by S. E. Chase
“I'm undercover.”
“As a disaffected crackpot?”
Einar laughed. “Infiltrating fringe survivalist society. Cryptos taking over.”
“He’s not real, you know?” Michael tapped the book’s spine. “You can retire tomorrow, hunt his big hairy ass all over America, and you’ll never find him.”
“Doubter. Such a skeptic. You’ll be surprised when he’s caught.”
“I’m a realist. No such thing as Bigfoot.” Michael scuffed a leaf from his shoe on a floorboard’s edge. He loved teasing Einar. It sent conversation in interesting directions.
“Don't mock me. Bigfoot’s as real as gnomes and trolls.”
“Hmm. Coherent argument. Irrational used to justify fantasyland. No wonder people say you’re strange.”
Einar grinned. “Don’t have to believe me. I don’t care.”
“You’re obnoxious.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ll never understand how Allison deals with you.”
“My wife loves me.”
Michael laughed and shook his head. “She’d better. Iceland’s your excuse to cultivate weirdness.” He sank into the worn chair across from his partner and leaned forward. “What’s up, monster man?”
“Don’t you want to read about Bigfoot?” Einar held out the book.
“Not on a rainy Sunday evening.” He pushed it away.
“Want me to read aloud? I can give it a dramatic spin and—”
“No. Thanks.”
“Can’t imagine what else you’d be doing.”
“Lying in front of a roaring fire. With a gorgeous woman by my side.” Kait was sleeping when he left, Loki her foot warmer. He envied them.
“Youth.” Einar smirked. “You’ll get over it.”
Michael smiled. “You ever let up?”
“Not when you egg me on.”
“Okay. You . . . win.”
Einar patted his arm.
“Enough jaded philosophy. Other than tormenting me, why call on a weekend off?”
“We’re never off. Murder has no work week.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Want you to meet someone.” He put the book down.
“Now?” Working with Einar was a roller coaster—might be exciting, scary or get you stuck in the tunnel halfway up the first hill. It was never boring.
“Yes. She has information to help our case.”
Michael exhaled, ran fingers through dark hair. “Trying to forget it this weekend. Can’t get them out of my head.” In seven years on the force, two as detective, he’d seen death but not children disemboweled and strung like confetti. He’d puked at the scene—the carnage, smell, brutality.
“You're only human, Mikey.”
“Nightmares. See them in my dreams.”
“Sorry. Kids are the worst. You never get used it. But comes with the work . . . ” Einar leaned forward and tapped his arm.
“Yeah. I know.”
“We’ll catch the asshole. Besides, stay strong and someday you’ll be crass and jaded like me.”
“Not sure I want to emulate you. Not sure I could.”
“You can only hope, Mikey.” He raised an eyebrow and looked him in the eye.
Michael laughed. He liked Einar. Colleagues mocked him when he got partnered with notorious Iceland, sixth partner in three years, one transferring to vice, another quitting the force and three refusing to work with him. They pitied the rookie—couldn’t deal with the Icelander’s odd quirks and ideas, which he never hid, and the insistence to keep up or shut up, his way of emphasizing his desire to work alone. Tired of constant complaining, the brass matched the kid with cops in his family to Iceland. No one remembered Iceland tolerating a partner. ID detectives were shocked when they became friends.
Narrow local minds, Michael thought. He shared Einar's sardonic humor and skewered views. Weird gravitated to weird. Besides, he understood the intellect hidden beneath the posturing.
Or maybe it was how they started. Michael walked into the office on day one and halted at Einar’s desk.
“Don’t take off your coat, Rodan,” Iceland said without looking up. “Stakeout.” Tossed him the printed division guidelines, told him to read it, handed him a suspect rap sheet and property layout. Then got up, pulled the rookie's coat to make him follow and off they went.
For ten rain-soaked hours they sat in a department vehicle waiting for a murder suspect to return to a girlfriend’s house in a low-rent maze of abandoned buildings, slum rentals and Section 8 housing. No office politics, orientation meetings or hazing. Just two guys in a car. Michael read the guidelines in an hour. Told Einar to test him. He did. Michael snapped back all the right answers. Then they started talking. The only question Einar couldn’t get his new young partner to answer was about family.
Michael’s reply? “Alone in the universe.”
Einar fell silent contemplating it.
Then Michael pulled an effective deflection. He asked Einar to explain ten reasons why the Abominable Snowman existed. Einar was off and running, espousing his weird views. Only later did he realize Michael had steered him in that direction and didn’t get pissed and call him whacko.
In ten hours, the rookie didn’t whine, didn’t brag, didn’t mention how he wanted to steamroll up the ladder and make his reputation. He wasn’t cloying, fawning, or overeager. Had a sense of humor. Didn’t demonstrate the myriad tics that pissed Einar off with partners. Shared the one smashed health food bar he'd stashed in his pocket. It had crickets in it.
Einar raised an eyebrow. “You're offering me bugs?”
Michael shrugged. “Crunchy protein.”
The trace of a smile crossed Einar's lips.
After they caught the suspect, took him in and returned to the station, Michael tracked Einar to his desk and sat in the one opposite. Crossed his hands on the desktop. Didn't utter a word.
“Okay,” Einar said, “come back tomorrow.”
Michael had considered it a secret victory.
Now, stretched in the bookshop chair, he pushed wet hair out of his eyes again and sighed. “Enlighten me, monster man.”
“This person we’re meeting. Keep an open mind. Might give insight into the psychology of the Fitte and Volner girls’ killer. Marta finished the autopsies. Cause of death inconclusive, maybe animal, maybe not. Techs found no prints, no DNA, no trace, nothing. Can’t hurt to explore all possibilities.”
“Open mind. All possibilities? Sounds ominous.”
“That’s what my last partner said.”
“Hmm. What all your partners say.”
“Fine. Makes you the lucky one. Anyway, we don’t have much to go on. This person is an academic, in town for a conference. Lives in Stockholm, doesn’t get to the states often. Wanted to grab you while she was available. Otherwise, honestly, I wouldn’t have bothered you.” He stood and pulled him out of the chair. “Come on, Mikey. Kait’ll forgive you for one evening away from her side.”
*
“Carla, come back now!” The woman shouted from the state park picnic table. Her daughter ran after ducks quacking on an eddy in the river shallows. “Leave them alone. They bite. Don’t step in bird crap. Watch out for the mud.”
“Ma, they’re cute.” The girl tossed her hair. “I wanna catch them. Look, a white one and a mallard.” She galloped through the puddles.
“Carla, don’t wander. You know what happened to those girls. Don’t be next!”
Carla was too excited. She scrambled down the bank and crept closer. “Quack, quack,” she said. “Stay, ducks.” She held out her arms for balance and stepped into the river, slipping in the mud. Tiptoed onto a large rock. The birds panicked and took to the air. She shouted and waved her hands, simulating flight.
“Honey, let her have fun.” The woman’s portly husband fired up the charcoal grill and swigged his beer. Empty cans littered the tabletop and blue cooler on the ground. “We don’t get out m
uch. Usually she plays video games. The rain stopped. I have the night off. Came to the state park to relax. I’m glad she’s interested in something outside. Besides, it’s a my first evening free in— ”
“Tom, she doesn’t listen. That’s not okay. She has to listen when I tell her not to do something.” She turned to the river and yelled Carla’s name again.
Tom walked to the table. He put down his beer and pulled her out of her seat. “Maybe I need to distract you.” He sidled close and moved in, kissing the base of her neck and lifting the bottom of her thin top, one hand cupping her ass.
“Tom, not here.” She pulled away, smoothed her shirt and fingered a thin sliver necklace.
“Come on, honey. Lighten up.” He moved in again. “We deserve fun too, baby. Gimme sugar.”
“Carla. CARLA!” She brushed him off.
“Sarah, leave her alone.” Tom dropped his hands to his side.
“She should not run off.” Sarah reorganized the place settings and pulled a beer from the cooler.
“Relax.” He didn't look at her. “Let her be a kid. She’s twelve. Remember? We used to do the same thing.”
“But Tom, it’s dinner. It’s going to be dark.”
“For Christ’s sake, Sarah. Calm down. Have a beer. Do you have to ruin our evening?”
Tuning out the bickering, Carla stepped onto a line of large rocks, avoiding slick moss. She wandered along the water’s edge, hopping from one flat boulder to another. Reached into the water and picked up an orange maple leaf, stuck it behind her ear. Her mother called, but ducks were more interesting. Besides, her father let her do anything. He’d take care of it.
Another stone and she was around the bend, beyond her parents’ eyes. A duck paddled by a low willow branch. Fallen leaves floated around it.
She might be able to reach it.
Carla tiptoed onto a rock. It looked, quacked and took to the air.
A rustle of leaves, a snapping twig. She turned.
A flash of light, a swift shadow, one scream.
Then silence.
“Carla? CARLA!”
He grabbed the child and scampered to shore, dragging her by the throat. She was feisty. He liked it. She fought, flailed her arms and legs but was no match. He dragged a claw across her neck and popped her carotid.
Damn, he’d better improve his snatch technique. One bite and blood flowed. He drank with abandon, gulping and moving down the creek. Gleeful after feeding, he tore the body apart, leg flung onto a rock, head in the water, abdomen split and scattered. Enjoying the carnage and chaos. He took a breath, inhaling the air tinged with blood. Wonderful being alive. Sort of.
The child’s parents ran to the river, slipping on the muddy ground.
He scrambled into the woods.
They screamed her name.
He licked his lips, hidden by a thick stand of white pines.
*
Einar and Michael left the bookstore and crossed the wet street, stepping into a small bright coffee shop. Einar looked around. There, in the booth. He waved. Gauging Michael’s reaction would be interesting.
A petite woman with ash blond hair rose and threw her arms around him. “Halló, Einar, it's been too long.” She stood on tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek.
He hugged her, almost lifting her off the ground. Whispered something and then let go.
She laughed and turned to Michael. “This must be partner . . . I forget the number count.” She shook his hand with a firm grip.
“Michael Lewis, my cousin Laina Venskovski,” Einar said. “We grew up together. Ran feral through the lava fields. She shares my weird world. Teaches classes cross-linked in the Departments of Criminology and Ethnology and History of Religion at the University of Stockholm.”
Michael smiled. “Interesting. Einar’s human. Has human family members.”
Laina smiled. “He tries to keep it secret.”
“Tempers the asshole image.” Einar hugged her again and then eased into the booth.
Michael leaned close to Laina. “Let's talk—I want to learn his secrets. Blackmail. You understand he’s odd, right?” He sat and she followed.
She laughed. “I have stories. You don’t know the half of it. Feral’s an understatement. He seems normal now.” She smiled and grasped Einar's hand. “But, honestly, look at us. Crime and criminals. Watched too many American police shows, thanks the US Navy.”
Michael looked confused.
“US Naval Air Station,” Einar said. “Only television broadcaster in Iceland until 1966. Dragnet, Highway Patrol, The Detectives. God, we watched them all. In English—”
“Played cops and robbers when not out hunting trolls.” Laina said. “Einar was so taken by it, he followed the only lögreglan, police, in town for hours like a lost lamb.”
“Thanks for dimming my mystique. Anyway, look where it got us.” Einar grinned and motioned for the waitress.
“Hmm.” Laina nodded. “Obsessed with the disturbed and depraved.”
Michael laughed.
They ordered espressos. Einar reviewed the case, describing the victims' mutilated corpses and the lack of identifiable physical evidence.
Laina listened. When he finished, she looked at them. “It’s similar to grisly murders in Norway and Sweden two years ago on which I consulted. I told Einar I’d be in town for the conference, asked what he was working on. Habit. He mentioned the murdered girls. I wanted to talk and hand over case files. I cleared it with police from both cities. Perhaps you can solve their crimes as well.” She pulled a zip drive from her pocket and placed it in Michael’s hand. “Einar forgets things. I’ll give this to you.”
“You know your cousin.” He slipped it into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small notebook and pencil.
“Spring 2007, a young girl playing in the woods behind her home was murdered near Stockholm.” Laina sipped espresso. “Mutilated, disemboweled, drained. Four days later, girl met the same fate south of the city. Over the next forty days, four girls and two boys were murdered. Then the case died. No solid leads. No physical evidence. In one case, a boy playing with the girl could only say he’d seen a flash, heard screams and ran.”
“Fits our survivor’s description,” Michael said.
Laina nodded. “That’s what Einar told me.”
“But you said multiple murders.” Michael's voice wavered.
“Six in Sweden, to be precise.”
“We're looking at the start of something.” Einar kept his eyes on Michael.
Michael tensed. “It’s a pattern—it's going to happen again?”
Laina nodded. “Six months later. Oslo, same thing. Seven in forty days before it stopped. Again no evidence. Hasn’t happened again in Europe. Whatever it is, it's moved here.”
“It?” Michael shot a glance at Einar.
“What’s your theory?” Einar said. “They didn’t find physical evidence, but I know you, Laina. You’ve got a gut sense.”
“Stockholm and Oslo police reach conclusions?” Michael said. “Anyone fit the pattern? A profile?”
“Well . . .” Laina’s eyes met Einar’s. “This is where his weird world and mine collide. One explanation will sound strange.”
“Meaning?” Michael glanced at Einar.
“Monsters.” Einar sat back in the booth.
“Come on . . . ” Michael said. “Be serious.”
“My doctorate is in European studies, medieval religions and myths,” Laina said. “I study culture and crime. My special focus is more unusual. The Balkans, Nordic counties, places of Teutonic heritage like Germany and Eastern Europe have similar myths, stories and folktales of beasts. Monsters have been part of human nature from ancient times. Vampires, ghouls, demons, shape-shifters.”
“You’re kidding,” Michael looked from one to the other. “Your family’s nuts.”
“I plead the fifth.” Laina smiled.
Einar cleared his throat. “Here’s family lore. Laina knows it.”
/>
She nodded.
“Ever hear of Bárdar’s Saga?”
Michael stared. “What are you talking about?”
“Icelandic sagas, tales of the early Nordic world. Anyway, Bárdar was born of a human mother and half-troll, half-giant father.”
“Of course he was,” Michael said. “Aren’t they all?”
“It’s a long story—”
“Yeah. Not surprising. Endless dark winters. People go mad.”
“Don’t interrupt.” Einar said. “After issues, Bárdar retreats to the Snaefells glacier ice cap, becomes a guardian spirit. “We,” he gestured to Laina, “lived in the mountain’s shadow. When fog enveloped town, we knew he was there. Our parents warned about monsters in the glacier’s shade. Trolls within it.”
Michael shook his head. “Hello? Scaring you into good behavior.”
“There’s more.” She leaned forward. “Our ancestor was burned at the stake as a witch in the 1600s.”
Einar nodded. “Always took it as a sign. Fog and spirits. Sorcerer ancestor. We should believe this stuff rather than tempt his wrath.”
“Exactly,” Laina said.
Michael’s mouth hung open.
“Come on,” Einar said. “Don’t be surprised. You know my reputation. I’ve worked hard to earn it.”
“Four generations of our family lived in the same village. We grew up with ideas of monsters,” Laina said. “Gnomes, trolls, ghosts, huldufólk. Hidden people.”
Michael shook his head. “I don't—”
“It’s common around the world. Lore about monsters, witches, and creatures hunting children, blood-sucking, dismemberment and general bloody chaos.” She folded her hands. “Some cultures believed a new monster had to feed aggressively in its first forty days to mature.”
Michael stared. Einar sat silent.
“Sounds ridiculous,” Laina said. “But ideas existed for centuries before recorded history. Cultures in the world’s forgotten corners still believe such things.”
“Am I high?”
“Better not be while on duty, Mikey.”
“You’re telling me—monsters swoop in, dismember bodies and drink kids’ blood?” He shook his head, pencil tapping an agitated cadence.
“A skeptic.” Laina patted his hand. “The voice of a modern rational country.”
“Sort of rational.” Einar stared at Laina.
“Not always rational.” She narrowed her eyes. “There’s darkness out there.”
Michael looked at them. “You’re serious?”
“Told you.” Einar tugged his sleeve. “Keep an open mind.” He glanced at Laina. She was waiting for the meltdown. Michael was absorbing the strange shit better than his last partner, who’d met Laina the last time she came to the states. They'd broached a similar supernatural conversation that they’d had thousands of times since they were kids. The partner, an avowed Christian fundamentalist, wasn’t amused and stormed out of the meeting. The next day he requested a transfer.