There were very few people on the streets, but still enough to make it difficult. The boy wasn’t far from Van Ness. Even in the predawn hours, that road had enough traffic that you couldn’t just grab prey and drag it into the shadows or pull it up onto the roofs. If the boy reached Van Ness, they’d have no choice but to wait and watch.
“He’s a smart one,” said the sandpapery voice to Bryan’s right.
“You got that right, Sthly,” Bryan said.
Bryan turned — and saw a nightmare. A thick man with a heavy, dark blanket draped over his head and shoulders. The blanket covered him, but not
The nightmare spoke.
“This one is going to taste sweet.”
Bryan woke up screaming.
He was going to kill that boy.
No-no, not
Blood pounding. Adrenaline surging. His cock as hard as a railroad spike. Every ounce of him ached. Invisible jackhammers, pounding away at his flesh. Even his
His bedroom door flew open. Pookie slid in, gun in hand, eyes darting first to Bryan then around the room. Pookie knelt to look under the bed.
Bryan shook his head. “No one here. A dream.”
Pookie stood. He looked scared. Scared of Bryan. Maybe he should be.
“A dream,” Pookie said. “Like the last one?”
Bryan coughed, nodded. So hot. He’d never felt this sick, felt like something was attacking every ounce of his body. “Yeah. Like the last one. I think it’s happening again.”
Pookie stared, blinked. “You’re telling me that someone’s being murdered right now? That you
Bryan pushed his body out of bed. Heavy feet — still in his shoes — landed on the floor with a thump.
“Not yet,” he said. “Stalking him.”
“
“I am. I mean … someone is, and I think I was in that someone’s head … something like that, anyway.”
Pookie’s face showed he was having a hard time believing this. “You’re telling me someone is stalking this kid, right this second?”
Bryan rubbed his eyes, tried to breathe through aching lungs, tried to think. “They’re going to take him down. He’s at Geary and Hyde. We gotta go.”
“I’ll call it in,” Pookie said. “You’re not going anywhere.”
Bryan’s hands drifted to his shoulder holster … empty. “I need my weapon.”
“I’d rather you went without.”
Pookie didn’t trust Bryan with a gun? Considering what Bryan had put him through that was probably smart, but Bryan didn’t have time to argue.
“Bryan, forget it. You’re in no shape to—”
“No time,” Bryan said as he brushed past Pookie and stepped into the hall. He found his weapons piled up on the kitchen table, put them where they belonged. He turned back toward the front door, to leave the apartment — and found Pookie blocking his way.
Pookie’s gun was in his right hand, the barrel pointed at the ground.
“Bryan, I can’t let you go.”
Bryan paused. His own partner had drawn on him. He didn’t feel offended or insulted. Instead, he actually felt instant sympathy for Pookie’s difficult position — but there just wasn’t time for this.
“Pooks, I
Pookie’s hand flexed on his Sig Sauer. Was he going to point it at Bryan? Had it come to that?
Bryan turned and ran into his tiny kitchen. A second later, he heard footsteps behind him as Pookie reacted.
The narrow kitchen window was hinged on the left side. It swung open like a door that led to the fire escape. Bryan stepped out the window to the metal-grate platform outside, the night welcoming him back to its dark embrace. It had rained while he slept — the metal rails felt icy-cold on his hands. Before Pookie had even reached the kitchen, Bryan had slid down to the third floor and was already descending to the second. By the time Pookie crawled out of the kitchen window, Bryan’s feet hit the first-floor landing …
… and slipped.
His feet shot out from under him. The fire escape’s wet, rusty metal smashed into his forehead. That pain added to his aches and fever, but he didn’t let it stop him. He got back to his feet. Instead of lowering the collapsible ladder to the sidewalk, he just hopped over the rail.
“Bryan! Stay there!”
Bryan’s feet hit concrete. He ignored his partner. The kid from his dream was going to wind up just like Oscar Woody. Bryan had to stop that from happening.
He felt blood sheeting down his face. His Nikes slapped lightly against wet sidewalk as he sprinted toward Van Ness Avenue.
Bryan ran south on Van Ness, the six lanes of sporadic 3:00 A.M. traffic moving along on his right. What few pedestrians there were got the hell out of his way — a black-clad, sprinting man with a Sig Sauer in his hand and blood streaming from his forehead didn’t exactly court conversation.
Despite his pain, his legs worked just fine. Long, loping steps threw him along. Everything whipped by so fast. As soon as this was over, he’d puke his guts out, he promised himself, but for now he had to ignore everything and get to that kid.
Bryan planted at Geary and turned left, momentum actually curving him off the sidewalk and into the road before he corrected. He heard sirens approaching — probably patrol cars already responding to Pookie’s call. The sound echoed through the nighttime city-canyons.
Bryan didn’t know where to go, so he kept running. He crossed Polk Street, dodging a car as he moved from sidewalk to blacktop then sidewalk again. Building walls shot by on his left, parked cars on his right.
Movement from above …
A burning body sailing off a rooftop four stories above. It blazed orange against the black night sky, a flailing comet trailing a tongue of fire that smashed into a white van, deeply denting the roof. Another flash of motion from up there, but whatever it was
slipped out of sight behind the roof’s edge.
Bryan ran to the van and jumped. He found himself on top of the deeply dented, smashed-in roof — the man was facedown, small flames licking at his blackened clothes. Bryan whipped off his jacket and covered him, patting him down, snuffing out the flames. The man moaned.
“Hold on, buddy. I got ya.”
The sirens grew louder.
Bryan realized the man’s jacket — where it wasn’t blackened and melted — was crimson and gold.
BoyCo gear.
It wasn’t a man, it was a boy … the boy from his dream. Hurt, but not dead.
Bryan pulled out his cell and hit the two-way button.
Bryan looked down Geary. He saw Pookie running toward him.
