Bill Pronzini: Betrayers

“I’m going to ask a favor,” Bill said, “but I won’t hold it against you if you say no.”

“Why would I say no?”

“What I want you to do could have a backlash.”

“What kind of backlash?”

“The kind that could get us and the agency in trouble. That’s one reason I don’t want Tamara to know about it yet.”

“Trouble with the law?”

“Potentially. Could put our licenses in jeopardy. I don’t think that’ll happen, but it could if I’m off base here.”

“But you’re pretty sure you’re not.”

“Pretty sure,” Bill said. “But not a hundred percent. It’s going to take a little muscle to find out for certain.”

“How much muscle?”

“Nothing heavy. Just enough to get inside a guy’s house.”

“Hard guy?”

“No. And no family, lives alone.”

“Unlawful entry, then. That the backlash you mean?”

“That’s it.”

“I’ve run that risk before,” Runyon said. “We both have. This is important to you, right? Personal?”

“Yeah. Personal.”

“And you want me along why? Not for extra muscle, if the guy isn’t a hardcase. Intimidation? Witness?”

“They’re part of the reason.”

“What’s the other part?”

Bill said grimly, “If I’m right, to keep me from doing something I might regret for the rest of my life.”

Zachary Ullman wasn’t home.

No lights, no car in the driveway, no answer to the doorbell.

They sat waiting in Runyon’s Ford, parked a few doors upstreet. Neither of them said anything. Bill had laid it all out for him in the South Park Cafe and they’d talked it over a little more on the drive out here to Daly City. Nothing to do now but wait.

Gray daylight began to fade; fog came pouring in in humped white waves, like an avalanche in slow motion. Ragged streamers of mist broke loose from the mass overhead, curled down along the twisty street, thickening slowly until the shapes of the houses beyond the curve ahead lost definition. Night shadows formed and spread and lights bloomed in windows. More cars rolled by in both directions-residents coming home from work-but none of them turned into Ullman’s driveway.

Waiting like this didn’t bother Runyon. He sat with his mind cranked down to basic awareness, a trick he’d learned on stakeouts in Seattle and honed fine during Colleen’s long, slow cancer death. It wasn’t a matter of maintaining patience; it was a way to keep from thinking about things like pain and suffering and grief, things that could drive you up to the edge if you let yourself dwell on them.

Bill hadn’t learned the trick. He was always fidgety on stakeouts and worse when he was stressed this way-thinking too much, letting his thoughts and emotions run unchecked. He kept shifting around on the seat, blowing out heavy breaths, doing things with his hands and feet. Once he muttered, “Come on, come on, come on!” Runyon didn’t blame him. Even if Bill was wrong about what he expected to find in Ullman’s house, there was still the cocaine Emily had picked up. That was enough cause and justification right there for what they were going to do.

Not easy being a father. Runyon hadn’t been much of a one to Joshua, but that hadn’t been his fault; Andrea, with her booze-fueled bitterness and hatred, hadn’t given him an opportunity. But he had the parental gene; he understood what Bill was going through, why he didn’t trust himself to brace Ullman alone tonight. If their situations were reversed, he might not be so calm sitting here, either.

Full dark now. Getting on toward six o’clock. No telling when Ullman would finally show up; if he’d gone out to dinner or a show or a meeting of some kind, they could be here for hours. Pretty soon he’d have to call Bryn, tell her he’d be late, might not be able to make it at all tonight. Better do it now, get it over with-

No.

Headlights crawling toward them through the mist, slowing, turning into Ullman’s driveway.

Bill laid fingers like steel bands on Runyon’s arm. “That’s him.”

“Can’t make out if he’s alone.”

“Not yet.”

The garage door rolled up down there. Enough light from inside spilled out for a clearer view of the car-a light-colored compact-and the shadowed interior.

“He’s alone,” Bill said.

The car disappeared inside the garage; the door rolled down again.

Runyon asked, “How much time do we give him?”

“Enough to get inside the house. We move as soon as a light goes on.”

It didn’t take much more than a minute. The instant the front window became a pale yellow rectangle, they were out of the car.

Fast walk across the street, up the front path-careful not to make any noise as they climbed to the door. Bill leaned on the bell, kept his finger on it. Footsteps. And a voice said, “Who is it? Who’s out there?”

Bill glanced at Runyon, shook his head. He jabbed the bell again.

“I said who’s out there?”

And again.

Rattle of a dead-bolt lock. Runyon stepped aside, into the heavy shadows, so he couldn’t be seen when the door opened partway on a chain.

“You again. What’s the idea of ringing my bell like that-”

Bill said, “Let me in, Ullman. I want to talk to you.”

“No. I have nothing to say to you. Go away.”

“I’m coming in, one way or another.”

“No, you’re not-”

Ullman tried to close the door. Bill jammed his body against it, and Runyon crowded in next to him to help hold it open. A bleated “No!” from inside. B amp; E if they busted the chain… and the hell with it. Their combined weight shoved it taut, snapped the plate loose on the second push; the door flew inward, the knob banging loudly off the inner wall.

Bill shoved in after it. Over his shoulder Runyon saw Ullman’s slight figure backing away with his hands up in front of him, his narrow face pinched white with fear.

“Two of you! My God, what’s the idea, what do you want? I’ll call the police-”

Bill said, “You won’t call anybody.”

“Are you here to beat me up? Is that what-”

“Shut up. Just stand still and be quiet, don’t give me an excuse.”

They crowded Ullman down a long hallway that opened into a smallish living room at the rear. Nothing special about it-nondescript furniture except for a long oak sideboard, a flat-screen TV, three cases stuffed with books. Bill went to the sideboard, opened doors to look inside. Runyon moved to the bookcases, scanned the spines of a mix of hardcovers and trade paperbacks. Science and history subjects, mostly, and a smattering of classical fiction.

“Nothing,” he said.

“Nothing here, either.”

“Oh my God,” Ullman said, “what’re you looking for?” He was so scared now he was shaking visibly.

“You know the answer to that.”

“No. No…”

Dining room next, with Ullman stumbling along behind them. Nothing. Kitchen. Nothing. Down a short cross-hallway to the first of three closed doors, probably a bedroom.

“No!” Ullman screamed the word this time. “Don’t go in there; you can’t go in there!”

Bill pulled the door open and Runyon followed him in.

Bedroom, all right. But like no bedroom Runyon had ever seen or wanted to see again. Bill had been right, dead right. It was all there-all the proof he or the law would ever need. On the dresser and the bedside table, in another bookcase, no doubt on the computer that sat on a trestle desk. And on the walls. Jesus, especially on the walls.

Child porn.

The worst, the sickest imaginable.

This wasn’t just a bedroom; it was a goddamned filthy shrine.

The photographs were the worst.

There were seven or eight of them, all in color and hideously graphic, a couple blown up to the size of small posters. Grown men with both girls and boys, the youngest six or seven, the oldest Emily’s age. Entangled bodies and leering male faces. Images to make you puke. And there’d be more, a lot more, on Ullman’s computer and the VHS tapes and stacks of scrapbooks in the bookcase. He wasn’t just a sick son of a bitch who got off on kiddie porn; he was archiving the stuff with the aid of Joe Hoffman and others like him.