Betrayers (Nameless Detective Novels)

by Bill Pronzini

  “I know,” he said. “Don’t you think I know what I am?”

  Runyon said, “He had the piece to his temple when I got in here. Just kept holding it there, didn’t move when I took it away from him. Took me a minute to find the door opener.”

  “Let’s get him inside.”

  Ullman said, “Why don’t you just kill me? Couldn’t you do that? Make it look like I killed myself?”

  “You’re not going to get off that easy.”

  “I’d rather die than go to prison. I want to die. I ache to die.”

  Runyon and I traded glances. Somebody might accommodate Ullman someday in whatever prison facility he ended up in. Child molesters and child porn addicts were bottom of the barrel inside the walls, primary targets for con vengeance.

  We dragged Ullman out of the car and back into the house, sat him down on the living room couch. While I called the Daly City cops and told them what we had, Runyon went to close the front door; I’d left it wide open. He bent to look at the hanging chain plate, beckoned me over when I was done with the call.

  “Plate tore out clean,” he said. “I think I can screw it back in so the damage won’t show.”

  “I doubt that it matters now.”

  “Why don’t I do it anyway.” He got out one of those multi-bladed pocketknives and went to work with the screwdriver blade.

  I took up a stand in front of Ullman. The way he was sitting, motionless, the haunted eyes staring out from under drooping lids, he might have been a propped-up cadaver. His face was corpselike, too: the color and consistency of white wax inlaid with filaments of blood.

  “I know you hate me,” he said, his mouth barely moving, “and I don’t blame you. But you can’t possibly hate me as much as I hate myself.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Every day for the past fifteen years, loathing myself. Do you know how many times I tried to put a bullet through my head? Dozens. Literally dozens. I came close once, but at the last second I couldn’t do it. I’m too much of a coward.”

  “You said that before.”

  The words kept running out of him in a hushed, barren voice, almost a whisper, as if he were confessing cardinal sins to a priest. “Cowardice and self-hatred. That’s why I started using cocaine. I thought that if I got high enough, I could pull the trigger or swallow pills or poison . . . something, anything, to end it. But all the cocaine did was make me hate myself a little less. And after a while it had the opposite effect. It made the sickness worse, the cravings even more intense.”

  The taste of bile was in my mouth. I wanted to spit, swallowed instead.

  “I’m sorry about Emily,” he said.

  “Don’t talk to me about my daughter. Don’t say her name.”

  “She found the little box in the school parking lot. I don’t know how I could have lost it; I was always so careful. Maybe I lost it on purpose, subconsciously; I don’t know. I was terrified when she came to me, told me she’d found it and took it home . . . terrified when you came here last night. But not anymore. Now I’m glad. I’m glad it’s almost over.”

  He fell silent. The silence lasted long enough for me to think he’d run out of words, but he hadn’t. Not quite.

  “There’s something else I have to say, something I want you to know.”

  “I don’t want to hear it,” I said. “Save it for the police and your lawyer.”

  “I never hurt a child, never touched a child. Never. Never wanted to. It was the looking I needed, that’s all. Looking. Looking.”

  “We both know that’s a lie, Ullman. Men like you always want to do more than look, whether you act on the impulses or not. The only thing that stopped you was fear of getting caught.”

  “No—”

  “Your students, my daughter, every child you taught or came in contact with, you imagined up there on that bedroom wall. And not with some other pervert—with you. Always with you.”

  He stared straight ahead for a few seconds. Then, slowly, he lifted one hand and passed it down over his face, and when it dropped into his lap his eyes were closed—the same gesture you’d use to close the eyes of a corpse.

  Zachary Ullman may not have had the guts to shoot or poison himself, but he was dead just the same. And had been for a long time.

  Dead man breathing.

  26

  TAMARA

  The funny thing was, she wasn’t afraid.

  There she was, sprawled out on the floor against the stairs with her skirt hiked up around her ass, blood leaking out of her nose and pain pulsing through her, and all she felt was rage. Even when Delman took the switch knife out of his pocket and snicked it open, the thin curls of fear that rose in her burned away almost immediately, like paper on a hot fire.

  He takes another step, she thought, I’ll kick him in the balls. Squash ’em like grapes until the juice runs out.

  But he didn’t take another step. He said, “You just couldn’t leave it alone, could you?” The smile that wasn’t a smile was gone now. His mouth was hard, bent out of shape with a fury that matched hers. Hate radiated off of him; you could almost see the shimmers. “Had to come after me and my mother, lay some hurt on us. Well, now it’s your turn, baby. Now you’re getting the hurt laid on you.”

  She sucked air through her mouth, struggled to sit up on the bottom stair riser. Her nose felt swollen, big as a balloon, numb. Blood dribbled into her mouth; she pawed and spat it away. The whole front of her blouse was splattered with it.

  “Don’t even think about screaming,” he said. “You do and I’ll stick you like the pig you are.”

  Screaming wouldn’t do her any good anyway. Her downstairs neighbors, white couple, the Jastrows, both worked late jobs that didn’t get them home until after eight. She said, in a voice that didn’t sound like hers, thick and nasal, “Murder’s not your thing, Antoine.”

  “Don’t bet on it.” Then, “Antoine. Shit.” Then, “Best deal we ever had going, six-figure payoff. Clean, smooth, and you fucked it up. You’re going to pay for that, Tamara.”

  “How? Cut me up? Beat me up?”

  “You’ll find out.”

  “Your mama know you’re here?”

  “Shut up about my mother.”

  “No, she doesn’t know. Your idea. She won’t like it when she finds out.”

  “Get up off the floor.”

  “Why don’t you come down here with me?”

  “Smart-mouth bitch.” He kicked her ankle, kicked her again above the knee, hard enough to make her grimace and clamp her teeth. “Get up off the goddamn floor!”

  Tamara pulled her skirt down, managed to turn onto her hip, then onto her knees facing the side wall. It took a little effort, one hand on the wall and the other on the railing, to get onto her feet. Her breathing still wasn’t right. Air made whistling, wheezing sounds in her nasal passages.

  He gestured with the knife. “Upstairs.”

  Her legs felt wobbly; she had to hang on to the railing with both hands to make the climb. Didn’t do it fast enough to suit him. Twice he jabbed fingers into her back, the second time on the spot where the riser had cut into her back. She swallowed the pain cry that rose into her throat. Wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of hearing it.

  At the top of the stairs he said, “Now into the kitchen. Wipe that blood off your face.”

  “Why? So you can mess it up again?”

  “Don’t give me any sass. Do what I tell you.”

  “You busted my nose.”

  “Not yet—not enough blood. Next time I’ll mash it to a pulp.”

  He was right about the blood: not as much dribbling out now. But the numbness had worn off and her nose had begun to throb like hell. Not broken, maybe, but some badly bruised cartilage. A few red drops plopped into the kitchen sink, swirled away when she turned on the cold-water tap. She soaked a dish towel, wiped the stickiness off her face and hands. Rinsed the towel and wet it again and held it gingerly against her nose.

  “How’
d you find out?” she said. “Who told you?”

  “Who do you think?”

  “Yeah. Doctor Easy.”

  “Too bad for you he didn’t believe what the judge told him.”

  “Fool.”

  “Bedroom,” he said.

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Why? You gonna rape me?”

  He laughed, nasty. “Last thing on my mind. Had all of your chubby body I can stand—I don’t need another lousy lay.”

  That made her even more coldly furious. Chubby body! Lousy lay!

  “Go on,” he said. “The bedroom.”

  “What for?”

  “Keep things like scarves in there, don’t you?”

  “Scarves? What . . . tie me up?”

  “You’re not stupid; I’ll give you that much.”

  “Tie me up and then what? Slice and dice?”

  “No. Not here, anyway. We’re going for a ride.”

  Those thin curls of fear rose again, and this time they didn’t burn away. “Where?”

  “You’ll find out.”

  The hell I will, she thought. Not going anywhere with you, asshole. Tied up, helpless . . . no way!

  The knife swayed again, like a snake’s head. “Move.”

  She moved, into the hallway that led to the bedrooms. Hers, the master bedroom, was on the right. Just before she reached the open doorway, she stopped and leaned her shoulder heavily against the wall, loosening the press of her fingers on the wet dish towel.

  He came up close beside her, nudged her with an elbow. “Move.”

  “Woozy,” she said. “Give me a second. . . .”

  He stepped over a little, almost in front of her. As soon as he did that she pivoted off the wall, swung the dish towel in an arc against the side of his face, then slapped it down over the hand holding the knife and let go of it. At the same time she kicked him in the shin as hard as she could. He yelled, stumbled, bounced off the opposite wall.

  Before he could recover, she was inside the bedroom. Slamming the door, twisting the dead-bolt lock.

  He yelled again out there, pounded on the door, and shook the knob and hollered something she didn’t pay attention to. By then she was across the room, at the glass doors that opened out onto a tiny balcony. She unlocked the doors, quick, and threw them open; chill, damp air swirled into the room.

  The uphill house next door, close across an areaway, showed dark all along this side. Wouldn’t do any good to stand out there yelling for help, just waste time. It was a long drop from the balcony to the strip of hard ground below. A drainpipe ran down from the roof on one side; you could shinny down that . . . somebody could, but not her. Afraid of heights, had been all her life. No good at clinging and climbing, either—that kind of athletic stuff had never been her thing.

  She didn’t hesitate more than a couple of seconds before she pivoted and ran across to the big walk-in closet, the soft-pile carpet muffling the sound of her steps.

  “Bitch! You can’t get away from me!”

  Hurling himself at the door now, trying to break it in. Fairly thick and the lock wasn’t flimsy, but how long would it hold?

  The closet had a pair of louvered folding doors that she kept open. Once she was inside, she pulled them closed. In the darkness she felt her way to the back wall—all bureaulike drawers built in beneath where the pitch of the roof sloped inward at a low angle. In the ceiling just in front of the drawers was the trapdoor that gave access to the attic. She was just tall enough to reach the panel by standing on tiptoe, to slide it open in its metal frame.

  Yelling, frenzied thumping out there in the hall—he hadn’t busted the lock yet. Maybe he wouldn’t; maybe it was strong enough to keep him out. . . .

  There was a button mounted just inside the trap opening. A stretch and she found it, pressed it. The short set of aluminum steps unfolded electronically from inside a set of brackets, making a low whirring sound as they came down on a slant—a sound that got lost in the noise Delman was making. She went up the steps as fast and quiet as she could, scrambled over onto the storage platform to the left.

  Another button was set into a stud up there. And a switch for a couple of overhead bulbs, but she didn’t dare put on the lights. She felt around until she found the ladder button. The low whir came again; the steps started to wind up next to her.

  Loud crash below. The lock hadn’t held.

  He was in the bedroom now.

  Tamara scooted around to lie flat on her belly, then leaned down into the opening to try to slide the trapdoor panel back into place. Couldn’t quite reach it; the frame for the stairs was in the way. If he came into the closet, turned on the light, saw the open trap—

  She told herself that wouldn’t happen. First things he’d see were the wide open balcony doors and he’d head straight over there, go out onto the balcony, look over the railing. Think she’d managed to shinny down the drainpipe, was on her way for help, and haul his ass out of here in a hell of a hurry. And she’d wait ten minutes to make sure he was gone, then go on down and call the cops and that’d be the end of Antoine fucking Delman.

  Tamara wiggled backward on the platform. A spiderweb brushed her face; she swiped it off. The attic’s damp mustiness seemed to wrap itself around her. She could feel it on her skin as she lay listening.

  Silence down there.

  Still out on the balcony, trying to spot her in the dark? Come on, you son of a bitch, I’m long gone. Get the hell out!

  Something wet dripped onto the back of her hand.

  Sweat . . . no, blood. Her nose was bleeding again from the exertion, throbbing like the worst toothache she’d ever had. Another drop fell, and another—

  Oh, shit—what if it’d been bleeding again before she came up here? What if she’d left a trail of blood drops across the bedroom to the closet? But she hadn’t, she hadn’t, and even if she had he wouldn’t notice—

  Yeah, she had.

  Yeah, he did.

  The louvered closet doors rattled open. A second later the light came on.

  Fear, a knot of it this time, rose up in her throat. She pulled farther away from the platform’s edge, into the musty darkness, the rough boards scraping her palms. The platform was about a dozen feet long and narrow, empty except for a handful of items the former tenants had left behind; she hadn’t had the time or inclination to clean it out, move her own storage stuff up here. Only been in the attic once before, with the rental agent on her first look at the flat. The rest of it was exposed rafters and joists and crosspieces, and mounds of insulation like dirty saffron-colored snow puffed up between the joists. No place to hide, no window or any other way out.

  “I know you’re up there, bitch. Better come on down.”

  She lay still, holding her breath, cursing herself. All that time with Pop getting herself firearms certified . . . wasted because she’d been too busy, too lazy, too stupid to buy a handgun. If she had, she’d’ve kept it in her nightstand drawer and none of this would be happening—

  “Make me come up there after you, I’ll cut you into little pieces.”

  Couldn’t go down to him, couldn’t, couldn’t! He’d use that knife on her no matter what she did. The fury behind the pretend calm in his voice told her that.

  “All right, you asked for it.”

  She heard him leave the closet, then faint sounds in the bedroom she couldn’t identify.

  A weapon . . . anything up here she could use? Frantically she felt along the dusty boards, trying to remember what the former tenants had left behind and where it was. Wicker laundry basket. Roll of moldy rattan window shades that would probably crumble to dust if you picked them up. Box of old sheets and towels. Maybe she could . . . no, forget it. No hope of unfolding a sheet and throwing it over him in this dark cramped space, wouldn’t be enough time anyway.

  She heard him come back into the closet. Heard him fumbling around inside the trapdoor opening, trying to figure out how to get the ladder d
own.

  What else was here? Sharp object, or a heavy one like a chair or small table? Dammit, no, nothing like that.

  It didn’t take him long to find the button. The low whirring came again; the steps began to unfold downward.

  Jesus, sweet Jesus. She squirmed farther away from the edges of light, sweeping her hands over the platform now like a blind person. Something, anything . . . nothing but dust and dried mouse turds.

  The whirring stopped; the ladder was all the way down.

  She felt a sudden crazy urge to give up, curl herself into a ball, like one of those little bugs when they were about to be squashed. The hell with that! She kept moving, kept sweeping, the dust clogging her throat and aching nose, her breath coming in little muffled gasps.

  A spear of light shot up through the trap opening, steadied and made a yellow-white circle on one of the rafters. Flashlight beam. That was what he’d been doing in the bedroom, looking for a flashlight, and he’d found the one she kept in the nightstand.

  Her hand touched something . . . the wicker basket. Pushed it away. Touched something else, something that rolled and rattled.

  Delman was on the stairs now, starting up.

  She caught hold of the rolling thing—a round, smooth piece of wood. Remembered what it was just before her fingers confirmed it.

  Closet clothes pole!

  Her pulse rate surged. Up on her knees then, quick and quiet, lifting the pole with both hands and pulling it across her body. Felt like it was about three feet long, not heavy but solid.

  The flash beam roamed over the cobwebby rafters and studs, but it couldn’t reach to where she was; the angle was wrong. He’d have to come most of the way up before he could swing it around in her direction.

  There was enough room along the platform so a person of her height could stand upright without banging her head on one of the rafters. She pushed onto her feet, hunched over with the clothes pole tight against her chest, her hands sliding down to one end until she was gripping it like a baseball bat.

  Delman’s head appeared in the opening, then his upper body. The cone of light wobbled and danced lower over the skeletal timbers, making pieces of them appear and disappear in the heavy blackness.