Nightcrawlers: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Mystery) by Bill Pronzini
Authors: Bill Pronzini
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ground level. Stood still again and flapped her ears, hard. And the hair went up on her neck, her scalp crawled, her pulse kicked and fluttered.
Crying.
Child crying in there.
Tamara squatted and leaned an ear against the cold glass. No mistake. And not just any kind of crying—lost, scared, maybe hurt. Little girl? Couldn’t be sure. She tried to peer through the window, couldn’t even see her own reflection, and realized that the blackness was more than just night-dark—it was paint, there was black paint all over the glass. Her fingers dug at the bottom of the sash; it wouldn’t budge. Nailed or painted shut, might also be barred in some way.
Now what? Make some noise, try to attract the child’s attention? What good would that do? Little kid left alone this way, must be locked up in a room.
Flash of herself breaking in, rescuing the kid. Oh no you don’t. Who you think you are, Superwoman? Movie stuff, Hollywood bullshit. No clue what’s going on, blunder in there and you’re liable to make a bad situation worse. And it was bad. She could feel the bad coming out from behind that black-painted window, negative energy as heavy as pulses of heat. Her skin tingled and crawled with it.
Smart thing was to stay cool. Get off this property, fast. Then . . . talk to the next-door neighbors, use some pretext to make sure that kid in there didn’t belong to a new girlfriend of Robert Lemoyne’s. And then quit the neighborhood, get hold of Bill and convince him, and after that go find the nearest cop house. She’d have to talk long and hard, and downplay the trespassing thing, but with the boss man for backup she’d convince the law too. Then . . .
Yeah, then. Better be right about this, Tamara.
I am. Listen to that kid crying, remember the way things went down last night. Bad, all right. Bad as it can get.
She stood and backed off from the window, retraced herroute across the dry grass toward the garage. Full of purpose now. Hurrying some as she headed into the areaway.
Car on the street.
She was opposite the side door to the garage when she heard it. Couldn’t see it or its lights yet, but it was in this block—engine sound getting louder. She pulled back against the wall of the house, where the shadows were deepest. Nothing to worry about. Early yet, cars passing by all the time. The street brightened ahead with the approaching lights. Just stand still, wait for them to pass by.
They didn’t pass by. Without any slowdown they arced around fast, high and bright, into the driveway.
She went stumbling headlong back to the rear corner of the house, away from the lights. A long narrow section of dead lawn leaped into brightness ahead of her as she ducked around the corner.
He saw me!
No, stay cool, he didn’t, stay cool. Hide! She looked around wildly. Nowhere to hide, fences at the back and far side too high to climb; oh, Lord, nowhere to go—
The funnel of light coming through the areaway vanished, plunging the yard into heavy shadow again.
Car door slammed.
Her breath caught in her throat. She froze, looking back over her shoulder, poised to run again. If he came back here, chased her and she couldn’t get away, she’d start screaming. She could scream like a banshee, Pop always said that, scream like a banshee and bring out the whole friggin’ neighborhood.
Shaky-legged, she went forward again. The crunch of the grass under her shoes seemed loud in the silence. Past the porch stairs, still looking over her shoulder, her breath hot and tight in her chest.
Another door slammed. Front door to the house?
He
didn’t
see me! He went inside!
She quickened her pace to the corner, turned it slow. On that side a ten-foot-wide section of grass and dirt and straggly plants separated the house from the lot-line fence. Dark along there, but she could see the street ahead, the shape of Horace’s Toyota parked under the curbside tree, part of a lighted house on the far side. She crept beneath two darkened
Crying.
Child crying in there.
Tamara squatted and leaned an ear against the cold glass. No mistake. And not just any kind of crying—lost, scared, maybe hurt. Little girl? Couldn’t be sure. She tried to peer through the window, couldn’t even see her own reflection, and realized that the blackness was more than just night-dark—it was paint, there was black paint all over the glass. Her fingers dug at the bottom of the sash; it wouldn’t budge. Nailed or painted shut, might also be barred in some way.
Now what? Make some noise, try to attract the child’s attention? What good would that do? Little kid left alone this way, must be locked up in a room.
Flash of herself breaking in, rescuing the kid. Oh no you don’t. Who you think you are, Superwoman? Movie stuff, Hollywood bullshit. No clue what’s going on, blunder in there and you’re liable to make a bad situation worse. And it was bad. She could feel the bad coming out from behind that black-painted window, negative energy as heavy as pulses of heat. Her skin tingled and crawled with it.
Smart thing was to stay cool. Get off this property, fast. Then . . . talk to the next-door neighbors, use some pretext to make sure that kid in there didn’t belong to a new girlfriend of Robert Lemoyne’s. And then quit the neighborhood, get hold of Bill and convince him, and after that go find the nearest cop house. She’d have to talk long and hard, and downplay the trespassing thing, but with the boss man for backup she’d convince the law too. Then . . .
Yeah, then. Better be right about this, Tamara.
I am. Listen to that kid crying, remember the way things went down last night. Bad, all right. Bad as it can get.
She stood and backed off from the window, retraced herroute across the dry grass toward the garage. Full of purpose now. Hurrying some as she headed into the areaway.
Car on the street.
She was opposite the side door to the garage when she heard it. Couldn’t see it or its lights yet, but it was in this block—engine sound getting louder. She pulled back against the wall of the house, where the shadows were deepest. Nothing to worry about. Early yet, cars passing by all the time. The street brightened ahead with the approaching lights. Just stand still, wait for them to pass by.
They didn’t pass by. Without any slowdown they arced around fast, high and bright, into the driveway.
She went stumbling headlong back to the rear corner of the house, away from the lights. A long narrow section of dead lawn leaped into brightness ahead of her as she ducked around the corner.
He saw me!
No, stay cool, he didn’t, stay cool. Hide! She looked around wildly. Nowhere to hide, fences at the back and far side too high to climb; oh, Lord, nowhere to go—
The funnel of light coming through the areaway vanished, plunging the yard into heavy shadow again.
Car door slammed.
Her breath caught in her throat. She froze, looking back over her shoulder, poised to run again. If he came back here, chased her and she couldn’t get away, she’d start screaming. She could scream like a banshee, Pop always said that, scream like a banshee and bring out the whole friggin’ neighborhood.
Shaky-legged, she went forward again. The crunch of the grass under her shoes seemed loud in the silence. Past the porch stairs, still looking over her shoulder, her breath hot and tight in her chest.
Another door slammed. Front door to the house?
He
didn’t
see me! He went inside!
She quickened her pace to the corner, turned it slow. On that side a ten-foot-wide section of grass and dirt and straggly plants separated the house from the lot-line fence. Dark along there, but she could see the street ahead, the shape of Horace’s Toyota parked under the curbside tree, part of a lighted house on the far side. She crept beneath two darkened
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