Nocturnal: A Novel

by Scott Sigler

  “You sure you don’t want me to call an ambulance?”

  Bryan shook his head. “Just sick is all.” He dug into his pocket for his keys, tried to unlock the door with a shaking hand. Pookie had to take the keys and do it for him.

  “Just sick,” Bryan repeated as they stepped inside. “Feel like the inside of a donkey’s butthole.”

  “Live donkey or dead donkey?”

  “Dead.”

  “Ah yes,” Pookie said. “I hate that feeling.”

  “Tell me about it. Lemme go. Going to bed.”

  Pookie slowly released his hold on Bryan. Bryan made it three steps before he stumbled over one of the dozens of unpacked boxes cluttering the small hallway. Pookie stepped in quick and slid under Bryan’s shoulder, stabilizing him.

  “Wow, Bryan, unpack much?”

  “I’m getting to it.”

  Pookie helped Bryan around the boxes and into the small bedroom. It had to be a little bit of a shock to move from Robin’s spacious two-bedroom apartment to this tiny one-bedroom affair, but six months on and he still hadn’t fully settled in? Bryan had set up the TV and the couch, hung up his all-black wardrobe, and that was apparently all the guy needed.

  Pookie gently hip-tossed Bryan into the bed.

  Bryan opened one puffy, bloodshot eye. “You gonna undress me, Daddy?”

  “Don’t think so, fag.”

  “Homophobe.”

  “And proud of it,” Pookie said. “Bible’s pretty clear on that one, big guy. I’m whipped, brother, so either you get nekkid on your own or you sleep in your clothes.”

  Bryan didn’t answer. Just like that, he’d already fallen asleep.

  Pookie felt sweat cooling on his forehead. He wiped the sweat away with his hand, then wiped his hand on Bryan’s pant leg. Whatever bug Bryan had, Pookie now surely had it as well.

  Pookie stared down at his partner. He wasn’t going to leave Bryan alone tonight, that was for sure. Besides, if someone was — somehow — putting thoughts into Bryan’s head, they sure weren’t beaming them in with a magic wand. Had to be something in the apartment. While Bryan slept, Pookie would tear the place apart.

  Bryan’s Sig Sauer was still in its shoulder holster. Pookie gently pulled the firearm free. Then, he took the Seecamp wallet from Bryan’s back pocket. Best not to leave him with knives, either — Pookie pulled the combat knife from the forearm sheath, and finally, gently removed the Twitch knife from Bryan’s belt. Who wore a knife right next to their Jimmy Beans?

  Psycho killers, that’s who.

  Pookie looked at the pile of weapons in his hands and couldn’t help wondering if one of those knives might have cut open Oscar Woody’s belly.

  Two things sat on the nightstand next to Bryan’s bed — a small, framed picture showing Bryan, Robin and her dog, Emma, and a cheap, spiral-bound notebook. The notebook was open to a drawing.

  A drawing of a triangle and a circle, with a smaller circle in the middle, a slashed curve beneath.

  Pookie walked into the kitchenette and set the arsenal on the small table.

  Bryan just couldn’t have done that horrible thing.

  Couldn’t have.

  Pookie was playing games with people’s lives. Bryan Clauser was a goddamn suspect, yet Pookie was acting like his nursemaid. If only he could look deeper into Bryan’s soul.

  Maybe there was one person who could do just that.

  Bryan’s fridge held some leftover pizza, some leftover Chinese, half a leftover burrito and one Sapporo. Pookie opened the beer, then leaned against the kitchen counter. He pulled out his phone and dialed.

  A sleepy voice answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Robin-Robin Bo-Bobbin. How’re they hanging?”

  A sigh, the rustle of covers, the soft clink of a metal tag on a dog’s collar.

  “Pookie, they don’t hang. In fact, I don’t even have they. It’s late, and I’m exhausted. Are you okay?”

  “Right as rain,” he said. “I hear you’re running the show at the ME office while Metz is out. Congrats, girl.”

  “Doesn’t mean anything yet,” she said. “Just more work. But thanks. In the past forty-eight hours, I’ve talked to the mayor and Chief Zou. She called to tell me Verde had the Oscar Woody case.”

  “He does,” Pookie said. “Bless Verde’s black, black heart.”

  A pause. “Why does he get it and not you guys?”

  Pookie took a sip of beer. “To be honest, Bo-Bobbin, I’m not really sure. It’s kind of … well, it’s kind of weird.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Kind of weird on my end, too.”

  “How so?”

  “It’s Verde. I’ve worked with him before. He’s usually okay.”

  “He’s an ass-hat.”

  “Yes, but as far as ass-hats go, he’s an okay ass-hat. You know what I mean. Anyway, he’s not my favorite guy or anything, but he’s fine to work with. Except for this case. He seems super … intense. And it feels like he’s rushing things.”

  Rushing things. Pookie hadn’t realized it until now, but that’s exactly how he felt about Chief Zou’s actions. She was trying to hurry the case along as fast as possible.

  “Bo-Bobbin, truth be told I wasn’t calling about Oscar Woody.”

  “Then get to the point so I can get some sleep.”

  Pookie hesitated. If Bryan found out about this call, he’d feel betrayed. Bros before hoes, even though Robin Hudson was about as far from a ho as one could get.

  “Robin, do you think Bryan could ever hurt someone? Like, really bad, and not just in self-defense or doing his job?”

  Now she paused. “He never laid a hand on me.”

  “Of course not,” Pookie said quickly, apologetically. “That’s not what I mean. I’ll just say that he’s going through a tough time, and I really need the take of someone who’s close to him.”

  “Was close.”

  Pookie used a quick sip to hold back his laugh.

  “That’s a good one,” he said. “If I say I believe that, will you also try to sell me a bridge? Come on, you guys are kidding yourselves.”

  “Pookie, I don’t need a lecture on—”

  “Sorry,” he said. “Not trying to play matchmaker. Just please, for me, answer the question. Do you think Bryan is capable of a revenge attack? Or maybe even something unprovoked?”

  He waited. The beer didn’t taste like anything.

  “Yeah,” she said in a whisper. “Yeah, I do.”

  He’d known what her answer would be, because he’d already come to the same conclusion. But believing Bryan was capable of it didn’t mean that Bryan had done it.

  Pookie would not turn his back on his friend.

  “Thanks, Bo-Bobbin.”

  “You’re welcome. Take care of him, Pookie.”

  “I’m trying, darlin’, I’m trying. Night.”

  He hung up.

  Please, God, don’t let me be wrong about him.

  Mr. Sandman …

  This boy wasn’t as stupid as the other one. This boy kept looking around, kept to the shadows, tried to stay out of sight.

  One womb.

  Bryan looked down at the boy. He looked so tiny, like a little mouse. From this high above, everyone seems small. The boy had a thin, red goatee. He wore a crimson jacket with gold trim. A white sweatshirt hood was up over a crimson ball cap sporting the gold initials BC.

  The colors marked him, marked him as a tormentor, as a torturer.

  The colors marked him for death.

  Bryan felt that heat, that flush of stronger-than-life passion for the hunt. This boy was already on the run. He knew someone was out to get him. That would make him more dangerous prey.

  The boy looked up, but not at Bryan. The boy turned his head this way and that, looking at every window, every doorway, even up to every rooftop, his head moving steady and smooth and nonstop. This boy knew his surroundings, he knew his turf.

  The whole CITY is our turf, asshole.

 
Bryan stayed very still. He let the prey waste its energy. Bryan’s soul tingled; his mind swam with the knowledge that this was the way life was meant to be lived.

  He’d been born for this.

  The boy walked west on Geary. He crossed Hyde, heading toward Larkin. Bryan moved back, like a shadow, out of sight from anyone on the street. Clutching his blanket tight around his body, he jumped, a silent wind, moving from the roof of a parking garage to the tarred, flat top of the Ha-Ra bar. There, Bryan paused, freezing in place. He scanned the rooftop, the other buildings, looking for any sign of movement, any sign of the monster.

  He saw none, and that made him happy.

  With the barest of movements, Bryan leaned out over the brickwork to look down to the street twenty feet below.

  Prey spotted.

  One womb, you motherfucking bully.

  There were very few people on the streets, but still enough to make it difficult. The boy wasn’t far from Van Ness. Even in the predawn hours, that road had enough traffic that you couldn’t just grab prey and drag it into the shadows or pull it up onto the roofs. If the boy reached Van Ness, they’d have no choice but to wait and watch.

  “He’s a smart one,” said the sandpapery voice to Bryan’s right.

  “You got that right, Sthly,” Bryan said.

  Bryan turned — and saw a nightmare. A thick man with a heavy, dark blanket draped over his head and shoulders. The blanket covered him, but not all of him; a green face with a pointy snout caught the dim light, yellow eyes narrow with anticipation. The thick man smiled, revealing razor-sharp, neon-white teeth.

  The nightmare spoke.

  “This one is going to taste sweet.”

  Bryan woke up screaming.

  He was going to kill that boy.

  No-no, not him … that monster.

  Blood pounding. Adrenaline surging. His cock as hard as a railroad spike. Every ounce of him ached. Invisible jackhammers, pounding away at his flesh. Even his bones hurt.

  His bedroom door flew open. Pookie slid in, gun in hand, eyes darting first to Bryan then around the room. Pookie knelt to look under the bed.

  Bryan shook his head. “No one here. A dream.”

  Pookie stood. He looked scared. Scared of Bryan. Maybe he should be.

  “A dream,” Pookie said. “Like the last one?”

  Bryan coughed, nodded. So hot. He’d never felt this sick, felt like something was attacking every ounce of his body. “Yeah. Like the last one. I think it’s happening again.”

  Pookie stared, blinked. “You’re telling me that someone’s being murdered right now? That you dreamed it?”

  Bryan pushed his body out of bed. Heavy feet — still in his shoes — landed on the floor with a thump.

  “Not yet,” he said. “Stalking him.”

  “Who is stalking him?”

  “I am. I mean … someone is, and I think I was in that someone’s head … something like that, anyway.”

  Pookie’s face showed he was having a hard time believing this. “You’re telling me someone is stalking this kid, right this second?”

  Bryan rubbed his eyes, tried to breathe through aching lungs, tried to think. “They’re going to take him down. He’s at Geary and Hyde. We gotta go.”

  “I’ll call it in,” Pookie said. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  Bryan’s hands drifted to his shoulder holster … empty. “I need my weapon.”

  “I’d rather you went without.”

  Pookie didn’t trust Bryan with a gun? Considering what Bryan had put him through that was probably smart, but Bryan didn’t have time to argue.

  “Bryan, forget it. You’re in no shape to—”

  “No time,” Bryan said as he brushed past Pookie and stepped into the hall. He found his weapons piled up on the kitchen table, put them where they belonged. He turned back toward the front door, to leave the apartment — and found Pookie blocking his way.

  Pookie’s gun was in his right hand, the barrel pointed at the ground.

  “Bryan, I can’t let you go.”

  Bryan paused. His own partner had drawn on him. He didn’t feel offended or insulted. Instead, he actually felt instant sympathy for Pookie’s difficult position — but there just wasn’t time for this.

  “Pooks, I will not let that boy die. Call for backup, come with me or stay here, but whatever you do, get the fuck out of my way.”

  Pookie’s hand flexed on his Sig Sauer. Was he going to point it at Bryan? Had it come to that?

  Bryan turned and ran into his tiny kitchen. A second later, he heard footsteps behind him as Pookie reacted.

  The narrow kitchen window was hinged on the left side. It swung open like a door that led to the fire escape. Bryan stepped out the window to the metal-grate platform outside, the night welcoming him back to its dark embrace. It had rained while he slept — the metal rails felt icy-cold on his hands. Before Pookie had even reached the kitchen, Bryan had slid down to the third floor and was already descending to the second. By the time Pookie crawled out of the kitchen window, Bryan’s feet hit the first-floor landing …

  … and slipped.

  His feet shot out from under him. The fire escape’s wet, rusty metal smashed into his forehead. That pain added to his aches and fever, but he didn’t let it stop him. He got back to his feet. Instead of lowering the collapsible ladder to the sidewalk, he just hopped over the rail.

  “Bryan! Stay there!”

  Bryan’s feet hit concrete. He ignored his partner. The kid from his dream was going to wind up just like Oscar Woody. Bryan had to stop that from happening.

  He felt blood sheeting down his face. His Nikes slapped lightly against wet sidewalk as he sprinted toward Van Ness Avenue.

  Bryan ran south on Van Ness, the six lanes of sporadic 3:00 A.M. traffic moving along on his right. What few pedestrians there were got the hell out of his way — a black-clad, sprinting man with a Sig Sauer in his hand and blood streaming from his forehead didn’t exactly court conversation.

  Despite his pain, his legs worked just fine. Long, loping steps threw him along. Everything whipped by so fast. As soon as this was over, he’d puke his guts out, he promised himself, but for now he had to ignore everything and get to that kid.

  Bryan planted at Geary and turned left, momentum actually curving him off the sidewalk and into the road before he corrected. He heard sirens approaching — probably patrol cars already responding to Pookie’s call. The sound echoed through the nighttime city-canyons.

  Bryan didn’t know where to go, so he kept running. He crossed Polk Street, dodging a car as he moved from sidewalk to blacktop then sidewalk again. Building walls shot by on his left, parked cars on his right.

  Movement from above …

  A burning body sailing off a rooftop four stories above. It blazed orange against the black night sky, a flailing comet trailing a tongue of fire that smashed into a white van, deeply denting the roof. Another flash of motion from up there, but whatever it was

  [snake-man]

  slipped out of sight behind the roof’s edge.

  Bryan ran to the van and jumped. He found himself on top of the deeply dented, smashed-in roof — the man was facedown, small flames licking at his blackened clothes. Bryan whipped off his jacket and covered him, patting him down, snuffing out the flames. The man moaned.

  “Hold on, buddy. I got ya.”

  The sirens grew louder.

  Bryan realized the man’s jacket — where it wasn’t blackened and melted — was crimson and gold.

  BoyCo gear.

  It wasn’t a man, it was a boy … the boy from his dream. Hurt, but not dead.

  Bryan pulled out his cell and hit the two-way button.

  Bee-boop: “Pookie, you there?”

  Boo-beep: “I’m here.” He sounded out of breath. “I’m a block and a half away, I see you.”

  Bryan looked down Geary. He saw Pookie running toward him.

  Bee-boop: “Get an ambulance.”

&n
bsp; Bryan slid the phone back in his pocket. Streetlights reflected off of the blood slowly pooling around the wounded kid, wet-red smearing the van’s white paint.

  “Just take it easy,” Bryan said. “I’m a cop. Help is on the way.” He didn’t want to move the boy, but broken bones or an injured spinal column didn’t matter if Bryan couldn’t find the wound and stop the bleeding. “I’m going to roll you over. I’ll do it slow, but it’ll hurt. Did someone throw you off the roof?”

  “Jumped,” the boy said, his words muffled because his face rested against the van roof. “Had to … get away.”

  “Get away from who?”

  “Devil,” the boy said. “Dragon.”

  Bryan rolled the boy over. Wide, frightened eyes stared out from a face covered with third-degree burns. Swollen blisters — some shiny-white, some raw-red — clustered on his cheeks, his nose, his mouth, his forehead, on almost every bit of exposed skin. His eyebrows and eyelids were gone, as was most of the hair at his temples and on top of his head. Blackened clothes — the jacket and what looked like a football jersey — had melted onto him. A small but steady pulsing of blood bubbled up from the boy’s abdomen.

  Bryan moved to apply pressure, but something on the boy’s face froze him in place. A bit of red hair on the boy’s lip, a bit more on his chin … the remnants of a scraggly goatee. Most of it had burned away, but enough remained for Bryan to see the blistered face anew. A small part of him knew this was Jay Parlar. A bigger part of him, the part that took over, it recognized something else entirely.

  That part recognized the prey from his dream.

  One womb, motherfucker.

  A wave of hatred instantly bubbled up and boiled over into blinding, murderous rage. Bryan stood and straddled the kid, his feet balancing on the dented, blood-streaked white metal.

  He reached to his shoulder holster, pulled his pistol, then pointed the barrel right between the boy’s eyes.

  A charred hand rose up, palm out, as if flesh and bone would stop a bullet.

  “You’re a bully,” Bryan said. “I’m going to kill you.”

  The boy’s oozing lips struggled to form words. “Please, no.” He didn’t even have the energy to fight for his life.

  Bryan thumbed back the P226’s hammer until it clicked. “Long live the king, asshole.”