 
Sink In Your Claws

S. E. Chase

Published by S. E. Chase at Smashwords

Copyright 2015 S. E. Chase

Smashwords Edition License Notes

## This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

## Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Excerpt from Bring Up the Bones

About S. E. Chase

## CHAPTER 1

## 2013 Christmas Eve

He didn't talk much. His voice bothered him, raspy and damaged. Eyes shielded by dark matted hair, he avoided human contact. He'd been violent only once, jumping a pedestrian on the sidewalk when arguing escalated to punches—after that, he'd steered clear of crowds.

Stay away from people, stay away from problems.

Homeless shelters were squalid traps. Fuck that delousing shit. He chanced it in the elements, preferring dank alleys to escape jeering eyes. Prowled the rotting west end, an industrial ghost land bordered by crumbling overpasses, sentinels over brick and steel minions.

On this night he grew restless. "Quit goddamn snowing. I hate snow," he yelled at the streetlights, his breath visible in the frigid air. He'd stolen a bottle of cheap vodka from a bum sleeping off a crack high, drank it, and tossed the empty. Shattering glass echoed in his head.

Where was the dealer? He needed a hit to brace the booze's diminishing effect. He shivered and watched for the shadow.

There—movement. Balancing against the wall, he rose and lurched to the alley. His beard didn't hide the scar tracing a path from left temple to his throat. He clenched his hands, searching for warmth in a tattered military jacket. The dealer approached, dragging feet through the dirty snow.

The man spoke, a hoarse growl. "Need a fix."

"Don't look good tonight, Troll." The dealer squinted, rubbed his hands together. Crude knuckle tattoos from an unskilled prison foray into self-decoration morphed into "K-I-N-G R-A-T-S" when he balled them into fists.

"Please."

"Crazy Troll," he said. "Creepin' from the trash pile."

"One . . . dose."

"No way, man. Ya know the rules," the dealer shrugged. "Don' got nothing if you can't pay. Shit. Ain't running charity. It's business. Want it, hand me cash . . ." He stepped toward the underpass, shaking his head.

"Something, man . . ."

"Nothin' for free . . ."

"Anything . . ." His voice trembled.

"Crawl away. Die in a hole somewhere."

"Please."

Rat snorted. "Area's no good for profits, you all looking for handouts. Time to move to new territory. Grab new business." Then he halted. A smile leeched across his face. "It is Christmas Eve. Christian spirit and that shit. Rat's proud of his holiday generosity. Besides, need to test new merchandise."

Troll sagged. "Whatever. Anything . . ."

Rat held out a small glass vial with screw thread top. He backtracked and motioned in mock generosity. "Here, Troll. Newest and finest. Be first to take a ride."

Troll grabbed it, unscrewed the lid and downed the contents. Almost threw up but held it down. It was stomach churning.

"Happy Holidays," Rat said. "Enjoy the fucking ride. A never-ending dream where you fall and fall, never hitting bottom though you know it's coming."

"Shut up."

"Junkie. That's what they call it and that's what you are . . ." Rat ambled away, his shadow blending into night.

Troll shuffled to his doorframe and slid to the ground. The chill stung his throat and froze his eyelashes. Layers of tattered clothing couldn't ward off bitter upstate cold. Hollow eyes scanned the alley. He froze at sounds—sirens, trains rumbling in the yards, car horns. Noises echoed in his head, creating continual terror.

He rocked, wrapping himself in his jacket.

"Lights out," he muttered. "Go away. Lights out lights out . . ."

Oblivion. Head swimming and mind fracturing. Pulsing lights flickered on his eyelids, a demented cadence pounded staccato rhythm around him, in him. Dizziness hit in waves, then nausea and pain. He doubled over, clutching his gut. Rat'd given him bad shit.

Fuck. What was in that vial?

He collapsed. Maybe this time he'd die. He moaned, dropped his head and sank into a stupor.

Screams woke him.

He stared, confused. Did he imagine it? His mind's void taunted with shattered glimpses of a forgotten life.

Turn it off, man. Go away. Get more shit.

He hunched close to the ground, quivering.

Another scream. Howls.

He lurched to his feet. More dizziness. He slammed into the wall, fingers clutching the doorframe. Closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, waited for it to pass. Then he staggered to the building corner and crouched behind a row of abandoned packing crates.

A heavy woman, coat dragging, struggled against an inhuman assailant. It mauled her, slicing gashes down her back. A man lay lifeless and bloody nearby. Another creature, shorter, with teeth bared, leered over him. She fought the tall one, digging fingernails into his neck and twisting away, pivoting in frantic gestures. He howled and shoved her into a snow bank.

The short assailant flashed sharp teeth and angry yellow eyes. He sniffed the air, raised a hand. Five long claws dripped blood.

Troll recoiled.

Monsters. Don't eat me.

He'd seen them before.

The tall one roared. "Quit squirming! You're dead. Get used to it!" He grabbed her hair, tangled it in his claws and twisted her head back. She screamed. With outstretched claw, he slashed her throat, arching spatter of blood coursing red into the snow. He bent, lip quivering, and lapped the liquid. It poured down his throat and coated his face. When sated, he tossed her to his partner.

Troll cowered, terrified by the feeding frenzy.

Avoid the tall one. He's in charge.

The short creature dropped the body into the snow. They fled.

Troll's heart pounded. He blinked, shook his head. Monsters again. Was he hallucinating? Swallowed hard. She hadn't deserved that brutal end. He ran a thin finger along his scar and scratched his bearded face. Why wasn't he a corpse in the snow?

He'd have traded places with her.

Calmness returned, only indication of violence two bloody prone figures in the snow. Silence lent a sacred feeling to the carnage. Troll quivered. But remnant motivations took over—they needed help. Suspects should be apprehended. He left his hiding place and crept to them. The man was dead. Hadn't anyone heard the screams? Was she alive? He felt for a pulse.

Dead.

Sirens shattered the calm, punctuated by flashing lights. His head jerked up. Shit. Fear jolted down his neck and commanded his legs—RUN. He bolted, careening into the concealing dark. Angry voices followed.

"Police. Stay where you are!"

Like hell.

He ran, chest heaving. Scrambled through a narrow cut in a crumbling brick wall and skidded across thick ice between two broken copper gutters. He almost lost them, but then his path intersected with a high rusted chain-link fence dividing two abandoned industrial sites.

Jump!

He leapt, fingers twisting, snagging the mesh and lurching upward. But in his drugged fog, he misjudged the distance to the top, slamming his face into a razor wire barrier, tearing flesh. Nerve endings exploded. He fell bleeding.

Cops caught him. Two faces glared. Gloved hands hauled him to his feet with no pretense of humanity.

"Where the hell you going?" The anger was palpable.

He struggled and fell against one who yanked his head, grasping a clump of bloody hair.

"Don't try anything stupid," stubby cop barked. "Don't lean on me. Not your mother."

The taller cop shoved him against the building.

I hear vertebrae crunching. Fuck. Crippled by cop.

"Asshole. Can't run through razor wire. Don't move. Had your hands on her."

Stubby cop joined his partner. They wheeled him around. One held him. The other pulled on latex gloves. Patted him down, dug through his coat, rooted through his pants and found the vial. "I'll be damned. Who'd a thought you'd be on drugs?" He twisted arms behind his back. "Handcuffs, Arch."

Arch handed chain-link cuffs to his partner.

"Makes ya wonder, Marlen. How can they live this way? Fuckin' dumb animals."

"Don't know. Don't worry about it. Piece a shit junkie."

"Euthanasia would be useful."

"You're a philosopher. Maybe he likes it. Too wasted to know better." Marlen laughed. "Look at him—no one home. Whatever he's on, it's eating brain cells. Shit should be flushed. Course, tonight he might freeze to death. That'd get him off our streets. Thank God for my wife and my Ford Explorer, that's all I have to say."

Arch snorted in agreement.

Troll found the nerve to speak. "Didn't do it."

"Huh?" Arch eyed him. "You say something? Speak up."

"Saw it. Didn't do—"

"Bullshit. How'd you slash her throat? Why'd you gut him?"

"Didn't."

"Yeah, right."

He shivered and stared into the snow. He'd touched her. His fingerprints were on her.

"Don't mess with us."

"A monster did it with claws."

Marlen slapped him. "A monster? What d'you take us for? We're not sucking drugs like your sorry ass."

"Two—"

"Shut up." Arch said. "No bullshit. You were leaning over her. Why run? You're a liar."

"Fuck you, cop."

Marlen smacked him again. "Shut up. We'll arrest you for assaulting an officer."

He glared. A red trickle ran down his lip. He'd screwed himself because he tried to help. Why? Bewildered, he shook his head. Was it a nightmare or bad trip? He was dizzy, nauseous. Tasted blood from the cop's blow. His face ached. He jerked his head up and stared, eyes wide.

"Jesus, Marlen," Arch said. "Face is a mess. Grizzly Adams in a slasher film. Can we cover it up? It's sickening."

"I look like a doctor? It'll have to wait. Call it in, possible suspect, EDP. He's emotional and disturbed. Not sure he qualifies as a person." Marlen smirked. "Deliver our trash to the white shirts. Iceland can deal with it, fill out the paperwork and haul him to detox. We go home for Christmas." Troll protested, but Marlen grabbed his right arm, Arch his left. They dragged him to the gathering official vehicles and personnel.

Cops secured the scene, cordoning it with yellow tape. Uniforms held back press and onlookers. Medical Examiner Marta Lantanna pushed her way through the crowd. She signed the crime scene log and motioned to a tall detective behind her. He followed the same protocol. They crouched under barriers and walked to the first corpse, conversing as they approached the woman's body. Both knelt in the snow. Marta pulled away the tarp.

"Christ," the detective said.

"Clean cut." She pointed to the gash across the victim's neck.

"Considerable blood loss. She was alive when they did it." He scanned the spatter.

Marta slipped on latex gloves, unfolded small paper bags and encased the victim's hands, preserving evidence under her nails.

"Other victim gutted sternum to pelvis." She motioned for a forensic tech. "Going to be shoveling spaghetti to get that soul and his guts into the body bag."

"Nearly decapitated. One slash. Bruising on her neck." The detective shifted in his long wool coat, ran a hand over his graying beard and mustache, nauseous at more mutilated corpses. Cops had been called to three similar murders in the last six months. "One gutted and one head lopped off. Not a good night, Marta."

Marta turned to him. "Gets worse." She hesitated.

"Yeah?"

"Claw marks. Down her back."

He gave no reaction.

"Sorry."

The detective was motionless.

"Einar?"

"Do what you can tonight . . . I'll be at the autopsy in the morning." He laid a hand on her shoulder. " _það lítur illa út_ ," he said, voice low. "This looks bad."

He stood and turned around. A commotion. Marta glanced up. Uniforms led a small staggering handcuffed figure toward him. The man locked his knees and dug his heels into the snow, resisting with every ounce of his thin frame—his face was crazed, feral . . . and a bloody mess. Arch and Marlen tightened their grip.

"Another casualty," Marta said. "But still alive."

"Christ."

"The pointless slaughter has to stop." She got to her feet with effort, matching the weariness in her voice. "Not to mention all the collateral damage of these drugged out souls."

What can we do, Marta? They always win.

He pulled off wire-rimmed glasses, rubbed his eyes. Pinched the bridge of his nose, wanting to be anywhere but the alley. Another fucking murder scene. Violence roused so many people from sleep on Christmas Eve. He swore in Icelandic as they approached.

"Detective Hannesson, we got the suspect." Marlen yanked Troll to the detective.

"What a mess." Detective First Class Einar Hannesson examined the captive with steel blue eyes. "What happened?"

"He was leaning over the bodies, sir. Then bolted. He's the suspect. Called it in. EDP." Marlen shook the cuffs. "Ran into razor wire. Says he didn't do it."

"Dumb son of a bitch," Arch said.

"Lit on something, sir." Marlen handed Einar the vial. "Found it in his pocket. Never seen the drug before."

Einar turned it over in his gloved hand, opened and smelled it. He jolted at the rank unfamiliar aroma. Damn, worse than _hákarl,_ Icelandic rotted shark. Jesus. A new drug? Whatever it was, it stank of decay.

"SOB claims a monster did it. A Christmas Monster." Arch said. "He's deluded."

The captive tugged at the cuffs. Marlen shoved him. Einar stepped back as the man stumbled.

"Enough." Einar scowled. "Don't manhandle the witness."

"Suspect," Arch said.

"Witness."

"Actions were suspicious, sir." Marlen shook the captive.

"He was staring . . ." Arch said.

"He's drugged, sir," Marlen said. "Look at those crazy sunken eyes."

"He resisted arrest . . ." Arch and Marlen rambled, voices competing for attention.

Troll glared.

Einar stopped listening. He stood between the uniforms and their captive, inspecting the vial. The man's green eyes met his and retreated downward. A sudden rush of familiarity. Einar prided himself on stubborn stoicism, told himself it was a reflection of his Nordic soul. Liar. The wretch threw him off.

How can a vagrant unnerve me?

Something wasn't right. He forced his focus back to the uniforms.

"Find a weapon?" He peered at them, eyes narrowed.

"No. Probably tossed it," Arch said.

"You look? Find a knife? Blade?"

"No," Arch said. "We haven't uncovered it—"

"Could've thrown it in the garbage, sir," Marlen said. "We'll find it, sir."

Einar shook his head. Marlen's repeated use of 'sir' wasn't out of respect.

Most of the cops in the Investigative Division hated Einar Hannesson. No secret. Iceland, as they called him, had the division's highest clearance rate but attempted no diplomacy with colleagues. Despite having arrived in Seward City more than twenty-five years earlier, he was an outsider. Always would be. Besides, he believed in weird shit, _huldufólk_.

Who the hell came from Iceland, anyway?

He was odd, opinionated and had become a closed-off shell in the last two years, alienating his current partner and department brass. They swore it was his last partner who'd died in the line of duty—walked into a trap and vaporized in a fire—that'd affected him. Finally found another partner that clicked and he got erased from the earth. Iceland couldn't process it, they whispered, didn't want to get close to anyone again. So he got meaner and weirder. Einar didn't give a damn what they thought. Even if it was true.

"We'll go back and look, sir," Marlen said.

"Witnesses? Other than the junkie?"

Arch shook his head. "Not that we—"

"Who heard the screams?"

"Don't know," Marlen said.

"Does your suspect have blood on his hands—other than his own?" Einar's face reddened. "Blood on clothing, anywhere other than wounds for which you two were a contributing factor?"

Marlen glared, kicking a lump of snow.

"No," Arch said. "We—"

"Get your asses out there, do a thorough canvas," Einar extended his arm the way they'd come. "Now."

"We will, we will . . . yes sir," Arch said.

Marlen glanced at the witness.

Troll craned his neck and mouthed, "do your fucking job, cop." Marlen pushed him. He stumbled back, jerking his head to the flashing lights. Einar turned, steadied him with one hand and pushed Marlen off with the other.

"Bite me," Troll muttered, shaking.

"Quiet." Einar tightened his grip. "Don't make it worse."

Marlen jutted his arm out.

"Back off." Einar grabbed Marlen's collar. "Badger him again and you'll be suspended."

"He was trying to run. I stopped him."

"Bullshit. You're tormenting him. Christ, grow up."

"He was—"

"Enough."

Marlen fell silent.

Arch calmed him, whispering. "If you piss off Iceland, we'll both be in trouble."

Expletives ran through Einar's head. Neither Arch nor Marlen had enough brains in their Neanderthal skulls to comment on anyone's mental state. Stupidity was everywhere, like someone put it in the water and everyone was chugging the toxic Kool Aid.

"Do your fucking job," He snapped.

He led Troll to a street lamp's dim orange glow. The man was disoriented but not helpless. Shaking from drugs and the cold but also anger—at the cops, at murder, at his life? Something was going on in his head. Considering they'd roughed him up, belligerence wasn't surprising. What'd he seen?

The captive shifted, cuffed hands trembling. He tugged away. "Let me go, no cops, don't take me back, leave me alone . . . " His eyes radiated fear. He wasn't old, but living on the street had taken years from him.

Einar stared. Another eerie wave of familiarity hit him. Their paths had crossed, but where? "Look man, don't want to arrest you," he said. "We need to find the killer."

Troll eyed him.

"I hear you know what happened." He spoke in calm tones, hoping to lull the freaked soul into cooperation.

Troll nodded. "I . . . saw them."

"Who?"

"Saw them do it."

"Who?"

"Two. One slit her throat." He shivered. "Not making it up. A claw . . ."

Einar swore. "Can you identify them?"

"It slit her throat."

"I believe you."

"A demon. A monster."

Einar closed his eyes, remembering things he wanted to erase from his mind by force if necessary. The stories his grandfather had told, of monsters and supernatural beings in Snafellsnes' lava fields and glaciers. Once he'd enjoyed believing them, or convincing others he did—until he faced the real thing.

Monsters exist.

He didn't want to drag this wretch to the station. More holiday hours down the drain. He'd promised Allison he'd relax and leave work behind for a few days.

But they needed a statement. The man was a witness, first person who may have seen something at one of the scenes. Besides, his wounds had to be treated. Einar's gut told him—get the guy off the street. He was also stalling for time.

_Job is haunting you. Too many lost souls and dead bodies—they're melting together_.

A voice brought him back to the present. "Detective Hannesson, we're transporting the bodies to the morgue." A forensic tech eyed the witness but focused on the detective. "Marta says she'll have extra coffee for you, 6:00 AM."

"Thanks Olender." The ME's office had competent people due to Marta's thoroughness. Whoever approved hiring cops like Marlen and Arch should be fired. Cap would hear about them. Einar dropped the vial in a plastic evidence bag, stashed it in his pocket. Then he turned, hand on Troll's arm, and led him to his vehicle.

##  CHAPTER 2

## 2013 Christmas Eve

Troll squinted. An overhead lamp burned his eyes. His face ached and he was sweating. Needed a fix. Bad.

I'm screwed.

He hunched at a wood table in the interview room, cuffed hands twitching. The small space reeked of cigarettes, stale coffee and unwashed vagrant.

He stunk and knew it.

The detective stood across from him. A uniform watched the door. No one spoke. He leaned out, bent forward, glanced around and swore. Fidgeted in the metal seat. Couldn't get his skinny drug-addled ass comfortable. Shit, he'd tried to help. Why? He tugged at the cuffs.

Why couldn't they have killed me?

He bent his head and closed his eyes to block the screaming in his head.

Einar dragged a hand through his hair. God, the parade of wasted souls. The man was strung out, a dripping cadaverous mess. Every time their eyes met, he flinched.

"Sorry the cops shoved you around."

Troll glared.

"Yeah, I know. You don't want to be here. I get that. You go when I have answers. We'll get your face cleaned up. Must hurt." Einar unlocked the cuffs. Troll yanked his hands and rubbed them together. Einar sat and leaned forward. "What'd you see?"

"Told you."

"A monster. Give me details."

"They didn't believe me."

Arch and Marlen's incompetence made his job harder.

"They didn't listen. I'm high. Not stupid." He shoved hair out of his face. "They didn't like how I looked."

"You were standing over her—"

"Was sorry for her. No one deserves that. Checked for vital signs, see if I could do anything. Killers gotta be apprehended."

Odd lapse into altruism. Man was whacked out but tried to assist the victim. When did a homeless man use the word apprehended? "You wanted to help?"

"I . . . I don't know." He stammered. "Would've been wrong not to try."

"What'd they look like?"

Troll closed his eyes. "Monsters. Couldn't see them clear—human, but not. Gross. Slashing claws. Was over quick." He opened heavy lids again and stared. Rocked in his chair, hands shaking.

Einar undid his suit jacket and leaned back. Removed his glasses, closed his eyes and loosened his tie.

Damn people who kill on Christmas Eve. Damn the monsters and claws. I hate them. Really hate them. I should retire.

He'd been with Seward City PD for twenty-five years, twenty in homicide. Starting out, he'd relished the job, had been competitive, driven. Despite his parents' trepidation—they'd wanted him to stay and help with the fishing business they'd established in Blaine, Washington—he knew New York State was the place to be, to make a name and pursue law enforcement. It was also thousands of miles closer to Iceland, to home.

Einar was dedicated to the job. He'd become one of two senior detectives, broke six notorious murder cases, and had ten Commendations and a Medal for Meritorious Service to prove it. He'd only fired his gun three times and had never been injured. He was fortunate in that regard.

Partners were another matter. Early in his career, he'd worked with two men he'd liked and respected. One committed suicide. The other was killed in the line of duty after joining the NYPD. It left him wary of developing more than cordial distance with partners, which they interpreted as disregard. Michael had managed to scale his reserve. Then they encountered the monsters. He'd never had an unsolved case until them.

Since the explosion, he'd pondered retirement every day. Part of him died too. Job had become an albatross around his neck pulling him into a maelstrom he no longer wanted—shattered lives, bloated corpses, blood and chaos in a repeating cycle. If God existed, and Einar doubted it, he'd long ago abandoned sad assorted humanity to their fetid devices. Allison told him not to express his dark attitudes in public. Sometimes he listened. Wasn't easy. He hated managing staff, hated paperwork, hated forms and bullshit administrative crap. He preferred working alone. Maybe it was time to be done with people.

As a child, he loved Iceland—freedom, vast spaces. His family moved from Ólafsvík to Washington State after the Cod Wars in the mid 1970s, but he'd never felt whole in the states. Every summer until his grandfather died, they returned. He and his cousins ran wild in the countryside, teased each other with supernatural tales, spent days consumed with air and sea. Life was not clogged with people. College years at the University of Iceland only deepened his impressions. He longed for Snaefellsnes' isolated coast and scattered population, for home. What people did to each other revealed lies in humanity. They hated, cheated, killed. Better to be away from the mess.

He'd seen disintegration so many times, sorry phantoms on the garbage pile. Always ended the same. Get one off the street and more took their place.

Ironic—this filthy soul is damned and he's muttering about monsters.

Troll narrowed his eyes. "I've . . . seen you before."

"Probably. Get arrested often?"

"Never." He hesitated. "That I can remember."

"Unsurprising. Drugs erase brain cells." Einar looked straight at him.

"No, I swear—"

"Look. You and I don't run in the same crowd."

"Bite me, cop . . ."

"Not into that sort of thing. What're you on? Don't say nothing. I'm not stupid."

Troll shrugged. "Anything. Whatever."

"Need a better answer."

"Fine. Smack. Booze. Whatever's cheap, available . . . limited income, you know." He fiddled with jittery hands. "Don't mainline. No needles. Hate needles."

"Glad you have standards."

Troll eyed him. "Don't judge me." He slunk back and crossed his arms.

Pissing the guy off would get him nowhere. Einar turned to the uniform. "Officer Bent, two cups of coffee, black with sugar. Three if you want one." He needed caffeine and maybe a kind gesture would encourage cooperation. It'd been a long night, rotten start to the holiday. Didn't need to take it out on an addict. Only he knew what'd brought him to his current condition.

Einar put on his glasses. Studied the man's face. Agitation screamed addiction—he'd get loaded on shit as soon as he left. The facial scar must've come from a brutal confrontation. It traced an angry path along his cheekbone, splitting into several stab wounds before it disappeared into his beard. Another scar slashed across his throat above his collarbone—he looked liked he'd been garroted, hence the rasping speech. How'd a life go to hell? The man's hands were scarred, wounds slicing demented stripes across the backs of his fingers from knuckles to nails.

"Stop staring. Not a freak show," Troll muttered. His fingers tapped the table, a lost cadence from another life.

Einar shuddered. How'd homeless souls make it through a day, much less survive winter? He was insulated, had Allison as his rock . . .

Wait, those words. Not a freak show.

Someone else said it. After the monsters . . .

Christ.

It hit him, air sucked from the room. He stared.

Can't be.

The green eyes, tapping cadence and fear of needles. He wanted to help the vic, didn't know why. Flashes of recognition.

_Am I_ _seeing phantoms? Going crazy?_

He looked again.

Troll stared.

Michael.

He was thin and wasted but Einar was sure. _Hvað í fjandanum?_ What the hell?

"What's your name?"

Troll jerked his head. "What?"

"Your name."

He hesitated. "Troll."

Einar stared. Was it a sick joke?

"You know, trolls. Hide under bridges, creep in the shadows." He pulled his legs toward him.

"That's not a name. It's an insult. What's your name?"

I don't . . . got lots. Asshole. Junkie. Cops gave me new ones." He shrank back.

"No. Not names people call you."

Fingers pulled on a hank of matted bloody hair. "Only ones I got, cop."

Einar looked him in the eye. "Your real name."

"What's it matter?"

"Matters who you are." He began to reach across the table but hesitated.

Troll didn't answer.

"You don't know."

The door opened. Officer Bent returned with coffee, set cups on the table. Troll reached for one in a spasmodic jerk and cradled the Styrofoam in shaking hands, craving the warmth.

Einar took a breath. Christ, what had happened? For a moment, he wondered if he was hallucinating. If he moved, would the scene vanish?

"Fuck." Troll slurped the coffee, rubbed a filthy sleeve across his dirty bloodied face.

It jolted Einar to the present. Not a dream.

"Can I go?"

"How long have you lived on the street?"

"Since I can remember."

"Which is?"

"Don't . . . know."

"Year? Two years?"

"Don't know."

"Since a summer ago? Or last fall?"

A growl. "Don't. Know."

"How can you not—"

"Don't fucking know, cop! What do you think it means?" He lurched to his feet, spilling coffee. Officer Bent reached for his gun and Troll's eyes widened. Einar waved Bent off. Troll sank into his chair and sopped up the mess with his sleeve. "Fuck. Sorry, sorry . . . I'm sorry, sir, didn't mean to . . ."

"Calm down."

"Fucking wreck . . . burn a cop, get slammed . . . damn troll man gotta rotted head . . . "

Einar leaned forward. "It's okay. You've had a rotten evening." He put a hand on Troll's sleeve.

He yanked his arm away. "Yeah. Rotten."

"You've lived on the street for two years?"

"Don't know . . . just don't know. I crash in an alley, beg to stay loaded, avoid people. Streets suck, man. It's dangerous." He shivered. "Rats gnaw at you. Drugs sink you. People try to roll you, rob you, whatever. Freezing fucking cold. That's my life. Wanna die. All the time." He pointed a trembling finger. "You would, too. Guaranteed."

Einar shut his eyes, pressed fingers to his temple. Opened them in disbelief.

Troll's voice cracked. "I . . . have nightmares. Blood and violence. Monsters. Frightening shit—not much fucking memory."

Christ.

Einar felt himself slipping. "What do you remember?"

"Shit." Troll shuddered. "Last memory I have. Or first. Whatever, depends on how you look at it . . ."

"I get it. What do you recall?"

"Two years ago." He drifted into space. "Deep gouges in my arms, crushed legs, broken back. Slash in my face size of the Grand Canyon. I was broken. Been there a while. Don't remember. Should've died. Don't know what happened. Was out of it a long time. Docs patched me up and cops wanted to question me. I left. Didn't feel safe. Don't know why. Ended up here. Live in the alley, out of sight . . ." His description trailed off. He stared.

This wreck was supposed to be dead.

"Can I go?" Troll swallowed hard. "I . . . need a fix."

Einar closed his eyes.

Get a grip. He needs help.

"Let me go."

"You face is a mess. You need—"

"Wrong. Not your problem . . ."

"It is now." Einar stood. In two steps he was at his side.

"No." Troll tried to bolt. "Let me go. No hospital . . ."

"Isn't a choice." Einar snapped on cuffs and hauled him to his feet. "You need medical attention."

*

The urgent care center at the teaching hospital hummed with its usual nighttime clientele of college students, drunks, out-of-towners with sudden illness, and those avoiding the ER's costs. Florescent lights glowed, antiseptic smells lingered, a baby cried. Two old men slept on waiting room chairs, snoring. An old wall-mounted television flickered. Those waiting to get treated watched or ignored the white noise.

Einar flashed his badge and went to the top of the line. A weathered nurse in red scrubs led him and Troll, feet scraping the linoleum, to a curtained area past the waiting room. She motioned to a stainless steel gurney.

Frenzied, Troll shook his head. "No. No . . . no way . . ."

"Calm down." Einar tightened his grip.

"Hell of a Christmas, detective." The nurse glanced at him.

"Yeah." He sighed. "Help him out. Cuts must hurt like hell."

"Fuck, get away. Let me go!" Troll pushed Einar and jabbed an elbow into his gut. "Not again, I—"

Einar grabbed his shoulders, spun him around. "You're safe. Don't fight us."

The nurse motioned for security but Einar waved him off. He walked Troll to a corner, whispered to him, then returned him to the gurney.

With the nurse's help, they forced him to sit.

"No," Troll said. "Don't touch me. Get away. Don't do anything to me . . . "

Einar struggled to hold him still.

The nurse did not react to his appearance or belligerence. "When did the injury occur?" She recorded notes on an electronic tablet.

"Three hours ago. Crime scene witness. Ran into a rusty fence."

She probed his face with gloved hands. He flinched. "We'll get you stitched. Wounds are dirty. You'll need a tetanus shot."

"Don't like needles."

Einar glanced at him.

"Doesn't matter," the nurse said. "You impacted rusty metal. Means tetanus shot. You'd rather get the shot than infection, believe me. People die from lockjaw. It's not pleasant."

Troll yanked away, slid off the bed and bolted, cuffed hands stretched in front of him.

Einar corralled him with an arm around his chest. "You need help. Don't fight us." He steered him back to the gurney, hauling him up again. "We want to help."

"Can't . . . let go . . ."

"We'll be as gentle as possible," the nurse said. "No broken bones and your eyes are alright. Just facial lacerations. Have to shave off that beard and cut away matted hair to clean and disinfect the cuts. You'll need another shot—Lidocaine, local anesthetic. It'll sting, but you'll feel less pain when we suture the lacerations. Too deep for adhesive." She looked him in the eye. "It's going to hurt."

"Do whatever you have to," Einar said.

Troll shivered. "Easy for you to say, cop."

The nurse shifted his face and examined his wounds. She motioned for two assistants to help. Despite his protests, they removed his squalid coat, another worn flannel shirt, and rolled up a grungy sweatshirt sleeve. His forearms were a mess of red welts and knotted scar tissue.

Einar drew back. What had happened?

Troll tensed. Closed his eyes.

One assistant gave him the Lidocaine shot in his cheek. The other administered the tetanus shot in his upper arm. Einar gripped his trembling shoulders.

The medical personnel shaved his face and cleansed the wounds. With beard gone, he looked younger, scar shockingly visible along his gaunt face. Smaller fresh cuts streaked down his temple and cheek, longest one reaching the bridge of his nose. When they stitched the gashes, he winced and yelped in pain.

Einar squeezed his shoulders. "Sorry. She told you it'd hurt."

"Right, cop. No needles sticking in your face."

Einar stared at the floor. Must hurt like hell, even with Lidocaine.

Twenty-eight stitches and prescriptions for antibiotics and Vicodin later, the medical staff finished. Einar stepped aside to let the nurse get the pills. Troll edged off the gurney, unsteady. Einar grasped his arm and didn't let go when he tried to shake him off.

"Told you. Don't try to fight me. _Kyrr._ Calm down." No way was he bolting—street was out. Clean bandages covered his wounds. He looked like something out of a horror movie. Ironic. Michael would've appreciated that.

The nurse returned with a pill and a glass of water. She gave them to Troll, then turned to Einar and handed him two bottles of pills, gauze patches and printed instructions.

"He'll need another Vicodin when the local wears off," she said. "Antibiotics three times a day for ten days. Wounds cleaned twice daily for the first couple days. Signs of infection, return immediately. Wounds stay covered for the first twenty-four hours. Bring him back to have the sutures checked in four days. We'll be able to remove them then."

"Yes, ma'am," Einar said.

"It'll be rough when he starts to withdraw from whatever he's on." The nurse glanced at Troll then peered at Einar, eyes narrowed. "Detective, do you know what you're doing? He should be in a rehab facility. I can call with a advance notice at Detox."

"He's coming with me."

"I'm guessing he's not well situated for follow-up care in his home in the suburbs." She crossed her arms. "You should call social services."

"No." He looked at her. "I've got it." He reached for the dirty shirt and coat, then stopped and handed them to her. "Throw these away." He took off his coat and draped it around Troll. It hung from his shoulders to the floor.

"I'll take care of it." The nurse shook her head. "He got lucky tonight. You've gone above and beyond the call of duty. Merry Christmas."

Thanks." Einar walked to the checkout counter with reluctant charge in tow, paid with his personal credit card and headed for the exit.

Troll pulled away. "Said . . . I wasn't . . . under arrest," he mumbled, face dulled by anesthetic.

"You're not." Einar didn't let go.

"Please."

"Sorry. You're stuck with me." He wrapped his fingers around the chain between Troll's cuffed hands and led him through the door. "You're not going to die in the alley doped on painkillers." They trudged through the snow-covered parking lot. Wind whipped clouds of flakes into dervishes.

Einar opened the passenger door of a battered Range Rover with improvised two-tone paint. "Get in."

"Let me go. Wanna sleep it off."

"No." Einar shook his head, shivering without his coat. "You need help. No getting juiced again. Could freeze to death."

"It'd be preferable."

A chill crept through Einar and not because of the cold.

"Freezing to death'd be peaceful. There, then gone. Other things haven't worked. Keep trying. Already dead inside. Why should the outside be different? But, fuck. I'm still alive."

Einar shoved him into the seat.

"Fuck, you're worse than the other cops. What do you want?"

"Nothing." Einar blocked the open door. Laid hands on his shoulders, pinning him in place. Surreal. Here he was, on a frigid night begging the wreck of his dead partner to let him help while the guy wanted to die in an alley. A car edged out of the lot, tires spinning. The driver stared at the couple fighting in the snow.

Great. We're on display.

"What are you? Some whacko pervert asshole? Let me go."

"Yeah. I'm a whacko. Who doesn't want you rotting in the cold." Einar took a breath. "Trust me. I believe you about monsters. Doesn't that count?"

"I guess." He sank into the seat, pain meds kicking in.

"Let me help."

"Why?"

"Need a reason?"

Troll slumped and shook his head. Docile. Drugged.

Einar undid the cuffs, tossed them into the back seat and closed the door. He jogged around the vehicle's front and climbed into the driver's side, brushing snow off his suit jacket. He slammed the door and turned to his passenger. Jesus, whatever was left of Michael looked like hell. "Give me a chance, okay? Buckle your seat belt."

The vehicle left the city, crossed the steel-span bridge and wove through the maze of overpasses. It headed onto the highway following two solitary tire tracks open in a sea of white. Snow flew horizontal in the headlights. Wiper blades struggled to keep the front window clear.

A small plastic troll with bulging eyes and spiked blue hair dangled from the rear view mirror. It had strange red insignia scrawled on it.

Troll pointed. "Fuck. It's a troll."

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"A . . . friend . . . gave it to me. For protection."

Troll looked flummoxed.

Einar glanced at him. "Let's get this straight. You're not a troll. In Iceland, they're giant, dim, foul-tempered man eaters."

"Oh."

"You're none of those."

Silence.

"Okay?"

"How do you know?"

"You're not giant or stupid. Do you eat people?"

Troll looked at him. "Fuck, no."

"There you go. Not a troll."

Silence. The highway led to less populated territory, only light coming from the rover's headlights. Outside, forest and snow.

"Why do you care?"

"Christmas. You know? Peace on Earth, angels, elves, the Twelve Yule lads and all that shit. We've covered trolls."

He raised an eyebrow. "Didn't realize it was Christmas . . . " He stopped. "Guess I shouldn't discuss drug deals with a cop."

"Perhaps not."

"Doesn't matter on the street. Never know the day. Don't do Christmas anyway."

"No?" At least he still had humor. "Not surprised."

More silence.

"Whatever killed them . . . "

"Yeah?"

"Wasn't human."

## CHAPTER 3

## 2011 Late September

The girls sprinted the dirt road to the weedy cut bordering the railroad tracks. They shouted and followed a spur paralleling the river, pushing and shoving to gain advantage. Fall leaves swirled and crunched under their feet. They jumped the worn tracks, gangly legs clearing rotted ties, and halted near clustered pines and a large sycamore. Branches spread skyward and white-blotched bark reflected early evening sunlight. Two girls laughed and joked, panting and exhilarated. The third pouted.

"I win! Beat you both," yelled the small blond girl in neon pink sneakers. She raised her hand and pumped her fist in the air.

"Nuh Uh. I won. You cheated." The taller girl tugged her ponytail and smoothed her brown hair. "You always cheat, Lisa."

"Please, Margie. You both cheat." The third girl bent over, picked up a green walnut and threw it at the tree. It splatted and bounced off the trunk, rolling to the ground. The smell of fragrant husk permeated the air.

"Hey, Denise, let's go to the river," Lisa Volner said, the blond, the leader. She always came up with the ideas and had the biggest mouth. Denise, in blue nylon jacket and neon green sneakers, nodded.

"I can't do that," Margie said. "My mom says not to get close to the water. She'll kill me. Riverbed shifts and people drown. Remember last summer—the ambulance came screaming down the road? Timmy Brown drowned when he went swimming with friends. Don't want to see floating bodies." Margie Fitte shuffled her feet, head downcast.

"That's stupid." Lisa glared. "You're not gonna see a body." She snorted and dismissed Margie with a wave of her hand.

"Chicken." Denise chimed in. "Margie is a chicken."

Lisa turned and headed down the shallow bank from the sycamore, passing the rusted shell of an abandoned Dodge truck. Flecks of blue paint had faded to mottled grey and weeds climbed out its busted windows. Lisa wove her way through tall grass, flinging branches aside, Denise on her heels. Margie sighed and followed, trudging a pace behind. They wandered single file along the rocky shore, stepping over fallen logs and river debris, leaving footprints in the muddy sand.

"What if we find a dead person?" Margie couldn't let it go.

Lisa rolled her eyes. "We're not gonna find a body." God. Margie worried all the time about finding dead bodies. She was so weird.

"What if we do?"

"Shut up," Denise said.

"Dummy." Lisa shook her head.

Lisa and Denise looked at each other and rolled their eyes. Margie was annoying. She whined about everything. She'd even whined when they went to see Moneyball at the Strand—okay, the movie was boring, Lisa admitted later—but they got free popcorn, free Junior Mints, and Brad Pitt was in it. Margie didn't like the movie, the popcorn, the candy, the soda, and complained her seat was broken. She was a total whiner.

Lisa whispered to Denise. They ignored Margie and kept walking, jabbering about boys, school, clothing, boys, and the latest pop song. Denise picked up a long maple stick and traced a line in the muddy bank as they passed, smacking it into a messy pattern.

The sun dipped low and red in the sky. Brown bats began their forays. Lisa decided to turn around. They'd wandered as far as they could go before the river took a steep bend into rocky terrain. They wouldn't be able to see the path once it got dark. Yesterday, Denise's older brother swore that the abandoned truck was haunted. Besides, Lisa's mom warned she'd better get home in time to go to parent's night at school. Her teacher wanted to discuss her behavior toward other kids in the cafeteria, especially the incident with the cheese pizza.

"Come on," Lisa said. "Turn around! Let's head back. It's getting dark. My mom's not gonna be happy . . . " She and Denise turned around in exaggerated high steps, laughing, pushing one another into the weeds. They marched the way they'd come, in lockstep along the trail. Margie tagged along at a distance, face glum.

"Let's run back." Lisa mimicked running in place and breaking a finish line ribbon. Denise laughed.

"Come on." Margie stopped in her tracks, lips pursed. "Don't need to run. I don't wanna race . . ."

"Baby, baby, Margie is a baby." Denise turned and made faces. "Baby whiner Margie."

"Am not," Margie said.

"Please," Lisa said, "you so are."

Lisa and Denise broke into a trot, giggling. Margie lagged behind, feet kicking pebbles along the path.

After a while, Lisa and Denise stopped and turned around. They didn't see Margie. They had to squint to see the trail. Lisa heard a rustle in the bushes. Maybe a possum had passed through the weeds. Or Margie was being annoying.

"Margie. Quit messing around." Lisa narrowed her eyes and cupped her hand over her brow.

"We need to get home." Denise yelled into the weeds. "Don't mess with us."

No answer. Denise and Lisa looked at each other.

"Margie, stop it." Lisa marched back. "You're never coming again. I mean . . ."

A flash of light, a scream. Quick. Efficient.

Lisa was gone.

Silence.

Denise didn't wait to see what happened. She ran like hell.

*

He watched from the shadows, crouched on a boulder. Cops converged. Of course the girl ran and told her parents. Crybaby. A team of uniforms followed the trail, crossed the tracks and found the body along the rails. Two more headed to the riverbank and came upon the other one.

He'd drained their blood and dismembered them. Cursed that he'd let one get away, but he'd not needed her and she hadn't seen him. He'd fed with abandon, gluttony splattering flesh everywhere, on the tracks, rocks and in the weeds. Crime scene would be a bitch to process.

He smiled—their problem.

Fall leaves' scent mingled with the metallic tang of blood and death. Wind rippled the water. He licked his lips, jumped off the boulder and slipped through heavy brush. More cops. He smiled. Sharp teeth glinted in the moonlight.

He enjoyed being spectator to the crime scene. Uniforms cordoned it off. One cop dogged everyone entering with a login sheet and made all arriving personnel sign it. Two detectives crouched under the tape and approached the first uniform on the scene, stepping with caution. They walked a grid search pattern, uniform accompanying them. She placed small markers where they found bits of flesh, evidence to be examined by forensic techs.

The detectives crouched by the blond girl's body, one leg attached. A pink shoe hung off the foot. The tall detective, well dressed and efficient, motioned to the girl's head with a gloved hand, examining the gash in her neck. The younger detective, slender and less put together, looked pale. But he was intense, focused, jotting notes and snapping photos before placing paper bags around her hands. A woman in grey rain jacket, ID badge on a lanyard around her neck, came up beside them. They stood, removed gloves and shook her hand. She crouched and motioned for two forensic techs.

Uniforms expanded the perimeters. The detectives left the first body and headed to examine the other victim.

He watched.

They conversed. The woman rejoined them. The tall detective crossed his arms and looked around the river bend, surveying the crime scene's scope. The young detective pointed. The second body hung in a tree, almost decapitated, guts hanging from a low branch. They stepped over logs and debris, clambered over rocks and approached the bank. A uniform and the forensic techs followed.

"Arch, no one moves them until Marta gives the okay," the young detective said. "No one touches them. She'll tell her techs to bag them. However long it takes. Right, Marta?"

The woman nodded, said a few quiet words.

The tall detective scowled. "No unnecessary personnel. Give the techs space to dust for prints—anything they might have touched, been dragged over. No press. Don't care about excuses." He turned to her. "Will the autopsies be priority in the morning?"

Again, she nodded.

The detectives left her and followed the river. They paced, tracking the ground. Voices echoed. More photographs, more notes.

He shadowed them in the brush and then shifted to the far bank, moving north. Witnessing the aftermath was interesting. But he had prey to stalk.

## CHAPTER 4

## 2011 Early October

He dashed through the rain, hands in pockets. Dodged puddles and crossed the street, getting soaked. His eyes darted from one business to another while a million comments ran through his head, all sarcastic. Einar was going to pay for this.

There, next to the building with sagging awning. He wiped hair out of his eyes and tugged his coat collar.

Detective Michael Lewis shook his head and smiled.

You wanted this life. Suck it up. No complaints about working on a rainy Saturday.

He'd joined the force after graduating from Boston College. As a kid, he dreamed of being an explorer, wandering to places unknown—but that'd been before Billy disappeared. At sixteen, smart-mouthed and bright but alienated, he wanted to be drummer for Green Day or The Offspring. He and friends spent hours in Bruno's dive basement, pounding out songs, yelling raunchy lyrics and drinking cheap beer. But hot alt bands weren't hiring in Western Massachusetts.

For the hell of it and because his mother disapproved, he majored in Criminal Justice and Philosophy. After college, searching for direction, he went to a job fair and spoke with police reps. Father had been an FBI agent and grandfather a Boston cop. It made sense. Was inevitable, like gravitational pull into the family vortex.

He proved an ambitious academy cadet—if a bit hyperactive. Making up for misspent youth is what he called it. He joined Seward City and rose through the ranks, serving with distinction in a series of narcotics investigations, including two stints undercover. Wasn't a stretch. He knew alienation and drug culture, played the roll well. Two years ago, he'd made detective third grade. So now he was running through the rain meeting Einar Hannesson for reasons unexplained over the phone.

End of the block—Rauleaux's Books. He sprinted across the street. Pushed hair out of his eyes again and took the steps two at a time to the building's front porch. Shook his coat, grasped the brass handle and pushed.

The heavy wooden door creaked. Silver bells on the handle jingled. The shop smelled of leather, brittle paper and weathered wood.

An old woman at the sales counter looked up and smiled. "Welcome to Rauleaux's. Can I help you?"

"Thanks," he said. "I'm meeting someone. Tall, grey and over-caffeinated. Where are your weird books?"

She laughed. "In the back. He's there. My best customer."

"Not surprised."

"Let me know if you need anything." She motioned to a bookshelf filled with recent publications and popular hardcovers. A hand-written sign declared Staff Favorites. She handed him a bookmark with the store logo. "Make time for a good book. Stay and browse. Better than being out in that rain."

"True." Michael smiled, put it in his pocket.

"Mikey, back here," called a voice from the store's rear.

He rolled his eyes. He hated the nickname so Einar used it all the time, saying it kept the young guy on his toes.

He headed in the direction of the voice. Wandered two aisles over, through literary classics, military history and cookbooks, then turned the corner, ducking low to dodge an exposed ceiling beam. He shook his head. Einar sat in a worn leather chair in the store's Cryptozoology and Medieval Myths section, large coffee in one hand and book about _Bigfoot in America_ in the other, a garish roaring hominid monster on its cover.

"Hey Mikey. Love the wet hair look." Einar peered up from his reading.

"What's with casual wear? Can't recall the last time I didn't see you in a suit."

"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 much. 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.

"Not everything's understandable," Laina said.

"Monsters, trolls and Bigfoot do not exist." Michael shook his head. "I tolerate you, but hello, monster man? We live in the twenty-first century, not the fifteenth."

"What difference does that make?" Einar smiled. Michael's bewilderment was obvious. He deserved credit for remaining there.

"Don't bullshit me. You believe this stuff?"

" _Ég get ekki að puí gert,"_ Einar said. "Can't help it." His grandparents swore elves and trolls lived in lava fields along the road to Ólafsvìk. His parents didn't disbelieve it. Hell, even now some Icelanders tried to halt highway construction projects claiming they interfered with elf habitat. One nation's weird was another's normal.

"Not seeing things doesn't mean they aren't there," Laina said.

"Like God and radio waves," Einar countered.

"Or gravity." Laina glanced at her cousin and laughed.

"Proof. You're deluded." Michael raised an eyebrow.

"Never said I wasn't."

"But he's smart." Laina smiled. "Best cop on your force."

Michael shook his head. "Yeah. And crazy. Can't believe we're having this conversation."

Laina wasn't angry. "Michael, you're right to be skeptical. I'm not saying beyond a doubt that monsters are flying around murdering children."

"But they might be," Einar said.

Laina ignored him. "Someone knows this lore, studies mythology. They might be using it to commit crimes. Descriptions of light flashes that resemble corpse candles, the forty-day time frame, the violence—it ties to cultural myths."

"Corpse candles?"

"Yeah, spectral—"

"Don't." Michael rubbed his face. "Too much."

"Someone's using obscure mythological and pre-Christian ideas. They travel," Laina said, "suggesting an educated, intelligent socially marginal nonconformist."

Michael pointed to Einar. "Laina, that's your cousin."

She laughed. "Can't argue the point."

"Mikey, I'm hurt," Einar slumped in mock dismay. "Betrayal. After everything I've taught you."

"You mean, subjected me to?"

"Yeah. I'm weird. Hell, I revel in it, but you owe me beer for that. Good beer."

"When do I buy you bad beer?"

Laina looked at them. "Seriously, gentlemen, you never know what lurks out there. We don't corner the market on the world's mysteries. Who knows? Maybe creatures exist . . ."

"You're crazy." Michael stared. "I can't fathom it. I don't believe you."

"Stay in homicide long enough, you see the worst humans do," Einar said. "Reinforces ideas about evil. People are monsters, capable of acts that make gods and devils gasp."

"Dark and philosophical, Detective Hannesson," Michael said. "Sure everyone in the division wants to hear it. How about at next staff meeting?"

"Good luck with that." Einar didn't talk much at department meetings anymore because it usually didn't go well.

"Michael," Laina said. "Admit it, darkness and evil are possible. Didn't you believe in as a child? Scary stories and legends often have basis in fact. "

"Come on." Einar poked him. "You've spent your share of time in the realm of ghosts, ghouls, and haunted houses. You converse too well about it—gives you away."

Michael scratched his head. "Yeah, that shit interested me—and creepy places no one dared enter. But North Adams sucked for fifteen year-olds. I was bored as hell. Any hole rumored to be haunted, game on, something to do."

"Right," Einar eyed him. "Just a distraction. Never tried to scare anyone?"

Laina watched them.

"Never said that." Michael grinned. "South of North Adams, old railroad tunnel through a mountain." He relaxed into the booth. "Hoosac Tunnel. Almost five miles long. Built in 1800s to connect Upstate New York and Boston."

"You're a fount of knowledge." Einar smirked. "My history professor partner."

Michael ignored him. "Dragged kids there to scare them. Men died building it. Had to blast through the mountain—fires, explosion, drowning, all sorts of nasty ways to perish below ground. Nicknamed bloody pit. Rumored to be haunted."

Laina smiled. "You have some dark explorer in you, too."

"I suppose . . . anyway, me and a friend took another kid one Saturday to see how far we could get. Was used for freight—still is today—and posted with NO TRESPASSING signs. Added to the challenge. People got killed every year."

"Didn't you think about that?" Einar eyed him.

"No. Course not. We started walking. It was cold, dank, slimy, smelled of surfaces that never saw the sun. Unnerving, crawling below the earth. Got an hour in, freaking each other out, whispering about ghosts and eyes in the dark. Then the kid who'd never been in it, Ritchie Vortner, swore a hand grabbed his feet. He turned and ran. Bolted. When we caught up with him, he'd pissed his pants. Never lived that down. We went home coated with tunnel dust. We lied but it was obvious where we'd been. Grounded for a month. Can still hear my stepfather yelling that we should've been arrested for trespassing." He dropped his voice low in imitation. "You shits should spend a night behind bars. Train shoulda hit ya. Cops'll bust your worthless punk asses."

Einar raised an eyebrow. Michael's mimicking was rueful.

Michael shrugged. "He wasn't going to stop us . . ."

"Was there something in there?" Einar glanced at him.

"Who knows? If a place was haunted, it'd be that tunnel."

"A shred of belief." Einar crossed his arms. "I win."

"It wasn't a contest." Laina smiled. "You don't have to win everything."

"Whatever . . ." Michael hesitated. "Enough memory lane crap."

"You're so sentimental," Einar said.

Michael ignored him. "Back to the case. Suggestions of other sources to explore?"

"I'll send you a list when I return to Stockholm. My field's a small area of study and we consulted colleagues in other Nordic universities.... but didn't find firm connections to the Oslo or Stockholm crimes."

"Without clues, prints or evidence, it's difficult to generate supernatural leads," Einar said.

"Shut up," Michael smiled and shook his head. "Shit. You are strange."

"Gentlemen," Laina touched Einar's hand. "I have to get back to the Hilton for a panel discussion in an hour. Review the files. Relay questions. Wanted to help if I could." She stood and they followed. "Einar, tell Allison I said hello. If I have time, I'll stop by. This schedule change was last minute, my time is tight." She turned to Michael. "You've persevered longer than others in his world. Maybe there's hope . . ." She hugged him. "A pleasure meeting you and sympathies on putting up with my cousin. "

"No sympathy needed. He's interesting. Weird, yeah, but I gravitate toward odd."

Einar gave her a hug. "Good luck with the panel. Stop by if you can, even after midnight. We'll pull out the Brennevín and tie one on like the summer before grad school."

She blushed.

Einar's cell rang. A brief conversation ensued, his face clouded. He hung up.

"Mikey, let's go. Another murdered child north of the city."

## CHAPTER 5

## 2011 Early October

The river stretched before them, an undulating liquid ribbon, deep in places, shallow and riffled in others. Thick pine forest and steep rock ledges bordered it in the distance. Most nights would have been peaceful, mesmerizing with flowing water and shifting reflections. Not tonight. Large construction lights erased the darkness, blotting out the moon's shine.

They descended a shallow embankment to access the scene, spread beyond the parking lot and picnic area. Einar went first and Michael followed, grabbing branches to avoid falling along the muddy makeshift path. He tried to concentrate, to forget earlier conversation. Good luck with that. Demons? Monsters?

Marta was there with a forensic tech, documenting locations of splattered body pieces. She led the detectives on a grisly tour.

"Watch your step." She pointed to the ground. "Bits and pieces of the poor kid are everywhere. Worse than the last one. Parents found her. Happened while they were by the picnic tables." She knelt at a pile of flesh that was once a small human torso. Gaping wounds exposed organs, entrails dragging, large bite marks evident but oddly bloodless. Next to a large rock, the child's head sprawled half in and half out of the water. Ripped away at the neck. The eyes remained open, clouded and unseeing. Severed limbs lay in all directions.

"Jesus. Who did this to a child?" Michael's mouth was dry and his heart pounded. Again, he was sick to his stomach, glad he'd had only coffee in the last few hours. He swore to himself that he wouldn't puke. Again. He'd never live that down. The most disturbing crime scene he'd ever seen. Who ripped a kid's guts out with abandon?

"Someone . . . or something," Einar said.

Michael ignored him and turned to Marta. "How'd they do so much damage so fast?"

"Don't know. He—it—tore her to pieces in a feeding frenzy." She hesitated. "Don't know what else to call it. Very little blood left. Found human tissue as far as the rocks along the middle eddy. Kill site is on the shore, but not far from the water. It appears . . . if I didn't know better . . . that it drank her blood."

"So mutilation was done after death." Einar crossed his arms.

"Yes." Marta stood. "The question is why. We'll do what we can to get the pieces back to the lab. We're working against time. Gets dark earlier and remains are strewn like confetti. Tomorrow's forecast is rain. Doesn't help. No footprints, no drag marks. Strange killer."

" _þetta er sjálfsagt_ ," Einar said, voice soft. "Goes without saying. No drag . . . she was killed as soon as it took her."

"Parents said she was out of their sight for a moment."

"How'd they grab a child, kill and dismember so fast?" Michael jerked his head around to face Marta. "You're saying it climbed rocks, hugged the shore, grabbed her, killed her, gutted her . . . " He ran his hands through his hair. "Drained her blood and left? Without leaving a mark?"

"Yes," Marta nodded.

"Shit. Don't envy you," Einar said.

Michael was silent. Nothing running through his head was appropriate to say out loud.

"And you're the pair that caught the case." She glanced from one to the other. Her eyes stayed on Michael. "We're in this together. Our karma sucks."

Einar nodded. "Won't argue with that. But I have faith in your skills. Let us know what you find out."

"Hmm. Glad you have faith." She touched Michael's sleeve. "You okay?"

"He'll live." Einar gave him an appraising look. "I'll make sure of it."

Marta squeezed his arm. "It's a bad one, Michael. Takes a while to build up your armor."

"I'm alright . . . " He wasn't even convincing himself.

"At least you're in competent hands. I'll call with results when we have them."

Marta left to continue her work.

Einar headed to the river. "Come on, Mikey, just focus on the scene."

Michael willed himself out of his confused stupor. Had to be trace evidence. He shook his head, followed Einar, and tried to concentrate. They stopped at the water's edge. Beyond the lights, the river disappeared into darkness. He drummed fingers nonstop on his leg, each tap a disjointed thought. Another dead kid. What created carnage then walked away? Where did it go? It? How could it be an it?

"I know what you're thinking." Einar stood beside him. "What lurks out there?"

"Who. Who lurks." Michael forced monsters out of his mind. God, be professional. "Press'll devour this story when they hear about another dead child. Won't be able to suppress it for long." He stared across the river.

Why here of all places?

"It's evil." Einar sighed. "How do we explain that?"

"Shit."

"You know, it's okay to admit it has you freaked."

Michael looked up at him. Christ, what was he, telepathic? "I'm fine."

"Right. You looked like a deer in the headlights back there. Marta doesn't miss much."

"I'm alright." He walked away.

Einar caught up with him. "Calm down. Let's get this done."

They asked a uniform about the witnesses. She pointed to a patrol car. The dead girl's parents sat in the back, father silent and mother weeping. Einar leaned into the open passenger door and Michael took the front.

"Mr. and Mrs. Rithen . . . "

They seemed not to hear.

"Detectives Einar Hannesson and Michael Lewis. So sorry for your loss."

"She was nine." Her voice had a strangled quality to it.

Michael closed his eyes. Same age as Billy.

"We understand this is difficult. But we need to ask some questions."

"Told her not to go to the water." Sarah sobbed.

"Water didn't do this," the father growled, not looking at her.

"She wouldn't listen. If she had listened, if only—"

"Sarah, a maniac got her!" Tom trembled with rage. He turned to Einar and Michael, his fists clenched. "Get this monster. Why is he on the loose? Can't cops catch him?"

Questioning ensued without helpful information. Recriminations flew, anger and grief co-mingled. Sarah cried and Tom yelled, but neither had seen anything out of the ordinary. They'd heard a scream and ran toward it.

One scream.

Thinking each parent might be more approachable without the other, Michael took the mother aside and Einar spoke the father—but neither remembered unusual details. They didn't know what happened, other than their child was gone in an instant. Sarah repeated that she told Carla not to wander, not to go too far away, not to chase the ducks. Tom directed his anger at his wife and the failure of the police to catch the killer.

When Sarah and Tom returned to the patrol car, anguished shouting began again. Michael bent his head. Einar pulled aside two uniforms, whispered to them. They separated the parents into two patrol cars.

Michael and Einar walked to their vehicle.

"Collateral damage, " Einar said. "Christ, losing a child. This family won't survive tragedy without more human carnage. Familiar story."

Michael didn't say anything.

*

Einar made Michael drive back to the city. Wanted to give him something concrete to focus on.

Instead, he detoured. "I need a drink."

Einar glanced at him. He was tense, not his talkative amused self. His hands gripped the steering wheel hard, knuckles white. Unease had been etched on his face as they studied the victim, agitation in constant tapping as they walked the river.

What was going on?

Michael sped through a maze of back roads edged by pines, then pulled into the gravel parking lot of the Wandering Trail Inn. Einar'd never heard of it. The paint-peeling ramshackle dive sat low-slung on a desolate road, faded sign listing to ground, victim of careless drivers and distracted snowplows. Odd. Why'd he know of it?

They stepped inside. The dim space smelled of grease and unwashed souls, stale beer and lingering cigarette smoke. The woman on duty for bar and restaurant motioned them to sit where they wanted—at the bar or any of three battered knotty pine tables with red faux leather benches. A dust-covered faded stuffed beaver stood atop a 1950's cigarette machine in the corner. A hand-lettered sign exclaimed Taxidermy by Bambi. He hoped Bambi had a day job.

"Excellent choice." Einar scratched his neck, looked around. Two patrons with glassy eyes gave a cursory once over before they returned to drinking. Three old men didn't bother to turn around, lost in alcohol oblivion. Einar tapped Michael's shoulder. "Nice place, Mikey, come often?"

"You have your strange. I have mine."

"What does that mean?"

"I need to . . . get the crime scene out of my head."

"True. But here?"

"It's anonymous. No one bothers you. They respect privacy."

"That's antisocial."

Michael headed through the bar, distracted. Einar shook his head and followed. He didn't always notice their age difference. But sometimes, like tonight, inexperience and youthful stubborn impatience reminded him—his partner was young enough to be his son. He caught up and tapped Michael's sleeve. "Sad view of humanity. God help you when you're fifty. You'll be worse than me."

"So what." Michael walked to a booth, hands in his pockets.

"Come on. Give your fellow man a chance."

"No." He spun around and leaned close, voice low. "I spent half the evening listening to crazy talk. Then walked a scene where a human blender tore a twelve year old into a million chewed pieces. Ripped off her head. Drank her blood." He sank into the booth.

"Michael—."

"Humanity sucks."

"Time out, Michael. Answer me. You okay?" Einar eyed him. "You don't look good." Brutal realism was crushing the last shreds of idealism. Child murders could do that. His first case involving children had been decades ago. He'd been disgusted at the senseless death. It'd left him temporarily unmoored, but had been tame compared to what they'd seen tonight.

"No," Michael said. "Of course I'm not. Should I be? You know, like, what the hell, another corpse—"

"Mi—"

"Fuck. Three eviscerated kids, nothing to go on."

"It's hard." Einar looked him in the eye. "Listen to me. Distance yourself."

"Yeah."

"Understand? It's not in your control."

Michael didn't reply.

"Don't let it eat you. Too many guys bottle it up. Corrodes them from the inside." His first partner had overdosed on heroin stolen from evidence control. Einar had found him and the suicide note. Hadn't seen it coming. Took it hard.

Michael shrugged. "People snap. It happens. Life is ugly."

"It's not a given. Isolation makes it worse . . . Get it?"

"Don't drink alone—that your point? Dive bars are my therapy."

"Not therapy." Einar shook his head. "Shit. Might as well be alone in a place like this. Besides, excessive drinking is a bad plan." He knew. After the suicide, he'd been through the drink–to–oblivion–to–blot–it–out phase, and could vouch with authority that it didn't work.

Michael shrugged, eyes downcast.

"Christ Mikey, don't be stubborn."

"No lectures."

He sighed. Damn case. Michael got wound up in it fast. But it was the kind that twisted minds. Wasn't like him, far removed from his laid back, laconic character, the funny smart-mouth.

Einar had seen it in a brief interaction they became partners, five years earlier. Michael was a narcotics cop, working a task force with the Investigative Division on a series of drug murders. During a painful morning briefing, Einar commented that Detective Phil Cresson sounded like Rodan, flapping his hands and spewing protocol like atomic waste. Several cops didn't get the reference. But someone did. They snickered and squawked, imitating the pterodactyl's cries in the cheesy Japanese horror movie. Einar looked up. Two fresh-faced narcotics cops stared aghast at the small dark-haired cohort who stood between them. Most young cops avoided contact with Iceland, hearing the stories. But the kid looked at Einar and smirked.

Cresson, not amused, turned red. He ranted about lack of respect and smacked the head of the nearest uniform he assumed had made the sound. When the meeting ended, Einar walked by the young cop and said, 'Nice Rodan.' 'You called it,' the kid whispered. 'I just added sound effects.' Einar laughed. He sometimes wondered if the Captain, who'd attended that meeting, noticed the exchange and later viewed it as a sign that the pairing might work.

But Michael's humor evaporated with this case. Einar had seen it before with young guys—they thought they were tough, could handle it, didn't know how bad it could get until an especially vicious crime landed on them. Then they freaked. Still, Einar was surprised. Michael never seemed the type.

Time to get his mind off it. "Agreed, no lectures. Anyway, I make you listen to my crypto-creature interests. Bigfoot is my therapy."

"Bigfoot's not therapy. You're weird. It's disturbing."

Einar leaned back, crossed his arms. "Proving—I know disturbed when I see it."

Michael raised an eyebrow, opened his mouth.

"I'm serious, please—"

"I get it." He pulled his legs up on the seat. Wrapped his arms around his knees, interlocking his fingers. "Don't freak out or crack up. Don't go postal."

Einar exhaled. "All I'm saying, don't take the darkness home. It'll burrow into your head. Take up residence." Was he listening? "Talk to someone. Me. Kait. Loki. Al. Don't swallow it until you break."

Michael leaned back, head knocking the wall.

"I don't want to have to peel your mashed skull out of a wrecked vehicle, or . . . " he caught himself. He'd said no lectures. "Self-destruction isn't pretty."

Michael stared and stretched his legs out. Mussed his fingers through his hair. "Jesus, calm down, okay?"

"Okay? That means you understand?"

"Yes." His shoulders sagged. "You're right."

"I just want to make sure—"

"If you see me sliding down that hole?"

"Yeah?"

"Slap me and pull me out of it."

"Agreed," Einar said. "But only in an emergency. Prefer to leave slapping to Kait if you enjoy it. I'm not into that kind of thing."

"Right." Michael finally smiled. "That's astute."

The bartender approached and handed them plastic-coated menus, greasy from perusal by drunken hands. They ordered beers.

"It'll be a minute, guys." She wiped her hands on a towel. "Short staffed tonight."

Einar studied the clientele. A bleach blond in flowered shirt and ripped jeans downed shots with two leather-jacketed men. Every few minutes, she stepped behind the bar to refill a patron's drink or ring up a bill. Bartender headed to the kitchen, asked the blond to help a drunk add up his tab. Nice. Inebriation and poor mathematics skills didn't preclude him from drinking—he just needed a hand.

A scraggly guy in faded New York Mets shirt sat at a nearby table. He mouthed off to the blond. She swore. He flipped her the finger.

"Don't you give me the bird," she yelled. "I'm your fucking mother. I brought you into this world, sonny, and I can take you outta it."

Everyone looked up.

Einar flashed his badge. She narrowed her eyes, hair fluttering, and sauntered to the booth, hands splayed on ample hips. "Problem, policeman?"

Michael had a look of 'what-the-hell-are-you-thinking' on his face.

"No ma'am." Einar returned her gaze. "Friendly reminder. No killing your children in the bar. Filicide is frowned on in New York State."

She leaned over the booth. "Huh?"

He gave his best smile. "Want to kill your son? Don't do it in the bar. Take it outside."

She thought for a moment and then laughed, a guttural sound—harsh but sincere. "Good one. He's my baby. Pisses me off. But he's family. Least I know where he is when he's at the Trail." She slammed Einar on the back. "Cop with humor. I like it." She motioned for the bartender to pour three shots. Blonde fetched them, set two in front of Einar and Michael.

"Drink up bitches." She tossed it back.

Michael stifled a laugh and downed it. Einar followed. Southern Comfort. Not his favorite, but he wasn't going to refuse a peace offering. She saluted and returned to the bar to the ribbing of her companions.

Einar raised an eyebrow. "Charming—life and death, summed up from a bar stool. Hell of a family portrait."

"Every family's different." Michael shrugged. "But she's right. She knows where he is. And she cares."

Strange response. Case was terrible, but there was more to it. Einar fingered the table edge. "Mikey, why come here? It's depressing. This isn't just about the dead girls. What's going on?"

"Nothing."

"Right . . ."

"Place like this, I can relax. People are authentic. You see them as they are, like it or leave it."

"That appeals to you—why?"

"It's unfiltered." He leaned forward on the sticky tabletop, chin on the back of his hand. "People lie every day. We see their worst—their cheating, murderous selves. Need an antidote. No fancy bars with girlie drinks, hottie parades and meat market display, watching fakers posture and fawn."

"Agreed about girlie drinks. I'd go for the parades. But is this different?" He gestured, hand outstretched. "These people are posturing, honing edges to keep others out—"

"Whatever. It's nostalgic."

A dank dive nostalgic? Disconcerting—it reminded him of himself all those years ago, adrift after arriving in Seward City to take the job, making it to homicide, but then wondering what the hell he'd done, why he'd defied his parents' wishes to stay in the family business. After Dillon killed himself. Maybe karma was coming back to bite him. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "What does that say about you?"

Michael sighed. "It's not good. But your tastes are as bad. Bigfoot, trolls, monsters. Elves in the road. And you cultivate the animosity of most of the division. At least I try to hide my antisocial soul. Not that I'm successful. Shall I continue?"

Einar laughed. That summed him up rather well. "Hell. Can't argue." He wouldn't try. Michael was still talking to him after the monster conversation, a documented first in Iceland partner dynamics.

Michael relaxed.

"You're right." Einar smiled. "Let's drink to that." He put his glasses on again as the bartender set beers on the table. "To monsters and darkness."

"To bigfoot and dives," Michael added.

*

Michael dropped Einar off and drove to the station. Wired, preoccupied with images seared into his brain, he couldn't rest.

The parents of that dead girl. Destroyed.

She was nine.

They deserved an answer.

He sank into his desk and flipped on his computer. Do something. Start with the obvious. Other attacks? He reviewed victim files and cold cases, researched regional animal attacks. Examined carnivores' bite ratios and bite forces. At four thirty in the morning, he fell asleep, head on a stack of files.

Woke two hours later, confused. Then realized where he was.

Shit.

His head pounded, eyes ached. Mouth tasted like shoe leather and cotton. He grabbed his coat and took a long walk to clear his head. Wandered the business district near the station, quiet in the glimmering dawn.

His mind churned questions.

How does this killer move so fast? Victims have no time to react. Why children? If an animal ripped them apart, why didn't it drag the remains away or hide them? Why no footprints? Why shred them? What has claws that make those wounds? Why along the river? Why this river?

Couldn't turn it off—had to be an answer.

He dragged back late with two large black cups of coffee. Without a word, he handed one to Einar, who hunched at his cluttered desk swearing and completing administrative paperwork. Michael removed his coat and sank into his worn desk chair. Something clattered to the floor. Laina's zip drive. He retrieved it and plugged it in.

"Hello, sunshine." Einar peered up from his screen.

"Brought coffee. Loaded with sugar."

"Try changing your clothes."

"What do you want?"

"And shaving. Let me guess—you haven't slept."

"Sleep's overrated."

"Right . . . "

"I can sleep later. Did Marta call with the preliminary on the second crime scene?"

Einar nodded. "MO's the same. Kid never had a chance. Death by exsanguination and blades. Or claws. No prints, no clear trace evidence. How can the killer leave not a single hair?"

"Weapon?"

"Inconclusive. Long blades, deep cuts. Ripped apart. Bite marks . . . "

Michael closed his eyes. "Don't say it."

" . . . not caused by human teeth. Marta, despite skepticism, thinks animal."

Michael was confused. His wheels spun in deep mental mud.

Kids weren't torn apart by animals. Nothing in the Adirondacks does that. Nothing.

"Not an animal." Michael rubbed the side of his face. "Can't be. Only candidate would be black bear. Their claws don't retract, aren't long and thin. They use them to climb and dig—dulls them. Bobcats are too small. No resident lynx population and experiments to restore them to the Adirondacks happened much farther north. No recent cougar reports. No wolves. Coyotes aren't strong enough. No illegal escaped tigers. No alligators." He tapped his pencil. He'd scribbled a long list of clawed creatures that did not live in the Adirondacks. "Not animal." Another pencil hit.

Einar wheeled his chair to Michael and parked beside him.

"I'm sure."

"Mikey, you sound convinced. Because you spent all night researching?" Einar gave him a pointed stare. "What are you doing? You need sleep. You look exhausted. Don't be the Lone Ranger."

"I'm not—"

"You're the only person I've ever told to stop working so hard. Can't function without a break. It's not weakness to admit you're tired. Don't go catatonic anti-social on me."

"You and Kait are okay. Everyone else should be worried." Did he look that bad? He rubbed his face again, anxiety eating at him along with lack of sleep. "Seriously, Einar. I'm okay."

"Good to know." Einar sounded unconvinced. He reached over and clicked Michael's computer mouse to open the zip drive files. "Let's review the reports. Least Laina gave us English versions."

"You take Sweden," Michael said, "I'll take Norway."

They immersed themselves in the reports, searching for connections.

"Laina was right," Michael said. "Oslo murders were along water, the Akerselva River. Same kill pattern."

"Also true for Sweden," Einar said. "Victims found along the Norrström River near Stockholm."

"MO's the same. According to autopsies, cause of death was identical. Only eyewitness described flash of light, one scream then nothing." He jotted notes, pencil tap-tap-tapping.

"Shit," Einar said. "No footprints, no fingerprints, no trace."

"What's the flash of light?" Michael looked puzzled.

"Corpse candle, remember?"

"Maybe God's sending a message to imbeciles." Detective First Class Phil Cresson sauntered over, making a show of checking his gold Rolex. He pointed with manicured finger and cleared his throat. "On banker's hours, junior? Shift starts at eight sharp. And work attire is suit and tie. How the hell do you walk in Monday morning looking like a thrift shop punk?"

Einar peered at him. "Go away."

"You're supposed to be riding him on that."

"Get out of my face, take care of your own problems."

Michael scowled.

"I'll report him," Cresson said. "Again. You have to ensure that subordinates maintain the dress code standard."

"Lay off, Phil." Einar shook his head. "He was up all night working a case."

Michael swore to himself. He'd meant to stash a suit in a staff locker. Forgot. Again. Besides, what did it matter? Cresson would find something to criticize. He enjoyed watching them weed through reams of files and reports related to the murders. Everyone knew the case was strange, the kind no one wanted to catch.

Michael sighed—Crasshole relished Einar struggling.

Cresson and Einar had joined the department at the same time, both competitive and opinionated. As they rose through the ranks, Einar's clearance rate bettered Cresson's. Their superiors noticed. Einar attended the FBI National Academy at Quantico in the late 1990s, recommended by a former boss who'd risen to Chief before retiring in 2009. He'd gone through the program and wanted to continue the tradition with someone he believed had skills to lead. Cresson had never been nominated—a slight that galled him. Einar made Detective First Class two years ahead of him, adding insult to his wounded ego. When the present Captain came on board he knew about their legendary antipathy. Cresson dedicated his life to poisoning the Seward City PD against Einar.

But it wasn't only about work.

Einar's wife Allison, a county Environmental Planner, managed flood control and bridge construction projects. Her job involved fieldwork, which was how she met Einar and Cresson. They'd been temporarily paired when Einar returned to active duty following his first partner's suicide. She'd found a burned male body at a construction site and escorted them to the scene, tromping through the underbrush. Her red hair and fair complexion belied a Scottish heritage, albeit through Nova Scotia. Her unflappable demeanor suggested someone not faint of heart. She was bright and quick-witted. Both were drawn to her. She refused to go out with either while the case was active.

After, she dated both. Cresson, with his urbane attitude, fell by the wayside. She was comfortable outdoors, not concerned with appearance and status. He never forgave her or Iceland. It became more reason to detest Einar when Allison married him.

"A case you can't solve, Iceland. Making any progress with junior to slow you down? Hope you catch the monster before he catches you." Cresson hunched his shoulders and splayed his fingers, imitating a movie fiend. "Crazed killer, blades slashing, blood and gore streaming through the trees. Sounds like a slasher film. Glad I didn't get stuck with it."

"Go back to your hole." Einar wadded paper and threw it in his wastebasket.

"Lay off Crasshole," Michael said.

"Media's having a field day." Cresson fiddled with his tie. "Vulture press is circling. Won't be long before they come up with a garish name. Turn it into a movie on cable or Netflix." He combed his hair. "Have fun being media stars. Or media villains when you can't catch the killer. They'll eat you alive."

"Not helpful," Einar said.

"Bite me Crasshole." Michael gnashed teeth.

"Whatever. Call when you need real expertise." Cresson slapped Michael on the back. He was never one to underestimate his own abilities, arrogance unequalled.

He greeted his partner Detective Second Class Carlos Villarna, who ambled to his side dressed in a tailored French suit. They were due in the Captain's office for a debriefing about a straightforward murder-for-hire gone bad involving a high-ranking local politician. They'd solved the obvious case quickly (Einar commented that a toddler could've solved it with equal speed) and were basking in the afterglow. The mayor had called a press conference and requested they stand behind him, loyal servants for the media dog and pony show. Einar swore the attention had gone to Cresson's head, making him more obnoxious than usual. Michael thought Cresson and Villarna were fundamental assholes at heart.

"Yeah," Villarna said. "Yell when you need help, boys."

Cresson laughed, eying Einar. "Or when junior bails. Countdown's in progress." He nudged Villarna and they headed to the Captain's office.

Einar opened his mouth. Michael touched his arm and motioned 'cut.'

"You're no fun," Einar whispered.

"Cresson's a dick, Villarna's an asshole," Michael said. "Why bother? Not worth a pissing match. They want a reaction."

"Perfect pair," Einar said. "Mister Dick and Mister Asshole."

Michael shook his head. "Who's anti-social?"

## CHAPTER 6

## 2011 Early October

Kaitlyn Jenret hated mornings. She yawned and stared at her computer. A volunteer walked by her open door and waved.

"Good morning. Beautiful day!"

Kait mumbled an incoherent reply. How'd morning people manage? She sighed, twisting a strand of dark chestnut hair, the rest falling in a tumble to the small of her back. She'd finished her first cup of coffee and was working on her second, waiting for caffeine to kick in. As Senior Curator of Anthropology and Archaeology at the Willard Museum of Art and Culture, she didn't work early hours, but getting the day started wasn't easy.

Making it worse, she worked in the basement. Stuck in the building's underbelly, she'd painted her walls bright tropical colors to compensate for no window. She vowed at her next job, wherever, whatever, she'd have a whole damn row of windows. On staff for five years, her untidy office was well lived-in. A coffee maker perched on a shelf. Heavy reference tomes lined a battered wooden cabinet. More books sat on the floor next to a plastic tool box, open and overflowing with X-Acto knives, bone scrapers, security screwdrivers and other tools.

She'd hung prints of archaeological sites and examples of vertebrate musculature on her walls. A mounted bat skeleton in cardboard display box leaned against a pencil sharpener. She studied it when phone conversations got annoying. A small kitschy folk art sculpture decorated with rodent skulls, plastic beads and bottle caps stood at the edge of her desk—across the front scrawled the words "Mole People Rule." The basement dwellers, including Kait, gave themselves that nickname, at least those with a sense of humor. Some had been in the lower level so long they didn't remember how natural daylight looked or felt—like the subterranean Morlocks in H. G. Well's _The Time Machine_.

Monday morning in a suit was the worst. Her skirt kept riding up and the shoes were uncomfortable, and all because of a needless presentation to the planning committee that afternoon. One more distraction, the last thing she needed. She was bored with her morning task despite its necessity. She was drafting a work back schedule and exhibit plans for Dig It!, the museum's 2012 project exploring archaeology, to ensure budget needs, board expectations and grant funds aligned. In other words, money, money, money. It wasn't invigorating. Why had she detoured into this career field?

Her phone rang.

She welcomed the interruption—a visitor brought something they'd found in their yard. Could she take a look? They didn't have an appointment, and the museum wasn't open yet, but Kait jumped at the chance to procrastinate. She climbed the basement stairs and buzzed through the security door. A man and small boy stood by the admissions desk, child holding a bulging plastic shopping bag. He lifted it.

"Found this in our yard. Dad's digging a hole for our new pool," the boy said. "You the expert?"

"Don't know what it is," his father said. "Looks scary."

"If it's a monster, can we still put in our pool?" The boy eyed Kait.

Why'd she get the oddball and weirdo requests? "Let's see it."

The boy handed her the bag. She opened it. A dirty old pig skull with large teeth leered at her.

"Is it a monster?" the boy said. "Looks like a monster."

"Never seen anything like it," Dad said.

"Maybe it's a dinosaur? Should we dig up our yard?"

Dad smiled and patted the boy's shoulder.

"What kind of monster?"

"Well." Kait hated to disappoint him but the 'monster' was a domestic beast. "Finish your pool. It's a pig skull. Families in the community once butchered their own livestock to prepare food for winter. Sorry, but it's not a monster." The boy looked crestfallen. "But thanks for bringing it." She returned the skull to the bag. "Would you like it back?"

"Naw." The boy lost interest as soon as it wasn't a monster or dinosaur. "You keep it." He pulled on his father's fingers and yanked him to the door.

Dad shook her hand. "Thanks. We don't come here often. Weren't sure someone would be available."

The dreadlocked lobby staffer, sporting nose rings and lip piercing, laughed behind the admissions desk. She gave Kait an enthusiastic smile and whispered, "another crisis averted."

Father and son left. Kait, in crisp business attire and high heels, stood in the lobby with a pig skull in a bag. Not an auspicious beginning to the workweek.

She returned to her office and set the bag on her bookshelf, contemplating uses for it. Her cell rang. She answered and smiled. "Hey, Michael. Good to hear your voice. I was worried." She eased back in her chair.

"Hey K, hope your day's better than mine." He sounded tired, a weary hitch in his voice. "Sorry I didn't get home last night. Ugly crime upstate. Returned late. Had research to do. Took the path of least resistance and fell asleep at my desk."

"Sorry. Heard it on the news. Another child."

"Yeah."

"Come home tonight, okay? Someone gave me a pig skull this morning."

He laughed. Made her feel better. She worried when cases got to him and this one was weighing heavy. At least she could distract him with old animal bones.

"Sweet—a pig skull. What's the story behind it?"

"Doing my professional community service. See you after work. Skull's yours if you want it."

"Best proposition I've heard all day. Sorry, gotta go. Einar's signaling." The phone clicked off.

She hung up and glanced at the small silver lizard figurine on her desk. It looked up with big eyes, cajoling her to lighten her mood. She laughed every time she saw it, remembering what it meant.

The Willard Museum bordered tough neighborhoods. Four years ago, Seward City's Narcotics Division had been using its back parking lot to rendezvous for drug raids in the surrounding streets. Several mornings each month, flak-jacketed cops gathered near unmarked cars. They wore vests emblazoned with POLICE in big white block letters, armed with an arsenal of weapons, coordinating morning police actions as buses pulled in with elementary school groups. Teachers, parents and board members expressed concern when kids returned from field trips saying the highlight of their museum visit was cops and guns.

The administration, most of whom had since left or been fired in the Willard Museum's revolving door turnover, called an upper level staff meeting and asked narcotics division representatives to speak with senior staff to coordinate balancing police needs with school tours.

Michael had been among the officers. After the meeting, staffers finished questions, filtered out of the conference room and returned to their offices. Most cops left, but he wandered into the galleries.

Ten minutes later, Kait walked by the traveling exhibit _Let's Like Lizards_ , a project the Education Director had booked despite no connection to the museum's mission, arguing that 'kids love lizards,' especially when live reptiles came with the package.

Kait was surprised to hear singing—an appealing full voice, perhaps baritone. It wasn't a museum staffer.

She stepped into the gallery. A small slender narcotics cop in police gear crouched on the floor in front of the kids, gazing into the eyes of the iguana perched on his outstretched arm, singing an old English children's song about a green-eyed dragon:

Beware, take care, of the Green-eyed dragon with the thirteen tails,

He'll feed. With greed,

On little boys, puppy dogs and

Big fat SNAILS....

On the word 'snails,' he dropped his voice to a low growl and stretched it out, the iguana eying him. The kids laughed, in hysterics over man and lizard. When he finished, he mimicked the iguana's facial expressions, bulging his eyes and sticking his tongue out. More laughter. The education assistant leading the group saw Kait enter. She got up and joined her.

"Hope it's okay," the staffer said. "Cop came in and the kids saw him. That little boy in the front row, the hyperactive one with the crew cut, dared him to pick up Greenie, who I was showing. The cop resisted, but the kid persisted, begged him, and almost jiggled out of his seat. The cop gave in and came up front. Let Greenie crawl right up his arm." Greenie, a big common iguana, was the exhibit's 'hands-on' lizard.

Kait watched the cop and the kids, enchanted. "Doesn't bother me he volunteered. Makes the police less scary."

The staffer leaned close and whispered in Kait's ear. "That cop's a hottie."

Kait smiled. Vanessa, in punk blond buzz cut and inappropriate low-cut attire, thought every man under forty was a hottie. But in this case, she was right—the cop had honest, deep set green eyes and a sense of humor. Not many people sang to iguanas. She hung around when the kids left and walked up to him. He handed Greenie to Vanessa, scratching the lizard on the head.

"Interesting police skill." Kait smiled.

He blushed. "I like animals. Used to have lizards. The boy dared me. A challenge. Ego, you know? Besides, sometimes I still feel like a twelve-year old." He paused. "Don't get a chance to sing at work." He thanked Vanessa, and then turned back to Kait. "Community relations. They laughed. Creates a positive connection—better than kids going home telling parents about guns."

She held out her hand. "Kait Jenret, Senior Curator, Archaeology and Anthropology." She handed him a business card. "If anything comes up as a result of the morning meeting, let me know. I'm the contact point for senior staff." The next words out of her mouth surprised her. "Whenever you want to sing, give me a call. I could use a good dragon song." Where'd that come from? She hated flirting, had avoided a date in the last two years, tired of the meat market.

"Michael Lewis." He shook her hand. "Narcotics Division officer, lizard whisperer, singer of dragon songs." His eyes lit up as he took her card. "I'd be happy to sing to you." He grinned. "In the interests of full disclosure, I may have to invent anthropology issues to discuss. I've got a thing for old bones."

A week later, he took her to a bug fair at the local botanical garden. An inspired choice, especially when they got to the please touch section. Amid screaming kids and squeamish parents, she'd won the contest when, after matching each other bug for bug, he wimped out and wouldn't let a Madagascar hissing cockroach crawl up his arm.

On their second date they went to see the Cohoes mastodon at the New York State Museum. Then they wandered through the wildlife dioramas discussing how the animals could eat the people and escape. These were not like her last round of dates, for which she was grateful. The nadir had been the guy who related how he'd pissed in the woods in a poison ivy patch, thus rendering him itchy, uncomfortable and unable to have sex for a while. Then he tried to get her into bed.

She'd given up after that fiasco.

She decided it was love four months later on their seventh date, when Michael invited her over on a Friday night for a horror movie trifecta of 1950s 'giant insect' classics, _Them, The Deadly Mantis, and Monster From Green Hell_. She said yes, of course.

She met him at his apartment, greeted by a huge black dog that bounded to her with tail wagging. "Loki," he said, grinning. "I moved on from lizards to Belgian sheepdogs when I grew up." He offered her a choice of an IPA or Belgian strong ale. That made him more appealing—the last four guys she'd dated before her self-imposed hiatus would've handed her something insipid like Miller Lite. They opened the beers, toasted monster movies and sank into his couch to watch hours of giant radiated insects ravage human populations. She enjoyed his animated silent commentary and shared his dark sense of humor. She remembered the night vividly, realizing he was a keeper.

The first movie was the best. They cracked up at giant ants in the desert, fought off with flamethrowers—he admitted, embarrassed, that as a kid he'd seen _Them_ and been terrified of ants for a year. During the second movie, they laughed at cheesy insect annihilation and he did a mean impression of the Deadly Mantis. By the time they were halfway through the third movie, she'd fallen asleep twice with her head on his shoulder. It felt like home.

The next morning, she woke on the couch, two large pillows behind her head, flannel sheet and warm wool blanket over her. He came in and sat down on the end table opposite her with a large cup of coffee. "Good morning." He smiled. "Didn't want to wake you after you fell asleep before the last scene in _Green Hell_ , although you missed the giant radiated wasps being killed by dynamite and the exploding volcano." He pantomimed the eruption and wasp creatures frying, bugging his eyes out to mimic their death throes.

She laughed, impressed he'd not pawed her when she fell asleep. The second to last two guys had done that, which removed them from the dating pool.

"You were safe regardless." He pointed beyond her feet. "The Norse god of the underworld guarded you. He likes you." She looked up. Loki stretched out on the other side of the couch, front paws draped over her feet under the blanket. The dog peered at her, then rolled over for a belly rub. She laughed, sipped the coffee and set the cup down.

"Come here," she motioned, arms outstretched. "I'm awake now, officer. The Norse god's fine and all, but he's not quite up to the task. Save me from the insects." She intertwined her fingers with his and pulled him down, kissed him hard. He laughed and returned the favor.

"What if I'm a giant bug?" He pressed into her. "Might not be as safe as you think."

"Bite me," she murmured. "I'm tired of safe."

He kissed her again. "Danger it is."

She pulled off his shirt. He peeled away hers. Raced to see who could get their pants off first.

They rolled together in a tumble of blankets and discarded clothing. Made love, started on the couch, fell to the floor, exploring, ardent, laughing. Loki tried to get into the act, grabbing a blanket in his teeth until Michael swatted him away. She laughed harder.

Afterwards, lying on the floor, sheets wrapped around them, he traced along the small of her back and saw the long scar running from her shoulder to her hip.

"What happened?" His finger followed the jagged edge. His touch was gentle.

"Car accident. Needed the Jaws of Life to get me out." She cringed. It'd been a deal-breaker for several guys she'd dated. Assholes.

"Must have been bad."

"I lived but spent months in the hospital. Two people died. Drunk driver hit our car. I'd just finished grad school." She hesitated. "Took a long time to recover. Derailed my original career plans. Field work would have been difficult in a back brace."

"That's awful, Kait. I'm sorry. What happened to the drunk driver?" He brushed hair away from her face.

"She spent time in prison . . . but now she's out, living her life. I struggled with it for years."

"But you healed . . ."

"Yes." She held her breath.

He traced the scar to her shoulder and kissed it.

"It's ugly, I know." Why did she say that? Get it out in the open. Her last boyfriend tried to convince her to get plastic surgery before she dumped him. She'd removed a lot of men from her dating pool.

"Ugly? Why say that? Means you're a survivor," Michael said. "Life. Perseverance." He wrapped his arms around her. His warmth was reassuring. "Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. It's a reminder of your strength."

She sighed and leaned into him. "Are you for real? Not many men have been that philosophical."

"Guess it depends on life experience."

"Where have you been?" She turned around and looked him in the eye. "You can't believe the crap I've heard about it. Thank you." She kissed him on the lips, full, hard. "Hell, I'd given up on dating roulette."

He laughed. "Funny. I hadn't been out in three years. Figured on me and the dog for the long haul. Then I sing to a lizard and wham. I'll have to send Greenie thank you bugs."

"Not right away, you won't."

"Why not?" He gave a sly smile.

"I hear there's an invasion. Save me. Again."

"Yes ma'am, at your request." He wrapped a hand around the back of her head, kissed her. Then dove under the sheet.

She smiled, remembering. He was good and funny.

A ringing phone jarred her to the present. Shit—her boss, Crazy Eyes. Not good. He wanted her to join a meeting about the upcoming gala, obsessing about tablecloths and flowers. Why did she need to be involved?

I'm an anthropologist, not a florist.

She dreaded the rest of the day.

Kait headed home after six and stopped at Shortstop's Liquor Rama. They'd both need an attitude adjustment. She'd uncorked a bottle and poured two large glasses of cabernet sauvignon when Michael walked through the door. Loki bounded up to him, a blur of fur and canine energy, paws clicking on the hardwood floor. He hugged the dog and scratched his ears, then kissed Kait and took her in his arms.

"I missed you last night, K. Guess I was preoccupied with the case."

She leaned into him. "Make up for it tonight."

"I like the sound of that."

Kait reached over to the side table, handed him a glass and lifted the other.

"Humanity and pig skulls," she said. "A toast."

He kissed her again, clinked his glass and drank. "I want the weird story. A pig skull?"

"When am I not the staffer for weird requests?" She laughed. Whether it involved removing a crazy guy from the galleries for flipping lit matches at wooden objects or escorting a trip at midnight, holding a leashed pot bellied pig at Niagara Falls, the weird ones fell to her. She was sure an undecipherable radar of the bizarre had embedded its homing beacon in her head.

He laughed. "You have a point. But you set yourself up. Everyone knows you'll talk to the person, regardless of issue. Diplomacy is your downfall. Aim for anti-social, uncommunicative. That'll solve it." He set down his glass and dumped his coat, pulled his heavy sweater over his head, making his hair an unruly mess.

She ran her fingers through it and smoothed it. "I should dumb down my diplomacy skills?"

He pulled her close. "Don't dumb down anything."

She kissed him. "Father and son brought it. Didn't know what it was. Boy hoped it was a monster or dinosaur. I shattered his fantasy. Told him it was a long leftover dinner."

"He'll get over it."

"He did, immediately. That's why I own a pig skull."

Michael stepped to the hall table where it glowered. He picked it up and turned it upside down, opening and closing its jaws, teeth knocking as he roared. He held it at thigh level for Loki to sniff. "It's creepy cool. Great teeth. If I was a kid, I might've thought it was a monster. We'll use it for Halloween. Scare the crap out of kids when they come for candy."

Of course he'd love it. "It's yours. Have fun." She refilled their glasses and headed to the kitchen. Picked up a colorful printed card on the counter and handed it to him. "Okay, detective, before you go upstairs to change yesterday's clothes, I have a favor. Remember, I gave you a pig skull."

He groaned. "Not a social event."

"Yes," she wrapped an arm around his waist. "The museum ball. This is fair warning. You have two weeks to steel yourself."

"Come on, Kait," He gave his best spare-me-this-torment look. "Crass social interaction. A circle of hell." He drank more wine. "I'd rather chew my leg off than be trapped in that vortex."

She smiled. "No melodrama."

"The lady demands so much." He wound his fingers with hers. "Let's spend the evening here instead."

"Romantic, but no. I'm asking for a reason. I want you to assess my new boss."

"Crazy Eyes?" He hadn't met him yet but had heard stories.

"Yes. Undercover assignment. Please. And moral support. Watch the guy and tell me what you think."

He sighed. "Okay. On one condition."

"What?"

"Ply me with liquor all night long and dance with me at least once."

"Deal."

*

The museum gala was the fall highlight of the city social calendar, ornate columns decorated in white lights for the occasion. City leaders, business heads, the political elite, posturers, and flouncy society types flocked to the event like vultures. They donned formal attire, snapped on jewels, and greeted each other effusively. Men and women circulated in the galleries, drinking, talking, and pretending to know something about the objects on exhibit. A few did. In reality most of them were there to see, be seen, eat, get drunk on top shelf liquor and make out with someone who could move their career forward.

Kait walked into the lobby with Michael following, looking like a house cat surrounded by wolves. In high heels, she was taller than he was.

He took their coats and handed them to the coat check volunteer. Michael looked around, uncomfortable in the fancy crowd, and returned to Kait. She smiled, watching him fuss with his tie and pull at his sleeves.

"I hate these things," he whispered in her ear. "Feel like a trained monkey. I don't belong here."

"You look distinguished." She pushed an errant strand of hair out of his eyes. "And very handsome. Need to find excuses to get you in a tux more often."

He raised an eyebrow. "You look hot."

She laughed. "Men. You sound like a horny-ass high school kid."

"Well, that's how some of these folks think. Remember three years ago—we found two drunk trustees' kids making out on a file cabinet in the administrative office?"

She shook her head, smiling. "That was bad. For them. We laughed for a week."

"Can I say you look gorgeous?" He bent and kissed her. "Is that a save?"

"Sounds more sophisticated, at least . . . "

"You clean up fabulously."

"Thanks, I think."

"No problem." He smiled. She was gorgeous. Why was she was there with him, of all the movers and shakers in the room? She could've had any of them. The deep green fitted dress and silk jacket brought out the color of her hair and accented her curves. It was a slam-dunk.

"You do, too," she said, "clean up nicely."

"I know." They laughed, co-conspirators against the social world. Neither gravitated to formal attire or large gatherings except under duress. Or when work demanded it.

"Crazy Eyes ahead. Time for reconnaissance."

"Where?" Michael scanned the crowd.

"By the bar, entrance to Canadian and Arctic artifacts exhibit." She motioned her head in his direction. "Tall man, white bow tie, dyed hair, patent leather shoes, martini glass in hand." They wove through the crowd, stopping every so often for her to greet a trustee, be congratulated on a recent project or give an awkward hello to another uncomfortable staff person.

Michael tried to focus on her boss. People clustered around the bar like a corral of bleating alcoholic sheep, mouths waiting for booze to be poured down their throats. God, he hated society affairs and groveling crowded parties. Maybe he'd become a homicide detective because he preferred working with the dead. He frowned. He was there to support her. She'd assigned him a task.

He steeled himself.

They stepped to the white tablecloth-covered bar, arrayed with a limited selection of top-shelf liquors and wines. Michael slid between Kait and the bow-tied man.

"Miss Jenret," the man lifted his glass, tilting it in her direction. A diamond cufflink sparkled at his wrist. "So pleased for you to be here this evening." He gestured at the crowd and kissed her.

Michael narrowed his eyes. She had to be there. It was a work function.

Stop kissing her.

"Dr. Ellery Smith Thompson, I'd like you to meet Michael Lewis." Kait stepped back and locked her arm into his, pressing her fingers into his sleeve.

"A pleasure." Thompson extended a manicured hand. His blood shot eyes didn't focus on Michael. His hand was papery, clammy. Not a good sign.

"Dr. Thompson is our new Executive Director," Kait said. "He's been here for two months. Getting used to being in the United States."

"Hmmm." Michael looked up with renewed interest. "Where were you before coming here?" Why would a man accustomed to international travel want to work in Seward City? Mental note—research Thompson's background.

"Overseas, in a wide variety of postings. I'm a seasoned international scholar. I study cultural norms and superstitions." Thompson gestured to the galleries. "I am interested in working with this collection. It has unique and wonderful artifacts." He smiled at Kait. "We'll be able to do wonderful projects for the community."

"Kait's already done great work here," Michael said. She squeezed his arm and then angled closer to the bar. Maybe that was a bit defensive since he'd just met the man, but two previous bosses had downplayed her role. And Thompson was off-putting. What'd he mean by cultural norms and superstitions? His urbane attitude and drug addict eyes were unsettling.

"Ah, Mr. Lewis," Thompson said. "She has a champion. Point taken."

"Michael." Kait touched his sleeve and handed him a whiskey on the rocks. "I promised drinks. Here's the first." Thompson watched. She ignored him. "I have to make sure the tech person's got the images for my PowerPoint presentation. I'll be back."

"No problem," Michael said. "I can fend for myself." He returned her smile, faking nonchalance.

Hurry back before I run for the exit.

She squeezed his hand, then headed to the security door, ID at the ready.

"So, Mr. Lewis, is it?" Thompson said, "Kaitlyn is one of our most impressive staff members. I appreciate your advocacy. She's accomplished. Has great potential. Board wants her more involved in the community, to promote her work as part of the strategy to put the museum on the cultural map."

"I'm proud of how hard she works," Michael said. It was true. She put long hours into research and writing, often through weekends and late into evenings.

"Tell me." Thompson peered down with bloodshot eyes. "I haven't seen you at my meetings with cultural leaders. What do you do for a living? Are you an anthropologist? What is your specialty?"

"The dead. I'm a homicide detective." He watched for a reaction. Death cop probably wasn't the expected answer.

"Hmmm." Thompson hesitated. "A policeman."

"Yes."

"Didn't know Miss Jenret gravitated to law enforcement." He ordered another martini and narrowed his eyes. "Interesting."

"How so?"

"Just . . . an interesting choice for a cultural woman."

"What's interesting about it?" Thompson was a pompous snob.

"Nothing I can pinpoint." Thompson sighed. "I pictured Miss Jenret with a lawyer, doctor, or upper level academic." He waved his hand with a flourish. "Someone educated. Sophisticated. Worldly. A policeman . . . is an unexpected choice, shall we say."

"You mean I'm not the right status."

"Perhaps." Thompson smiled, eyes opaque. "You see through me, detective. But I speak the truth . . ."

"No accounting for taste." Michael drank his whiskey and ordered another. Surprising how often people assumed police lacked education. "I consider myself lucky."

"Agreed, Mr. Lewis."

Another tall man moved to the bar, ordered a vodka tonic and stepped between them, interrupting.

"Dr. Thompson, great evening, excellent evening." The man spoke fast, boisterous. He shook Thompson's hand with enthusiasm. "Pleased with the turnout, very pleased. You should be proud. What a fine event."

Thompson looked from the man to Michael. "Michael Lewis, this is Mac Lazski, board president. Mac, Mr. Lewis is a police detective."

"Oh, detective! Hope you're not here tonight because of anything I did." The board chair laughed, loud, manic or perhaps drunk. "On my best behavior this evening. No sex, drugs or rock 'n roll. No hookers. Least not tonight."

"No Mac," Thompson said, "Mr. Lewis is here with Ms. Jenret."

"Oh." The board chair eyed Michael. "Good thing I didn't bring my two new account executives with me. I was going to set her up. Told them to wear clean shirts and everything, and then they bagged the invite. They're good-looking young men. Too bad. She's bright and her being eye-candy doesn't hurt." He winked at Thompson, who laughed.

"Too bad." Michael looked for Kait or exit signs. God, he hated these events. It took all his self-control to maintain a polite facade.

You can dress them up, immerse them in culture, and bless them with money. Assholes are still assholes.

"Detective." Lazski changed the subject. "You working the kiddie killer case?"

"We don't discuss active—"

"Terrible case, terrible." Lazski rambled. "Absurd it could happen here. Know how many kids have died on that river? Why haven't you caught him? Must be gruesome. Bloody and gruesome. Did you walk the crime scene? What'd it look like? Horror movie? How bad? Who's gnawing on those kids?"

"You believe something is eating children?" Thompson said. "Isn't that far-fetched?"

"Or what's gnawing on them. Might not be human," Michael hoped she'd return soon. He rubbed his neck. Sweat dripped down his back.

Lazski stared at Michael like he'd sprouted six eyes. Thompson took a step back and shook his head. He was sure he could see disdain oozing from their pores. What did they know about dead kids on the river?

Kait walked through the security door and caught his eyes. He excused himself and hurried to her. Imagined himself a drowning man grasping at a life ring, hands flailing in an alcoholic pond.

"Save me," he whispered. He took her arm, leaned close. "Please."

"That good, huh?" She laughed and kissed him. "How can a silly party scare you?"

"You own me." He put his arm around her shoulder. "Board chair wanted to set you up with two employees. Had them wear clean shirts. Your boss believes me below your station. Apparently, in addition to being talented, you are, and this is a direct quote, eye candy."

"Figures," she said. "Lazski is a raunchy child in an adult's body. I've heard appalling stories out of his mouth. I pity his wife but don't understand why she stays with him. Thompson is a pompous ass with delusions of grandeur." She sighed. "Now you understand why I need you here."

The gala guests made their way to their seats, hovering, greeting and preening, posturing for attention. The Communications Director stood and tapped the microphone, announcing the start of the program and dinner. The board chair, tipsy from too many vodka tonics and reeking of cigarette smoke, opened the evening with a short gushy speech about the new director and the fabulous, fabulous, fabulous job he was doing. Didn't mention other staff. Michael watched a few staff members react to the speech. He felt for them.

Those who do the work are the least recognized. Their pissed faces show it.

Kait was next. She spoke about new donations accepted to strengthen underrepresented areas of the collection from cultures in South America and the Philippines. After moving through a brief series of slides, she closed by quoting Cicero, 'to remain ignorant of things that happened before you were born is to remain a child.'

The board chair downed another large vodka tonic.

Thompson stepped to the podium, gave Kait a large floral bouquet and planted a lingering kiss on her cheek. Michael downed a slug of whiskey. The man was creepy and unprofessional. She returned and grasped his hand under the table. "Thanks for being here. You're my sanity at this clown car event."

Thompson gave a rambling speech, beginning with the not-so-astute observation that almost everyone in the room was more interested in eating and drinking than in the museum's mission. 'It is our role,' he expounded, motioning to staff members who shrank back in their chairs, 'to bring your higher senses to life.' He wove in ideas of exotic artifacts, ancient history, curses, mythology and grand expanses of history. He postured for the benefit of big donors who basked in the attention. His voice rose as he neared his speech's end. 'We will engage, excite, arouse, and titillate you . . .' he concluded in sonorous tones. Society members applauded. The board chair giggled, drunk.

Grow up.

Michael found the speech unnerving. "Need a drink," he whispered to Kait.

"Need a bottle," she said.

They made it through dinner and the small talk of tablemates, including two orthodontists comparing top prices for braces and joking about dating a porn star, an accountant board member relaying tales of dating an education staffer, and a balding lawyer from a local family making googly eyes at the museum Finance Director, decked out in pale blue cocktail dress and sparkle-dust eye shadow.

Michael yearned to escape the social claustrophobia. Maybe his phone would ring, beckoning him to a murder _._ Kait poked him under the table when he checked his watch or turned to the exit.

"You're here for the duration," she said. "Einar promised me."

He glanced at her with raised brow. Collusion.

Finally, meal over, prominent local DJ SWABY Electric Man stepped up to his array of electronic equipment to get the music going. He moved in rhythm with the sound, ramping up the volume booming through the speakers. Guests rose, some tipsy, others drunk, glasses and bottles in hand. They headed for the dance floor.

Rising last from their table, Michael pulled Kait away from the crowd and the noise. He took her back to the bar.

"Another whiskey, straight," he said.

The bartender poured. "For the lady?"

"A good bottle of red," Michael said. Kait eyed him.

"Whole bottle?" the bartender asked.

"Long evening. She's off duty. I'll give you a $50 tip."

The bartender winked, pocketed the cash, opened a California cabernet and gave him the bottle and a glass.

He bowed and handed them to her with an exaggerated flourish. "Your bottle, Miss Jenret."

"You're a lifesaver." She laughed, hair falling forward on her face. Filled her glass to the rim and drank. "I promise." She locked eyes with him. "I won't force you to this next year. Hell, won't force myself next year. What a shovel of bullshit."

"You owe me." He crossed his arms, head tilted.

She looked at him.

"One dance." He extended a hand.

"I promised."

With whiskey soaking his brain and saturated by high society overload, he made her set aside her glass. Took her hand and pulled her into the exhibit. She kicked off her shoes. Music wafted through the galleries as he hugged her close. She pressed into him. They moved together, alone but for Inuit masks and ivory animal carvings. He smelled the scent of her hair, wound his fingers tighter with hers as Gary Jules' version of _Mad World_ spun its dark vision . . . ' _All around me are familiar faces, worn out places, worn out faces_ . . . She placed her cheek against his. He sang the song lyrics in her ear.

"Can't you add that green-eyed dragon into the refrain?" she whispered.

He laughed. Her breathing slowed and she relaxed in his arms.

'"Let's get out of here."

"Why?"

"I want to maul you," he said. "Don't want anyone to find us on the filing cabinets."

*

"Thank you, Miss Jenret, for fitting me into your schedule." Thompson's eyes tracked her as Larinda Morisa, his executive assistant, escorted her into his office. Kait avoided gossipy Larinda when possible—news traveled fast in the museum because Larinda spread things as soon as she heard them. Her location, ass entrenched at a desk outside the Executive Director's office, meant immediate viewing of all comings and goings. Basement staffers claimed she could hear through walls.

Thompson shut his door. Kait sat in an overstuffed armchair opposite his polished walnut desk. On top of it sat an elongated skull with wide mouth of sharp teeth. Why'd he keep a Halloween prop in his office?

Thompson fussed with a stack of papers.

Being on the upper level twice in three days at Crazy Eye's behest rattled her. Basement dwellers were uncomfortable in the light.

"I've made contact with a donor who's offering a generous gift for the collection." He perched on his desk front, crossing his arms, wrists flashing gold cufflinks.

The man had a bauble fetish.

"This donor is interesting. A possible collaborator, a chemist. Has in his possession jars of eighteenth and nineteenth century antique pigments unattainable today. A wonderful addition to our art collection. I told him you would pick up the objects."

"Why me? Why not Bryan Monda? He's Curator of European Art. This sounds like his territory." She had enough to do without being co-opted into Monda's realm.

"My dear, you are engaging, personable and professional." Thompson said. "This donor, while brilliant, is reclusive. Bryan does fine curatorial work, excellent work, but he is not good with people. I want to cultivate a connection with the chemist, which means someone who can converse. He's looking forward to meeting you."

She pursed her lips, exasperated at being forced again to compensate for Monda's deficiencies. But Thompson was right on one count—sending a monosyllabic recluse to meet another one was a bad idea. Monda couldn't communicate in the outside world. He stumbled over words, never made eye contact, and had no ability to relate to the public.

"Kaitlyn, this is an opportunity. Embrace a new experience. Here's the list of items." He read from a memo. "Realgar, verdigris, orpiment, litharge, and . . . " he paused for dramatic effect, "mummy."

She stared.

Great. This weird man's been jonesing to get his hands on mummy since he arrived.

She'd heard him talk about it many times, even during one painful staff meeting. She didn't understand his obsessive fascination. It was creepy and sad.

As a pigment, mummy was the unfortunate result of human superstition, greed, and fashion. In the Middle Ages, mummified remains were believed to hold medicinal qualities; in truth it was the bitumen used to preserve them rather than the bodies themselves that was the effective agent. Alchemists ground up mummies for medicinal purposes, touted them as a cure for everything. In the late 1700s, as belief in healing properties declined, Europeans became enamored of all things Egyptian following Napoleon's travels to the land. What resulted was Caput Mortuum, or mummy brown, a deep brown pigment made from ground up mummies. It was used for the next three centuries before finally dying out, no pun intended, for good around the early 1960s.

"Dr. Thompson." She rose from the chair and sinking cushions. "Hope you've arranged for sealed metal storage. If I recall my chemistry, these pigments are toxic."

"Yes." He nodded. "I told Bryan to order the equipment."

"When do I fetch the bottles?" She resented Thompson dictating her schedule, but if the day was free, she wasn't going to argue. Needed to save confrontation for larger matters. There were plenty of those.

"Next Wednesday." He smiled with the aura of a benevolent dictator. "I'll give you directions and contact information. Told him you'd be in touch."

"I'll confirm and make sure Monda orders the cabinets. I don't want the material in collections storage unsecured." Her registrar, who tended to instability, would freak out if poisonous chemicals weren't locked away. She didn't need more staff crying episodes.

"Excellent, Kaitlyn. I appreciate it." Thompson stood and angled closer. He rubbed his cufflink. "Kaitlyn, let's not be formal. We're colleagues, confidantes, fellow cultural travelers working to move the museum forward." He put a hand on her shoulder. "You can call me Ellery."

She backed away. "I prefer Dr. Thompson."

## CHAPTER 7

## 2011 Mid October

Ellery Scott Thompson, PhD, descended the stairs, shined his cufflinks and scanned the mirror. Didn't like what he saw. Blood-shot eyes, papery skin dotted with liver spots. A tired old man was reflected in the glass.

"Alas, nothing I can do about you today," he said. He grabbed his briefcase and headed out. Since meeting Donnie Itsos, things were back on track.

His trajectory began years ago in London when he was a young savant passionate for ancient history. His parents, classical academicians, fostered his interest and gave their son the advantage of illustrious wealth. He devoured ancient texts. By eight, little Ellie could recite the _Iliad_ and _Odyssey_ by heart. He was taken by the _Egyptian Book of the Dead_ and the ancient spells of the _Demotic Magical Papyrus_ , wandering the family estate chanting, "Arouse them for me, the spirits, the dead," to his parents' delight. At sixteen, he finished undergraduate study at Oxford University and moved abroad, relishing the chance to travel and explore the darker realms of the human spirit.

Greece was first. He pursued his master's degree at Aristotle University of Thessaloniki, where he cultivated a love of wine and mythology. His class work was rich and varied—ethnology and cultural anthropology, archaeology, medical chemistry, organic chemistry. Never one to slack off, in summer he studied at the University of Crete. The decision proved fortuitous.

He stumbled upon an old cafe overlooking the Mediterranean, spending hours in the company of wizened natives who understood him and shared his passions. They took him under their wing, shared their wine. Late into the evenings they told of beings that haunted Grecian nights. Aside from ballyhooed gods and goddesses, Greece's rich history held a wealth of folklore related to Thompson's fascination—the undead. Some called them vampires, a name that connoted evil parasitic beings, but such imagery was inelegant. Eternal life granted the ability to see history as it happened through vast swaths of time. Blood sucking was part of the deal.

His companions opened his eyes to species like the unpleasant _burculacas_ , known for gluttony in its blood-drinking habits. Closer to home, they told of Cretan vampires, including the stylish _catacano_ with mouth of striking white teeth. Swift and strong, arrogant and intelligent, it instilled trust in human prey and turned victims into its kind by spitting regurgitated blood on them. Thompson loved the stories but began to consider them more than tales. He searched for clues to discover real beings.

He pursued a doctorate in Bulgaria, at Sofia University St. Kliment Ohridski but spent nights in personal research. He considered himself a doctor of ethnology and history and promoted himself as one, but he'd never finished his doctorate, leaving before his final dissertation defense. He fled after meeting an actual vampire, an adult _platnik_ , during his midnight rambles. It began unlife as a vampiric nymph and became a full solid-form vampire, able to pass as human, after a forty-day adolescence in which it fed on the rich, sweet blood of children. It refrained from killing him when his passion for its kind became obvious. They spoke for hours, began an affair. The creature enchanted him. It showed him how it killed and how it transformed. Opened his eyes to understanding the Hindu concept of Amrit, which it had learned from its creator. Fascinated him with its bond to the water. Water. Nectar. Elixir.

When he decapitated it to collect its blood, he felt gratitude for the doors it had opened. He kept its skull as a memento.

*

Michael swore and flexed cramping fingers. An abominable typist, he stabbed his computer keyboard with jarring strokes. He was tired but agitated and hung over. At three in the morning his mental wheels whirled, unable to slow down. Sleep was overrated anyway.

Digging for information was more productive than lying awake. He didn't want to disturb Kait asleep beside him. He hated staring at the ceiling because intuition wouldn't let him rest. Tried to sleep. Counted sheep, counted lizards, then the number of drunken fools he'd seen at the gala. Nothing worked. So he crept downstairs and fired up his laptop, hoping to uncover details about her unpleasant boss.

He replayed meeting Thompson. Couldn't shake his instinct—the man was suspicious. It wasn't his arrogance as much as demeanor. Something was off, unstable. It sparked warnings. Other than vague mention of working in Europe, Kait and other staffers knew little about him. None of them had been on the hiring committee. "Cultural norms and superstitions" is how Thompson described his specialty.

What does that mean?

Was it connected to the strange conversation two weeks earlier with Laina? Was Seward City suddenly the epicenter for weird?

He searched for Thompson's name in museum and gallery websites, academic programs, and scholarly journal databases. Scrawled ideas on a pad of paper and did additional research on cultural heritage sites and ethnology collections. Struggled to focus. He yawned, rubbed his eyes. Loki came into the den and poked him, cold wet nose touching his face. He smiled, scratched the scruff of his neck.

The dog reclined, head along his thigh. Soon Loki fell back to sleep.

He plowed through documents, scanning staff lists and reviewing author attributions. His eyes ached. He found little relevant information, save one esoteric article on stone effigies and a brief mention of a job in the Baltic region. Didn't make sense—the Willard Museum hired Thompson based on experience. He had to have worked in a high-level professional capacity somewhere, right? His history was a blank slate, not connected to any museum in the two years preceding his arrival.

Maybe electronic carpet-bombing would be more effective. He barraged museums and universities throughout Europe with email, asking curatorial and administrative staff if they remembered Thompson. Every address he found, he fired off a request. If one or two people responded, it might lead him in the right direction. He rotated his neck, trying to get a kink out of it. Fatigue crept into his system.

Another idea came to him and he emailed Einar. Ask Laina about Thompson. She was in Sweden, worked in ethnology. Maybe she'd heard of him. Did she know of work he'd done?

Then he crashed.

Kait found him the next morning sacked out on the sofa, face planted in the cushion, laptop on, crumpled notes littering the floor as if a garbage can had exploded. She shook his shoulder. He stirred, mumbled something but fell back to sleep, so she unleashed the black beast, letting Loki gallop over and lick his face. He waved the dog off with an uncoordinated flailing and hauled himself to a sitting position. Loki jumped up and lolled on the sofa.

"Mmm . . ." He rubbed his eyes and reached over to turn off his laptop. "Shit. What time is it?"

She sat beside him. "What are you doing? You can't function on so little sleep."

"Time?" He couldn't focus. His mind was fogged, hair flattened and tangled.

"It's 8:15 AM." She put a hand on his shoulder. "I'm heading out. You're worrying me. And you're late for work."

He wound her hand in his fingers and held it, eyes closed, not awake enough to do anything else. "Wanted to run down ideas before I forgot."

"Was it worth it?"

"Huh?"

"Did you find helpful information?"

"Ah . . ." He clammed up, not wanting to say he was investigating her boss. No need to alarm her. "Um . . . I'm hoping for responses today."

She pulled him close. "Michael. You look terrible. Take a shower. Coffee's on the counter—I'll see you later. Promise me you won't work all night tonight."

"Yeah." He sank his head on her shoulder. "Maybe monsters won't kill kids today."

*

Thompson began his career in Skopje, Macedonia, a city along the upper Vardar River. He weaseled his way into the Museum of Macedonia as an assistant in the Department of Ethnology. There amid the ancient collections of the Eastern world, he met Lidija, twenty years his senior, volunteer, guide and conjurer. They connected immediately, he drawn by her personality and deep laugh and she by his youthful enthusiasm for the dark arts. Lidija, immersed in spells, potions and incantations, became his teacher and muse. She showed him how to use platnik blood and unfortunate victims as a starting point to create immature creatures, allowing them forty days to feed then harvesting their blood for chemistry experiments.

"But . . . dear Ellie, let's not call them vampires." Lidija tossed her dark hair with a large hand. "Such vulgar imagery."

Thompson smiled. He loved her. "What do you suggest?"

"Aim higher. How about revenant? Means 'to return,' as in the French verb revenir." She gave a sly smile. "Has an elegance about it."

"Revenant," he said. "Perfect."

"And of course. French is sophisticated, for a gentleman such as you."

He recalled that time of his life with delight—Lidija, midnight walks along the Vardar, and promises of eternity. He wanted it and she was his willing helper, working with him, trying to create a substance that granted eternal life. 'We can succeed,' she would proclaim, 'eliminate the inconvenience of dying.' He wanted to remain in the land of the living without death, or, if necessary, in a state of undeath.

They tested concoctions on murderers and executed prisoners from Bulgaria, easy to obtain within the lax culture of Communist decline. Anesthetizing live subjects, they transfused them with platnic blood, transforming them into young revenants. Thompson avoided individuals rumored to carry disease, which would have been detrimental to his work. The Vardar was the perfect conduit for their creatures as they trolled for prey. When the forty days passed, Thompson and Lidija harvested the blood and he refined his processes, searching for the key to transform the base substance into a drug. He remained in Bulgaria for ten years, Lidija his constant companion.

The unthinkable only reinforced his dream. Lidija met an untimely death in a museum mishap—falling from scaffolding while giving a dramatic reenactment of a tartar warrior stance in the late 1980s. Thompson, devastated, became convinced that immortality was preferable to losing loved ones. As the years flew, he moved from the Baltic to Western Europe and then to the Nordic countries, balancing museum duties with his passion and waiting for the right confluence of elements to align.

## CHAPTER 8

## 2011 Early November

He shifted hunting grounds north into the upstate wilderness. Compulsion and desire to keep the cops off balance urged him forward. With falling temperatures and approaching winter, he had to feed before heavy snows and howling winds hindered travel. He followed the river's west branch at the divide, staying close to shore, out of sight thanks to heavy scrub. Smelled change, saw it in the last fall leaves remaining on trees. He extended his claws, sharpening them on a rock, enjoying the sensation.

He responded to his creator's needs by charting a path, leaving markers, talismans substantial but unnoticeable unless someone knew what to look for in the sand, muck and brush. He smiled, licked his lips and cocked his head to pick up sounds and smells of people in the landscape.

On this evening, warm for early November, he heard laughter. Headed in the direction of the sound.

*

Two children scampered along the shore, yellow rubber boots squishing in the water. They laughed, skipping stones, trying to outdo each other. Early fall twilight cast a pink glow as the river rounded the bend and meandered between two large hills. A golden retriever stood next to them, ears up and tail like a flag, barking when another stone hit the water and skimmed the surface once, twice, thrice before sinking.

"Rocky, it's a skipping stone!" A boy tossed a stone and gave the dog an affectionate pat.

"Look, Matty, he wants to go after it." The girl threw another stone and giggled. The dog barked, tail wagging. "Rocky, go. Fetch the rock!" She clapped her hands.

"He doesn't want a rock." Matty was annoyed at his sister hogging the dog's attention. "He knows it's a rock."

"He does too wanna fetch it." She stomped her boot in the water. "Rocky will fetch anything."

Rocky splashed back and forth, not giving a damn about stones. He enjoyed the attention the children were giving him.

"Let's get a stick," Matty said. "He likes those better . . . "

The girl ran along the shore, scanning the ground. She zigzagged near the water's edge. "Ah HAH!" She found a stick and tossed it. Rocky watched, all twitching attention, muscles ready to spring. Splash! The stick hit the water. The dog leapt after it.

"Matty, Laura, don't wander far. Dinner's almost ready. " Their mother pulled ham sandwiches, bag of chips and thermos of hot chocolate from her checked picnic bag. She set the food on a plate on a blanket near the fire pit, less than 400 yards from the water. She waved and motioned for them to get ready to eat.

The boy laughed and ran after the dog. "Go Rocky. Fetch the stick!"

Rocky emerged. He shook himself, droplets flying. Trotted to the girl, dropped it and barked as if to say, 'come on, hit me again. Toss that sucker!'

"I'll find a bigger stick . . ." Matty took off down the bank, climbing over logs and running along the shore. He and his sister competed even if it involved something simple like a stick to toss to Rocky.

"Tomorrow, Matty," his mother called.

"Matty. Mom says time for dinner!"

A flash of light, a scream and the dog's crazed barking.

Snarling and growls.

His mother tore to the water, but Matty was gone. Rocky stood over Laura. She cowered. The dog shook, head down, tail down, ears back. He had blood on his muzzle, and growled when the girl's mother approached. Then, realizing who it was, the dog dropped his defensive stance, stepped toward her and whimpered. She grabbed the girl, yanked her phone out and called 911.

*

Einar ducked low branches and trudged through the muck, Michael behind him. Every step brought doubt. What if Cresson was right? What if they couldn't solve it?

Dead cattails and sedges flicked their coat sleeves. Wind whispered through dried reeds, rustling the remaining leaves. They followed the responding officer to the bank, illuminated with construction lights, generators droning. The uniform pointed to the river bend, cordoned off with police tape.

Marta bent over remains strewn in a bloody path. Her tech crouched at the other end, face ashen. Flesh and guts were everywhere. She saw the detectives, stopped and removed her gloves. Stood as Einar and Michael approached. "Let's catch this bastard," she said. "Another child ripped apart. More blood on the ground than last time."

"It was interrupted," Einar said.

Marta nodded. "Who does this to children?"

Michael stared.

"Someone or something evil." Einar wished for a better answer. It prompted a knot in his gut. He'd never seen someone torn apart with such fury.

Beside him, Michael stood frozen.

"Mikey, you okay?"

No answer. Michael shook his head, muttered and walked away. A uniform raised an eyebrow and followed.

"Survivor?" Einar tried to focus on the scene and Michael. Where was he going? What was he thinking? He wasn't sleeping, and the dark circles under his eyes were worse.

"Einar?"

"Sorry, Marta." Einar exhaled. "Guess I'm as distracted as he is . . ."

"Give him some space. This one's bad. Maybe the worst I've seen."

"I know. But—"

"Age and experience."

He smiled. "Point taken. I want to keep him around. So, survivors?"

"Yes." She nodded to the gathered emergency vehicles. "Over there. Young sister, saved by their dog. It caught the killer off guard. He bolted without the blood-gulping fest that followed the other kills."

"Christ." Einar stared at her.

"He, it, left before draining the boy dry."

"What is it?"

"Wish I knew. But we're not imagining it." She looked him in the eye.

"Christ. No. We're not."

"Mother found her daughter and dog and called 911," Marta said. "She also found her son's body."

Einar shook his head. " _þetta er spurning um tíma._ It's a matter of time. We'll find the monster."

"Hope so. Now would be optimum. I'm sick of kids ending up in pieces on my table."

"I promise, Marta. We'll catch the creep. He won't escape punishment."

"You know better than to promise, Einar." She touched his shoulder. "I know you mean it."

He nodded.

"If . . . you catch it, let me rip its damn head off. Show it how these kids suffered."

Einar raised an eyebrow.

"Don't give me that look. You feel the same." She gave a sad smile and headed to her tech near the smaller segment of human remains, and then halted. "The dog might have evidence in its mouth. I need your help to swab it. The only forensic tech available tonight is terrified of dogs."

"You've got it. We'll meet you there." Einar turned and scanned the scene, looking for his partner.

Michael strode along the river, heart racing.

Why here?

The rushing current tumbled over the shallow bottom, flooding his memory. This stretch was etched in his life. He and his brother spent summers in it, more fish than boys, their mother forcing them each evening to come out of the water—but that's what she wanted. He must've had ADHD as a kid, always restless and looking for something to do, running from place to place, flitting from thing to thing, Billy following. He was a perfect candidate to be dulled by Ritalin, but his mother refused. She sent them outside. 'Play in the water,' she'd say. They ran until exhausted. The river had been playground and refuge.

Now kids were dying on it. Again. Something was wrong. The wilderness had been violated—but by what?

The uniform followed him, marking bits of human remains with small flags.

He tried to focus, fought the images in his head.

Why?

A strange mark in the mud near a rock caught his eye. He scrambled closer to examine it.

A footprint?

He rubbed his unshaven face. Must be imagining things. This was messed up. The print resembled a human foot but mutated. Five long toes ended in large claws. He stared, head pounding. Wanted to smash his hand into the mud, press fingers into it and blot it out. Looked like a dinosaur or lizard foot, but that was ridiculous outside of horror movies and comic books. Did the killer wear a disguise? Why one ungodly footprint?

He dragged fingers through his hair. Closed his eyes. Swore under his breath. Tension knotted his shoulders.

No such thing as monsters. They do not exist. Don't believe in demons.

He opened his eyes. Print was still there. Fuck. Focus.

He scoured the river near it, noticed a red rock out of place among the dark river stones. He crouched, slipped on a glove and lifted it. Its smooth surface ended with sharp edges and shattered corners, geometric lines gouged in a pattern. Nature hadn't created it. He'd spent enough time around Kait's archaeology books to know it might be part of a larger object. He dropped it into a plastic bag and shoved it in his pocket, unsure if it was evidence.

I'm losing it.

Was his mind playing tricks? Where was Billy? Why another dead child? He stood, wandered the bank and found another piece. He was peering into the water when a hand touched his shoulder.

Einar felt him flinch.

Michael looked up, startled.

"Jesus. Partner's not supposed to scare you at a crime scene. We're the good guys, remember?"

"Sorry. I mean— "

"Again. You okay?"

"Yeah." Said with lack of conviction. "Fine."

"I'm serious."

No answer.

"Mikey—"

"Christ. Lay off . . . "

It was time for the blunt approach. "Cut the crap. You need sleep, I can tell you're exhausted. You're worrying me." Einar crouched next to him. "Child scenes are tough and this one's a real bitch. I sympathize, but I need you focused and coherent. Maybe you should speak with the department shrink. I can set you up with peer counseling. You're not handling this case well."

"I'm fine."

"I disagree."

No shrink. I'm okay."

"No. You're not. Might be a good idea."

Michael remained motionless, crouched at the river's edge.

"It's not a sign of weakness. Might help." Easy for him to say, but he'd refused help whenever his boss brought it up.

Michael shook his head. He crossed his arms and stared into the water.

"I'm serious." Einar sighed and stood. "Look. I'm not your mother and I know you don't want a lecture . . . but take my advice. Get some rest. You need tomorrow off? Just ask. Clear your head. We have to catch whatever's causing this bloodbath. Can't have you going into meltdown. If you need time, let me know. But you've been warned."

No reply.

He took a deep breath. Maybe he'd been a bit harsh. "Okay . . . enough lecture for the moment. What'd you find?"

"A rock."

Einar looked around. Rocks everywhere. Shit. Maybe his partner had already lost it.

"A red rock. Never seen anything like it in the river." Michael stood, mud sucking at his shoes. "Grasping at straws. It's nothing. And I'm not melting down."

"Didn't say you were. Just said I was concerned."

"Right. That's why you suggested the shrink. What, wondering if I'm coming undone?"

"No. Even when you're too tired for your own damn good, your instincts are sound."

"Are they? I'm grabbing colored stones. That's desperate." He shrugged and walked along the bank.

Einar followed.

"How can it disappear so fast?"

"Good question. Don't have an answer."

Michael looked out over the river. He seemed a thousand miles away. "This stretch doesn't have easy access. Someone has to know it to remain near the water but out of sight."

"Or something is using instinct." He wasn't joking.

Michael was silent.

"Mikey . . ."

"Shut up. Stop with monsters. Kids are dying. I don't get your nonchalance."

"I've seen too many murders. I'm the jaded Iceland, remember?"

No response.

Great. Another pissed partner. "Michael, I've been at this a long time."

"Right."

"Cut yourself a break. You're human. You'll learn to handle it. Nothing about this part of the job comes naturally. Nothing." In truth, police and criminals weren't that far apart. Everyone handled the darkness their own way, some more constructive than others.

Michael looked at him.

"Bad ones come along. Afraid you've caught one of the worst."

"No kidding . . ."

He sighed. Case was preying on Michael's mind to an unusual degree. Why?

"It's carnage. We tromp the bank and collect mangled flesh. Bodies pile up. It's watching, laughing. No clues. We're nowhere."

"It? Did I hear you right?"

Michael grabbed his sleeve and pulled him to the footprint. "Explain." He pointed. "Not human."

Einar signaled a uniform to mark it and have the forensic tech make a cast. Why hadn't Michael flagged it? Einar looked at him. He was unhinging. Shit. A partner I like after years of assholes and he comes undone. "Michael, do not get lost in this case." He knew the glazed expression of clouded reason when cops drifted into instability. It was staring at him.

"Right." Michael said.

"Stay focused."

"I know."

Einar slung an arm around his shoulder. "Come on. Help me with a DNA sample from a dog, per Marta's request. Kait tells me animal whispering is a strength."

They retraced their path across the marshy shallow. An ambulance parked with lights flashing but sirens off near the berm of the narrow dirt road. In back sat a middle-aged woman, a girl wrapped in a blanket and a large wet dog. Marta held the woman's hand. The girl hugged the dog.

"Okay, Marta," Einar said. "We're here to help."

She pulled swabs and test kits from her case, handed them to him and asked the girl if they could borrow Rocky for a moment. She shook her head, held on to Rocky.

"Hold on," Michael said. "Don't separate them." The dog refocused him. He climbed into the ambulance and sat beside the girl, crossing his legs and letting the dog sniff his hand.

"Hi." His voice was calm. "I'm a policeman. Sorry about what happened."

"My brother's gone."

It rocked him for a moment.

"Rocky saved me." Laura buried her face in his fur. "Couldn't save us both."

"Your dog was brave." Michael fought the desire to scream.

"Yes . . ." She gripped Rocky tighter.

Focus. Fucking focus.

"How about if Rocky helps us?" He looked at her. Hoped she didn't see his instability.

She brushed a tear away. "How?"

He pulled a glove from his pocket and motioned for Einar to hand him the swab. "Your mom tells you to brush your teeth because stuff gets left behind after you eat, right? Get Rocky to open his mouth, and we can sort of brush his teeth, too. What we find may help us."

She didn't let go of the dog but pondered his question, and then scratched Rocky under the chin. "Come on, Rocky," she whispered. "Smile." The dog opened his mouth and Michael swabbed along his teeth. He handed the swab to Einar. Ran another along a bloody strip on the dog's jowl. Handed that to Einar, too.

"Thanks," Michael said. "One more thing." He pointed to the dog's front paws. "Can he lift his paws so I can look at them?"

"Okay." Laura looked Rocky in the eye. "Gimme paw."

The dog lifted a paw and didn't flinch when Michael touched it, separating toes to look for residue. He pulled a strand of sticky substance off a claw with his glove and motioned for Einar to hand him a small evidence bag. He did the same with the other front paw. Job done, he pulled a dog biscuit out of his coat pocket.

"I have a dog, too." He hugged her. "Give Rocky a treat. He's been a big help." He handed her the treat and she gave it to Rocky, who devoured it.

Michael edged down from the ambulance. His feet hit the ground, knees buckling, and he held onto the open door for support.

"Nicely done," Marta said. "Kait was right. You've a deft touch with children and animals. I'll remember that for future reference."

"Interesting." Einar crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow. "Haven't witnessed those skills before. I'm impressed."

"Don't be. Just trying to help," Michael watched Laura and Rocky. His hands were shaking.

Einar interviewed the mother, who described what she heard and saw in as much detail as she could. But like the others, the attack ended before she could react. A flash of light, screams, and quick movement. But one thing she mentioned was new. The killer wasn't massive. Fast, yes, but the dog's presence had thrown him off and he ran without going after the animal. Wasn't much to go on, but did provide a small clue. Combined with the footprint and swabs, evidence gave a glimmer of hope.

Einar headed to the car. Michael zipped his coat and walked in the opposite direction.

"Where are you going?" Einar ran to catch up.

"I need a drink," Michael said.

"You need sleep, not a drink."

"Want a drink."

Einar eyed him. Not good. "You're not going by yourself."

"Fine. Join me."

"I will." Out here?

"Let's go."

"You know a place within walking distance?"

"Yeah. Tavern around the corner." He shrugged and headed up the hill. "We should talk to patrons anyway, see if they saw something. Not a long walk."

"Right." Einar fell in step beside him. "Are we on or off police business?"

"Whatever. I don't care."

The Tumble Inn came into view, perched near a bend on the winding road into the small logging town of Gates. Two battered neon signs, one with rotating yellow light, sent signals into the dark. It had beckoned passersby since the 1920s.

The outer wood door slammed and inner metal one clattered as they entered. No one looked up. Michael walked over and sat on a battered stool at the U-shaped wood bar like he'd been there often. Einar followed.

The place was decorated in sputtering neon and plastic beer advertising signs, especially Genesee Twelve Horse Ale and Utica Club. Glass shelves behind the bar were crammed with old beer cans, beer trays and character steins.

Men and a few women downed cheap beer. An unshaven drunk with bloodshot eyes and vulture tattoo on his bicep hit on a female bartender between gulps of beer. She tended to customers and he tried to get her into conversation. She ignored him as long as she could and then retreated to the other side of the bar.

Michael motioned to the other bartender, an old woman with gray hair and a no-nonsense air. Bar patrons wouldn't hit on her this evening. He caught her eye. She nodded, grabbed two chilled pint glasses, poured the drafts and set them on the bar.

"Been a while." She brushed his hand.

"Yeah . . ." He chugged the beer, ordered another. Einar pulled out his badge.

"I know. Cops. Don't want trouble," she said. "You pullin' someone out?" She slung a dishrag over her shoulder and glanced at several young men on the other side, empty shot glasses lined in front of them.

"No one's getting arrested," Einar said. "Just want to talk to a few people." The toughs were probably familiar to local law enforcement, but tonight they could get plastered without cops intervening. Unless they started throwing punches.

Michael ordered a third beer. The bartender whispered to him. He shook his head.

Einar scanned the bar. "Investigating a series of deaths," he said when she returned. "Children. Crimes happened in the area, down the ridge."

The bartender nodded and set the beer in front of Michael.

"Might've heard about them." Einar had the feeling he was missing something.

Michael looked up. "Want to see if customers know anything. That's all. Anyone here done illegal shit? None of our business. We're looking the other way."

Einar nodded. He leaned close to the bartender. "No trouble, no arrests," he said. "Conversation."

"We're off duty anyway." Michael downed his third draft.

"Right," said the bartender.

Einar caught the comment, decided not to let him order a fourth.

The tattooed drunk overheard, ears tuned like radar to the word 'cops' even in his inebriated state. Striking out with hottie bartender and frustrated that she'd retreated, he turned to them. "Cops at the Tumble Inn," he snorted. "You'd better just be wantin' to talk. Everyone here's done things you wouldn't like. We fend for ourselves." He finished his bottle, plopped it on the bar and rammed a finger into Michael's forearm. "Hey cop. Heard about that kid. Drove by on my way here. Lookin' for the killer?"

"Yeah." Einar peered over Michael's shoulder. "Seen anyone or anything odd in the area? Out of place?"

"Every day, man," the drunk said, "every damn day."

"Anything specific?" Michael said.

"Yeah, man." The drunk didn't elaborate. He leaned forward to get the older bartender's attention. "Want another beer."

The bartender looked at the detectives. "So?"

"Can't run me a tab," he said. "My debit card got pulled."

"What do you want me to do about that, Chuckie?" She turned to the taps, pouring a draft for a customer.

"Want more beer."

"Chuckie." Michael patted his shoulder, signaling the bartender with a wave. "Let me buy you a beer."

Chuckie smiled, mouth sporting a gold crown and missing teeth. "Cop buys the beer. You're alright."

"Don't need to be doin' that . . . " The bartender shook her head, pulled Chuckie's favored brand from the cooler, uncapped it and set it in front of him. He grunted and took a swig.

"Chuckie," Einar said. "Tell us about the odd stuff."

The drunk leaned back and cleared his throat. "Well, you understand, we know everyone around here. We're from here, born here, die here. My whole family's never left here 'cept once, when granddad went to fight the Japs in World War II. After the summer people go, we know who drives the red beater, who has the loud-ass bike, who left their skank underwear in the ladies room, and who ran off the road around the Ramp Four bridge, taking out the guard rail but not botherin' stoppin'. . ." He chugged his beer. "Ain't many folks up here are strangers."

"Not at this time of year," Michael said. Chuckie nodded.

"Fascinating," Einar said. "But what've you noticed unusual?"

Chuckie frowned. "I've heard strange screams, in parts of the woods I wouldn't go at night anyway, if ya know what I mean." He winked. "Bigfoots live out here, I seen one once, smelt it, too. My daddy told me they been here for centuries, specially up near Whitehall . . ."

"See? He's out there," Einar said.

Michael ignored him.

Chuckie kept talking. "In the last few weeks, I seen a vehicle around that I know, know don't belong to any of us. An old shit-brown Bronco, late 1980s. Rusted beater, man, even for these parts. Seen it last week along the river down from here. Couple a days ago not far from the bar. Can't tell who's in it, but it ain't a girl. Unless it's the ugliest girl I ever seen." He motioned for another beer.

"Put it on my tab," Michael said to the bartender.

"Honey, you don't have to . . ." She reached for it anyway.

Einar glanced from her to Michael.

Chuckie grabbed the beer. "Don't know anyone's talked to him. Ain't seen it at a bar, rest stop or gas station. It's round late afternoon to early morning. Never after ten in the morning or in the middle of the day."

"License plate?" Michael said.

"Yeah, man," Chuckie said. "New York State, the old statue of liberty. Hell, that one went out in what, 1999 or 2000?"

Einar sighed. Damn, the vehicle didn't have valid registration.

"Anything else?" Michael said.

"Not really, man. There's always somethin' off goin' on up here. Most of it normal weird. You're talking weird weird. Can't say I seen anything other than the beater shitty Bronco. I'll keep my eagle eyes open now I know your lookin'."

Michael handed Chuckie a business card. "If you see the Bronco, call us," he said. "Odd happenings, something out of place, call us. I'll buy another beer. Two if you help us crack it."

"I will, man." Chuckie smiled and peered at the card. "Lewis? Last name's Lewis? You related to Jacker Packer Lewis?"

The bartender nodded.

Einar looked at her. She knew him?

"Yeah. Grandfather on my father's side. I have his shotgun and logging mark."

The drunk slapped him on the back. "Jacker! Dude, I should buy you beer. Guys who remember talk of his ability. Awesome is what they say. Man could scale a tree like no one. King of the Adirondack lumberjacks! I'm honored, cop." He extended his large hand. Michael shook it, his disappearing into the massive grasp.

"Thanks."

"Man." Chuckie paused. "Richard Packer Lewis was your father?"

"Was," Michael said. "Yeah, he was."

"Double cool." Chuckie edged around on his seat and pantomimed hands up. "FBI! Dad was cool, man. That's serious family history. One of us."

Einar wheeled around. This was not a backwoods dive—he knew it and they knew him.

Michael stared at the bar counter.

"He was a good man," the bartender said.

Chuckie paused. "Sorry bout what happened."

"Yeah . . ."

"But he was a hero. Damn. Still got his picture over there." Chuckie cocked his head to the wall in the corner. Rows of faded framed 8 x 10s hung below an old handwritten poster that said 'Hall of Thank Your Ass These People Existed.'

"All these years." The bartender turned to the wall. "Don't make it easier . . ."

"No," Michael said.

"Thanks for the beer, man, you're a life saver," Chuckie said. "Jacker's grandson. FBI's son. You do them proud. Not one a those pole-up-the-ass flatlanders. Better believe—I see something, I'll call ya."

Michael nodded, eyes downcast. He glanced at the photo, then swung around and motioned for another beer. The bartender laid a hand on his arm and whispered to Einar who then cajoled Michael out of the bar. They trudged the road in darkness except for the moon glow in the night sky. Gravel crunched under foot.

"What'd she say?"

"Take care of you . . ."

"Oh."

They walked for a few minutes in silence.

"Jacker Packer?" Einar interrupted the solitude. "FBI Man. Didn't know . . ."

"Didn't tell you . . ."

"I knew your father was law enforcement. But FBI?"

"Yeah . . . whatever."

"Shit, Mikey. You've never mentioned your family. Two years. All the time we've worked together."

"Not relevant."

"Of course it is."

"No. It isn't."

"You know these dives. You grew up here, didn't you?"

"Sat at those barstools while dad bought beer. Bartenders and waitresses knew us. They'd give me free maraschino cherries."

Christ. No wonder the dives were nostalgic. It wasn't their isolation. They connected to his past.

"How long?"

"Until I was ten."

"Same age as our victims."

"So what."

Einar had a sinking feeling. Case was too close, churning up bad memories. No wonder he was freaking out.

"Michael. What happened to your father?"

"He died."

"How?"

"Why's it matter?"

"How?"

"Killed in the line of duty, hostage situation, apprehending suspect near Hogansburg, near the Canadian border."

"Shit—"

"I was nine. It won him the spot on the wall."

"Sorry." Einar turned to him. "Shit. But I thought you lived in Western Mass?"

"We moved."

They got to the rover. Einar walked to the driver's side and opened his door but peered over the roof. He suspected more. "Why?"

Michael lowered his head.

"Michael?"

No answer.

"What happened?"

"My brother Billy . . ."

"You have a brother?"

" . . . went hiking with friends . . . "

"Where—"

" Along the river near Gates."

"Wait a minute. Here?"

"He disappeared. Never found him."

Einar slammed the door. "Jesus, Michael. I'm sorry."

"My mother wouldn't let me look for him."

"Shit—"

"I should've helped . . . "

"You were a kid."

"No excuse."

"This case—"

"I'm fine. Happened a long time ago . . ."

"How can you—"

"Don't remember. It's in the past."

"You're not fine." A cement wall could tell he was lying. Einar bolted around the rover. "Step back for your own sake. Can't you see what it's doing?"

"No."

"You're a mess, don't have objective distance. I get it. Christ, Cap will understand."

"No."

"Michael. You're too close."

"No."

"You didn't tell me because you knew what I would say—"

"I never mentioned it because I'm a private person."

"What does that—"

"My life isn't an open book. I deal with it." He was shouting. "I don't talk about it. To anyone. I cope. Have my entire damn life. Lived through the fallout. Got through my fucked-up-over-it phase. Went into law enforcement so it never happens to other kids. It's not affecting my work."

"I don't believe you." Einar threw a hand in the air. "It fuels you. Your father was killed when you lived here. Your brother disappeared here. This case involves kids. You're obsessing." He looked him in the eye. "I have to take you off this case. You know that. For your own good."

"Don't. I can do the job."

"You can't."

"I can."

"No."

"Don't jump to conclusions—"

"Michael—"

"Please . . ."

Einar hesitated. He couldn't ignore the information, was disturbed Michael hadn't disclosed it after the first attack. What was he thinking? And yet, they worked well together. He was good at research. Cap wouldn't let anyone take on this case alone. If he removed Michael, who'd be assigned to it? Cresson? Dreading that scenario, Einar backed off. "Okay." He took a deep breath. "I'll trust you." Another. "For now . . ."

"Right."

"But, I'm worried. I see anything, the smallest hint—"

"Fine. Whatever. You're the boss. Do what you need to do. Don't let my incompetence hold you back." Michael got into the passenger seat and slammed the door.

They drove to Seward City in silence.

*

Marta called Einar early the next morning. Half awake, he slugged down coffee, listening—was he tired or was that hesitation in her voice? He wandered from his desk to an interview room. Others didn't need to eavesdrop.

"Don't know what to make of preliminary results," she said. "Evidence collected last night creates more questions than answers."

"Hit me," Einar said. Anxiety was becoming his constant companion. It weighed like lead in his gut and he was sure something was gnawing at his insides.

"Because of the other murders, we put a rush on testing. Blood from swabs taken in the dog's mouth . . . contained unidentifiable mutated cells. Not human, not identifiable animal. Unusual shape. Same for the substance on its paws."

"How can that be?"

"Sent samples to the FBI Nuclear DNA Unit for testing with more sophisticated equipment. We're trying to narrow down the mutations."

"Mutations?" Gnawing became a chasm.

"Swab samples contained blood biotransformation. Under a microscope . . . " Her voice trailed off.

"Marta?"

"Never seen it before."

He hesitated. "Never heard of anything like that. What caused it?"

She sighed. "I don't know. Nothing natural. Tox screens showed no narcotics, hallucinogenics, depressants or alcohol in the killer's system. Whoever's murdering these kids, common substance abuse is not a factor. Found no unidentified hair fibers, no synthetic substances, no other unidentifiable bodily fluids and no fingerprints. Victim's cause of death was identical to the others—stab wounds, evisceration, exsanguination. More blood on the scene. Massive deep bites. Had the child survived the attack, he'd have died of sepsis."

"Shit," Einar said. "Shreds of evidence tell us nothing." He rubbed his forehead. "What's going on?"

She exhaled. "We're dealing with something unusual."

"Not helpful."

"Sorry. Oh, one more thing . . . footprint stumped my techs. Might be fake, but why create a single fraudulent impression? From the weight distribution pattern, it doesn't scream hoax—unless someone understood how a bipedal creature would step in mud elongated toes first with heel following. Compared it to the stab marks on the body. If real, it has . . ."

"Marta?"

"Retractable claws. Five toes, elongated bone structure. Not human."

Icy fingers pricked his spine. "What was it?"

"Staff looked for comparisons. Closest match? Mix of large reptile and carnivore like a cat."

What?

I'm not awake. Need more caffeine.

"Marta. Did I hear you? Reptile and cat?"

"Yes. Insane, right?"

## CHAPTER 9

## 2013 Christmas Eve

Einar drove through a tight grove of conifers and old oaks, darkness enveloping the vehicle beyond the headlight beams. His passenger rocked and mumbled as the rover cut through blowing snow. Finally a small cedar-shingled cabin came into view, single light in the window. He stopped by the house and turned. The man wouldn't look at him.

"I live here," Einar said. "I'm not a psychopath."

"Right," he mumbled.

"Stay, heal, and detox from whatever you're on. I know you don't trust me, but I want you off the street. For your own good, as . . . a witness. Forecast sucks next week—blizzard conditions and arctic temperatures."

A dog barked. The man's head snapped to freaked attention. The porch light came on. He stared.

"I'm not holding you. You're not under arrest."

His eyes darted.

"I'm inviting you as a concerned citizen."

How do I reach you?

Einar removed a glove and held out his hand. "Friend. Deal?"

Troll hesitated.

"I promise. I don't bite."

"What the fuck . . . deal . . . I guess." Troll took his hand in slow motion then pulled back and curled it to his body. He stared out the window.

Einar came around and opened the passenger door. "You should know . . ." He helped his patient to the ground. "This is unusual. Cops call me an asshole. Don't try to change their minds. We don't socialize." Troll slumped against the vehicle, unsteady, drowning in the large coat, fogged from painkillers. Einar closed the door and wrapped an arm around his waist to steady him. Christ, he was thin. Was anything left to salvage?

Allison opened the door and halted.

Einar saw her confusion. He felt bad. How else should she react? The man—filthy, thin, unkempt, and bandaged—was a shocking contrast to him.

A large black dog stood at alert, ears pricked. When they came closer, it whined and pranced.

"Einar, glad you're home." Al looked at him. "Company. How unusual. What's going on?"

"Al, Merry Christmas. Brought a friend." He shoved him into the house and shut the door.

The dog bounded up and sniffed. More whining. Troll froze. Tail wagging, body quivering, the dog laid his head against his thigh and pressed into him, long nose touching his hand.

He hesitated and then rested his hand on the dog's head.

Allison pulled Einar to the kitchen. "Explain. Loki hasn't reacted like that since Michael died."

He hesitated. "Can't explain it. Makes sense if it's his dog. Even if he doesn't know it."

It took her a moment. "But he's dead."

Einar shook his head.

"Michael's dead."

"That's what we thought. That's what everyone thought." His shoulders sagged. He motioned to man and dog. "Loki knows better."

"How?" Allison closed her eyes.

"Don't know."

"Where?"

"Among the homeless in the industrial zone. He witnessed a double murder tonight. Uniforms chased him, freaked him out. He bolted. Climbed a razor wire barrier but smashed into it." He rubbed his face with his hand. Allison helped him remove his suit jacket and laid it over the counter. "Caught the case by luck, if you could call it that. Layton's on vacation, Cresson's out of town and Villarna on medical leave. Otherwise, I'd never have known. Didn't realize until I got him to the station. Recognized him in the light of the interview room."

"God. He looks like a lost soul."

"He is."

"Does he know you?"

"No. Doesn't know who he is. Resisted help. Had to cuff him to get medical attention. His face was a mess. He's strung out on some poisonous shit. Like hell was I going to drop him on the street. What if Cresson had got the call? All this time . . . Christ, Al . . . "

She put a hand on his arm. "Einar?"

He looked at her. "Sorry. Hell of a Christmas. But I didn't know what else to do."

She hugged him. "You're not an asshole. Don't apologize."

"Thanks, Al." He kissed her and held her close. "You might be the only person who'd say that." Her embrace offered trust and security. And love, which still blew his mind. She was his buffer against the crap in the world.

Allison sighed. "He's a mess."

"Yeah." Einar glanced back to the hall.

"Okay . . . small steps first. Burn his squalid clothes. Let's get food in him." She hesitated.

He knew that look. "Al? You're concerned. What?"

"Homeless have high rates of mental illness and substance abuse. You don't want to hear it, but are we putting ourselves in danger?"

"Don't know." She was right, as usual. "He's a shell. Don't think he's violent . . ." He closed his eyes. "But— "

"He needs help. I trust you."

She returned to them. Einar followed.

"Welcome," she said.

Hollow eyes hesitated. "Your dog likes me."

"He does," she said. "Loki's a good judge of character. But we're only caring for him. He belongs to someone else."

He rubbed the dog's nose. Loki leaned closer.

Einar swore he saw a flash of recognition in those drugged eyes.

"Let's go upstairs," Allison said. "You can shower but don't get your face wet. Toss your cloths in a pile. They'll be burned."

He looked at her in surprise.

"Consider this a new start," she said with matter-of-fact finality. "I'll put out clean clothes. We've got tons of gear around from family visits—something'll fit you." She led him upstairs, black dog following.

Einar hung back, exhausted and relieved, appreciative of her calm competence.

Am I dead? Or dreaming?

He stood in the warm water, eyes closed. It poured down his spine and pelted his bony shoulders, flooding his damaged body. Couldn't remember experiencing the sensation. He bent his head to the side, letting liquid wash over lank hair while keeping the stitches dry. Held out his hands, let water run through his fingers. Watched it fall. Brought his arms back down to his sides.

Why now?

He remained motionless for almost an hour, water carrying away filth and the street's isolation.

When he returned to the kitchen, dog on his heels, he wore a thick black wool sweater and faded jeans, hair wet, clean clothing hanging on his gaunt frame. Allison and Einar turned at the sound of his footsteps. He peered around, nervous and hesitant.

"Better, right?" Einar handed him water and a Vicodin. "Nurse said you'd need one of these about now."

He downed the pill, water glass shaking. God, he needed a fix.

Einar took the glass and steadied his hand. "I meant it—let me help." He grasped quaking shoulders and led him to a wood-paneled room with a stone fireplace. Old hunting gear and a fishing trawler model graced the mantle. A fire warmed the space, casting an orange glow on the Christmas tree in the corner. Einar motioned for him to sit. He did. The dog followed. Einar sat next to them, rubbing Loki's neck.

He couldn't stop shaking.

"Tell me about the monsters."

"You believe me?"

"Yes."

"Why? They didn't."

"I've seen unexplainable things."

Like watching your broken shell struggle to converse.

Einar was at a loss. What if he hadn't been on duty? It was impossible for them to be sitting in his living room.

What happened, Michael?

"I saw things. It was cold, I— " He hesitated. "I was stoned. One taller than the other. They slit her throat . . . " He avoided Einar's eyes.

"What?"

"Drank her blood. Dumped her." He shivered. "Didn't imagine it."

Loki moved closer and watched him with the clear guileless gaze of a confidante.

Einar leaned forward. "Look at me." His wariness and confusion was obvious. How had he survived? "We'll get them. I promise. Forensic techs will go over the scene. They'll report back."

Michael shuddered. "Won't believe me."

"Marta . . . I mean . . . the Medical Examiner, will."

"I'm crazy." He shrank into himself. "Took bad shit. Saw shit."

"Take it easy."

"Nightmares. Seeing things. Crazy, fucking crazy . . . "

"You weren't seeing things. Police will be hunting monsters. Whether they realize it or not."

This time we'll catch them.

"No. Me. They'll hunt me. Cops wanted to bash my head into a wall."

"Not this cop, okay?"

"Yeah." Michael stared at the floor.

Allison brought food and coffee and handed it to him. He looked up, frozen. She repeated her gesture with more emphasis. He stared.

Einar put the cup and plate in his hands. Still he hesitated. Finally understood it was for him. God. When was the last time he'd eaten? Where'd he been? He ate a little and drank, shaking. Einar closed his eyes. Whatever drugs and booze in his system, withdrawal was coming. Sickness screamed in those drugged eyes. It'd be hell.

Lulled by the fireplace and mind numbed by Vicodin, he fell into weary sleep, head on the sofa arm, dog beside him.

Allison covered him with a wool blanket. Laid a hand on his shoulder. He didn't stir. She sat by Einar, hands threaded in her lap.

"What are we going to do?" she said.

We. So like her. Immediately invested and on his side.

He shook his head. "Want to tell him I know him, but don't want to freak him out."

"He doesn't remember?"

"Don't know." He rubbed his neck. "Not that I can tell. He's wreckage. Wasted. Brain damage, PTSD, a realm of terrible possibilities. Christ . . . " That case ended in fire and destruction. Nothing made sense.

She glanced at the sleeping figure. "His condition . . . might be irreversible."

Einar took off his glasses and sank into the sofa. "I can't leave him this way." He was determined to pull something out of the shell.

"Talk to Kait," Allison said. "She can help."

"I haven't told anyone. Don't have an explanation. Don't want to say anything in the department."

"Why? I mean, besides Phil."

"We believed he was dead. I witnessed the inferno. We held his funeral and went on with our lives while he existed on the street like an animal." The mourning band across his badge in Michael's memory had been surreal, serving on the honor guard for a funeral without a coffin even more so. Three dead partners. He'd taken a leave of absence after it happened.

"Wasn't your fault . . . " She pulled him close. "You know that."

"If—"

"He went in without backup."

"He saved Kait's life."

She leaned back. "Everyone makes choices. Then we live with them. Or not."

Pragmatic Allison. He took her hand. They'd had this conversation a thousand times. Guilt wouldn't leave him alone.

"Tell someone. He needs help. This is out of your league."

"Problem. Iceland goes around telling people his dead partner is alive. Who's going to believe me?"

Allison sighed. "Kait should know. Won't be easy but she might spur his memory. And he needs professionals. Addiction's a bitch—not something you just sleep off for a night or two."

"I know." He took a breath. She rested her head on his shoulder. "You're right. But I have to find out what happened, what—"

"Stubbornness—a trait the three of you shared. Share." She raised her head, looked at him. "Can't keep the truth from her."

"But, how . . . do I break this news?"

"I don't know."

A knife pierced his throat, blade slicing flesh. Screams echoed in the abyss. Creatures raged, howled, mutated, not identifiable. Rushing water. A gun. Warm liquid seeped down his face. He doubled over, took a blow to the back. Rolled, fought them. Faces crept closer, whispering and then mocking, loud and violent. Screams.

He swung.

Thud. Pain woke him. He bolted upright, eyes wide. A nightmare. He didn't understand. His heart pounded.

Why now?

Didn't want to remember, terrified of what he might find out. Where was he? He muttered, incoherent. "No, where's the boy, damn, get away, no, get away . . . "

A hand grasped his shoulder.

"Breathe. You're safe."

He froze, needed shit to silence the demons. "Gotta find Rat, I need it, just one just one, need a fix . . ." He wanted to OD.

"No." The hand pressed his shoulder.

What? He rubbed his face in repeating motion until someone pulled his hands away. In a fog, he remembered murder and monsters.

The detective.

"Only a dream. Sleep." Einar sat beside him, legs propped on the coffee table.

A wet nose prodded him. Loki shifted and curled closer.

*

Christmas morning. But the dead demanded attention.

Autopsy done on last night's victims, Marta removed her protective mask and gloves. The tech rinsed the table, covered the woman's body and pushed the gurney to cold storage.

Einar stood silent, shoulders hunched and arms crossed. Coat open, old clothes rumpled on his tall form. He hadn't shaved. Looked like he hadn't slept.

Marta took a breath. "As suspected. Death by sharp blades—claws—and exanguination."

He nodded.

"I'll get tests done on the drug vial. It's not something I've seen before."

"Nor I."

She walked to his side and leaned against the counter. Rare to see him dressed like a slob.

"Sorry," she said.

He didn't answer.

She wasn't afraid of death, had no qualms about her chosen career. Patients didn't complain. By the time they ended up on her tables, they may have suffered unspeakable traumas. But they were no longer in pain.

She long ago lost sentiment at death's stark reality after years spent helping her grandparents herd and butcher sheep on their Idaho ranch. As the youngest, her three brothers teased mercilessly and in return she'd toss sheep guts at them. It became their singular messy family signature. Always the one most likely to examine remains and help with cleanup, no one was surprised when her medical career morphed into pathology.

Death was a puzzle to be solved. Its impact on the living was another matter.

She looked at him.

He said nothing, arms tight. His face was drawn.

"You look like hell, Einar. What's wrong?"

"Fuck them."

"Agreed. I'm damn sorry for the reappearance." Marta knew those five bloody slashes haunted him. In the last two years, his laconic independent mindset had curdled into ugly anger. They'd been friends for more than seventeen years, early on realizing their backgrounds in less populated corners of the world made them kindred souls. She was pleased when they partnered him with Michael after the previous two jackasses. Watched them go from boss and bemused trainee who took whatever Einar threw at him to efficient working team and friends. Claws destroyed that.

"Marta."

"What?"

"You deal in death. But do you . . . believe in ghosts?"

"Einar—"

"Resurrection? Life after death?"

"What does—" Where was the sudden glimpse of faith coming from? He wasn't religious. Knew she wasn't.

"No? Neither do I. Or didn't . . . "

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Liar."

"Everything. The same."

"What's going on? Let me help."

"No."

"Don't shut me out."

He turned to go. "Merry Christmas Marta."

"Wait, Einar . . . "

But he was gone. His footsteps faded down the hall.

She stared.

It doesn't have to be merry, but I wish you'd find peace.

## CHAPTER 10

## 2011 Early November

Kait sped over the dirt road, gunning her Mazda around the curves. This fools' errand was not in her job description but it got her out of the office. She headed into farmland, the hinterland of nowhere. Geez, looked like northern Michigan. She shook her head.

I wanted to escape where I grew up. How'd I end up in ruraltopia?

Still, she drove. Where'd the chemist live?

'Arriving at destination,' the GPS announced. She pulled down a rough road to a small clapboard red-trimmed farmhouse. A makeshift assemblage of empty train cars, a Quonset hut and shipping containers surrounded it. The corrugated steel structures resembled a twentieth-century Stonehenge, weeds exploding around their edges. She cursed her luck, convinced that yet again some bad cosmic joke made her the magnet for weirdoes, whackos and the disaffected.

She stepped from the car, threw her sunglasses on the seat, grabbed her messenger bag and headed to the front door. The knocker, a simplified version of the Russian satellite Sputnik, shone in the sun. After a moment's hesitation, she banged it. Then again. Someone had better be home. After several minutes the door opened.

"Hello?" The man was forty going on ninety, fastidious in navy cardigan sweater and white polo shirt buttoned to his throat, dark hair oily and small eyes close-set. His gaze roved from her feet to her face.

"Kaitlyn Jenret, curator, Willard Museum."

"Oh!" His eyes lit up. "I'm Donnie Litsos. Come in, please do come in."

"Thanks." She stepped through the door. The house was small, crammed with knick-knacks, Disney figurines and cheesy wooden carvings. Metal yellow and black fallout shelter signs hung on the walls.

Creepy. Don't laugh. Someone cherishes these things.

"Hope you had a fine trip out here. We don't get many visitors." He gestured for her to sit in an overstuffed floral chair in the living room. She hesitated. No need to visit longer than necessary.

He motioned with more emphasis. She sat down.

"Thanks," she said. The space was claustrophobic.

"What's your research specialty?" Donnie sat next to her. Crossed his legs and rested his hands on his knee, settling in. "Field of study?" He smiled.

"Anthropology. I'm in charge of the archaeological and anthropological collections at the museum. But today we're talking about your gift." She steered the conversation back to the reason for her visit. "I understand you're making a generous donation."

"Well, yes." He clasped and unclasped his hands. "I am considering it." He rose and stood, rocking on the balls of his feet. "I'm definitely considering it."

She sighed.

Considering it? I'm picking up things he's offered for the collection, not entering into negotiations.

She studied his nervous movements.

Two smiling elderly people entered. They walked to Donnie and stood beside him. Kait rose.

"Mom, Dad," Donnie said. They wore matching light blue fleece jackets with the Futura Atomic logo and script saying Quarter-Century Club. He beamed. "I'd like you to meet Kaitlyn Jenret from the museum."

"Such a pleasure, dear." His father offered a hand. "We're happy you've come to visit Donnie."

"Donnie's been looking forward to your visit all week," his mother said. "Would you like some ice cream?" She had an air of dottiness, as if she didn't understand her son was an adult.

"Nice of you to drive out to the country to see our son." Father had a glint in his eye. "He's a smart one, has three PhDs in science."

"A little ice cream? Donnie loves ice cream," mother said. "He loves ice cream almost as much as science." She rubbed his arm, gazing at him as she discussed his food fetish. He blushed.

"No ice cream, thank you," Kait said. "I'm here to pick up the donation and head back to work. I've another appointment this evening and it'll take a while to drive back to the city."

The three people in the small space watched her.

She was a caged zoo animal, on display and expected to perform. Didn't want ice cream, didn't want to hear about his academic career. It was creepy. Did his parents believe her visit equivalent to a date? Might be as close as he got to the real thing.

"Oh." Donnie was crestfallen. "Dr. Thompson said you'd be available all afternoon. I wanted to talk. Get acquainted." He slumped, small eyes narrowed.

"Dear," mother said, " Kaitlyn? Stay a while. You and Donnie can share some ice cream. He'd like to get to know you. That's how it works."

"Getting to know people is the hard part," father said. "Mum and I had the benefit of working together. Nuclear glory against the Ruskies." He smiled and she beamed at him. Donnie chuckled and turned to Kait.

"Stay and talk," he said.

"My boss doesn't know my schedule." Kait took a deep breath to lower her blood pressure.

"Accompany me for a tour? My work might interest you. As a fellow scientist." Donnie motioned for her to follow to the kitchen. "I'd like you to see my laboratory. It's where the bottles are anyway." He headed to a back door and opened it, holding it for her.

"So nice to meet you, dear," repeated father from the living room. He dusted a fallout shelter sign with his hand. "Don't be a stranger."

"Come back, soon," mother said. "Hope to see you again."

Not a chance.

Kait followed Donnie around the yard. He walked with measured steps, following a cement stone path, avoiding puddles and dirt. Stooped to wipe mud off his shoes. He was major-league OCD.

They sidestepped a muddy patch on the walkway between the backyard and the nearest train car. He told her to step over two concrete light posts on the ground. Large rusting turbines and a generator sat near a pile of aqua glass insulators. How'd he drag massive pieces of equipment to his property? Vents protruded from the ground along a line to the north. What did he do in his lab?

He tugged her sleeve and smiled. They neared the train car. He pulled out a massive key ring, flipped through keys until he found the right one. Undid the lock and slid the boxcar door open, using his body as leverage. He pushed. It creaked and moaned.

An acrid chemical smell assaulted her. Her mouth fell open.

A mad scientist's wet dream.

She stepped into a maze of shelves, drawers and storage cabinets. Donnie's fastidiousness extended to organization skills. Metal shelves held thousands of pieces of early scientific equipment—scales, Geiger counters, meters, beakers, test tube holders, rheostats, vacuum tubes, telescopes. He'd organized each row, objects labeled and protected by clear plastic sheeting. Another wall held lines of mounted animal and bird skeletons, arranged and classified, staring blankly from their perches. Three large laboratory scales under glass bordered the hallway. In the next room, antique laboratory glass sparkled under fluorescent lights.

"Quite a collection." The man was an OCD hoarder.

"Yes. I'm always interested in new specimens. There are many untapped secrets, scientifically speaking . . ." He motioned for her to step on walkways he'd created, covered by heavy plastic carpet guards.

All the cars and containers were connected—in winter, he could move from one to the other without going outside.

_He's created his own Branch Davidian compound of science_.

It was fascinating but unnerving. He didn't appear to work outside his home. What did he do with his old equipment? How was he connected to Thompson? They couldn't function in the same social circles. How had they met?

"Please Kait, this way." He led her into the next car, shelves filled with antique chemical and apothecary bottles, arranged according to color and compound, faded handwritten labels clinging to some. Like sinister warnings of poison dart frogs and other deadly creatures, the array of colors in the bottles was beautiful. Vivid greens signaled copper compounds, brilliant yellows arsenic sulfides and sulfurs, scarlet powers red oxides and cinnabars.

She smelled a sharp chemical tang. Many bottles had evidence of off gassing—crystallized deposits around lids, seepage down sides, clues to adverse chemical reactions. The unstable substances screamed disaster. She looked around as he continued his tour.

Some day this compound will blow.

Many were poisonous chemicals, toxic on contact. Others, including a jar of picric acid, were combustible. Pressurized steel containers sat in the corner of one car labeled chlorine triflouride. Christ, that was dangerous stuff. Get the bottles and leave. Now.

No one strike a match in the next fifteen minutes.

"Impressive." She turned to Donnie, hands tight at her side. "Aren't you concerned about safety? Where'd you get these chemicals? They're unusual, not normally in the hands of private individuals."

"Oh," he said, "I'm a recognized authority. I search all over the world. Have secret sources and networks." Enthusiasm bubbled. He rubbed his hands together. "I buy some, barter for others. Fire department used to give me things they confiscated from city limits. Always got my eyes open for rare precious chemicals." He swept his arms wide in the middle of the narrow space, gesturing like king of his country, eyes glued on her. He waited for her to react, but she didn't, so he stepped to a storage bay and lifted a cardboard box from the shelf. Turned and presented it.

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 made 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—"

"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?

"Shezmu. Demon god of execution and slaughter," Einar pulled off his glasses and rubbed his forehead. "The divine butcher."

"That's right," she said. "Dual natured—also the god of oil and wine, of processing."

"Processing?" Michael leaned forward.

"Like meat packing . . ." Einar took another drink.

"Sometimes portrayed as a press worker, other times a demon." Kait swigged beer and positioned more shards. "Shezmu's rare in images or objects. Carving was valuable if it was authentic. It's a bitch someone smashed it. If they're leaving fragments at crime scenes . . ."

"Or it," Einar said. "Don't think it's human."

"Execution and wine?" Michael shook his head. Loki might be saner than the humans.

"Evil." Einar banged the bottle on the table. "Killer's telling us _fardð til fjandanns_. Go to hell."

Michael glanced at Kait. "Shit. We're in trouble. He's speaking Icelandic."

Einar eyed them.

"Slaughter to absorb power," Kait said. "Shezmu butchered gods in old Egyptian mythology. It's disturbing whether real or a fake. What kind of killer is this?"

"Egyptian demon god?" Michael ran fingers through his hair. Weariness hammered his shoulders. "Rather fucking arcane. Why? What's it mean?"

"Not good," Einar said. "It's a message. Evil rather than animal." He finished his beer and fetched three more. Passed them around.

Michael shook his head. "Demons? Seriously?" Kait and Einar exchanged glances again, which was never a good sign. "Both of you—weird kindred spirits. Spinning mad tales about Egyptian butchers. You get each other going."

"We're not joking," Kait said.

"Monsters," Einar said.

Michael groaned. "Enough monster crap."

"Humans can be monsters." Kait fingered the shards. "History's filled with them."

"Shit. Can't believe what I'm hearing. The killer's a thing? Can't wrap my head around it. We can't document a monster in a case file. Can't put it in a police report or circulate a sketch and describe it as 'devil suspect, big claws, big teeth, knows Egyptian mythology."

Einar shook his head. "We could. But no one would believe us."

Kait hesitated. "Can you transfer this case to the FBI?"

Einar didn't comment. He stared at the floor, beer in hand.

Michael raised an eyebrow. "On what grounds? The FBI won't believe us. We'd be ridiculed."

"Firepower, manpower, analytical capabilities," she said. "Law enforcement other than you two dealing with it."

Michael looked from one to the other. "What would we say? Rational minds would think we're crazy."

"Rational again." Einar drank and cocked his head. "We return to rational." He shook Michael's shoulder. "You're too rational, Mikey."

"Christ, Einar. You know I don't like that name."

"What are friends for if not to torment you?" He smiled then his expression faded. "Speaking of rational, Laina sent images of skeletons found at Stockholm and Oslo kill sites. I'd have showed them to you had you come to work today."

Michael ignored his jab. "And?"

"Laina told me I'd have to show them to my rational partner."

"Why?"

"They aren't rational. They aren't, anatomically speaking, human."

Kait's eyes widened.

Michael stared. Skeletal proof? Ridiculous.

Einar locked eyes with him. "They're misshapen killing machines. Monsters."

Michael pressed fingers to his temples. The conversation hurt his brain. Time to blot it out. Loki stirred and nudged him, wet nose against his hand. They were exhausted. He needed sleep. They all did. In the morning they'd be sane. "That's ridiculous."

"Killer's not a person. Skeletons aren't human. They're humanoid. They unsheathe claws to attack. Jaws filled with pointed teeth. We have to consider other possibilities."

"I agree," Kait said. "Implausible, but maybe . . . it is monstrous. There are things in the world we don't understand. I believe in evil." She exhaled. "Ripping children apart is evil. What else do you call it?"

Michael stared. Demons tearing with claws didn't exist. "I love a good monster movie, and atomic ants are exciting and all . . . but they aren't real." He hesitated. "This my penance for going AWOL? Three Hail Marys, genuflect and a monster for good measure?"

"No religion involved. We're facing evil, not humanity. Even if . . ." Einar stared. "We can't say we're monster hunting."

"Religion encompasses evil," Kait said.

Did beer and exhausted minds spin delusions? "Stop K, come back to reality. Einar, this weird unquestioning belief is why other partners bailed. It sounds psychotic. Don't you get that?"

"Yes. So?"

"Why is evil hard to grasp?" Kait countered. "The Tibetan Book of the Dead includes divine demons, or, if you prefer, vampires called _baital_. Sanskrit folklore mentions _vetalas_ , undead beings who inhabit corpses. Demons and monsters have been around for centuries. They're older than the bible."

Einar raised his bottle and drank. "Much older."

Michael rubbed his neck. "We're tired. You're both insane. I'm boring in comparison, hunting familiar human trash."

She smiled. "Boring? Don't think so. You sing to iguanas. Seduce women with bug movies."

He blushed.

"Bugs, Mikey. Hmm . . . you eat them and use them to get laid. That's a new one."

"Shut up."

Kait squeezed his hand.

"Look . . . many cultures have fluid divisions between living and dead." Einar patted his back. "Colleagues mock me, but Icelanders believe in elves and trolls, hidden people. Those who say they don't, well . . . they avoid disturbing supposed _huldufólk_ habitat anyway. Hell, Icelandic mythology includes demons and vampires—the _fyglia_ is a flesh-eating member of the undead. The _draugr_ comes in two varieties, one for land and one for sea."

"Of course it does," Michael said.

"The kicker for the draugr? Smells terrible. You know it's coming from the stench that precedes it. Just like Bigfoot."

Michael shook his head. "Stop shitting around. Icelanders go crazy during long winters, get Seasonal Affective Disorder and hallucinate. Upstate New York magnified."

"You're wrong."

"Bullshit."

"Think about it." Einar leaned closer. "Icelanders live on a frozen active volcanic island. Lava fields command the landscape. Slashes plunge into earth where tectonic plates divide. Darkness half the year. Forces beyond control. Things go wrong without warning." He pounded his bottle on the table.

"Einar," Kait said, "calm down. Your face is red."

He brushed her off. "Cauldrons form in ice caps, outburst floods explode from beneath glaciers! Why are monsters more unfathomable than molten magma shooting out of the earth or volcanic eruptions liquefying tons of ice?"

"Einar . . . relax."

"Geology and geography aren't crazy," Michael said. "You're crazy. You're batshit over monsters." He grabbed her beer and took a swig. "Ghouls and demons, blood-sucking what-ever-the-hell . . . listen to you."

"No, everyone else's wrong. This job has taught me beyond a doubt evil exists." Einar yelled. "How can you not believe after these crime scenes?"

"Both of you, breath. Please . . . Where do we go from here?" She peeled Michael's fingers away from her bottle. "How can I help? This case is eating at you. Don't like what I see."

"We anticipate its moves, put ourselves in its head," Einar said. "We hunt it."

Kait looked concerned. "I don't think—"

"Beat it to the next victim. Mimic its stalking methods."

Michael looked at his partner. Maybe Einar wasn't so crazy. "Can't believe it. But . . . I agree." He'd seen its path. "Stones lead north of Gates."

"Wisdom strikes," Einar said. "I win. I prove my point. Actually, you beat me to it. You win." He stood and stretched, setting his empty bottle on the table. "I'll leave you lovers alone with your beastly black canine. And . . . we won't go into lore about giant hellhounds and—"

"No, we won't." Michael shook his head. "I can't take anymore."

"Mikey, take tomorrow off. Sleep. See you Thursday—on time, rested. I won't bark. Promise." Einar bent over, patted Loki on the head and did the same to Michael.

"Christ."

"Come on. You found the demonic pieces. Admit it. Moved the case along more than you realize." He retrieved his tie and looked into his partner's eyes, laid a hand on his arm. "Get sleep, Michael. That's an order."

Michael leaned back and lolled his head to the side. "Yes sir." Loki perked his ears and licked his face.

Einar laughed.

Kait got up and walked him to the door. "Thanks. For everything. Yeah, you're his boss and all, but you're also a good friend."

"Not sure he'd agree. I pissed him off today. Course, he pissed me off, too. I'd say we're even." He put his arm around her shoulder. "I like how you think. Tell him not to quit on me. Make sure he gets sleep . . . don't let him wander into the wilderness, mental or otherwise."

She hugged him.

Einar fetched his suit jacket and coat. He saw the pig skull on the table. "Impressive specimen. Great teeth. Who says monsters don't exist?"

## CHAPTER 13

## 2011 Late November

Time was running out. He smelled the air, nostrils twitching. Winter was near. He extended a clawed hand and pulled himself between two boulders to the weathered pine above, waiting.

At the last kill, he'd watched the young detective. The man had approached the bank and crouched.

Shit. He'd messed up.

Grabbed the boy but hadn't counted on interference. Damn that retriever. Pissed after encountering the dog, he'd made a mistake. Stepped out of the water and allowed his weight to sink, leaving an elongated footprint on the muddy bank. That couldn't happen again.

He tasted the chill and listened, scrambling over stones and fallen logs. Hastened his pace and hunted with aggression as temperatures dropped. The forty-day mark neared. He needed to master killing or he'd suffer the other revenants' fate. None had made it past the immature phase.

But prey had been hard to find. The dog had thrown him off his last meal. Desperate, he'd killed a deer, then a coyote, but was unable to eat the acrid meat. Nothing satisfied like salty young human flesh and blood. He would make the next kill regardless of complications.

*

"Welcome back, Mikey." Einar handed him coffee and a bag of chili-lime crickets. "You look human this morning. See what rest can do?"

Michael eyed him.

"Sleep, the miracle drug."

"Okay. You made your point." Michael accepted the final peace offering. "And with crickets even. Thanks."

Einar shrugged. "Least I could do. Hell, you're talking to me again after I barked at you."

Michael smiled.

Einar had commandeered the wood-paneled interview room over Cresson's protests. He'd gathered materials they'd need to strategize catching monsters, although that's not how he described it to the other detectives. He leaned over the large oak table with hands extended, palms down, holding a US Geologic Survey map poised to roll back into a tight cylinder without his intervention.

Michael set the coffee down and peered at the map. He fidgeted, arms crossed, finger clicking the button of a red pen.

Einar glanced at him. In old jeans and a dark rough sweater, he looked more like a weekend college student than a cop. Cresson must have noticed when he walked into the office. Several times within the last year Cap had told Einar to compel him to dress more professionally. Yeah, because Cresson bitched and Cap was tired of hearing the same damn thing over and over again. Well, let him say it again. At least Michael was functioning. Einar was more concerned with solving cases.

Maps and charts lay strewn on the table and hung over the edges—topographical maps, river guides, road atlases. Above them lay grisly crime scene photos dotted with Post-It notes and scribbled with arrows. A laptop flickered with Laina's reports.

Einar watched Michael for signs of instability. Things wouldn't get out of control again. No obsessed partners running amok. Sleep had done him good. He was restless but functioning, eyes clear. No dark circles, no three-day shadow.

"Quit staring, okay? Told you, I'm better."

"I know."

Michael shook his head.

"Have to ask, now that you've regained perspective." Einar paused. "Don't get pissed. You're okay for this case?"

"Yes. I understand your concern. I'm alright."

"Just checking."

"I'm okay."

"Sure?"

"I'll admit the monster thing has me unnerved." He laid his hand over his heart. "But honest, I can do this."

"I believe you, with reservations. Second question. When were you going to tell Kait you're investigating her boss?"

"I wasn't."

"Meaning?" Einar rubbed his face with his hands. Why'd he insist on not letting others in? Stubbornness magnified.

"She doesn't need to know unless I find skeletons in his past." He stabbed the pen on the table. "Don't want to scare her."

Einar considered his response. "Forwarded your question to Laina. Haven't heard back yet."

"Thanks."

"Tell Kait."

Michael sighed. "I get it. I'll mention it. Let's focus on this creep."

"Yes sir," Einar gave him a mock salute.

Michael rolled his eyes.

"Okay. So, it kills on a path." Einar scanned the crime reports. "Pattern in each case is identical." Yeah. Stalking and killing executed with abandon. They needed serious weapons.

Michael scrawled red Xs on the map. "Following a northern path along the river. Last site near the river split. Found stones beyond it, past Gates."

"Excavated remains suggest Nordic killers followed specific paths. Once they chose a body of water, they didn't deviate."

"Stalks victims at water access points. Bet it never leaves the area along the river." He tapped his pen on the table, echoes of a long ago percussion cadence. "Leaves talismans for someone to find. But who?" He continued tapping. "Are we dealing with more than one?" The pen never stopped.

Einar laid his hand over Michael's, quieting the pen. The survey map rolled shut. "Sure you're okay?"

"Yes."

Einar sighed. "Anyway . . . we've got our waterway." He pushed the map aside. "Doesn't switch course after choosing a source."

"Doesn't backtrack. Hits, moves on."

"Needs brush cover and access where people gather." Einar moved photos and pulled the topographic map closer. Narrowed his eyes. "Getting late in the season for that type of place. For people in the landscape. If, as Laina suggested, there's a forty-day span—considering the Fitte and Volner girls as first victims—we're nearing the end. It's hungry, angry, and facing a deadline." They were running out of time.

"Immature demons. Flesh-eating creatures stalking prey." Michael twisted the pen, pursing his lips. "Sounds surreal. It's major league insane. Know that, right?"

"Yes." Einar nodded. "And you're beginning to believe it."

"Shit. That's the scariest part."

" _Ekki fara brjálaður á mér._ Don't go crazy on me."

"Might be there." Michael glanced at him. "I wonder."

Einar saw his bewilderment. But there they stood, discussing monsters. Michael hadn't bolted, thrown things or told him to keep his creepy freak mouth shut—that'd been partner number three. In fact, Michael was the only cop he'd worked with who'd tried to open his mind to strange possibilities. His other partners would've bailed—in point of fact they did, the last one yelling that he needed psychological help. Michael deserved credit for absorbing and trying to process it on top of his lost brother, too personal connection to the region and the sheer brutal nature of the crimes. Confronting unfathomable truths turned worlds upside down. It was a lot to ask of anyone. When they caught the thing, he'd buy his young partner a case of the best damn Irish whiskey on the planet along with a year's supply of insect snacks.

"Hey. Are you paying attention?"

Einar blinked. He'd lost focus? Shit.

Michael flipped pages to the floor and uncovered a county tourist map. Stabbed his pen. "Next spot. I'm sure. Bet on it."

Algonquin Alpine Resort on the west branch featured access with open shoreline and brushy cover. Families throughout the state enjoyed its cross-country ski trails, cozy cabins and rustic atmosphere. Fifteen ski trails, some for beginners and others for hard-core enthusiasts, bordered the river and paralleled smaller streams running into it. With major snows forecast in the next few days, the seasonal resort was soon to open. People would arrive by carloads, enjoying winter's chill by traveling through snowy woods, gliding by small ice-covered creeks and swooshing near swift flowing water. The resort included river trails open into the evening lit by glittering electric lights.

Prey for a starving creature on a schedule.

Einar smiled. "Quality time in the cold outdoors. Mikey, do you ski yet?" He pantomimed downhill skiing. Knew Michael hated winter.

"No. I'll forever hate it. Doesn't matter where I grew up. Wind, snow and winter sports. Hated them as a kid. I'll feel the same way twenty years from now. You know that."

Einar laughed. "We'll rent snowshoes."

"Good luck. Skis, snowshoes, luge, dog sled, whatever."

"That's the spirit."

"I'll be miserable."

"Can't wait to deal with your sunny disposition on this stakeout." Einar dumped the materials in a cluttered stack. "Contact local jurisdiction and coordinate a schedule."

"Got it." Michael pulled out his cell, looked up the number. "We'll need assistance and vehicles."

"One complication. How do we explain what we're tracking?"

"That's your area," Michael said. "You're the monster man."

*

The county sheriff, undersheriff and six uniforms met them at Algonquin Alpine Resort two days later. It had snowed overnight, a white blanket on roads and trails. The weather meant poor visibility but delighted those who lived for outdoor recreation.

They set up a control center in the lodge office, the closest location with meeting space for vehicles and people—coordinating actions in deep snow and navigating narrow access roads would be difficult if not impossible. Einar, Michael and the sheriff staked out trails, familiarizing themselves with access points that fit the killer's MO. After conferring, they focused on a winding cross-country ski trail bordering the river. All the while, in steady snow, couples, individuals and families in colorful winter gear skied, talking and joked. Other visitors snow-shoed along the river, enjoying the snow-covered woods.

Evening approached. Einar and Michael divided the trail into two sections, sheriff in the middle, each accompanied by a uniform. The sheriff parked his four-wheel drive at the mid-point. They followed groups at a distance, working their way along the path. Einar, expert on skis, shadowed a family with two children, young kids only learning how to handle the equipment. They glided, slipped, fell, and laughed. Their parents picked them up, encouraging them to try again. Michael, who'd refused to put on snow tramping gear, followed a family with a young boy, steps soft and deliberate in an old pair of leather hiking boots. Einar had made fun of his footwear, calling them an outdoor fashion disaster—but he could walk easier in them than those damn wide snowshoes. The families skied and kidded, moving in tandem, skis shushing. They wound through fragrant pine forests toward a river clearing, large flakes floating around them. Snow continued to fall.

Michael moved along the trail, watching the boy laugh and step wide in his snowshoes. The parents smiled. He remembered his brother. Snow hit his face, stung as it melted. He squinted to see. Why did people enjoy this?

A flash. Blinding light.

Shit.

The uniform yelled.

Michael bolted. No second thoughts. He leapt, catapulting forward. Crashed through the brush, careened in front of the parents and grabbed the boy, reaching him before the creature.

It slammed into them.

Michael tackled the child into his coat. The creature screamed. It pulled detective and boy into the icy water, slashing at them. Michael gasped, water rushing into his lungs as it shoved his head underwater. He couldn't see. It hacked with its claws, shrieking, and dragged them into the middle of the river. The boy's family panicked on the shore. The uniform sprinted for help.

Claws sank into his shoulder. White hot pain.

Michael swore, mind reeling. It dragged him under—he braced, trying to stop it.

Hold on to the boy. Don't let go.

He bear-hugged the trembling child in his right arm, coat twisting into a sopping wet anchor. Michael balled his left hand into a fist and smashed its face and neck. The thing slapped his hand away, shredding his glove and fingers.

This kid's not going die. Not going to disappear. You will not win.

Teeth shattered his left shoulder, hitting bone. He screamed, swallowed more icy water. It slammed him into a rock. Claws slashed his arms, mutilating his hands. He blocked out the pain, fought. It dragged him like a broken rag doll up the river, smashing him against tree limbs, rocks, logs.

He held on to the boy.

In the dark, underwater, bleeding, he was loosing his grip. Couldn't see, swallowed more water, gagging. He smashed his knee into it, yanking around in the opposite direction, trying to throw it into the freezing river. Rushing sounds in his head like a tidal wave. His fingers went numb. He tightened his arm around the child.

Goddamn it, you're not getting this kid. Fuck you.

Consciousness slipping, the water became viscous.

Don't let go.

It dragged him under. He closed his eyes, strength ebbing. Blood ran into the river. He disintegrated into liquid with it. His brother's face appeared and drifted away, he was the ten-year old boy who lived in the woods, played in them, loved them. Billy ran along the bank yelling 'you can't get me, Mikey' and Michael followed, taunting. 'I'll catch you! You can't hide.' Young legs glided along the path, kicking stones, catching a crayfish and waving it at Billy, skidding to a halt on top of his brother, laughing . . .

Time disappeared. He didn't feel water or cold. Just pain. In his fading mind, he heard hoarse roars in a deep tunnel. Something grabbed him and pulled. He shook it off, kicking. Held the child but fell, pitching forward. His legs wouldn't work—he crashed into the water. It grabbed with more force. He struggled. It was stronger.

"It's Einar! Don't fight us. It's gone. You've got the boy."

They dragged him from the river. He was numb. Einar pried his arm open from its iron grip to free the boy. A uniform grabbed the terrified child, wrapped him in an emergency survival blanket and rushed him to a patrol car at the top of the bank. The sheriff and undersheriff helped get Michael onto shore. Two uniforms tore down the riverbank tracking the thing.

Fuck. Wake up.

His knees buckled, wet clothes sinking like lead. He collapsed, falling onto a solid form that held him up. It was cold. He jerked backwards.

Einar scared? Not good.

Is the boy okay?

He shivered. Couldn't stop.

Einar heard the screams, ripped off his skis and tore down the bank, sheriff behind him. Something was anchored to Michael's shoulder. It slammed him into the water again and again. Snow fell fast, creating a blurred nightmare. The uniforms fired warning shots, but couldn't take it down—no clear aim without shooting the detective.

It shrieked and dragged cop and boy up the river. They followed. Michael somehow flipped it and jammed a knee into its gut. Einar grabbed him, yanking it off—it lashed out, just missing his hands, and fell. As shots echoed, it surrendered, escaping in a catapulting gait down the middle of the river.

Einar and the sheriff dragged them from the water, Einar shouting his name. He fought, beyond comprehending friend or foe. Einar wrapped his arms around Michael and pulled the boy away. Two uniforms ran alongside with floodlights. Sirens wailed.

In the eerie shine Einar saw his hands, coated in bright arterial blood.

He looked at Michael. "Hang on, kid."

Jesus Christ—it was horrific. Multiple massive bites mangled his left shoulder, jagged gashes surrounding deep punctures. Wounds were catastrophic—flesh gone, muscle torn and shattered bone exposed. Einar couldn't tell what was holding the bloody mess together.

Fuck. His partner was going to die.

He locked his arms around Michael's torso, the sheriff grabbed his legs and they ran to the access point, heaved him into the four-wheel drive, sheriff screaming into his cell for an ambulance.

The sheriff cranked the heat and sped down the narrow road, skidding in the snow. He tossed a first aid kit and towels to Einar.

"In the kit," the sheriff yelled. "Emergency survival blanket. Israeli hemorrhage bandages."

"How the—"

"Special Forces in a past life."

Einar ripped them open and pressed them against the wounds to stop the bleeding. His hands were soaked.

"Michael, can you hear me?"

No response.

Blood was everywhere. The sheriff yelled into his cell to have the trauma team on standby. Einar yanked off Michael's boots and wrapped the survival blanket around him. He wound his wool scarf around clenched hands, fingers shredded and lacerated. Put more pressure on his shoulder.

"Answer me!"

Michael shivered nonstop. Blood ran down his face and neck, covered his hands, soaked the seat and soaked Einar. His lips and hands were blue. He was clammy, pupils dilated.

"Damn, Mikey. Don't do this. Hang on."

Einar couldn't feel a pulse.

Michael's eyes glazed. He slumped, losing consciousness. Curled into a fetal position.

"Fuck. You're not going to die on me. That's a damn order. Are you listening?" Einar pulled the blanket tighter around him, tried to staunch the bleeding and yelled at the chief to gun it.

## CHAPTER 14

## 2011 Late November

He ebbed and flowed.

Not cognizant of time or distance.

Why am I?

Wasn't sure who he was—didn't care. In suspended animation, his mind wandered, slipping and skimming in nothingness.

Where do I go?

A gradual bright haze reflected on his eyelids. Warmth. Smells of disinfectant and antiseptic lingered. Heard the beep of monitoring devices. He meandered weightless, floating in space. Voices drifted into focus. Go away. Wanted to stay cocooned without concrete being.

"Michael." A hand on his forehead.

He blinked. Squinted.

"Hey," Kait said.

Was she crying?

He tried to reach her. Couldn't move his fingers, couldn't lift his wrist. He blinked. Couldn't talk. Tube in his throat. Tried to shift his head. Again, no movement. Another figure appeared beside her.

"Christ." Einar was pale.

"Rest," Kait said.

He drifted away.

Again light and sound intruded.

He was heavy, returned to earth. Moved an inch. Pain. Squinted.

They sat by his bed.

Kait smiled, fear in her eyes. She looked exhausted. Why?

"Mikey, you're insane," Einar said.

He tried to remember. It was a blur.

"Brave, selfless, but crazy insane." Einar leaned over the bed. "I'll never take you anywhere in winter again. Promise."

He looked up. Einar's sweater was dark red.

"Don't worry. It's just a sweater."

Realization seeped in. Blood.

"You scared the hell out of us," Kait said. "But you saved the boy's life."

"Kid's going to be alright."

A nurse hovered. She checked IV lines and told Kait and Einar to go home. The patient needed rest.

"Sleep." Kait touched his face. "We'll be here."

He woke, grounded. Couldn't move without pain. His throat hurt. Everything ached. Shit—his neck and right shoulder were immobilized, covered in bandages. Tubes and wires ran everywhere.

It's bad.

A fight—fucking monster. What'd it mean? He sank back, wishing for unconsciousness.

Hospital. How's the boy?

Heard scraping and glanced up.

Einar pulled a metal chair to his bedside. He was in a suit and tie. He sat and folded his arms on the rail, resting his chin. He peered down.

"Christ, Mikey."

Michael looked at him, tried to focus.

"Glad you've rejoined the land of the living. Damn glad."

He didn't know what to say.

"Don't do that again."

He opened his mouth. Tube was gone from his throat.

"Kait's sleeping," Einar said, voice low. "As much as possible in a hospital armchair."

Michael was fogged, several beats slow. "What . . . time . . . is it?"

"Six in the morning. You've been here for five days."

"What?" He blinked, confused.

"Relax. You were sedated."

God.

"Floating in a Dilaudid haze. They're backing you off . . ."

"W . . . why?"

Einar glanced over his shoulder.

Checking to make sure Kait was asleep wasn't good.

"Michael, I—"

"What . . . happened?" His mouth was dry.

"Take it easy."

"Christ. How bad?"

Einar bent close. He was exhausted. "Shit, Mikey."

"Tell me."

"I don't . . . okay, not going to lie. You're lucky to be alive. Don't know how you held onto the kid, but you did. We dragged you from the water in bad shape. You . . . "

"What?"

"Thought I was losing another partner. You almost died in the sheriff's car. Never seen so much blood not at a murder scene. Trauma staff stabilized you. Needed seven pints."

"Shit."

"Yeah."

Michael tried to lift his hands. Einar put an arm across the bed.

"Give it time. Your fingers are lacerated, but your hands will be okay. You escaped frostbite." He fell silent.

"What aren't you telling me?"

"I don't want to—"

"I'm not stupid. What?"

"It bit you, Mikey, twice." He hesitated. "Bad. Deep—crushed bones. Doc's worried about infection."

"Shit." His mind exploded with weird recent conversations, Laina's ghastly tales. Einar and Kait's talk of evil. "Fuck—"

"Relax, okay?"

"Holy shit."

"Take it easy."

"But . . . what . . . why? I've been out of it for a week?"

"They sedated you. Be thankful. You had to be unconscious." Einar cringed. "Extensive injury debridement and saline lavage every ten hours." He hesitated. "You didn't need more pain than necessary."

"It bit me." Michael closed his eyes.

"Yeah . . . but you saved the boy."

"What does it mean?"

"Don't—"

"What if—"

"Don't panic."

"Shit."

Einar laid a hand on his arm. "Don't. Calm down. For now—"

"What if Laina's myths—"

"You need to heal. Understand? Can't worry about phantoms."

"But you . . . " Michael opened his eyes and peered at Einar. "No. This is your area. Don't lie. What do you think?"

"We'll figure it out later."

He drifted away again.

Dawn filtered through the window. The attending physician came in and reviewed Michael's charts. He lifted the gauze and examined his shoulder while a nurse checked the pulse oximeter and IV ports in his arm.

I'm a freak show.

"Welcome back, detective." The doctor glanced at the monitors. "You're lucky. Lost a lot of blood. Wounds are deep and you almost died from hypothermia. You're on intravenous antibiotics including ceftriaxone and strong painkillers. We're monitoring for local or systemic infection—animal bites can be contaminated. Sepsis is a threat in cases like yours."

It all sounded bad. He hated being on display in the ICU.

Kait stirred and opened her eyes. She sat up, stiff, stretching legs in front of her. Pulled her jacket from behind her head and tugged it over her shoulders, hair a tangled mess. Einar leaned against the windowsill, legs crossed. When he saw she'd woken, he edged forward, put a hand on her shoulder and whispered, 'good morning beautiful.'

She looked up at him, and then turned to Michael and the doctor.

"Can't identify what got you—bites don't match anything we've seen. Not a dog, none of our local predators. Called a State Police forensic odontologist. Police couldn't find the animal," the doctor said. "We've started HRIG and we're beginning rabies vaccine shots. Can't take chances."

Crap. Michael closed his eyes. "Shit. Heard horror stories about those shots. I'm bad with needles."

"He is." Kait nodded. "Worse than kids. Michael Lewis, homicide detective. Deals with terrible crimes and grisly killers but petrified of needles."

Einar glanced at her and nodded.

"Well." The doctor crossed his arms, pondering Michael's hesitation. "Aren't as bad as they used to be. The large stomach shots haven't been used since the 1980's."

"That's good." Einar turned to Michael and smiled. "See, it could be worse."

Michael stared. "Easy for you to say."

Einar shrugged and raised an eyebrow. "Be positive. You have to get them. Don't want to lock my rabid, foaming at the mouth partner in the back of a cop car one afternoon."

"I really hate needles."

"We give them in the upper arm," the doctor said. "One now and three more at specific intervals over the next fourteen days."

"Suck it up, Mikey." Einar put his hand on Kait's shoulder. "You get them like it or not."

"Won't be bad. I'll hold you down." Kait smiled. "You might not mind that."

*

Michael's wounds healed with unusual speed despite the severity. Amazed medical staff assumed it due to massive doses of antibiotics and a hearty constitution. The forensic odontologist took molds and conducted tests but couldn't identify the bites, other than affirm they weren't human or domestic animal. A type of carnivore, but not one found in the region. Flustered, she suggested police look for reports of escaped zoo or circus animals. But everyone admitted—exotic wild beasts running amok was a long shot. Meanwhile, Michael submitted to rabies shots with trepidation. Ten days after the attack, the doctor released him with the caveat that he return for the final shot and not push himself.

It bit me.

He shuddered when he looked in a mirror. Fear permeated like fog. His face was a bruised mess, shoulder throbbed despite massive doses of painkillers—had to fight the constant urge to down half a bottle of Vicodin.

The boy is alive.

The wounds healed but they were gross. Large chunks missing from his shoulder, red scars, deep punctures surrounded by mottled purple and brown bruises. He felt deformed despite Kait's reassurances. His hands ached. It was difficult to flex fingers or make a fist. Einar said he was lucky to be alive.

I hope it's true.

Dark thoughts saturated—Laina's stories, Einar and Kait's discussion about demonic creatures. They'd filled his mind with crap. Had to be crap. Right?

*

Michael dreaded the media dog and pony show—made his skin crawl. Hated pushing through the crowd. Hated the dress uniform. It itched. Hated the focus on him.

Leave me alone. Let me do my job.

Didn't want to talk about what'd happened.

Seward City Police media spokesperson Rand Stosky—cops called him 'Weasel' and it wasn't a compliment—flitted through the assembled mass with an air of twitchy importance, escorting them into the station for the official briefing. Seward City had a new cop hero, with Life Saving Medal and Law Enforcement Purple Heart to prove it. A feel-good story demanded publicity.

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.

"That's sick, Robert." Einar shook his head. He hated Layton. Hated his smarminess, arrogance and attitude. He knew he should make nice. If it went down in flames, he'd be failed partner number nine. But he couldn't do it. He'd given up two years ago.

He left Marta another message, hoping for results from the vial. He didn't want to be in the station with this aggressive cowboy. He'd rather deal with the monsters.

He'd told Marta to call him with the results. She didn't question when he gave his private cell number.

Einar's phone vibrated. He rose from his desk.

Layton jumped up. "Where are we going?"

"Nowhere," Einar said. "I'm walking across the street to get coffee that doesn't smell like shoes and taste like tar. I'm going to drink my decent coffee and clear my head."

"Come on partner," Layton said, "I'll come with you."

"No."

*

Einar strode down the narrow hallway, past the examination rooms and forensics laboratory. His footsteps echoed in the gleaming tiled hall. The place creeped him out—coming to the Medical Examiner's Office was entering a foreign landscape. The quiet antiseptic finality, the sterile atmosphere of death organized, the glare of stainless steel and florescent lights. He knocked on the concrete block wall next to Marta's open door and walked in.

She looked up.

"I got your call. Thanks for getting in touch so fast."

"Sit down, Einar." She motioned to a chair. Her eyes didn't meet his.

Her reticence unnerved him. She shut the door and returned to her desk, clenching and unclenching her right hand as she shuffled paperwork.

"Marta—"

"Analysis came back regarding the vial. Ran tests twice, will review again to verify."

"Three times? Isn't that unusual?" Normally, they ran a test and one verification in drug cases.

"It is. Wanted to be sure of results."

Why does she look freaked? Marta is the calmest person I know.

She was upset. Not good. "What's wrong?" He reached out and touched her sleeve.

Marta's eyes met his. "I don't—here's what I know. Drug is new. I've heard rumors about it, or something like it, coming from Europe. Hallucinogenic, builds up over time." She took a deep breath. "The first time, it doesn't have too dramatic an effect other than a typical high. After more doses, the user becomes crazed, euphoric at first but then violent and psychotic. It's been the catalyst for horrible crimes throughout Europe."

"Street drug with a powerful rush."

"Not a normal drug. Synthesized from a disturbing variety of substances, several toxic. Also a human source altered by genetically mutated DNA. We don't know what caused the mutation."

"Is that possible? Drug made from human DNA?"

She stood. "Made from human blood, transformed through chemical processes into a drug. But the base blood is not normal. It's been . . ." She hesitated. "Re-engineered. Manipulated at a fundamental level. Once human but mutated. Contains strange aggressive antigens—they may have been introduced but now they're inherent."

"I don't understand—"

"Appears to be in a continual change cycle."

"Marta. What aren't you telling me?"

She paced her office. "Lab ran the DNA through their databases. Basic procedure. Didn't expect a hit. Got one. Results match a single source. DNA had mutated, but fragments of the trace strain were present. What I'm trying to say, Einar . . . shit. Remember the eviscerated children? Course you do . . . can't forget it. Found identical strains to the markers in that evidence."

"And?" Einar reached across to halt her pacing. He'd never seen her like this. "Marta. The result?"

She looked at him.

"Who?"

"Einar, I—"

"The source?"

"It's Michael's DNA."

Einar stared.

"Michael Lewis."

Mutation? His friend and partner, now battered human wreckage, was . . . what, back from the dead or not? Marta was saying he wasn't human.

"Einar." She said it several times before he refocused. "I'm sorry. It doesn't make sense." She sat. Her voice quivered.

"How?"

"I—"

"Is that possible?"

"I have no answer . . ." She shook her head. "Never seen such altered DNA or a drug produced from these substances. Wish I had better news. I'm sorry. We're running tests, but they may not provide an explanation."

"But that means—"

She couldn't meet his eyes. "Don't know. I'll call when I hear anything."

He left struggling to wrap his head around it. Nonhuman mutation? His cell rang. Layton. Einar turned off his phone. His mind spiraled back to that case—it was connected. But how? He balled his fists while he walked, stomping through slush to the rover.

Let Layton take the lead today.

He called Allison. Told her he was coming home to take over guardian duties.

He walked into the bedroom.

Al looked up with tired eyes. She sat in the armchair watching over Michael, who'd had four difficult days and nights of withdrawal—terrible muscle spasms, delirium, convulsions, chills, pain and constant anxiety. He hadn't eaten, hadn't said much, but was calmed by the dog's presence at the foot of the bed. Loki never left his side.

"Go," Einar whispered. He leaned down. "Relax, walk, and get some rest. I've got this."

She stood. "He fell asleep two hours ago. Exhaustion won. I think acute withdrawal's over, but that's just the first step. And . . . I'm not telling you anything you don't know. Still think we're in over our heads. And you won't listen." She kissed him and left.

Einar sank into the chair. The damaged man tossed and lay still again. Questions churned.

Did you come back from the dead? What are you?

He couldn't process Marta's words. The bites—had Michael been right? There was no explanation for someone reanimating. Other than Jesus and Lazarus, and Elvis, it didn't happen often.

Einar took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Then he remembered. He couldn't do it alone. Allison was right. But he regretted throwing someone else's life into turmoil.

He got up, walked to the window and pulled out his phone. Paused. Punched in a number. And called Baylor University, asking for the Forensic Anthropology Department to speak with Kait Jenret.

## CHAPTER 16

## 2014 Early January

Einar paced the terminal, one of two people in the waiting area outside the security checkpoint, rows of stainless steel and black leather chairs sitting vacant. Arriving passengers moved with slack motions. They trudged through makeshift barriers that marked the path out of the secure area. TSA screeners on late-night duty eyed them. Some meandered dragging carry-ons while others looked for baggage claim. The plane had arrived from Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport three hours late due to weather—in the early morning, passengers' faces betrayed displeasure at the winter wonderland of the Northeast.

She came last off the jet way. Scanned the empty space, slung a worn travel bag over her shoulder and tossed a folded newspaper into a wire garbage can. He tried to assess her mental state. She looked lean and athletic, severe, tanned from hours in the desert at dig sites. Her hair, cut to shoulder length, was sun-bleached and unstyled. She wore a faded brown leather jacket. Michael's jacket.

She walked slow, looking out the window at the plane still at the gate. Perhaps she was stalling or tired from the flight. Then she saw him and headed in his direction.

He walked to her. "Kait. Sorry . . . your flight took so long."

"Einar." Their eyes met but then she stared past, fingers tugging her jacket hem.

"Good to see you. Wish to hell it was under different circumstances."

"So do I." She hesitated.

"I know it must—"

"How is he?"

Of course she would cut right to the point.

"The same."

"Do you think—"

"He's been through hell, whatever happened. Not sure his memory will return."

She stood silent.

"I appreciate you coming. You didn't have to answer my message."

"Yes I did." She looked him in the eye. "That's why you called me."

"I'm sorry. I don't have answers. Must have been a shock." He hesitated. "You're exhausted. We don't need to do this right away. I can drop you at the hotel and—"

"I want to see him."

She shifted, emotions on edge, and pulled the bag off her shoulder to readjust it.

Einar took the strap and put a hand on her sleeve. She started to cry and he wrapped his arms around her.

Kait struggled when Michael died. She'd led him to it, couldn't fathom what he'd done. Her world fell apart—she stopped feeling, stopped functioning. Had been a zombie dealing with victim services and needed Einar to tell her what to do. Had only made it through the memorial services with massive doses of tranquilizers and Allison to lean on.

She refused to return to the museum. Working with art objects in shiny vitrines, hosting receptions and touring donors with fat wallets but little taste or understanding became untenable.

She left the East Coast, accepting a position at Baylor University, a Baptist school. It would've amused Michael, what with her sardonic humor and interest in things not religiously acceptable. She shifted her career back into forensic anthropology to help identify remains of illegal immigrants who died trying to cross the Mexican-Texas border. The job had a mission without veneer of society fluff. But there was more to it. A way to make amends for another's selfless act. She worked out of the public eye, with a small group of skilled people and students, doing fieldwork in unpopulated desert areas.

When she listened to Einar's message, she considered not returning his call. At first she didn't believe it. Made no sense, a cosmic 'fuck you' as if having Michael die wasn't enough. People didn't return from the dead.

It was bad, he'd said. I need your help.

Sounded so unlike Einar.

She replayed it several times. He was serious, convinced of the reappearance. They had both been thrown into alternate reality. Apprehensive but determined to help, she boarded a flight to her past.

*

He lay tangled in blankets, flannel sheets soft against his bare scarred chest, awake but not lucid. His face ached but healed faster than expected. After agonizing days of detox he could make it twenty-four hours without drugs to sink his mind into haze. Or antibiotics and Vicodin chasers kept the desire at bay. As mental fog lifted and his system cleansed itself, bits of life gnawed their way into his damaged brain.

Memory returned in a terrorizing mosaic. He woke screaming. He'd killed—slashing blades, disemboweled corpses.

He didn't understand the detective and his wife, bringing him into their home. Generous, yes, but why? They'd cared for his wounds. Took turns through the night, which was disconcerting and comforting. They weren't phased by his condition, allowed their dog to remain with him.

If he was dangerous he might harm them. What kind of gratitude would that be? What if he reverted to the behavior in his dreams? He worked up the courage to mention his fear.

"I don't trust me." He couldn't hold the detective's gaze. "I might hurt you."

Einar looked him in the eye. "No you won't."

Now he sat beside him, hand on his shoulder. What time was it? He sat up, willed his eyes to open. The dog stepped across the bed and licked his forehead. The detective handed him an old sweatshirt, told him to put it on and keep the sleeves down. He had a visitor and didn't want them shocked by the scars on his arms. He didn't understand but pulled it over his head. He wrapped himself in a blanket, dog at his side. "I don't want to scare anyone."

"It's okay," Einar said.

Einar watched him fumble into the shirt. How'd he end up destroyed? He wanted to jolt his consciousness and infuse memories. And beat the fucking life out of whoever had done the damage.

He worried about Michael's questions. Nightmares raised fears of hurting people, but the dreams were fragments of the case. He was more coherent. But how to reconnect the pieces? Maybe information could spur memory.

Time to tell him who he was, that the nightmares weren't things he'd done. Those violent images were from a cop on the job and not a killer. Einar pushed the armchair to the bed and grabbed a footstool. He sat and extended a hand. Loki craned his neck toward him.

"Let's talk about your past."

Michael shook his head.

"Your nightmares." Einar scratched Loki's neck. "Don't freak out. You've asked questions. I can give you answers, if you'll let me."

Michael ran fingers through his hair, haunted eyes staring.

"Okay?"

No response.

"Don't be afraid."

Another head shake.

"It's alright . . ."

He looked empty, bewildered. White-knuckled fingers grabbed sleeve edges, holding on to some unseen barrier against fear.

"I want to help. Trust me."

Michael stared another moment then slowly nodded.

A breakthrough.

"I've asked a friend to join us." Einar rose. "Okay?"

Another nod.

Einar walked to the door, opened it.

Kait entered, hand on the doorframe. She glanced at Einar then turned to Michael. She looked and drew back, eyes wide.

He froze.

Loki whined. He wagged his tail and jumped across the bed. Her nose met his and she hugged him, burying her face in his fur.

Seeing the dog's reaction, Michael relaxed. "He . . . likes you."

Kait lifted her head. "He knows me."

"You his owner?"

She looked at him, eyes watering. "I'm Kait."

Michael leaned back, took a halting breath. "Don't know who I am."

She hesitated.

"Do you?" his rasping voice whispered. "That why you're here?"

Kait closed her eyes.

"Have I seen you before?"

Her face drained of color.

Einar put an arm around her shoulder and motioned to the armchair. "Sit," he mouthed. "It's okay." She backed into it, eyes on Michael. Loki plopped on the floor beside her.

Einar cursed silently. He should have insisted she take her time, ignored her demand to see him right away. Shit. Allison was right. They rivaled each other in stubbornness. Would Kait be okay?

Michael's questioning eyes flitted between them.

Einar sat. He leaned forward, folded and unfolded his hands.

Spit it out. He'll be shocked. Get it over with.

"At the station. I recognized you."

Michael sank back. "You know me."

"Yes."

"How—"

"That's why I want to help."

"But . . ." He jerked from Einar to Kait. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"It's complicated," Kait said. "Don't want to scare you."

"I killed someone." He flailed fingers through his hair. Einar stopped him.

"No," Kait said. "You're not a killer."

"Who am I?"

"Trust us," Kait said.

Michael stared. "Not . . . good at that." He tightened the blanket and hunched against the headboard.

"Understood," Einar said. He wouldn't trust anyone either. Kait looked shocked, but she was more composed. Or faking it.

She inched closer. "We're friends. You're not alone. Understand?"

Second thoughts swirled.

Is this the right thing? Are we helping or torturing him?

"I hear screaming," Michael said. "My mind's a mess." He pulled shivering hands into his shirtsleeves, cuffs in his fists. "I might hurt you."

"No," Einar said. "You were injured two years ago, memory returning in fragments. You're screaming."

That hit him hard. "Why? Fuck. What did I do? Fuck. If—"

Kait pried open his hand and wound her fingers through it. "Breathe. Listen."

Michael froze. Didn't pull it away.

"Kait's right," Einar said. "You're remembering."

Michael stared.

Did he believe them? Einar couldn't tell. Trust would be an alien instinct after two years drowning in the street, fighting to stay alive.

"Your name is Michael Lewis. You're a cop, a homicide detective. My partner. We worked a strange case two years ago. It was bad. You were trapped in an explosion."

We saw the fireball. You died.

Einar's eyes drilled into him. "You're our friend."

He shuddered. "Don't remember . . ."

"How could you?" Kait squeezed his hand. "You don't want to remember. I can't forget." For a moment she seemed lost.

Michael looked at her. "You . . . were there?"

She nodded.

Einar nodded, too. He was asking a lot of her.

"I'm a cop," Michael turned to Einar.

"Yes." Einar hesitated. How should he describe a relationship that ended with death? "Kait was your fiancée."

Michael closed his eyes.

"It's a lot to take in."

No reaction from the bed.

"Is your fiancé." Kait glanced at Einar.

So she hadn't gotten over him.

"We know you." Einar paused. "You're a cop, a good one. Besides—if I knew you killed people, you'd be in jail."

Michael opened his eyes.

"I had you at the station."

He narrowed his brow.

"Easy arrest."

"Oh. Yeah." Michael understood. His mouth hinted at a smile.

The flash of humor was reassuring.

"You're safe here." Kait squeezed his hand.

"Look. We're not sure your memory will return. Someone beat the living shit out of you and left you for dead."

"Why?"

"It's . . . a long story, and an unfinished one." He hesitated. "Still have to solve it."

"Why didn't I die?"

Einar fell silent.

Don't know that you didn't.

"You suffered severe trauma." Kait didn't release his hand.

"I'm a nut case?"

"No," she said. "Amnesia. Might have erased things you couldn't process."

"You were in wasted oblivion on the street," Einar said. "If we hadn't crossed paths—"

"I should thank your asshole cops?"

"Well, I wouldn't give them credit."

Kait scratched Loki's head with her free hand. "This black beast might jog your memory. He's your dog."

"He knew you immediately," Einar said.

Loki's tail wagged nonstop.

"That's why you're glued to me." Michael leaned to the dog, pushing his sleeves up and revealing the twisted red scars and mottled burn marks that slashed to his thin wrists.

Kait gasped.

Michael yanked them down. "Shit. Sorry. I'm sorry. Sorry."

"No." She rose. "Don't apologize."

She went from scared to pissed in an instant. Sat beside him, looked him in the eye and brought his arms forward. Pulled up the sleeves. He recoiled but she held firm. She ran her fingers along the scars, tracing them to his wrists. "Damn. What did they do to you?"

*

Einar and Kait made a pact with Michael. They'd help him recover his memory, however much was left. But if they decided he needed more serious help, he wouldn't argue. They'd take him to trained medical authorities.

It was risky. Einar hoped they could reach him—Marta's words were disconcerting. The fewer people who knew he'd resurfaced, the better.

They threw themselves into it, hoping patience and gradual reintroduction might pull him back from the void. They spelled each other in shifts. Allison stepped in when both needed relief. Michael made it through withdrawal, promising them and himself he'd stay clean. His wounds healed. He began to sleep with fewer nightmares, Loki his vigilant guardian.

They didn't press his memory, didn't want to exhaust him. He rarely left the room. Slept a lot. Had good days and bad, at times unable to focus on anything. They encouraged him to write things down. Some days they just served as calm presences or listened to music. Kait handled that part. The stuff was noise—pounding and raucous lyrics. Einar had never heard of the Offspring or Green Day but if they sparked his memory, what the hell, play them all day.

Neither was trained for it—but it seemed to be working. Without knowing what'd happened, Michael was safer if people, including cops, didn't know he was alive.

Besides, how would they explain it?

He accepted their help. Understood they knew him and he trusted them—remembered them only in vague flashes, but it was better than wasted solitude. They gave a damn.

Einar and Kait pieced together that he'd resurfaced at Crown General Hospital, a small facility a hundred and fifty miles north of Seward City. Thinking medical staff might speak more openly to—or feel less threatened by—a forensic anthropologist than a cop, Kait volunteered to ferret out information.

"Be discrete," Einar said. "We don't know who was involved."

"Don't worry." Kait nodded. "I'll lie if necessary."

*

She approached the reception desk in the hospital lobby. "Excuse me. I'd like to speak with someone about a patient brought to Crown in winter 2011-2012, some time after December 10." She gave the receptionist her business card. "I'm consulting on a case downstate. We're tracing the history of a John Doe whom we believe was admitted during that time period." The receptionist studied the card and eyed her, then made phone calls.

What am I doing here?

She looked at the floor. Michael had re-emerged like a ghost on her life.

"Through the double doors, he'll meet you at the end of the hall. Attending physician was Doctor Thayer. You're in luck. He's here this morning." She hesitated. "He might not be able to help—HIPAA regulations, you know?"

"I'll take my chances." Kait thanked her and headed down the hall.

Dr. Thayer, a short man with a slash of red hair, greeted her with a firm handshake. He escorted her to a wood-paneled conference room. "Not sure how much we can share," he said.

"I know. But do those rules apply to someone without memory or connections? Reviewing the case may help with an identification."

"Good question." Thayer paused. "Look. The case was strange. Disturbing. Never found out who he was. If you promise not to—"

"Done." She looked him in the eye. "No one will know."

He decided to take the chance. She sat at a long conference table. He stepped around a counter and typed on a computer terminal, pulling up case files. He nodded.

"Here it is. Impossible to forget."

"Why?"

He peered over the computer. "Weirdest case I've ever had. John Doe should have died. Was a cold December, one of the coldest on record. Duck hunter found him submerged, wrapped in a tarp and chained to cinder blocks in frozen muck on state lands."

Take it in. Do not react.

Under the table, she twisted her wool scarf into a tight ball.

"Nine-one-one report came in, hunter had found a corpse. Game preserve. Cops arrived, affirmed he was dead. ME transported the body to the morgue. I'm sure they documented it. Unwrapped it. Tarp is probably still in evidence with local police. Might have other records in their files, but you'd have to speak with them. Body was frozen. Had been there for days. Hell, temp outside was twenty at the highest. We'd already lived through two ice storms and weeks without power before January." He paused. "Body warmed once inside. A tech began the external exam in preparation for autopsy. He was cleaning the body, felt a pulse start again, then the heartbeat. That's how he described it. The man had come back to life—like a horror movie about reanimating corpses. Staff was unnerved. Shouldn't happen. But it did. They brought him here, but we thought he'd be dead by evening."

"How . . . bad was he injured?"

Damn the assholes.

She steeled herself to remain professional.

"Cold didn't kill him, should have . . . but . . . well, he was dead from gross trauma." Thayer shook his head. "Jugular was cut, he'd been beaten. Broken bones. Internal injuries, deep gashes carved in his arms and face. No blood—someone bled him out. Whoever wanted him dead, they must have believed they'd finished him. His fingers were sanded and dipped in acid, so we couldn't run a good search. No missing persons reports matched his description. Was in a coma for a month. Lab ran blood tests but got contaminated results. Sent backup samples to another lab, but they made the same mistakes."

"Shit," Kait said.

Thayer looked up. "I'm sorry. Are you okay? This is tough to take."

"Keep going."

"Need a break?"

"No."

"Okay . . . anyway, it was shocking, given how damaged—his physical wounds healed fast. Massive scarring, of course. Don't know how he survived. Wounds should have killed him." He moved from the computer and sat across from her. "Mentally, psychologically, that was another issue."

She stiffened. "What . . . do you mean?"

"He woke screaming. No identity, no memory, no language, no ability to communicate. Didn't know he was human. Scared our staff shitless. No one wanted to be on the wing with him overnight. Nightmares, gibberish . . ."

She didn't know what to say.

"I'll never forget how one ICU nurse described it." Thayer peered down at the table. "Humanity seeping into a husk."

She closed her eyes.

How did he come back?

Thayer sighed. "Something was very wrong, but we have a small psych staff and limited mental health treatment capabilities. Strange, like he wasn't a being and then was, but had to relearn everything. We couldn't reach him and he was too terrified to understand we were trying to help. He remained for another month and a half. When we thought he might be coherent enough to have a rudimentary conversation, we brought in the police, but he bolted." He hesitated. "Should have gone after him. But had no reason to hold him. We were ill-prepared."

"Sounds like a trip through hell." Her heart pounded.

"Hell and back." Thayer nodded. "Can't explain it. He was dead. Then wasn't."

Kait looked at her scarf. It would never come unknotted.

Will Michael?

"May I ask," Thayer said, "why you're researching this case?"

"We're trying to identify a body." It wasn't a lie.

They finished and shook hands. Thayer escorted her to the lobby. She asked if the state game preserve was nearby.

"Yes,' he said. "I'll give you directions."

Armed with a hand-drawn map, she drove into marshland, winding through the icy landscape. Parked at a hunting lot, log barriers covered by snow. She walked into the black muck, shivering, and hiked to an observation stand. The crust cracked under her feet, boots sinking. She stepped wide and forded to higher ground.

_Damn it, I shouldn't have listened to you_.

She stood on the overlook, felt the air sucked from her lungs. Gazed into the frozen expanse, punctuated by dead marsh reeds and broken cattails. A person could not survive being dumped at that time of year. She pulled out her cell and looked up the NOAA National Climatic Data Center, punched in data for regional temperatures in winter 2011. Thayer was right. It had been cold.

Too cold.

She returned to the car, laid her head on her hands on the steering wheel. Closed her eyes, mind spinning. He'd died. What did they do? What was he? She reached for her cell, dialed Einar's number but stopped. Threw the cell on the passenger seat and broke down.

*

Einar caught the call for another murder that morning.

He dragged himself to the office in pre-dawn hours to finish paperwork before people arrived to distract him. Didn't want to deal with whining or complaining. Anti-social attitude but screw it. Besides, he didn't want prying eyes as he searched for reports about the strange drug. He found one article in English translation from a case in Denmark and started to read but was struggling to understand it when his concentration was interrupted.

"Look who decided to come to work this morning," Cresson ambled to Einar's desk. "The disappearing detective. Where the hell have you been? Ever consider letting Layton into your secret world of intrigue?"

Goddamn. Einar bookmarked the site and hit minimize.

"Monster research, Iceland?" Cresson snorted. "Should be. Maybe this time you'll catch them. Creeps and crawlers, your specialty."

Einar said nothing.

"You know, by the way, Layton has potential. Try not to drive him insane."

Einar whipped around. "Shut up."

"Don't get anyone killed."

"Bite—" The phone rang. Einar grabbed the receiver, held it like a weapon.

Cresson walked away.

Layton arrived as he hung up. Distracted and foggy without his morning caffeine jolt, Einar couldn't think of an excuse to avoid his partner's participation.

Now they headed to the industrial area where he'd encountered Michael. Einar offered a silent prayer.

Let this be a normal murder.

Layton's aggression dismayed him. The man was pumped for the adrenaline rush of a murder scene. He urged Einar to drive faster. The veins in his temple throbbed, eyes shining. Yeah, young guys tended to be enthusiastic, but Layton lived for the prospect of combat—or the thrill of the chase. Why'd he get stuck with the idiot?

They pulled into the fenced lot of a seedy metal recycling facility, steel sign bolted to the wall proclaiming Smash Trash for Cash. The rusty gate stood open. Their arrival was expected. The responding officer greeted them but Layton sprinted ahead when they stepped from the car. The factory manager, a rotund messy man in parka and steel-tip boots, lumbered from his small office to meet them.

Layton reached him first.

"City's going to hell," the manager said. "Druggies and deadbeats skulking at all hours. What do we pay you guys for?" He grunted and nodded toward the yard. "One a my workers found 'em when he reported for his shift."

Layton puffed out his chest. "Detectives Layton and Hannesson, sir. We're in charge. Tell us more."

Einar sighed.

The responding officer shook his head and walked back to position.

"Two homeless cranks broke through security fencing. Hacked each other to death. Fuckin' bloody mess. What's the world coming to?" The manager pointed at the bodies. "I'm around if you have questions. Got a business to run." He headed inside.

They lay sprawled, appendages bent at odd angles. Blood pooled at impact points—they'd stabbed each other with sharp metal objects. One gripped a large piece of scrap steel. A long rebar fragment with bloody jagged edge lay near the head of the other. Around them footprints danced in crazed patterns, struggle reflected in the snow. But there were three sets of prints, one of the bodies raked with claw marks. Einar swore in Icelandic. He walked to Layton, who stood over them.

"Two less deadbeats." Layton shifted. "Either of these your junkie?"

Einar glared. "No."

"Too bad."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Shit, you—"

"Robert, we don't know their story. Don't judge them. Look for evidence." His vehemence surprised him. He didn't mean to preach the virtues of the homeless but recent events had shaken his worldview. He reined himself in. Layton was exhibiting his normal distain.

Layton shrugged. "Don't care about their story. They're dead. Want to solve the case." He scanned the lot, following footprints to where they entered the property. Einar hung back—Layton's impatience was difficult to stomach. He should be disciplined and methodical. Of course, he'd never considered the ass his partner, so never trained him like . . . he forced the thought from his head. Stared at the claw marks on the second victim.

How do we stop them?

Layton paced two steps at a time until he came to a ripped fence panel, dried blood on it. "Look, Iceland. Crazy one and two did a strongman act."

"Explain, Robert." He remembered Marta's description of the drug.

"Ripped it with their hands. They were whacked."

Einar stood in the morning light, warning bells going off in his head. Sirens wailed. Vehicles converged on the scene. He signaled to two teams of uniforms stepping out of cars, told them to tape off the scene and limit access of unnecessary personnel.

Layton returned to the bodies. "Someone was good with a knife."

"Claws." Einar said.

"Bullshit. Don't pull weird crap on me." Layton huffed.

"Suit yourself," Einar muttered.

Layton kneeled, slipped gloves on. Searched the victims' coats and pants pockets. "Shocking." He held several vials. "They doped up and attacked each other."

Einar's heart sank. Vials. Identical to the one Arch and Marlen had given him from Michael. How were the vials and claws connected? He crouched in the bloody snow. "How many?"

"Three with this guy." Layton nudged the first victim and then shifted, crouched over the second. Found more vials in his coat. "Four in this one. Must have been raging. Wonder if he felt anything?"

Hope it was over fast. Christ, what's happening?

Einar pulled plastic evidence bags from his pocket. "Drop the vials in. I'll give them to Marta."

Layton handed them over and resumed his search. "If the press arrives, I want to update them," he said. "Let me have the honor . . ."

Einar walked away. Like hell. He marked the bags. Layton wasn't paying attention, eyes focused on the bodies.

Beyond the police tape, Marta stepped out of her car. Einar caught her eye and motioned for her. She approached him. "Going to tell me it's another mutilation, aren't you?"

"Two victims." He hesitated. "There's more . . . I need your discretion." She looked puzzled.

He held out the bags. "Claw slashes on a vic. And drug vials. Identical to what I gave you on Christmas."

"I don't—"

He lowered his voice. "Please don't mention Michael." He looked at Marta, touched her arm. "As long as possible."

"Einar, I can't . . ."

"Please. He doesn't . . . didn't . . . deserve to be damned by connection to these crimes."

She caught the hitch in his voice. "I agree. You know that. But not sure . . . "

"It's not lying. An error of omission."

Marta glanced at the scene then turned back to him. "I'll . . . see what I can do. May not have a choice. Have to speak to the press if the problem explodes—and I'm afraid that's what we're seeing. Can't conceal information about a possible drug epidemic. We're calling in expertise to decipher the strange chemistry. Lives depend on it."

"Marta . . . "

"I'll be discrete. I sympathize with not wanting to disturb the dead."

"Thanks. That's all I'm asking." She'd try her best. A gnawing fear churned in his gut as she strode to the techs preparing to bag the bodies.

_Lives depend on it. But not in the way you think_.

*

Einar pulled into his driveway and stared. He felt helpless. They thought Itsos and Thompson had been killed. If Michael was alive, were they? No remains were found, not surprising given the explosion and fire.

He was obstructing the case by concealing Michael's existence. Were the drug murders related?

How far over the line was he willing to go?

Marta had agreed to withhold Michael's connection from the press, for now. Layton had been in the dark for over a month and getting angry about it. He and Kait were trying to bring a traumatized addict back from oblivion without professional help.

None of it was appropriate but he didn't care.

He left the car and stepped through the door. Loki bounded up with a stuffed rat in his mouth. He rubbed the dog's forehead and threw the toy. Loki ran after it with unbridled enthusiasm, grabbed it and returned. He smiled. Might be nice to be a dog. Loki's life was immediacy. He was loyal, motivated and didn't worry about tomorrow.

Allison approached before he took off his coat. "Kait's in the kitchen. Just returned. I asked how it went. Said she had to talk to you. She's tired and upset so I didn't pry."

"Guess her day was as bad as mine."

"Try working for county planning," Allison said. "Everyone is unnerved. Too much talk about vigilante justice. Lots of discussion about stocking up on guns and ammunition." She leaned against the doorframe and shook her head. "Bad days all around."

He kissed her. "Thanks. I owe you for all of this . . . "

"You do," she said. "I won't forget. But we'll discuss it later."

He kissed her again. She held his hand then released it. She motioned with her head to the kitchen.

Kait sat at the table, hand folded, eyes downcast. He grabbed the chair next to her. Loki followed and stretched out by his side. She didn't move. He waited for her to speak. She remained silent and didn't look at him.

"How'd it go?"

"He can't be alive."

"I'm sorry. It sucks. His condition's troubling." She'd been crying.

"No." She looked at him. "He's dead."

"Kait—"

"I spoke with the doctor. Saw where they found him. He would not have survived. Hunter called nine-one-one, reported a corpse. They took a body to the morgue. It reanimated. Came back to life. From nothing. When he woke from the coma, he wasn't sentient."

"Shit, I—"

"Michael cannot be alive."

He sank back, took a breath and ran a hand through his hair. He'd wanted to focus his thoughts before this conversation. They were beyond rational explanation. Loki looked up and rested his nose on his lap.

He slung an arm around Kait's shoulder. "The whole thing is rotten. We don't know what happened. You're right, he shouldn't be alive."

"He's not."

"But he's here."

She looked bewildered.

"Don't have an explanation. And . . . there's more." He told her about the drug, Marta's revelations and the latest crime scene.

Her face went pale. "Christ, you should have told me earlier. It means—"

"Fuck. He might not be human . . . " He shook his head. "And something's out there. Nothing makes sense. It's bad."

"What . . . did they do?"

"I don't know and I'm afraid it will get worse. Marta can't withhold information if we're facing an epidemic."

Kait hung her head. "Not a ghost. Not imagination. He's not alive and isn't dead."

Einar hesitated. He had no answers. All of the stories he read and told and spun over the years about demons and monsters, all the fables of soul-sucking beings . . .

"What is he?"

"Don't know. And we can't hide the truth forever."

## CHAPTER 17

## 2011 Early December

They bristled with anticipation, one spouting directions while the other gripped the wheel. He maneuvered through winter wilderness, windshield wipers beating against flying snow. Struggled to keep the Bronco on the secondary road. It skidded, fishtailing across lanes. He slowed to a crawl much to his passenger's chagrin.

The driver turned left, following an abandoned logging path—they'd be less noticeable away from the maintained road. The sun was only beginning to rise. They passed the river divide, the bend in the west branch and Algonquin Alpine Resort. The tall man had been out earlier that week, gathering porphyry from the river before snow fell, charting locations to find its hiding place. He sighed. The short one turned. "Dr. Thompson, are we getting close?"

"Yes, Donnie," Thompson said. "Almost there."

"Good." Donnie sighed. "Can I see Kaitlyn again?"

"Soon."

*

Thompson struggled for years to further his research. Climbed the museum management ladder and took positions throughout superstitious corners of Eastern Europe—Bulgaria, Albania, and Macedonia. His work went with him, including mistakes and missteps. The need to stay ahead of law enforcement after each murder, some of which he'd disguised as suicides or accidents, hindered career advancement. His parents went to their graves thinking their son had turned into a disappointment. He was okay with that.

His goal was larger.

Each new revenant fed for forty days and then surrendered its bloody bounty—but despite his steady supply of raw material, Thompson was stalled. He spent hours in his private lab but couldn't uncover the key. Blood alone wasn't the answer. What else did he need to create a substance granting eternity? He was brilliant and determined but failed to get the chemistry to work.

Then it dawned on him. He needed another step—like a zoonotic disease, he needed a vector through which to filter the accumulated revenant blood. Raw material demanded processing. The thought made him smile. Finally, the missing puzzle piece. He needed a secondary host to complete the blood to serum change. Adult revenants killed whomever they bit. The immature revenant's bite—unless it was hunting children, its intended prey—was less powerful. In adult humans, the bite mutated the victim, transformed them, sparking DNA changes to promote continual cell regeneration, causing biotransformation in blood that would bring the substance to be refined into a drug into existence.

Thompson cheered his breakthrough but still had a problem. Immature revenants craved children's blood. Cajoling them to bite adults proved difficult. And he still needed to chemically finish the process. After debacles in Northern Europe and the Nordic world he'd had to lay low, but time hadn't been wasted.

Through late night chat rooms and doomsday science blogs, he'd met Donnie, who despite social inadequacies possessed superior chemistry skills and a fabulous private laboratory. Luck had provided an open position at the Willard Museum, where the search committee, desperate for a quick hire and paying below scale, had not bothered with the inconvenience of background checks.

Now his latest creature had bitten the detective. After years of frustration he'd gotten lucky. Ironic—the man was connected to his Anthropology Curator, thus providing multiple means of access. He would acquire the cop through her. Everything was coming together.

*

The forty-day cycle had ended.

"Time for harvest," Thompson said.

Donnie smiled. "Can't wait to get started. Maybe I can persuade Kait to help."

Thompson looked at Donnie as a child, a bright but awkward child needing guidance and a firm hand. The puppy-in-love act would have to be monitored. He patted his shoulder.

"I think we can do it," Donnie said.

Thompson sighed, frustrated the trail markers hadn't been more frequent. "I broke that statue into myriad pieces. It could have been more generous marking its path. Oh well—another management issue." He took a breath. "Neither people nor monsters do as they're told."

Donnie glanced at him, not understanding.

Tracking it wasn't supposed to be difficult. That'd been the point of the shattered Shezmu figurine. The God of Processing. How appropriate. Thompson found a handful of red shards. But the task had taken more time that he'd wished, especially beyond the lodge where the cop had interrupted the kill. Damn cop. But he'd gotten his. The creature had bitten him twice.

The Bronco lurched to a bend in the river. Barely visible on the high wooded ridge was a series of deep narrow caves. Thompson smiled again. Perfect for hiding. They pulled down the logging path and parked near the river, hidden by fallen pine trees and large boulders. Thompson felt a tinge of regret—they were within reach of his goal. If only Lijdia were here to share it. He missed her.

Donnie looked at him.

Thompson nodded.

They parked. Donnie grabbed a flashlight, chain and leather straps and hiked them over his shoulder. Thompson barked orders and held a small black case in his hand. They headed to the caves, neither agile in the slippery going. They entered one, then the next. In the third, they found it, groggy in the winter chill.

It heard a noise and roused. Yellow eyes scanned the dark. It saw them and hissed, realizing who they were. It glared, angry at being disturbed and worried they'd decided not to let it live. It shook its head, berating itself—it had complicated matters by biting the cop. But what was it supposed to do? Roll over and scramble away with its tail between its legs? It'd been hungry and he'd been in the way.

At Thompson's urging, Donnie edged closer. Cold lethargy had drained its energy. He secured it with the leather straps and chain, avoiding claws and teeth. Thompson plunged a syringe of ketamine into its thigh. It lashed at them before the drug took effect. Thompson then assembled a large antique hypodermic needle and injected it with a deep reddish serum. Its eyes sprang wide, claws constricted and then it shuddered. It curled into a pile on the cave floor.

The men hauled it to the Bronco.

Thompson grunted. "You should have loaded lifting equipment."

Donnie glared. "I'm doing most of the work, sir." He shook his head. "It's downhill. We're almost there."

They returned to where they'd parked, hoisted the creature and dumped it in a large steel cage. Donnie slammed the gate and secured three combination locks. Wouldn't escape that enclosure. Both hopped in and Donnie put the vehicle in reverse until he could angle it, doing a slippery U-turn and heading back the way they'd come.

Thompson watched. Getting stuck in the snow was not acceptable.

"Don't worry, sir." Donnie gripped the wheel. "Snow's not deep . . . "

"Keep moving."

Now to lure the cop. Thompson smiled at the young detective's naive sense of heroism. Idiot. In throwing himself into the creature's path to save a mere child, he'd given them what they needed. His poisoned mutating bloodstream would complete their concoction.

*

Kait rubbed her face and flipped her ID around her neck, wishing the workday over. It was only 11:00 in the morning. She headed to unlock the doors into collections storage. She'd just run her badge through the electronic swipe pad when she heard her name called from the end of the hall.

"Miss Jenret."

Shit. What did he want? He rarely came below. He was as much a phony as most of the administrative staff. They didn't research exhibits, create programs or care for the collection, but they believed their offices at the top of the stairs connoted exalted status in the museum pecking order. It was bullshit, but she'd gotten used to it and interacted with them as little as possible. She often told them to leave her alone to do her work, and they didn't argue—she made them look good. She turned around.

Shit, shoot me.

Thompson had a smile on his face.

Her day was going to suck.

He caught up and touched her arm. "Dear Kaitlyn. Thought I'd come to your office today. Down to where the workers toil." He patted her shoulder with unnerving familiarity.

You creep me out.

"Can I help you? Do you want something? We don't often see you in the basement."

European Art Curator Bryan Monda poked his head out of his office, three doors from Kait's. Seeing they were in the hall, he stepped out and closed his door behind him. A dour expression clouded his pasty face. He lumbered to meet them, gait like that of a man fifty years his senior.

Thompson held out a manicured hand. "Bryan, good afternoon."

Bryan grunted. He stared at Kait.

"Kaitlyn, Bryan let's sit." Thompson grasped their elbows and led them to her office. He gestured at her wide glass-topped table. "Kait, I've asked Bryan to join us. Want to speak with my two best curators about an exhibition. A blockbuster." He sat and adjusted his sleeves, green ruby glinting at his cuff.

Thompson motioned for Bryan to sit. He ambled over. She couldn't tell if he was annoyed, ill or his normal uncommunicative self.

"Get your creative juices flowing!" Thompson banged on the table. "Both of you will focus on our major project for 2013. An exhibit on alchemy and arcana. Think about it. Mysteries of early prescientific exploration, philosophy and dark magic. Fascinating. I already have a title. Alchemy ALIVE!"

She looked at him.

Oh shit, he's at it again. Clown car exhibit planning 101. Why does he want to do everything but his job? Isn't he supposed to make connections in the community?

Thompson, despite fundraising pressures and constant need to be the museum's public face, retreated to his office for days at a time. He would emerge with grand visions of esoteric exhibits, subjects of niche interest but not accessible to the broader public, nor reflective of the museum's mission. She ticked off a list in her head—corset iconography, wine bottles of Rome, high heels through the ages, Ancient Chinese Materia Medica—and he'd only been here a few months. But alchemy? She peered at Bryan. His demeanor signaled the enthusiasm of a wet dishrag.

"Dr. Thompson," she said, "I appreciate your passion, but the committee has to approve it. It's offbeat. Doesn't fit our mission."

"Piffle. We'll expand the mission!"

"But sir. We have the process to avoid issues like those with the Mysteries of the Museum exhibit. Board members told you about that mess." Mysteries had brought criticism after a curator, since fired, placed a human skeleton in a bathtub in the formal gallery, toilet ring around its neck, with no interpretation. He'd been mimicking a children's book but board members did not approve and closed the exhibit.

Thompson smiled. "Shoddy presentation. It would not happen under my watch. We do things with excellence or not at all." Blood-shot eyes darted from Kait to Bryan. "I'm in charge of the committee. I make an exception." He stared with intensity. "We are doing this project. Alchemy ALIVE!"

Crap.

Bryan narrowed rheumy eyes. "Why?"

"It's fascinating." Thompson pounded a hand on the table. "Hasn't been done. Multidisciplinary. Uses all our collections!"

She sighed. "Subject doesn't work."

Thompson beamed. "Donnie Litsos's donation is perfect for this project."

Non-photogenic glass bottles? Was he was on something? He had those blood-shot eyes again and he vibrated with weird energy.

"Kaitlyn will lead the team."

Bryan snickered.

She shot him a baleful glance.

Thompson patted her hand. "Donnie's coming this afternoon. We'll tour the collection, discuss exhibit narrative, consider objects and items to borrow. Bryan, review the art collection for works connected to alchemy. Coordinate with Marty Wagman to review documents."

Bryan shrugged.

Great. Why doesn't Thompson give this project to him?

"Dr. Thompson," she said, "Alchemy isn't connected to anthropology or archaeology. It's not my specialty. We need a guest curator."

"No," he said. "You will do it." He handed her a battered paperback. "Here's a starting point. Read. We'll discuss in detail." She turned it over. The Alchemists' Handbook by Frater Albertus. She looked at him, lips pursed. "I've got quite a work load and several pressing deadlines."

Michael will mock me when I'm struggling through this book at midnight.

"Make time," Thompson said. "You can do it, my dear."

"We done?" Bryan mumbled and stood.

Thompson nodded. Kait watched in frustration. She didn't want to work with him or Thompson. Didn't want Donnie near her.

*

Michael's cell rang.

"Tell me something sane."

"Hey K." Michael and Einar were heading through traffic en route to meeting Marta. She had more test results from the last murder—additional cultures of the dog's saliva—and wanted to review them in person. Michael had begged for temporary release from paperwork prison. Giving in, Einar allowed him to come along despite limited duty. It was only a car ride and Einar had been clear. Do nothing other than listen to Marta. No duck-tape.

Michael wasn't stupid. It was to stop him from obsessive research. "What's up? Everything okay?"

"Wanted to hear a rational voice," she said. "My day's gone to hell." She told him about Thompson and Donnie. "Won't be able to herd them out by five. I'll be trapped here, home late."

He laughed. "I sympathize. Captivity at work is a bitch."

Einar rolled his eyes.

"Relax and get through it. I'll provide relief when you get home." A flash of concern entered his mind—he hadn't mentioned he was investigating Thompson. "K, watch out for your crazy boss."

She laughed. "That ass." She vented. He listened, feigning light-heartedness. But he was worried. Thompson's background pointed in troubling directions. Michael admonished himself to be patient—he didn't want to alarm her. Maybe he was paranoid. "I'll check in later. You can update me."

Einar shouted from the driver's seat, "he'll have beer chilled, you'll need it."

Michael laughed. She hung up.

*

Kait leaned back, picked up the paperback and started reading. Her mind drifted and she struggled through the first chapter. Reread one paragraph five times. Then heard a knock on the wall next to her door. She looked up.

Thompson and Donnie stood in the hall, chemist behind the director, smile on his face.

"Kaitlyn. You've started reading. Excellent." Thompson extended a hand. "Knew you'd be an apt pupil. You'll find it fascinating."

"Hi, Kaitlyn." Donnie brimmed with nervous energy. "So happy to see you. How are you? Are you well? My parents send regards."

She sighed. Her weirdo radar was pulling them into her orbit. She set the book down and came from behind her desk without looking at them. "Let's get started. I have to be out of here by 6:00 PM."

_Liar. But if I don't define boundaries they'll stay for hours_.

She slid her ID through the swipe pad, allowing access through the outer door and used her key to open the inner eight-inch thick metal fire door. The lock clicked when she turned it.

Kait switched on florescent lights and ushered them into collections storage. Shelving bays towered in the large windowless space.

Donnie's eyes widened.

Rows of metal shelves held bronzes, marbles, stone figures, Assyrian reliefs, and Egyptian funerary jars. Kait led them to the farthest bay and started in the Ancient Near East section. None of the objects connected to alchemy, but Thompson lingered at one bay after another.

"Wonderful," Donnie said. "They speak of ancient worlds."

"Exactly." Thompson fingered a cufflink.

"Kait, tell me about your job," Donnie said. "You must appreciate the mysteries of time. Look at these things!"

She didn't respond.

He persisted, stepping in front of her, reaching for her hand.

She ducked around an Assyrian winged bull relief and over to another bay.

"Kaitlyn, you're preoccupied," Donnie said. "How are you? Are you okay? I've missed you. I'd love to talk about my work. I want to hear about yours." He sidled closer. She stepped away.

"I'm fine, Donnie. I'm busy. It's the end of the day."

He's not leaving me alone.

He moved near regardless where she stepped.

Back up. I'm not interested.

"Donnie," Thompson said. "Concentrate on the collection. Consider what we'll need."

That refocused him. He scanned shelves. "Kaitlyn, do you have something that contains natron? We need natron." He moved with a bounce to his step.

"What does natron have to do with alchemy? You're referencing mummification. We don't have mummies." She shook her head. Ancient Egyptians used natron, a salt mixture similar to hydrated soda ash, in the mummification process. It promoted desiccation and preservation by removing liquids from the body.

Why does he want it for the exhibit?

"We have canopic jars." Thompson's bloodshot eyes gleamed. He stepped to a high shelf.

She watched. He knew where the jars were stored.

Did Bryan blow you off? Is that why you want me to lead the team?

"Kait," Donnie said. "Can we see them?"

She hesitated. "We have canopic jars. But they probably just contain residue."

Donnie touched her arm. "That's all we need. Think of it. Eternal life! The Egyptians believed in immortality. Ancient Persian, Chinese and Arabian cultures had similar beliefs."

"We'll need early gold objects," Thompson said. "They represent perfection of matter, another goal of alchemy. " He reached to an Assyrian sculpture on a low shelf.

She intercepted him. "Dr. Thompson, put on cotton gloves." Resigned to him touching the objects, she pulled white gloves from a box on the shelf and handed them to him.

Thompson smiled. His hand brushed hers. "Yes, professional practices are important. Grime of ages past. Don't want to leave fingerprints."

She cringed.

Get me out of here.

She hurried them through ancient Greek sculpture and into the next aisle.

They wove through Renaissance art, Northern European paintings, and South American objects before passing through more locked doors and into the space with medieval art and architecture fragments.

Her head pounded. She was tired of strange questions.

Donnie ranted about chemicals and alchemy. He spewed information about all sorts of things, many unfamiliar to her. Thompson would nod and pat him on the back to encourage him.

Shit. Crazy Eyes is sparking mad Donnie to yammer.

"We need . . . corrosive sublimate, red oxide of mercury, nitrate of silver . . ." Donnie gained momentum as they walked through medieval art. "Magnesium for eternity, the infinite flame!" He turned to her. "Don't you understand? They wanted to understand the mysteries of life and death."

Thompson clapped at Donnie's rabid enthusiasm. "Exactly. We'll need a copy of an ancient text about the Philosopher's Stone, elixir of life, used to achieve immortality."

Donnie grabbed her arm. "Do you have early photographic plates?"

She pulled away.

"You know, the kind used in wet plate processes. They'd have residue of silver salts. We need those, too."

She stepped ahead.

I'm in the inner basement, no windows, and no cell service. I want out. I need a drink.

She rushed through the last space and looked at her watch. 7:15 PM. Crap, they'd been there for over two hours. She herded them back to her office, breathing a sigh of relief.

We're done. Go away.

She leaned over to turn off her computer, assuming they'd head upstairs. Time to go home, have a glass of wine, collapse on the sofa with Michael and Loki and forget this weirdness.

They didn't leave. "I'd like to borrow materials now." Donnie pounded a fist in his hand, an odd emphatic gesture for the squirrely chemist. "A gold object or two, the canopic jars, a glass plate negative."

Thompson stood silent.

"Have to go through proper channels," she said. "I can't hand things over. I'll give you paperwork. Read it, sign it and I'll present it to the Collections Committee for approval. We don't lend to individuals."

"Nonsense. I approve it. Pull the materials. We'll wait." Thompson crossed his arms and smiled at Donnie.

"Not a good idea, Dr. Thompson. Sets bad precedent."

"Miss Jenret, do as I say." He leered with strange intensity. Spread his legs and planted himself in her doorway.

"Yes, sir." She shook her head. "I'll get them."

I surrender. I'll document everything in writing, submit a report to the committee and request they discuss your behavior with the board. This is bullshit.

"Meet me upstairs," she said. "It'll take fifteen minutes to prepare objects for transit. I'll need signatures before they leave the building."

Thompson relaxed. "Thank you, my dear. We appreciate it." He motioned to Donnie, who remained in place, eyes glued to Kait. Thompson yanked his arm. He turned, startled.

"Time to go, Donnie."

"Now?"

Thompson gave an impatient stare.

Donnie looked at her. "See you soon."

They headed down the hall, conversing about eternity, and climbed the stairs to the lobby.

She sank into her chair, grabbed a bottle of Advil and popped two pills without washing them down. Took off her shoes and rubbed her feet. Stared, picked up _The Alchemist's Handbook_ and threw it across the room.

"Get me out of here." She leaned her head back as far as it would go, hair dangling behind the seat—the whole incident was disconcerting. Finally she sighed and stood, went back into collections storage and gathered the objects, trying not to fling anything in anger. She returned to her office and filled out the forms.

Her cell rang. Michael.

"Hey K. Sanity check. Tour from hell over?"

"Almost." She hesitated. "It was strange. Felt unsafe in collections for the first time. They rambled about immortality and reanimation. Unnerving, doing time with pasty-faced mad scientists. I want to conjure you into my office right now."

"Don't go anywhere. I'll meet you at the museum."

"Are you driving? You're not supposed to—"

"Einar got called to a scene. I'm free of my minder . . ." His laugh was unconvincing.

"What'd Martha say?"

"Umm, the dog . . . has issues from fighting . . . the creature."

"Michael, what do you mean?"

"It's . . . nothing . . . to discuss over the phone."

"Michael—"

I'm not far. I'll pick you up, K."

"I appreciate it more than you know. I'll watch for you . . .hurry, okay?" She hung up and packed the objects, grabbed paperwork and pen. Pulled on her coat, wrapped a light green scarf around her neck—a present from Michael in honor of Greenie—and headed upstairs, dreading every step.

Thompson stood at the admissions desk in an outrageous fur-rimmed coat and leather gloves. Who gave him fashion advice? Where was the crazy chemist?

"Thank you for being accommodating, Kaitlyn. Donnie's pulling his vehicle around. We won't have to carry the artifacts far. We'll meet him outside."

She handed him the box. "I have to set the alarm. Step outside so I can arm it without problem."

Thompson stood motionless.

Christ. Whatever.

She stepped behind the desk, opened the control panel and entered the code, hitting the number sequence with two fingers. The alarm beeped, signaling it was initializing. She walked out the door, Thompson behind her. They stood on the curb. Where was Michael?

Hope you're speeding. Get me out of here.

Donnie pulled up in the Bronco.

Thompson opened the door and set the box on the passenger seat, patting it like a child. He reached in the glove compartment, turned and smiled. "Kaitlyn, come with us. We'll have a drink, share wine, and discuss ideas. You'll be enlightened. Join us."

I'm not going anywhere with you. Please Michael, pull into the lot right now.

"No thanks. I've got plans."

"Ah, with your police boyfriend."

"Yes, with Michael."

He shook his head. "Your adequate, mundane cop boyfriend."

"My fiancé." Pompous ass. Thompson knew nothing about him.

"You could do better." He reached out a gloved hand. "Much better."

"That's none of your business."

"My dear . . ."

"Michael's not mundane—Christ, you're a snob." She pivoted.

Donnie was behind her. "Yeah," he said. "Much better. Someone brilliant, like me."

Fuck.

She bolted, elbowing Donnie and shoving Thompson. He stumbled backward. Donnie grabbed her. Adrenaline kicked in. She kneed him, but he pulled her arms behind her back and yanked her hands together. He slapped on a pair of plastic zip cuffs. Donnie kissed her on the mouth, wet and sloppy—she spit on him and he hit her, then grabbed her and hugged her around the waist. She screamed and lowered her head to use as a battering ram. Thompson approached again and she lunged, dragging Donnie as he held the cuffs. She tried to bite Thompson, but couldn't get close enough. "Let me go!"

"Don't fight us, my dear."

Sudden pain, stinging.

Damn.

One of them plunged a needle into her neck.

What the . . . I'm . . . screwed.

She went hazy, unable to focus. The parking lot undulated, her arms and legs rubbery, sinking. Donnie hauled open the back of the Bronco. He grabbed her and hiked her forward while Thompson pulled on her legs. They threw her in. She landed on her side, hard, and rolled into the corner.

She crawled to the back hatch, face mashed into the door as they slammed it shut. Stopped moving, body leaden. What was that? Something was in the rusting bed. She was lying next to a cage covered with fabric and secured with chains. Heard heavy breathing.

What the hell?

Donnie and Thompson jumped into the vehicle. Before she lost consciousness, she let part of her scarf drag down the back of the hatch.

Michael sped around the corner, careening up the hill. A million thoughts raced—was he crazy or prudent to be concerned about Thompson? The building was dark. He pulled into the lot. A vehicle in the opposite direction tore down the hill at high speed, its make reflected in the streetlights.

A Bronco. It's a damn Bronco. Shit.

Her scarf. Heart racing, he spun around, gunned the engine and followed.

*

Einar returned from what turned out to be an accidental death—a relief, since he doubted he could've focused on another unnatural murder. He sat hunched over files.

Couldn't concentrate.

Marta had given them more bad news. Experts had been unable to identify the footprint or the blood. FBI lab had received the same results with the DNA.

And the dog.

The dog had started to go crazy. Its claws were growing at an alarming rate—a sudden onset mutation. It was quarantined and sedated. While Marta reviewed the findings, Michael's eyes widened. "Oh shit, holy shit, I'm toast," he repeated. "It fucking bit me, too."

Einar tried to calm him.

"We'll monitor you." Marta put a hand on his arm. "Don't panic."

What the hell is happening?

He tallied the strikes against them. Case was stalled. A monster was loose, but not everyone admitted it. Four unsolved vicious murders and one thwarted attempt. Fucked up lab results. No coherent evidence. His partner, injured and confined to a desk, was recovering from an unidentified attack, obsessing about things that bite and freaking out over shit he'd scoffed at a month earlier.

He jabbed the troll with a pencil. It swung from his lamp, red symbols screaming. It worried him.

I shouldn't have pushed him.

He swore, wishing he could do more, hating paper-pushing bullshit. Restless, he checked his email. Found a note from Laina:

Einar, Your rational partner might be brilliant. I remember Thompson, odd man, like a phantom in the Nordic realm. Researched his name. Unnerving. Worked at Nationalmuseum Sweden during Stockholm murders and National Gallery in Oslo during Norway murders. Disappeared from both positions soon after last child was killed. Buy Mr. Rational shots of Brennevin for me. Be careful. Laina

His phone rang. He picked it up.

It was Michael, yelling about Kait, the museum, and kidnapping. The phone vibrated with anger.

Einar tried to understand him.

"Mikey, breathe. What's going on? Calm down. Where are you? Keep your phone on. We'll track your coordinates. You were right. Heard from Laina. Be careful—Thompson might be connected. Let us handle it. You shouldn't be driving. Don't do anything until we get there. Wait for backup. Do not move without me. You damn well better listen. Do not go alone!"

Of course Michael wouldn't listen.

Einar bolted from his desk to find his partner.

## CHAPTER 18

## 2011 Early December

Cold. Light.

From where?

What—

She woke in slow motion. Head sagging, body aching.

I was at work. No. But . . .

Groggy. Shit. Drugged. Her brain pounded, mouth dry. She blinked, couldn't see. Blindfolded. Coarse fabric scraped her eyelids.

Think.

Something covered her mouth. Hands tied behind her, restraints cutting her wrists. They'd taped her ankles together—tight. She couldn't feel her feet.

Cold metal wall, hard metal floor.

Assholes.

She regained consciousness and remembered the tour, Donnie and her boss. That stupid exhibit was a sham.

Why didn't I realize?

She moved her hands and wiggled fingers to loosen restraints but only tightened the rope.

Stop. Don't panic.

Footsteps. She froze. Were they heading in her direction? Animal noises followed—growls, scuffling, and clanging metal. They came closer.

"Can I wake her? Want to make her understand," Donnie said. "Kaitlyn will be happy to see me. She could help, make things easier."

She wanted to scream.

You're deluded. You drugged and restrained me.

Strange noises. Donnie was dragging something heavy and uncooperative. He grunted. Clearly he wasn't athletic. It hissed and snarled—an animal?

"No," Thompson said. "Kaitlyn will distract you. It's not time for romance. She can't comprehend our goal."

They were both there. What the fuck, she might end up dead anyway. "Try me," she said, words garbled through the gag.

"Ah, Kaitlyn." Thompson bent and removed the blindfold, ran his hand along her chin. His fingers lingered at her jaw. She pulled away and glared.

He undid the gag.

"Don't touch me." She spat the words.

"I wish you'd accepted our offer of a drink. It would have been civilized. Sorry to deceive you, my dear." He brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. "In all honesty, I do believe an exhibit about alchemy would be fascinating."

"You're nuts."

"Perhaps. But I suspect you now understand it was a ruse. A serendipitous event occurred. It necessitated accelerating our project timeline. An opportunity presented itself that we can't ignore. I need your assistance."

Donnie leaned over. "Kait. Work with us! We have the key to immortality."

She stared, eyes narrowed. "What are you talking about?"

"Eternal life!" Donnie had that demented gleam in his eyes again.

"What are you doing?"

Thompson stood, patted Donnie on the shoulder and walked away.

Donnie stared.

She grimaced. "Christ. Your strange questions. You don't think it's possible, do you? It's superstition. Myth." She looked around. Where was she?

Smelled an ominous chemical tang.

Damn.

She craned her neck. She was sitting along plastic carpet covering, chemical bottles visible out of the corner of her eye. Donnie's mad scientist compound. Unstable chemicals and unstable minds holding her hostage.

_Not good_.

Donnie crouched. "Kaitlyn, it's not a myth!" He pressed pudgy hands into her temples. Fingertips brushed her eyelashes. "Dr. Thompson has researched the subject for years, harvested rare substances that make immortality possible. You and I can live forever."

"You're mad." She shook her head and arched her back from the wall. Bent her wrists, trying to undo the ties.

They'd kidnapped her. Her boss? God, a career low point.

Donnie grabbed her. "Kaitlyn, don't struggle. You'll injure yourself. Join us. Don't you want the chance of a lifetime? We could begin a new race. Superior intelligence. Never dying."

"Sounds horrible." She shrank back.

Donnie bent forward, sweating. He undid the top of her blouse and angled next to her, ran his nose along her cheek. "You smell wonderful." His greasy hair brushed her face.

"You don't. Get away."

"Why settle for a cop? Take me. Bear my brilliant children."

"I'd rather die."

He cupped the back of her neck. "Would you really?" With his other hand, he reached under her bra, fumbling, squeezing. It hurt.

"Stop."

He groped her breast, hand sweaty and clumsy.

She jerked her knees up and hit him in the balls. Hard.

He yelped and scrambled away.

"Touch me again and I'll kill you. Swear to God. I will find a way."

Donnie was crestfallen. "I love you! Don't you understand?"

"Don't touch me."

"But, Kait." His eyes watered. "Our children. I want you. To advance science."

"You're crazy. Keep your hands and dick to yourself." She hoped aggressive bluffing would scare him off. If he wanted to overpower her, she was in no position to put up a fight.

"Help us. Join us. Be my helpmate." He bent to her again, reached out.

"Donnie. Enough." Thompson pulled him away. "Your courtship ritual needs improvement. Focus on our goal."

"But I never—"

"Prepare the work areas." Thompson hauled him up and turned him to the lab. "Go."

Donnie pouted but obeyed.

Thompson looked down. "My dear, I would welcome you joining us. It would make Donnie very happy. He wants you, loves you—or . . . more accurately, desires you." He laughed. "He can have you. But not until I use you first. I need your cop."

Her heart stopped.

I'm bait.

What was screaming its bloody head off in the other room?

Donnie's cell rang. He answered it and hurried back. "Dr. Thompson, a vehicle pulled down our road. Dad thinks the cop's on premises."

"Excellent," Thompson replied. "Get ready."

Donnie looked at Kait. "It's not too late. You can still have me."

*

Michael swerved into the field. He flipped off the headlights and pulled into a weedy patch. The car's wheels sank into a shallow gully near the tree line, out of sight. He opened the door, slid out and crouched on the ground with difficulty. Every muscle protested. He took a deep breath.

Should have taken more Vicodin.

Pain shot through him.

A handful. Or the bottle.

Going after Kait alone was a bad idea. Einar's voice echoed in his head about not following orders, about disobeying command, about . . . whatever.

_Sorry monster man._ _We'll deal with it later._

He was making his injuries worse. Wasn't supposed to use his hands or shoulder—hell, he'd removed the bandages but couldn't close his fingers around his gun. He took another breath, sweating despite the cold. Blocked out the pain.

Body low, hands open and flat on frozen mud and broken reeds, he squinted in the dark. As his eyes adjusted, he made out an improvised warren of storage buildings.

Shit, K was right. Branch Davidian science freaks here we come.

He yanked out his Glock 22. Fingers protested. He forced the gun into his left hand, curling his fingers around it by shoving them down with the palm of his right. Pain shot up his arm.

_Fuck. That did damage. More desk duty_.

He crept through the field as fast as his injured body would allow, covered by weeds that brushed his face and hands with malevolent caresses. The house lights went out.

_Damn, they know I'm here_.

He threw himself on the ground. Pain. Motionless. Give it time. No sounds from the house. He lurched to his knees and ran for the first structure. Skidded within an inch of the wall and stopped, heart pounding. He gasped, breath visible in the cold. Crouched at the corner, avoiding a flood lamp's glare, peering around the edge. He scanned for movement. Listened for sounds or voices to betray Kait's location.

His cell vibrated. He fumbled it out of his coat pocket.

Einar.

Michael answered. "Shit. Where are you? I'm going in. They have Kait!"

"Goddamn it, Mikey. Stop. DO NOT move without us. We're close."

"Can't do that."

"That's an order! Halt your crazy ass."

"Einar, I can't wait."

"Stop. I'll have you suspended—"

"Go ahead. I gotta keep moving."

"You need backup! Michael, please don't—"

He hung up.

_Sorry Einar. You're right._ _But I can save her._

He snuck to the next structure.

Again he listened, craned his neck to see. In the farthest boxcar, light flickered below the door, broken by shadows crossing its path. Voices and screaming. Shit. The sounds were ungodly. He wished it an animal, knew it wasn't. He'd heard that shriek on the river.

The heavy door groaned. Metal scraped metal, rusted gears creaked in protest. A tall figure appeared.

Michael watched from the darkness, debating his next move.

_Einar, get your ass here. I need backup. Said you were close_.

For a moment, he hesitated. Recent conversations echoed in his head, warnings—Kait and Einar telling him not to go it alone, stop with Lone Ranger antics. Einar yelling about procedure. Fine. All sound arguments. But what if there wasn't time?

He crouched, hands numb. His shoulder throbbed. The figure stepped onto a cement pad in front of the boxcar. He raised an arm, shadowed in the artificial light.

"Detective Lewis. Good evening."

Kait's boss.

I was right.

"Detective. I'm glad you could join us tonight."

He didn't move.

"We offer a trade. You for Kaitlyn."

Michael gritted his teeth and gripped the gun, bleeding fingers sticking to it.

"Come forward. Agree to our terms. Kaitlyn leaves with no harm done."

He weighed options. Wait for backup? Move?

"Contemplating prudence, detective? I admire professionalism. However." He cleared his throat. "You have one option. Mine. If you don't agree, don't come forward now, I will kill her."

He heard a gun click.

"Do you think I'm bluffing?"

No. I don't.

"Watch in darkness." Thompson shifted, shadow moving in the light. "Or step forward and prevent it."

Can't wait. Can't risk her life.

He stood. Left his hiding place, gun dragging.

Thompson's eyes gleamed. "Excellent, detective. The right choice." He held out a hand as a parent would to a child. His other remained locked on a .45 caliber pistol.

Michael took a few slow steps and halted, shocked at his exhaustion. God, he was out of shape. No wonder he'd been confined to a desk. "I want to see her." Unsteady, he raised his Glock with both hands. Tried to hide the shaking. "She walks before I come closer."

"Donnie, bring Kaitlyn." Thompson stared at Michael.

"No," came the answer. "She's mine. I want her."

"Donnie, now's not the time for romance. Undo the tape. Bring her here. Keep the goal in mind."

Michael stepped forward a pace, gun aimed. "Now."

"You don't look well, detective. Feeling under the weather?" Thompson yelled again. "Donnie. Do as I say." Scuffling sounds grew louder.

Donnie pushed Kait into the doorway, an arm around her chest.

"She's mine," Donnie protested. "Don't give her away. Please!"

Kait was in stocking feet, blouse ripped, face bruised from the hard ride. She was disheveled. And pissed. She struggled. Lowered her head and yanked away from Donnie.

Thompson grabbed her.

She looked at Michael, hair falling in her face. "Shoot them. They'll kill you."

He stepped forward, knot in his gut. "Tell me K. Are you okay?"

Kait nodded, fear in her eyes, bravado in her voice. "They're assholes. Don't worry about me. Kill them."

Donnie grabbed her. She fought. Thompson stepped between them, put his hands on her and shoved Donnie out of the doorway.

"She's fine, as you can tell. She walks when you come forward."

Michael took a step.

"Put your weapon down." Thompson held the gun to her head, pressing it into her temple.

Kait froze, fear now obvious. Her eyes pleaded with him. But he didn't have a clean shot and didn't trust Thompson not to harm her. He wanted her safe. Besides, he didn't think he could fire the gun—his fingers were a bloody frozen mess. His arm was numb.

He couldn't fight them.

"Michael, don't. Stay back."

Einar was on his way. He'd be there, would know what to do. She was the priority. "Let her come to me."

Thompson pulled her forward. "Put down your gun."

"She walks past me. After—I drop my weapon and come to you. A trade."

"Michael, no! Don't. They'll kill you."

Thompson untied her. "Walk. Now."

She shook her head.

He shoved. "I'll shoot you both."

She walked to Michael. She reached him, stopped and leaned close. "Don't. They're psychotic. Don't put down you gun. Don't go to him. It's you they want. I don't know why. But, they will kill you . . . Please, don't. I —"

"Keep walking, K," he said, Glock shaky on Thompson. "Get out of here."

She saw his hands. "Oh God. Michael." She grabbed his arms.

He looked into her eyes and motioned with his head. "Walk to the field by the main road." He shifted his gun to one hand and dug car keys from his pocket. Shoved them into her warm hand, enclosing it in his. The keys were covered in cold, sticky blood. "Get out of here," he whispered. "Please. Get to safety. Police are on their way. Einar knows. Find him. It'll be okay."

She wouldn't let go of his hand. "I love you, stubborn fool. Don't you listen? We told you not to go it alone. Let me help. You cannot solve this by yourself. Let me stay. Please, I don't want to lose you." Her eyes welled.

"Go, K. Don't give him time to change his mind." He squeezed her hand. "Go. I'm telling you. You're worth the risk. Totally." He pulled her close, kissed her. Then forced her fingers from his grasp and pushed her toward the road. He stepped to Thompson. "She gets a head start before I put it down. I don't trust you."

"No Michael." Kait hesitated, took a step.

"Typical cop. Jaded police response. I gave you my word. She'll not be harmed."

He took another step.

She glanced back. "Michael."

"K, GO."

"No—"

"Yes. Get out of here."

Thompson fired into the ground in front of her.

"K, run!"

She ran.

Thompson laughed. "Enough drama, detective. Deal's a deal. I kept my end of the bargain. Give yourself up. You look pale anyway."

Michael forced himself forward, nerve endings screaming. Stopped at the concrete slab, dropped the gun. It fell with a dull thud. He held out his hands. "I'm yours."

"Excellent." Thompson grabbed him and dragged him into the train car. He gasped for air.

Didn't expect instant annihilation.

Donnie pulled the door shut and secured the bolt, then wheeled around and slammed a knee into Michael's gut.

Christ. He doubled over in pain.

"The last ingredient." Thompson smiled.

Donnie yanked Michael's arms behind him and tied him up.

"You're crazy," he shouted. "Police are on their way."

Donnie ambled to a storage cylinder along the wall and grabbed a metal rebar. "I'm tired of you, cop. She's mine."

" Get away, you —"

Donnie smashed his knees with it. "Why! I don't understand . . . " He brought the pipe down again and again. "You're just a cop." Smash. Screaming. Breaking bone. Donnie spat as if poisoned. "A dumb little cop. I'm a scientist. She needs me."

Michael collapsed to the ground in agony.

Einar, get here now.

He writhed. Sweat coated his forehead. "Idiot. You can't compel Kait to love you. Kidnapping doesn't improve your odds."

Thompson pulled the crazed chemist away. "Focus. Don't forget our goal. Anger comes later."

Donnie closed his eyes and took a long breath. "You're right."

Thompson pointed. "Finish securing him. Cover his mouth. I don't want to listen to him. Bring him and our revenant to your lab." Then he crouched beside Michael, yanked his head up by a clump of hair. "You see, detective, I've worked on a project for years. You're the missing key."

"What the hell do you mean?" He wanted a bottle of Vicodin to pour down his throat. Tried to get up but fell in a heap.

Donnie returned with rope, chain and duck tape. He smacked Michael's face hard and bent him over. "Who's the idiot now?"

Michael shook his head.

Donnie grabbed his arms and tightened the hand restraints to cut off circulation. Duck-taped his mouth and pressed the adhesive into his skin.

Shit. That hurts. Everything hurts.

Michael stared at the ceiling, wondering how much time he had left.

Donnie dragged him by his broken legs to another room and dumped him in a corner. The space gleamed with light and antiseptic steel. He crumpled, in shock, unable to fight the pain. Donnie left, laughing. He returned moments later. He wasn't alone.

Michael blinked and closed his eyes. Opened them.

What the hell?

Donnie hauled a chained creature behind him—a stinking, misshapen not-quite-human monster, hands tied, jagged claws splayed. Donnie grinned and pulled it next to Michael. "Company."

Michael stared. He almost retched. A rank, overpowering aroma assaulted him.

It squirmed, flexing claws. Glowing yellow eyes met his. It snarled.

Michael jerked back. Shut his eyes and turned away.

Can't be real.

But he wasn't imagining that smell and he was close enough to touch the thing.

Thompson returned and looked down. "We'll get to you in a few minutes." He and Donnie hoisted the creature onto a stainless steel veterinarian gurney. It screamed and fought. They secured it with leather straps.

Michael opened his eyes. Tried to focus through the pain.

Pay attention. Remember. It killed four kids.

Piercing eyes drilled into him.

Donnie stepped to the counter and pulled out a syringe out of a drawer.

The largest one Michael had ever seen.

Please, please, please don't use that on me.

He went white.

With vigorous strokes, Donnie stirred a foul liquid in a porcelain crucible on a high temperature burner. Thompson duck-taped the creature's mouth shut.

"Ready, sir." Donnie dipped the syringe into the crucible and pulled back the plunger, filling it with thick molten liquid.

Thompson came to Michael and kicked him. "Detective, meet the creature that bit you."

Shit.

I'm dead.

"Unfortunate. You had no time to get acquainted. Right?" Thompson smiled. "Your last case. You'd never have solved it anyway."

Michael shook his head.

Shit. They drugged me. Where are you, Einar? I'll wait next time. I promise.

He stared—monsters belonged in slasher films and horror movies. What was happening? He wasn't imagining the creature. It was staring at him.

Donnie carried the syringe to the trussed revenant.

Thompson undid a restraint and forced its arm to extend, pressing it down. Fingers dug into its pale flesh.

Donnie inserted the needle and forced liquid into its vein. It convulsed. A hand jerked open, claws extended. It screamed through the tape, a piercing shriek, glazed eyes in agony.

Donnie refilled the syringe and injected another dose. It screamed again, arching its body. After one last convulsion it lay still, eyes open, head lolling.

Thompson looked at Michael. "You're next."

## CHAPTER 19

## 2011 Early December

His heart pounded.

Calm down. Focus.

Concentrate.

Four kids. Don't forget.

His mind raced, desperate, calculating ways to escape. The slack-jawed lifeless creature made him shudder—what was it, and what had they done to it?

Pain from his legs shot through every movement. Donnie and Thompson worked with precision, motions choreographed like a demented ballet. Whatever they were doing, it sure as hell looked like a mad science demonstration. How did it involve him?

Thompson stepped to the gurney. He turned the mute face to him. "You served your purpose well." He pried an eyelid open with a manicured finger. Peered into it. The other eye snapped open. "Ready for the last step, Donnie."

Donnie scurried over, carrying a scalpel, alcohol, rubber tubing and four large Erlenmeyer flasks. Thompson took the scalpel and bent over its neck. Poured the alcohol around its windpipe. It permeated the air. The creature was sweating, eyes unblinking.

I hope it's dead.

Thompson sliced its jugular veins and inserted tubing. He pumped his foot to operate the pneumatic switch and the table tilted down. Dark coagulated blood, reeking of decay and human feedings, flowed into the flask, coating the sides and oozing to the bottom. He filled one, handed it to Donnie and began another. He filled a third, fourth and drained it dry.

"Au revoir, mon revenant." He gave it a pat. Then they unfastened the restraints and dumped it onto an open blue plastic tarp on the floor.

Donnie grabbed a hatchet near the counter and fingered the blade. "Dad did a great job sharpening it." He took a large swing and chopped off the creature's head. It rolled until it hit Michael's thigh, mouth open in a permanent jagged howl.

Fuck.

He shut his eyes. His heart was going to explode through his chest _._

I can't breathe.

It was real.

It's a nightmare, let it be a nightmare, I'll wake up. Someone put me out of my misery.

Donnie's cell rang. "What? I'm busy." Hushed conversation. He hung up. "Dad sees flashing lights on our road."

Thompson crouched in front of Michael. "Your turn." He hauled him to a sitting position, digging fingernails into his wounded shoulder, pushing into bone.

Michael writhed.

"Pain. Last you'll feel as a living creature. Embrace it."

Huh?

No way out. Cops weren't going to arrive in time.

"Must work fast, detective." Thompson pulled on latex gloves. "But you deserve an explanation. Your demise is courtesy your generous action in saving that boy." He laughed. "Clearly, no good deed goes unpunished. My creatures rarely bite adults. They have forty-day childhoods—they eat, hide, and gain strength. They are young and feed on children. Gives their blood a restorative quality." He paused, a far-away look in his eyes. "Consider it a blood-based eternal fountain of youth."

Where are you, Einar? What are they doing? I'm dead . . .

Hunched on the floor like a pile of rags, Michael believed in evil and monsters. Laina and Einar were right.

Thompson grabbed his chin. Michael clenched his jaw, angry but helpless. Clammy fingers pressed on his teeth. He stared into blood-shot eyes.

"Pay attention, Detective. Here's the important point. We needed a second host, a carrier to absorb the mutagens. To use our revenant blood for eternal life, it must be filtered through a host that was bitten and survived. Rather like a human Petri dish. Except . . . you're not human anymore. Twice bitten and survived is better. The resulting recombinant organism is the perfect host to complete the mutation. That, sir, is you."

Donnie joined Thompson. "Say goodbye, cop. Your life's over. Kait's mine."

Michael had no strength. He wished it done. Their words were madness.

Kill me. Don't drag it out. At least Kait is safe.

They hoisted him onto the gurney. His whole body was in pain. Thompson pressed a palm to his forehead, pinning him as he secured a metal collar and tightened it around his neck. Donnie tied him down with leather straps. He struggled, eyes wide, jaw clenched. Beaten and trussed, he couldn't fight them.

"Your blood is our most important ingredient." Thompson looked down. "But you can't join us when we distill the first batch. We can't risk it."

"I'll take care of Kait." Donnie prodded Michael's shoulder.

Pain shot through him.

"She'll never be lonely."

Thompson glared. "How many times do I have to tell you to focus?" Then he turned back to Michael. "Those bites poisoned you, changed your chemistry. Mutated your DNA, rendering you inhuman. You can feel pain, be injured, mutilated . . . "

Michael jerked forward. Metal scraped his throat.

Thompson put a hand on his forehead. "But you can't die unless we behead you."

Jesus Christ.

"Obviously," Thompson shrugged with studied nonchalance, "after we drain you, we don't need you. Beheading it is. Alas. Off with your head."

Michael couldn't move. Time was running out. His eyes darted back and forth. He'd gambled his life. And lost.

Donnie flipped on safety goggles and added the creature's blood to the crucible. He turned the burner up. Blood steamed as it hit the hot liquid, a nauseating sweet smell permeating the lab. He let it bubble for a moment, then filled the syringe. Thompson stretched Michael's left arm out and strapped it to the gurney, doing the same to the other. Michael tried to pull away, arm muscles contracting, but pain clouded his ability to focus.

Donnie disinfected his arm and tapped for a vein.

Michael closed his eyes. Thought of Kait. The four kids.

Please don't let Kait or Einar find my fucking mutilated body. Spare them the horror.

Donnie inserted the needle. Pushed the plunger.

Blinding pain. Erasing humanity. He screamed, eyes watering, brain exploding. The dark substance entered his bloodstream. It lit every vein and artery on fire, nerve endings short-circuiting. Convulsions.

Darkness.

Thompson held him down. Donnie repeated the process. Then a third dose. He convulsed again. Then was still. His head lolled to the side, green eyes open and unseeing.

Donnie's cell rang again. When he hung up, he turned to Thompson. "Police are here. Dad says move to the bunker."

Thompson pointed to Michael. "His blood has to absorb the liquid and filter it through his system. Let's grab what we need and go to ground. We'll finish below."

Donnie hesitated.

"Now, Donnie." Thompson folded his arms. "There's no time."

Thomas closed his black case and locked it. They grabbed scalpels, tubing, stainless bowls and beakers and loaded them onto a utility cart. Donnie packed the crucible and remaining liquid, grabbed the burner and set them on the cart's lower shelf. He pulled it to the last car in the compound, returned to the lab, undid the wheel locks on the gurney and pushed it to the back.

Thompson tapped his shoulder. "One other thing, Donnie. We discussed it. Eliminate your compound. Burn it down."

"No! My life's work!"

"Your work is our substance. We need time to succeed. Blow it up. Start in front."

"But—"

Thompson laid his hands on Donnie's shoulders. "You can start again. We'll have all the time in the world. For now, destroy the evidence."

Donnie protested meekly. Thompson was right.

*

Flashing lights roared into view, sirens screaming. Cop cars sped to the compound. Kait stumbled to the lights in the darkness. Anger, confusion, fear roiled in her head—she was terrified for Michael, understood the depths of their insanity. She fell, cut her hand, got up and started running, feet freezing and aching. She fought the urge to turn around and return to his side—he wanted her to escape.

Can't believe he traded his life for me. Why, Michael?

She neared the road, lights blinding. Stuck her hands up.

Not taking chances. Don't shoot me.

She squinted. Stumbled, lurched forward.

A familiar voice. Someone grabbed her.

"Christ, Kait," Einar hugged her and pulled her to ground. "Thank God. What happened? Where's Michael?" He knelt beside her. She squeezed his hand.

"They took him!" She yelled. "It was a trap. I was bait. They wanted him." She pushed hair out of her eyes, a million dark thoughts circling. "Move fast. They're crazy. They'll kill him. It has to do with those bites."

"Goddamn it. Told him not to go in alone."

"Said I was worth the risk. He was in bad shape, removed his bandages. Thompson had a gun to my head. He traded himself . . . for me."

"Christ, what a fucking romantic." Einar put his arm around her. They scrambled behind the vehicles and SWAT teams. A swarm of uniform cops joined them.

"Where are they in the compound?" He yanked off his coat and draped it over her shoulders.

She pointed, explained the set up.

SWAT officers coordinated their plan. Two teams moved toward the first structure.

She grabbed his arm, pointing to the line of buildings. "The lab spaces. Be careful. That's where they're holding him. Guns, weapons, and shelves of unstable chemicals!"

"What about—"

Blinding light. Concussive booms.

An explosion tore through the first car. Smoke, flames. Shrapnel ripped through buildings and barriers. Lit the field in a firebomb's glow. The second car exploded, then the third.

"No!" She bolted and ran toward the compound.

Einar sprang up after her. He tackled her, covered her body with his, shielding her from flying debris. He placed his hand over her head, not letting her look. She pushed against him, swearing. He held her down.

The compound went up in flames. They lay on the ground, feeling the heat and smelling the fire. He whispered in her ear, 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry. There's nothing you could have done." He closed his eyes.

Kait sobbed.

Fire spread and the pressurized containers of chlorine triflouride exploded. Sounded like an atomic bomb. A fireball lit the night, sending flames shooting into the sky. By the time fire companies arrived from throughout the county, the whole property was ablaze. Firefighters demanded everyone move back to a safer distance from the Hot Zone. Several muttered about the Litsos family and their compound of weird science.

Fire companies and police coordinated emergency procedures and blocked roads around the compound, allowing entry only to ambulances and the ME's staff. The inferno was visible for miles. Firefighters told the cops and SWAT teams no one could have survived. The ME and her techs would be lucky to find hints of charred remains of the five people reported to have been on the premises. They shook their heads at mentions of chlorine triflouride and those unstable chemicals—that stuff burned so fast and hot that human flesh would be vaporized. The emergency responders stood helpless, frustrated, waiting for the fire to cool down.

Thompson pushed the loaded cart, struggling to keep it headed in the right direction. Donnie gripped the rail of the gurney. They moved to the last building. Donnie's parents met them in the entrance to the underground bunker, sealing off blast hatches behind them. His father took the rear, following procedures he'd established long ago.

The bunker was the Litsos family's pride and joy, nurtured by scientific passion and Cold War paranoia. Donnie's parents built it decades earlier in anticipation of nuclear holocaust. Dedicated survivalists since they'd met as engineers at Futura Atomic Labs pioneering nuclear research facility in the mid-1960s, both hired to work on secret naval projects deep underground, they believed the inevitable would happen. It'd been drilled into them as they developed nuclear propulsion weaponry to counter the Soviet threat.

They'd spent holidays and birthdays in the three-room concrete reinforced structure with their young son, getting him used to living in it, ensuring he wouldn't be afraid when they had to go to ground for good. Because science was their life, they'd spared no expense to equip a decent lab in the bunker. Might as well have something constructive to do when it's all over, Donnie's father would say.

Alas, nuclear war never happened. Now Donnie's dad was pleased they were able to use the bunker after so many years. They heard the explosions and felt vibrations above as they moved.

His mother gave his shoulder a sympathetic pat.

They reached the main chamber, his dad arriving last, sealing the tunnel behind them by pulling down panels that he'd built for the purpose. Coir bricks tumbled out and lined the passage. When firefighters sprayed chemicals and water to put out the fire, the bricks would expand, blocking the path to the bunker.

"How do we get out?" Thompson said. There appeared to be one way in and no way out.

"You'll see," Donnie smiled. "Dad's a genius."

The group stepped into the chamber. Donnie sealed the cam latches of the reinforced steel blast door. In the second room, the adjunct laboratory waited. Thompson rolled the gurney into place, smiled and locked its wheels. Donnie slipped on a pair of Kevlar gloves and fired up the burner, reheating the remaining liquid. Noxious fumes filled the bunker. Thompson pulled two jars of thick syrup from his case and opened them, adding them to the liquid. Donnie strolled to the gurney.

"I won." Donnie prodded Michael. "Kait is mine, won't remember you." He picked up a large knife. "If someone ever finds your decapitated head . . . they won't recognize your pretty face." He stabbed Michael's left temple, dragging the knife deep down the side of his face to the corner of his mouth and throat. Dark blood oozed like tar onto the table.

"Donnie." Thompson halted the tantrum. "Focus. Don't waste his blood. We need it. The mixture's ready. Concentrate on the task. Get rid of his fingerprints."

Donnie looked up, shrugged, dropped the knife and reached for rough sandpaper and bottle of acid. He yanked Michael's hands, dipped his bloody fingers in the acid, held them there for a few moments and then sanded, hard.

"Almost ready, Donnie. Cut trenches. It'll be quicker."

He nodded. Grabbed Michael's left arm and slashed deep gashes from upper arm to wrist. Thompson carried the liquid to the gurney and poured it in. The smell of burning flesh filled the air as it soaked into his destroyed bloodstream. Michael jerked. They repeated the process on his right arm. Thompson wrapped both arms in heavy natural fabric and laid them at his side. "Has to soak in for several minutes."

Donnie's mother entered. "How's it coming, dear?" she said, as if he was baking a cake or making microwave popcorn.

"Well, mother," Donnie replied. "I'm putting my expertise to work." He gave an enthusiastic thumbs up.

She smiled. "We're proud of you, dear."

"Ready for your part of the operation?" Donnie asked.

"Yes, dear, your father and I are set."

"Donnie. The final step . . . " Thompson tilted the gurney with the foot pedal. Donnie grabbed the scalpel and disinfectant.

Thompson reached for a large deep stainless steel bowl. "I'll give you the honors."

Donnie poured disinfectant over Michael's neck and throat.

Thompson lifted the bowl, balancing it under and against his jaw.

Donnie slit his throat.

Blood oozed into the bowl, dark and black, the consistency of thick syrup. His skin paled and took on a bluish cast, eyes still open.

They finished and pushed him off the gurney onto another tarp, rolled it and secured it with jute rope. Donnie whacked it with a shovel. "Take that, cop. You'll never possess my woman."

Thompson carried the bowl to a stainless table and poured the thick liquid into smaller bottles for traveling. He sealed and wrapped them, placed them in double-walled lead containers and packed them into an insulated bag.

Donnie gave his parents final instructions for disposing of the body. The group headed to the rear of the bunker. Donnie's father pushed aside a thick plastic rug, removed a layer of metal sheeting, undid a heavy sealed door and lifted a wide panel from the floor, revealing a long staircase that plunged into the earth, bottom not visible in the darkness. Donnie turned to Thompson.

"You're not claustrophobic, are you?"

"No," Thompson said. "Quit stalling." He grabbed the insulated bag and elbowed past Donnie's parents. "Let's go."

They dumped Michael's tarp-wrapped body down the hole. It hit with a thud. Donnie climbed the ladder first. Thompson followed carrying the precious liquid. Donnie's parents came next, descending into a narrow subterranean tunnel lined with honeycombed aluminum substrate. As they went, his father undid the substrate behind them, allowing it to collapse into dirt.

The uncomfortable crawl in the tunnel exited under an old barn miles away from the destroyed compound. Two vehicles with Missouri license plates stood gassed and waiting. Donnie hugged his parents. His mother kissed him and they loaded the body in a truck. Donnie and Thompson got in the other vehicle and headed for the Canadian border.

*

Donnie's father drove for hours before pulling into a deserted wildlife management area near Lake Champlain. He got out and stretched. His wife stepped out the other side. They lifted the truck's hatch and dragged the tarp to the edge of the bed.

"Donnie was specific. Chop off his head," his mother said, determined to follow her son's instructions.

"You saw him, dear. Cop's dead."

Donnie's mother sighed. She grabbed a saw from the truck bed. "Bob, we're not finished." She took a deep breath, worried about challenging her husband on corpse management. "Donnie gave me the hacksaw. Told me to cut the head off." She waved it at her husband.

"Well," he said, "decapitation is messy. Want to get your hands dirty? We'd have to chop off his head, roll it aside, and push his head and body into the swamp. And clean the saw."

"I see you point, dear," she said after a moment's thought. "I'm not good with saws anyway."

In truth, Donnie's parents tended to laziness in their old age and had a distinct aversion to getting their hands dirty. Decades of work in nuclear laboratories and clean rooms had spoiled them. In giving directions, Donnie had forgotten to reinforce that they had to cut off the head for the cop to remain dead. With head attached, the body would reanimate.

"I have an idea." Bob pulled on neoprene chest waders. He hauled cinderblocks from the truck and grabbed a pile of chain. "We'll weight him down and throw him in the water. It's going to be cold the next few days, like the Farmer's Almanac said. Instant iceberg."

"Excellent!"

They dragged Michael from the truck, and wrapped him with chains. Bob dragged the whole mess into the swamp, stood in waist-deep water and gave it a shove, watching it sink. It disappeared, coming to rest on the mucky bottom.

Donnie's father watched. "Dead and gone. Last we'll see of him."

## CHAPTER 20

## 2014 Early February

He lay motionless, curled on his side, trying to reconnect name and past. Michael Lewis, he repeated, praying for it to merge into his consciousness.

Why can't I remember? My life feels like a circular path to nowhere.

He opened his eyes and stared. Shadows of vague memories swirled on the wood-beamed ceiling. The house was silent, dog asleep. Unreality caught him off-guard. Or reality. How could he be in a warm bed? His life had been a chasm a month ago—the squalid conditions, getting high and wasted, fearing human contact. He'd been an animal, surviving on instinct.

By luck, life shoved him in a different direction. Einar saw through the wreckage and refused to release him into the urban wilds.

What happened? Think, Michael Lewis, think.

He shifted, restless, and brought his hands to his face. Moved his fingers. Yeah, they were real. He wasn't dreaming. Odd images seeped into his mind, like fragments of wreckage drifting in eddies on the tide. Or on a river.

I've been assigned as partner to Einar Hannesson. I'm a detective. Wait. I remember Einar. Hate the name Mikey. Follow the west branch of the river. A green lizard crawls up my arm. Kait, it's connected to Kait. Don't act alone. What does this mess mean?

He sat up, blanket falling away. Arched his back against the pillows and leaned to the wall, feeling anchored to physical reality.

An unfamiliar sensation.

Deep in his addled brain a switch flipped on, saying 'get up, start living.' Wherever it came from, he was awake. Wasn't crazy.

Well, not totally crazy.

For the first time since struggling with life in the margins, he wanted to claw his way back into the world.

He got up. Grabbed clothing off the pile Allison had gathered for him and dressed. He walked to the window. The glass was cold. It chilled his skin. The night was quiet and forest went on for miles. Why'd Einar live here, out of range of people? Through a break in spreading white pine branches the moon rose high in the sky. A voice murmured, 'the forest, the river and wilds, you know them. Billy knew them.' In a recess of memory, they were familiar. He wanted to remember, to understand. He stepped through the hall and went downstairs.

Someone was awake. Reflected in the glow of fading fireplace embers, Einar sat on the sofa, holding an amber drink in an old-fashioned glass. He stared at the trawler model on the mantle.

Michael sat beside him.

Einar didn't move or speak, but didn't seem surprised he was there.

"Sorry. Don't mean to disturb you. Couldn't sleep. Too much . . . sleeping. Time to come out of my coma." Michael sat back, slouched into the cushions. Ran his fingers through his unkempt hair, feeling suddenly obtrusive. He brought his hand down. His wrist brushed against the long facial scar. He shivered. What caused such ugliness? He was a freak show.

"You're not disturbing me. Weren't in a coma." Einar hesitated. "Least not in the last month or so."

"Couldn't sleep?"

"No . . . "

"Because of me?"

"I've a lot on my mind."

"Like . . . why you picked up a stray?"

He swirled the remaining liquid in melting ice, watched it spiral. "You aren't a stray."

Michael sat silent.

Einar set the drink down. "What are you thinking?"

"I remember you."

Einar turned to him.

"I mean . . . I remember that I know you."

"That's good. It's a start."

"But I have a question . . . who's Mikey?"

Einar shook his head and smiled. "That's your question? I called you that to annoy you. Of all things to stay in your mind—suppose that's why parents tell kids not call each other wussy or crybaby."

"Oh."

"Never occurred to me teasing would be one of the first things you remember. I should apologize."

"I didn't like it?"

"No. You hated it. That never stopped me." He took another drink. "I'm sorry."

They sat for a few minutes, only sound the clink of ice and crackling embers.

"Thank you," Michael said in a whisper.

Einar looked at him, brow raised. "For teasing?"

"No. Saving my life."

Einar began to speak. Hesitated.

"I—" Michael stared at his hands.

"What?"

"Thought about death."

Einar looked at him.

"A lot."

"And now?"

A deep breath. "Not so much."

"Good." Einar leaned back, his shoulder touching Michael's.

More silence.

"Said we were working a case. Did we solve it?"

"No."

"That sucks."

"Yeah. It does."

An ember popped, shooting a spark into the grate.

Neither spoke for several minutes.

"What's the ship?"

"Icelandic fishing trawler, replica of one we owned. Parents ran a fleet out of Ólafsvík. My family worked there, fishing the North Atlantic. My parents struggled until an offer came along to start a new venture. That's when we moved to the US, to Washington State. I was thirteen."

"Do you miss Iceland?"

He thought for a moment. "I left a long time ago, but yes I do. Too much yammering here about everything. People speak when they don't need to open their mouths. They posture and preen. They're obsessed with material status. Focus on the wrong priorities, get caught up in superficial things. When shallowness seeps in, as it always does, they wonder why they're miserable and messed up. Superficial fakers . . . "

"Hmm." Michael glanced at him. "You don't like people?"

"Not all people."

"You believe in monsters?"

"I did. Then I didn't."

"And now?"

Einar looked into Michael's eyes. "You know I do."

"Why do you trust me?"

He laughed softly. "Is this the Inquisition?"

"Trying to understand . . ."

"What?"

"Why you'd help me."

"Why wouldn't I? Most people are callous selfish assholes. You weren't. Aren't."

"But—"

"During that case . . . you threw yourself into danger to save a child."

"What does—"

"You don't remember—"

"No—"

"I do. Unfathomable danger, way beyond run of the mill . . . not many people would have done it. And, if they had somehow stumbled into the situation, they would have groveled for publicity. You know, the whole posturing and preening thing. It's bullshit. God, Besides . . . once someone makes it past my formidable reserve, I don't take friendship lightly."

"Hmm. That dim view of humanity why other cops don't like you?"

Einar laughed. "Yes."

*

Two days after the recycling yard murders, Cresson and Villarna got called to another death in the industrial district.

Villarna drove.

Cresson bitched the whole way. He hating investigating zone murders—they were difficult to solve and didn't result in press and accolades unless they involved spectacular gruesome crimes. Or monsters. Evie wanted him to focus on high profile cases to bolster his, and her, reputation. She wanted the scoop on important nefarious deeds. A drive to the dead zone for another homeless murder wouldn't please her.

He dreaded the fallout.

"Time to bulldoze the whole damn cesspool," Villarna said.

"We can dream." Cresson shook his head. They pulled alongside a black and white.

A sanitation worker discovered a mutilated body in a parking lot near the boundaries of the derelict yards and outer blocks of old brownstones in a revitalizing neighborhood. The guy waited with the responding officer until the detectives arrived. He led Cresson and Villarna to the remains, answered questions and hurried to his truck, late for the rest of his morning rounds.

"Guess garbage waits for no man," Cresson said.

Villarna snorted.

The victim had been hacked to pieces with a jagged shard of unidentified substance. Blood pooled around him and tracks circled in the snow. Rigor had set in, and his arms were bent as if praying. For what, another fix? Multiple vials of the strange drug were found in his pockets.

Five hours later, on Marta's direction, forensic techs conducted a thorough casing of the wider secondary crime scene. They found another victim wedged into a half collapsed doorway—the homeless person who'd most likely perpetrated the hacking, dead of a self-inflicted shard of automotive glass to the gut. Cresson and Villarna were called back to the scene. They spoke with the techs and crouched over the body. Cresson looked disgusted, Villarna bored.

"Goddamn crazies," Cresson said. "Enough inconvenient shit. Time to round 'em all up. Eliminate the problem."

Villarna nodded, pointing to multiple stab wounds. "What makes a guy so whacked he does this? There're easier ways to off yourself."

"Bad junk, that's what." Cresson stood and scowled.

Great, here comes death battleaxe.

Marta approached. She annoyed him. Her calm efficiency and imperturbable air flummoxed him. She never did as he asked, not in the way he requested. And she respected Hannesson. Made no attempt to hide her regard. That pissed him off most of all.

"Gentlemen," she said. "What do we have?"

Villarna eyed her. "The usual. One way trip on the drug train—"

"Another cracked lunatic." Cresson pulled off his gloves and rubbed manicured hands, peering at her with narrowed eyes. "Took himself out of the gene pool. More creative cutting. Open him—need to know cause of death."

She shook her head. "Get in line. Business has been good. Too good."

"Come on," Villarna said. "Move us to the front of the list."

"What is this," Marta said, "a contest?"

"Damn right," Cresson said.

Marta eyed them. "We're working on your other victim this afternoon. We'll get to this one ASAP. Would have found him five hours ago if you'd done a more thorough search."

Cresson glared. How dare she tell him how to do his job? "Don't override—"

Marta cut him off. "When we have results, I'll call you. In the meantime, tracking the drug source is imperative. Wherever it originated, it's circulating. Fast. Won't take much for it to jump beyond the homeless. Focus your laser attention on that problem."

Cresson snorted. "Have to get rid of the whacked crazies. Then it wouldn't be a damn problem."

Villarna smirked.

"If you'd look closer, you'd be better detectives. Something is poisoning the homeless." Marta pointed to a veering trail in the snow. "And it's not human."

A line of clawed footprints disappeared into the alley.

Cresson dismissed them. "Fucking Halloween costume. Wrong holiday . . . "

She shook her head and walked away.

*

Einar dreaded the morning. Cap had called a full squad meeting. The boss's big bosses—the Police Inspector and Deputy Police Chief—would be attending. Mandatory. A ball-buster. They were riding everyone to solve the drug murders. Of course, no one mentioned the fucking monsters.

They crowded into a small conference room, elbow to sweaty elbow. Cresson, Layton and Villarna stood near the door, commiserating. Narcotics and Vice cops gathered in cliques. Victim photos were circulated, timelines reviewed and the ME's findings discussed.

"Let's get on it. Get this shit off the street," the Captain said. "Find the dealer or dealers selling it, track the manufacturer."

Einar agreed. But the cynic in him suspected ulterior motives for the urgency, concern wrapped up in public relations. Cap was pissed that press had picked up the story with gleeful malice, counting the number of murders, sensationalizing gory details and dubbing the drug "lunatic lightning." Made Seward City seem depraved and the department look like they couldn't control the streets. As long as the stuff was out there, jumping to the wider population after rampaging through the homeless, press would run with it, creating a nightmare as they tried to solve crimes and avoid panic.

The vultures complicated effectiveness.

Cap demanded 'do what you have to solve this one.' No vacation, no leave until they had a break in the case.

Villarna groaned.

Einar smirked. Cap had just crushed a trip to Jamaica with a new girlfriend.

The Captain paid no attention. Solving the murders was priority one, coming from the Chief above him. He stood before the squad, left hand gripping the podium, pounding the point home with his white-knuckled right. Upper level department brass made statements as well, talking heads spouting angry words, backing the course of action.

The meeting ended. Side conversations buzzed. Layton cleared his voice. Pointed at Einar.

"You have a witness, the raving junkie. Track him down."

"We cleared him."

"No. You let him go. More murders, circumstances change. He had the drug, lurks in that part of town. Was there when two people were murdered. If you can't do it, I'll find him. Break his bones until we get answers."

Einar shook his head. "Police brutality your solution, Phil?" Layton wasn't interested in solving crimes. He wanted to beat the shit out of somebody. And attract press.

Cresson eyed him. "Yeah Iceland. Heard monsters did it. Like last time—but, hey, maybe no one will vaporize on you this go-round." He gestured, fingers mimicking flames. "Bust your junkie and improve your clearance rate. Hell, maybe he is the monster."

"You call me an asshole," Einar said. "Look in the mirror."

"Find your witness," Layton said. "He knows something."

"Let it go."

"Beat it out of him if we have to."

"Calm down, Robert." Einar shot him a withering stare. "Not beating information out of anyone. Last I heard it was illegal."

"He can identify the dealer. Don't piss around. We need the drug source."

The Captain overheard them. He excused himself from the top brass and approached. "Einar, bring him in."

Cresson beamed, Layton nodded.

Einar opened his mouth. "I—"

"No." The Captain held up a hand. "Understand. Do it legally. No one gets beaten. Don't need bad press for police brutality. Go by the book. But he's the only witness."

Cresson crossed his arms. "Hell, after more murders he's a suspect. Who knows what rock he might crawl out from under. Won't be easy to find him—start looking."

Layton smirked. "I agree."

"Situation's going to get worse," a narcotics cop added. "Get him off the street before more drugs circulate."

Einar stared at the floor. He wanted to ram a fist through Layton's mouth.

"That's an order, detective," the Captain said. "Track him down and bring him in. Consider him a confidential informant. Use him as bait if you have to. Drag him in, arrest him, but bring his ass back."

Shit. Michael will freak.

Einar weighed his options.

"Now," Cap said.

He had none. He stormed out of the room.

"Hannesson." Layton shouted. "Where do I find him?"

"Hey, Iceland. We're not done," Cresson yelled.

Einar slammed into his chair. Threw a pen at Layton's desk. Damn. He had to bring Michael in. Cap was right. Einar pulled off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Wished for a better answer. Had no alibi that didn't reveal things they didn't understand. Lost in thought, he was startled by a finger prodding his shoulder.

Layton stared. "Don't sit there. You heard the Captain. Let's go. Or tell me where he might be. I'll get his ass."

"No. I'll have him here tomorrow."

"Right. You think I—"

"Relay that to Cap."

"Better know where he is, or you're wasting our time. I'll tell him to hold you accountable if he doesn't show."

"Yeah, I'm sure you will," Einar said. " _þú ert asni._ You're an asshole."

"Whatever." Layton slammed down at his desk and brushed aside the pen.

An hour later, Marta called. Layton's head shot up. Einar stomped into the hall.

"Einar. I'm sorry. Can't hold the drug information," she said, voice heavy. "Press knows it's new, unidentified. Two more murders raised the stakes. Vultures are hounding my office and calling my boss. He wants me to give them something, stall them while the investigation is ongoing. Lab tests haven't provided answers. Shit, only more questions. FBI is studying the drug chemistry profile. The press'll pick up on it. The drug is spreading. Even if I don't mention his name, at some point they'll ferret out the human connection. I'm very sorry."

"Marta. Give me—"

"I can't. Wish I could help."

"Please, just—"

You know that. But it's out of my control."

_Christ_.

He called Kait. Took her about a second to pick up the concern in his voice. He needed to speak to her and Michael. He'd be home within the hour and they needed to stay calm. He relayed the morning meeting and conversations, barking into his cell as he sped along the highway. Distracted, he almost rear-ended a semi, swearing into the phone. He slammed on the breaks.

"Einar, are you okay?" Kait said. "Calm down."

"Damn Layton," he yelled. "It's his fault." He laid on his horn. The semi veered into the left lane. "I lied to my asshole partner, told him I had an appointment to pick up medical records related to the homeless junkie. I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

"What's going on?"

"I'll explain. It's not good." He paused. "I'm getting too accustomed to lying. Worries me."

"I know how you feel," she said. "But please hang up and drive."

*

Kait and Michael sat at his kitchen table in uneasy silence. Einar dreaded their reactions. Didn't have a choice, but it sucked.

Please understand.

He couldn't disobey a direct order and needed their cooperation.

Michael wouldn't look at him.

Einar tried to hide his apprehension. He feared a confrontation. What if Michael snapped as his memory was returning?

"Einar?" Kait said. "Spit it out."

He took a deep breath, then another. His voice bristled with an edge he knew damn well Michael hadn't heard since the night of the murders.

"You look ready to explode. What's going on?" Kait leaned forward. "Tell us."

"You're angry." Michael folded and unfolded his hands, Einar's agitation rubbing off. "It's in your eyes. Same as when they dragged my sorry ass to you. What's wrong?"

"Einar . . ."

"I'm pissed. But not at either of you." He hesitated then let it out, telling them about the recent murders, press reaction, the drug's appearance, its terrifying effects and growing street presence. He described the morning's 'Come to Jesus' meeting in vivid detail, giving a profanity-laced description of Layton's comments. He outlined Marta's concerns, without explaining why he feared facts about the drug coming out.

Michael wrapped his arms around himself. "It's me, isn't it?"

Einar nodded. "You connect to it. Somehow."

"Shit," Michael muttered.

"Six dead bodies. Claw marks. Footprints. Four victims with drug vials." He reached over to Michael, tapped his sleeve. "The kind we found on you. Look, you're the only living witness. My boss ordered me to bring you in for more questioning."

Michael lowered his head.

Kait stared. "No."

"Can't avoid it. It's on the record." He exhaled. "I'm to . . . arrest you if you don't come . . . willingly."

Michael's eyes widened.

"You can't arrest him for no reason," she said. "That's against the law. Isn't it?"

Michael closed his eyes, opened them. Ran a hand through his hair, receding into a feral shell.

"If I don't bring you in, someone else will. I'd rather it be me."

Layton would beat the shit out of you because he hates the homeless and then I'd beat the shit out of him in retaliation.

Michael shook his head. "I can't."

"Einar, isn't there another way? He's not ready."

"I'm not . . . can't go back . . ."

"Stall them."

Einar put his head down. "I've stalled the entire time. Since . . ."

"You took the junkie in?"

"Stop it. We have to clear you as a suspect. They don't know—"

"You're harboring a fugitive?" Michael eyed him.

"Don't be dramatic, Mikey."

Michael sank back in his chair.

"Christ Einar, this is the last thing he needs."

Einar glanced at Kait. She was pissed, but she had to understand. Right? And the dead or undead question swirled in his head. They had to figure out what was going on.

He'd brooded about it on the drive home. After he missed the truck.

They had to let someone in—if he trusted anyone, it was Marta. She'd respected Michael as a detective and a person. If she knew why he'd asked her to keep his name out of the investigation, if she could test blood from which the drug was synthesized, maybe it'd provide answers. Maybe she'd hold it under wraps longer—buy time.

And back to the dead or undead thing.

We have to tell him.

He was struggling back from a chasm, trying so hard. But might not be human, could be dead. Could be . . . what? Einar had run the conversation through his head, was at a loss.

Something's changed. Blood work will tell us how fucked up you are . . .

Too much for a mind in pieces. Spilling it without answers would be terrible. He and Kait decided to lie until they knew what was happening. She agreed with hesitation, fearing they might regret it later.

Watching, listening, Michael had gone pale. Kait folded his hand in hers.

"Someone I trust will do blood work. The ME, Marta Lantanna. You didn't kill anyone. We need proof. I have to take you in."

"No."

"Understand. I'm trying to help. I won't throw you to the wolves."

"Really?" a whispered response.

"I don't have a choice. I'll be there."

"No."

Einar felt like shit.

Michael shivered. "I'm dead." He shook his head. "I'm fucking dead. Knew this was . . . a reprieve. Life reverts to the shit hole. They'll arrest me, need to blame someone. Cops are desperate. Want to close this case. Shit, shit, shit. Proves—should've run, should've . . ." He closed his eyes again, body shaking. Kait wrapped an arm around his left shoulder. A firm hand gripped his right.

"Don't go away, Michael," Einar said. "Look at me."

He opened his eyes and stared.

"I won't let anything happen. You're not going back to the street. Not going to jail. You're not alone. Understand?"

She nodded. "We'll figure it out."

"You can't promise that."

"I damn well can. If for some fucked up reason, they throw your ass in jail? I'll plant mine beside you."

Kait raised an eyebrow.

Michael shook his head. "That's stupid."

"Look, besides the fact that I know you didn't do these crimes, you're my friend."

It took a moment to register.

"You . . . mean it."

"Yes, idiot."

"I . . . shit. Thanks."

"And . . . one more thing."

_I'm shoveling the shit pile into an avalanche_.

"What now?" Kait said.

"Have to find the dealer. Might connect to the drug source. You know him."

Michael exhaled. "What do you want me to do? You saved my life. I owe you."

"Point of clarity." Einar squeezed his arm. "You don't owe me. Get it through your head." His cell rang. Layton. He turned it off. "Need to retrace your steps, find the dealer. Think of it as a return to police work."

Kait gave him an unconvinced glance. "I don't know . . ."

Michael nodded. "I can do it."

"Good. Tomorrow, early, we go to Marta's office. She'll be there before anyone else. We'll get you in and out without notice. Then to the station. And Kait." He glanced at her. "Mikey's not walking into any interrogation without a lawyer. You've been a witness in countless cases over the last two years. Layton doesn't recognize you, and you know how legal vultures act."

She raised an eyebrow. "Einar, that's —"

"You're his lawyer. Allison will lend you a suit. Brush up on lawyerly indignation."

## CHAPTER 21

## 2014 Early February

Michael blinked. The fluorescent lights were harsh in contrast to morning darkness. Einar and Kait flanked him like bodyguards. He'd pulled a sweatshirt hood over his head and wore one of Einar's old jackets.

Aromas. Antiseptic and alcohol unnerved him, reminded of . . . a laboratory. Where? He fought a gut reaction to flee.

They neared Marta's office. Einar stepped ahead and peered in. She sat at her desk reviewing reports. He knocked. She rose, surprised. Hesitated and asked why he was there. She meant what she'd said about not being able to withhold information.

"Marta," Einar said. "You'd wished you could help. "

"Yes, but—"

I can get a sample from the original blood source."

She stared. "You can't, Einar. Impossible."

"No, it's not . . . "

"Look, I know this is difficult, but— "

"I'm serious, Marta." Facing her, he motioned into the hall. Kait entered first, cajoling Michael to follow.

"Kait? I don't understand." Marta said. "What's this about?"

"We believed Michael died in the explosion."

"He did. No one survived."

"We were wrong."

"No. Whatever you think, it's impossible. You're under stress— "

"We never found remains."

"There was nothing left to find."

"Wrong . . . "

Einar nudged Michael. He pulled down the hood with shaking hands.

Kait shut the office door.

"My God." Marta wavered, almost knocking coffee off her desk. Einar steadied her. "It can't be . . . those buildings were destroyed . . . "

Watching her reaction. Michael backed up. His heart pounded. He'd scared her. Hell, it was everyone's reaction. Freak show.

Kait wrapped an arm around him. "Take it easy," she whispered.

"Einar." Marta couldn't hide disbelief. "How?"

"I don't know."

Marta stared.

Michael blinked. He opened his eyes, met hers but looked down. Couldn't deal with her fear.

Marta leaned on the desk, steadied herself.

"Explain."

"Can't."

"How? The explo—"

"I have no answers," Einar said.

"Where has he . . . been?"

"Long story. No time now to go into it. Been on the street for the last two miserable years. Living in the zone. No memory."

"Christ."

Michael faltered. "Sorry to scare you. I have that effect . . . "

Kait grasped him tighter.

"Can't be. The fire." Marta shook her head. "I've nev —"

"Marta," Einar said. "We need blood samples and toxicology. You know it. The drug. Need to . . . figure out . . . what the hell's going on with his chemistry."

Michael stared at Einar. Chemistry and toxicology? Drugs? Wasn't the blood test to eliminate him as a suspect?

" _það er allt í lagi._ It's alright. Let's get the tests done. Trust me."

"Fuck." He shook his head. "What's wrong with me?"

"Look. Yes. Something's going on. With your blood—it's . . . altered. Changed. Don't know how. Can't focus on it. Gotta get you and your lawyer to the station." He sighed. "Sorry, Mikey. Believe me, you can only absorb so much. And this, er . . . situation's a major league crazy trigger."

Kait stared at Einar.

"I know what we decided," he said, "but it doesn't seem fair—"

"He doesn't know." Marta met Einar's eyes.

"No."

"Shit," Michael said. "Know what?"

"Come on. I can get it done. Quickly." Marta led. She swiped her electronic ID and they entered the lab, cabinets and examination table stainless and spotless. Tile floor gleaming. Cold, sterile air permeated the space.

Michael spun around.

No. Not again.

A metal table, him strapped on it.

Get out.

He wheeled and pivoted into Einar. "Christ, let me go!" Shoved him off and bolted.

Einar grabbed his shoulders. "Calm down. This is more than a fear of needles, isn't it?"

Michael nodded, frantic.

"I don't know what happened . . . but please, we have to do this. It won't be bad. Marta is a pro."

"No. It's . . . I . . ."

"What?"

He shook his head. "Don't know. Can't remember. Terrible familiar . . ."

"It's okay." Einar walked him into the room. "Relax. Let's get it over with."

Marta put a hand on his shoulder. "Take off your coat and sit here." She led him to a phlebotomy chair near a bank of windows.

He did as she asked. She laid his forearm on the armrest.

He yanked it away.

"Michael, I won't hurt you," she said. "Roll up your sleeve. Trust me. We're trying to figure out what happened. That's all." She grasped his arm.

He tensed. "What do you mean?"

She didn't answer, but her look frightened him. He didn't protest a second time. She rolled up his sleeve, exposing the scars. He waited for her reaction, but Marta had none.

"Fucking ugliness," he muttered.

"I'm not judging you." She looked him in the eye. "Whatever happened, I've seen much worse over the years."

She pulled out her equipment—blood collection tubes, elastic tourniquet, syringe and needles, cotton balls, disinfectant and adhesive tape—and slipped on a pair of latex gloves. Tied the tourniquet around his upper arm and felt for a vein.

He flinched.

"Relax, okay?" Her fingers had a light touch. She sterilized the area with a swipe of an alcohol-soaked cotton ball and inserted the needle. Michael closed his eyes and looked away. Again he wanted to flee.

Kait put a hand on his shoulder.

"You still hate needles," Marta said.

Kait nodded.

Michael opened his eyes. "You know me."

"Yes. You and your Icelandic cohort made—make—a good team."

Michael glanced at Einar.

He nodded. "It's true, swear to God. Hell, you put up with me."

Marta touched his arm. "You're a friend. Let me help."

"Fine. But . . . what's wrong with me?"

Marta glanced at Einar.

"We don't know," she said.

"It's true," Einar said. "We think . . . something happened . . . but—"

"We're working on it," Kait said.

Marta filled three vials with unusual dark thick blood. Held one close and scrutinized it. She looked very serious.

Not good. At all.

Einar and Kait watched. Marta shook her head, undid the elastic and bandaged the needle insertion point.

"I'll call soon as I have results."

"Use my cell," Einar said. "Layton doesn't know any of it. Want to keep it that way."

"What do you think?" Kait said.

Marta pulled off her gloves, put the vials in a holder. "I don't know. Not human blood, too many red platelets. Higher viscosity. Never seen anything like it. Except . . ." Her eyes met Einar's.

Michael went numb. She just said he wasn't human. What the hell?

Kait reached for his hand.

"Don't freak out." Einar looked him in the eye. "I promise, when we have answers, you will too."

"It'll take several days for results, depending on tests." Marta paused. She put a hand on Michael's shoulder. "Won't be easy. I'll try my damndest to keep your name out of the press."

He jerked around. Press?

Marta leaned to Einar. "I understand. I don't want to feed him to the media frenzy, either."

Michael closed his eyes, a thousand questions running through his mind.

"We owe explanations," Einar said. "We'll get to them. When we know something."

*

Einar stormed through the doors, coat open and flapping, hard-soled shoes echoing on the linoleum. He elbowed two uniforms out of the way. They muttered about asshole Iceland but he didn't acknowledge them.

Layton sat in his chair, hunched forward, pen in hand, engrossed in a report on the computer, oblivious to activity around him. Einar banged his hand on the desk three times, hard. The penholder, stack of papers and stapler jiggled. Unmoored pencils rolled off and across the floor.

Layton jerked up. "What?"

"Heads up, Detective Layton. Snap to it. Homeless man is on his way with his lawyer."

"He has a lawyer?" Layton looked confused. "How does he have a lawyer?" He swiveled his head to the door and stood, straightening his tie and jacket. Smoothed his hair.

Kait walked into the office, hair pulled up and away from her face in a chignon, makeup flawless. She was dressed in a blue pinstripe suit and cream blouse, pearls around her neck, pearls in her ears, carrying a leather briefcase. High heels stabbed the floor. Every man in the office looked up. Michael came behind, large long coat askew, sweatshirt hood up, face dirtied and hair in chaos.

Einar was impressed. She looked like a million bucks, attractive, efficient and pissed off. He'd want her as his lawyer, surprised she did uptight bitch so well. And Michael, with help from her makeup brush, had slipped back into junkie mode, wary and on edge. He looked a disheveled mess.

I hope he's acting.

They were putting him through hell without answering his questions.

The lawyer and her only client halted. Michael crossed his arms and stood silent, fidgeting on the balls of his feet. He eyed Layton then swung to glance around the station in an exaggerated leer.

The lawyer offered her hand to Einar.

"Detective Hannesson." Kait feigned an aggressive edge. "Corin Jenner, attorney and advocate for the city's homeless. My client is here for a conversation as requested."

Einar held her hand with a firm grip.

She turned to Layton.

"Ms. Jenner," Einar said. "My partner, Detective Robert Layton."

"Sir," she squeezed Layton's hand. Hard. He yelped but tried to hide it.

Michael stood shoulders tight, feet shifting, furrowing his brow. He stared at Layton and mumbled. Einar watched, corner of his mouth upturned in a subtle smile.

Layton shook his head. "Are you kidding me? Why do we have lawyers for the homeless?"

While they conversed, Michael absorbed the station activity, listening to phones and computer keyboards, file drawers slamming, cops' voices, the teasing banter about women— good, bad, nasty, stacked and otherwise—sports and politics. He smelled stale coffee, lingering odor of unwashed suspects and overworked cops, funk of cleansers, air fresheners, and other municipal cleaning products chosen for cloying unpleasantness. Uniforms stared as they walked by.

He stood motionless, taking it in.

A sudden sensation slammed into his brain. Complete, unquestioning.

I knew this world. Worked here. Solved cases.

A past life shimmered into view, familiar but removed, like looking through a portal in a deep underwater tunnel. He recognized Einar's desk—the same mess and paperwork overload—and knew where everything belonged, the briefing room, Captain's office, hallway to evidence control and lock up. But wait . . . his desk was gone. A new one intruded. The other detective standing by Kait babbled with a strange mix of déjà vu and disorientation. Young guy, aggressive in his attempt to seem official. Who the hell was he?

God. Another partner.

Across the room, Cresson looked up from his computer with keen interest—a malevolent prairie dog sticking its head out of its hole, ready to interrupt, all activity his business.

Michael frowned.

He's a dick. Wait . . . Phil Cresson. Einar hates him.

Michael wheeled around. He almost blurted something out but held his tongue. Ran a manic hand through his hair. The three people in conversation stopped and looked at him. Dumbfounded, he stared.

I know you. Where have I been?

Layton shook his head. "Great. A junkie and psychotic. This interview should be fun. Anyway, back to procedure, then we'll have to—"

"Book and fingerprint me? I'm a witness. You're posturing." The words spilled as fast as the rush of information in his brain. "I'm not a suspect. You have no cause. I willingly gave a statement, covered under Criminal Justice Act s9. It wasn't compelled—"

Kait turned to him, brow raised.

Einar struggled to find his voice. " _Hvað segið þer_ _?_ What did you say? You—"

"I've . . . been arrested before," Michael stammered. Shit. Crank it back. Not the time to lose crazy homeless man. He shook his head, scratched his neck, and slid back into character.

Einar tried to keep his mouth shut. He knew something had changed.

Layton stomped his foot. "Let's get started. We'll be efficient, ma'am. Let's not waste time."

"After you, sir." Kait motioned for Layton to take the lead. He grumbled and did so. She caught Michael's eye and he saw the questioning look.

Layton led them to the interrogation room where Einar had recognized Michael on Christmas Eve.

"Please, sit." Layton closed the door and sat by Einar, facing Kait and Michael. He folded his hands and cleared his throat, back ramrod straight in the chair, tablet and pencil in front of him. "For the record, state your name."

"A problem. Don't know."

Act crazy.

Michael shook his head like a wild man. "Don't know, cop, don't know who I am." Stared without blinking. "On the street, they call me Troll."

Einar lowered his head.

Layton frowned. Turned to Kait. "Your client must have a name. What do you call him?"

"Mr. John Doe."

"Fine." Layton was not amused. "Mr. Doe. On late December 24, 2013, you had an unidentified drug in your possession. Vial found by two uniformed officers. Correct?"

"They roughed me up. Cops roughed me up," Michael fidgeted and tapped fingers on the table, scraping them along the surface.

"That's not what I asked. Pay attention. Answer the question."

"Had it in my pocket. Don't remember much bout that evening."

"No kidding. You were high. Reeked of booze. Jumped into razor wire. Tweaking like a fucking rat and raving about monsters. Proud of that?"

He didn't answer. Fuck proud. Try terrified and add ashamed. Kait was learning how messed up he'd been when Einar found him. She'd have no illusions about his sorry existence.

"Look." Layton leaned forward. "We know you had a role in those deaths." He waited for a response but got a stare.

Einar turned to him. "Robert, I think—"

"You're not a bad guy, Mr. Doe. You want to do the right thing. Make a change. Drugs are bad, man, but murder's a whole different level."

"I didn't kill anyone and I'm clean. Have been," he hesitated and caught Einar's eye, "for a month now."

"Sure you are. Tell us what you know, cooperate, and we can get help for your mental issues. Connect you to a good psych hospital . . . "

"I'm not nuts."

"Detective," Kait said, "my client isn't—"

"Mental illness isn't a crime, buddy." Layton scribbled on the tablet. "Clearly you have issues."

Michael cocked his head. "What kind of interrogation tactic is this? Insult and belittle?"

Layton glowered. "I'll treat you as a suspect if you don't—"

"Where'd you get the drug?" Einar said. "Who gave it to you?"

"Dealer frequents the zone by the old wire factory and metal press plant. Supplies the homeless . . . "

Layton scribbled more notes.

"Don't know where he gets the drugs."

"Name?" Layton said. "Need the asshole's name."

"Don't know." It was true. He'd never been on a first name basis with the dealer. No one in the zone used real names. They might be wasted and loaded but were street smart at preserving anonymity. And some of them didn't remember they had names.

"His name?" Layton slammed the tablet on the table.

"Told you, cop. Don't know!" Michael bolted to his feet and got within an inch of Layton's face.

Layton and Kait rose at the same time. Einar reached across and restrained Michael with both hands. He motioned for them all to sit.

Einar glanced at him. "I believe you. No one uses names, right?"

Michael nodded, feigning aggravation. "Christ, cops. Why would they? Too dangerous."

"Remember details?"

"Yeah. Crude tattoos on his knuckles. Spell K-I-N-G R-A-T-S when he balls his fingers. That's his street name. King Rat."

"Good. That's helpful," Einar said.

"Christ, Iceland, we need more than that." Layton rolled his eyes. "What was in the vial?"

"Don't know." Michael squirmed, eyes wandering. He tapped a repeating rhythm with his fingers. "Don't want to know. Was brutal." He'd wanted to die. If Einar hadn't found him, he'd be a corpse. "It was bad shit. That's all I can tell you. Poison."

Einar closed his eyes, bent his head to the table. Kait glanced at him.

"What'd it cost?" Layton's voice rose. "What'd you pay? What'd you trade? Yourself? Who'd you bang?" He leaned forward.

"Nothing and no one. I'm not prime goods, in case you hadn't fucking noticed." Michael jutted his chin out, hair falling in his eyes. "They aren't waiting in line to get a piece of my ass." Kait put her hand on his arm. Her fingers were shaking.

"Nothing? No one hands out drugs for free. Don't jack shit me."

Kait blocked him. "Detective. If you harass my client we're leaving."

Layton turned red, jaw clenched.

Ease off. Don't go overboard.

Michael slumped back and cocked his head. "What do you want me to say?"

Einar leaned to Layton. "Take it easy, Robert. Want answers. No need to jerk him around."

"Iceland, you're kiss-ass soft on this witness. Need to beat it out of his raving ass. Junkie knows more than he's saying. Piece of useless trash should start talking."

Michael flinched. Truth hurt. Trash. He'd been lost in oblivion at the time but he'd be dealing with that miserable baggage the rest of his life.

"No beatings." Einar stole a glance at Michael.

"I don't agree." Layton threw up his hands. "Case is our priority. We need answers. He knows them. He's playing you. I'm taking it up with Cap."

"Suit yourself, Robert."

"Suit yourself, Robert," Michael echoed.

Layton bolted, pushing his chair out of the way. He paced spewing expletives.

Einar ignored him and turned to Michael. "How'd you get the drug?"

"The dealer. Had no money. I was wasted. Needed a fix. I fucking pleaded. He handed me a vial." He traced patterns in the wood grain. The down side of remembering, begging a drug dealer for shit to get high—a low point. "Rat said something like here's a Merry Fucking Christmas 'sink-your-mind-into-the-haze' gift." Kait squeezed his arm then took hold of his hand.

He glanced at her. "Sorry, but it's true."

"What kind of drug?" Einar said. "Did he tell you?"

"No. Didn't matter. I'd have downed lighter fluid."

Einar looked him hard in the eye. "But you didn't . . ."

"It was bad. Hallucinations mixed with delusions and paranoia. Lightening to the brain." He shivered. Wasn't an act. He'd never forget how bad it'd been. Another mark on the freak show tally.

"Didn't you care?" Layton shook his head. "How can you people live like that? You want to jack-off into nothing?"

"There are worse things than oblivion. Believe me."

Layton leaned in his face. "Didn't you give a shit?"

"Detective Layton, back up," Kait said.

"I was wasted." Michael glared. "To answer your question, cop. No. I did not give a shit."

"Fuck. Street trash makes me sick. Want to puke my guts out."

"Go ahead."

"What did you say?"

"Puke. Your. Guts. Out."

Einar raised an eyebrow.

"Goddamn it! You're wasting my time."

Michael turned to Einar. "Dealer was . . . trying out new product. That's why it was free."

"Would you recognize him?" Einar said

"Yeah."

"Enough bullshit." Layton came up fast. "The charade is over. You know the dealer. Let's go, junkie. Now." He yanked him from the chair.

"Remove your hands!" Kait yelled.

Einar bolted and blocked the door, grabbed Michael with one hand and slammed his other across Layton's chest.

Kait pulled Michael back. Layton wouldn't let go.

"Fuck, Robert. The man isn't under arrest." Einar glared at him. "What are you thinking?"

Michael resisted and whispered to Kait. She grabbed Layton's arm.

"Take your hand off my client."

Layton glared. He shook her hand away, stepped back from Einar.

"My client will help find the dealer," Kait said. "But on the condition that only you," she pointed to Einar, "accompany him. He resents your partner's treatment. He came and answered questions. He's not a suspect, not under arrest."

"I agree," Einar said.

Layton fumed. "When does street trash dictate procedure? You have no right to limit my role. This is bullshit and you goddamn know it. Junkie's a hostile witness. Force him to do what we need him to do!" He kicked his chair, sending it flying across the room.

Kait stood. "We're finished." She motioned for Michael to stand. "I'll be in touch, Detective Hannesson, to facilitate my client's cooperation." She shook Einar's hand. "Detective Layton," she said, "take tranquilizers. Anger isn't good for your health."

Einar opened the door and escorted them to the station's entry. He was quiet.

Michael turned. Layton headed to the Captain's office and entered without knocking, slamming the door. Yelling echoed. Shit. Wasn't going to be good for Einar.

Cresson stood near the office door, all eyes and ears. He smiled watching Layton storm away dropping the bomb on Einar to the Captain. Cresson sidled to Einar and slapped his back. "Well, Iceland, too bad whacko junkie witness pissed off your partner. Phil's spewing like a volcano all over your ass. Once again, you've a special way with people. Another partner bites the dust. Score ZERO for Iceland."

"Shut up," Einar said.

"Villarna will love this one. Wait 'til I tell him." Cresson spun on his heels and headed in the other direction, passing the homeless man and his lawyer.

Michael lurched sideways, feigned a stumble and blocked Cresson. He tilted his head up and whispered, "Go to hell, Crasshole."

Cresson froze.

The junkie and his lawyer left the station.

## CHAPTER 22

## 2014 Early February

The Captain's door flew open. "Detective Hannesson, my office now."

Everyone looked up. Einar shook his head. Most of them were probably thinking the same thing. Iceland had gotten away with shit for a long time. Had it coming.

Let them think what they want.

Einar sulked in and sat next to his partner. Refused to look at him.

Layton slouched, fingers gripping the armrest.

The Captain slammed the door and laid down the law. Hannesson had been invisible too often in the last month and a half. Did he think the rules didn't apply to him? No more attitude, no more games, no more leaving Layton in the dark, no more 'solo cowboy act.' If he wanted to remain in the division at his present rank in the homicide squad, he had to play by the rules regardless of his record, his commendations, and his past.

Layton snickered at the dressing down.

The department assigned partners for a reason, Cap bellowed. It was not an optional relationship. Layton and Hannesson were on priority assignment to track down the dealer. They were to work as a team according to protocol. They had one witness—he'd be used to find the dealer without delay.

Because Einar refused to play by the rules, and had spent the last month on his own doing whatever the hell he was doing, Layton would be primary contact for the witness, who was to be regarded as a hostile confidential informant. Einar was relegated to secondary—he was to turn over all information to Layton.

They had the witness. It was time to act.

Working with narcotics cops and uniforms, they'd mount a stakeout that night, Layton in lead. Einar would coordinate with the uniforms monitoring the operation from a distance. He'd have to follow Layton's instructions and not go off on his own, not interfere, not disappear for hours at a time, not be an obstacle.

Layton beamed.

Einar glared, seething. Time to retire.

*

Kait and Michael slammed the rental car doors to escape the weather. She turned on the ignition and cranked the heat, rubbing her hands, blowing on them. She undid the chignon, shaking her head, letting hair fall around her face. As it tumbled, she worked her fingers through it.

Michael ached with sudden longing, wanting to reach for her. Fear stopped him. Knowing what she'd just heard, he wasn't sure how she'd react.

She dropped the earrings and necklace in the driver's seat cup holder. "God, that's better. Why do women dress up all the time? It's one of my circles of hell."

"You make a good lawyer." He pulled down the sweatshirt hood and pushed unruly hair out of his eyes. "Convincing and effectively cool but bitchy—that's a compliment. You look the part, too. God, you're gorgeous."

She smiled. "You're a fine crazy defendant," she said and then exhaled. "Shit, Michael, I'm sorry. Didn't mean it that way."

"No offense." He hesitated. "I'm rather sure I'm crazy. And you're not wrong."

"I don't think—."

"And sorry . . . you had to listen in there. Now you know. I'm not a pretty picture." He gave a hesitant smile. "Thanks for helping, K."

"You're not crazy, no apologies and you don't have to thank me." Her eyes met his and she stared harder. "Something's different. Isn't it?"

He looked down at his scarred hands. How would she react? He took a deep breath. Then another.

"Michael . . . what?"

"I remember—standing in the office. It sparked memories. People, sounds, details. My life."

"You mean . . ."

"I remember you. Us." He paused, tilted his head. "It's hazy, some things make no sense, like a weird Technicolor drug trip. Why do I see a green iguana?"

She smiled. "We met when you made kids laugh in a reptile exhibit. An iguana crawled up your arm. You were enchanting."

"Another life . . ."

"No. Don't say that."

Memories and guilt dug a chasm in his soul. "K," he hesitated. "I'm sorry. Don't know . . . for everything you've . . . I never meant . . ."

She looked away.

"I put you through hell."

"No. You didn't."

"But I—"

She shifted the car into gear. "I want to show you something. Might help." She drove to the east end, winding through avenues of brick homes and Victorian mansions before entering modest neighborhoods, turning onto a street with smaller homes. She pulled over and pointed to a small green bungalow with cream trim. Four large oak trees surrounded it and hedges led to a wide front porch and stepped entrance.

"There," she said. A woman guided two children out the door. Bundled for the snow, they tumbled into the yard near a snowman and threw snowballs.

It'd been their house. He turned to her.

She smiled but the expression didn't reach her eyes.

He saw her sadness. He bent his head. "Shit K. You don't have to do this. Don't need to be here. It isn't fair."

Remembering is a bitch when you realize what you lost.

"You need to remember. Familiar places spark your memory."

He took in small details, following the line of the snow-covered porch railing. The dog used to commandeer a swing behind that railing in summer. "Loki liked the swing."

"He did." She folded her hands in her lap.

"On summer evenings we sat on the step watching fireflies. Catching them. Listening to cicadas . . ."

She laughed. A tear rolled down her cheek.

He hesitated, reached over and brushed it away. Closed his eyes, wanted to make things better. Impossible not to long for the past, parked on a familiar street in such strange circumstances.

"Remembering Loki, lizards and bugs—that's so . . . you." She looked down.

"Kait?"

"What?"

"Why . . . did you leave the East Coast?"

She took a deep breath. Then another.

"I shouldn't ha—" He'd overstepped. Had no right.

"Your death devastated me. It was sudden, brutal. Needed a different frame of reference." She undid the seatbelt, removed her heels and pulled her legs up underneath her. Faced him. "You can't fathom how much someone means to your life until they're gone."

"God. I'm sorry. I put you through this ordeal."

"Stop apologizing."

"But, I—"

She touched his forearm. "It's not your fault. You didn't know what would happen. I had to leave, couldn't go back. Frivolous pursuits seemed . . . ungrateful after . . . It made me reassess everything. Got the opportunity to switch back to a more meaningful field and I took it."

"In Texas." He contemplated the distance between them.

"Yes, Baylor University. Forensic anthropology. Associate. I'm low woman on the totem pole. I dig in dry ranch lands of south Texas and Arizona or I'm in the lab processing evidence. Away from people. I needed it."

He looked her in the eye. "Aloneness?"

"Yes."

He paused. "Have you met anyone?" As soon as he asked he regretted it. He was the one who died. "Sorry," he stammered, "I shouldn't have pried. Not my—"

"It's okay." She squeezed his arm. "Honest answer. Yes. I've dated, went out with a good man for six months, another for three."

"Don't explain."

"Caring people, colleagues in Waco. Knew what I'd been through. I tried to move on. Unsuccessfully." She looked away. "I tried to convince myself being alone was unhealthy."

He understood. "It's alienating. Isolating."

"I gravitated to it."

"Alone isn't good. You deserve happiness. Should find . . ." He struggled with words. "I hope you find someone . . ."

"But, Mi—"

"Undamaged."

She looked stung. "No." She leaned forward. Brushed away the dark makeup under his eyes then traced the scar, resting her index finger at the corner of his lip.

He froze.

She took his face in her hands, pulled him close and kissed him, lips lingering on his. "I found someone. You—Michael Lewis, singer to lizards, bug lover, bad horror movie aficionado, kindred spirit. I didn't, don't want anyone else."

"I'm not who I was." He pulled away. Didn't want to hurt her again. "He . . .the person you knew . . . might never return. Might not be able . . ."

"Michael. You don't understand."

"You don't need to deal with the freak show."

"I have no illusions—"

"I'm a mess. Wreckage."

"Don't care."

"Damaged. I'll never heal."

She traced the scar up his temple and fingered the edge of his eyebrow. "Someone told me scars mark a survivor. They show how strong you are. I agree. Completely."

He remembered he'd said it. "But this is—"

"Stop. Be quiet. Listen."

He opened his mouth. She put her hand across it.

Her touch was electrifying.

"I work with investigators to identify skeletal remains of murder victims and illegal immigrants. I've stood over mass graves, bodies decomposing under layers of lime. Gathered desiccated remains in brutal heat. Tromped snake-infested terrain to find bones. My colleagues work with Mexican authorities identifying drug trade victims—corpses missing heads, hands and feet. I see souls' destruction."

She grabbed his hands and held them.

He pulled back. "But that's—"

She held tight. "Families pray for missing loved ones to return. It never happens." She looked him in the eye. "Never. Do you understand?"

He swallowed hard. Hadn't considered it. She still wanted him. Was she insane?

She leaned close. "You're alive. Or . . . at least, you're . . . here."

Where did she get her strength? How did she see past the damage?

"Get it?" She squeezed his hands. "I love you. Then and now. Messed up, fucked up, screwed up, cut up . . . whatever. I'm not letting you go again."

He shook his head. "Are you crazy?"

"Yes. How do I convince you?"

"What did . . . I can't thank—"

"No. Don't thank me. I owe you, can never repay you."

"I don't . . .what do you mean?"

"I'm alive because of you."

"I don't remember."

"You died—we believed you died—in an explosion after a kidnapping. I was the one who'd been taken." She wound her fingers around his, voice quivering. "You traded yourself for me, walked into a rotten situation alone, gave yourself to a crazy asshole, my boss of all goddamn things by the way, in exchange for me. I told you not to do it, pleaded, called you an idiot. They wanted to kill you. I knew they'd kill you, told you so. You wouldn't listen. Told me I was worth the risk."

"Oh." That was rather hard-core. He wished his mind wasn't hazy.

"You saved my life," She lifted his hands to her lips and kissed them. "You gambled everything and I won. Understand?"

"I . . ." He was at a loss.

"You're stuck. Don't care what you say. Get used to it, because I'll stalk you if I have to."

## CHAPTER 23

The car sped to the zone, lights out.

My game. Let's kick serious criminal ass.

Primary. It felt good. Damn good. Layton smiled and drove faster. After over a year of answering to Iceland, dealing with his moods, his supernatural shit, speaking in tongues and the lingering ghost of dead pretty-boy partner, he could tell him what to do. God, how many times had Hannesson lorded it over him, reinforcing his subordinate position. Yeah, he was newer and younger. But he was driven to succeed.

Cresson was right.

Now he could show it. He'd demonstrate how to deal with suspects.

Iceland sat beside him. Arms crossed, jaw set, he stared out the window. Witness was in back, handcuffed and separated by the steel mesh screen. Silence washed over the car, the only sound windshield wipers beating against snow.

He had demanded the witness follow protocol. Made him sign the CI forms, fingerprinted him, and required a drug deal go down to establish reliability.

"Give us the dealer, we pay you," Layton said. "Do not prove unreliable. This is your best deal. Remember, lead us to him and make a buy."

Iceland, in typical fashion, argued. "We get one shot. That's all. Find the dealer and grab him. Why set up a deal? Why waste time? There's something else out there. Killing people."

"Shut up about monsters." Layton shook his head. Jesus, Iceland was nuts.

Cap stood between them.

"We don't need Layton mucking things up," Iceland had argued. "Why risk another life?"

But Layton was primary. His call.

Layton handcuffed the informant. No coddling. He would ride in the cage. Layton yanked him to the car and threw him in. Hell, his ass was used to it anyway. How many rides in cop cars had he taken? "Prove your trust. Until then, it's the cage, junkie."

They would get as close as possible to the zone without detection. They'd meet the uniformed officers in the hidden listening post.

A hitch—narcotics officers got called to another bust. Shit happens. Go forward with the hunt for King Rat anyway. The informant would circulate through the alleys—wander as long as it took. When he located the dealer and made a purchase, he'd signal via radio contact. Cops would come in and bust them both for appearances. Then they would nab the dealer.

Crouched in the back, Michael stared out the window. They wove through dark streets. He bent stiff wrists, stretched his fingers and swore. Layton had cuffed him tight and the metal cut his skin. With no gloves, his hands were cold.

He tried to ignore it.

His mind whirled. Kait. He leaned against the glass.

Earlier Einar had caught his eye in the rearview window. "Hang in there," he mouthed.

Michael didn't respond. Layton was watching.

I've messed up their lives.

Einar's predicament was his fault. He'd been the broken, drugged out, batshit crazy reason for secrecy and disappearing acts. Einar had tried to protect him.

I can solve it.

He closed his eyes and concentrated, reassembling the shattered pieces of their last case, that horrible string of child killings. The river. Four victims. And monsters.

He wouldn't have picked a brutal cold evening to look for King Rat, who wasn't reliable in subzero temps. Not his call. Layton didn't listen. He was busy being in charge, wanted the collar and accolades.

They arrived at the command center, hidden in the side bay of an old brick warehouse. Uniforms met them. Layton hauled Michael out and scowled when he stepped toward Einar.

"I'm your contact. Don't forget. Iceland can't help. Your fate's in my hands. Pay attention." He rattled instructions.

Michael looked around.

Fuck. Don't trust him.

He hunched his shoulders and clenched his hands, teeth chattering. Revert to survival mode. He slipped into street persona, demeanor like an animal, eyes darting, suspicious, on edge.

"I don't like this." Einar looked concerned.

"Too bad." Layton snapped. "Wait here. Don't let him out of your sight." He went to review the stakeout. Took a uniform by the elbow and rambled about expectations. Two others followed, trying to keep up.

Einar stomped to Michael. "Damn. I'm sorry. Shouldn't be here."

"Not your fault." Michael shivered, looked around. It scared him. "Got a bad feeling . . ."

"Michael . . ."

He glanced up.

"You're memory's returning. In the station . . . I saw it."

He hesitated. "Yeah."

"Kait knows."

A nod. "Great timing, huh?"

"Impeccable . . ."

Michael closed his eyes.

Einar put a hand on his arm. "Take it easy. I'm relieved you remember us."

"Yeah . . ."

"Knew you were in there."

"Broken fucking mess—"

"Cut yourself a break, okay?" He handed over his scarf. "Christ, it's cold. Let's get this done and get out of here. You shouldn't be on a stakeout in subzero temperatures. Not with the Narcs guys pulled away. And monsters on the loose."

"Not my call.

"Fucking Layton." Einar kicked snow. "Too arrogant for sense."

"I . . . remember," Michael hesitated. "You were right. About me not letting others in. Doing too much alone. Cost me. I should've listened. Might have—"

"Christ. Not time for true confession."

"I just—"

"For now? Give it a rest. Stay safe. We'll discuss philosophical transformations later. Watch yourself. Layton's impatient. Doesn't have your back. I'm worried."

"Yeah. Thinks I'm a piece-a-trash junkie."

Einar looked him in the eye. "Don't give a fuck what he thinks. What do you believe?"

"I have no fucking idea anymore."

"Still the misanthrope. Look, it will be okay . . ."

"I trust you. But this is a bad idea. Not enough back up." He exhaled. "Besides, don't like your new partner. Step down from your last one."

Einar raised an eyebrow and smiled. "No false modesty—"

Michael motioned with his head. Layton stormed back. He was livid.

"Back off, Iceland. Don't talk to him. You coddled his drugged ass enough." Layton pushed him away. "It's my show. Do your job. Sit with the uniforms."

"Not a circus," Michael said. "I'm not an animal act."

"Be careful," Einar said.

"Shut up, both of you." Layton undid the cuffs, yanked Michael to the alley and pointed. Shoved. "Get to work."

" _Skit. Andskotinn hafi pa_ _ð!_ Shit. Goddamn it . . ." Einar stomped into the warehouse. What should he have done different? The situation was fucked up. How dare he be relegated to work backup while Layton tailed Michael, viewing him as garbage to be used and discarded after the deal went down.

Let's get it over. Enough crap.

If anything happened, Michael was on his own.

Fuck it. Einar swore again. Babysitting in the listening post with three fresh-faced and clean-shaven recent academy graduates.

The uniforms kept their distance. None spoke to him. They whispered and watched with trepidation. They'd heard tales of Iceland.

Michael wandered for two hours through alleys and parking lots, staying out of street light glare. He halted at shadows, senses heightened. Froze at every noise. He crouched near old car chassis and broken foundations, back flush against a wall, watching for movement. Didn't see the dealer.

Exercise in futility.

He shuffled through the snow, acting wasted and getting angry. Hated being back on the street. Too familiar. His hands and feet were freezing. Frostbite wasn't far off. Going through an undercover buy-and-bust, more memories returned. Cop instincts kicked in. Layton's plan was a bad idea. Too many things left to chance. Not enough coverage. He shoved his hands into the pockets of the long coat Einar had given him. Pulled the scarf tighter around his neck.

He didn't want to be back in this hell. It haunted him, the wasteland of lost souls and broken lives. He should still be one of them. Or dead. Einar and Kait made the difference—he owed them everything.

Don't think about it now. Look for the dealer.

Every twenty minutes, he spoke into the small radio, checking to make sure it was working per Layton's orders. "Check one, check two." Once or twice he added, "Layton, fuck you."

Layton tailed at a distance, serving as his ghost, staying out of site but within eyeshot, keeping a suspicious eye on him. The words coming through the radio did not amuse him.

Who'd that junkie think he was?

He swore when the informant wandered through snow banks, sinking up to his knees. He was taking the most difficult path possible and sliding along icy patches of rotted wooden floors, scrambling through debris in collapsed buildings, compelling Layton to follow. Damn asshole was making it harder than necessary to stay on his tail.

Another hour. No progress. Michael backtracked and moved through the zone again. Crept to an abandoned warehouse, swearing when he almost fell over a cement foundation. No sign of the dealer. Snow was piling up fast. Layton's plan was going nowhere. He clicked on the radio, asked for a five-minute break to bring feeling back into his hands and feet.

Layton said no.

Einar, listening from the command post, swore.

The uniforms stared.

Another hour. He leaned against a dumpster. His head throbbed. Old injuries ached in the cold. His teeth chattered. Layton kept muttering into the radio, 'have you found him yet, druggie?' Jesus, how had Einar not killed him? The man was impatient, aggressive and careless.

Wait. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a shadow. Crouched motionless behind a dilapidated brick foundation, waiting.

Pay dirt. He'd found the dealer. He whispered into the radio, "King Rat located."

"Make a buy," Layton growled back.

"Yes sir, asshole," Michael muttered. He mentioned a few landmarks over the radio—a rusted Ford pickup, a collapsed section of a corrugated steel shipping container. He wanted Einar to understand his location. Just in case. "You'd better be ready to go."

Layton swore in reply.

Then it became complicated. Two figures stepped from the shadows and shook the dealer's hand. The taller one gestured with a clawed hand. The short one sniffed the air.

A glint of yellow eyes.

"Shit," Michael said, "I'm not crazy. Monsters. I see the fucking monsters. Repeat. I see the monsters." He ran a hand through his hair, crouched against the building. His mind raced. The killers. He remembered those eyes. Something else clicked—another toothy face, yellow eyes dead, staring. It unnerved him. He shivered.

Focus.

He knew his assignment.

Make the score.

He inhaled. "Let's get this over with. Making the buy. Monsters or no monsters." He left his hiding place.

Here goes nothing.

## CHAPTER 24

The stakeout went downhill fast.

Layton ranted. "What the hell, Iceland? Knew your fucked informant was unreliable. Dealer's in our sights. And what do you know, he's off his rocker. Spouting off about goddamned monsters. What'd you tell him? How can he play his role? What do we do now?"

The young cops listened, befuddled. They stared, eyebrows raised, not sure if the conversation was serious or a joke. Monsters hadn't been covered in the academy.

Einar unfurled a string of expletives and took off, barreling through the snow to where Michael reported them. Yeah, he'd left his post, a violation of protocol, but fuck it. Cap could fire his ass. He didn't care. He'd be damned if Michael was going to face those things without backup—again.

Michael approached the dealer and the monsters. Layton stuck close, hiding behind a brick foundation near a dumpster to better see him. Rat looked up and postured surprise. Michael shambled toward him.

"Been a while, Troll man, where ya been hidin'?" Rat flexed ungloved hands, causing tattoos to appear and disappear. He sauntered to Michael and patted him in mock camaraderie.

"Need a fix, man. Time to take a ride . . ." Hoped he sounded convincing. "Got cash."

"No prob. Cash I like. What's the want?

"Gave me a vial month or two back. Powerful shit. Got more?"

'Yeah, man." Rat smiled. "Today's your lucky day. Got the suppliers here. Tell 'em how much you like their product."

Michael looked up.

They stared and began screaming at each other.

"What the bloody hell," the taller creature yelled, "he's supposed to be dead!"

The shorter one lunged but Michael ducked and dodged his blows. Their hands ended in sharp claws, extending from fingers where fingernails had once been. The taller one reached for a .45 caliber pistol in his coat. The smaller one snarled, but ran in the opposite direction.

He didn't remember them, couldn't place them at first.

He stared, hard. Wait.

Christ.

He struggled to recognize them—but what the hell were they?

Donnie and Thompson had returned to Seward City in altered form. After fleeing, they escaped to Eastern Europe where they used Michael's contaminated blood to distill their drug. But in exile they became greedy and partook of it themselves, unable to balance patience with desire. With every refinement another dose, with every dose more mutation. They felt stronger, powerful—but at a price. They'd become immortal but they were losing their human forms in the process.

The toxic mix coursed through them, augmented each time they shot up again. Addicted to the rush, they mutated into adult versions of the revenants Thompson had used and discarded. Need fed desire for the drug, and then for blood—they couldn't get enough. In altered form, they craved blood from living human sources and had become careless in trolling for prey, using the drug to lure them in.

When Thompson believed the drug ready for external testing, they tried it first in Eastern Europe. Their trials went badly, drug causing immediate murder and mutilation. Thompson demanded Donnie refine it and lessen its issues, requiring more doses over a longer period to achieve full effect. After more experimentation, they readied supplies to try again—and what better laboratory to use for final tinkering than a homeless population? Donnie's parents had died six months earlier, and, still connected to where they'd met, they requested to be buried on the grounds of their beloved, destroyed complex in their matching Futura Atomic fleece jackets. Donnie, the dutiful son, came back to Seward City, Thompson following.

They wanted to build a market in the United States anyway.

And drink in the rewards.

Donnie and Thompson were the monsters Michael had seen kill on Christmas Eve.

They screamed.

King Rat's bravado evaporated in an instant. He bolted, flailing hands sending vials scattering. Took off into the alley and skidded in the snow.

Layton jumped into his path, stunning him.

"I got you, prick," he yelled. "Don't move." He collared Rat, snapped cuffs on and threw him down.

Rat didn't protest.

Layton wheeled around and pursued the other suspects.

He ran at the tall one, yelling "Stop Police! Halt Your Ass," all energy and adrenaline, pumped to make another collar, careless in allowing himself to be seen. Thompson roared. He raised the pistol and fired twice.

Gunshots echoed.

"What the . . ."

Something tackled him. He collided with the ground and lay stunned then spit snow out of his mouth. He looked up, confused.

The informant had shielded him. Layton was dumbfounded, trying to comprehend. The junkie's shirt darkened with bloodstains.

Michael ran after Layton.

Idiot. Confronting a suspect without cover or backup—hell, he didn't even have a bulletproof vest on.

Then the creature raised the gun.

Shit. Einar didn't need another partner killed in the line of duty.

Michael threw himself at Layton.

The gun went off. Once and his gut felt like fire. Twice and it was hard to breath. He knew he'd been hit, could feel warm liquid soaking his shirt, but he found the strength to turn and face the shooter.

Thompson threw down the gun. "Useless piece of metal," he growled, "since you're dead."

"Shut up." Michael clutched his gut, blood welling through his fingers. It was dark, viscous. Not normal. Crap. But he wasn't dead—yet. Why was it yelling that he was?

"Should've chopped off your head," Thompson screamed. "Would've done it right. Never trust subordinates. Those doddering fools! Goddamn Donnie!" He charged and rammed his head into Michael's stomach. Michael collapsed into a snow bank, gasping. He willed himself to keep going. Took a deep breath and rolled away.

Thompson charged again.

Michael yelled and grabbed his legs. Smashed fists hard into his knees and pulled him down.

Thompson slashed Michael's neck.

Layton was motionless, staring wide-eyed, mouth open.

Michael scrambled away, scanning the garbage-strewn alley. He needed a weapon, fast, something to take Thompson down for good.

Chop his head off. Behead him—that's the trick.

He shook his head. Remembering.

Fuck. Kait's boss, Ellery Scott Thompson. You're . . . a police officer. How interesting.

Words echoed. Well, now he'd find out how interesting it was to be killed by the mundane cop.

Find a blade, a big one.

Among the shipping barrels, pipes, and wire reels lay large segments of metal debris. Michael grabbed a flat chunk of metal, sharp edge out, and held it up in both hands. It was the only thing he could find. He bolted forward, lunging.

Thompson roared.

Michael kept coming.

Thompson scrambled for the gun. He picked it up and fired. The bullet ricocheted off a wall. He screamed and leapt, teeth shining and claws extended, roaring at the top of his lungs.

Michael slammed the metal sheeting into his neck, using its edge as a blade.

With a look of stunned surprise, Thompson snarled and then realized what had happened. His eyes widened. Too late. His head fell from his body, thick black blood spurting in the snow. It rolled to Layton, who took one look at the yellow eyes and fanged mouth and screamed.

*

Einar heard the shots and screams. He ran faster, swearing. Reached the carnage as Michael skidded in the snow and bolted down an alley after Donnie, blood trail marking his path. Einar ran to Layton and knelt, hands on his quivering shoulders. He didn't like the guy, but didn't want to see a cop injured by two raving monster assholes.

"Robert, what happened?" Einar pulled him to a sitting position. "You okay?"

Layton looked up, pupils dilated. He pointed to the handcuffed dealer. "Got him. But there were two others. Not. Human." He pointed to Thompson's head. "Your junkie killed him. Ran at him. Rammed a metal sheet into him. Wasn't scared." His eyes were glazed. "Fucking monsters. Jesus, he killed a fucking monster."

Einar's heart skipped several beats. "Shit. Where is he?"

Layton stared. "Iceland, Christ, your informant saved my life. I don't get it. Didn't stick with the program. He took two bullets for—"

Einar ran to find Michael.

*

Michael tore through the alley, heart pounding, adrenaline dulling gunshot pain.

Donnie slid in the snow, clawed hands flailing, not as agile as Thompson. Michael grabbed his shoulders and forced him down.

Donnie growled and extended his claws. Bared his teeth, dug a claw into Michael's arm, slipped from his grasp and sprang up, yanking a broken board from a doorway. Slam. He hit Michael across the chest, shoving it into his wounds.

Michael collapsed, winded.

Donnie charged. Pinned him, ripping off his coat and slashing his neck. He pressed his weight on Michael, bullet wounds throbbing.

Shit. Donnie was stronger than he looked. Where was backup? Weren't the uniforms and Einar tracking them? Where was Layton?

"You're DEAD!" Donnie screamed. "My parents took care of you. I gave mother the saw!"

Michael struggled. With a heave, he pushed Donnie off, wheeled around and dragged him to the ground.

"You're dead, dead, DEAD!"

Michael halted, then swayed. He felt light-headed.

He'd lost a lot of blood.

"My partner'll take care of you. Thompson will finish it. We'll make sure this time."

Michael tried to focus. "Thompson's dead! He charged me. I got him with a metal slab. Decapitated him."

"NOOOOO . . ." It echoed through the zone. "You never understood. Imbecile!" He barreled into Michael. Grabbed his head and slammed it to the ground. "Thompson was supposed to live forever! He was perfecting the means to immortality. What have you done?"

Michael stared into the crazed eyes, unable to block the screams piercing his eardrums. He lay exhausted, bleeding out in the snow.

Then memories flooded—the case they'd been working on, saving the boy, being bitten, Donnie, Thompson, Kait's kidnapping. What he'd done. The whole nightmare flashed like a thunderbolt.

Him strapped to a table.

Dying.

Jesus Christ.

Michael rammed into Donnie, knocking him away.

He fell back, snarling.

Michael struggled to his feet. He swayed. "Look at you! You got your wish. Was it worth it?"

Donnie charged. "I'm immortal! I can have what I want. The woman is mine. I want her. I'll take her." He pushed his hand into Michael's jaw, drew a claw across his mouth.

Michael spat out blood. "Doesn't work that way. You can't have Kait. She doesn't want you."

Donnie roared and sank claws into Michael's gunshot-riddled chest.

Michael punched him. "She never wanted you—whether or not I was around. You don't make the choice."

"I want her. I'll have her." Donnie whipped him around and shoved him down.

Pain flooded, body growing numb. Shit. How could he lose so much blood and be alive?

Donnie sat on him, crushing the air from his lungs. "Think you're a big deal, cop, don't you?" His voice cracked. He dragged a claw along Michael's face. "Like my handiwork? I destroyed your pretty features. Welcome to the freak show."

"Appearances can be deceiving. Kait's not that shallow."

Donnie cuffed him across the mouth.

He spat out more blood.

"I regret not taking her. I should've made her mine. Thompson was wrong— focus on the work, focus on . . . blah, blah, bullshit. I should've fucked her brains out. Done it in front of you. Made you watch."

"Stay away from her!" Michael roared, bolting upright. He grasped Donnie's hair and yanked his head, smashing him to the ground. Attacked like an animal, beating him senseless.

Anger engulfed him.

About everything. The kids, murders, the case, his life, what they'd done . . .

Blood, breaking bones, screaming. He mangled Donnie, trapped him, blood erupting, claws across Donnie's face, claws ripping . . .

He stopped.

Looked at his hands. Searing pain radiated from his fingers. Elongating clawed fingers. Nail beds splitting and bleeding, large curved claws emerging from bone.

Christ.

He slumped to the ground.

Donnie laughed. "That's right, cop. Claws. Coming out of your fingers. Hurts to bloody fucking hell the first time."

He stared, frozen. The pain was excruciating.

"Monster!" Donnie sneered. "Can't believe it took this long. You were just too broken to get angry. Real angry." He howled. "Toxic substances have coursed through you since it bit you. Haven't been human all this time, freak. Your blood enabled our drug. You're the catalyst for this epidemic. You are one of us." Donnie shoved him flat into the snow. "Anger, idiot. Anger flipped the switch."

"No . . . fuck . . ." Michael stared, shock flooding his system.

Donnie dug into his flesh and shook him. "Anger fuels the change, cop! Understand? Dead. You are dead! You. Are. A. Monster. Woman won't have you. She'll be fucking terrified."

Michael tried to stand.

Donnie punched him. "I'll take her this time. She's mine. Say goodbye to your head, monster!" Claws pinned him down. Donnie bent to his throat, fanged mouth open and dripping blood. He leaned in.

Michael closed his eyes.

Get it over with. Put me out of my misery.

Then Donnie wasn't there.

Einar bolted into the alley, yelling at the top of his lungs. Threw himself like a freight train, knocking Donnie off Michael.

Donnie scrambled, claws spread.

Einar tackled him as he snarled, lunging, raving about death and monsters.

"You're a monster, cop," he howled. "Dead! A freaking monster like us." He spun and stood, shoving Einar away.

Michael lurched into his path and sank claws into his leg, holding him in place.

Donnie screamed.

"Shut the fuck up, asshole!" Einar hauled Donnie to his feet and slammed him into the wall, twice, hard. Punched him, clenched fist ramming his face again and again.

Several sharp teeth fell to the ground.

Einar kneed him and dropped him in the snow.

"That's for fucking with my friends." He slapped on metal handcuffs and three zip ties, grabbed a piece of rusty chain from the ground and wrapped it around him. Chained him to a fire escape hanging from an abandoned building, and tasered him. Four times.

Donnie slumped.

"I want to cut your head off." Einar crushed his face into the rusty iron. "But someone has to be accountable for the drugs and murders. Three years of carnage. Those kids. Thompson's dead. Tag, you're it. You'll rot in prison for eternity, asshole. I'll make sure of it. Have fun with immortality in the slammer. Bet that wasn't part of your plan."

*

Michael crouched against a wall until his legs collapsed. He slid to the ground, bloody smears marking his fall. Everything was spinning, plunging into darkness.

He gasped for air.

Ran his tongue over sharp teeth, stifled a scream.

Stared. Claws.

Why? Fuck. He'd started to remember, think life was worth . . .

Einar.

He looked up and snarled, then cringed, stunned at his own reaction.

Einar came toward him.

"Stay away. Get out of here." He was terrified he wouldn't be able to control himself.

Einar slowed.

"Don't." His eyes glowed. He was covered in blood. "You saw what they were. Fuck." He swallowed. "What I am."

"No."

"Get back."

"Hættu þessu. Stop that."

"Shit. Listen to me!" He pounded claws into the snow. Pain shot through him. He shuddered. Took another rasping breath.

"I'm not scared," Einar said. "You saved Layton's life. Just saved mine. Donnie would have gotten me if you hadn't pinned him."

"Kill me."

"No."

"Chop off my head."

"No."

"Do it. You have to kill me. I don't want to hurt you or Kait. Don't want to hurt anyone." He flexed his claws, wide-eyed. "Shit," he whispered, " . . . I remember . . . the monsters. Remember what they did. Christ . . . " He started shaking. "They drained . . . the monsters . . . those kids . . ." Slammed his head against the wall.

Einar grabbed him. "Stop. Don't bash your brains out. I'm not chopping your head off."

Michael flinched, pupils dilated.

"Breathe, Mikey. Breathe. Close your eyes. Breathe."

He closed his eyes, opened them again.

"Listen to me," Einar crouched in front of him. "Please. Look at me. Michael."

He shuddered.

"Kyrr. Calm down."

He shook his head. "No."

"Claws . . . don't make a monster."

"Fuck—"

Einar grabbed his wrists. "These came out when he threatened Kait. You were protecting her."

"No, no, no . . . I'm a fucking monster."

Einar took a deep breath. "Shit. I'm sorry. I . . . look . . . at least you're a damn chivalrous monster, Mikey."

"You can't fix me. I'm not human." He closed his eyes.

"Michael, I—"

"They killed me."

"It sucks. But . . . you're here."

"How—what am I?"

"We don't know." Einar hung his head. "Shit. That's what we were afraid to tell you. We didn't know what to say."

"I'm not alive . . . am I?"

"No. It's an issue."

He fell silent, breathing ragged, heart pounding. Stared at the holes in his chest, one so catastrophic that rib bones were visible. If human he'd have died by now.

Einar tightened his grip. "Don't look. Focus on me."

"God . . . you have to kill the monster. You know it. No other option . . . "

"No. You're our friend. Don't care what you are—or aren't. _"_

Michael curled and shivered, losing moorings. Claws grew longer.

" _Kyrr,_ Calm down. Eģ skal vera hjáyður. I'll stay with you. Breathe." Einar yanked off his coat, wrapped it around him. "Don't think. Listen to my voice . . ."

His breathing slowed. He stopped shaking. He moved his hands and flexed elongated fingers, retracting his claws. He buried his head in his hands.

Sirens drew close.

Einar pulled the coat tighter. "Mikey. Look at me. We'll figure it out, okay? I'll buy you a book on mediation. Besides—you don't get angry much. Except at me."

"What'd they do?"

"We don't know. Marta's working on it. No answers yet."

"You can't help." He shook his head. "Jesus, I'm a fucking monster."

"Come on, Mikey." Einar sat beside him, wrapped an arm around his shoulder. "I can deal with you. I'm the monster man, remember?"

Michael shook his head. How could he not be freaked out? He was talking to a monster.

"It's not about fangs and claws. You save people. Don't think about yourself. Hell, it's been problematic to your health. Layton, even—"

"You had your share of dead partners . . ."

"Christ . . . that's why?"

He shook his head. "I can't risk—"

Einar waved him off. "Layton's the third person you've saved by throwing yourself into doom. Whatever your whacked out reasoning . . . " He squeezed his shoulder. "You need a better strategy. Have to work on that. But you're fearless about protecting others—that's not monstrous."

Michael lowered his head. "Kill me. It's safer. We can't risk it."

"That's stupid."

"But—"

"You protected me."

"What?"

"Gave me the goofy runic troll. I'm covered."

"I'm serious, Einar. Please. Kill m—"

"Enough. I'm not cutting off your head. Kait would never forgive me."

He stared. Einar was not normal.

"Don't give up, Mikey. Whatever you are. We don't give a shit about your issues." Einar pulled him close. "Let's get your wounds treated. Everything else comes later. Kait will agree—guaranteed. You aren't alone. Christ, you've saved three people and dealt with more trauma than most of us face in several lifetimes. Let us help."

Einar wasn't going to listen.

Michael shuddered and slumped forward.

Einar wrapped his arms around him.

## CHAPTER 25

Monsters were all the news again in Seward City. 'Monster Madness' screamed one headline. 'Freaking Monster Frenzy,' cried another, asking if a plague of locusts could be expected soon. Press had a field day, sensationalizing everything from the takedown of King Rat and strange vials with diabolical drug to the decapitation of one monster and capture of a live one, now confined under guard at the city holding center, screaming its head off. It refused to grant interviews.

Media personnel flooded the station and loitered along the sidewalks. Antennas and news vans clogged the streets. Cresson caught hell from his wife for not being on the scene. Rabid press personalities recalled the case of two years earlier and the cop who'd saved the boy from a monster before being killed in a fire.

Was it the same monster?

Would Seward City ever be free of monster hoards?

Reporters and bloggers clamored for news from one of the cops involved, begged for details about the monsters. Several reporters tried to track down the homeless guy who'd beheaded the monster with sheet metal, but he'd disappeared. No one knew his real name or where he'd gone.

Or they weren't talking.

The ME had been at the scene but refused to discuss it.

Camera crews camped in the streets, reporters and crewmembers assigned twenty-four hour 'snap the monster hunter' shifts.

The media were so focused on monsters they didn't notice lesser comings and goings. They weren't interested in a woman helping one slight, thin pale man hobble up the stairs, hands deep in pockets of a long coat.

Michael walked with halting steps, Kait beside him, arm around him.

Einar was right.

She hadn't blinked at the latest complication. When she arrived at the ME's office—where they'd taken him figuring it safer than the hospital—and Einar explained what had happened, she'd had a moment's pause—any sane woman would. Then she said they'd figure it out.

When Michael woke, he feared her reaction. Couldn't look at her until she pulled up a chair, lifted his head and kissed him on the lips. Told him claws were no big deal—they could be trimmed, like Loki's. She was impressed he'd unfurled them at threat to her. Besides, they'd met because he sang about a green-eyed dragon. Dragons and monsters were related, so he was her green-eyed monster.

He had no idea how to respond.

Einar told him to go with it.

They flummoxed him. He didn't take their trust for granted. He did, however, think they were crazy. He was frail, with dark circles under his eyes. His face betrayed how much his wounds ached. He wasn't playing persona games, wasn't pretending. Would have taken too much effort.

Cresson, Layton and Einar looked up at the same time.

Cresson stared. "How? Jesus Christ. Detective Lewis. Junior. You're dead—"

"Fuck? Where did you go? You saved my life. I . . ." Layton said.

"Einar didn't need another dead partner," Michael said. "He has his share."

Layton spun to Cresson. "What'd you say? Who is it?"

"Keep your damn mouth shut, Robert," Einar said.

"I don't understand. What's going on?" Cresson looked like his world had been skewered.

"I'm bringing Iceland's clearance rate back to perfect," Michael said. "Too bad for you."

Layton stared at Kait. His eyes narrowed. "Wait, you're his lawyer—"

She shook her head. "I'm an anthropologist."

Einar headed straight for them. He hugged Kait and leaned in to Michael, voice lowered. "Mikey. What are you doing? You look like hell. Marta said at least a week—"

"No."

"You shouldn't be walking around—"

He pulled a shaking hand out his pocket and grasped Einar's arm to quiet him. They both stared at it, longer than a human hand, fingers curled, nail beds deeper. Michael winced. Stuck it back in his pocket.

Claws? Undead? He was struggling to process it.

Einar slung an arm around him and led them into the hall. "What're you thinking, Mikey? You need rest."

Michael took a slow breath. "I want to give a statement. Families of the murdered children deserve closure. They spent three years not knowing, wondering. I know. I can identify the killer. And what those maniacs were trying to do."

Einar eyed Kait.

"I tried. Told him he could do this later."

He glanced at them. "I'll only talk about it once—I'll warn you, it's bad. Worse than any nightmare. But the cases should be closed. Their parents should know."

"Now?" Einar looked at him. "You're not ready. Have enough to deal with. Need time to . . . adjust. It can't wait?"

"They've waited too long." He was tired but determined.

"And you couldn't sleep thinking about it, right?"

"Yeah."

"Couldn't convince him to rest," Kait said. "I tried. Stubbornness has returned full-force."

"Shit, Mikey." Einar eyed him. "You ever going to learn?"

"Probably not . . ."

"What if it gets out? What if someone recognizes you? Evie's out there and she reamed Phil for his lack of exposure on the case. Christ, she'll pounce. You saw the vulture mob. They remember the hero cop who saved the boy two years ago. They're looking for the homeless man who decapitated the monster. Hello? Both you."

Michael closed his eyes. "I know." He swayed and Kait held him.

"Relax," she said.

He opened his eyes, shook his head.

"Crap," Einar said. "Press'll have a field day. They're insane about the monsters. They've hounded lock-up to interview Litsos." He looked Michael in the eye. "It worries me. Seriously worries me, for your sake. You up to it?"

"No. I'll hide at your house. With K and black beast. Away from people."

"Right." Einar shook his head. "Okay. You're crazy. Let's go. I'll start writing." He moved and then halted. "Wait. I have something." He returned to the office, took five long steps to his desk, grabbed two books and a tall beverage can and returned. Led them to the interview room, closed the door and sat beside them.

"I was going to drop these off this afternoon. But, since you don't need rest despite being shot twice and clawed in the chest, I'll present them before we get started." He set the books—The Mysteries of Bigfoot and Fundamentals of Meditation—and a can of Monster energy drink in front of Michael.

Michael looked at him. No, he was not normal. Thank God.

Kait shook her head. She smiled.

"Common sense. You need energy for recovery and fuel for the mind. Label says it's for monsters. Truth in advertising, I'm sure."

What planet had he come from?

Einar tapped the books with a finger. "Mediation will help with anger issues, which you might want to avoid. And . . . can I read you that story about Bigfoot?"

"Can't say no, can I?" Despite his fractured mind, mangled body, and the unpleasant recent discovery that he was, in fact, a monster, Michael smiled, remembering the conversation in the bookstore.

Einar raised an eyebrow. "I suspect now you believe me."

The End
Read on for an excerpt from

Bring Up the Bones

By S. E. Chase

Seward City and the Adirondack region aren't done with monsters. Long buried secrets begin to rise to the surface and the police search for a killer.

But it begs remembering: you never know what lurks in the wilderness.

Forthcoming in summer 2015

CHAPTER 1

## April 16, 2014

She drove east on the thruway from Utica, three boxed skeletons on her Mazda's back seat.

"Don't slam on the brakes. Bones will fly," Kait Jenret said aloud—despite being the only living passenger.

A guy in a rusted beater passed on the left, turned his head and snarled an insult.

She stared back but didn't respond. Usually she would have blown his doors off. Kait loved gunning the engine but eased her foot off the gas when the speedometer hit seventy—how would she explain her cargo to the cops?

She imagined the skulls, upright on bones in cardboard cartons, surrounded by darkness, sensing the motion. Did they know what was happening? Worry about being lost again?

If only her dark mood would pass.

At least the sun was shining, rare for Upstate New York in mud season. The first signs of spring—pink-tinged buds on trees and snowdrops peaking through the ground—brightened yards and hills along the Mohawk River. She rolled down the window to half and took a deep breath, wind hitting her face and blowing her dark hair in waves. Bracing but needed. Summer was coming at last. A few snow patches lay on the ground, but they'd soon be gone—and good riddance to everything they signified. It'd been a terrible winter. That she'd remained in New York State and hadn't returned to Texas seemed surreal.

She pondered her passengers' strange fate. Who tosses human skeletons? After thirty years in a small upstate museum, they'd been thrown away but saved by an intern appalled they'd been discarded. He snuck them to a larger institution in Utica where they were relegated to storage. They sat unstudied until a new curator found them in March and requested they leave the building immediately.

The small museum refused to take them back. Utica staff discovered they'd had been unearthed in Seward City and contacted Seward City Police, who referred them to the Medical Examiner's Office, where Kait, on leave from Baylor University's Forensic Anthropology Department, was consulting. It was a lot of bureaucratic shuffling for boxes of bones. But they deserved better than abandonment.

She pulled through the security kiosk, relieved her drive with the dead was over, and parked near a squat modernist building she and colleagues derided as 'the brick tank,' an urban renewal relic displaying the character of dull cinder blocks. Even a rare sunny day couldn't improve its blot on the municipal landscape.

Marta Lantanna, Seward City Medical Examiner and Robbie "RJ" Junkowski, a white-coated forensic tech, met her in the entry bay.

Kait stepped from the car and threw her sunglasses on the seat.

"Door-to-door service." RJ said. "Think your passengers appreciate it?"

Kait laughed. "Not likely."

Marta smiled and shook her head. "Even the live ones often don't."

RJ gave her a quizzical look.

"You're young." Marta opened the back door. "You'll learn. Courtesy and gratitude aren't common responses to our presence."

"Yeah. Grim Reaper's clean up crew." Kait circled to Martha and took a box from her. "People cringe when they see us coming."

RJ smiled. "Hey, we get a reaction."

Marta shook her head.

They carried the boxes to the forensic laboratory and set them on stainless steel examination tables. Kait and Marta slipped on blue nitrile gloves and opened the first box, unwrapping bones, inventorying them and placing them in rough position on the table, the disconnected semblance of a person.

"OCD alert, coming through. . ." RJ zipped around them. He held a small finger bone in a gloved hand, rotated so a catalogue number was visible. "Each is numbered. Black ink, neat penmanship." He set it down, reached for his digital camera and photographed it twice, once next to a ruler and once without, then repeated the process for each bone. He worked with precision and soon completed the first skeleton.

Marta looked perplexed. "Wrapped and numbered but no paperwork?"

Kait sighed. "No. Just a brief statement about unearthing them in Seward City in the 1960s." She moved the empty box to the counter. "Intern grabbed the bones. Didn't take the records. That's the story from Utica." She fired up her laptop and typed information about size, condition, wear marks and number system into a database.

RJ furrowed his brow. "Catalogue numbers—done by manic neat freak, I gotta add—suggest someone unearthed them at an archaeological dig."

"I agree. But the situation's weird. Site isn't identified or documented? Doesn't make sense." Marta finished unpacking the second skeleton then discarded her gloves and hung her lab coat on a hook. She smoothed her dress jacket, straightened her skirt and slipped a lanyard with identification badge around her neck. "I'd love to stay and help. This puzzle's more intriguing than budget meetings. But administrative duties beckon." She headed for the door but paused. "No information at all?"

"No," Kait said. "None in Utica—I asked, believe me. Intern was long gone. Staff had no idea how to find him. After he hoisted the skeletons to the top shelf, no one touched them. Not once." She shook her head. "They've shuttled through museums gathering dust since 1966."

"Cold." RJ pantomimed a shiver. "Your mortal remains forgotten in a cardboard box."

"Someone threw catalogued human skeletons away." Marta shook her head. "A first for me."

Kait nodded. "Me too. Thought I'd had my share of strange." When she worked in museums—before the unpleasant kidnapping pushed her back to forensic anthropology—she'd joke about her weird radar, tuned to the same frequency as a wide assortment of crazies who gravitated to her with odd requests. On the return from Utica, she decided her radar was still sending signals.

"Early 1990s, director at the small museum discarded them." She glanced at Marta. "Apparently the founding director authorized a dig in '66." She reviewed her notes. "Otisco Museum, that's the name, in Auburn. The later director dumped them by a rear door where the intern found them. I'll go talk to staff, track down information."

"Shit." RJ said. "Dude should be prosecuted. Ditching the dead. Nasty."

"Lots of things are nasty." Kait paused, fingers over the laptop keyboard. 'The world is nasty."

"There are a few bright spots," countered Martha.

RJ laughed. "That's the truth. But lots of bad air in the world, man."

"New York State has laws against disposal of human remains," Marta halted in the doorway. "But historic skeletons in museum collections wouldn't fall under those guidelines." She shook her head. "I don't understand—Auburn isn't near Seward City. Why come here? Why transport the remains three hours west? Sounds unethical."

Kait nodded. "Something's off." She looked from one table to another and brushed a gloved hand along the counter edge. Their nonidentity was disconcerting, especially for the way in which they'd been discovered and hauled away. At first glance, the bones looked clean. But they'd been in museum storage. No erosion, staining, or wear. Hadn't been gnawed by rodents or disarticulated and broken apart. Had to belong to someone, right? Perhaps native cultures, long-lost settlers or relics of a more ominous past. She wanted to soothe their anonymous souls. Recent experience had made her more tuned to the dead. "If only they could talk."

RJ snorted. "They'd be screaming."

"Hmm . . . something to be said for the silence of the deceased—but I suspect there's more to this story." Marta sighed. "Good luck. Let me know what you find out." She turned to leave, then stopped. "Any outside tests needed to identify them, consider approvals given. The least we can do." She smiled and with a wave of her hand headed to her senior administration meeting.

"They aren't prehistoric." Kait stepped back from the table with the smallest skeleton.

"Historic? Colonial soldiers, immigrant settlers, or wandering minstrels?" RJ set the skull from the second box on the table and snapped a digital image.

Kait smiled. "None of the above. More contemporary—they don't appear to have been in the ground long before they were unearthed. We'll test to verify, but I estimate they're twentieth century." She set a jawbone by a skull that still held a few teeth. Stroke of luck. They might yield DNA in remaining pulp or provide dental records. She and RJ stepped back, glancing at the two whole skeletons and almost completed third—forlorn on shining tables, alien in the florescent antiseptic glare.

RJ whistled and ran a hand through his hair. "Wow. Twentieth? Not cool. Could be my grandparents. How'd they end up in a museum?"

"Good question. An archaeological dig gone haywire? Fraud? Don't have an answer. If they were my relatives, I'd be pissed."

"Can you imagine? Your dead loved one reappearing years later?"

Kait glanced at him, began to speak but stopped.

I don't have to imagine it.

RJ, oblivious to her hesitation, had moved on, photographing more bones.

"Wait a minute . . . " Kait paced, walked again past each, leaning in for a closer look. "Shit."

"What?" RJ looked up.

"They aren't complete."

"Huh?"

"Missing a left hand. All of them."

RJ scrambled to her side. "Creepy," he said. "Just not right."

"Funny." She raised an eyebrow.

He broke into a sheepish grin. "Know what I mean. Sinister as in bizarro land. Maybe someone believed that 'left is evil' thing. Grandma used to slap me when I ate with my left hand. Said I'd go to hell. We didn't visit her much." His eyes jerked between the tables. "Someone didn't like lefties."

"Great." Kait looked at RJ. "I'm left-handed."

"Yeah. So am I."

"Hope it isn't a bad omen." Kait moved the other empty boxes to the counter. She'd had enough of myths and omens to last a lifetime. Or several.

"Isn't it always?" RJ shrugged. "All bad karma sinks down here. Rats, moles and the dead."

"Don't say that too loud."

"Why?"

"Mole gods might hear you and make it so."

He laughed.

"People listen to that crap," she said. "Think you're accusing them of dismissing you, or whining about not being with the big dogs in shiny offices. You know, the upstairs downstairs thing."

RJ laughed. "Yeah. I volunteer at the blood bank and hear 'em fight about it. Admin staff honchos have big glass-windowed offices over the river. Program people have a basement corner."

"Some things never change." She shrugged and returned to work. Gentle hands rotated the largest skull. Shattered edges with radiating hairline fractures led to a jagged hole in the occipital bone below the lambdoid suture. A knot tightened in her stomach. They didn't die of natural causes. She walked the aisle a third time, reexamining the other two skulls. Identical trauma. She swore. "Shit. Bad omen, worse karma—they were murdered."

RJ raised an eyebrow. "Murdered."

"Death by sharp object to the base of the skull."

"Damn. Serious bad karma."

"Our day just got more complicated." Kait pulled out her cell and called the Seward City Investigative Division.

Detective First Class Einar Hannesson and Detective Second Class Robert Layton walked through the door, escorted by a young tech with curly hair and red glasses. The girl eyed them, her nonstop chatter and jerky movements betraying nervousness in their presence. Einar seemed amused but Layton was annoyed. Kait made a mental note to speak with her later—first day jitters were normal, but she had to get used to dealing with cops. Came with the territory. The tech pointed, wished the detectives good afternoon and scurried away.

"We don't bite," Einar turned and yelled as she left. "Honest."

RJ looked up, surprised.

Layton shook his head.

Einar caught his partner's reaction. He smiled at Kait.

"Ever the people person," she said.

Tall and dressed as usual in suit and tie, he stepped forward and ducked a low hanging light fixture that'd been rotated to get closer to an exam table. He came to Kait's side and peered at the skeletons through wire-rimmed glasses.

" _Hvað er að frétta_ ," he said in Icelandic. "What's new?"

"The dead," she said.

His fingers brushed her arm.

Kait smiled. Interesting didn't do him justice. He'd lived in the states for years but had never lost the otherness that coming from the land of glaciers, geysers and volcanoes conveyed. That, and like some Icelanders, he believed (or claimed he believed) in ghosts, elves and other unworldly beings. He lauded Bigfoot sightings and cryptozoology news. Sometimes he did it for effect as an odd force field against bureaucracy and the crap of his job. At other times . . .

Whatever his secret rationale, he didn't hide his weird views. It drove other detectives, including his partner, crazy. He was a good cop but not an unthinking team player and his stubborn independence didn't sit well with Seward City's small parochial force.

Kait disagreed with them. Of course two detectives didn't like her either, including Layton. She didn't care.

"Tell me the story," Einar said.

"Three souls found their way back to Seward City."

"Don't be dramatic." Layton tugged on his tie. He stood in the doorway, eyes narrowed. When finished trying to straighten it, he fiddled with his cell phone—feigning checking for messages.

"It's the truth." She didn't hide the edge in her voice.

Layton snorted. "Like that matters to you."

"Enough, Robert." Einar shook his head. "Let it go."

"Right," Layton said.

He didn't follow when Einar and Kait circled the tables, footsteps in sync, reviewing the skeletons' condition, possible age and gender. RJ continued photographing the bones, dodging them as they walked.

"Museum skeletons," Einar said. "Interesting dilemma. Who throws them away?"

Kait shrugged. "People. Some of them are asses."

"Amen."

She laughed. No one would mistake either of them for a people person.

"Lacks archaeological romance . . ." Einar turned, brows raised. "Them coming from cardboard boxes."

"Agreed. But many skeletons in museum corners have nebulous backgrounds."

"Hmm. You might be jaded."

"Think so?" She peered up at him.

"Figures you'd get this call. It's weird." He tapped a finger along the table edge. "Right up your alley."

"I thought the same thing."

"Must've been bored driving the speed limit. No racing with the dead?"

She laughed. "Didn't need cops busting my ass with these passengers."

"I can imagine that conversation. Would've made some bored state trooper's day."

RJ laughed softly.

Kait smiled. Out of the corner of her eye she caught Layton glaring.

Einar rolled his eyes.

"He's in fine spirits this morning," she said.

"Robert likes cases with action. You know . . . to further his reputation and career. High profile crimes lead to promotion. This doesn't meet his requirements. Has the stench of Iceland on it, museums and monsters so he told me. Bitched the whole drive over." Einar slipped into an impression of his partner, voice high, agitated. "Dusty skeletons, dirty bones, not worth our time."

"Nor does it attract media," Kait said.

"Let's hope not."

"He thinks he wants it—but he's never endured the vulture gauntlet. Doesn't understand the cesspool it roils."

Einar nodded. "He doesn't have a fucking clue."

RJ finished photographing the third skeleton and turned to them.

"May I present Mr. and Mrs. Deadman and their little one." He bowed with a flourish. "Poor souls. Whoever they are." He slung the camera around his neck. "From where they're lookin' down, they're not happy."

"Maybe they're looking up," Einar said. "From the bowels of the Earth."

RJ eyed him. "Dark, man. Never thought of that."

"Yeah. Arrogant to assume all ancestors watch from above. More bad people in the world than decent ones, right?"

RJ nodded. "Can't argue with that."

Kait cleared her throat. "Focus, please."

Einar smiled.

RJ was flustered. "That's it, Kait. Photographed everything. I'll download the images and send them to you ASAP."

"Thanks," Kait said. RJ headed out the door, moving in animated steps down the hall.

Einar watched him leave. "New guy. Young."

"Behave."

"Impressionable."

"Go easy on him. We'd like him to stay."

"Yes, ma' am." Einar eyed her. "No troll or elf stories yet. No Bigfoot. No weird shit."

She nodded. "Exactly."

He turned serious. "Okay. Mentioned evidence of foul play. How'd they die?"

Kait shifted a skull and pointed to the hole.

He examined the wound.

"Sharp-force puncture wounds," she said. "Pointed object, inch and a half in diameter on right side, lower. Injury done with intent. All died the same way."

"Shit." Einar nodded. "That would've killed them. Estimates on ages?"

Kait shook her head. "Too soon for that."

"Native American? Early European?"

"Too recent to be prehistoric or early history archaeological finds." She paused. "Try twentieth century."

He whistled. "Interesting. Presents a problem, doesn't it?"

"You mean, why would someone dig them up?"

He nodded. "After they killed them. Why would someone bury and then unearth them?"

"At their oldest, they might date to the early twentieth. I think they're more recent. Post World War II, at least. Marta and I'll extract DNA tomorrow. We'll have answers in a week or so."

Einar sighed. "I'll start reviewing—"

"Are you done with the farce?" Layton huffed. He extended a wrist and stabbed at his watch. "Long enough Iceland. We've done the musty bones jaunt. You've been humored. Stop wasting time. Let's go."

Einar turned and put a finger to his lips. "Sshh, Robert, keep your voice down. You'll wake the dead."

Layton glowered. "So what. Like you said, they're dead."

Einar exhaled and ran a hand through his short grey hair. "Christ, get a sense of humor."

"We've no reason to be here. Don't need to get mixed up with this. Ancient history. It's obvious."

"Not obvious," Einar said. "Unnatural deaths."

"Dusty collections. Take them and stow them on a shelf."

Einar narrowed his eyes. "Robert, you heard Kait. Puncture wounds." He banged a fist in his hand. Smack. "Base of their skulls." Smack. "Murder victims."

"So you say. So she says."

Einar swore.

Kait sighed. Layton aimed his vitriol at her as much as Einar whenever she was involved in a case. He'd refused to forgive her for impersonating a lawyer three months earlier during a witness interview. He'd been fooled. And she was unapologetic, which Einar told her more than once he found inspiring—within earshot of Layton. That made him angrier.

"Let the ME deal with it." Layton glowered. "Let's go."

"It's not your call," Einar said.

"Don't take my word for it," Kait said. "Evidence will back me up." Layton had been appalled when Marta offered her a temporary position after the monster-filled fiasco. As if being fooled wasn't enough, he'd been humiliated during a chase with three suspects when one was decapitated—and its toothy yellow-eyed head had rolled alongside, eyes staring into his. He'd screamed like a baby, the fact of which spread through the department. Someone rubbed it in, leaving a small plastic monster with bobbling eyes on his desk every day for weeks. Layton would've been happy to never see her again. Instead he ran into her at crime scenes.

"We don't know why a museum excavated them," she said. "They ended up in storage, but it doesn't absolve the probability of murder. The bones don't lie." His discomfort amused her.

Get over it. It was Einar's idea and I was protecting Michael from your overzealous ass. Besides, he saved your life.

"It means," Einar said, "someone came up with a clever hiding place."

"Or took the museum for a ride," she said. "Used it as unsuspecting cover."

"The perpetrator covered their tracks well."

Layton huffed. "Whatever. Let someone else handle it."

Einar shook his head. "That's not how it works."

Kait suppressed a smile and held her tongue. Aggravating Layton wasn't constructive. It made Einar's job harder. He already dealt with too much departmental shit.

Layton glared. "Right. Lessons in manners from Iceland." He swore, turned and headed out the door. "I'll be at the car. Don't be late. Captain called a division meeting at four sharp. Despite what you think, you're not in charge."

Einar watched him go. " _Hann er að gera mig brjálaðan_. He's driving me nuts."

Kait sympathized. "He holds grudges."

"Guess plastic monsters didn't help."

"No, probably not."

"Well . . . it diffused the monster talk."

"You have a way with people."

"Yeah. Allison tells me the same thing. Pissing people off is an art."

"Good thing your wife loves you. She puts up with a lot."

"And Al loves to remind me of the fact." He laughed, but then his demeanor changed. "More important matters . . ." He pulled her away from the tables. Leaned against a counter and pushed his glasses back up on the bridge of his nose. "How's Michael? Any progress? Good week or a bad week?"

Kait sighed. She wanted to say Michael was his old self, but that couldn't happen. Ever. She crossed her arms and leaned beside him, head lowered. "Same. He's trying, but struggling. Still shut down. Some days are almost good, others not. Physically, he's healed. Emotionally, he's less unstable. Mentally, well . . .you've seen him. He puts on a game front at times, but can't hide it. He's terrified of losing control. Won't let down his guard. He repeats the same quandary over and over." She pushed an errant strand of hair out of her eyes. "He's adrift. Keeps saying he knows who he was but not who—what—he is."

"Shit. Does anyone really know?" Einar looked at her. "He worries too much."

"You tell him that."

"I have."

"I know. Wish it would sink in."

"Won't be easy. It's a rotten spot. Michael's a stubborn SOB when he puts his mind to it, maybe more than me if that's possible. Hell, one of the reasons I like him. But, makes it difficult to break through his armor. I've tried throwing work his way. He puts me off. I ask him to help with research. He refuses." Einar scuffed his heel against the tile floor. "Damned if I can figure how to pull him out of his funk. He's gotta know we don't give a shit what happened, in terms of him or his condition. Needs to get back to the world, take his mind off . . . things."

"Preaching to the choir, Einar."

"He can't hide forever."

"Thinks he can."

"Need to convince him otherwise. He's still here."

"Easier said than done." She exhaled. "It's difficult to know what to say. He's not your average trauma victim and agonizingly aware of it."

"I know. But I'm determined." Einar rested his arm on her shoulder. "Between us, you'd think we'd come up with something."

She nodded, more concerned than she was willing to admit. Not that she was fooling him. Einar worried about Michael, her fiancé and his friend, as much as she did. They'd been partners, Michael a rookie detective placed with him because no one wanted to work with Iceland. Unlike Layton, or the laundry list of failures, nine or ten partners over Einar's twenty-five year career, Michael had been easy to work with (most of the time), shared his dark humor and took his idiosyncrasies in stride. It amused them that other detectives kept a running tally of his failed partner statistics. Then that whole bad case exploded and Michael's life was turned upside down in unimaginable ways.

Kait touched Einar's sleeve. "Sorry he hasn't been communicative. Some days I'm lucky to get three words out of him or a reaction other than the thousand-mile stare. But he's read every book you've given him."

"Really? Even _Abominable Snowmen, Legend Come to Life_?"

"Yes." She smiled. "The monster books are strange but effective comfort coming from you."

"Hmm, a kindred spirit."

"Or sarcasm mixed with concern. Another special skill."

"Is there any other way? Too many people go through life with no sense of humor."

She sighed. "Wish his sense of humor would return."

"Give him time." Einar paused. "He's dealing with a lot of crap. Christ. Realizing you're no longer human, undead, can't die unless your head's chopped off and possibly dangerous isn't easy to come to terms with. Sucks. I'd be lousy processing it, probably get wasted every night trying to forget. I'd be impossible to live with. Al would kill me."

Kait thought for a moment. "I'm strangely reassured knowing he's handling it better than you would."

"I'll walk over tomorrow night. He need another monster book?"

"Anything to keep his mind occupied." She hugged him. "Thanks. From both of us."

"Don't need to say it . . . " He waved her off.

She smiled. Einar was trying to be supportive and give them space. He and Allison had made the generous offer of an old hunting cabin on their property. It was small and heated only by a wood-burning stove. But it gave them a place to stay while they figured things out.

After Michael had died, she'd sold their house, gave away her stuff, most of their joint possessions and put his things into storage. Then accepted a job in Texas, not able to remain on the East Coast—too many reminders of what she'd lost. Two years later, he'd reappeared, a strange damaged phantom. When Einar contacted her, she put her life on hold and returned, determined to help. Then extended her leave of absence. They'd made remarkable progress considering how messed up he'd been, but they had a long way to go.

Einar stepped to the table with the child's skeleton. Kait followed, picked up the skull with gloved hands and turned it over. Pointed to the eye socket edge where a cut mark suggested a struggle.

Einar swore. "Poor kid. Didn't deserve to end up an unidentified museum piece."

"No one does," Kait said.

He motioned to where Layton had been standing. "Come on, Robert, let's go. Coordinate tasks. Review missing person reports, look for victims missing left hands. Maybe we can clear this before the summer crazies flock . . ." He stopped and peered at Kait. "Oh, wait. He deserted me."

She smiled. "Sorry. I have that effect on him."

"That's stupid."

"Perhaps so, but it's true."

Einar shrugged. "His loss."

"Thanks . . . "

"Except for Michael," Einar said, "this damn partner thing doesn't work. It's going to be a pissed-off ride to the station."

She laughed. "Have fun."

"I won't. You know it." He shrugged, grinned and walked out of the lab. She watched his tall figure with laconic gait disappear at the end of the hall.

### *

Kait stepped through the door and dumped her messenger bag on the small table. "Hey Michael."

He didn't answer.

She called again. He wasn't in the front room so she raised her voice—"Einar wants to know if you need more reading material."

The only response was a thud. Loki, their black Belgian sheepdog, jumped off the bed and romped to greet her, tongue lolling, tail wagging. She rubbed the scruff of his neck and stepped to the galley kitchen, grabbed a beer from the 1950s GE fridge and went to find him, dog following. Her footfall echoed on the hardwood floor.

She wandered into the bedroom but would have been surprised to find him there. He insisted on sleeping in the other small room, still healing, physically mangled—his words—and afraid of moving too fast, pushing her. At least that's what he told her. His reticence was tangled in darker fears.

She crossed the hall. A half-read book, _Monsters in America_ , Einar's latest reading material, lay spine up on the futon. Visible from the window, Michael was chopping wood. She watched for a moment, relieved he'd pulled himself out of bed, gotten dressed. Each small step to normalcy was a victory. He was focused, working in easy rhythm. She smiled. Physical activity was good, provided an outlet for his suppressed confusion and frustration. Besides, they needed wood—nights were still cold. She knocked on the window, got his attention and went outside, Loki on her heels.

"Hey K." Michael smiled, his dark green eyes shadowed, hollow. He laid the hatchet on the ground and wiped his hands on a tattered pair of jeans.

Loki walked over and nosed his thigh. He scratched the dog's head.

Kait brushed bark chips off his shirt and squeezed his arm. "Sanity check. How are you?" They'd agreed—she could ask once a day and he would give an unvarnished answer.

"Another day in eternity." He sighed. "Not good. Sorry."

"That bad?"

He nodded, dark hair falling into his eyes.

"Michael, allow yourself perspective." She wrapped an arm around his shoulder and pressed him close. "I keep hoping you'll listen. You're a good man." How could she reach him, convince him she didn't care what he was or wasn't?

"Yeah. Man or mutant monster." He hesitated. "Good or evil . . ."

"Give it a rest. You don't—"

"Sorry." He hugged her. "I have my concerns. If I said I was shiny and happy, I'd be lying."

"True." She swigged her beer and pulled him to an Adirondack chair, pushed him to sit. He offered no resistance. She crouched and leaned close. "I don't expect shiny. That'd be annoying. But you can be happy. Not a crime. You did nothing wrong."

Michael nudged her. "Victim of circumstance?"

"Selfless impulsive rescuer." She kissed the scar on his face. "And you know it."

"Hmm . . ."

"I saw Einar this afternoon. He's worried about you."

He pursed his lips. "How was Utica?"

"Nice deflection."

"Let's not talk about me."

She exhaled, giving in to his reticence. She cared too much to goad him when he wasn't feeling up to it. "Long day. Five hours out and back. Four assembling skeletons. Another hour finishing reports."

"How many people?"

"Three. All stabbed at the base of the skull with a pointed object."

He raised an eyebrow. "Murdered?"

"Looks that way."

He seemed momentarily lost in thought.

"Michael?"

"Weird. Did . . . you expect that?"

"No, of course not. It was supposed to be a routine 'retrieve museum collections' trip." Well, routine for her. Driving across New York with skeletons was not normal for most people.

His mouth twisted in a sly smile. "Your weird radar kicked in again."

She laughed and elbowed him.

He folded his long hands together and leaned closer. "What's their background?"

"Minimal. I'm going to the museum that discarded them. See what I can uncover." She paused. His eyes flashed, a spark of interest in the idea of murdered museum skeletons—he was conversing, displaying more awareness than he'd shown in months. His face reflected the curiosity she loved so much about him, before . . . everything happened. Figured old bones would have that effect.

Michael watched.

"Out and back trip," she said. "Less than a day."

He rested his chin on his hands and stared at the ground. Closed his eyes.

She leaned in, arm extended on the chair. Nudged his shoulder. "Come with me."

"No."

"Yes."

"I can't."

"It's been long enough. Please Michael. The skeletons interest you, I can tell. If you want to know more—"

"I do . . . but . . . I don't trust me. You know that."

"But I trust you."

"K, it's no good. You don't understand."

She sighed at the familiar conversation. She didn't know how to smash his self-contained resignation, yearned for his goofy sardonic humor. "I'll keep you on a short leash." She smiled. "I'd like the company. No one will know you. I won't expect you to talk. Come out for a while. Take a walk in the world."

The world?

I wish.

Sounded simple. But—whose world? Michael wanted to go. For her. Of course she'd picked up his interest in the wandering bones—the same weird sense of curiosity had brought them together, connected them. Hell, she knew him better than anyone except maybe Einar. Or had. Until.

He tilted his head. A small man, he was thin, hadn't been eating much since he'd resurfaced and been shot. His dark hair was longish, in need of a haircut. It framed an unshaven face with long scar running down its side. He always wore a long sleeve shirt to cover his mangled arms, seldom glanced in a mirror. Didn't want to stare back at the lost soul, hated seeing the damage—a forever reminder. Freaked him out.

He'd recovered from bullet wounds received when saving Layton's life but struggled to process his altered reality. During the last case he and Einar had worked more than two years ago, he'd been killed. As in one hundred percent dead . . . and then reanimated. He'd emerged in a fog, not sentient, no longer human, manipulated and mutated into a monster. Hell, he was only around because two doddering senior citizens had failed to chop off his head.

Monster and mistake—an appalling double negative.

Monster. Had so many twisted meanings. What kind he wasn't sure, but specifics didn't matter as much as the whole sick concept. Wasn't something anyone would be excited to find out, given the horrific possibilities—of gnashing fangs and claws, guts and gore. More like being hit by a semi, ground into cement, smashed into a million bloody pieces, scraped into a pile and then asked if you were feeling a bit under the weather.

With Einar and Kait's help and much internal struggle, his memory returned. But it made things worse—he remembered being bitten, tortured. And dying. He'd told them the whole tale once, narrating nonstop with eyes closed because he couldn't deal with their stunned expressions. He'd determined never to talk about it again.

He feared what anger unleashed. Like a rabid dog before final madness, it built to a crescendo of fangs and claws, but he had no idea of the parameters. Did other strong emotions cause reaction? It terrified him. He stayed in control by living a minimal cloistered existence. Never going beyond a strict set of rules. Boring as hell. Many days he wanted to smash his forehead into a wall or drink to oblivion, especially when he looked at her and thought how goddamn beautiful and strong she was. He ached to forget his fears, but didn't want to find out how far he could go into viciousness. Paralyzed by soul-numbing terror—he might cause her destruction.

If he had a soul.

Now Kait sat in front of him, cajoling with words and touch. She was again doing her damnedest to pry him out into the world. She or Einar attempted it weekly, stalwart soldiers scaling his defenses one battlement at a time. He appreciated their dedication to his mental health and didn't take their faith for granted. He owed them everything.

Wanted to make sure they were safe.

They were wearing down his reserve. How many times could the tree be hit with the ax before falling? Still, dark fears crippled him—they'd be in his line of fire . . . of claws, jaws and teeth. Those closest to him could pay the highest price for loss of control.

He didn't want to risk it.

Kait put a hand to his chin, pulling him out of his dark reverie.

"Michael . . . "

"No. K, what if —"

"Relax—"

"No. Too dangerous."

"I'll worry about it." She wrapped her arm around his shoulder. "I don't care if you get mad. Don't care if you monster out. Claws, teeth, screaming raving lunacy, flashing eyes and whatever."

He shook his head. He loved her fearlessness but she'd never seen it happen.

"How do I get it through your brain?" She knocked on the side of his head and ran a hand through his hair. "How?"

He exhaled. "If anything goes wrong . . ."

"Call Einar."

"But —"

"I have him on express dial. And Allison."

Michael was silent.

"He'd drop whatever he was doing."

"I know."

"I'm asking you on a mission with skeletons, possible murders, and missing left hands. Wrapped in a veneer of weird culture. Your kind of macabre case—and no social interaction. None. At all. Except with me, that is."

Damn, but she was pounding his reserve into submission.

"It's creepy."

He loved the spark in her eyes. He shook his head. Trying not to give in.

"Michael."

"Playing with fire. Not a good idea."

She grasped his hands. "Please. Let me in. You can't hide forever."

"Yes. I can." He squeezed her fingers. "I have to . . ."

"You don't know that. Take a chance."

"No."

"Einar would appreciate it. He's getting crap from Layton."

"Layton's an idiot."

"Agreed. Do something about it."

Michael ran a hand through his hair then let it fall hard on the arm of the chair.

She sighed. "You'll piss off Layton if he finds out."

He was silent.

"Really piss him off."

He looked into her eyes.

"Maybe so much his head will explode. You'd make Einar's year."

"No, K, I . . ."

She flailed her fingers open and apart in a starburst. "A meltdown akin to the apocalypse."

He smiled. It was a persuasive argument.

"Come on. For you partner."

"Former partner."

"For me."

He hesitated. After months of solitude, three unfamiliar words escaped. "I give in." His lips bent into a half smile. "I'll go, to help Einar. Creepy is intriguing. Pissing off Layton's a bonus."

"Good." She smiled and kissed him. "It's about time."

Michael knew she considered it a monumental victory by the gleam in her eyes. He kissed her in return, holding her in his arms, fingers wound in her hair. Christ, it made him want her more. He kissed her with urgency.

Do not loose control.

In his head, he imagined the tipping point, passion overwhelming reason. Fuck. He couldn't do that to her. He pulled away, hands shaking. "Maybe, on second thought . . ."

"Too late. You said yes."

"K—"

"Can't take it back."

He took a slow breath. "Nonspeaking, nonsocial role only."

She sighed.

"Please. It's a start, okay?"

"Fine. Agreed." She grasped his chin and turned his head to face hers. "One favor?"

"Yeah?"

"Shave."

**About S. E. Chase**

S. E. Chase has spent a career as a curator, interpretive specialist and exhibition planner in history and technology museums. As is common in the 'many hats' world of nonprofits, she has written more than her share of grant applications, exhibition scripts, budget statements and management reports. She is the author of several nonfiction history publications about places and people in New York State.

After spending more than a decade in the snowy winters of the Finger Lakes and Upstate New York, she decamped to the more temperate Mid-Atlantic and Chesapeake Bay region.

S. E. loves traveling (and, yes, has been to Iceland), beer brewing, photography and exploring. She's a musician, artist, writer and lover of animals, currently answering to a cat and a Shiba Inu.

This is her first novel.
