody Hole
Chapter Sixteen - Just a Ghost
Chapter Seventeen - Who is Micah Donovan?
Chapter Eighteen - The Same Misery
Chapter Nineteen - Lex
Chapter Twenty - In the Name of God
Chapter Twenty-One - This Fucking City
Chapter Twenty-Two - A Well-Oiled Machine
Chapter Twenty-Three - The World is Safe
Part Two - Butcher's Eve Chapter Twenty-Four - Whore
Chapter Twenty-Five - Sacrifice
Chapter Twenty-Six - 10:00 A.M.
Chapter Twenty-Seven - 10:10 A.M.
Chapter Twenty-Eight - 10:32 A.M.
Chapter Twenty-Nine - 11:03 A.M.
Chapter Thirty - 11:07 A.M.
Chapter Thirty-One - 12:00 P.M.
Chapter Thirty-Two - 12:30 P.M.
Chapter Thirty-Three - 12:40 P.M.
Chapter Thirty-Four - 1:50 P.M.
Chapter Thirty-Five - 2:50 P.M.
Chapter Thirty-Six - 2:30 P.M.
Chapter Thirty-Seven - 2:40 P.M.
Chapter Thirty-Eight - 3:01 P.M.
Chapter Thirty-Nine - 3:10 P.M.
Chapter Forty - 3:15 P.M.
Chapter Forty-One - 3:20 P.M.
Chapter Forty-Two - 3:35 P.M.
Chapter Forty-Three - 4:15 P.M.
Chapter Forty-Four - 4:50 P.M.
Chapter Forty-Five - 5:00 P.M.
Chapter Forty-Six - 6:30 P.M.
Chapter Forty-Seven - 7:36 P.M.
Chapter Forty-Eight - Eve's End
Part Three - End Game Chapter Forty-Nine - Doctor's Advice
Chapter Fifty - Infected
Chapter Fifty-One - Silver Eyes
Chapter Fifty-Two - Stakeout
Chapter Fifty-Three - What Could Have Been
Chapter Fifty-Four - Blood In the Woods
Chapter Fifty-Five - Statement
Chapter Fifty-Six - Revelation
Chapter Fifty-Seven - Sorry
Chapter Fifty-Eight - Mary Sue
Chapter Fifty-Nine - A Past Like Mine
Chapter Sixty - The Monster On Little Sweden
Chapter Sixty-One - Never End
THE MAN ON LITTLE SWEDEN
Sam Harding
Copyright © 2021 Sam Harding
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, or by any electronic, or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, to include, but not exclusive to audio or visual recordings of any description without permission from the copyright owner.
The Man on Little Sweden and Micah Donovan are trademarks of Sam Harding. All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America
First and foremost, I’d like to thank my wife Hailey, for whom this book is dedicated. You’ve stuck with me through this journey and have shown me unbelievable support. I’ll always be thankful for that and for you. I’d also like to thank those who have helped me make this book happen, whether it be help with edits or simply words of encouragement to keep me going. My parents, CJ Garza, Ben Kersey and Kayla Hull, each of you made this possible. Last but not least, I thank all of my family for their support in all things I do in life. Without them, life would be much harder and this book would have most likely never seen the light of day.
To my wife, Hailey, for always being my rock even in the windiest of storms.
Assume that the person you are listening to might know something you don’t. - Jordan B. Peterson
Part One
Tearing Open Old Scars
CHAPTER ONE
Micah
The orange glow of the cigarette dances before me, lighting up my face and exposing my position in the shadowy recesses of the corner. I inhale deeply, pulling the toxic smoke into my lungs while simultaneously satisfying my craving. I feel the effects of the nicotine calm me, but only a little. At this point, I’m not really sure if there’s anything out there that can calm me, and if there is, I’m not about to add a prescription or illegal drug on top of a nicotine addiction. I exhale the smoke, trying not to think about what a mess I am and focus on the task before me.
Not that the task requires much focus in the first place. It’s a simple job, and although some would think the job of a private detective sounds glamorous, it really isn’t much more than being a covert photographer. In this case, a covert pornographic photographer. This thought amuses me as I lower the cigarette with my left hand and bring up the Nikon with my right. Like a little machine gun, the camera snaps off a slew of photos with one press of the button. I look at the viewfinder, again illuminating my face in the darkness. The photos play out on the screen like a cartoon in a flipbook, only the characters in this flip book are a far cry from cartoon characters.
One was a forty-eight-year-old Walmart manager named Duane Klimek, who gained his living giving his employees hell, as if stocking shelves were as important as the D-Day invasion. He’s married to a semi-attractive middle-age woman, who also happens to be my client. Karen, although I admit is rabidly paranoid about almost everything, was actually right for a change when she called her husband’s loyalty into question.
The second character was an athletic blonde girl who looked to be no older than sixteen. She also happened to be an employee at the local Walmart, and if I was a betting man, I’d say she was doing her best to earn a promotion at work. I’m not sure how it goes in the forty-nine other States, but in the State of Washington, their sexual encounter is perfectly legal albeit disgusting. The weirdest part of all, however, was that although Duane was perfectly safe from the law in fucking the girl, he wasn’t safe if he had any naked photos of her. That would be child pornography due to the fact she’s under eighteen. Apparently, Washington State says you can screw a sixteen-year-old all you want, but photos are just too immoral.
Go figure. I snap a few more photos, not blind to the irony of child pornography laws and my current assignment. Normally, my job doesn’t include naked minors, but sometimes it does. That’s why after I show Mrs. Klimek the compromising photos from the screen on my camera, I will promptly delete them after taking my payment. Karen wouldn’t need to show Duane the photos to make her point. Whether or not she kills him, however, isn’t particularly my problem. Duane’s a piece of shit, and no matter what actions Karen decides to take, I get paid either way.
Five-thousand dollars isn’t a bad sum of cash for only two days of work, I think to myself as I take another drag on the cigarette. Two days of work and I get to smoke while hiding in a dark corner. Usually, it’s weeks of work and I’m afraid to smoke because I don’t want to get caught spying on someone who may want to kill me. Luckily enough, Duane’s a dumbass and his sixteen-year-old pincushion is as oblivious as Helen Keller in a corn field.
The couple is staying at a shabby motel just off the
main drag near the outer edge of town. For some reason, they didn’t close their blinds, and although the lights were out, they didn’t bother to turn the bright TV off. It’s after midnight, so maybe they figured nobody would be looking through their window this late. I smile to myself from across the street, raise my Nikon and take another series of photos just as blondie’s head arcs back in what I can only assume is a fake orgasm.
Satisfied I have what I need, I step from the darkened corner and trudge through the pile of knee-deep snow that has been piled between my lurking spot and the icy sidewalk. Using the closed bank for cover had been an effective hiding spot, but having to move through snow is never fun, especially when you’re me.
I make it to the sidewalk and test the traction by sliding my boot back and forth on the concrete before taking off. It’s a habit I’ve gotten into since –
I see the police cruiser off the corner of my right eye just as it turns off Hawthorne Street and onto Pines, the street I’m now on. I keep walking down the street, away from the cruiser, although I can see my shadow dancing in front of me now as the powerful headlights of the Ford Explorer silhouette me against the sidewalk. I shove my hands deep into the pockets of my brown leather jacket and tuck my chin to avoid the cool December breeze, hoping to Christ the nightshift officer isn’t bored enough to stop me on some sort of suspicion that I’m a midnight goon.
That was the beauty and the curse of Solace. It was a small city of about seven-thousand people in the valleys of Eastern Washington and the seat of the county which goes by the same name. Although not as lively as Spokane County to the south, Solace still has its fair share of crime to keep the cops busy throughout the year. But sometimes, on some nights, the crime just isn’t quite high enough to keep the police occupied throughout their shifts. I can always tell when these nights are when the number of traffic and pedestrian stops are higher than usual. At this time of night, most traffic stops equaled drugs and all sorts of other mischief that often ended in people getting a ticket or a ride to jail.
I turn left off of Pines and onto Wynn, hoping the officer will simply cruise on past without a second thought. I make it about halfway up the block before I am once again illuminated by the Ford Explorer’s powerful headlights. There is no one else on the street, and traffic is incredibly light, giving the cop no other distractions to avert his attention from me.
The white light around me becomes even brighter, and I stop in my tracks and remove my hands from my pockets. I know from experience what a police spotlight looks like at my back, and sure enough, the red and blue emergency lights follow a split second after. I can hear in my head the officer call out the suspicious person on Wynn and Pines, a radio procedure as natural as breathing for most veteran cops.
Keeping my hands visible, I slowly turn around, careful not to slip on black ice. I squint my eyes, blinded by the curtain of light the police officer is using for cover as he approaches me. I can’t recognize him, but I can tell he recognizes me by how quickly he stops walking. In the light, I see his hands go up and then back down, slapping himself on both thighs as if to say: “Really man?” I remain still, watching the cop turn around and head back to his patrol vehicle. He opens the door, reaches inside, and to the relief of my retinas, flips off the spotlight. He then walks back towards me, much less cautiously this time. When he comes closer, I’m able to see who he is thanks to the cruiser’s headlights.
“Really Jason?” I ask, putting my hands back into my pockets. There was no need to make the officer feel at ease now, my hands needed to get out of the cold. I doubt my old partner will care too much.
“Really Jason?” Officer Jason Kohl replies with a surprised tone. “You’re walking out here at nearly one in the morning, and you’re surprised I stopped you?”
“Think I’m one of the regular prowlers?” I ask, noticing how the headlights of the Explorer reflected off of Jason’s dark bald scalp.
“At first – maybe. Although not many prowlers wear jackets like that.” He smiles and then, “What the hell are you doing out here this time of night, Micah? It’s freezing dick.”
“I was looking for someone to have a snowball fight with.”
Kohl raised his eyebrows, clearly not buying into my bullshit. “Are you ever not sarcastic?”
He has a point, and I can’t blame him for being annoyed by it. Sarcasm is one of many defense mechanisms I use to get through whatever life I have left. It also happens to be one of my favorites. I drop the games and reply honestly this time, “My job.”
“You’re on a case?” He almost looks excited now.
I open my jacket slightly, revealing the Nikon hanging from my neck. “Yep.”
“Anything good?”
I shrug. “I wouldn’t say that. It is something that makes me want to change a few Washington laws, though.”
“There’s more than a few I’d like to change.”
I nod. “True.”
“You packing?”
“It hasn’t been that long since I left,” I say, referring to my early retirement from the police force nearly three years ago. I’m thirty-one now as of November, and if everything had gone the way they were supposed to go, I’d have twenty years left as a Solace Police Officer.
But things hadn’t gone the way they were supposed to go.
“Meaning you’re packing?”
I nod.
“Let me guess. H&K VP9?”
I nod again. I’ve always been a gun and gear guy, something that most likely started during my time in my past army days as a paratrooper. I’ve probably fired a million different weapon systems, but nothing was as appealing to me as the German-made Heckler and Koch 9mm strapped to my left hip in a Kydex holster.
“How’s the leg?” Kohl asks, his voice dropping lower than usual.
I think I see him shudder under his black tactical vest and jumpsuit, as if the three-year-old memory haunted him as bad as it did me. I know it doesn’t. How could it? The incident caused Kohl to leave detectives and go back to patrol, whereas it costed me my entire career. Plus, he hadn’t shown up until the end. He didn’t see what had actually happened – and I’d never tell him. I’d never tell anyone.
“It’s fine,” I say. It’s an honest answer, the leg – if I could even call it that – was fine, but my own opinion of it was far from that.
“I don’t even notice a limp when you walk.”
“It’s been three years. I’ve figured it out.”
“Can you run?”
“Should I be running now?” Dammit. There I go with the sarcasm again. “Yeah. I can. A little bit I mean – I won’t be competing in the Olympics any time soon.”
“You know they have running attachments for . . .”
I must have a scowl on my face because Kohl stops talking. I know he’s just trying to make me feel capable, but I never asked him to. I’m capable enough. And although there are other options for my leg, none of those options exactly screamed “normal.” I admire those who show off their scars, those who are proud of who they are and refuse to let adversity slow them down. Although I’m not one to lay down and quit, I am most definitely one to keep my scars as private as possible. Both physical and mental.
“Where are you going now?” Kohl asks, obviously doing what he can to change the subject.
“My client’s. She lives just outside of town. Not too far from Walmart actually.”
“Need a ride?”
I appreciate the offer, but I can already imagine the passenger seat of Kohl’s car. If it looked anything like my old rig, it would be the designated spot for paperwork, gear and the lunchbox. Besides, my car isn’t far.
“No thanks, Jason,” I say. “My car’s just around the block. I’ll walk.”
“Alright.” He pauses and then, “You doing okay, Micah?”
I’m about to give my typical canned bullshit answer but I stop myself. I don’t have many friends, and to be honest with myself, Jason might be my only true friend. I lie
every day about how I’m feeling. But tonight—tonight I’m going to tell the truth. Just a little bit.
“No, Jason. I’m not okay. But, I’m surviving.”
*
“Come by any time, especially at night. He’s never home at night anyway. Says he’s ‘working night shift for a while.’ Well. I don’t buy it.”
Karen Klimek’s words run through my head as I sit in my car just outside her house. The two-story home rested on about an acre of land and is a near identical match to the other houses along the residential street. I see Karen’s blue Focus in the driveway just outside the garage and, of course, I don’t see Duane’s red F150.
I debate whether or not I want to wake her for a minute before making my decision. I handle cases one at a time, and the sooner I’m done with Mrs. Klimek and her cheating husband, the sooner I can move on to something else. I grab the Nikon from the seat next to me and step out of my vehicle. I shut the door silently instead of slamming it, a habit I got into as a cop on patrol as to not alert the suspects of my presence.
I test the icy road with my boot and then step onto the sidewalk. The shoveled snow creates an almost hallway-like feel as I make my way up the Klimek walkway towards the front door. When I get to the doorstep, I take a moment to try and hear anything on the other side. It’s silent, leaving me to believe Karen is already in bed. I knock anyway and even ring the doorbell for good measure.
Whether or not Karen heard me knocking or ringing the doorbell doesn’t matter. An ear-splitting bark from a small dog erupts from somewhere inside the house, and within seconds, the little bastard is clawing at the fogged glass on the inside of the front door, no doubt filled with visions of a glorious and victorious battle against whomever dared knock on its door.
Through the foggy glass, I see a light come on, followed by the sound of padded footsteps as someone approaches the door. Once again, habit takes over and I find myself standing to the side of the door as opposed to directly in front of it. I don’t expect Mrs. Klimek to start shooting through the wood, but in Eastern Washington one can never be too careful.