Scott Sigler - Nocturnal - A Novel

She walked back into the gun room. Verde followed. He holstered his Sig and picked up a five-seven, feeling the weight. No point in worrying about prints; they already knew who owned these weapons.

“What about Clauser?” Verde said. “And that fuck-stick, Chang. Maybe firing them isn’t enough.”

She watched Rich eject the magazine, which was loaded. He popped the magazine back into the weapon.

“They were just doing their jobs,” she said. They had been doing what they were sworn to do, following the letter of the law — just as Amy had done thirty years earlier. “What do you want to do, Rich, shoot them?”

He shrugged. “You’re the one who’s always talking about the greater good. At least put a BOLO out on their asses, bring them in. Maybe a few days in county will set them straight.”

She couldn’t do that. Their careers were already over — did she need to publicly humiliate them as well?

Her walkie-talkie squawked: “Chief?” Sean Robertson’s voice. He was up on the ground floor, making sure everyone — including cops — stayed out.

She lifted and answered without looking away from the shark-toothed nightmare. “I’m here.”

“You sure you two are okay down there?”

“We’re fine,” she said. “Just secure the grounds and make sure no one enters the house.”

“Yes, Chief.”

She paused, then thumbed the transmit button again. “Sean?”

“Yes, Chief?”

“Make a department-wide broadcast. Bryan Clauser and Pookie Chang are no longer employed by the SFPD. Make sure everyone knows — they’re civilians.”

Verde held up his hand to get her attention. He mouthed the words: And Smith .

John Smith. The man was afraid of his own shadow. As soon as Pookie and Bryan were out of the way, John would go back to his computer room.

She shook her head and lowered the walkie-talkie.

Verde clearly wanted to argue with her, but he kept his mouth shut.

“I’m going to see Erickson,” she said. “Can you and Sean finish up here? Seal the house. No one gets in. We’ll figure out what to do about all this crap later.”

“You got it,” Verde said. “You know you can count on me.”

“I know I can, Rich. I know.”

She walked out of the weapons room. She took one more look at a collection of nightmares that had once hunted the people of San Francisco, then headed upstairs.

Tard’s First Time

Out of all Mommy’s children, Tard could hide the best. That was why Sly picked him to watch the monster. It wasn’t fair that Sly made Tard miss out on all the fun, but now Sly was making it better.

If the amberlamps took the monster, Sly said, then Tard could be free to hunt — just keep it quiet so Firstborn didn’t find out. Hunting! Tard had never been hunting. Sly was a great friend.

Tard could hide good because he could look like other things. Right now he looked a lot like part of a gnarled tree trunk. Golden Gate Park had lots of gnarled trees on the sides of the dirt walking paths, trees that twisted into corkscrew-trunk patches with little spaces inside. In those spaces, especially in the dark, no one could see Tard. There was no light in the park other than a half moon filtering through the tall pines that stretched high above.

Tard looked an awful lot like wood, but that didn’t stop his heart from beating so hard, making it difficult for him to stay still. So this was what it was like to hunt. No wonder Sly always wanted to do it.

Tard moved only his eyes, watching the prey move toward him along the dirt path. A teenage boy, a teenage girl. Holding hands. No one would want to hold Tard’s hands, and that wasn’t fair. Why should prey get to do that? He had always wanted to punish the people he saw, the people holding hands, the people kissing .

The boy looked up, looked right into Tard’s little hidey-spot — then looked away. He hadn’t seen Tard. That was because Tard wasn’t Tard anymore, he really was Chameleon .

The teenage couple walked closer. Chameleon’s heartbeat kicked up another notch. So exciting! Would the prey run before they reached his spot? Would they sense him?

He had never killed before. Well, not since he’d been a little boy in the Groom’s Walk, but that had been so long ago. Fear of Firstborn and fear of Savior had always kept him in check, but maybe Firstborn wouldn’t be in charge that much longer, and the amberlamps had taken Savior away.

This was it. Tard — no, Chameleon — was really going to do this.

He held his breath as the couple moved within five steps.

Then four.

Then three.

When they were only a few feet away, Tard reached out cat-quick, one rough gnarled hand wrapping around each mouth.

He pulled them into his dark little fort.

The RapScan Machine

Pookie, wake up.”

Robin pushed at Pookie’s shoulder. He was on her couch and might as well have been dead for all he moved. She poked him again. “Come on, sleepyhead. Rise and shine.”

“Five more minutes, Mom,” he said. “I promise all my chores are done.”

“You told me to wake you when the tests were almost finished.”

That got his attention. Pookie pushed himself to a sitting position. He rubbed his face. “That coffee I smell?”

“Of course,” Robin said. “Go to the table, I’ll get you a cup.”

For the second night — or morning, depending on how you looked at it — her apartment had become their war room. Bryan was already sitting at the dining-room table, his hands around a mug, his eyes staring off into space. John’s chair was empty; he was at the hospital.

Robin had turned her dining room into an impromptu sample prep area. The RapScan machine sat in the center of the table, processing the two samples Bryan and Pookie had brought a few hours earlier. She’d loaded the cartridges and set the karyotype test to running. Any moment now, and it would finish.

She walked to the kitchen and came back with the coffee carafe and a mug for Pookie. She filled his mug and refilled Bryan’s. Both men looked absolutely exhausted. Pookie had given her the sample materials, then headed straight for her couch. Bryan hadn’t said a word since he’d arrived; he just sat in his chair, first drinking a beer, then a scotch, then moving on to caffeine. Robin thought it best just to leave him be, let him work through whatever it was that was on his mind. If he wanted her help, he could ask for it — she was done trying.

“Sounds like you boys had quite the adventure,” Robin said. “I’m just glad no one got hurt. Other than Erickson, I mean.”

Pookie nodded and took a sip of coffee. “Yes, no one got hurt. Permanently, anyway. How much longer until that test is done?”

She looked at the machine’s touch screen. “About five minutes, maybe less. Are you guys going to tell me who the second sample is from?” She knew the first sample was from Erickson, but they had avoided her questions about the second.

“A perp from Erickson’s house,” Pookie said. “We didn’t catch him.”

Once again, there was clearly more to the story than Pookie wanted to let on. Not surprising that he did the talking — he was a far better liar than Bryan.

Bryan’s head came up. He blinked rapidly, as if he’d been cat-napping and was just becoming aware of his surroundings. “The ear,” he said.

“What?”

Pookie nodded. “I forgot about that.”

“Me too,” Bryan said. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a plastic evidence bag and held it up for Robin to see.

“Bryan,” she said, “why do you have a human ear in a baggie?”

“It’s from a stuffed person we found in Erickson’s basement. Can you run DNA on it?”