Scott Sigler - Nocturnal - A Novel

“The Bigfoot,” Bryan said.

Pookie started the Buick and drove away from the scene.

The Long Night

The cold rain poured down, soaking sweatshirts, jeans, shoes and even socks — it made Alex Panos miserable.

Alex and Issac walked north on Hyde Street, their sweatshirt hoods up and their heads down. They were careful not to bump into anyone. The Federal Building rose up on their right, part of a world Alex didn’t understand and didn’t care about.

What he did care about was staying alive. To do that, he had to start taking some chances.

“Alex,” Issac said, “I don’t wanna do this.”

Alex’s lip curled up. “You should shut up now, Issac.”

Of all the people to be stuck with, he had that whiney bitch Issac. Issac should have been the one to fall to his death, not Jay.

“This rain sucks ,” Issac said. “It’s been days, man. I’m cold and I’m hungry. Maybe we should just go to the cops.”

Cops like Bryan Clauser? No way Alex would go to the police. No way.

Without the Boston College gear, Alex and Issac were just two more teenagers walking the streets. They’d found places to sleep, but they had been careful not to break in anywhere or to do anything that would attract attention.

Because someone wanted them dead.

“Come on ,” Issac whined. “If you’re going to your mom’s, let me go see my parents. I got to at least let them know I’m okay.”

Alex stopped and turned. Issac stopped, too, wide-eyed with the instant knowledge he’d pushed it too far.

“You’re not going home,” Alex said. Issac was a big kid, but Alex had a good three inches and at least twenty pounds on him. They’d scrapped once. After the beating Alex had dished out, Issac wasn’t going to try it again.

“We stay together,” Alex said. “We’re going to my mom’s because we need the money.”

“You spent like five hundred bucks on that gun,” Issac said. “That was all we had. And I don’t even get to carry it.”

Alex nodded. No, Issac didn’t get to carry it. That was the breaks. Alex reached behind his back, patted the gun under his sweatshirt where he’d tucked it into his belt. He was checking it every five minutes, it seemed, just to make sure it didn’t fall out.

He’d always wanted a Glock but had been afraid to get one. Being busted as a minor in possession of narcotics was one thing — being in possession of a gun was another. But now someone was trying to kill him, someone connected with the cops. Alex wasn’t going out like Oscar, and he sure as hell wasn’t going out like Jay.

Issac looked like he was about to cry. “I know we need money,” he said, “but can you really rob your mom?”

“I’m not going to put the gun to her head, stupid,” Alex said. “She probably won’t even be there. I know where she keeps the money. I’m done with your whining, man. If you’re going to act like a bitch, I’m going to treat you like a bitch. You got it?”

Alex stared, waiting for an answer. He couldn’t let Issac go to his parents. That would bring the cops. Alex would do whatever he had to to stay safe, stay hidden. If Issac had to be shut up for good, well, that’s the way it was.

Issac nodded. “Okay, man. I’m down for the ride.”

“I know this sucks,” Alex said. “We don’t have a choice. Do this with me, then I think we can sleep in a house tonight. April’s parents are gone for a couple of days.”

Issac smiled. “ Shrek? Dude, no way.”

Alex laughed and punched Issac in the shoulder — playful, but Alex wanted it to hurt a little, just a reminder of who was in charge. Issac winced, then forced a laugh of his own.

“She’s putting us up,” Alex said. “So you call her April , not Shrek . We’ll get Mom’s cash, then we’ll go to April’s place.”

“What then? What do we do when April’s parents come back?”

Alex wished he knew. Maybe it was time to get out of San Francisco. They had a gun now. They could rob places, get money, just keep moving until he figured out what to do.

“I’ll tell you later,” Alex said. “All I know is that tonight, when you’re all warm and dry, you’ll feel like a douchebag for making fun of me about April a few weeks ago, huh?”

“I guess,” Issac said. “I mean, she does kind of look like an ogre.”

“Yeah, and I’ll be the one getting my dick sucked tonight. You won’t be getting shit. She’ll do whatever I tell her. I might even tell her you get to watch.”

Issac’s blue eyes widened. “Oh, wow, man.”

Alex couldn’t tell if that was an oh wow of excitement or fear. Didn’t matter. Doing stuff in front of Issac would embarrass the hell out of April. Some girls liked humiliation.

They passed a boarded-up doorway. A homeless guy completely covered in a soaking wet blanket lay there, trying to avoid the worst of the rain. Alex didn’t know who had it worse, him or the bum. Unlike the bum, Alex was young, strong, and would find a way to stay alive — but at least the bum didn’t have someone trying to kill him.

The rain kept pouring down. Alex and Issac kept walking north.

Pookie walked back to the table with a second round of beers — an Elizabeth Street Brewery IPA for him, a Bud Light for Bryan. Bryan had no taste in beer.

Bryan sat on the bar stool, his elbows on the small, round table, his head in his hands. The table was right next to the bar’s namesake — a twelve-foot-tall wooden statue of Bigfoot himself. The statue made Pookie think of drawings of snake-men, and of an old lady talking about building-climbing werewolves.

Pookie set the beers on the table.

“Buck up, little Terminator,” he said. “Turn that frown upside down. Also, just insert your favorite peppy euphemism here.”

Bryan lifted his head. “A do-it-yourself pep talk?”

“Absolutely,” Pookie said. “The night is darkest before the dawn. Pull yourself up by your own bootstraps. If you don’t drink, I’ll keep talking.”

Bryan picked up his bottle and drank.

Pookie’s partner was angry and confused, and rightfully so. Bryan wanted to fight , he wanted to lash out at something. He was damn close to going off like a bull in a china shop. But it was Chief Zou’s china shop, and that would not end well.

“Bri-Bri, we’ll get this figured out.”

“You keep saying that. It just gets worse. A cop is dead because of this shit, Pooks. And Robertson gives us the boot?”

“We’ll find the guy who did this,” Pookie said. “We’ll find out what’s up with your dreams, Rex’s drawings, the symbols, all of it.”

Bryan moved his bottle in slow circles on the table. “I think I made those drawings because of Rex, because I saw the same stuff he saw.”

Pookie couldn’t see how such a thing was possible, but he wasn’t about to rule it out. At some point, you have to believe what your eyes are telling you. Seeing the snake-face drawing in Rex’s room proved that there was some kind of connection.

“Astral projection, Bri-Bri? Telepathy? Mind-controlling little green men?”

Bryan shook his head. “I got no idea, man. All I know is Rex hates BoyCo. Hates them with everything he’s got.”

“Hate is a valid motive to kill Oscar and Jay,” Pookie said. “But did he have the means?”

“You saw Bobby’s body. Someone in Rex’s house did that, and it wasn’t his dead mom.”

Pookie shook his head. “Sure, but it wasn’t Rex. Kid is a buck-ten after two trips to the pasta buffet. He’s working with adults, and big ones at that. Let’s not count your dreams for now. Based on what Tiffany Hine saw, and based on what Mister Biz-Nass told us about Marie’s Children wearing costumes, we have to assume that Rex is mixed up in that cult.”