Nocturnal: A Novel

“Alex! Please!”

He wanted to punch her in the mouth, but he couldn’t — she was still his mother. He ran to the living room, grabbed her purse and brought it back. Inside he found fifty bucks and a small bag of weed. He threw the purse at her; it hit her in the face. She covered her mouth, and then — of course — started crying again.

“Backstabbing bitch,” Alex said. “Issac, get up. We’ve got to—”

The sound of splitting wood: someone had just smashed through the apartment’s front door.

Rain poured down even harder, but that became a background thing as Rex saw the sixth-floor window open. He saw a big body climb out onto the fire escape, black sweatshirt and jeans making him blend into the night. As soon as that person climbed out, another followed.

“Marco,” Rex said. “That looks like Alex and Issac.”

Marco worriedly pulled at his ear. “Uh-oh. Where’s Sucka?”

“I don’t even know who Sucka is, so you tell me.”

Marco looked at his phone, as if by doing so he could make it ring and tell him what was happening. Raindrops splashed off the illuminated screen. He looked back up at the boys on the fire escape. “I’m not sure what’s happening.”

Rex felt confused — Marco had acted so quickly back at Rex’s house, but now the man seemed lost, unsure. Maybe he needed specific orders or something?

Alex and Issac climbed down the fire escape’s steep switchback stairs, moving from the sixth floor down to the fifth. If they got away, would anyone be able to find them? They would escape and that wouldn’t be fair, not when they were right there.

“Marco,” Rex said. “Get them.”

Marco looked at Rex, then at the phone again, then to Alex and Issac.

“It’s not even midnight yet,” he said. “This is too public. There are rules.”

Alex reached the fourth-floor landing. He was going to get away.

Rex reached out and grabbed Marco’s wet beard, pulled the man’s face close. “I don’t care about your stupid rules. Get Alex! And don’t you dare kill him, you hear me talking to you?”

Marco’s eyes narrowed — not with anger, but with purpose. He put the phone away and stood. Blanket still over his shoulders, he reached into the hidden pocket and pulled out his hatchet.

Timing the traffic, Marco tucked the blanket tight around him, stepped out into the rain and started crossing the street.

Bryan held on tight. Pookie turned the Buick in a squealing right off Larkin onto Union. Wheels slid across wet pavement as windshield wipers tried to clear away the heavy rain. A block ahead, Susie’s building rose up into the night air. At ten stories high, it dominated the surrounding four- and five-story buildings.

The car’s tires slid, then caught. The Buick leveled out, rocking Bryan back to the right. They’d left the siren off — they didn’t want to warn the kid they were on the way.

Up the street, through the dark drizzle and fuzzy streetlight glow, Bryan saw movement on the front of the building; two figures descending the fire escape.

“That’s them,” Bryan said, pointing. “They’re already running.”

The boys stopped. Bryan saw one continue down, while the other reversed direction and started climbing up.

“They made us,” Bryan said. “You take the one on the fire escape, I’ll take the one about to hit the ground.”

Pookie swerved into the wrong lane to pass a truck, then cut in front of it just in time to miss a head-on with a black Acura. He ran a red light at Hyde, but the lights turned red as far as they could see and traffic slowed to a stop. Pookie locked up the brakes to keep from slamming into the cars ahead.

Bryan held the dashboard as the Buick’s momentum pulled him forward. As soon as the car rocked back, he was out the door.

The late hour and the rain combined to leave little foot traffic on the sidewalks. Just one person, in fact, moved across the water-sheened blacktop, crossing from one side of the street to the other.

A big mound of a person — a person covered with a blanket.

That person was crossing the street and heading for the bottom of the fire escape.

Holy shit this is really happening I’m not dreaming this time.

As Bryan ran, he looked to the fire escape. Even in the dim light and heavy rain, he recognized the thick build of Alex Panos standing on the bottom landing. Alex hit a lever; a ladder rattled down to the concrete.

Alex descended.

Bryan was twenty feet away from the blanket-covered man, who was still thirty feet from the fire escape. Alex reached the sidewalk and took off.

The shambling mound of a person moved faster. The blanket flapped away for a moment, and in that moment Bryan saw a glint of metal.

He drew his gun and sprinted faster.

Pookie scrambled up the cold, wet metal as fast as he dared. He looked up, blinking against the rain hitting his face, and was surprised to see a figure crawl out of a sixth-floor window and jump onto the fire escape. The person was little more than a shapeless shadow thanks to the heavy blanket that covered him. High above, at the eighth floor, Pookie saw a smaller figure — Issac.

Pookie’s feet hit hard on the fire escape steps. He had to get to Issac before that blanketed man did.

Bryan saw Alex running as fast as he could, big body lumbering, big arms swinging. The man chasing him moved much faster; he closed in on Alex, the gray blanket trailing behind like a heavy cape.

Goddamn he’s fast!

Still sprinting hard, Bryan raised his gun.

“Police! Get down!”

The man either ignored him or couldn’t hear over the rain.

Bryan thought of stopping, chancing a shot, but if he missed, he might hit Alex.

Pookie had made it to the seventh-story landing when the man chasing Issac vanished from sight onto the roof. The nearly vertical climb already had Pookie’s legs and lungs burning in complaint.

From up on the roof, he heard gunshots.

His foot slipped on a step and his knee banged hard into metal. He climbed on despite the pain.

Cold wind blowing, jacket and hair already soaked with driving rain, Pookie reached the ninth-floor landing — just one more short flight to reach the roof. He drew his Sig Sauer and started to climb.

Marco heard a man yelling somewhere behind him. Police. Again. Sly was going to be so pissed, and if Firstborn found out, Marco would get such a beating. There were no tunnels around here. The nearest hidey-hole was the old Russian Hill reservoir, but that was five blocks away. Besides, Marco couldn’t just run — the king had given an order.

Marco knew that if he could grab the boy, he could then scramble up a wall to the roof and the cop wouldn’t be able to follow. The king had commanded the boy not be killed, but that didn’t mean Marco couldn’t wound him.

Still running, Marco raised his weapon.

Bryan saw streetlights reflect off the wet blade.

A hatchet.

Bobby Pigeon’s killer.

Bryan stopped running, aimed, then fired twice. The man stumbled forward and landed on Alex, sending both of them face-first into the sidewalk.