You think you understand everything, but you don't understand anything.
What didn't he understand? The bond between the Graves sisters. The father's bond to them both. If Charles Graves—Andy Bremer—had abandoned the girls after killing their mother, if he had become a fugitive and disappeared, how did Julie know where he was? How had she known where to call him? And if Julie had become a whore to get Olivia out of the foster system, to pay her way through school, why did she go on with it after Olivia was on her own? Why was Olivia so angry with her—and so bound to her? Why were they all so bound up together?
Something about the Graves family didn't make sense to him. Something about the scenario he'd laid out in his mind didn't make sense.
He sat. He thought about it. He ate his cashews. He watched the planes. In some distant part of him, he was dimly aware of his stomach churning, aware of the time passing as he waited for what was on its way, dreading it.
He watched the horizon, where wisps of clouds turned red, turned gray. The sky darkened. He sat and watched it in a kind of trance.
Then, just as night fell, he came to himself as if from a great way off. A sense of sourness had washed over him suddenly. A stale, rotten heat seemed to spread all through him. He had a weird, nauseating, panicky feeling, as if he'd woken up inside his own coffin, underground.
He swallowed a chunk of cashew, swallowed hard. He understood. The time had come. The Shadowman was here.
36.
He saw the killer reflected on the darkness of the airport window: a hulking specter of a man, his features half erased by the night outside. Weiss went on eating his cashews. The figure in the window moved to stand directly behind him.
"If you try to turn around, I will kill you, Weiss."
He sat down slowly in the chair at Weiss's back. Weiss felt the stale, hot presence of him on the nape of his neck. He caught a scent that reminded him of close, dank spaces.
The killer spoke again, his voice low and featureless. No foreign accent, no local dialect. His tone was conversational, almost friendly. Weiss did not remember the voice from when he heard it last in the driveway in Hannock, and he did not think he would remember it the next time he heard it either.
"What'll happen is that they'll find you sitting here after hours like a sleeping bum," the killer said. "With your chin on your chest, you know—sitting here. Someone'll call the airport cops, and one'll come and shake your shoulder to get you to wake up. But you won't wake up. Finally, they'll push your head back, tilt your head back. There won't be any marks, no cuts, no blood, not even a bruise. But you'll've been dead for hours. Just sitting here, dead, for hours with no one to give a damn."
Weiss lifted the striped paper bag to his shoulder. "You want a cashew?" There was no answer but a low exhalation. Weiss shook the bag, rattling the nuts. "They're roasted. Salted too. Take some—do me a favor. I can't stop eating the damned things."
In the silence that followed, Weiss realized he could actually feel the other man's rage. He could actually feel it settle over him like a great, dark thunderhead with a world of flash and fire inside.
"Suit yourself," he said. He lowered the bag. He began picking cashews out of it again. "They're good, though."
After a long, breathing moment, the killer murmured, "This was smart, Weiss. The airport. Make me get a ticket, go through the X-ray, security. I like that. It was smart."
Weiss shrugged, his hand stopping with a nut halfway between the bag and his mouth. "I know you could get a weapon through, if you wanted."
"I don't need a weapon."
"Yeah. I know that too."
"All the same. It shows you were thinking. Planning things out. I can appreciate that. Like the jacket you gave to that nigger in the crazy house. That was good too. That was the kind of thing I might come up with. I liked it. You're all right, Weiss."
Weiss had to fight off a shudder. The friendly, conversational voice—the brooding sense of murderous rage: it sent a chill through him. Close up like this, the killer seemed to give off a kind of atmosphere. It was an atmosphere like houses Weiss had been in as a cop. There were certain houses he had moved through, room to room, holding his gun out in front of him. There were moments when he had seen something up ahead through a doorway—blood spatters on the wall in the next room maybe, or a foot sticking out from behind the jamb—moments when he knew what he would find but before he crossed the threshold and found it, when he was surrounded and filled by a pulsing awareness of Death, Death, Death, Death. The killer gave off a pulsing atmosphere like that.
Weiss peered into the dark window in front of him. He tried to pick out the killer's features reflected there. It was no good. All he could see were the runway lights and the jet lights—and his own face, strained and mournful and also afraid.
"So go ahead," the killer said. "You wanted this. Here I am."
Weiss was about to answer when a woman approached the rows of chairs. He saw her image in the window, then glimpsed her in the flesh out of the corner of his eye as she came near. She was old and small and elegant. She had silver hair and was wearing a pink jacket and pearls. She was pulling a wheeled suitcase behind her with one hand and holding a hardback novel in the other.
The Shadowman must have turned to face her. Weiss couldn't see it happen, but he saw the woman stop short. She stood where she was, very still, like a mouse catching wind of a python. Then, without a word, she turned and walked away, very quickly, her luggage wobbling behind her on its unsteady wheels.
Somehow this brought Weiss's own feeling into focus: the boiling in his belly, the tightness in his throat. He dropped the cashew he was holding back into the bag. He couldn't eat any more.
"What do I call you anyway?" he said.
"Foy. John Foy."
"Well, the thing is, Foy: we're near the end of this."
"That's right. That is the thing. We are."
"You heard what I said to the Graves girl, right? You were listening in?"
"I heard it, yeah."
"So you know I'm close. I'm really close. And everything depends on us not doing anything stupid. Either one of us. You see what I'm saying?"
The killer said nothing. Weiss felt the heat and sourness of him.
"What I mean is these things go step by step. Location work like this—it goes step by step. If you move too fast, if you do too much, you blow it. It takes, you know, patience, or else things go haywire on you. That's what I'm saying."
Foy laughed softly. It was a cold sound, cold and empty.
"You afraid I'll go to see the Graves girl myself?" he said. "Is that it? Well, maybe I should. Like you said, she has a number she calls, a way to get in touch with our girl, doesn't she? Maybe I should go ask her what it is."
"Look..."
"She'd tell me, you know. She wouldn't tell you, but she'd tell me. You know why? I'd stick a tampon in her soaked in gasoline. Then I'd light a match..."
Weiss had warned himself about something like this, but it didn't matter. The anger went off in him like a bomb. He started turning in his seat. "You filthy fuck, I'll..."
The grip on his shoulder sent a lancing pain up the side of his neck. He gasped, gritted his teeth.
"Careful, Weiss," said the Shadowman softly.
He let Weiss go. Weiss rubbed the spot, wincing. He settled back in his seat. He found he'd balled the bag of cashews up in his fist. Crushed the nuts to powder. He let the crumpled bag roll from his hand onto the seat beside him. He wiped his palms together to get the salt off. He was surprised how wet his palms were.
"You'll blow it for both of us," he said finally. "You'll lose her. You will."
"Maybe."
"Not maybe. You will. As long as it's just me, there's a chance she'll stay put. A chance she'll trust me and let me reach her. Once you show yourself, it's over. She'll start running again."
"She knows I'm here. She might run anyway."
"She might. But she might not. If all she sees is me, she m
ight not." Weiss rubbed his hands together till they were dry. He worked to steady himself, to steady his voice. "Look, Foy. I don't have to tell you this. You know it's true. You've hunted people before, just like I have. If they don't see you, they stop running. Even if they know you're there. They can't run forever, so they tell themselves you're gone; they convince themselves you're gone and they stop."
"Well, that is right," the killer said thoughtfully. "They do do that, it's true. That's when you get them."
"That's right. You touch the sister, you touch her contact, her middleman, that's it: our girl takes off again. And if she takes off again, that's it for me too: I'm through, I'm done with it."
He could almost hear the killer sneer. "Don't give me that. You're not gonna stop. You can't."
"Try me," said Weiss. He drew the meat of his thumb across his upper lip, wiped the sweat away there too. "Look, just stay out of it, that's all I'm saying. Stay out of it until I find her. If she doesn't see you, if it's just me, she'll stop running, then..."
He let the words trail away. And for a while, there was no answer from behind him. Weiss stared into the window at the light on the runway, the lights of the jets rising and falling, the vague, faceless figure hunkering there behind him.
"Then what?" said the Shadowman finally.
Weiss waited, breathing slowly.
"What happens then? Huh? You gonna kill me, Weiss?"
Weiss breathed and waited.
"That the way you figure it? You think you're gonna kill me?"
"No," Weiss said finally. "I'm not a killing man."
Foy laughed that icy laugh again. "You're not a killing man, huh? Well, I am. I'm a killing man, for sure."
"I know."
"And I will kill you, Weiss. In fact, I want her there to see it. In case she thinks you're her hero coming to save her or something. I want her to see what I do to you, how you die. You think it'll be clean? It will not be clean, my friend. I want her to see that too—to see what I turn you into before I'm done. Then she'll know: it's all me for her. It's just gonna be me, nothing else in her life from then on, that's it. All me. Everything."
Weiss opened his mouth but nothing came out. He was too sick to speak at this point. Just being so near this guy made him dog-sick.
"So what?" the killer pressed on. "Huh, Weiss? I really want to know. What do you think you're gonna do? What do you think's gonna happen?"
Weiss forced the words out. "We'll decide it. That's all."
"We'll decide it," the killer echoed. "You think you're gonna send me to jail? You think they can keep me in some jail somewhere?"
Weiss didn't answer. The killer laughed again, with disdain this time. Then, all of a sudden, he stood up. Weiss saw it in the window and tensed. He saw the ghost of a figure rising, hulking, the face obscured by the night. He felt the atmosphere change, felt the heat and the sourness—the rage—lifting away, a burden lifting.
"All right," the killer said. "All right."
"You'll keep away," said Weiss.
"Until you find her. I'll keep away until you find her. Then I'll be there."
Weiss nodded once. "Good."
There was another moment, the killer hovering over him. Weiss felt his eyes on the back of his neck, felt his ill will burning there, burning.
"Another thing," Weiss said.
Foy snorted. "Another thing?"
"The number. The number Olivia called, that the sister called."
"What about it?"
"You got it, didn't you?"
There was only a second's pause. "Sure. I got it. She didn't even wait till you reached the parking lot. She didn't even wait until the door shut. She picked up the phone the second you were gone."
"Sure. That's how I figured it. I pushed her and she picked up the phone to contact her sister. And you were watching. You got the number, right? You heard the call?"
"Sure."
"So?"
"So what?"
"So save me some fucking trouble," said Weiss.
Weiss saw the reflection of the killer, saw him rear a little, then shake his head. "Oh, that's something, Weiss. You're something. That's good. That's really good. I guess we're a team now, huh? I guess we're partners."
"Just give me the number."
The killer recited it. The number and an address and a name too: Kristy.
"Looks like we're heading back to Nevada," he said.
"Kristy," said Weiss. "You got the name too. That's good."
"Sure. We make a good team, don't we?" said the killer. Then, before Weiss could answer, he said, "Oh—and by the way. You might want to check out the news if you missed it."
Weiss didn't like the sound of that. "The news?"
"The local news. Something about a shooting at the Saguaro Hotel. Yeah, you definitely might want to check it out, Weiss. It'll give you a feeling for how it's gonna be between us."
Weiss stared at the reflection on the dark window. "What...?"
"I'll be seeing you," the killer said.
The reflection sank away to nothing.
When Weiss finally risked a glance over his shoulder, there was nobody there.
37.
With a weary sigh, Weiss pushed into a men's room stall and vomited heavily. The cashews came up out of him, spattering the toilet water. A lot of coffee came up too. Two cups at two bucks apiece. Goddamned airport prices.
Weiss bent over the mess, pressing one hand against the tiled wall. When he finished, he waved the other hand down low in front of the sensor to make the toilet flush. He watched what had been the contents of his stomach swirl slowly down the drain.
For another second or so, he stayed as he was, leaning over. He still felt pretty lousy. He wanted to make sure there was no more. There was no more.
He straightened. Turned. Shoved the door open. Stumbled out of the stall. The lights in the white-tiled room seemed overbright. They made him squint. They made his head hurt behind his eyes. They were like a needle on a naked nerve.
He shuffled to one of the sinks in the line of sinks set under mirrors on the far wall. There was a small, tidy-looking black man washing his hands two sinks over. He gave Weiss a sympathetic nod. Weiss nodded back, embarrassed.
"Airplane food," the tidy-looking man said.
Weiss managed a smile.
He waved his hands beneath the faucet, catching the sensor, making the water run. He cupped his palms and caught the water and splashed it onto his face. The cool, wet shock revived him. He dragged his hands down over his brow and over his cheeks and chin, wiping the water away. When he was done, he found himself looking into the mirror. The sight was sharp and painful like the men's room light.
The big heavy mournful countenance was pale and unhealthy. The sunken eyes with their dark rings looked ghostly, a dead man's eyes. The hound-dog cheeks had a greenish tinge. The bulbous nose stood out as if the face around it were wasting away. The shaggy salt-and-pepper hair seemed pasted on, a wig on a skull.
"For fuck's sake," he muttered.
A corpse is an unhappy sight to see anywhere, but to find one in the mirror is depressing as hell. It struck Weiss as a premonition. Just what he needed. He already felt sick to his stomach. Now he felt sick to his stomach and doomed.
I will kill you, Weiss. I want her there to see it.
He shook his head and turned away.
He came out of the men's room, moving unsteadily. The airport surprised him, as if it hadn't been there when he went in. The long, broad corridor surprised him. So did the people moving purposefully to their gates. A tired mom shepherding two dancing children. A businessman with a laptop slung over his shoulder. A young couple with their arms around each other. He stood and watched them go by.
There was a flight boarding to his right, a slow line moving past the ticket taker into the Jetway. There was a woman's voice summoning the passengers over the loudspeaker. There were televisions mounted on the wall. It all surprised him. It was all so modern and busy,
present and alive. He felt as if he had come out of a fever dream, a dream of a darker, older world. It surprised him to find this world—this bright, loud, modern world—still here.
Still here. Weiss trudged down the corridor. He came to a row of shops and restaurants. He came to a bar. There were brightly colored hangings around the entryway: wooden cutouts of mountains and cowboys and chili peppers—a southwestern decor. Inside, the place was dark, somber. Low light. Chairs and tables dark brown. Solitary drinkers alone with their beers. Travelers passing through.
Weiss moved to the bar rail. He hoisted his butt onto one of the stools. A waitress stepped up to him, wiping his little piece of bar top with a cloth. She was forty or so. She had even features and long blond hair. Her face was lined and tired but still pretty. Her figure was good. Weiss let his eyes go up and down her. She was wearing a tight black top that showed off her breasts and her firm waist.
It was funny, he thought, how, when the subject came up, you realized how much you didn't want to die.
"Gimme a Rock, willya," he said.
She brought him the beer in a bottle. Poured it into a glass in front of him. He watched her face while she did it. She knew he was doing it. She liked it. She smiled.
"Thanks," he said.
"Sure. Can I get you anything else?"
He lifted his chin to one of the television sets hanging above the bar mirror. "Could you see if there's some local news on?"
He watched the back of her short skirt as she turned to pick up the remote. She switched the picture on the TV from a Diamondbacks game to the news. The sound was turned off but there were subtitles. He sipped his beer and watched the pictures, read the words. The beer made his stomach feel better.
The shootout at the Saguaro Hotel was the lead story. They had already covered it at the start of the program, but they returned to it at the end. Weiss was distracted, thinking about the Shadowman, trying to get rid of the images in his mind.
I want her to see what I do to you ... You think it'll be clean? It will not be clean.
Damnation Street Page 20
