Sink In Your Claws

by S. E. Chase

  Inside were several small bottles.

  “These the donation?” She set her bag on a battered metal desk and pulled out paperwork. Wrote her name on one line, dated it, and handed it to him for his signature.

  “Well,” he hesitated, “I suppose, but, instead, how about a loan?” He set the box on the desk. “Dr. Thompson said I could borrow other materials in return . . . or we could arrange a swap.”

  She sighed. Why would Thompson promise special conditions? She was tired of her newest boss imitating a seagull, flying in, dumping shit, and letting others clean it up. A donation was not a loan. The museum didn’t accept things into the collection and let donors use them or borrow other items at a later date. “I have to tell you, that’s against our policies.”

  “But Dr. Thompson . . .” A bead of sweat rolled down his pudgy face. His lip quivered.

  “Look. Sign the forms. I’ll speak to him. I’m sure we can arrange something.” She handed him the pen and rolled her eyes when he wasn’t looking. Didn’t want to deal with another weepy crier.

  Sign it. You can argue about promises later. Don’t put me in the middle.

  He relaxed. Signed the form. Fingered the bottles and picked up one filled with deep brown powder. He beamed. “Here’s the one he wants, your boss. Mummy, ground from the real thing. Thousands of years in the making. Think about the special properties and who might have found their way into it.” He held it to the light. “Egyptians believed mummification granted royalty everlasting life.”

  “Well, it did, in a preservation sense.” She avoided his gaze, didn’t want to indicate interest. Couldn’t imagine a woman finding him attractive, even if admitting it was catty. He’d signed the form. Time to leave, not talk about the afterlife.

  “Would you want to live forever?” He stared.

  “No.” Didn’t want to hear him rant about reanimating corpses with mummy powder.

  “What if you could live forever?” He persisted. Stepped closer.

  “Impossible.” She stepped back. “And it’d be terrible. You’d outlive everyone you knew. Watch friends and family die. Can’t imagine feeling so alone.”

  “But you’d understand life and the universe more than anyone!” His voice rose. “Think of the power . . .”

  “Sorry, Donnie.” She shut down delusions of world domination. “Got another meeting. Have to go.”

  He sighed and tried to engage in small talk, asking about her family, her work, favorite movie, if she had a boyfriend, favorite food, why she wasn’t married, did she want kids, what she liked to drink. He insisted on walking her through two more train cars, stalling her departure. Finally she escaped to her car. He followed like a puppy.

  “Please come back, Kaitlyn. I’ve got so much to show you. You’ll be interested in my work. We can collaborate.”

  “Thanks.” She jumped into the driver’s seat. “My schedule’s busy.”

  “I’m flexible. I’ll make time.”

  No answer.

  “I’ll see you again.” He waved.

  She pulled out and gunned her Mazda back to the city.

  *

  Damn the late night.

  Kait dumped her coat on the side table. Almost knocked the skull to the floor but caught the jawbone as it skidded. She pulled off her black leather pumps and nudged them out of the way with her foot so she wouldn’t trip later. She resented getting home after midnight because Thompson had over-scheduled her.

  One kitchen light glowed. She headed to the fridge and grabbed a beer. Uncapped it, swigged.

  “Bad, huh?”

  Michael sat on one of the old metal bar stools, shoulders hunched, glass in hand, whiskey bottle on the counter. Loki slept on the floor beside him.

  “Michael. It’s late. Didn’t see you.”

  He raised his glass. “You had a long day.”

  “My boss is an ass. Sent me on a ridiculous errand to a twilight-zone compound in the middle of nowhere with a creepy chemist and his doddering parents to fetch a donation of poisonous pigments, including one made from ground up mummies.” She chugged her beer. “The damn chemist, all OCD and piggy-eyed, made a pass at me. More than one. Psycho. Wants to live forever. Rule the world . . . ” Another swig. “Eternity. What the fuck? Was the science lab from hell . . . I need a new career. Something meaningful. Why’d I veer from forensic anthropology?”

  He motioned for her to sit. “Sorry, K.” He massaged her shoulders, hands working into knotted muscles. “Bad day. I can tell.”

  “Frustrating.” She leaned into him.

  “Mummy?” He shook his head. “Sounds so horror movie.”

  “It does. But it was a real pigment. Not used anymore, for obvious ethical reasons. It also wasn’t a good or stable paint.”

  He smiled, an arm around her. “You’re my fount of obscure knowledge. How does your brain hold so much information?”

  “Thanks. I think.”

  “Eternity. That's arrogant.”

  She glanced at her watch. “Why are you up?”

  “Got back late. Couldn’t sleep. Nothing solves insomnia like whiskey as a beer chaser.” He poured another round.

  “Sorry, Michael.”

  “Yeah . . . ” He’d had too much to drink, was slurring his words.

  “I should’ve called. Had an evening meeting, and was running behind after returning. By the time I got to my office, processed the jars and put them into safe storage, I lost track of time.”

  “No problem . . . Bushmill’s and Loki kept me company . . .”

  “What’s wrong? You’re troubled.” She peered into his eyes. “Exhausted. Go to bed. You need sleep.”

  He slugged more whiskey. “Can’t sleep.” He clasped the glass. “Can’t close my eyes. Nightmares. Murdered girls. Another kid was killed tonight. I’ll see him in my dreams unless I don’t sleep. No sleep, no bad dreams.”

  “Shit.” She put the beer down and wrapped her arms around him, kissed the side of his face. “Can’t function without sleep.”

  “A girl survived. Saved by her dog. Her brother murdered . . .”

  She laid her head on his shoulder. “Poor kid.”

  He took another drink.

  She sat up and brushed hair out of his eyes. “That’s terrible, Michael. But I have faith in your abilities. You and Einar can catch the killer.” She sipped her beer. “But . . . you can’t forego sleep.”

  Hesitation. “Case is getting to me.”

  “Your job’s tough. Don’t know how you do it. Don’t let it mess with your mind.”

  He turned to her. “Adults kill for greed, jealously, anger, sex, whatever—stupid but explainable. Morons wave weapons—ask for what they get. But kids . . . ”

  “You’re too close. Billy—”

  “Stop.” He closed his eyes. “I can handle it.”

  “Please. Don’t let it eat you.”

  “Sound like Einar. He got on my case tonight.” He reached for the whiskey. She took it away. Removed his glass and stashed the bottle above the fridge. Set her empty bottle and his glass in the sink and returned to face him.

  “Don't get defensive. Listen to him. Einar knows how to handle it. Take his advice. He’s worked brutal cases.” She remembered the triple homicide seven years earlier that’d garnered extensive media coverage. Three women were tortured, raped, garroted and strung up in an abandoned meat packing plant. Cops tracked the killer to a condemned row home where they found two more victims tied up, raped and tortured, maimed but alive. First time she’d seen Einar in the media. He’d been the primary on the case and she was struck by his composure leading the press conferences.

  “I know. I’m just tired.” He rubbed his eyes then reached into his pocket. “K, do me a favor?”

  “Of course. Anything. What?”

  He set the stone on the counter, pushed it to her. “Research this? Found it at the scene. Seemed out of place.”

  She examined it. “Shard of a larger object . . .�
� She pointed to narrow geometric lines. “Man-made incised marks. It’s been altered by human hands.” She fingered its surface. “Looks like porphyry, but that’d be odd.”

  “Why?”

  “Porphyry isn’t found in the region.”

  “Someone put it there.”

  “Yes.” She slipped it in her messenger bag. “I’ll see what I can find out. Promise. It moves to the top of my list.”

  “Thanks.”

  Loki barked in his sleep, perhaps dreaming of the dog park or chasing a rabbit in the snow.

  “Come on. Your dog has more sense than you do.” She pulled him to his feet. “Let’s go to bed.”

  CHAPTER 11

  2011 Early November

  Michael rose before sunrise. Kait was asleep, Loki at her side. He pulled the blanket over her bare shoulder, threw on old clothes and left a note under the saltshaker on the kitchen counter. Drove north through the fog-layered November dawn along secondary dirt roads pitted and washed out near season’s end.

  Memories of Gates and Billy.

  And after.

  They’d moved to North Adams where his mother had family. He hated it. Gates was rural but surrounded by wilderness—bugs, birds and salamanders, rock ledges, towering trees and, of course, the water. Always something to explore. North Adams was just depressing, faded industrial soul sucking the life out of its residents. He’d wanted to get out as fast as possible after high school graduation. He never returned, only person left a stepfather who’d viewed a troubled boy as inconvenient damaged baggage.

  Don’t dwell on it.

  He stopped at Stewart’s for coffee, stretched and continued driving.

  Begin where Lisa Volner and Margie Fitte were murdered.

  When he pulled off the road it was raining. He tramped beyond fluttering remains of police tape. Stood motionless. It was cold. Raindrops pelted his face. Last time he’d waded the river was a few days before his brother disappeared.

  Focus on the case.

  The girls’ path had taken them near the water. A predator would scout access for targets within easy striking distance.

  How would I stalk someone?

  He followed the dirt trail, crossed the tracks and passed the rusted Dodge. His phone rang. He ignored it. Stepped over logs and debris and crouched under a fallen tree, winding along the muddy bank. He moved in slow motion—deliberate, methodical—scanning the shoreline and shallows. Inch by inch, beyond the perimeters of the primary crime scene. Stopped and looked down, searching for red stones.

  Focused on the riverbed. Thirty, forty minutes. An hour? He didn’t know how long. Didn’t notice the rain. Was no longer cold. It didn’t matter. He concentrated on errant objects glinting among smooth river stones.

  His phone rang. There. A red shimmer below the water’s surface. Reached down and picked it up, cold rushing liquid chilling ungloved fingers. Same incised stone. He resumed his search. Phone rang again. A crow swooped low, hoarse caws receiving a distant response. Less than a hundred yards down the bank, another piece and then another. Clouds darkened the sky.

  Stones mark a path. Killer leaves fragments of a talisman.

  He returned to his car and drove north, taking the narrow curves fast. Had a creature lurked for years, silent and waiting?

  The killer marks its path—why? As a line of demarcation, or for someone, something to follow? Proof of actions? Where’s my brother? What happened? Is he still out there?

  At the second crime scene, he half-stepped, half-crawled through thick weeds, skidding down the bank. Shoes sloshed on the muddy edge. It was overgrown, bordered by buttonbush and thickets of tangled vines and scrub. Dead sedges snagged his pant legs.

  He edged through brush, slipping to his knees. Peering between crevasses and large boulders was difficult. He crouched down, half in the water, half out, fingers sifting stones. His cell rang. Focus on the water. An hour passed, two hours. Near the bend, the riverbed shifted. He stumbled, falling in deeper water while fording a path close to the shore.

  He cut his hand and blood dripped into the river. He shivered, numb, body wet. Finally, in the water—a glint of red. He scrambled across slippery rocks and almost fell but recovered and retrieved another shard. Shoved it in his pocket and resumed his search.

  He drove past the third crime scene and the Tumble Inn, into Gates. Paused at the intersection, lump in his throat, glimpsing their house—now a decaying rental property, faded ‘Don’t-Tread-On-Me’ flag hanging from the sagging porch. He scolded himself for letting his mind wander and wove around the bend, out of town.

  His next stop was not a crime scene—yet. His gut told him he’d find more red stones. He pulled onto the gravel gap beside the guardrail. Climbed down the wooded hill where they’d built their fort. Damn, the path was still there. Feet bent at a sharp angle on the steep trail, he slid between two massive boulders balanced near the edge, like they’d done as kids. Skidded past the abandoned cabin, pushed through the brush. Jumped the crumbling stone fence and crossed a boggy meadow.

  Got to the river again. His phone rang. He turned it off. Temperature was falling. His breath condensed in the air. His head ached, his hand hurt, and his clothes were soaked. But he pushed on, looking for stones marking the trail to another kill. As rain turned to sleet, he found one, then another, then two more. Killer was leaving a path to his next murder.

  *

  Einar stared at his computer, reading Laina’s email for the third time:

  Hallo Einar, Hvað er um að vera? More information in child murders. Decapitated and dismembered skeleton uncovered near last Stockholm murder site with unusual features and anatomy. Found during work near waterfront renewal project. Checked sources in Oslo. They confirm, similar remains found two months ago, also at kill site. Attached are images. Pað lítur illa út. Looks bad. Not human. You break the news to your rational partner. Gott kvöld, Laina.

  Images showed skeletons with elongated appendages, small trunks and compressed rib cages. At their feet lay misshapen heads with jaws of razor-sharp teeth. The hands, if they could be called that, ended in long retracting claws. He held his breath, recalling Marta’s weird footprint analysis. The elves, trolls and supernatural beings he’d joked about his whole life seemed to mock him. This creature had one purpose. Killing.

  He slammed back in his chair.

  Where was Michael?

  He threw a pencil in his garbage can and stared at his partner’s desk.

  Another hour passed. He glanced at his watch. Balled his hand into a fist and slammed it on his desk. Pain focused aggravation.

  What the hell? So much for last night’s conversation.

  “Goddamn it, Detective Lewis.” Einar let loose a stream of expletives. Cresson, Villarna and several uniforms looked up. Eyes met, words followed. Someone picked up a magic marker.

  Cresson elbowed Villarna. “Daddy Iceland’s missing his little black sheep.” He sauntered to Einar’s desk and threw down a cardboard box, blocky print saying Lost and Found. “Are we to believe you're mad because your partner isn't here? After years of wanting them all to go away, he's done it.”

  “Shut up.”

  “You're on your own. And you're not satisfied.”

  A uniform stifled a laugh.

  Cresson walked back to Villarna. “Kids these days. Gotta keep an eye on them.”

  Einar ignored them. “Answer your phone, Michael,” he growled. Dialed again. No answer. Yeah, he sometimes walked in late, but not showing up at all wasn’t normal. But he wasn’t normal these days.

  He tried again after a missed late morning meeting with Cap. No good. Left a message for Kait. Phoned again at eleven. Kait called him at lunch. Michael wasn’t sleeping or eating. He’d left early, scrawled a message about rock hunting. A call after lunch failed to elicit an answer. Last call went to voice mail.

  What was he doing?

  Einar second-guessed himself. Should have removed him. Last night mad
e it obvious. Michael was obsessed, had been for over a month—that late night email with time stamp of 3:30 AM. Christ. Investigating Kait’s boss, claiming connection to the murders? Dubious, he’d relayed the message to Laina anyway.

  The afternoon wore on. He typed interview notes with the surviving sister and her mother. Plowed through a stack of administrative paperwork, reread Laina’s files, emailed more questions. Sat impatient through a meeting with attorneys on another case. Called again. Examined the photos. Put off Cap's angry questions regarding Detective Lewis and his whereabouts.

  Called again. Drank two cups of coffee and paced his desk, downed two more cups, sat again.

  No word.

  Near shift’s end, he heard laughter across the room and shook his head. Fucking Cresson and Villarna. Then Cresson proclaimed in a loud voice, “Gentlemen. Behold, a miracle!”

  Einar jerked his head up.

  “The prodigal son returns!”

  Michael walked toward him, disheveled in filthy clothing, hair matted to his unshaven face, pronounced dark circles under his eyes. Bloody hand. Pant legs drenched and shoes caked with mud. Looked like he’d been dragged through a demolition derby in a deluge.

  Einar flew out of his chair. “Christ, Michael. Where were you?”

  “Wait, Einar, I—”

  “What have you been doing? Why go AWOL?”

  “I was—”

  “No. No excuses! Protocol is to report in if you’re delayed or called away.”

  Silence.

  “Told you, ask for time. Don’t rules apply to you? What were you thinking?”

  Michael peered through him, unfocused.

  “Answer me. Where were you?”

  He closed his eyes. Rubbed his neck.

  “Earth to Detective Lewis. Hello? I’m speaking to you.”

  Michael opened his eyes. “But it might—”

  “Remember last night?”

  “I—”

  “It's obvious. You're not thinking clearly.”

  “Killer stalks the—”

  “Do I have to ask Cap to replace you?”

  Michael blinked.

  “Don’t think I won’t.”

  “No, Einar! What if—”

  “Answer me.”

  “I—”

  “Now.”

  Michael took a long breath and eyed Einar. “Go ahead. Fuck it.”

  From the far side of the room, Cresson's mouth fell open.

  “Hvað segið per—What did you say?” Einar grabbed his arm, fingers digging in. “You’re too close. You’ve lost perspective, can’t be objective—”