Andrew Klavan - Damnation Street

Weiss shifted the. 38 into his left hand, picked up the phone with his right. He pressed the buttons-9-1-1-then held the handset to his ear.

A woman's voice, sleepy, drawling: "Police emergency."

"Oh Jesus," the killer murmured. He grimaced. He bent over as if he were gagging. He clutched at his belly. Slipped his hand inside his shirt, rubbing his stomach.

Weiss's eyes flicked down to follow the hand. He kept the gun on him. But the killer took a deep breath as if the pain had passed. He brought his hand out of the shirt again. It was empty.

The woman's voice again: "Hello? Police emergency."

"Get somebody over here," said Weiss. "I'm holding an intruder. I took two guns off him."

"What's your location, sir?"

"Damned if I know. You got my number on your computer, right?"

"Hold on, sir, stay on the line with me…"

"Just track it down," said Weiss. "Just get here."

He hung up the phone. Shifted the gun back to his right hand.

"I think I'm gonna puke," said the killer. He bent forward. His hand went inside his shirt again.

Weiss watched him, deadpan. He didn't care if he puked or not. He kept the gun on him, but his mind was distracted. He was thinking about Julie, about her face and the smell of her and the way she pressed his arm as she went by him.

He shook it off. Some things were like that, that's all. You saw them and you thought you would die if you didn't have them, but you could never have them and you didn't die, not from that anyway. Olivia Graves was right: Julie had some kind of knack for being whatever a man wanted her to be. It was a whore's talent, the talent she'd learned while seducing her mother's boyfriends so that they'd leave her little sister alone.

Once again the man who called himself John Foy took a deep breath as his pain seemed to pass. He straightened, his hand still resting on his middle. He offered Weiss another smile, a weak, bland, anonymous smile.

Weiss could see the rage and hatred in his eyes.

The killer rubbed his belly, pretending he felt sick. This time he slipped his hand into his shirt a little farther. His fingertips touched the razor slit in the cotton of his T-shirt. He knew he could reach into the slit fast, go fast into the pocket of the bodysuit. He knew he could get the gun fast and come out with it fast.

But not yet. Weiss was still watching too closely, still keeping the gun trained on him.

The killer gave a tight laugh-the sort of laugh you give when you're in pain but you're trying to laugh anyway. "Bet they're over an hour away," he said.

Weiss blinked at the sound of his voice. The killer could see his mind had drifted. He'd been thinking of something else. Good.

"The cops," the killer said. "I bet they won't be here for over an hour."

Weiss shrugged. "You got some other appointment?"

The killer flinched and clutched his stomach, made a big show of it. "No," he said, almost gasping. "No."

"Me either," said Weiss.

The killer groaned. Yet again he reached into his shirt. Weiss's eyes followed the movement, but his own hand remained loose on the. 38. He was getting used to it now. Good. The killer's rage was so strong, he could hardly wait anymore. He wanted to do this. But he brought his hand out empty yet again.

"You let her go," he said.

"She did her part," said Weiss.

"Now it's just you and me, right?"

Weiss didn't answer.

The Shadowman grinned, clutching his belly. "You'll never have her that way."

Weiss didn't answer.

"I had her," the Shadowman said.

Weiss snorted.

"I bet you think about that," said the killer. "I know you do. That's what this whole deal is. I had her and you didn't. That's what all this is about."

"I guess you're a big man," said Weiss.

"I had her."

"I know what you did to her."

"She wanted it that way."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah."

"Anyway, I had her, that's what I'm saying."

"So you're a sick fuck, so what?"

"So I had her."

"Ah, you're a sick fuck."

"You know what I'm saying," the killer said. "You know what I'm talking a-" He grunted, pretended to flinch. He put his hand in his shirt and rubbed his stomach. This time Weiss didn't even watch his hand.

Good, the killer thought. It was almost time.

Weiss pressed his lips together. He was sorry he'd said anything. He should've known better than to start up with that shit. But he couldn't help it. He had his own anger. It felt like a fist had hold of his gut and was twisting it. When he thought about Julie, when he thought about the killer, when he thought about the look of her just now and the way she touched his arm and the way the killer was… Well, he had his own anger.

She had a habit of becoming whoever men wanted her to be.

Yeah, so what? Weiss thought. That's how she kept the bastards off her little sister.

But that was what bothered him. Her little sister was in the clear, her little sister was fine-so why did she go on with it? Why did she keep on whoring? Even when she was a kid, the routine wouldn't have worked forever. Eventually, no matter what she did, no matter how good she was, her mother's dealer boyfriends would've wanted more, would've wanted to go after little Olivia too. Julie must've known that.

You think you understand everything, but you don't understand anything.

Then suddenly Weiss did understand. With his stomach churning, it suddenly came to him-came to him as if it had been hidden in the back of his mind all along: why Julie went on whoring, how she knew where to find her father, why Olivia was angry at her sister, even though she'd saved her from the men who would surely have raped her.

He understood all of it.

The killer watched him. He saw Weiss's eyes close and open. He saw the tip of his tongue touch his lips. The detective's mind was wandering. He was thinking about something else. His focus was slipping. The man who called himself John Foy could see it. He could see that his moment was almost here.

He did the whole show one last time. He groaned. He gritted his teeth. He bent forward. He put his hand inside his shirt and pushed it all the way through the slit in his T-shirt. He rubbed his belly and slipped his hand in farther, into the pocket of his bodysuit.

He touched the handle of the Saracen.

It was Julie, Weiss thought. His stomach was churning, and he thought: it was Julie-thirteen-year-old Mary Graves. She had learned to play the whore for her mother's men. She had kept them off her little sister by offering them herself. She had learned to be whatever they wanted, and at first she thought that would be enough. But finally she must have realized: nothing was enough. There was no holding the men off forever. Eventually, they would go after the younger girl too. That was just how things worked. Bad men did bad things, and if you didn't stop them, they did more bad things and more.

Thirteen-year-old Mary Graves couldn't stop the bad men, but she could make it so they would go away.

So it was Mary-it was Julie-who picked up the clawhammer, who went on tiptoe into her mother's room, up to the bed where her mother lay sleeping…

Weiss felt he was there. He slipped into her feelings. He felt the weight of the hammer-her father's heavy hammer-as the child lifted it with both hands. He felt the quickening arc as she brought the thing down on her sleeping mother's forehead. And brought it down again. And again. Until the forehead caved in. Until the blood spurted, then burbled out in a steady flow onto the white pillow.

Now there would be no more bad men…

You don't understand anything.

But Weiss understood. He understood Charles Graves-Andy Bremer. He hadn't run away because he was guilty. He ran because he wanted to look guilty. If the police caught him, if they grilled him, if he confessed, he would make a slip, miss a fact: they would know he was lying. But if he ran, the cops would just assume he'd done the murder. He coached the children in what to say. The cops would believe them because they were just kids. A little girl doesn't crush her own mother's head with a clawhammer. It was obviously the missing father who had done it. The cops would assume he was guilty and spend their resources hunting for him. He ran to protect Julie, and he called her, checked on her, to make sure she was safe. They played out the lie together. She never lost touch with him.