Nocturnal (49 page)

Pookie dialed Black Mr. Burns.

And where the
fuck
was that kung pao shrimp?

B
ryan waited.

Bryan watched.

He sat on an old five-gallon paint bucket he’d found on the roof, his head just high enough to see over the roof’s low wall. He’d positioned himself so a smokestack rose behind him — no silhouette, no outline. Six stories above Erickson’s backyard, just past midnight with a starless sky, and Bryan Clauser was all but invisible.

He watched the back of the old Victorian, at least what he could see through the darkness and the trees. The small green space looked almost like a terrarium: trees reaching up high but hemmed in on all sides by concrete, glass and painted wood far taller than the trees themselves. The surrounding buildings left the backyard in shadow most of the day — at night, the area under the trees was as black as the overcast sky itself.

He could see something through the trees, something soaked in deep shadow at the base of the house, something … 
slanted
. The leaves and branches obscured the shape, but that shape bothered him. It was important; he didn’t know why.

At the back of the yard, opposite the Victorian, a narrow space slid between the building Bryan was on and one across from him, a thin alley of grass and trees that led into other backyards. He’d checked the satellite map and knew that one could come out the back of the Victorian, go through the backyard, walk between the buildings and — coated in shadow the entire time — reach Gough Street to the west. A perfect setup. The archer could use that path to come and go unseen.

To go out and hunt.

He’s just like me. He hunts killers, the deadliest game there is
.

Movement at the base of the house drew Bryan’s attention.

Through the obscuring tree, he saw a change in the shape that disturbed him so. The shape … it was
opening
. He sucked in a breath and held it, eyes wide with the fresh fear of last night’s terrifying dream.

The shape was a cellar door.

A cellar door that led
down
.

Drenched in thick shadow, he saw something come out of that door. The door shut, then that something moved. Smooth movement.
Effortless
movement.

In his pants pocket, Bryan’s cell phone let out a
boo-beep
. He twitched
a little, suddenly afraid the something would hear, would come for him, but he was six stories up and the phone’s sound was little more than a whisper.

The moving shadow crossed the yard, then stopped, vanishing beneath a tree. Bryan waited. The shadow moved to another tree, where it stopped again.

The shadow was making sure no one was watching.

Another few steps, almost between the buildings now. A thin bit of light fell upon the figure and Bryan saw it—

A dark green cloak.

The cloak hung almost to the ground, big hood pulled up over the wearer’s head. Slipping beneath the cover of nighttime trees, the cloak was a silent shape sliding across the grass.

The cell again let out a
boo-beep
. Pookie, trying to reach him. Bryan ignored it.

The shape moved to the base of Bryan’s white building. Bryan leaned out, carefully, but couldn’t see anything in the shadows down there — the cloak, and whoever was in it, had vanished.

Bryan hadn’t seen a bow. Had there been one somewhere under that cloak? He knew better than to give chase; by the time he got down to the street the perp would be blocks away in an unknown direction. Calling in a BOLO would be futile — Zou or Robertson or Sharrow would just cancel it, and know exactly what Bryan was doing.

The cloaked figure was gone, but the
house
wasn’t going anywhere. This could be Bryan’s chance to find some answers. Maybe the vigilante had information on Marie’s Children. At the very least, he might find some custom-made arrowheads that could connect Erickson to Blackbeard’s murder.
Something
that would let Bryan and Pookie push back against Zou.

No one is above the law.

The cell phone let out a third
boo-beep
. Bryan looked once more to make sure he’d lost sight of the cloaked figure — he had — then pulled out the phone. He didn’t want to mess with the stupid two-way button, so he just dialed instead.

“Bryan!” Pookie answerd. “You okay?”

“Pooks, I saw him, he’s moving.”

“I’m already on my way,” Pookie said. “I’m in the car now. Don’t do anything.”

Bryan forced himself to whisper, as it was the only way he could control his excitement. “I can’t believe it, I saw a guy in a big-hooded green
cloak. He came right out of these storm-cellar doors in the back of Erickson’s house, and the way he
moved
, man, like a … wait, you’re already on the way?”

“Ten minutes, tops.”

Something was wrong. “Why are you on your way before I called you to come get me?”

A pause. A long pause.

“Pooks,” Bryan said, “answer my question.”

He heard Pookie let out a big breath. This didn’t sound good.

“Bryan, it’s over. Zou came to my apartment. She’s kicking us out of San Francisco. She said if we quit now, she can get us a job anywhere in the country.”

No. Not now, not when he was so close. The nightmares, the killings, the connection with Rex, the weird Zed chromosome … the answers might be right inside that house.

“Bryan? It’s not so bad. I hear Hawaii is great.
Honolulu Homicide
has a real nice ring to it.”

Zou had fired them? But the house … there
had
to be something in the house.

“Bryan? You there? We’re done, did you hear me?”

“I think the house is empty, Pooks.”

“Do
not
go in there, man. If you go in there, we’re done as cops,
for good
, and trust me, she will send your ass to prison. Just get the fuck out of there.”

None of that mattered. Bryan knew he was on the edge of madness. He didn’t care about his job. He didn’t care about prison.

All he cared about was finding the truth.

“Bryan, dude, I am
begging
you. Wait for me,
please
.”

The slate-blue Victorian called to Bryan.
I know what you don’t, come and play … come and play
 …

“Bryan! Answer me, man. You
can’t
go—”

Bryan hung up. He turned the phone completely off, put it in his pocket, then headed for the tree that led down to the sidewalk.

T
ard tried to put it all together, but it was confusing. His skin itched. This roof always made him itchy. But he dare not scratch, dare not even
move
, because the monster had left the house.

Tard’s job in life was to be terrified. Every night.
Every single night
he watched the monster come out of the house and disappear somewhere out on the streets. Tard never knew where he went. The monster could double back somewhere, close in on Tard and then it would be too late — Tard would feel an arrow, or a knife, or a bullet.

The only time Tard could breathe easy was for about five minutes when the monster returned to the house’s back door, but then the feeling slipped away — maybe the monster had another door, a
secret
door, maybe it slipped out, circled around the block, scaled a building, and …

Tard forced the thoughts away. Focus. This was an important job. Sly had told him so. Important, and tricky, like James Bond. That’s what Tard wanted to be, like James Bond, all smooth and stuff.

Tard’s hands trembled as he reached down — slowly — to pick up the cell phone. He couldn’t have it on his body, not when he was hiding, so he just set it on the ground.

He dialed.

Sly answered on the second ring.

“Chameleon,” he said. “How goes your mission?”

Chameleon
. That’s what Tard wanted to be called, but no one called him that. Not without laughing, anyway. No one except Sly. Sly never laughed.

“Sly, he left the house.”

“Good man,” Sly said. “Just stay there, call me when he comes back in.”

“But can’t I join you guys this time?”

“You need to stay,” Sly said. “Something glorious is happening, Chameleon. It’s happening tonight. We must know when the monster returns. We can’t do this without your bravery.”

Tard wanted to go with Sly and the others. He was sad he could not. But Sly said this job, the watching, was very important.

“Okay, Sly, I’ll stay. I’ll be brave. Has Marco come back yet?”

“No,” Sly said. “We think the monster got him.”

Sadness. Tard wanted to cry. First Chomper, now Marco. The monster murdered people. And Tard was up here all alone.

“Sly, I’m scared.”

“Just stay there,” Sly said. “If you stay still, the monster won’t find you. And if you move around, what happens if Firstborn finds out where you’ve been all these nights?”

Firstborn. Firstborn could make you go away. Forever. And Firstborn had said no one was to go near the monster’s house.

“Do you really think he’ll find out?”

“Not if you stay there,” Sly said. “When the monster comes back, call me.”

Sly hung up.

Tard slowly set the phone back down on the roof.
So
slowly — if you didn’t want the monster to take you into his basement, it was best to not move at all.

Fear of the monster. Fear of Firstborn. The
need
to go out, to find a won’t-be. Wanting to be brave so Sly would like him, so Tard could make some friends. Too many things to think of.

Sly had said only the bravest of Marie’s Children could watch the monster. The monster had killed everyone who went near the house. Many brothers and sisters had tried to kill the monster, sometimes with guns and everything. None of them ever came back. So watching the house, well, even that was just dang dangerous. But if you could do it, if you could watch, Sly said, then everyone would know you were brave and everyone would
like you
.

Except Tard couldn’t tell anyone about his job, because Firstborn said no one was ever to go near the monster’s house. Sly said it was okay, though, to ignore Firstborn’s orders, as long as no one found out.

Movement. Down by the monster’s house. By the back door. It was the man dressed in black, the man who had been circling the block earlier. How
exciting
! Tard stayed very still, because he was good at that.

Tard watched.

J
ohn Smith checked the caller ID:
POOKIE CHANG
.

What now? Pookie had just called thirty minutes earlier with that murder-rate research project. John loved Pookie and would always have his back, but truth be told the guy was more than a little too quick to delegate detective work.

John answered. “Pooks, you gotta give a guy a chance. I haven’t even started to search the database yet, let alone start tabulating stuff. This isn’t—”

“John, I need you, right now.”

Pookie never called him
John
. “What’s happening?”

“Bryan’s having a meltdown. I need you at Erickson’s house, ASAP.”

John looked to his apartment window even though he knew what he’d see — the blackness of night, lit up only by streetlights and the glowing windows across the road.

“It’s dark out,” John said.

“I
know
it’s dark out, John. Bryan is going in there without a warrant, and if he does, Zou is going to screw him right to the wall. I don’t know if I can stop him on my own — I need your help.”

John stared at the window. Stared and shook his head. He wanted to help Bryan, he did, but
it was dark outside
and Pookie wanted him to go to the house of a killer?

“Pooks, I … I just can’t.”

“The
fuck
you can’t! Your black ass would be
dead
if it wasn’t for Bryan. I’m so sorry for what happened to you, I am, but you get your gun, get on that Harley and move.”

John nodded. Hard to breathe. Bryan needed him. Erickson’s. It wasn’t all that far, not at this hour, using the bike to slide between traffic, if there was any traffic …

“Yeah, okay, I can be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Make it ten,” Pookie said. “And don’t forget your gun. This isn’t about you anymore. Man up, or just stay in your goddamn apartment for the rest of your life.”

Pookie hung up. John closed his eyes tight.
Breathe. You have to go, you
HAVE
to
.

He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out his Sig Sauer.

His hand was already trembling.

T
he sound of a shutting door made Rex snap awake.

Had someone found him?

He was still in the brown garbage can. The lid was still closed. What had happened? He had just closed his eyes, tried to think of his people finding him. Had he fallen asleep? It was totally dark out. Was it past midnight? He didn’t have a watch, didn’t have a phone.

He heard a
click-click-click
sound. He rose slowly, the top of his head lifting the hinged lid so he could peek out under it. There was April, walking away from the house, a big smile on her face. Her high heels
clicked
on the concrete. Maybe she had just fucked Alex. Maybe she had given him a blowjob. She looked dirty.
Unclean
.

There was no one else on the street. There were no cars. She was walking away, fast, like she was
fleeing
him. It spun him up to think that she was trying to escape.

No one else on the street — his attempt to make his so-called family come had failed. Maybe it didn’t work that way, he didn’t know. What if April didn’t return? What if she was going to get help? What if she was going to get her parents? What if Rex wouldn’t have another chance?

She would have a key. Alex would be alone in the house.

Rex quietly crawled out of the garbage can. Blanket wrapped around him, he walked after April. Could he get her? He’d killed Roberta … Roberta was bigger and stronger than April the meth-head.

His feet carried him after her. He
had
to get her.