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 i
n 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 nurs
e 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.