Nocturnal: A Novel

I’m supposed to assume it was … I don’t know … stuntmen in Halloween costumes snatching a kid?”

Pookie stared at the notepad again. Bryan waited, letting his partner work through this. Tiffany’s testimony was close to Bryan’s dreams, too close for coincidence. After her description, if Pookie still didn’t believe, he probably never would.

“Pooks, she used the words snake-face. I didn’t prompt her — you know that, right?”

Pookie nodded, slowly. “Yeah. Kind of specific. Not the same thing as saying it was a black guy.”

Bryan needed Pookie to believe him, believe in him. If Pookie did not, Bryan would truly be in this all alone.

Pookie sighed, smiled, looked to the ceiling. “I’ve got the testimony of a senile old woman who was probably tripping on acid, who saw something for three seconds, and I’ve got your dreams. I’d have to be an idiot to believe you.”

“She’s not senile,” Bryan said. “And I didn’t see any Deadhead stickers in there.”

Pookie took a deep breath and let it out in a cheek-puffing huff. “Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Maybe I need to take the short bus to work, but I believe you. This doesn’t mean it’s a guy with an actual face of a snake, Bri-Bri. These are dudes in costumes. I can’t explain your dreams, but the scaling the building thing? It was late at night, Tiffany could have missed cables, ropes, your general circus paraphernalia.”

Bryan nodded, but he knew there hadn’t been ropes. And he knew there hadn’t been costumes. That didn’t matter — what mattered was that Pookie believed he wasn’t crazy. For now, that was enough.

Pookie’s cell phone buzzed. He checked the caller ID, then answered.

“Black Mister Burns,” he said. “Why are you calling me at five-thirty in the morning?”

Bryan waited as Pookie listened.

“Yeah, almost done here,” Pookie said. “No, just tell me. For real? Sure, no problem. Know where Pinecrest Diner is? No, genius, the diner is closed and I want to hang out by its front door like a skater kid. Of course they’re open. Fine. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

He hung up.

“What’s happening?” Bryan asked. “He figure something out with those symbols?”

Pookie held up a just wait a second finger as he dialed another number with his thumb. He smiled as he waited for the other end to pick up.

“Hi, it’s Pookie,” he said, then paused to listen. “Oh please, you were probably about to get up anyway. Listen, Bryan wanted me to call. He’s on his way over for breakfast.”

“Hey,” Bryan said. “Don’t promise someone that—”

“Twenty minutes? Great. He’s looking forward to it. Bye-bye.”

Pookie folded the phone and slid it back into his pocket. “Black Mister Burns has something he wants to share. He doesn’t feel good broadcasting it over the police radio.”

“Cool, let’s go.”

Pookie shook his head. “Nope, just me. You need to chill out for a bit and get a bite to eat.”

“Pooks, I’m not in the mood for breakfast. I still feel like I got hit by a steamroller, and you think I can chill after all this?”

Pookie shrugged. “Whether you can or you can’t doesn’t matter. Mike Clauser sounded excited. He’s probably already cooking the kielbasa.”

Bryan’s teeth clenched tight. Sometimes Pookie thought he knew better than anyone else. “You told my dad I was coming over for fucking breakfast?”

Pookie shrugged. “You need a break, man. I know you didn’t do these things, okay? I know it. You need to stop thinking about all this for a couple of hours. You need to unplug for a bit. Go or stay, but you know how fired up Mike gets.”

Bryan’s father would already be excited to have his son drop by for a visit. If Bryan didn’t go, Mike Clauser would be crushed.

“Hey, Pooks,” Bryan said. “You suck cock.”

Pookie smiled. “All I can get.”

They heard three sets of heavy footsteps on the stairs a few flights up.

“Polyester returns,” Pookie said. “Seriously, man, just go hang with your pops for a bit. I’m off. Catch a cab.”

Pookie walked quickly out of the building and headed for his car.

Bryan thought about chasing him, trying to go with him, but Pookie was right — Mike Clauser would already be cooking the only dish he knew how to make.

“Asshole,” Bryan said once more, then walked out of the building.

A Visit from Chinatown

The sound of rattling machinery and chains dragging across stone brought Aggie out of a cold sleep. He had to move — he fought nausea and disorientation as he crawled toward the white wall. He didn’t make it in time before the chain drew tight, yanking on his neck and dragging him across the floor. He got his feet under him just in time to stand and turn his back to the flange.

The collar clanged home.

The white door opened, and this time it wasn’t the little old babushka lady.

Five white-hooded, white-robed monster-men came through. The last two carried a long pole, from which hung an unconscious man tied to it by his wrists and ankles. He looked like one of those old guys from Chinatown — sun-wrinkled face, black hair flecked with strands of gray, red flannel shirt over a faded Super Bowl XXI shirt, blue jeans and well-worn brown work boots.

Like Aggie and the Mexicans, the man had a metal collar around his neck.

Aggie stared at the monster-men. He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again. He’d been high as fuck last time. He wasn’t high now.

Those weren’t monster faces … they were rubber Halloween masks. A pig and a wolf, like before, but now he saw the goblin was one of those green-faced things that guarded Jabba the Hut in Return of the Jedi. There was also a Hellboy with the red skin and stubby horns, and a white-faced, black-whiskered Hello Kitty.

The robed men wasted no time. Hellboy had that remote-control thing and used it to get some slack from a chain to Aggie’s right. Pig-Face and Hello Kitty untied the man’s wrists, hooked the chain to the man’s collar, then left him lying on the floor.

He lay there, unmoving.

The masked men turned and walked toward the Mexican couple, who had been pulled to their respective places along the wall.

“Devuelvame a mi hijo,” said the Mexican man, his tone a plea thick with despair. “A Dios le pido!”

The robed men said nothing. Their monster masks showed no emotion. They ignored the Mexican man.

Instead, they closed in on his wife.

Five sets of black-gloved hands reached for her, grabbing at arms and feet. She screamed.

“No!” the man shouted. “Dejenla en paz!”

She tried to fight, but she had no chance.

 … His wife … Aggie remembered his own wife … remembered the gunshot … the blood …

The Mexican man’s voice betrayed shredding vocal cords. “Chinga a tu madre!” Spit flew from his mouth. His eyes blazed wide with murderous insanity. “Le matare! Le matare!”

Hellboy hit a button on the remote control. The woman’s chain went slack, just as it had with her son. The masked men dragged her to the ground, her body half hidden by their white robes.

Aggie stood there, helpless. He couldn’t help her. All he could do was draw attention to himself, and if he did they might take him instead. He stood as still as he could.

The Mexican man’s fingers clawed at his collar. He pulled, tried to slide his fingers inside the metal and