Nocturnal: A Novel

  Bryan walked over and stepped on its neck, pressing down hard. The creature tried to breathe. Its hands pulled weakly at Pookie’s jacket.

  The clutching hands slowed, then fell away.

  Something big smashed into Bryan’s head. He stumbled back. Erickson was throwing anything he could get his hands on. Bryan’s temper snapped.

  He slid the five-seven into its holster as he stepped to the side of the hospital bed. Erickson groggily reached for Bryan’s throat. Bryan hit him in the mouth with a short right. Erickson sagged back.

  “Sorry,” Bryan said. “I hope you’re as tough as they say, old-timer.”

  Bryan bent at the knees. He reached below the bed, grabbed the heavy machinery underneath, then lifted. His arms and legs shook with the weight. He didn’t know how strong he really was, but this wasn’t the time to doubt it — he took three stumbling, running steps to the window, then threw.

  The foot of the bed smashed into the bullet-ridden safety glass. The wire-embedded glass folded out like a stiff blanket. The bed, with Erickson still in it, sailed out into the night sky.

  Bryan turned to grab Pookie, but before he came all the way around he had a glimpse of a massive, moving pile of brown fur — and then a tank smashed into him.

  He flew backward out the window.

  Finish Him

  Blanket still draped over his shoulders, Rex Deprovdechuk clutched his bleeding arm as he walked to the edge of the broken window. He’d been shot again, but way worse this time. He couldn’t move his right arm at all, and there was an awful lot of blood.

  Down below, Savior’s hospital bed was a ghastly gray-white against the nighttime grass. The other man, the one in black who had killed Sucka, was facedown, not moving, still lying where he’d fallen after Pierre had knocked him out of the window.

  “I got him,” Pierre said. “I kicked his ath.”

  Rex turned back into the room. Sly was hurt bad, but he had one arm wrapped tight around the neck of a handcuffed man covered in Sucka’s blood. The man looked like he might crap himself. Rex couldn’t blame him. Rex used his good hand to pull papers out of a blanket pocket. He set them on the ground and unfolded them, his hand smearing the photo printouts with blood. The third sheet matched this man’s face.

  “Pookie Chang,” Rex said. “Sly, that’s one of them.”

  The man struggled, but Sly held him fast.

  “I’m a cop, goddamit,” the man said. “Let me go!”

  Sly squeezed, his bicep pressing into one side of the man’s neck, his forearm into the other. Chang’s eyes widened, then wrinkled shut. His legs kicked, but he couldn’t escape. His kicks slowed, then he went limp.

  One-handed, Sly tossed the man over his shoulder.

  “My king, we have to go,” Sly said. “I have to get you to safety.”

  Sly had also been shot. His blue San Jose Sharks sweatshirt was soaked at his right shoulder, and also at two spots on his chest. He moved much slower than normal.

  Rex pointed back to the window. “Savior is down there. I want him.”

  “Let Pierre take him,” Sly said. “Zou said the police with the machine guns would be gone, but they weren’t. There could be more of them. I have to get you out of here.” Sly looked to his taller brother. “Pierre, can you finish the job?”

  Pierre nodded rapidly. “Doth a bear thit in the woodth? I’ll kick his ath!”

  Sly adjusted his blanket so it covered both him and the policeman on his shoulder. He walked to the room’s ravaged door, turned and waited. “My king, we have to go, now.”

  Rex had to trust his best friend. He pulled his own blanket over his head, his arm screaming with protest as he did. He grabbed his wound with his left hand to try and squeeze the pain away.

  Pierre leaned out the broken window. “Hey, that guy I clobbered. I think he’th moving. And he’th one of uth, I felt it.”

  Rex looked down again. The man in the black coat was struggling to rise to his knees. Chief Zou had said Bryan Clauser was like Savior, that he was actually one of Marie’s Children.

  If so, he was a traitor.

  “Pierre, make me proud,” Rex said. “Get down there and finish him. Then bring Savior back Home.”

  Pierre smiled his happy-dog smile. His long tongue fell from his mouth and dangled on the right side of his skewed jaw.

  “Yeth, my king.”

  Rex followed Sly out of the room.

  Get up, get up, get up.

  Bryan pushed himself to his knees. He was on grass. A little clearing in a wooded area. He heard sporadic traffic on the other side of a head-high brick wall not too far away. His left arm wouldn’t respond. Every motion he made ripped a stabbing sensation through the top of his chest. Broken collarbone. Had to be.

  What had happened? Pierre had happened. Bryan ignored the pain as he struggled to his feet. He looked up at the mental health building. He remembered the gunfight, remembered how hard the brown-furred creature had hit him.

  Motion from above. From out of the broken third-story window, Pierre sailed into the night air, a long blanket trailing behind him, a stockless shotgun with a drum magazine held in one huge hand.

  Bryan looked to where Pierre would fall — fifteen feet away lay the bent and twisted hospital bed, and a few feet from that an unconscious Jebediah Erickson barely covered by a rumpled blue hospital gown.

  Pierre landed with far more grace than Bryan had. The dog-faced man stepped toward Savior.

  Gunfire opened up on Bryan’s left and his right. On his left, the cane-gun, fired by the wobbly old Alder Jessup. On his right, Adam, ripping off short bursts from an Uzi. Pierre covered his face with an arm and turned away. Bullets tore through his blanket, shredding the fabric and spraying blood onto the grass.

  “Bryan!” Alder screamed. “Get the creature, we’ll rescue Savior. Go!”

  Bryan quick-glanced for his gun, but the flat-black weapon was nowhere to be seen on the dark grass. He didn’t think, he just ran, sprinting straight for the ducking Pierre.

  The Uzi fire stopped — Adam’s weapon was empty.

  Pierre turned and reached for Erickson. Before the big hands could grab the old man, Bryan closed in at full speed — his new full speed — and put his right shoulder into Pierre’s ribs.

  The creature sailed backward and smashed against a tree.

  Bryan had hit with his right shoulder, but his left suffered greatly from the impact. Something ground away inside his arm, his chest and his shoulder, liquid fire coursing all up and down his side and neck.

  Pierre rolled to his knees. He smiled a dog smile, his pink tongue dangling down off the left side of his skewed lower jaw — he raised his shotgun.

  Bryan turned away as the bah-bah-bah roar of the automatic weapon tore at the night air. Hammer blasts hit his right shoulder, his back, driving him to the ground.

  Then the stuttering crack of the Uzi sounded once again.

  Bryan fought through the pain and pushed himself to his knees. When he turned toward the threat, he saw the swirl of a dark blanket, a bit of blue hospital gown, and the pink of an old man’s naked ass disappearing over the head-high brick wall that bordered Potrero Avenue — Pierre, with an unconscious Erickson over his shoulder.

  Just like that, they were gone from sight.

  Bryan heard sirens approaching. How far away was the rest of the SWAT team? Would they have the same orders as Ellis? Would they try to arrest Bryan, or would shoot to kill be Zou’s new order?

  A hand on his good shoulder, grabbing, pulling. “Cop, get up,” Adam said. “He got Erickson!”

  Bryan leaned on Adam as he struggled to his feet. “I gotta go after him.”

  “No!” Alder’s voice. The old man limped over, reloading his cane by taking a bullet from his pocket, putting it into a hidden slot, then twisting the silver wolf’s head handle with a click. “Bryan, you have to heal. There could be more of them.”

  “But they’ll kill him!”

  Alder shook his h
ead. “He’s already dead.” His eyes showed he was resigned to an inescapable truth. “Jebediah is gone. The only variable is whether we have one dead Savior, or two.”

  Bryan started to argue, but the railroad-spike pain driving through his neck and into his lung cut off his words. He couldn’t even give chase, let alone fight.

  “Okay, shit.” Bryan let Adam help him toward the wall. “Where’s Pookie?”

  Adam stopped.

  Alder pointed his cane up to the broken third-floor window. “Your partner? Was he with you? Up there?”

  Bryan looked up. Some of the safety glass hung loosely like a thick, stiff piece of cracked crystal cloth. “He didn’t come down?”

  Alder shook his head. “Not yet. Bryan, move, we have to get out of here.”

  Bryan stared, waiting to see Pookie’s face pop into view, waiting to hear him shout down some kind of obscenity. Pookie’s face didn’t show. He had to be in the stairwell, on his way out, or maybe he was already at the car.

  “Adam, in my pants pocket, my phone.”

  For once Adam didn’t make a smart-ass answer. He pulled the phone out of Bryan’s pocket. Bryan took it. With his right hand, he pressed the two-way button.

  Bee-boop: “Pookie! You there?”

  There was a pause, then an answer.

  Boo-beep: “Hello?”

  A boy’s voice.

  Bryan’s body vibrated with instant, overwhelming emotions of rage and fear and hate and loss — he had to do something but he knew there was nothing he could do.

  “Is this Rex?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Bryan closed his eyes. He felt like he was there and not there all at the same time. “Is my partner alive?”

  “Sure,” the boy said. “Don’t you also want to know if Savior is alive?”

  “I don’t give a shit about Savior,” Bryan said, not the least bit surprised by his automatic honesty. If it came down to a brother by blood or a brother by actions, there was no question. “Keep Savior. Just let Pookie go.”

  “No,” Rex said. “Mister Chang has to pay for his crimes.”

  Bryan knew that smell on Rex was supposed to make him want to follow the boy, help the boy. He knew that at a base level, but all the scent in the world couldn’t change his urge to find Rex, to wrap his hands around the boy’s little neck, to squeeze the life out of him and make him beg.

  “Let Pookie go,” Bryan said. “If you don’t, I’m going to find you, Rex. I’m going to kill you. But before you die, I’ll make you hurt.”

  “You won’t find me,” Rex said. “But we’ll find you soon enough. You’re a murderer, Mister Clauser. You killed Sucka. We’ll put you on trial just like the others. Good-bye.”

  Rex hung up.

  Bryan closed his eyes. His best friend was gone.

  Pookie had stood by him through everything. Pookie and Robin.

  Robin.

  His eyes snapped open. “Adam, get me to Shotwell and Twenty-First, right now.”

  As the three men shuffled toward the Magnum, Bryan texted the one person he hoped he could still trust. He needed backup, and he wasn’t about to be picky.

  They hobbled to the Jessups’ station wagon and climbed in just as the first police cruiser pulled into the hospital parking lot. Bryan and Alder got in the back of the Magnum, Adam hopped into the driver’s seat. Bryan saw that Alder had handcuffed Aggie to the inside door handle of the front passenger seat. The bum looked at Bryan, his expression fearful and sullen.

  “Jesus, man,” Aggie said. “Who fucked up your face?”

  Bryan ignored him, waiting to see if he’d have to fight his way out of there.

  Adam drove out of the parking lot and onto Potrero just as a second and third cruiser pulled in.

  At least Bryan wouldn’t have to hurt any cops to go after Robin — and hurt them he would, kill them if he had to, because nothing was going to stop him from getting to Robin Hudson.

  Bryan reached up and grabbed Aggie’s shoulder. Aggie winced; Bryan relaxed his grip — he had to remember his new strength.

  “They took my partner,” Bryan said. “Do you know where they might take him?”

  Aggie nodded. “Probably the same place they took me.”

  “What will they do with him?”

  Aggie shrugged. “Depends on how hungry they are, I guess.”

  Bryan had to get to Pookie. He had to get to Robin. An impossible decision, but if he could get Robin out of harm’s way, then he could focus all of his energy on saving his partner.

  “Start talking, Mister James,” Bryan said to Aggie. “You’ve got ten minutes. Tell me what happened to you down there.”

  Voyeur

  Big Max held a glass of wine in his left hand. His right was against his ear, cupped to the wall that separated their apartments.

  “Max, quit it,” Robin said. “You’re making me nervous.”

  He leaned toward her in that way people do when they whisper. “There could be someone out to get you, but me listening to see if anyone is in your apartment is making you nervous?”

  “Yes. It’s making me think about it and I don’t want to think about it. I just want to sit here and have all of us be quiet.”

  Sitting there, on the couch, was about all Robin could do at the moment — Emma was on one side of her, weighing her down from the left, while Billy’s big head and shoulders weighed her down from the right. She couldn’t even reach out to the coffee table to set down her wineglass. At some point in the evening, she had become furniture for a combined 155 pounds of cuddly canine.

  Max walked away from the wall and waved a hand in casual dismissal. “All right, honey, I’ll leave it alone. Not that it matters — I can hear just about everything that goes on over there. I sure did last night.”

  Robin felt her face flush red. “You heard?”

  Max smiled and nodded. “I did. All four times.”

  Robin covered her face with her free hand. “Oh my God.”

  “Yeah, I heard that, too,” Max said. “I need a boyfriend like Bryan.”

  “Ho-kay, Max, you’ve now embarrassed the hell out of me.”

  He laughed and sat next to her. He scooped Billy up and dragged the limp pit bull onto his lap. Billy’s tail gave two thumps, then the dog went back to sleep.

  “Well, I’m glad you guys took care of business,” Max said. “Was this just ex-sex?”

  “What is that?”

  Max sighed. “And they call you smart. Ex-sex is sex with your ex.”

  “Oh. Actually, I don’t think we’re exes anymore.”

  Max held up his wineglass. “Well then, here’s to true love.”

  Robin flushed red all over again. She clinked her glass against his. “And here’s to friends — I’d be going crazy if I didn’t have a big, strong man to protect me right now.”

  Max laughed quietly. “Yeah, right. You’re the one who’s packing heat.”

  She shrugged. “Still, I’m pretty freaked out. Thank you for letting us stay here.”

  He flipped his hand dismissively again. “Honey, please, you—”

  A metallic clang from outside the building cut off his words. Emma and Billy lifted their heads. The arms of both owners slid around their dogs’ necks, holding them tight, sending them a clear signal to be still, and be quiet.

  “Max,” Robin whispered, “what was that?”

  Max nodded toward his curtain-covered window. “Fire escape.”

  Robin thought of Pookie’s claims about people jumping across streets and scrambling up buildings.

  Another clang. Then nothing.

  “Robin, are you sure we shouldn’t call 9-1-1?”

  She shook her head. “No. We can’t. We don’t know if it’s safe.”

  And then Robin Hudson realized just how thin the walls really were, because she heard heavy footsteps coming from inside her apartment.

  Pedal to the Metal

  Adam wasn’t driving like a grandfather anymore.

 
He didn’t seem to give a shit about other cars, the Magnum’s finish, traffic lights or even pedestrians. A few days ago, this kind of driving would have made Bryan want to throw Adam’s ass in jail. Now he wished Adam could be even more reckless, cut off a few more cars, drive just a little faster.

  Aggie was still handcuffed to the front passenger-seat door. The guy spent most of his time staring at the handcuffs.

  Adam raced the souped-up Magnum down Twenty-First Street, moving into the left lane to pass whenever the opportunity presented itself. The engine’s roar echoed off the buildings on either side, playing off the tinny squawk of a police radio mounted in the dash.

  The Magnum hit a pothole; Bryan flinched from a deep sting in his gums.

  “Bryan,” Alder said, “sit still!”

  “I’m trying,” Bryan said, or at least he tried to say it — he wasn’t sure what words actually came out of his wide-open mouth. Alder sat next to Bryan in the rear seat. He had to stitch Bryan’s torn gums together before he moved on to the ripped cheek. Blood covered the old man’s surgical gloves.

  There might be more action coming. Alder had wanted to stop so he could fix Bryan’s wounds. Bryan told the old man to do the work en route — every bump in the road, every swerve or sudden braking brought more pain from the needle, but Bryan didn’t care.

  “One more,” Alder said. He leaned in, then pulled the needle back. “Done. Now for the cheek, then we have to do the collarbone. It will refuse in the next fifteen minutes or so. If it heals wrong, we’ll just have to rebreak it anyway.”

  Alder opened a kit mounted in the back of the front passenger seat. He pulled out a device Bryan didn’t recognize and started prepping it.

  “Hey, cop,” Adam called from the front seat. “Bad news. Police band just said there’s a BOLO out for you. They’re saying you killed those two SWAT guys.”

  That dirty bitch. Zou wanted Bryan so bad she’d instantly framed him for the murder of two men. Every cop in the city would be gunning for him. His brief moment of believing Amy Zou was doing the right thing? Bryan had been a fool, and now everyone was paying the price for it.

  He closed his eyes, tried to manage the pain radiating through his body. The coat had stopped the shotgun slugs, but like Adam had warned, it didn’t stop all of the kinetic energy. Bryan’s back throbbed. His right arm hurt almost as bad as his left. He tried to store up the pain, file it away — he’d return it with interest when he got his hands on Rex Deprovdechuk.