Nightcrawlers: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Mystery) by Bill Pronzini Page A
Authors: Bill Pronzini
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windows, straining to listen. Nothing to hear except the thud of her heart. Light in that window up toward the front? Looked like it . . . yeah, pale and diffused, probably from a lamp in the room next to it. He’d gone inside, all right. All she had to do was keep easing along, be careful not to make any noise. Another minute or two and she’d be out on the sidewalk.
She edged forward to the window with the light showing, ducked under it to the front corner. Tall, thick jasmine shrub growing there, sweet-smelling in the darkness. Nobody on the street, nobody in sight. Okay, go—
He was waiting, hidden, along the wall behind the jasmine. He came out at her cat-fast, jammed one hand over her mouth, wrapped the other around her, and dragged her in against the solid bulk of his body.
No!
She couldn’t tear loose, couldn’t yell, could barely breathe. Something hard jammed against her rib cage—gun, he had a gun! Words and hot breath filled her ear.
“Don’t fight me, don’t make any noise. You do and I’ll hurt you like you never been hurt before.”
10
W hen I left the office, I drove out to Monterey Heights to pick up Emily. Some days after school she went straight home on the bus; most days, like this one, she spent two or three hours at the home of her best friend, Carla Simpson, and either Kerry or I fetched her after work. My turn today, and I was glad of it. Glad, too, that it was one of Kerry’s late days at Bates and Carpenter. Otherwise, she’d have wanted to go with me to see her mother, and been even more annoyed at me when I refused. As it was I’d probably take additional flak for not calling and letting her know Russ Dancer was gone. Lose-lose situation no matter what I did. So I’d just go ahead and handle it the way I’d been asked to.
Still, I didn’t particularly relish driving over to Marin County and facing Cybil alone. I liked Cybil, she was one of my favorite people, but delivering bad news along with Dancer’s legacy was bound to be a little strained. What I needed was a buffer.
In the car I said to the buffer, “Emily, how’d you like to go visit Grandma Cybil before we go home?”
“Sure! But how come?”
“Well, I have to talk to her.”
“What about?”
“Something private. It won’t take long.”
Emily didn’t try to probe. She was as inquisitive as any eleven-year-old, but also accepting of the fact that there were adults-only issues not meant for her ears and that private meant private. One of her many sterling qualities.
So we crawled out Nineteenth Avenue to the Golden Gate Bridge, Emily chattering the whole way about her schoolwork. She was writing an essay on Firebell Lillie Coit, the woman whose fascination with firefighting had led to the construction of one of the city’s landmarks, Coit Tower, and she regaled me with all sorts of obscure facts she’d dug up in her Internet and book research. Amazing how she’d blossomed psychologically and socially in the past year and a half. When I’d first met her, during the course of a case involving her now-deceased birth mother, she’d been shy, vulnerable, lonely, and deeply withdrawn. Some of the shyness remained, but she was no longer the scared little introvert. She’d learned to trust people, trust herself and her feelings. Kerry’s and my doing, in part—plenty of the love and encouragement her selfish parents hadn’t provided—and a source of pride to both of us.
She’d begun to blossom physically as well. Almost twelve now, and the too-slender little girl had grown three inches and filled out into an attractive young lady approaching puberty. Already in it, for all I knew. If she wasn’t wearing a bra yet—I hadn’t asked Kerry because I didn’t want to know—it was all too obvious she’d have to start pretty soon. Her mother had been a beauty—flawless compexion, perfect features, great luminous eyes, dark silken hair, and a long-legged, high-breastedfigure—and Emily looked just
She edged forward to the window with the light showing, ducked under it to the front corner. Tall, thick jasmine shrub growing there, sweet-smelling in the darkness. Nobody on the street, nobody in sight. Okay, go—
He was waiting, hidden, along the wall behind the jasmine. He came out at her cat-fast, jammed one hand over her mouth, wrapped the other around her, and dragged her in against the solid bulk of his body.
No!
She couldn’t tear loose, couldn’t yell, could barely breathe. Something hard jammed against her rib cage—gun, he had a gun! Words and hot breath filled her ear.
“Don’t fight me, don’t make any noise. You do and I’ll hurt you like you never been hurt before.”
10
W hen I left the office, I drove out to Monterey Heights to pick up Emily. Some days after school she went straight home on the bus; most days, like this one, she spent two or three hours at the home of her best friend, Carla Simpson, and either Kerry or I fetched her after work. My turn today, and I was glad of it. Glad, too, that it was one of Kerry’s late days at Bates and Carpenter. Otherwise, she’d have wanted to go with me to see her mother, and been even more annoyed at me when I refused. As it was I’d probably take additional flak for not calling and letting her know Russ Dancer was gone. Lose-lose situation no matter what I did. So I’d just go ahead and handle it the way I’d been asked to.
Still, I didn’t particularly relish driving over to Marin County and facing Cybil alone. I liked Cybil, she was one of my favorite people, but delivering bad news along with Dancer’s legacy was bound to be a little strained. What I needed was a buffer.
In the car I said to the buffer, “Emily, how’d you like to go visit Grandma Cybil before we go home?”
“Sure! But how come?”
“Well, I have to talk to her.”
“What about?”
“Something private. It won’t take long.”
Emily didn’t try to probe. She was as inquisitive as any eleven-year-old, but also accepting of the fact that there were adults-only issues not meant for her ears and that private meant private. One of her many sterling qualities.
So we crawled out Nineteenth Avenue to the Golden Gate Bridge, Emily chattering the whole way about her schoolwork. She was writing an essay on Firebell Lillie Coit, the woman whose fascination with firefighting had led to the construction of one of the city’s landmarks, Coit Tower, and she regaled me with all sorts of obscure facts she’d dug up in her Internet and book research. Amazing how she’d blossomed psychologically and socially in the past year and a half. When I’d first met her, during the course of a case involving her now-deceased birth mother, she’d been shy, vulnerable, lonely, and deeply withdrawn. Some of the shyness remained, but she was no longer the scared little introvert. She’d learned to trust people, trust herself and her feelings. Kerry’s and my doing, in part—plenty of the love and encouragement her selfish parents hadn’t provided—and a source of pride to both of us.
She’d begun to blossom physically as well. Almost twelve now, and the too-slender little girl had grown three inches and filled out into an attractive young lady approaching puberty. Already in it, for all I knew. If she wasn’t wearing a bra yet—I hadn’t asked Kerry because I didn’t want to know—it was all too obvious she’d have to start pretty soon. Her mother had been a beauty—flawless compexion, perfect features, great luminous eyes, dark silken hair, and a long-legged, high-breastedfigure—and Emily looked just
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