Gary Brandner

by Doomstalker (v2. 0) (epub)

  "Uh-huh, but I'm trying to be rational about it now. I told you I'm willing to believe that the Doomstalker exists. And the circumstantial evidence suggests that it could be Jessie's child. Do we have any kind of proof?"

  "No proof, but I don't even care. I'm convinced that whatever the Doomstalker is, it's not human, but it can live in human form. It lives in that kid right now." He corrected himself. "No, not a kid, he'd be thirty years old. He's found me now, and he's taking some kind of crazy revenge by messing up my family, killing my friends. I've got to put an end to it."

  "How?"

  "There's the rub. I'm damned if I know how. I know only that I've got to do it."

  The waiter came by and delivered the check. Kettering swallowed the last of his second beer.

  "I did some checking of my own while you were gone," Charity said.

  "Oh?"

  "When Al Diaz stopped by your place he told you about this Enzo DuLac who runs The Pit."

  "Yeah. That's where my kid's been hanging out lately. My wife is worried."

  "She's got reason to worry. This DuLac is not a very nice man. I traced him back to San Francisco in the late seventies. He did some street hustling up there and pimping for tourists and locals who wanted young amateur flesh."

  "Where did you get all that?"

  "Hey, I'm a reporter, remember? He was just warming up in San Francisco. Came to L.A. eight years ago. Got into and out of massage parlors, nude photography cribs, porno bookstores, and coed mud wrestling."

  "Enterprising fella," Kettering said.

  "He moved in as manager of The Pit a year ago, and suddenly he's in the big time."

  "Al told me the guy is a sleaze."

  "World-class."

  "Who's bankrolling him?"

  "That I couldn't find out."

  "I'll drop in on his operation tonight. I'd really like to know where he was when Al Diaz got his neck wrung."

  "Do you think DuLac ... ?" She left the question hanging.

  Kettering was thoughtful for a moment. "Al told me he was thirty ..."

  "Are you going to arrest him?"

  "Couldn't if I wanted to. I'm on suspension."

  "Then I'll go with you," Charity said.

  "No way."

  Her jaw tightened and her eyes flashed at him. "What's this 'no way' bullshit?"

  "This isn't your business."

  "There could be a hell of a story here, Kettering. That is my business."

  "Not tonight."

  "Yes, tonight. I'm going along."

  "It may get ugly."

  "Oh, and you want to protect the delicate little female, is that it? Well, hear this, mister, I am no wimpy broad to be left home wringing my hands while you go out and beat up the bad guys. I'm going with you."

  "No you're not." Kettering's voice was hard and final. "I do this alone."

  Charity glared across the empty plates at him for several seconds. Abruptly she slapped the tabletop and stood up. "Fine. Go do your macho thing. For all I care, you can start doing a few other things alone too."

  And with that exit line she was gone.

  Kettering peeled bills from his money clip and laid them in the little plastic tray with the check. He gave Charity time to walk out into the parking lot and cool down.

  When he followed after a couple of minutes, she was nowhere in sight. The restaurant was too far from her place for her to walk home, and public transportation in Los Angeles being what it was, she hadn't grabbed a bus. She might have called a taxi, or in her present mood even hitchhiked. Whatever, she was gone.

  Kettering climbed into his car and sat drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, keenly feeling the loss. He reflected sourly that this was not his day for dealing with women. After a while he started the engine and drove off.

  Chapter 19

  When he was absolutely sure Charity Moline was not coming back, Kettering drove out of the Mexican restaurant parking lot and headed home. The bachelor apartment, which had seemed as good a place as any to sleep and hang his clothes, was suddenly cramped and depressing. Charity had somehow made it cozy and comfortable. Now she was gone.

  The answering machine blinked its red-eye summons. The message this time was from Lieutenant Ivory: "I want to see you. Call me when you get in." Kettering was not anxious to talk to the lieutenant, but right now any excuse to get out of the apartment would do. He passed up the telephone and went back outside.

  The Camaro was still warm when he got in and drove away. He concentrated on glowering at other drivers during his trip to the Police Building so he wouldn't have to think about Al Diaz and Mavis and Charity Moline and the Doomstalker.

  ***

  Lieutenant Ivory came around the desk to meet Kettering when he walked in. He got right to the point. "Brian, I didn't like the way you looked when you left Al Diaz's place last night."

  "A man's partner gets killed, a man isn't supposed to look like a game-show winner."

  "That isn't what I mean. You looked like you knew something I didn't know about Al's death. Something you weren't sharing with me and the rest of the department."

  "Not likely, Lieutenant. How much does the department know?"

  "Just the cause of death - severed spinal cord, massive injuries to neck and throat. And the approximate time: three A.M."

  "That's not very much."

  "Can you add anything to it?"

  "Believe me, Lieutenant, I would if I could."

  "You're not thinking of working on this on your own, I hope."

  "That would be pretty stupid."

  "My thought exactly." Ivory wiped a hand over his face as though clearing away cobwebs. "Brian, I know this has hit you hard. It's hit all of us. We'll get the sonofabitch who did it. You know we will. And you know every man here is hoping the fucker will put up a fight. We all know this suspension of yours is just a procedural matter, but it does mean you're not working. Leave this to the department, will you?"

  "If you had any leads, would you tell me?" Kettering asked.

  "Probably not. But the sorry fact is, we don't. I wish we did."

  Kettering walked to the window. He looked out at the deceptively peaceful vista of sunlit green lawn, palm trees, casual strollers. "Who kills like that, Nathan? Who twists a man's head around backwards?"

  "I can't answer that."

  "The media ghouls are going to have fun with it."

  "Not all that much. All we gave them was 'unknown causes.' If they want more, they can fucking dig for it."

  "Don't think they won't."

  Ivory shrugged. "First Amendment."

  "Sure. Was there anything else, Lieutenant?"

  "A little advice. Why don't you use your time off to take a trip? Leave town. Go fishing. Get laid."

  Kettering shook his head. "I think I'll stick around and see what happens."

  Lieutenant Ivory walked back behind the desk and eased into the chair. He faced Kettering. His eyes were cold. "Stay out of our way, Sergeant. You can't do anybody any good going free-lance."

  "Gotcha, Lieutenant," Kettering said.

  The two men's eyes locked for a moment, then Kettering left the office.

  ***

  Even after the Mexican lunch with Charity, Kettering was hungry again. Nerves did that to him sometimes. He pulled into a Burger King and bought a double-cheese Whopper, an order of fries, and a strawberry shake. He ate them in his car, listening to a call-in talk show on the radio where some bleeding heart with an English accent prattled on about how cruel the death penalty is.

  "Easy for you to say, pussy," Kettering muttered at the radio. "Wait till one of your own gets it in the streets. You'll be howling for blood then."

  He chewed the burger slowly, trying to make the meal last.

  When he swallowed the last of the shake it was still too early to roust Enzo DuLac at The Pit. He did not want to return to the depressing apartment alone, so he picked out a movie, one of those multiplex shoeboxes in a shopping mall, bought a
ticket, and went in to join a handful of others with nothing better to do in the late afternoon.

  He sat through a movie about the standard pair of Hollywood cops - one black, one white; one a free spirit, one by-the-book. In the course of the movie they blew away half the population of their unnamed city, rescued each other and the female star, and managed to lose their shirts often enough to display their pumped-up musculature. Kettering slouched in his seat and thought about other things.

  When he came out of the theater after sitting through the cop movie twice, it was dark. There was a chill in the air and hookers on the street. Time to go to work.

  ***

  When Kettering had first come to California, the club had been called Lembo's and featured some pretty good jazz, mostly local talent, but a few nationally known groups. The owner, a one-time sax player with Stan Kenton, had kept the place going long after it ceased to earn the rent. Finally, with the changing demographics of the neighborhood and the evolution of musical tastes, he gave up and sold the place. In the intervening years it had been Glitz, a disco; The Corral, a country-western bar; Playtime, a singles meat market; and currently, The Pit, a heavy-metal rock joint.

  Kettering parked across the street and smoked two Marlboros as he watched the entrance, a chicken-wire-and-plaster mock-up of a cave. A sign above it read: ABANDON HOPE, ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE.

  Peculiar sense of humor, Kettering thought. Or maybe it was not meant to be funny.

  A steady stream of young customers flowed out of their cars and into the club. It was the middle of the week, and the crowd would not approach the weekend mob scenes, but Enzo DuLac was obviously not hurting for business.

  Kettering judged the age range to be from eighteen to maybe twenty-five, with a few older and a few younger. It was hard to nail down the ages, given the crazy costumes and wildly inventive hair styles and makeup. Nothing, Kettering observed, could make you feel old faster than watching the passing fashion fads of the young.

  With a heavy sigh he flipped his last cigarette into the night, got out of the car, and lumbered across to the cavelike entrance to The Pit.

  The noise spilled out from inside like a solid mass. Kettering clamped his teeth together, hoping he would not blow out an eardrum, and pushed forward. Just beyond the cave entrance a blond hunk in a Pink Floyd T-shirt and single dangling earring stepped in front of him. He put his mouth close to Kettering's ear to be heard.

  "Can I help you?"

  Kettering looked at the burly youth and looked past him. "I don't think so," he shouted back.

  He stepped to one side to pass, the hunk moved with him. The record ended and there was a sudden relative silence.

  "Looking for somebody?"

  "I'll let you know."

  When he started past again, the blond youth put a restraining hand on his arm. Kettering looked down at the heavy-knuckled hand and up into the pale blue eyes.

  "Get that off my sleeve."

  The blue eyes blinked. "Are you sure you're in the right place, mister?"

  "That's what I'm going to find out. Now let go of my jacket before I break your hand off at the wrist."

  Kettering had always wanted to talk that way to a tough guy. He felt like Clint Eastwood, and he half hoped the youth would provide an excuse to belt him. Make my day. Most likely the punk could take him, but Kettering did not give a damn.

  The blond youth spent five seconds thinking it over, decided not to challenge the mean-looking older man. He removed his hand and dusted an imaginary lint speck from Kettering's sleeve. "Just doing my job."

  "Keep up the good work."

  The music exploded again and Kettering barged on.

  The interior of the club carried out in a tacky way the motif of the entrance - a sort of soft-focus version of Hell. The walls were cheaply plastered in irregular rock shapes with niches and nooks wherein lurked grinning devils' heads. Red lights brightened and dimmed in rhythm with the ear-splitting music that blasted from multiple huge speakers. Laser beams stabbed through the murk at irregular intervals. At a stage in the center of the dance floor a black disk jockey in a black tank top gyrated to the sounds of the records he was playing.

  Kettering pushed his way through the leathered and moussed crowd of dancers to the bar. The air was heavy with the smell of bodies and perfume. The oppressive atmosphere closed in, making Kettering long for the fresh air outside. He pressed on. The bar was separated from the rest of the club by a wooden railing. A hard-eyed Mexican stood at the gate eyeballing the IDs of young customers. Kettering shoved his way past.

  In the bar Kettering was relieved to find that acoustic paneling slightly lowered the decibel level. At a glance he judged the other customers to be legitimately old enough to drink. DuLac was not stupid enough to get the Mothers Against Drunk Driving on his case.

  A girl with enormous breasts spilling out of her tight uniform leaned toward him across the bar. "What'll you have, big guy?"

  "Enzo DuLac."

  She batted her heavy eyelashes. "We don't do trick drinks. Whiskey and Seven, gin and tonic, that kind of stuff. Or a beer."

  "Enzo DuLac," Kettering repeated. "He's your boss. I want to talk to him."

  A tall, painfully thin young man with a vanishing hairline sidled over next to the heavy-breasted barmaid. "Problem here, Cindi?"

  Cindi retreated with an uncertain smile. The man looked Kettering over.

  "Help you?"

  "Who are you?"

  "I'm Steve, the bar manager."

  "I want Enzo DuLac," Kettering said. "He's not a trick drink."

  "Mr. DuLac doesn't like to come out front."

  "How would Mr. DuLac like to have his place busted?"

  "We run a clean operation here."

  "Sure you do. What'll you bet I could find drug apparatus in your men's room?"

  The bar manager smiled an oily smile. "I don't think there's much chance of that, Mister ..."

  "Sergeant," Kettering told him, showing his teeth. It would play hell with him if Lieutenant Ivory found out, but he went ahead and flashed his badge. "If you can read that, skinny, you know I'm not bullshitting you. Now you go tell Mr. DuLac to move his ass out here unless he wants this place boarded up tomorrow."

  The bar manager swallowed, his Adam's apple riding up and down like it was on a rubber band. Kettering was beginning to enjoy himself.

  "I'll buzz him." The man reached under the bar and pushed something out of Kettering's sight, then stood shifting his weight and looking nervously toward the far end of the bar, where a crimson velvet curtain concealed whatever lay behind it.

  After a minute a small man with narrow shoulders, greased-back hair, and heavy black eyebrows came through the curtain. He walked over to the bar, nodded at the manager, who hurried off to join Cindi, and faced Kettering.

  "I'm Enzo DuLac. Do we have a problem?"

  "I'm Detective Sergeant Kettering, and that's what I want to find out."

  "Who sent you here?"

  "Nobody sent me. I'm here on business of my own."

  "And what might that be?"

  "My partner was Al Diaz."

  "Is that supposed to mean something to me?"

  Kettering showed him the teeth. "Think hard."

  "Wait a minute, was that the Mexican cop?"'

  "Keep thinking."

  "Yeah, he was around here last night asking questions. Did you say he was your partner?"

  "He got himself dead. I thought maybe you could tell me something about it."

  Even here in the comparative shelter of the bar, the sound boomed and screamed from the giant speakers, making Kettering's jawbone vibrate.

  "Maybe we better go to my office," DuLac shouted.

  Kettering nodded.

  DuLac led the way back to the crimson curtain and through a thick door that lay behind it. The door closed and the blasting music in the big room died mercifully, though the drumbeat still pulsed in the floor. The two men walked back along a dim hallway that smell
ed of urine. The walls were plastered with rock posters and scrawled with graffiti. A door at the end was marked PRIVATE.

  DuLac knocked lightly, waited a moment, and opened the door.

  Kettering started in, then stepped back. A woman rose from a couch at the far wall and walked toward him. Her hair was like pale smoke worn loose around a face that was sculpted for magazine covers. Her eyes, a strange silvery color, looked into his for less than a second, but the effect was like a fist to the solar plexus. For that split second, in Kettering's mind the bare office looked like Cleopatra's boudoir.

  The woman was wearing something simple and black that moved with her like a part of her body. She was past the men and through the door and out of sight before Kettering could catch his breath. He stood foolishly looking at the doorway where she had gone.

  "You want to tell me what the problem is?" DuLac said.

  The spell was broken. The ratty office returned. Still, the essence of the woman lingered in the room. Kettering felt as though he had just stepped off the Colossus at Magic Mountain. He forced his attention back to the dark little man.

  "You said you saw Detective Diaz yesterday?"

  "I said he was here."

  "All right," Kettering said wearily, "did you see him?"

  "For about five minutes is all."

  "What did you talk about?"

  "He asked a bunch of questions, I told him it was none of his business. He went away. That's it."

  "What questions?"

  "Personal questions."

  "Like?"

  "I'm telling you what I told your partner. I don't have to answer anything."

  Kettering sighed. He took his time and let his eyes walk over the little man. DuLac fingered a button on his Ultrasuede jacket. He sucked at his teeth. He shifted his feet.

  Could this nervous little creep with the comic eyebrows be the deadly creature he was seeking? The thing that had fucked up his life and struck down his friend? Could Enzo DuLac be the personification of his nightmares ... the Doomstalker?

  No way. It simply wouldn't play.

  "What are you looking at me like that for?" the bar manager said finally.

  "Where were you last night, DuLac?"

  "Aren't you supposed to read me some rights?"