Nocturnal: A Novel

above Erickson’s backyard, just past midnight with a starless sky, and Bryan Clauser was all but invisible.

He watched the back of the old Victorian, at least what he could see through the darkness and the trees. The small green space looked almost like a terrarium: trees reaching up high but hemmed in on all sides by concrete, glass and painted wood far taller than the trees themselves. The surrounding buildings left the backyard in shadow most of the day — at night, the area under the trees was as black as the overcast sky itself.

He could see something through the trees, something soaked in deep shadow at the base of the house, something … slanted. The leaves and branches obscured the shape, but that shape bothered him. It was important; he didn’t know why.

At the back of the yard, opposite the Victorian, a narrow space slid between the building Bryan was on and one across from him, a thin alley of grass and trees that led into other backyards. He’d checked the satellite map and knew that one could come out the back of the Victorian, go through the backyard, walk between the buildings and — coated in shadow the entire time — reach Gough Street to the west. A perfect setup. The archer could use that path to come and go unseen.

To go out and hunt.

He’s just like me. He hunts killers, the deadliest game there is.

Movement at the base of the house drew Bryan’s attention.

Through the obscuring tree, he saw a change in the shape that disturbed him so. The shape … it was opening. He sucked in a breath and held it, eyes wide with the fresh fear of last night’s terrifying dream.

The shape was a cellar door.

A cellar door that led down.

Drenched in thick shadow, he saw something come out of that door. The door shut, then that something moved. Smooth movement. Effortless movement.

In his pants pocket, Bryan’s cell phone let out a boo-beep. He twitched a little, suddenly afraid the something would hear, would come for him, but he was six stories up and the phone’s sound was little more than a whisper.

The moving shadow crossed the yard, then stopped, vanishing beneath a tree. Bryan waited. The shadow moved to another tree, where it stopped again.

The shadow was making sure no one was watching.

Another few steps, almost between the buildings now. A thin bit of light fell upon the figure and Bryan saw it—

A dark green cloak.

The cloak hung almost to the ground, big hood pulled up over the wearer’s head. Slipping beneath the cover of nighttime trees, the cloak was a silent shape sliding across the grass.

The cell again let out a boo-beep. Pookie, trying to reach him. Bryan ignored it.

The shape moved to the base of Bryan’s white building. Bryan leaned out, carefully, but couldn’t see anything in the shadows down there — the cloak, and whoever was in it, had vanished.

Bryan hadn’t seen a bow. Had there been one somewhere under that cloak? He knew better than to give chase; by the time he got down to the street the perp would be blocks away in an unknown direction. Calling in a BOLO would be futile — Zou or Robertson or Sharrow would just cancel it, and know exactly what Bryan was doing.

The cloaked figure was gone, but the house wasn’t going anywhere. This could be Bryan’s chance to find some answers. Maybe the vigilante had information on Marie’s Children. At the very least, he might find some custom-made arrowheads that could connect Erickson to Blackbeard’s murder. Something that would let Bryan and Pookie push back against Zou.

No one is above the law.

The cell phone let out a third boo-beep. Bryan looked once more to make sure he’d lost sight of the cloaked figure — he had — then pulled out the phone. He didn’t want to mess with the stupid two-way button, so he just dialed instead.

“Bryan!” Pookie answerd. “You okay?”

“Pooks, I saw him, he’s moving.”

“I’m already on my way,” Pookie said. “I’m in the car now. Don’t do anything.”

Bryan forced himself to whisper, as it was the only way he could control his excitement. “I can’t believe it, I saw a guy in a big-hooded green cloak. He came right out of these storm-cellar doors in the back of Erickson’s house, and the way he moved, man, like a … wait, you’re already on the way?”

“Ten minutes, tops.”

Something was wrong. “Why are you on your way before I called you to come get me?”

A pause. A long pause.

“Pooks,” Bryan said, “answer my question.”

He heard Pookie let out a big breath. This didn’t sound good.

“Bryan, it’s over. Zou came to my apartment. She’s kicking us out of San Francisco. She said if we quit now, she can get us a job anywhere in the country.”

No. Not now, not when he was so close. The nightmares, the killings, the connection with Rex, the weird Zed chromosome … the answers might be right inside that house.

“Bryan? It’s not so bad. I hear Hawaii is great. Honolulu Homicide has a real nice ring to it.”

Zou had fired them? But the house … there had to be something in the house.

“Bryan? You there? We’re done, did you hear me?”

“I think the house is empty, Pooks.”

“Do not go in there, man. If you go in there, we’re done as cops, for good, and trust me, she will send your ass to prison. Just get the fuck out of there.”

None of that mattered. Bryan knew he was on the edge of madness. He didn’t care about his job. He didn’t care about prison.

All he cared about was finding the truth.

“Bryan, dude, I am begging you. Wait for me, please.”

The slate-blue Victorian called to Bryan. I know what you don’t, come and play … come and play …

“Bryan! Answer me, man. You can’t go—”

Bryan hung up. He turned the phone completely off, put it in his pocket, then headed for the tree that led down to the sidewalk.

Tard’s Job

Tard tried to put it all together, but it was confusing. His skin itched. This roof always made him itchy. But he dare not scratch, dare not even move, because the monster had left the house.

Tard’s job in life was to be terrified. Every night. Every single night he watched the monster come out of the house and disappear somewhere out on the streets. Tard never knew where he went. The monster could double back somewhere, close in on Tard and then it would be too late — Tard would feel an arrow, or a knife, or a bullet.

The only time Tard could breathe easy was for about five minutes when the monster returned to the house’s back door, but then the feeling slipped away — maybe the monster had another door, a secret door, maybe it slipped out, circled around the block, scaled a building, and …

Tard forced the thoughts away. Focus. This was an important job. Sly had told him so. Important, and tricky, like James Bond. That’s what Tard wanted to be, like James Bond, all smooth and stuff.

Tard’s hands trembled as he reached down — slowly — to pick up the cell phone. He couldn’t have it on his body, not when he was hiding, so he just set it on the ground.

He dialed.