Nocturnal

by Scott Sigler

  Marco had also shown Rex how to wrap the blanket around his head, almost like a hood. Rex could see out, but for someone to see in they’d have to get real close.

  Rex was cold, wet, shivering, and he’d never felt this amazing. The cold, the wet, those things didn’t matter — he was waiting, he was watching.

  He was hunting.

  “Do I get to meet Sly tonight?”

  “Probably,” Marco said. “He’ll call when he comes out. He’ll be very happy to know I have you.”

  “Why don’t you just call him?”

  “No cell-phone reception at home,” Marco said. “Just wait, my king — Sly will call.”

  Rex kept looking up at the window across the street.

  “Sixth floor, you said?”

  Marco nodded. “I followed Alex here myself a few days ago. He likes to hang out on the fire escape, so I know which apartment is his.”

  The fire escape ran up the face of the ten-story building. A row of bay windows rose up on either side, close enough to the fire escape that someone could step out of them right onto the small, metal landings.

  Alex could be in that building. Rex was so close.

  “What is Sucka going to do?”

  “Kill him,” Marco said. “Sucka has been waiting for his chance. Pierre got to kill the first one. I helped, but Pierre got him. Chomper and Dragonbreath got the second.”

  Chomper? Dragonbreath? Such cool names. Sucka was also a cool name, but Rex didn’t want him to kill Alex unless Rex could see it happen. He wanted to watch Alex suffer. He needed to hear Alex beg.

  “Marco, tell Sucka to bring Alex out here.”

  The bearded man’s eyes widened. “My king, we can’t bring him out here! It’s too early, people are around, we’d be spotted!”

  “Then take me inside. I need to see that bully die.”

  Marco shook his head. He looked pained, like he might cry at any moment. “You’re my king and I’m supposed to obey, but I gotta keep you safe! We can’t go in. Please just stay here and let Sucka do it for you.”

  If Rex was the king, then people had to do what he said. He’d spent his whole life being told what to do — now he would do the telling.

  “I said I want to see it. Tell Sucka not to kill Alex until I get there.”

  Marco just stared. He didn’t seem to know what to do. After a few seconds, his blanket slid aside a little. His hand came up with a cell phone.

  “We get these at CVS,” Marco said. “Or Walgreens. Just buy them and turn them on. It was Sly’s idea, ’cause they can’t trace them back to us or nothing.”

  He started to dial, then stopped. “My king, what about other people in the apartment? What if the boy’s mother is home?”

  Rex thought about that. He closed his eyes and remembered the leather belt tightening around Roberta’s neck, how she had struggled and scratched.

  His dick started to stiffen.

  “He can kill the mother,” Rex said. “And he can kill Issac if he has to, I guess, but you tell Sucka not to kill Alex until we come up there. I … uh … I command that, or whatever.”

  Marco dialed.

  Rex tried to sit still. He waited.

  “No fucking way, Mom,” Alex said. “Issac and me ain’t going to the cops!”

  She was crying. The bitch was always crying.

  Alex packed clean clothes into a duffel bag. Issac looked through Alex’s dresser, searching for dry clothes that wouldn’t look all baggy on his smaller frame.

  His mom was doing that thing with the tissue paper again, wadding it up and pulling little bits out of the ball.

  “Alex, honey, the police say your life is in danger. Just stay here with me. We’ll call them together.”

  He walked closer to her. He towered over his mother.

  “I’m not going to the cops, and you better not call them. You got that, Mom? Just give me some money, we have to get out of here.”

  “Alex, baby, please.”

  “Mom, we saw Jay die. We were on our way to get him. Remember that cop in black that came here? He was pointing his gun in Jay’s face. The cops are the ones that want to kill us.”

  His mother’s upper lip quivered. Snot dripped out of her left nostril. So goddamn pathetic.

  “But, Alex, baby, that doesn’t make any sense. Why would the cops want you dead? What have you done?”

  He still didn’t have an answer to that. He and the boys had done some bad shit, for sure, but definitely nothing worth killing Oscar and Jay over.

  “It’s raining, baby,” his mother said. “It’s cold and wet out. Can’t you just stay here till it stops?”

  Issac nodded with way too much enthusiasm. “That’s a good idea. Just till the rain stops. Don’t you think that’s a good idea, Alex?”

  Alex stared at Issac until the smaller boy looked away. Then he stared at his mom. She was hiding something. He looked down — she had her phone in her hand.

  He grabbed her wrist, lifted it up hard.

  “Ouch! Alex, stop it!”

  He ripped the phone out of her hand. She grabbed for it, but he pushed her. She fell back hard against his bedroom door.

  He called up her texts. The most recent one read:

  ALEX IS HOME. HURRY!

  She’d sent it right after he and Issac had slipped in the building’s back door and come up to the apartment. Sent to Pookie Chang, SFPD. Alex’s stomach felt tight — those cops were coming. How could his own mother have sold him out like that?

  He knelt and shoved the phone into her face. “This guy you just texted? He was there when Jay died! He’s partners with the one that shoved a gun in Jay’s face, you stupid whore!”

  “Alex! Please!”

  He wanted to punch her in the mouth, but he couldn’t — she was still his mother. He ran to the living room, grabbed her purse and brought it back. Inside he found fifty bucks and a small bag of weed. He threw the purse at her; it hit her in the face. She covered her mouth, and then — of course — started crying again.

  “Backstabbing bitch,” Alex said. “Issac, get up. We’ve got to—”

  The sound of splitting wood: someone had just smashed through the apartment’s front door.

  Rain poured down even harder, but that became a background thing as Rex saw the sixth-floor window open. He saw a big body climb out onto the fire escape, black sweatshirt and jeans making him blend into the night. As soon as that person climbed out, another followed.

  “Marco,” Rex said. “That looks like Alex and Issac.”

  Marco worriedly pulled at his ear. “Uh-oh. Where’s Sucka?”

  “I don’t even know who Sucka is, so you tell me.”

  Marco looked at his phone, as if by doing so he could make it ring and tell him what was happening. Raindrops splashed off the illuminated screen. He looked back up at the boys on the fire escape. “I’m not sure what’s happening.”

  Rex felt confused — Marco had acted so quickly back at Rex’s house, but now the man seemed lost, unsure. Maybe he needed specific orders or something?

  Alex and Issac climbed down the fire escape’s steep switchback stairs, moving from the sixth floor down to the fifth. If they got away, would anyone be able to find them? They would escape and that wouldn’t be fair, not when they were right there.

  “Marco,” Rex said. “Get them.”

  Marco looked at Rex, then at the phone again, then to Alex and Issac.

  “It’s not even midnight yet,” he said. “This is too public. There are rules.”

  Alex reached the fourth-floor landing. He was going to get away.

  Rex reached out and grabbed Marco’s wet beard, pulled the man’s face close. “I don’t care about your stupid rules. Get Alex! And don’t you dare kill him, you hear me talking to you?”

  Marco’s eyes narrowed — not with anger, but with purpose. He put the phone away and stood. Blanket still over his shoulders, he reached into the hidden pocket and pulled out his hatchet.

  Timing
the traffic, Marco tucked the blanket tight around him, stepped out into the rain and started crossing the street.

  Bryan held on tight. Pookie turned the Buick in a squealing right off Larkin onto Union. Wheels slid across wet pavement as windshield wipers tried to clear away the heavy rain. A block ahead, Susie’s building rose up into the night air. At ten stories high, it dominated the surrounding four- and five-story buildings.

  The car’s tires slid, then caught. The Buick leveled out, rocking Bryan back to the right. They’d left the siren off — they didn’t want to warn the kid they were on the way.

  Up the street, through the dark drizzle and fuzzy streetlight glow, Bryan saw movement on the front of the building; two figures descending the fire escape.

  “That’s them,” Bryan said, pointing. “They’re already running.”

  The boys stopped. Bryan saw one continue down, while the other reversed direction and started climbing up.

  “They made us,” Bryan said. “You take the one on the fire escape, I’ll take the one about to hit the ground.”

  Pookie swerved into the wrong lane to pass a truck, then cut in front of it just in time to miss a head-on with a black Acura. He ran a red light at Hyde, but the lights turned red as far as they could see and traffic slowed to a stop. Pookie locked up the brakes to keep from slamming into the cars ahead.

  Bryan held the dashboard as the Buick’s momentum pulled him forward. As soon as the car rocked back, he was out the door.

  The late hour and the rain combined to leave little foot traffic on the sidewalks. Just one person, in fact, moved across the water-sheened blacktop, crossing from one side of the street to the other.

  A big mound of a person — a person covered with a blanket.

  That person was crossing the street and heading for the bottom of the fire escape.

  Holy shit this is really happening I’m not dreaming this time.

  As Bryan ran, he looked to the fire escape. Even in the dim light and heavy rain, he recognized the thick build of Alex Panos standing on the bottom landing. Alex hit a lever; a ladder rattled down to the concrete.

  Alex descended.

  Bryan was twenty feet away from the blanket-covered man, who was still thirty feet from the fire escape. Alex reached the sidewalk and took off.

  The shambling mound of a person moved faster. The blanket flapped away for a moment, and in that moment Bryan saw a glint of metal.

  He drew his gun and sprinted faster.

  Pookie scrambled up the cold, wet metal as fast as he dared. He looked up, blinking against the rain hitting his face, and was surprised to see a figure crawl out of a sixth-floor window and jump onto the fire escape. The person was little more than a shapeless shadow thanks to the heavy blanket that covered him. High above, at the eighth floor, Pookie saw a smaller figure — Issac.

  Pookie’s feet hit hard on the fire escape steps. He had to get to Issac before that blanketed man did.

  Bryan saw Alex running as fast as he could, big body lumbering, big arms swinging. The man chasing him moved much faster; he closed in on Alex, the gray blanket trailing behind like a heavy cape.

  Goddamn he’s fast!

  Still sprinting hard, Bryan raised his gun.

  “Police! Get down!”

  The man either ignored him or couldn’t hear over the rain.

  Bryan thought of stopping, chancing a shot, but if he missed, he might hit Alex.

  Pookie had made it to the seventh-story landing when the man chasing Issac vanished from sight onto the roof. The nearly vertical climb already had Pookie’s legs and lungs burning in complaint.

  From up on the roof, he heard gunshots.

  His foot slipped on a step and his knee banged hard into metal. He climbed on despite the pain.

  Cold wind blowing, jacket and hair already soaked with driving rain, Pookie reached the ninth-floor landing — just one more short flight to reach the roof. He drew his Sig Sauer and started to climb.

  Marco heard a man yelling somewhere behind him. Police. Again. Sly was going to be so pissed, and if Firstborn found out, Marco would get such a beating. There were no tunnels around here. The nearest hidey-hole was the old Russian Hill reservoir, but that was five blocks away. Besides, Marco couldn’t just run — the king had given an order.

  Marco knew that if he could grab the boy, he could then scramble up a wall to the roof and the cop wouldn’t be able to follow. The king had commanded the boy not be killed, but that didn’t mean Marco couldn’t wound him.

  Still running, Marco raised his weapon.

  Bryan saw streetlights reflect off the wet blade.

  A hatchet.

  Bobby Pigeon’s killer.

  Bryan stopped running, aimed, then fired twice. The man stumbled forward and landed on Alex, sending both of them face-first into the sidewalk.

  Pookie heard two noises — a double tap from back down on the street, and a deep, bass thong from up on the roof. He swung his pistol over the roof’s brick retaining wall, letting the gunsight lead his vision through the pouring rain. The bottom of his forearms rested on the narrow wall’s flat top, leaving only his hands and head exposed to danger.

  What the fuck?

  A snap-sequence of visuals — a man wearing a mask with a long, curved beak, an arrow sticking out of his shoulder, rolling weakly in a puddle on the black-tar rooftop. And a second body, this one wearing a black sweatshirt, lying facedown and motionless: Issac Moses. Past them both, barely visible on the dark roof, a man standing, holding a bow, wearing some kind of … hooded cloak?

  The standing man turned toward Pookie. The deep hood hid his face in shadow. He let go of the bow and reached into his dark green cloak, reached in so fast.

  The bow hadn’t even hit the roof before the man drew two pistols and fired. Pookie pulled his trigger twice even as he dropped behind the wall, bits of masonry spinning all around him.

  Bryan sprinted in, gun raised before him. The blanketed man rolled off Alex. Bryan saw blood staining the back of the man’s white tank top — he had taken at least one round.

  Bryan rushed in to see if he could stop the bleeding. As Bryan reached for him, he felt a strange warmth in his chest.

  What the hell …

  He didn’t see the big boot kicking out until it was too late. The sole drove into his stomach and sent him flying backward. So strong! Bryan knew he’d lost his wind before he even landed. The Sig Sauer was still in his hand. His ass hit hard on the concrete. He let the momentum carry him in a backward roll. At the apex, Bryan pushed hard with his head and shoulders, bouncing himself into the air and letting him land on his feet.

  He brought up the gun.

  The bearded, bleeding man reached for the wet hatchet lying on the sidewalk.

  “Don’t do it, asshole! Don’t even move!”

  The man stopped and looked up at Bryan. Then his eyes widened and his mouth opened in an expression of pure shock.

  Pookie’s heart kicked inside his chest. He’d been shot at. He couldn’t just sit here, he had to move, he had to act and do it now. He licked the rain off his lips, sucked in a fast breath, then stood just enough to swing his gun over the wall.

  The cloaked man was only a few feet away, rushing forward, bow in his hand. Pookie again ducked behind the wall as the cloaked man sailed overhead, out into the night.

  Pookie clung to the fire escape as he turned to watch the man plummet to his death, but the man didn’t plummet — cloak flapping behind him, the man sailed through the air, legs and arms kicking and pumping like an Olympic long jumper. It was like watching a special effect, a high-wire movie of someone arcing down through the rainy night.

  The man soared clear across the street. He hit the flat, black roof of a four-story building and rolled once, twice, three times. Pookie watched in disbelief as the man stood and walked back to the building’s edge.

  Fifty feet away and six stories down, the bowman was little more than a mound of dark green fabric that blended i
nto the black roof. And yet, Pookie could see the man was staring at the street. Pookie snapped a glance in that direction; on the sidewalk ten stories below, Bryan Clauser had his gun pointed at a man lying on the ground.

  Then, Bryan slowly lowered his gun.

  Pookie looked back to the man on the roof — he felt a dagger of horror when he saw the man holding the bow, drawstring pulled all the way back to his now-exposed cheek. Before Pookie could say a word, the man released.

  The arrow ripped through the air.

  Bryan and the blanketed man stared at each other. What the hell was this?

  That blossoming warmth in his chest, so peaceful. It beat a rhythm, ba-da-bum-bummmm, the sensation overwhelming in its intensity.

  A staccato hiss, a half-second whisper of something passing scant inches from his ear, then an even shorter crunching noise.

  Both men looked down.

  An arrow shaft stuck out of the bearded man’s chest.

  Bryan instantly turned, his brain following the arrow shaft’s angle, his gun whipping around to point up and across the street. There, a shape that might be a man

  [savior! monster!]

  and an outline that might be a bow.

  His finger flicked the trigger

  [kill it now kill it NOW]

  five times before his training kicked in, before he realized he was shooting at a building that had people in it.

  The muzzle flashes screwed with his vision for just a second. By the time he could focus on the roof again, the outline that might have been a man was gone.

  The rain poured down.

  Bryan turned back to look at the bearded man, at the arrow sticking out of his chest. Only then did he think to look for Alex Panos.

  But Alex was nowhere to be seen.

  The arrow had missed Bryan. Thank God. Pookie looked back to the archer’s position, but now the roof was empty — the cloaked man had vanished into the shadows.

  Had he just seen what he’d thought he’d seen? No. No way. Shit like that couldn’t happen. Maybe someone had slipped some acid into his coffee. Maybe he was tripping balls right this very second.