Scott Sigler - Nocturnal - A Novel

“Thanks.”

Pookie walked to the coffee table in front of the couch. On it was Bryan’s pad, a pencil, and a scattering of hastily scrawled protection symbols. “Bryan, did you have another nightmare?”

Bryan started to say no, but stopped. He had vague wisps of something grabbing him, beating him, maybe even stabbing him. He couldn’t lock it down.

“I did,” he said. “Worse than the others.”

“ Worse? Ummm, do we need to drive somewhere, then? See if there’s a body?”

Bryan shook his head. “Not unless the body is mine. I didn’t stalk anyone. This time I think something got me.”

“Got you? Like, killed you?”

Bryan tried to remember. A few more fuzzy images filtered to the surface of his thoughts. “Yeah. I dreamed about the guy in the cloak, Pooks. The archer. In the dream his name was Savior.”

“Savior? Wasn’t the Saviors the group that Biz-Nass said burned Marie’s Children at the stake?”

Bryan nodded. “Yeah, you’re right. This guy in the cloak, he messed me up pretty bad. He dragged me down some steps. I’m not sure what came next. All I know is that I don’t think I’ve ever felt so afraid in my life. He was going to do something to me.”

Pookie nodded. He looked worried, like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. “What happened then?”

Bryan shrugged. “Don’t know. I woke up, drew some symbols, felt better, then went right back to sleep. I didn’t go out and put a gun in a kid’s face, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Pookie forced a smile. “Of course not. Drink your coffee and shower up. Biz said he was making an exception to see us this early, so let’s move it.”

Mr. Biz-Nass and the Arrow

HELLO AGAIN OFFICER POOKIE … HELLO OFFICER FUCKER FUCKER DICKER PRICKER .

Pookie smiled wide. Biz-Nass was actually happy to see them. “Biz- Nass , old boy, how they hanging?”

LONG AND RED AND READY FOR BED … COME IN COME IN.

Pookie and Bryan sat in the blue plastic chairs. Pookie was keeping a close eye on his partner. The night before in the private autopsy room, Pookie had thought Bryan was about to snap. The man’s pain seemed to be gone, but he hadn’t gone back to the reserved, emotionless guy that Pookie knew and loved. Now Bryan’s eyes showed a steady state of simmering anger, and he had an aura of impending violence that seemed a tiny spark away from erupting.

THIS BETTER BE IMPORTANT. IT’S TEN IN THE MORNING AND I DON’T EVEN KICK MY BITCHES OUT OF BED UNTIL WELL PAST NOON.

“We found something else,” Pookie said. “Maybe you can tell us what it means. Bryan, show him.”

Bryan thumbed his phone, calling up a picture of the bloody arrowhead. He set it faceup on the table’s red velvet, then slid it forward. Biz-Nass didn’t move — he just stared down at the screen. He finally looked up, first at Pookie, then at Bryan.

Biz-Nass started to pant. He tried talking without putting the voice box to his throat. Pookie couldn’t make out the hissing whisper, but he was pretty sure there was a fucker and pricker in there somewhere.

Bryan pointed to Biz’s throat. “Your hardware, man. Don’t forget your hardware.”

Biz-Nass stared at Bryan with real fear, then remembered his voice box. He lifted the device to his throat.

SORRY I FUCK-FUCK … I MEAN I FUCK-FUCK … I FORGOT MYSELF.

“You’ve seen this before,” Pookie said. “Why does it scare you so bad?”

I’M NOT SCARED … I DON’T KNOW WHAT IT IS.

“Biz,” Pookie said in a calm voice, “that article you have on the Golden Gate Slasher, it’s been wiped out of existence everywhere else. You know about the symbols. You know about Marie’s Children. You were writing a fucking book on the subject, Bro — there’s no way you didn’t research the arrow that killed the Slasher.”

Mr. Biz-Nass looked at each of the cops, then spoke in a tone so pleading even the mechanical effect couldn’t hide it. I HAVEN’T TALKED. I SWEAR. MMMMM PLEASE DON’T HIT ME.

Maybe Biz faked his Tourette’s, maybe he didn’t, but Pookie knew he wasn’t faking this. Wide eyes, fast breaths, open mouth, hands clutching — Biz thought he was about to get his ass kicked.

“We are not going to hit you,” Pookie said. “People are dying. We need to know how to stop it.”

Biz-Nass just shook his head.

The first time Pookie and Bryan had visited, Biz-Nass had thought they’d come to rough him up. He’d thought that when they mentioned the symbols. Biz had formally requested info on the symbols twenty-nine years ago — requested that info from the SFPD.

Pookie suddenly thought of Chief Zou, leaning forward, her knuckles on the autopsy table, threatening Bryan Clauser with career destruction if not jail.

“Amy Zou,” Pookie said. “You ever have a run-in with her, Biz? Or how about Rich Verde?”

Mr. Biz-Nass set the voice box down and put his hands flat on his velvet table. He took a deep breath, tried to collect himself. His left hand put the voice box back to his throat, while his right hand pointed to his thrice-broken, crooked nose.

MMMMM WHO DO YOU THINK DID THIS TO ME?

Bryan leaned forward. “Zou and Verde did that to you? Why?”

SHE TOLD ME TO STOP WORKING ON THE BOOK. MMMMMM SHE BITCHY-BITCHY-BITCHY-CUNTY-CUNTY TOLD ME IF I DIDN’T LEAVE IT ALONE, SHE’D KILL ME.

Amy Zou, beating the hell out of a civilian. A week ago, Pookie wouldn’t have believed it for a second. Now? It sounded par for the course.

“Biz,” Bryan said, “we’re going after Zou. She’s protecting a vigilante killer. You help us find him, you help us bring her down.”

Biz-Nass stared, his eyes narrowing in disbelief. He looked at Pookie.

MMMMM IS THIS TRUE?

Pookie put his right hand on his heart. “Scout’s honor.”

Biz licked his lips, then nodded. He reached out a trembling hand, picked up Bryan’s cell phone and stared at the picture.

WHAT KIND OF BODY DID YOU FIND THIS IN?

“Caucasian male,” Pookie said. “A cop killer. Six-foot-one, two hundred and thirty pounds. Full beard.”

WAS HE WEARING A COSTUME?

“No,” Pookie said. He looked at Bryan. “But we think others who might have been working with him were.”

Biz-Nass nodded, as if that was what he expected to hear.

THIS V-CROSS IS THE SYMBOL OF THE SAVIORS. THERE SHOULD BE ANOTHER SYMBOL ON THE SHAFT … AN EYE WITH A DAGGER THROUGH IT.

Bryan took the phone, flicked to the next photo — the arrow shaft — and set it on the table in front of Biz-Nass.

The fortune-teller stared, then nodded.

SAVIORS KILL MARIE’S CHILDREN. YOUR COP KILLER WAS IN THE CULT. THESE SYMBOLS ARE ON ALL OF THE ARROWHEADS. HE HAND CARVES THEM.

“He?” Pookie said. “You know who makes these?”

Biz-Nass nodded. IF I TELL YOU, PROMISE YOU WON’T COME BACK IN A FEW MONTHS AND BEAT ME SILLY?

“Why would we do that?”

The fortune-teller shrugged. THAT’S WHAT AMY ZOU DID. I TOLD YOU SHE ROUGHED ME UP. SHE CAME TO ME JUST LIKE DICKER PRICKER YOU GUYS ARE NOW. SHE WANTED INFO ON THE ARROWS, WANTED TO KNOW WHO MADE THEM. I TOLD HER. TWO YEARS LATER, SHE AND VERDE BEAT ME UP, TOLD ME IF I DIDN’T SHITTYBALLS! STOP WORKING ON THE FUCKLESNIFF! BOOK THEY WOULD KILL ME.

Amy Zou had been tracking down an arrowhead. Had she been tracking the person who killed the Golden Gate Slasher? If so, why had she then come back and forced Biz-Nass into silence?

“You have our word,” Pookie said. “We’re not going to lay a finger on you.”

Biz-Nass held out a fist to Pookie. WORD IS BOND?