Nocturnal (45 page)

Pookie turned to Bryan. “Bri-Bri, it’s three-thirty in the morning. I
suggest we don’t sit here and wait for Biz-Nass to call us back. Everyone is cashed out. I need some sleep, Bro. Let’s all go home and hit it in the morning.”

Bryan’s jaw muscles twitched. Robin knew he didn’t want to wait for even a second, but he trusted Pookie.

“All right,” he said. “Tomorrow.”

Robin saw the three men out.

S
o much
pain
.

The dream’s blurry swirl engulfed him, lulled him, but the pain in his belly, the
fire
in there — that felt more real than anything Bryan had ever known. How could anything hurt so much? Being dragged, being kicked … what would happen to him now?

He shouldn’t have gone out alone, and now it was too late.

Savior had him.

What would death be like? Would he go to the Hunting Ground like the old people said, or would he just end? The religion, it was all a lie, he knew, because he’d drawn the ward to chase the monster away and yet the monster still got him.

Bryan’s hands and feet pulled against the restraints, but he was already too weak. The thing in his mouth muffled his cries for help.

Sliding on the ground now, across grass, his stomach screaming with agony. Where was the monster taking him?

Bryan looked ahead. He saw a cellar door, the angled kind that led down into a basement.

The monster released him. The monster in his cloak, a faceless man-shaped thing of dark green, it opened the cellar door. Inside, shadows.

The monster turned, grabbed Bryan by the neck and dragged him to the door. Bryan slid off the grass and onto concrete steps. The monster pulled him down,
thump-thump-thump
along the steps, rough edges digging into Bryan’s shoulder and hip as he slid. The shadows grew, engulfed him, swallowed him up until there was nothing but blackness.

Bryan woke to someone pounding on his apartment door.

He opened his eyes, blinked — was he still dreaming? If so, he was dreaming about his messy apartment and the cardboard boxes he had yet to unpack.

He sat up on his couch.

The door pounded again. From outside, a yell: “Bri-Bri, rise and shine!”

He stood, shuffled to the door and opened it. Pookie walked in, two cups of steaming coffee in hand.

“Pooks, what are you doing here?”

“We have to go see Mister Biz-Nass. We left him a message last night, remember?”

Pookie stepped inside. Bryan shut the door. He was still groggy, but now he recalled Pookie calling Biz-Nass the night before. “Yeah, I remember. Sorry, I’ll get ready.”

“Answer your phone much?” Pookie said. “I was getting worried that I’d find you in the center of one of those bloody symbols.”

Did that mean Pookie worried Bryan would be a victim, or the perp? Maybe that was a question best left unasked.

“I guess I fell asleep on the couch,” Bryan said. “I was watching TV.”

The exhaustion, the stress, the uncertainty — those things had been weighing on him, combining with the last remnants of the physical aches, joints that felt like they were stuffed with broken marbles and the lingering

     
[it’s not cancer it’s an organ]

                                         chest pain.

But he didn’t feel those things anymore. In fact, he felt no pain at all.

“Bri-Bri, you get any sleep?”

Bryan shrugged. “Four hours, maybe?”

“Well, you look better,” Pookie said. “Way better, in fact.” He handed Bryan the coffee. “Here’s your milkshake. Four sugars, three creams, just the way you like it.”

“Thanks.”

Pookie walked to the coffee table in front of the couch. On it was Bryan’s pad, a pencil, and a scattering of hastily scrawled protection symbols. “Bryan, did you have another nightmare?”

Bryan started to say no, but stopped. He had vague wisps of something grabbing him, beating him, maybe even stabbing him. He couldn’t lock it down.

“I did,” he said. “Worse than the others.”

“
Worse?
Ummm, do we need to drive somewhere, then? See if there’s a body?”

Bryan shook his head. “Not unless the body is mine. I didn’t stalk anyone. This time I think something got me.”

“Got you? Like,
killed
you?”

Bryan tried to remember. A few more fuzzy images filtered to the surface of his thoughts. “Yeah. I dreamed about the guy in the cloak, Pooks. The archer. In the dream his name was Savior.”

“Savior? Wasn’t the
Saviors
the group that Biz-Nass said burned Marie’s Children at the stake?”

Bryan nodded. “Yeah, you’re right. This guy in the cloak, he messed me up pretty bad. He dragged me down some steps. I’m not sure what came next. All I know is that I don’t think I’ve ever felt so afraid in my life. He was going to do something to me.”

Pookie nodded. He looked worried, like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. “What happened then?”

Bryan shrugged. “Don’t know. I woke up, drew some symbols, felt better, then went right back to sleep. I didn’t go out and put a gun in a kid’s face, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Pookie forced a smile. “Of course not. Drink your coffee and shower up. Biz said he was making an exception to see us this early, so let’s move it.”

H
ELLO AGAIN OFFICER POOKIE … HELLO OFFICER
FUCKER FUCKER DICKER PRICKER
.

Pookie smiled wide. Biz-Nass was actually happy to see them. “Biz-
Nass
, old boy, how they hanging?”

LONG AND RED AND READY FOR BED … COME IN COME IN
.

Pookie and Bryan sat in the blue plastic chairs. Pookie was keeping a close eye on his partner. The night before in the private autopsy room, Pookie had thought Bryan was about to snap. The man’s pain seemed to be gone, but he hadn’t gone back to the reserved, emotionless guy that Pookie knew and loved. Now Bryan’s eyes showed a steady state of simmering anger, and he had an aura of impending violence that seemed a tiny spark away from erupting.

THIS BETTER BE IMPORTANT. IT’S TEN IN THE MORNING AND I DON’T EVEN KICK MY BITCHES OUT OF BED UNTIL WELL PAST NOON
.

“We found something else,” Pookie said. “Maybe you can tell us what it means. Bryan, show him.”

Bryan thumbed his phone, calling up a picture of the bloody arrowhead. He set it faceup on the table’s red velvet, then slid it forward. Biz-Nass didn’t move — he just stared down at the screen. He finally looked up, first at Pookie, then at Bryan.

Biz-Nass started to pant. He tried talking without putting the voice box to his throat. Pookie couldn’t make out the hissing whisper, but he was pretty sure there was a
fucker
and
pricker
in there somewhere.

Bryan pointed to Biz’s throat. “Your hardware, man. Don’t forget your hardware.”

Biz-Nass stared at Bryan with real fear, then remembered his voice box. He lifted the device to his throat.

SORRY I
FUCK-FUCK
 … I MEAN I
FUCK-FUCK
 … I FORGOT MYSELF
.

“You’ve seen this before,” Pookie said. “Why does it scare you so bad?”

I’M NOT SCARED … I DON’T KNOW WHAT IT IS
.

“Biz,” Pookie said in a calm voice, “that article you have on the Golden Gate Slasher, it’s been wiped out of existence everywhere else. You know about the symbols. You know about Marie’s Children. You were writing a fucking
book
on the subject, Bro — there’s no way you didn’t research the arrow that killed the Slasher.”

Mr. Biz-Nass looked at each of the cops, then spoke in a tone so pleading even the mechanical effect couldn’t hide it.
I HAVEN’T TALKED. I SWEAR.
MMMMM
PLEASE DON’T HIT ME
.

Maybe Biz faked his Tourette’s, maybe he didn’t, but Pookie knew he wasn’t faking this. Wide eyes, fast breaths, open mouth, hands clutching — Biz thought he was about to get his ass kicked.

“We are
not
going to hit you,” Pookie said. “People are dying. We need to know how to stop it.”

Biz-Nass just shook his head.

The first time Pookie and Bryan had visited, Biz-Nass had thought they’d come to rough him up. He’d thought that when they mentioned the symbols. Biz had formally requested info on the symbols twenty-nine years ago — requested that info from the SFPD.

Pookie suddenly thought of Chief Zou, leaning forward, her knuckles on the autopsy table, threatening Bryan Clauser with career destruction if not jail.

“Amy Zou,” Pookie said. “You ever have a run-in with her, Biz? Or how about Rich Verde?”

Mr. Biz-Nass set the voice box down and put his hands flat on his velvet table. He took a deep breath, tried to collect himself. His left hand put the voice box back to his throat, while his right hand pointed to his thrice-broken, crooked nose.

MMMMM WHO DO YOU THINK DID THIS TO ME?

Bryan leaned forward. “Zou and Verde did that to you? Why?”

SHE TOLD ME TO STOP WORKING ON THE BOOK. MMMMMM SHE
BITCHY-BITCHY-BITCHY-CUNTY-CUNTY
TOLD ME IF I DIDN’T LEAVE IT ALONE, SHE’D KILL ME
.

Amy Zou, beating the hell out of a civilian. A week ago, Pookie wouldn’t have believed it for a second. Now? It sounded par for the course.

“Biz,” Bryan said, “we’re going after Zou. She’s protecting a vigilante killer. You help us find him, you help us bring her down.”

Biz-Nass stared, his eyes narrowing in disbelief. He looked at Pookie.

MMMMM IS THIS TRUE?

Pookie put his right hand on his heart. “Scout’s honor.”

Biz licked his lips, then nodded. He reached out a trembling hand, picked up Bryan’s cell phone and stared at the picture.

WHAT KIND OF BODY DID YOU FIND THIS IN?

“Caucasian male,” Pookie said. “A cop killer. Six-foot-one, two hundred and thirty pounds. Full beard.”

WAS HE WEARING A COSTUME?

“No,” Pookie said. He looked at Bryan. “But we think others who might have been working with him were.”

Biz-Nass nodded, as if that was what he expected to hear.

THIS V-CROSS IS THE SYMBOL OF THE SAVIORS. THERE SHOULD BE ANOTHER SYMBOL ON THE SHAFT … AN EYE WITH A DAGGER THROUGH IT.

Bryan took the phone, flicked to the next photo — the arrow shaft — and set it on the table in front of Biz-Nass.

The fortune-teller stared, then nodded.

SAVIORS KILL MARIE’S CHILDREN. YOUR COP KILLER WAS IN THE CULT. THESE SYMBOLS ARE ON ALL OF THE ARROWHEADS. HE HAND CARVES THEM.

“He?”
Pookie said. “You know who makes these?”

Biz-Nass nodded.
IF I TELL YOU, PROMISE YOU WON’T COME BACK IN A FEW MONTHS AND BEAT ME SILLY?

“Why would we do that?”

The fortune-teller shrugged.
THAT’S WHAT AMY ZOU DID. I TOLD YOU SHE ROUGHED ME UP. SHE CAME TO ME JUST LIKE
DICKER PRICKER
YOU GUYS ARE NOW. SHE WANTED INFO ON THE ARROWS, WANTED TO KNOW WHO MADE THEM. I TOLD HER. TWO YEARS LATER, SHE AND VERDE BEAT ME UP, TOLD ME IF I DIDN’T
SHITTYBALLS!
STOP WORKING ON THE
FUCKLESNIFF!
BOOK THEY WOULD KILL ME
.

Amy Zou had been tracking down an arrowhead. Had she been tracking the person who killed the Golden Gate Slasher? If so, why had she then come back and forced Biz-Nass into silence?

“You have our word,” Pookie said. “We’re not going to lay a finger on you.”

Biz-Nass held out a fist to Pookie.
WORD IS BOND?

Pookie bumped fists and nodded. “Word is bond.”

The fortune-teller then held a fist out to Bryan.
WORD IS BOND?

Bryan rolled his eyes. “What are you, sixteen years old? I’m not bumping fists, for fuck’s sake.”

Biz-Nass didn’t move his hand. Bryan looked to Pookie.

“Just do it,” Pookie said.

Bryan sighed, then bumped fists. “Word is bond.”

Biz-Nass nodded and smiled.
THE GUY
’
S NAME IS ALDER JESSUP.

Pookie’s skin tingled. Now they really had something. “Biz, if Alder Jessup
makes
the arrows, who
shoots
them?”

I NEVER FOUND OUT THAT PART, I SWEAR.

Bryan reached out and gently took his phone. “That’s okay. Know where this Alder Jessup lives?”

Biz leaned forward, waved his right hand over the blue crystal ball.
I SEE SOMETHING IN YOUR FUTURE, OFFICER
DICKER PRICKER FUCKER SUCKER
. SOMETHING WE MYSTICS CALL A GOOGLE SEARCH
.

He looked up.
THAT’S ALL I KNOW. GOOD LUCK
.

Bryan offered his hand. “Thank you.” Biz-Nass shook it, then raised his palm and extended it toward Pookie.

UP HIGH, MY NIZZLE
.

Pookie gave Biz-Nass a high five, then followed Bryan out of the office.

Pookie already had his cell phone in hand. “No coal for the choo-choo today, Bri-Bri. I’m calling Black Mister Burns and telling him to get anything he can on this Alder Jessup.”

Bryan nodded. He seemed to be focusing on staying calm — as if he
had
to focus or he’d wind up kicking the holy hell out of the first person to cross his path.