Nightcrawlers: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Mystery) (23 page)

Runyon swept the sill with his palm, cutting himself on a sliver, barely taking notice. Then he got both hands on the wood and levered himself up and squeezed his body through the opening, turning it until his buttocks were on the sill, keeping his head pulled down and his face averted from the hanging section of tape and broken glass. Once the upper part of his body was inside, he was able to maneuver one leg through, then the other. Sink below, toilet next to it. He lowered himself past the sink, onto the toilet seat and then down to the floor.

When he leaned back to the window, Bill was on his feet and extending the flashlight. Runyon took it, said, “Back door. I’ll let you in there.” Bill nodded and drifted away.

Runyon switched the flash on, keeping the beam shielded with his hand and letting just enough light leak through to guide the way. The bathroom opened into an empty bedroom, then into a hallway. He found the kitchen, went through it onto a utility porch. Three locks on the back door—dead bolt, push button, chain. When he had the door open, Bill came in walking a little bent and stiff: Runyon’s weight all those minutes must’ve put a strain on his back.

He said, “Anything?”

“Not so far.”

Runyon flicked the light around the porch. Empty. They went into the kitchen. The shielded beam revealed dirty dishes, food left out on a dinette table. And a door with a lock on it next to the refrigerator.

“Basement,” he said.

“Let’s see if that door’s locked.”

It wasn’t. Bill swept a hand along the wall inside, located a light switch. “Should be safe enough to put on the lights with the door shut. I’ll look down there. You check the street, then the other rooms up here.”

“Right.”

Bill stepped through onto the basement stairs, pulled the door shut behind him. Runyon followed the low-held beam into the front part of the house. Nothing in the living room. He made his way to one of the windows, eased an edge of the curtain aside to look out at Willard Street. Same stop-motion night scene: no cars, no people, all the lights stationary within the range of his vision.

He went back into the hallway, opened the first door he came to. Another bedroom. He stepped in there long enough to shine the flash under the bed, inside the closet. The second bedroom was the one he’d been in before—Lemoyne’s bedroom, from the look of it. Unmade bed with a scattering of dust bunnies underneath, clothing tossed around, walk-in closet that contained nothing that didn’t belong there.

One more room at the rear, smaller than the others. Kid’s room, little girl’s room: single bed with a frilly spread, frilly curtains, stuffed animals, dolls on shelves. Smelled musty in there, as if it hadn’t been aired out in a long time. Dust made a pale gleam on the dresser when the light touched it. Hadn’t been cleaned in a long time.

He was back in the kitchen when he heard Bill on the basement stairs. Not being quiet now, moving fast. He had the door opened before Bill reached the landing. In the weak light from a string of overhead bulbs, Bill’s face wore a shadowed, masklike grimace.

“Down here, Jake. Christ.”

Runyon followed him down the stairs, across the basement, into a room that might’ve been a granny unit except for the padlock-and-hasp on the door. Daybed with rumpled sheets and blanket, toys on the floor, the remains of a partly eaten meal on a small table. Tiny bathroom at the far end. Closet in the side wall, another padlock on its door.

Bill stopped in the middle of the room, snapped a hand at the closet. “Take a look in there.”

The closet appeared empty from a distance. Was empty—nothing on the floor, shelf, clothes pole. It wasn’t until Runyon stepped all the way inside that he saw what Bill wanted him to see. On the end wall, big block letters written with a red crayon.

LEMOYNE TAKING KIDNAPPED CHILD AND ME TO TRAILER IN THE WOODS. DON’T KNOW WHERE! HELP! TAMARA CORBIN

It was almost six o’clock before Lemoyne decided he’d had enough of sitting under that tree.

By then she had a plan. Wasn’t much of a plan, but anything was better than just pacing around that sticky trailer; she couldn’t even sit down for more than a minute or two before her nerves popped her up again. There were cheap chintz curtains on the two front windows, and she pulled those tight closed and tucked the ends in under the mesh screens. None of the bedroom or bathroom windows had curtains; she used towels and dish towels to cover those, fastening them around the screens. Hid the work she’d done on the screen in the small bedroom with an extra towel, to make sure Lemoyne wouldn’t be able to tell from outside that it’d been pried partway loose. Now if he wanted to come looking he wouldn’t be able to see in, tell where she was or what she was doing. Wouldn’t answer next time he called her. Wouldn’t go outside again no matter
what he said or did. He wanted at her and Lauren, he’d have to come in and get them. And the minute he set foot across the threshold he’d get a face full of frying pan.

That was the idea anyway. Problem was, he seemed to’ve lost interest in them completely. Just kept sitting out there under that tree. She peeked around the kitchen curtain every few minutes, didn’t once catch him looking this way. The only times she saw him move at all was when he lit another cigarette or took another swig out of a water bottle. As if he’d taken root there. Must have a bladder the size of Milpitas.

And when he finally did quit sitting and brooding or vegetating or whatever it was, he still paid no attention to the trailer. That last time, when she looked out, he was on his feet and stretching out some of the kinks, looking off toward the barn. Then he headed off that way, walking slow. Didn’t even glance in this direction. Just walked straight to the barn and disappeared inside.

Dude was totally unpredictable. For all she knew, he was in there getting a can of gas or kerosene—dump it on the trailer and set a match to it. Lord, would he actually do something like that? Roast them in here like a couple of chickens in an oven?

She went to check on Lauren again. The girl had slept all afternoon except when dehydration woke her up and she cried out for water. Asleep now, moaning and thrashing around under the blanket. Flush on her face was almost scarlet; her skin felt fire-hot, clammy. Bad fever—her temp must be a degree or two over a hundred. And there was nothing to do about it except keep her warm, keep feeding her liquids. Wasn’t any aspirin, no medication of any kind in the trailer. She needed a doctor, maybe an IV—

Outside, something made a sudden shrill whining, humming noise.

Tamara hurried to the kitchen window. Empty yard was all she saw; Lemoyne was still in the barn, the door closed. That was where the noise was coming from, inside the barn.

Power tool. Saw, sander, something like that.

She waited there for a time, breathless, flapping her ears. Wouldn’t have surprised her to see him walk out carrying a chain saw and wearing a hockey mask like Freddy Krueger. Nothing he did would’ve surprised her. But it didn’t happen. Nothing happened except that the noise went on, stopped for a few seconds, started up again. Grinding and buzzing now . . . sound a saw blade made cutting through wood.

Building something out there. What?

Coffins?

Wasting time, Tamara. As long as he keeps on doing it, you don’t have to worry about making noise in here.

First thing she did was pick Lauren up and carry her into the larger bedroom, where it’d be quieter and cooler with the window cracked open. Then she attacked the screen in the other one again. Imagined that loose bottom screw was Lemoyne’s head and she was gonna yank it right out of his neck. Whenever the yowling power tool quit, she did the same until it started up again.

Hard, tiring work. Her arms began to feel as heavy as the pan, little shoots of pain running up them into her armpits. Sweat poured off her; she could smell herself, sour and gamy, and the smell turned her stomach and made it ache. Once she had to stop and rest for a minute because she felt woozy. Too much strain, not enough food, the sticky heat in there.

Then, seemed like all at once, she heard the squeal of ripping
metal, felt the screw start to pull out of the wall. Fresh strength flowed into her; she gave half a dozen violent yanks and twists . . .

Got it!

The screw popped free, leaving a jagged hole in the wall, and the corner gap widened by several inches on both sides. She dropped the pan on the bed, hooked all her fingers in the mesh, and managed to bend the frame part of the way up toward the top corner. Rip that top screw loose and she’d be able to warp the screen away from the window. Stand on one of the chairs, wedge her body up there . . . she’d get through that opening if she had to break the glass to do it.

The power tool stopped whining, and this time it didn’t start up again. She stood panting, dripping sweat, straining to hear. Other, fainter sounds came to her—rhythmic thuds, hammer blows. Building something out there, all right. And it didn’t matter what, as long as he kept on doing it long enough for her to get that second screw out.

Only he didn’t.

Sudden silence.

Tamara played statue. The stillness stayed heavy and unbroken except for bird sounds in the trees. She’d been making a lot of noise . . . had he heard her? On his way over here to check?

Her strength ebbed again; she was aware of throbbing pain in her arms and upper back when she lowered the frying pan. On her way to the kitchen, the wooziness came back. She had to lean against the wall to steady herself before she was able to draw an edge of the curtain aside.

He wasn’t out there. The barn door was shut. Still inside?

She waited, watching and listening.

Emptiness. Quiet as dust.

She stayed there a long time—what seemed like a long time anyway. Nothing changed outside. She told herself to go back to work on that screen. But she didn’t know where he was and sounds carried in this kind of heavy late-afternoon hush and she was afraid to risk it.

Come on, asshole, make some more noise out there!

The hush went on unbroken.

She stood at the window for a time, frustration like acid in her mouth and throat. Went to check on the kid again, then made herself sit down and rest, then looked out the window some more. Daylight began to fade out of the sky, shadows built and lengthened among the trees and across the weedy front yard. The barn door stayed shut.

What the hell was he doing in there now?

N
ightfall.

Thick-dark and moonless, the kind of country night where you couldn’t distinguish one shape from another more than a few feet away. There were stars, millions of them, no light pollution up here, but they seemed dull and remote, didn’t give off much light. Crickets set up a racket in the tall grass, thrumming like a pulse. Up in the tree above the trailer, something that sounded like an owl let loose with a deep-throated cry—a mournful sound that raised up gooseflesh on her arms.

But at least Lemoyne didn’t come crawling out with the rest of the night creatures. Whatever he was up to in the barn, he wasn’t doing it in the dark. Tamara could see streaks and spots of light around the edges of the door, through chinks in the front wall.

She kept the lights on in the trailer. Good thing he’d turned
the electricity on earlier; be twice as bad waiting here in the dark. She heated the rest of the soup, made herself eat some, woke Lauren up, and fed her a few spoonfuls. Girl could barely swallow. Didn’t cry or complain, just lay there with her big eyes staring dully—half comatose from the fever. The day’s trapped heat was easing now; a faint breeze blowing in through the open bedroom window had some chill in it. Tamara slid the one half all the way shut. Risk of the kid getting pneumonia was high enough as it was.

An idea came to her. She’d used up all the towels, but the bed in the small bedroom had two cased pillows; she took off the cases, slipped the frying pan inside one and doubled it into the other. Then she shut off the bedside lamp, and in the faint light from the living room, went to work on the screen again. The pillowcases muffled the noise a little, but not much—not enough when she started animaling the pan under the frame. The sounds then seemed as loud as hammer blows in her ears.

She went quickly to check outside. Empty darkness except for the scraps of light from inside the barn.

Back to the screen. Slow, now, slow. Steady rocking pressure, hold the noise down to a minimum. That’s it. That’s it.

Time telescoped, expanded, telescoped again. Pain, stiffness, fatigue forced her to stop and rest at four- and five-minute intervals. And every time she heard a noise outside, any noise, her heart skipped a beat and she stopped again, to listen for Lemoyne.

But he didn’t come.

As if he’d completely lost interest in them, forgotten they were in here. Not that she believed that for a second. No hope in that notion. He’d come for them sooner or later. And when he did they better not be here.

Slow-rocking that pan back and forth, back and forth.

And still no Lemoyne.

And still that screw wouldn’t come out, that fucking stubborn little hunk of metal standing between them and freedom would not come out . . .

W
e searched the house top to bottom, a fast, professional toss. And we did it with the lights on. The only person they were liable to attract at this late hour was Robert Lemoyne, and I wanted him to walk in on us. Real bad, I wanted it.

KIDNAPPED CHILD

Had to be a young child, a little girl judging from the scatter of toys in that basement room. How young? Five, six, seven? Not as old as Emily, but it could’ve been Emily—any kid was vulnerable these days. Thinking that made me all the more furious.

All right. Three possibilities in this case. Lemoyne had a daughter and the second of his ex-wives had custody; it could be one of those things. But the basement room, the padlocks on the door and the closet door, argued against a family snatch. If the victim was the child of somebody he knew, it was likely a onetime thing. If the victim was unknown to him, it was likely a worst-case scenario. Serial pedophile. Maybe a serial killer. One of those subhuman monsters who preyed on
children for their own sick gratification and then broke them and threw them away.