Nocturnal

by Scott Sigler

  None More Black

  Bryan Clauser at his side, Pookie Chang stepped out of the elevator onto the third floor of the SFGH mental health wing. Pookie had sweet-talked their way into the building. The staff was on edge, but Bryan’s badge helped overcome initial objections.

  Pookie couldn’t wait to get his own badge back from Zou.

  They walked down the hallway of Ward 7A. Pookie took note of the reinforced doors with their electronic locks. SFGH was one of the few places with a “psychiatric emergency room.” The hospital took in patients with all manner of psychiatric issues, and at all times of the night. It was to be expected that some of those patients were violent and needed secure holding facilities. That made 7A the most locked-down, defensible spot in the hospital, which was probably why Zou had put Erickson here.

  Pookie and Bryan turned down a hall to their left. It wasn’t hard to spot which door led to Erickson’s room — the two men in full SWAT gear standing outside of it gave things away.

  They wore thick black jackets made even bulkier by the body armor that covered them. The men had armored gloves and kneepads, heavy black boots, and black helmets with goggles waiting to be pulled down in front of their eyes. Black AR-15 assault rifles hung from their necks, barrels angled to the floor.

  “They look serious,” Bryan said.

  “You’re just jealous because they wear more black than you do,” Pookie said. The men did look serious, though, and not at all happy about pulling what appeared to be guard duty. “I know those guys.”

  “Shocker,” Bryan said.

  “The one on the left is Jeremy Ellis. The other guy is Matt Hickman. Come on.”

  Pookie walked toward them. Bryan followed.

  Helmeted heads swiveled toward them. Hickman’s hands flexed on his AR-15. Ellis held up a black-gloved hand, palm out.

  “Hold it, Chang.”

  Pookie stopped. “Jeremy, my man. How’s the softball team? Still doing the department proud with that three-fifteen average?”

  Jeremy looked surprised. “Uh, three-seventeen.”

  “A hitting streak? Awesome.”

  Jeremy smiled, but only a little before his oh-so-serious cop face returned. “I’m guessing you want in here, but it’s not going to happen.”

  Pookie thought of bringing up the fact that Hickman’s son was the starting point guard for Mission High, but it didn’t look like small talk was going to get him anywhere.

  “Maybe you didn’t get the memo,” Pookie said. “Chief Zou reinstated us. She told the duty sergeant.”

  Jeremy shook his head. “News to me. Last word I have is you guys aren’t cops. I’m not supposed to allow anyone in this room, especially you, Clauser.”

  Bryan looked at the door. For a moment, Pookie wondered if Bryan might rush it. Hickman must have wondered the same thing, as the barrel of his gun moved up a tiny amount.

  Jeremy pointed a black-gloved finger back down the hall. “Guys, do us all a favor and hit the road, okay?”

  Bryan shook his head. “We just want to make sure Erickson is safe.”

  “He is,” Jeremy said. “We have three guys on the roof and four more in a ready room they made for us downstairs. No one is getting in here. I’m not going to tell you again — get out of here.”

  Pookie flashed his best smile. “All right, gents. Keep up the good work. Bryan, let’s go.”

  Pookie started heading back down the hall. Bryan paused; his hands flexed into fists, then he followed. Pookie stayed tense until the elevator doors shut and he knew Bryan wouldn’t try to go back.

  “Bri-Bri, Zou’s got it covered.”

  Bryan didn’t look convinced. “I don’t know, man. What if one of those basement creatures attacks?”

  “Then those creatures get shredded. Zou mapped it out for us, Bro. This isn’t chasing shadows in a darkened alley. The SWAT boys are serious business. They’ve got this.”

  Bryan chewed at his lower lip. He nodded. “I guess. I’m still going to hang out on the hospital grounds tonight. You good for that?”

  Pookie shrugged. “Sure. I’ll hang out here. Got to be some hospital-centric plotlines for Blue Balls that I can work on. And it’s not like I have to be up early for work tomorrow, as apparently we’re still unemployed. I wonder why Chief Zou didn’t call the sergeant like she said she would.”

  When Amy Zou said she would do something, you could bank on it. Whatever the reason for her dragging her feet, it was probably a good one.

  Home Sweet Home

  Chief Amy Zou pulled into her garage. She came out of the car with her Sig Sauer up and at the ready, sweeping the barrel in a 360-degree arc around the garage.

  Nothing.

  No one had ever threatened her family before. No angry gangsters trying to get her to back off, no druglord’s promise of revenge, not even some thug receiving a sentence of twenty-to-life looking at her and saying you’re gonna pay. Nothing. Not until today.

  She couldn’t quite draw in a full breath. Her chest seemed compressed, constricted. Over the course of her career, she’d been shot three times in the line of duty, shot at more times than that, and yet she had never felt this terrified.

  The garage’s interior door led into the kitchen. She heard a movie playing in the living room. She moved as silently as she could, not really knowing why, hoping Rex and his creatures were dumb enough to be overconfident. Maybe she could sneak up on them and end this quick.

  She heard something else — her daughter Tabz, crying softly.

  If they hurt you, baby, if they laid a hand on you, I’ll kill them where they stand.

  Amy Zou moved into the kitchen. Finding it empty, she followed the sound of crying into the living room, the barrel of her pistol leading the way.

  Her husband was on his knees, a gag tightly wrapped around his head and mouth, his hands tied behind his back. On Jack’s left stood a whimpering, gagged Tabz, her face streaked with tears, her arms wrapped in a death clutch around a teddy bear. On his right stood Mur, head tilted down, eyes glaring out from beneath her thick black hair. Mur was also gagged, but she didn’t really look scared — her expression reeked of anger and hatred.

  Standing behind Amy’s family … monsters.

  Two of them. The first had short brown fur and a face like a dog. He was so big his head seemed to reach up to the ceiling. His bottom jaw skewed to the right, and his long pink tongue hung down off the left side. He wore flower-print Bermuda shorts and nothing else, save for a heavy, dirty blanket draped around his shoulders. He held a stockless, drum-fed automatic shotgun — an Armsel Striker — in his left hand. He was so big he made the bulky weapon look like a pistol.

  The shotgun was pointed at the back of Tabz’s head.

  The other monster had a snake face and the girth of a bodybuilder, most of that bulk hidden beneath another ratty blanket. He wore jeans, work boots and a blue San Jose Sharks sweatshirt that strained at the seams. He had a gun, too — a .44 automag, the muzzle hovering less than an inch from Mur’s temple.

  In between the two hulking nightmares, standing as calmly as you please behind her bound-and-gagged husband, was Rex Deprovdechuk. Amy knew, instantly, that this boy was completely in charge.

  She pointed her Sig Sauer directly at his face. “They’re going to drop those guns and get out of my house. Tell them to do it now, Rex, or you’re going to die.”

  Rex smiled. It was a pleasant smile, tolerant but not quite condescending, the kind a nice kid gives to adults he thinks are okay but still way uncool.

  “Then both your daughters will have their brains blown all over your living room carpet,” he said. “Put down the gun, Missus Zou.”

  Amy realized her hand was shaking. With a flick of her wrist and a pull of the trigger, she could kill the brown-furred one, then maybe get a snapshot at the snake-man. But could she do that before either of them fired, murdering her beautiful girls? And would her aim be dead-on if she couldn’t even keep her hands still?

  In
a hostage situation, you were never, ever supposed to give up your weapon. If she did that, she had no power.

  Rex sighed. He seemed bored. “Missus Zou, just put it down.”

  The dog-faced man pressed the shotgun barrel to the back of Tabz’s head. She cried louder. Her little body shook with sobs.

  She’s just a baby don’t hurt my baby …

  Amy lowered her weapon.

  Rex pointed to a spot in front of Jack. “Right there, please.”

  Don’t do it don’t give up your weapon don’t do it

  Amy tossed the Sig Sauer. It hit the carpet with a light thud. The boy calmly walked around Tabz, picked up the pistol, then walked back behind her family to once again stand between the two monsters.

  Amy was naked, helpless. “What do you want?”

  Rex grinned and nodded slightly, an expression that said I really want to help you out.

  “Tell me where Savior is,” he said. “Then, I want the names of everyone who knows about Marie’s Children. Finally, I want to arrange a meeting with those people.”

  She couldn’t give the boy Savior’s location. They’d attack him, kill him. And what would they do to the other people who knew about Marie’s Children? Rich Verde, Sean Robertson, Jesse Sharrow, the mayor, Bryan and Pookie, Doctor Metz, Robin Hudson — Amy couldn’t put those people in danger.

  “No one knows but me,” she said. She had to buy time, get word to Bryan, maybe, see if he could move Erickson to another location. “And Savior checked out of the hospital this morning. I don’t know where he went after that.”

  The boy’s grin faded. He sighed and shook his head. A put-upon, exasperated teenage killer could decide if her family lived or died.

  “Choose,” he said.

  “Choose what?”

  The boy spread his hands, the gesture taking in Amy Zou’s daughters and her husband. “Choose which one dies.”

  Amy’s throat tightened. She tried to speak, but nothing came out. Why had she given up her weapon? Why?

  “Missus Zou, we’re wasting time. Choose.”

  “I … no. Please, don’t kill anyone.”

  Rex shook his head. “It’s too late for that. You can either choose one, or I can choose two.”

  Her vision blurred briefly before a hot tear streaked down her cheek, leaving a cool tingling in its wake. She saw no doubt in Rex’s eyes.

  “No … no please. Kill me instead. Let them go.”

  Rex held up a hand, palm toward her, fingers pointed to the ceiling. “I’m going to count down from five,” he said.

  “San Francisco General.” The words rushed out of her mouth. “Savior is there. I know which room.”

  The boy nodded. “That’s great, Missus Zou. But you already made me tell you I was going to kill one. I can’t go back on my word. Choose.”

  “But I told you! I know access codes to the building!”

  “Five …”

  “No! Wait, wait, I can get you those names.”

  He bent his thumb in. “Four …”

  Monsters with guns counting down her family her daughters the love of her life …

  He bent his pinkie in, trapped it with his thumb. “Three …”

  This can’t be happening this can’t be happening don’t kill my babies this can’t be happening

  “Look,” she said, “I swear I can give you what you want.”

  He bent his ring finger in, trapped that with his thumb as well. “Two …”

  Amy’s gaze snapped back and forth across her family, Tabz then Jack then Mur then Jack then Tabz …

  He bent in his middle finger, leaving only his pointer extended. “One …”

  Oh Jesus Christ how could this be happening not her daughters not my daughters

  “Zer —”

  “Jack!” Amy screamed.

  Jack’s eyes went wide with terror. Or was that anger? Betrayal? He started to scream but she couldn’t understand him through the gag.

  Rex reached up and patted the dog-face’s shoulder. “Pierre, do what the chief says. Chief Zou, if you make a move, one of your daughters will join your husband, so you better stand real still.”

  The snake-face reached down and picked up Mur with one arm, pinning her arms to her sides. She looked like a frail little doll. The monster pressed the .44’s barrel under her chin, pushing her head back a bit. Now the girl was scared; her wide eyes betrayed genuine fear.

  Pierre’s right hand grabbed her husband by the top of his head, big brown fingers wrapping down across her Jack’s cheeks. Effortlessly, the monster lifted him right up off the ground. Jack started to kick, but his feet were bound as well as his hands. His body thrashed as he fought to break free. The boy stepped back to avoid Jack’s heels.

  Pierre never moved the shotgun from the back of Tabz’s head. Tabz shook with sobs, but she made no move to run.

  Pierre lifted Jack higher. The monster tilted his dog-head to the left, so the skewed jaws opened horizontally rather than vertically. The long white teeth glinted colored plasma reflections from the TV. Pierre slowly bit down on Jack’s neck. There was the briefest second as the teeth penetrated the skin, then came the blood. Thin, spraying jets splashed against Pierre’s face, splashing on Tabz, falling on the carpet.

  Jack’s body lurched madly. His knees whipped up then drove down, his bound feet kicked back and forth, his shoulders twisted as arms fought against ropes that would not break.

  Amy heard herself screaming, heard words torn by panic and denial and anguish.

  Pierre let go of Jack’s head, but the man didn’t fall — his ravaged neck remained tightly pinched in the skewed jaws. Pierre shook his head like a dog with a chew toy. The gag blocked most of Jack’s gurgling screams.

  Amy heard a cracking sound. Pierre paused and drew in a deep breath through his long nose. As he did, Jack looked at her, eyes pleading for help. Then monster gave one final, hard shake.

  Jack’s head sailed across the room.

  Trailing blood, it bounced once on the La-Z-Boy, then came to rest on its side, eyes facing Amy. The pupils dilated, as if Jack saw her, recognized her. His lids closed once, then slowly opened — dead, unmoving eyes stared out.

  The girls’ screams brought Amy back. She found herself lying on the carpet. She’d passed out. For the briefest of moments, she allowed herself to imagine it had all been a dream. But then she saw Tabz, gagged and screaming, her father’s blood matting her hair and dripping down her face. Amy saw the monster holding an automatic shotgun to Tabz’s head, a monster soaked with that same blood. Amy saw Mur tucked under the snake-man’s huge arm. Mur kicked and fought, but snake-man just ignored it.

  And in the middle of it all, Amy saw a smiling, teenage boy.

  “There,” Rex said. “That’s all done. Now I’m going to ask you more questions. Unless you want me to make you choose again, you’ll answer them.”

  Amy nodded, and kept on nodding, over and over and over again.

  Handiwork

  Rich Verde was just about maxed out. Too many years of this bullshit. Time to start thinking about retirement. Someplace warm. Someplace with rich divorcées and enough booze to drown out any memory of this fucking city. Boca Raton, maybe?

  The wind whipped at a blue tarp tied up inside a cluster of Golden Gate Park’s gnarled Australian tea trees. The trees were spooky enough all by themselves, even without the corpses that had been found hidden among the twisted, contorted trunks.

  Rich and several uniforms stood just outside the tarp. He didn’t want to be in there, not with those bodies. He’d had his fill of symbol killings; more than enough for one lifetime. Baldwin Metz was on the way. The Silver Eagle would get this body out of here lickety-split.

  That was the process. That was how things were done. Rich just didn’t want to be part of that process anymore.

  He wondered how he was going to tell Amy. How would she take it? Well, that wasn’t his problem. She could go cry on the shoulder of that needle-dick husband of hers
. Rich had put in his time. Thirty years’ worth of time, fuck you very much. He didn’t owe Amy a goddamn thing.

  This latest killing, though, it was a problem. The media had got to the bodies first. Pictures of two corpses with missing hands would be all over the front page of the Chronicle. Hell, it was probably already up on the paper’s website.

  Whoever this killer was, he had struck twice in as many days. Yesterday morning, the first set of bodies had turned up at Ocean Beach. And now, less than twenty-four hours later, a second set. All four victims showed the same m.o. — broken necks, missing hands and gnawed feet. Gnawed feet, for fuck’s sake. And, of course, someone had given the bodies a golden shower.

  Naw, not Boca Raton. Maybe Tahiti.

  The symbol had been found at both sites. He’d been at this game long enough to know it was a new killer, not the same one who had whacked Paul Maloney and those BoyCo kids. He could just tell. The only break was that this time the symbol had been carved into the back of one of the tea trees, and the media had missed it.

  All this, and Amy had yet to call him back. So unlike her. Robertson was on the way, though. Sean could run things. Hopefully he’d get here before the rest of the media did.

  A uniform walked down the dirt path, then ducked under a line of yellow police tape and approached.

  “Inspector Verde, more media is showing up,” he said “We’ve got CBS-4 setting up now, KRON-TV’s van just pulled up into the park, and the ABC-7 chopper is closing in.”

  “Just keep them all back,” Rich said. “The last fucking thing we need is for them to start asking questions about a serial killer, you know?”

  “Might be too late for that, sir. I think they already have a name for him. They asked me if I knew anything about the Handyman.”

  The Handyman?

  Yeah, Tahiti. That would do the trick.

  Aggie Gets Out!

  Aggie James wasn’t sure how long he’d been following Hillary.

  She had led him out of the bassinet room and back into the dark arena maze. Many twists and turns later, she’d started up a narrow set of rough steps cut into the wall. Carrying the baby, Aggie had moved so carefully, keeping his left shoulder against the wall as he made sure his right foot didn’t slip off the uneven edges.