Worry swelled in Steve’s gut. Was this what it was going to be like from now on? Was this how people felt? He didn’t even know these kids, and yet he could feel their pain as if they were— What? His friends?
One of the boys slapped open the door. The others started through. “Hey,” Steve said. “Just a minute.” The girl stared at him. Her eyes were wary. Her boyfriend stepped in front of her, and his eyes were dark and hard.
Steve said, “Maybe there’s something I can help you with.”
The kid waved him off. “I can handle it.”
“I’m sure you can.” Steve was looking at the girl; he pointed at her eye. “But how about you? That eye looks pretty nasty.”
Her fingers went to her face. She hadn’t realized how bad the swelling looked. She didn’t say anything for a moment. Then she said, “I ran into a door.”
“Yeah,” the boyfriend said. “I can fix the problem. I’m a carpenter.”
“You sure you’ve got the right tools?” Steve asked, knowing full well that he was way out of bounds.
“Yeah.” The boyfriend turned and started through the door.
The girl smiled at Steve before following. “Thanks.”
It was a word Steve heard a dozen times a day, but this time it meant something to him.
9:55 P.M.
Shutterbug lathered his hands with Ivory dishwashing liquid, whistling “Tiny Bubbles” as if he were Don Ho. He rinsed under the running tap in the kitchen sink and then lathered again, because he didn’t want the stink of Shelly Desmond on his fingers.
The little whore. Thinking she could put one over on him like that. And the pure hell of it was that she had succeeded. God knew how much money she had skimmed during her little excursions to the bedroom. All that time he had spent waiting for her down in the basement. All those evenings. And what an actress. She had remembered to flush the toilet, every time. He could still hear the sound of the pipes rattling over his head as he shouted, “Quiet on the set!”
Shutterbug rinsed, shot creamy white soap into his palms, lathered again. He had shown Shelly Desmond, all right. Damn little method actress. She wasn’t going to forget his method. She wasn’t going to forget his warning either. He had told her that she could expect worse from the organization that bought his films if she ever talked, but that was only threat number one. Threat number two was less violent but no less frightening—he had promised to spread Shelly’s videos all over town if she gave him any trouble. If necessary, he would shove them into her neighbor’s mailboxes, and he would personally stuff a copy into every locker in her high school.
The tap water was getting really hot. It felt good, purifying. Shutterbug smiled at the memory Shelly’s expression—the sick little dribble of tears that had smeared her makeup as he worked her over, the ditches of pain dug in her forehead as he shoved her naked into his front yard, tossing her clothes and backpack after her, not caring anymore what the neighbors thought.
The filthy names he had shouted after her still rang in his ears. Daddy must be rolling in his grave, Shutterbug thought. Just hearing those words spill my mouth must have him screaming bloody murder on Devil’s big rotisserie.
But every word had fit Shelly Desmond like a fucking glove. She wouldn’t dare come back. She wouldn’t say one goddamn word to—
The doorbell rang.
Amazing…. Shutterbug strode to the front door, not bothering to grab a hand towel, white suds dripping from his fingers. It was definitely quick kiss-off time. He didn’t have the time or inclination for other visitor. His fingers slipped off the doorknob but he got it open, caught the door with his foot; swung it wide.
The woman who stood on the front porch wasn’t bad looking. Young, but not too young. Straight dark hair and lips that betrayed nothing. A black coat that was a little too big and a white cotton shirt that looked to be buttoned tight all the way to her damn chin. New black jeans, a belt with a silver buckle, and black shoes that weren’t much more than tennies but showed a little style.
Enough with the fashion report. Get on with it. “Look,” Shutterbug said. “Whatever you’re selling…I’m just not buying tonight. Don’t think less of me for it. I gave a hundred bucks to save the whales last time Greenpeace knocked on my door, and I don’t like nuclear power, and I hope that every spotted owl in California has a tree to roost in.”
The woman smiled, but the smile didn’t reveal any more than the blank expression it replaced. Her hand came up. “Tia Foster,” she said, and her voice was like fresh frost. She held an expensive leather wallet in her raised hand. The wallet dropped open and revealed a photo ID card. Her face, sans smile. “FBI,” she finished.
“I bet you love this part,” Shutterbug said. “I mean, the surprise.”
For a cop, she showed amazing restraint. She didn’t even say, “It works for me.”
Shutterbug grinned, his fingers dripping soapy water. He almost wiped his hands on his shirt but decided that would look stupid. “So,” he said, “it’s late. I’ve got business hours at my shop. Maybe we can do this tomorrow.”
“I don’t punch a time clock, Mr. Hanks. I don’t think you do, either. Not really.” Again, the smile, this time a wry version. “You were up pretty late last night, for instance. Wild party, right here at your house. I would have spoken to you then, but I’m not a wet blanket. I figured our business could keep one more day.”
“What’s that supposed to mean, Miss…” Shutterbug lost it for a moment, remembering the car pulling away from Joe Hamner’s driveway just as he and the A-Squad were leaving the house, remembering the rasping sound of a speedwinder. “Miss….” he picked it up. “What was your name?”
“Special Agent Foster.”
“Okay, Ms. Foster. Maybe tomorrow.”
Now her smile took an amused turn, one corner of her mouth darting up sharply. She slid the wallet into a pocket and crossed her arms, as if she held all the cards. “Are you sure you want to wait, Mr. Hanks? Do you really want to spend a sleepless night wondering what I’m after?”
Shutterbug wanted to wipe that smile off her face. The thing to do was shut the door. Wipe his hands and get hold of the knob and slam it right in her self-assured—
“I’m investigating the death of April Destino,” she said. “Ms. Destino had been in contact with our office prior to her demise. She seemed to know quite a lot about a certain porno organization that exploits minors. Before her death, she directed us to you. She said that you could corroborate her story.”
“Ms. Foster, do you have a search warrant?”
“Are you sure that you want an answer to that question? Because if you do, things might get really uncomfortable for you. Really public.”
“Bad for business.”
“I thought you’d see it my way.”
“You’re wrong about that.” Shutterbug sucked a deep breath. “Look…April Destino committed suicide.”
“That’s the rumor. I don’t know that it’s the fact.”
“You didn’t know April. I knew her since high school, and she was one sick little puppy.”
“I understand that she was a cheerleader in those days, a real goody two-shoes.”
“In those days is right,” Shutterbug said, and a voice inside him said. Whatever they hit you with, don’t say a word. That’s what we’re doing, that’s what you should do.
But he couldn’t do it. Agent Foster was staring at him, her eyes stripping his skin and peering underneath like the ghosts that had tortured him at the drive-in. There was no expression on her lips, but judgment was there.
“Today I searched April Destino’s mobile home,” Foster said. “I didn’t find much in it. I thought maybe she had left some of her possessions with you.”
“With me? C’mon, now. I knew her, but I didn’t know her. We weren’t together in any way shape or—”
“Ms. Destino made it sound like much more than that. At the bare minimum, we know you both worked in porno.”
Bare mi
nimum. Shutterbug smirked at her inadvertent pun. “You think you know a lot. A lot of what you know seems to be wrong.”
“Do you know any female Caucasians?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Do you know any female Caucasian lawyers?”
“Maybe. But I don’t see—”
She flashed a business card. “Do you know any female Caucasian lawyers named Wendy Wong?”
“Huh?”
“I know you had someone search April’s mobile home last night. A gray-eyed blonde. What I don’t know is what you two were looking for, and if you found it.”
“You’ve got the wrong guy. This is a waste of my time.”
Agent Foster took a step back. “No, Mr. Hanks. This is a waste of my time. I thought you might understand that we could do this the easy way instead of the hard way. We know what you’ve been up to over the years. Exactly and precisely. We’ve checked through the books of your more legitimate employers in the business, and we’ve checked your tax records.
I’m stunned to report that there seems to be a disparity in the figures. But maybe you simply forgot to report a few things.”
Again, the amused little smirk.
Shutterbug wanted to bash it in.
“You’re not a player, Mr. Hanks. You’re a pinball. But if you want to keep rolling, you’ve got a decision to make.”
“Okay It won’t hurt to talk. There are a few things you need to understand.”
“I might understand a little better if I could sit down.”
“Sure.” Shutterbug stepped aside and allowed her to enter, but she never took her eyes off him.
He closed the door. “Nice place,” she said, with just enough sarcasm in her voice. “Très Sharper Image.”
Shutterbug ignored the dig. “The living room’s to the right.” He held up his hands, still slick with soap. “Just let me clean up.”
“Okay.” She stood in the living room, watching him as he entered the kitchen.
Shutterbug glanced over his shoulder. “You can sit down.”
She shook a finger at him. “That wouldn’t be polite. I’ll wait for you.”
They both froze for a second with stupid little I’m-smarter-than-you-are grins on their faces.
A pair of headlights played over the living room window. She turned toward the street. “Are you expecting—”
The pool cue shattered Agent Foster’s Kabuki grin. She collapsed on the hardwood floor. Shutterbug was on top of her in an instant, trapping her arms under his knees. She screamed. Something round and black was in his hand. He slammed it against her face and shattered her front teeth, grinding it into her mouth. She didn’t scream anymore.
And then he was off her, gone, just as quietly as he’d come. But she heard him. In the kitchen. Gentle metallic sounds, rustling tableware.
He was selecting a knife.
She wanted the thing out of her mouth. But it was big; she couldn’t open her jaw another millimeter. She couldn’t spit it out. She couldn’t breathe around it. She wanted to breathe, needed to breathe, but the cue stick had broken her nose. She couldn’t fill her lungs. She was panting, her nose was swelling closed, her nose was bleeding.
She didn’t have much time.
She had broken her right wrist in the fall, but she managed to toss open her coat.
Her service revolver was gone.
No. There it was. Over there by the drapes. He’d pulled it from her holster, and he’d thrown it over there because shooting her would make a lot of noise.
And this slime didn’t like noise. He could move without making a sound.
She rolled onto her side. Started to crawl, drawing shallow breaths through her nose. Crawling quietly.
In the kitchen, the subtle music of sharp knives.
Her fingers closed around her service revolver.
She steadied the weapon, steadied it. He didn’t even see her. His back was turned. He was playing with his knives.
She never got the chance to put a bullet in his back.
The bricks that shattered the window—and the Molotov cocktails that followed them—saw to that.
FOUR
APRIL 8, 1994
DARK
We are such stuff
As dreams are made on and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.
—Shakespeare, The Tempest
10:39 P.M.
After the pool players cleared out of the bar with their maiden-in-distress in tow, Steve had another beer and thought about portents.
The doves and the dog, Homer Price, had been portents of his dream. The screaming girl in his basement was a portent of April’s nightmare. Those signs seemed plain enough, but there were other portents that he couldn’t decipher. The tightness in his gut when he saw Royce Lewis lying there in a hospital bed. The shaky feeling of pain and anger that surged through him when he noticed the blonde girl’s swollen eye.
Perhaps these were nothing more than reactions. Emotions he hadn’t previously experienced, except when it came to April. Simple responses which he had studied, year after year, but never duplicated before now.
And here they were, surging inside him. A riot of strange feelings, breaking through the robot precision of his thoughts. Maybe they were portents of the dream, too. Steve tipped back the glass, and the last gulp of beer slid down his throat while the last curl of foam tickled his lip.
Portents. They were lining up in his favor. The dream was a little closer with every passing moment. And the nightmare, buttoned up in his pocket, was wasting away to nothing. Suddenly he wanted rid of it. He wanted to drown it in the black waves outside.
No. He would take the film home to April. He would destroy it before her eyes, proving to her that it was nothing anymore.
That would be a portent of their future.
That would stop her screaming.
Steve paid his bill, leaving a sizable tip for the waitress. She looked like she needed the money.
Reactions. Damn. Even a little thing like leaving a big tip stirred new feelings inside him. He stepped outside. The night air was turning crisp. The white scent of salt rode the ocean breeze, mingled with another scent that Steve recognized instantly.
The black stink of smoke.
Salt air and smoke burned Steve’s eyes.
An unfamiliar shiver tickled over his scalp, sinking its fangs at the base of his skull.
* * *
Steve’s old Dodge complained as he drove through Marvis’s neighborhood. He paused at a red light, skipped it because traffic was light and he was in a hurry.
Before today, this neighborhood hadn’t existed for him. It wasn’t on his beat. But he had come here before his trip to the camera shop, searching for Marvis Hanks. At the time he hadn’t noticed anything besides the simple fact that Marvis wasn’t at home. But he had been another man then, more machine than human. Now he recognized how lifeless and depressing these streets were.
The Dodge’s muffler rattled as he came around the corner. Just ahead, lights flashed on the roofs of police cars and fire trucks, and Steve’s pupils shut down. The emergency vehicles were parked in front the third house on the left side of the street. Marvis Hanks’s house.
Steve pulled to the curb. Thin curls of smoke rose from the roof line. The firemen ignored them, busily connecting their hoses from a fire hydrant near the house. Their work was finished. Maybe Marvis Hanks was finished, too. Steve found himself hoping that were the case. He wasn’t ashamed of the thought. He had felt something for Marvis’s father, not Marvis. It would suit him fine if every bit of April’s nightmare was transformed into charred rubble this very night. The larger of the two fire trucks pulled away. A couple of firemen sagged on the rear bumper of the other, talking and sharing a cigarette, while two others entered the house with flashlights and axes. Steve turned his attention from the fire crew to the policemen. Three cars were on the scene, but it was a little hard to see what his brother officers were up
to because everyone who lived on the street was in the street, watching the action. He picked out a uniform who was standing on a small rectangular lawn across the street from Hanks’s house. A heavyset black man was talking to the cop. The man held a baseball bat in his right hand. The cop took the bat away from him. The black guy pointed across the street, and Steve glanced over. As people moved away from the fire truck, and Steve saw another cop talking to a kid in a black leather jacket.
The kid from the bar. Steve was out of his car in an instant, skirting the big black guy and the cop holding the ball bat. “Damn right, I hit him,” the black guy said. “I’m sitting in my living room, and I see this guy and a couple of other…maybe three others…run up and throw bricks through my neighbor’s window. And then I saw that one of ’em had some bottles that was burning, and he tossed them through the window before I could even blink.” He shook his head. “Explosion came too fast. Screams didn’t even last a second. But those boys didn’t get away fast. They stood there watching the damn fire like they was proud of what they’d done, and I was all over one of ’em…the one you got over there. I would have had the others but…”
Steve walked away, not wanting to hear the rest of it. He crossed the street, avoiding the kid in the leather jacket. He didn’t want the kid to point him out, or mention anything about the offer he’d made in the bar.
He wanted to find out about Marvis Hanks.
Christ. It didn’t take a genius to figure it out. Hanks was playing around with the pretty young thing that came to the bar. He got too rough with her. Maybe he always did that, or maybe he’d had a particularly bad day.
Steve smiled sourly. Another emotion added to his repertoire. Welcome, compassion. He pushed the feeling away. Even though he was a rookie in matters of emotion, he knew that his compassion, in this case, was badly misplaced.
Slippin' Into Darkness Page 20
