Damnation Street

by Andrew Klavan

  Later, about an hour later, with the dark at every window, with the desert all around him in the dark, Weiss started to wonder about the home owner at the trash can. Does a guy put on a windbreaker just to take the garbage to the end of the driveway? And how come he hadn't heard the door to the house open when the guy came out or close when the guy went back inside? Had the guy gone back inside at all? He hadn't seen it. He didn't know.

  He wondered about these things later, when his heart had slowed and his sweat had dried and the dark was at the windows.

  But by then he was long gone from Hannock. He was well on his way to Nevada.

  18.

  In the town, on the dark street of houses, the man who called himself John Foy slipped back behind the wheel of the blue rental car. His brown suede windbreaker was thin and the night was cold, but he was sweating all the same.

  He sat a long time, just breathing, just gazing out through the windshield with his strangely flat eyes. He did not see the things he was gazing at. He did not see anything outside himself. He was thinking about his tower. He was up in his tower in the calm and empty sky. The red waves of his rage were crashing, crashing against the base of the tower far below. He sat behind the wheel of the car and breathed.

  The man who called himself John Foy liked to think of himself as a cool professional. We all have our self-deceptions; this was his. He liked to think of himself as a dispassionate tradesman who did what he did without emotion, without anger or remorse. The truth was very different. In truth, the killer was all rage. What in someone else might be a self or a soul in him was rage alone. There was nothing else there. Sometimes he remembered his boyhood, the wounds and blood and the faces laughing, and he thought he felt sorry for the child he'd been. But he didn't, not really. Really, that was just his rage disguising itself in a sentimental form. Other times he felt a lofty, almost intellectual competence in his work, a sense of himself as a living clockwork of plans and action. But that was also just an illusion—an illusion created by his rage.

  When these forms and illusions failed him, when the rage rose red in him as nothing but itself, it was agony. It felt as if he were being burned and strangled at the same time. It felt as if some consuming flame within him and the choking malevolence of the cruel world without had become one thing. It was unbearable. He went away from it, climbed away. Up into his tower to stand there, empty, in the empty sky.

  It was several minutes before he could come back to himself. Slowly then, his surroundings took shape through the windshield. He was in a garage, the rented Chrysler 300 squeezed in next to a large motorcycle. It was dark, but he could make out the bike and the silhouettes of shelves on the walls, power tools, paint cans, small glass jars.

  He had spotted the garage and turned in, headlights off, only seconds before Weiss came around the corner behind him. He had leaped from the car and hidden there, crouched in the shadows, waiting to see what Weiss would do. When Weiss got out of his car to search the street for him, he had come out into the driveway. He pretended to throw garbage in the can to draw Weiss's eyes away from the garage and the blue Chrysler.

  It'd been a risky move. If Weiss had caught on, he would've had to kill him. He had had his hand wrapped around the compact .45 in the suede windbreaker's pocket the whole time. He had thought, any moment, he would have to pull the trigger, blow a hole in Weiss's paunch.

  That's what enraged him—how close the situation had come to going out of control. If he had killed Weiss, the search would've been over. There would be a time for that, but not yet, not before he found the girl. He needed Weiss to find her. He needed Weiss for that way he knew things he shouldn't have been able to know. It should never have been that close—standing there face-to-face with him like that, holding the .45 in his windbreaker pocket; it had been a mistake, that's all. Another careless mistake, like buying the guns from the Frenchman. And what infuriated him more than anything was that he wasn't sure exactly what the mistake had been.

  He had been as close as a breath to Weiss over a dozen times, and Weiss had never noticed him before. No one ever noticed him. He relied on that. He relied on his talent for invisibility, the way he could be with people unseen and then come upon them suddenly, like death—just like death. So what had gone wrong this time? The car wasn't the problem. The car was good. An obvious rental, a tourist car. It fit perfectly outside a motel. The man who called himself John Foy had sat in the car in the motel parking lot with complete confidence. From there it had been easy to use his laser mike to read the vibrations on the office glass, to pick up Weiss's conversation with the motel clerk word for word. He was even able to see the two of them, clear and close, using a pair of powerful Epoch binoculars. He could even read Adrienne Chalk's address in Reno when Weiss wrote it down on the motel pad.

  Weiss had come out of the office quickly, but the man who called himself John Foy was ready for him. He was driving away as Weiss came through the door. He should've been able to leave inconspicuously, without being spotted. He'd planned the whole thing perfectly. He had it all worked out in his mind.

  Somehow, though, Weiss did spot him. Infuriating. Because Foy didn't know how he did it. Maybe his invisibility was slipping. Maybe Weiss's eyes were somehow adjusting to him, the way eyes adjust to the dark. Maybe Weiss would soon be able to see him anywhere, pick him out of a crowd...

  No, that was crazy, paranoid thinking. That's what Weiss did to him. Weiss got inside his head, made him doubt himself. Weiss made him feel that, with all his plans and experience, he was still always a step behind. He had felt that way even before this, outside the empty house, when he was listening to Weiss talk to Andy Bremer. He had heard that conversation word for word too, watched it too, the same as the one at the motel. He hadn't missed anything—but he felt somehow he had. He felt as if something had passed between the two men without their even speaking and he had missed it. That was the sort of thing Weiss made him worry about. Infuriating.

  Before the naked rage could build in him again, he grabbed the car's ignition key, grabbed it and twisted it hard to start the Chrysler's engine. He backed out of the garage. He had to plan his next move. That would calm him. He had to think, he had to be cool, dispassionate, a living clockwork.

  He thought. He thought maybe he should go back to Andy Bremer's house. He would break in and tie the family up. He would go to work on one of them, one of the children—the girl probably. He would work on her slowly while the others watched and listened to her screaming through her gag. He wouldn't ask them anything. He would just work on the girl while they watched and listened until the girl was dead. Then he would start on the boy. And then—then he would ask them. While he was working on the boy, he would ask them what they knew about Julie. Whatever unspoken business had passed between Bremer and Weiss, he would find out soon enough what it was.

  He pointed the car down the street and cruised slowly past the houses to the stop sign at the corner. There was no hurry. He knew where Weiss was going. There was plenty of time to make a stop at Bremer's. Maybe he would even find out enough to go after Julie himself.

  But maybe not. Maybe not—and, as Weiss had told Bremer in the house, if the man called John Foy killed the Bremers, Weiss would call off the search. That was the unspoken deal between them, the silent agreement between Weiss and the man who called himself John Foy. Foy would stay in the background. He wouldn't cause trouble or harm the people Weiss spoke to. As long as there was no trouble, Weiss would go on and find Julie, and so Foy would find Julie too. Weiss knew it was going to happen like that, knew they would find her together, but as long as there was no trouble until then, he could tell himself that it would turn out all right. As long as there was no trouble, he would go on, he would find her, even if he had to lie to himself about how it would end. He would go on and he would find her because he had to, because he couldn't stop himself. Just like Foy. It was the same for both of them.

  The man who called himself John Foy brought the Chrys
ler around the corner and headed back for the four-lane. Reluctantly, he gave up the idea of going to Bremer's house. He would've liked to. He would've liked to watch Weiss's face when he learned what happened to them. He would've liked to pay Weiss back for the way he made him feel and for the fact that he needed him to find the girl. But there were other ways to get at Weiss, even now. Weiss wasn't the only one who knew things. The man who called himself John Foy knew something too. He knew a way that he could pay Weiss back.

  So it was all right. It was fine. He could start planning again, planning like clockwork. Here was the four-lane, just ahead. He would leave the Bremers alone and go on to Reno with Weiss. He would change cars before he got there. He would change his appearance in the small ways that changed everything: different clothes, different hair, a different way of moving. He would become invisible again. He would be close to Weiss, as close as a breath, and Weiss wouldn't see him. And he would make his plans to pay Weiss back for the way he made him feel and for the fact that he needed him to find the girl.

  The Chrysler turned onto the four-lane. The man who called himself John Foy let his foot grow heavier on the gas. The car gathered speed. He was going fifty when he passed the Super 8 Motel, the last business on the street. The city lights fell away behind him quickly.

  Darkness and the desert closed in around the windows.

  19.

  It was about eleven o'clock the next morning when Bishop pushed into the dojo. The Frenchman's bully boys were there in force. There were seven of these dick swingers all told, musclemen with tattoos and sneering smiles. Their faces were different colors, white and brown and yellow, but they were all wearing white gis with black belts.

  They were going through a kata when Bishop entered—a sort of karate dance. They were sliding in unison across the hardwood floor, pivoting as one, kicking the air as one. Two rows of three and one man in front. Seven arms twisting out together in a corkscrew punch. Seven voices shouting—"Keeyai!"

  Just within the door, there was a carpeted alcove, a small waiting area with chairs and a watercooler. There was a rice paper divider with a wooden frame separating the alcove from the hardwood dojo.

  Bishop crossed the alcove and stepped into the divider's doorway. He leaned against the wood frame and watched the kata. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt. He was wearing his ironic smile too. He held his leather jacket slung over his shoulder. He watched as the seven bully boys spun and blocked and shouted. Their eyes were blazing with focus. Their expressions were set and grim.

  As the kata wore on, Bishop's gaze wandered. First, he looked to the far side of the room. There was a door there, in the right corner. That was the door he wanted.

  When he was done considering the door, he looked up casually at the dojo's walls. They were decorated with weapons: samurai swords, a couple of the long staffs called bos, a couple of the long knives called sais. There were some num-chucks, some whip chains, some throwing stars. And there was one particularly vicious-looking Chinese broadsword, its keen, flat silver blade curling almost like a scimitar, a black-and-scarlet cloth hanging from its pommel.

  Bishop admired the array. He had fooled around a little with samurai swords in his youth. He tried to remember the Japanese words for the various parts of them and the various classifications. The cutting edge of the blade was called the ha, he remembered, and the part that went into the handle was called the tang. There were the long ones, daito, and the short ones ... which was a longer word. Most of the rest of what he'd taught himself escaped him now. Still, he liked the look of them. He'd always thought that Zen Japanese warrior-type shit was cool.

  Another loud "Keeyai!" brought his attention back to the room. The men were on the kata's final leg, a flurry of sliding steps and blocks and blows that carried the seven black belts as one from the rear wall toward their images in the long mirror that lined the wall in front. As Bishop watched them, his smile grew distant; his eyes grew blurred and dreamy. That cold, steely edge that sometimes gleamed in his core gleamed now.

  The kata ended. In a single motion, the seven men pulled back from a final punch, drawing their extended legs under them, bringing their hands together. They bowed once in unison. Then they stood erect, two rows of three and the man in front, their elbows raised, their hands together before their faces, the right hand, the male hand, a fist, planted in the left, open, female hand.

  After a long moment, the lead man broke the stance and turned to face Bishop.

  Bishop looked the man over. He was a big, evil chuckle-head. A white guy, approximately the size of Denver. He had short blond hair and stupid eyes and a vague pharmaceutical smile. He had a voice so deep it sounded like an earth tremor. His muscles filled his gi like rocks in a canvas sack.

  "Help you, brother?" he rumbled.

  Bishop went on leaning against the door frame. He nodded slowly. His own smile was friendly and dangerous. "My name's Jim Bishop," he said. "I'm here to see the Frenchman."

  That got an instant reaction, not just from the evil chucklehead but from his six bully boy pals as well. The chucklehead gaped in surprise. Then he guffawed in surprise, his massive shoulders jerking up and down. The six others, though they were standing rigid at attention, started laughing, too, after a second, their locked hands quivering in front of them.

  Bishop stayed as he was, leaning against the door frame. That cold edge gleamed at his core, and a sort of bright metallic singing started up all through him, as if that inner edge were a sword blade whistling endlessly through the air. If he had been thinking anything, anything in words, the words would've been: Here we go. But he was not thinking anything. He was just leaning there, smiling, waiting for it.

  The Denver-sized leader of the pack stopped laughing. Slowly, the laughter of the others faded too. The chucklehead glared at Bishop with his stupid eyes. "What Frenchman?" he said grimly. "I never heard of him."

  Bishop breathed out sharply once through his nose. "That's funny. Thanks—a chuckle always brightens up my day. But listen, I'm pressed for time. You're a flunky—go flunk yourself upstairs and tell that gun-running Belgian prick I'm coming up to see him."

  At this, all signs of laughter—all signs that he had ever laughed at all—vanished from the evil white Denver-sized chucklehead's face. "What're you, looking for a fight?"

  "No, that's close, very good. I am looking for something. But I'm looking for the fucking Frenchman. Now, either you tell him I'm here, or I walk up and surprise him."

  "Or we cram your head up your ass and use you for a hula hoop," came a soft, snaky voice from the assembled bully boys.

  That got another murmur of laughter out of them. Bishop turned his head their way. He could tell right off which one of them was the wiseass. Big Asian or maybe half-Asian kung-fu type. Burly yellow fucker with a big round face, long stringy hair, and a sort of modified Fu Manchu mustache blossoming out of his stubble. He stood loose at the hips, his bowling-ball fist lightly punching into the maw of his open hand. He had his eyes to the side, watching Bishop. He grinned broadly.

  "Oops," he said, "did I say that out loud?"

  Bishop grinned back at him. "You did, in fact, yeah. And if you speak out of turn again, I'm gonna make you write 'I'm sorry' a hundred times on your body cast."

  That doused the murmur of laughter like a bucket of water douses flame. A sort of collective growl rose from the assembled bully-boy multitude. Fu Manchu's grin froze on his face.

  "Oops," Bishop added. "Did I say that out loud?"

  Fu Manchu's eyes narrowed. His hands came down slowly to his sides. But it was the evil white Denver-sized chucklehead who moved first. Hooking his thumbs in his black belt, he swaggered over toward Bishop on bowed muscle-bound legs.

  "Uh-oh," one of the bully boys murmured.

  Bishop, even with that bright metallic blade whistling through the core of him, thought pretty much the same thing. He straightened off the door frame as the chucklehead came to a stop in front of him. Smiling, the two
men stared death at each other.

  This staring-death business went on for some long silent time. The chucklehead seemed to be waiting for Bishop to try something. But Bishop stood relaxed, his jacket over his shoulder, and made no move.

  Finally, the chucklehead snorted. "Listen, shit for brains. You're too skinny to kill for food and too stupid to kill for fun, so why don't you just get the fuck out of here before you start to piss me off. Awright?"

  And having offered this helpful hint, he started to turn away, to turn his back on Bishop.

  This was an important moment. It was a long way to that door across the room. Bishop knew that if he tried for it, this bunch would swarm him and bring him down. He knew he needed to goad one of them into a man-on-man confrontation if he was going to bluff his way across without getting gang-stomped. In order to do that, he needed to impress them with the fact that he was worthy of such a fight. And this was the moment in which he would or would not.

  Because the chucklehead was only pretending to turn away, of course. Another second and he would wheel oh so unexpectedly and put a move on Bishop, probably a punch to the face or the solar plexus. If it was a fake punch and Bishop flinched, he would lose the manhood cred he needed to get the confrontation going. If it was a real punch and he didn't get the hell out of the way—well, the confrontation would be over before it began.

  Bishop decided to stand fast and hope the punch was a fake. He didn't have to wait long to find out. The evil chuckle-head was now finished pretending to turn around. Oh so unexpectedly, he spun back and drove one of those vicious corkscrew karate fists directly at Bishop's mouth.

  But Bishop had guessed right. The punch stopped just short—about a quarter inch short—of connecting. Which left the unflinching Bishop standing with his smile intact and his jacket still over his shoulder, looking very steely-eyed and cool, indeed.