Nightcrawlers: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Mystery) (22 page)

Bix giggled. “That’s right, sweet thing. Ass-kickers R us.”

“Bastards!”

Butterfield came out sudden, kicking and swinging. But they were ready for him. He slammed a foot into the car door, but Tommy danced out of the way and as soon as the faggot came up on his feet Bix had him around the neck. Jerked his head back, legs spread so the bugger couldn’t back-kick his shins. Tommy shoved the greasy rag in his mouth, jabbed the head of the bat into his gut hard enough to put a hole right through him. Air went out of him in a gagging hiss. He doubled over in Bix’s grasp.

“Let go of him, man, he’s all mine.”

Bix let go and Tommy jabbed him again, same place, then belted him in the kneecap. Line-drive single! Butterfield went down on the other knee on the concrete floor. Tommy swung again. Crack! Two-bagger down the line! Again, on the side of the head this time. Crack! Triple up the gap!

“Hey, Tommy, hey, man, not so hard, you gonna kill him—”

“Shut up!”

The faggot was all the way down now, moaning and writhing, blood all over his ugly bearded face. Tommy took his stance, home-run stance, Barry Bonds getting ready to break McGwire’s record, and lifted the bat for the big blast—

All of a sudden he didn’t have it anymore.

Somebody jerked it out of his hands at the top of his swing.

At first he thought it was Bix, but then he heard Bix yell and then yowl with pain, and when he came around he saw there was somebody else in the garage, big son of a bitch he’d never laid eyes on before. Bix was sprawled over the back end of the BMW, holding his arm and trying to dodge another blow from the bat. The big son of a bitch swatted Bix across the kidneys and sent him spinning off the car onto the floor. Tommy unfroze and charged the guy, some goddamn faggot neighbor, fix him like he fixed Butterfield. Head ducked, arms reaching—

Something happened, he didn’t know what, but all of a sudden bright pain burst through his head and neck and his vision went cockeyed and he was stumbling off balance, then banging into something solid with his shoulder and the back of his head. Flashes of light went off behind his eyes. He blinked and pawed at his face and the light faded and he could see the big son of a bitch standing there in front of him, practically in his face.

“Had enough, Douglass?”

Knew him, knew his name!

“Who the . . . hell’re you?”

“Your worst nightmare, kid.”

“Bix!”

“He can’t help you. He just crawled out of here on his hands and knees.”

Tommy said, “Dirty bastard,” and didn’t know if he meant Bix or the big stranger. He pushed off the wall, blinking, trying to see straight, and took a swing at the face in front of him, but it was as if he did it in slow motion, as if his arm had lead weights tied to it—

—and there was another burst of pain in his neck and shoulder—

—and he was sitting on the floor and his head was full of
more hurt and confusion and he couldn’t see anything this time, not even flashes of light. Blind. Oh God, he was blind . . .

All the fight went out of him. And all the anger and hatred and excitement and hunger for revenge, until there wasn’t anything left.

“Give it up, Douglass, you’re all finished.”

Finished. Yeah.

He didn’t move. Couldn’t have moved if he’d tried. Even when the darkness went away and he could see again, there just wasn’t anything left.

He backed away from where the Douglass kid sat dazed against the rear wall and went to check on Jerry Butterfield. Not as badly hurt as it’d first looked when he came in. Butterfield was up on one knee now, spitting out the residue of whatever they’d shoved in his mouth, holding the side of his head. Blood leaked through his fingers, made a glistening snake’s trail through his dark brown beard, but when he looked up his eyes were clear enough.

“Thanks,” he said. “Don’t know who you are or where you came from, but . . . thanks. I thought . . . Jesus, I thought they were going to kill me.”

They might have at that. The way Douglass had had that aluminum bat cocked—if he’d swung with all his strength, he’d have bashed Butterfield’s head in. Pure luck that Runyon had got here when he did, just as the two of them were ducking into the lighted garage. He hadn’t even had enough time to
drag his .357 Magnum out of the glove box. More luck there—that he hadn’t needed the weapon.

He said, “Better not talk, Mr. Butterfield. Just take it easy.”

“No, I’m all right. Not disoriented, just bruised and . . . cut. Bleeding like a stuck pig.”

“Head wounds always bleed like that.”

“How do you know my name?”

“Long story. Time for that later.”

“What’s yours, your name?”

“Runyon. Jake Runyon.”

“Help me up, will you, Mr. Runyon?”

“You sure you can stand?”

“Long enough to sit down.”

Runyon gave him a hand up, guided him through the open car door and onto the front seat. Butterfield had the presence of mind to sit leaning forward, so that the dripping blood spattered on the concrete floor instead of the leather upholstery. He fumbled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket, pressed it to the gash in his temple.

“I just bought this suit,” he said. He was staring at the crimson streaks on his jacket and trousers. “Sixteen hundred dollars at Wilkes Bashford. Ruined now. You can’t get blood out of fabric like this.”

Runyon said nothing.

“Ruined,” Butterfield said again. He raised his head, squinting. “You sorry excuse for a human being,” he said to Tommy Douglass. “Tried to kill me and ruined my new suit.”

“Fuck you, faggot.”

They stared at each other across the empty space.

Douglass still sat in the same position, legs splayed out, like something discarded against the wall. He hadn’t moved
the entire time. And the words he’d said to Butterfield had been a by-rote response, passionless, mindless. Runyon had seen dozens like him over the years, young and old, all races and colors. Big men when they had weapons in their hands and they were in control, capable of just about any act of violence. Shriveled little cowards when the tables were turned and they were on the receiving end, capable of nothing except feeling sorry for themselves. The one who’d scrambled out on his hands and knees, Bix Sullivan, was another cut from the same cheap cloth. Long gone now in that pickup of his. But he wouldn’t get far, probably wouldn’t even try. Just go on home and wait the way his buddy was waiting, riddled with self-pity and banked hatred and not understanding for a minute why he deserved to be punished for what he’d done.

The hell with him. The hell with Tommy Douglass. Runyon opened his cell phone and called 911.

T
he SFPD’s response time was nineteen minutes, not bad for a week night in a city with a fairly high crime rate and a department in a state of flux. The paramedics took a little longer to get there—more emergency medical calls than felony crime reports tonight. Runyon showed his state ID to the two uniformed officers; that didn’t impress them, but they showed some respect when he mentioned his time on the Seattle PD. He gave them a full accounting of the situation, and when Jerry Butterfield added his version and said damn right he wanted to press home invasion and assault charges, the uniforms Mirandized Tommy Douglass, handcuffed him, and stuffed him into the back of their patrol car. The kid didn’t have much to say and offered no resistance; he was all through making trouble for anybody tonight. While the paramedics
were ministering to Butterfield, one of the cops radioed in a request for a pickup order on Bix Sullivan.

Butterfield insisted he wasn’t badly hurt, but the paramedics kept talking to him about the unpredictability of head wounds and convinced him to take a ride to SF General for a doctor’s exam. He closed up the garage and went with them in the ambulance. One of the uniforms told Runyon to stop by the Hall of Justice within the next twenty-four hours and talk to a Robbery and Assault inspector and sign a statement; he said he would, and they took Douglass away and left him with the usual crowd of neighbors and rubberneckers. The crowd was still milling around, reluctant to let go of their little thrill, when Runyon climbed into his car and drove off.

The whole thing hadn’t taken much more than an hour. Violence erupts, blood gets spilled, the cleanup crews move in, the crowds finally disperse, and it’s as if none of it ever happened. Life in the city. Confirmed all over again just how pointless human behavior, human action, human existence was. People live, people die; life goes on and then it doesn’t. Everything matters for a while, and then nothing matters.

Colleen had lived, Colleen had died; his life had gone on, and then someday it wouldn’t. Everything had mattered for twenty years. And now it didn’t.

The apartment Joshua shared with Kenneth Hitchcock was only a few blocks from here. He was on his way there, to tell Joshua the news, see if it would make a difference in their relationship, make something matter again for a little while, when the call from Bill came through.

B
ill’s car was parked in tree shadow just down the block from Robert Lemoyne’s house—the same place Tamara had been
parked during her two-night surveillance, he’d said on the phone. Nearly ten-thirty now. Two-thirds of the houses along here were dark or just showing night-lights; Lemoyne’s was one of the dark ones. Runyon made a U-turn, pulled up behind Bill’s car, and went to slide in on the passenger side.

“You made good time, Jake.”

“Not much traffic. Still no sign of him?”

“No.” Bill’s voice had a thick tension in it. Finding Tamara’s car had wired him up tight. “I took a turn around the property a while ago. Doors, windows . . . everything locked up tight.”

“Gone since last night?”

“Or early this morning.”

As much as twenty-four hours. And the first twenty-four hours in a case like this were critical. If a snatch victim survived them, the odds jumped in favor of continued survival. Problem was, the percentage of victims who didn’t survive them was a hell of a lot larger.

“So how do you want to handle it?” Runyon asked.

“Keep on waiting. For now.”

“Brace him if he shows?”

“Push him hard if we have to. You carrying?”

The .357 Magnum was in his belt now. He said, “Yeah. But I hope it doesn’t come down to that.”

“So do I.”

They sat in silence. Bill kept shifting position, finding things to do with his hands. Runyon sat without moving, tuned down inside, on hold.

After a time Bill asked abruptly, making talk, “How goes the gay-bashing investigation?”

“It’s finished now. Right before you called.”

“Finished how?”

Runyon told him.

“Right place, right time. Good job. Why didn’t you say something before?”

“This is more important.”

Bill thumped the steering wheel with the heel of his hand, kept on doing it.

Runyon said, “We’ll find her. She’ll be all right.”

“Sure. Sure she will.”

Trading standard reassurances, keeping it upbeat. Believing out loud what they were both doubting inside.

More silence. A couple of cars appeared and then disappeared, another car turned into a driveway at the far end of the block. More houses went dark. The tension in Bill thickened until you could almost smell it, heavy and sour, like rancid butter.

He smacked the steering wheel again, hard enough this time to make it vibrate. “The hell with this. He’s not coming.”

“Still early yet. Not even eleven-thirty.”

“Patience isn’t one of my long suits. I can’t keep sitting here like this, Jake. What if she’s in his house right now, been there all along?”

Runyon didn’t say anything.

“She could be. We both know it.”

“So what do you want to do?”

Bill said, “How do you feel about B and E?”

“Same as you do. Last resort.”

“Yeah, well, that’s where I’m at. I’m going over there.”

Again Runyon said nothing.

“You don’t have to go along. Stay here, keep watch.”

“If you go, I go.”

“I don’t want to risk your license, Jake—”

“The hell with that. What kind of locks on his doors?”

“Dead bolts, front and back. We’ll have to break a window.”

“That can be done without too much noise, but we’ll need duct tape.”

“There’s a roll in the trunk.”

“You have a window picked out?”

“There’s one on the left side—areaway between the garage and the house hides it from the neighbors.”

They got out. Runyon checked the street while Bill took the duct tape and a flashlight out of the trunk; then they moved as one to the Lemoyne property, up the drive, into the shadowed areaway. The window there was small, high up, the glass pebbled and opaque. Bathroom. The sill extended outward just above Runyon’s head; he reached up with both hands, pushed upward on the frame. Wouldn’t budge. Locked. He ran fingertips over the glass. It didn’t feel too thick.

He said against Bill’s ear, “Need something to stand on.”

“Me. My back. You’re lighter than I am.”

“Okay.”

Bill gave him the duct tape, got down on all fours, and braced his body against the house wall. Runyon stepped up on his back, balanced himself by leaning his shoulder against the sill, then began tearing off strips of tape and pasting them to the cold glass just above the bottom of the frame. Took him five minutes to cover an area about a foot square. Bill bore his weight the entire time without moving or making an audible sound.

Runyon paused. The street out front remained empty. A chilly breeze had kicked up; it made rustling noises in a nearby tree. A dog barked somewhere a long way off. Otherwise the night hush was unbroken.

Ready. He leaned out from the wall, raised his left arm with the elbow extended, waited until the wind gusted, then drove
the elbow quick and sharp into the center of the taped square. The glass broke all right, making the kind of sound that seemed loud when all your senses were ratcheted up but that wouldn’t carry far. He punched at the taped shards until he had a hole, peeled them away to widen it. A few pieces of glass fell inside, but most clung to the gummy tape. Another few seconds and he was able to reach inside. He found the window latch, wiggled it free. The frame resisted at first, finally broke loose and slid all the way up; the sounds it made likewise wouldn’t carry.