Scott Sigler - Nocturnal - A Novel

“ Was close.”

Pookie used a quick sip to hold back his laugh.

“That’s a good one,” he said. “If I say I believe that, will you also try to sell me a bridge? Come on, you guys are kidding yourselves.”

“Pookie, I don’t need a lecture on—”

“Sorry,” he said. “Not trying to play matchmaker. Just please, for me, answer the question. Do you think Bryan is capable of a revenge attack? Or maybe even something unprovoked?”

He waited. The beer didn’t taste like anything.

“Yeah,” she said in a whisper. “Yeah, I do.”

He’d known what her answer would be, because he’d already come to the same conclusion. But believing Bryan was capable of it didn’t mean that Bryan had done it.

Pookie would not turn his back on his friend.

“Thanks, Bo-Bobbin.”

“You’re welcome. Take care of him, Pookie.”

“I’m trying, darlin’, I’m trying. Night.”

He hung up.

Please, God, don’t let me be wrong about him .

Mr. Sandman …

This boy wasn’t as stupid as the other one. This boy kept looking around, kept to the shadows, tried to stay out of sight.

One womb .

Bryan looked down at the boy. He looked so tiny, like a little mouse. From this high above, everyone seems small. The boy had a thin, red goatee. He wore a crimson jacket with gold trim. A white sweatshirt hood was up over a crimson ball cap sporting the gold initials BC .

The colors marked him, marked him as a tormentor, as a torturer.

The colors marked him for death.

Bryan felt that heat, that flush of stronger-than-life passion for the hunt. This boy was already on the run. He knew someone was out to get him. That would make him more dangerous prey.

The boy looked up, but not at Bryan. The boy turned his head this way and that, looking at every window, every doorway, even up to every rooftop, his head moving steady and smooth and nonstop. This boy knew his surroundings, he knew his turf.

The whole CITY is our turf, asshole .

Bryan stayed very still. He let the prey waste its energy. Bryan’s soul tingled; his mind swam with the knowledge that this was the way life was meant to be lived.

He’d been born for this.

The boy walked west on Geary. He crossed Hyde, heading toward Larkin. Bryan moved back, like a shadow, out of sight from anyone on the street. Clutching his blanket tight around his body, he jumped, a silent wind, moving from the roof of a parking garage to the tarred, flat top of the Ha-Ra bar. There, Bryan paused, freezing in place. He scanned the rooftop, the other buildings, looking for any sign of movement, any sign of the monster.

He saw none, and that made him happy.

With the barest of movements, Bryan leaned out over the brickwork to look down to the street twenty feet below.

Prey spotted.

One womb, you motherfucking bully .

There were very few people on the streets, but still enough to make it difficult. The boy wasn’t far from Van Ness. Even in the predawn hours, that road had enough traffic that you couldn’t just grab prey and drag it into the shadows or pull it up onto the roofs. If the boy reached Van Ness, they’d have no choice but to wait and watch.

“He’s a smart one,” said the sandpapery voice to Bryan’s right.

“You got that right, Sthly,” Bryan said.

Bryan turned — and saw a nightmare. A thick man with a heavy, dark blanket draped over his head and shoulders. The blanket covered him, but not all of him; a green face with a pointy snout caught the dim light, yellow eyes narrow with anticipation. The thick man smiled, revealing razor-sharp, neon-white teeth.

The nightmare spoke.

“This one is going to taste sweet.”

Bryan woke up screaming.

He was going to kill that boy.

No-no, not him … that monster .

Blood pounding. Adrenaline surging. His cock as hard as a railroad spike. Every ounce of him ached. Invisible jackhammers, pounding away at his flesh. Even his bones hurt.

His bedroom door flew open. Pookie slid in, gun in hand, eyes darting first to Bryan then around the room. Pookie knelt to look under the bed.

Bryan shook his head. “No one here. A dream.”

Pookie stood. He looked scared. Scared of Bryan. Maybe he should be.

“A dream,” Pookie said. “Like the last one?”

Bryan coughed, nodded. So hot. He’d never felt this sick, felt like something was attacking every ounce of his body. “Yeah. Like the last one. I think it’s happening again.”

Pookie stared, blinked. “You’re telling me that someone’s being murdered right now? That you dreamed it?”

Bryan pushed his body out of bed. Heavy feet — still in his shoes — landed on the floor with a thump.

“Not yet,” he said. “Stalking him.”

“ Who is stalking him?”

“I am. I mean … someone is, and I think I was in that someone’s head … something like that, anyway.”

Pookie’s face showed he was having a hard time believing this. “You’re telling me someone is stalking this kid, right this second?”

Bryan rubbed his eyes, tried to breathe through aching lungs, tried to think. “They’re going to take him down. He’s at Geary and Hyde. We gotta go.”

“I’ll call it in,” Pookie said. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Bryan’s hands drifted to his shoulder holster … empty. “I need my weapon.”

“I’d rather you went without.”

Pookie didn’t trust Bryan with a gun? Considering what Bryan had put him through that was probably smart, but Bryan didn’t have time to argue.

“Bryan, forget it. You’re in no shape to—”

“No time,” Bryan said as he brushed past Pookie and stepped into the hall. He found his weapons piled up on the kitchen table, put them where they belonged. He turned back toward the front door, to leave the apartment — and found Pookie blocking his way.

Pookie’s gun was in his right hand, the barrel pointed at the ground.

“Bryan, I can’t let you go.”

Bryan paused. His own partner had drawn on him. He didn’t feel offended or insulted. Instead, he actually felt instant sympathy for Pookie’s difficult position — but there just wasn’t time for this.

“Pooks, I will not let that boy die. Call for backup, come with me or stay here, but whatever you do, get the fuck out of my way.”

Pookie’s hand flexed on his Sig Sauer. Was he going to point it at Bryan? Had it come to that?

Bryan turned and ran into his tiny kitchen. A second later, he heard footsteps behind him as Pookie reacted.

The narrow kitchen window was hinged on the left side. It swung open like a door that led to the fire escape. Bryan stepped out the window to the metal-grate platform outside, the night welcoming him back to its dark embrace. It had rained while he slept — the metal rails felt icy-cold on his hands. Before Pookie had even reached the kitchen, Bryan had slid down to the third floor and was already descending to the second. By the time Pookie crawled out of the kitchen window, Bryan’s feet hit the first-floor landing …

… and slipped.

His feet shot out from under him. The fire escape’s wet, rusty metal smashed into his forehead. That pain added to his aches and fever, but he didn’t let it stop him. He got back to his feet. Instead of lowering the collapsible ladder to the sidewalk, he just hopped over the rail.

“Bryan! Stay there!”

Bryan’s feet hit concrete. He ignored his partner. The kid from his dream was going to wind up just like Oscar Woody. Bryan had to stop that from happening.