Gary Brandner Read online

  "You call," Kettering said. "I'll cover."

  Diaz met his partner's gaze. He opened his mouth to say something more, then changed his mind. He turned and hurried back down the steps.

  From where he stood, Kettering could see the Plymouth parked on the street below. He saw Diaz jog across to the car, reach in for the radio hand mike. He looked up toward Kettering as he spoke into the mike.

  There were sounds of movement inside the apartment. Kettering flattened himself close to the door to listen. The woman whimpered once. Kettering ground his teeth and held his position.

  Down in the street Diaz stood beside the car. In a couple of minutes the black van of the Special Weapons Assault Team skidded to a stop. Almost immediately behind it came a gaudy blue-and-white mobile unit with CHANNEL 6 HOTLINE NEWS lettered on the side.

  "What the fuck?" Kettering muttered. Even if they were monitoring the police frequency, the television people could not have got here this fast. Somebody here in the apartment building must have called them.

  Fucking reporters. In Kettering's personal list of worthless creatures, reporters rated somewhere below liberal judges. The Times was bad enough in its anti-police bias, but Channel 6 was not far behind.

  The SWAT team piled out of the truck in their battle gear and deployed toward the apartment building. A woman with cropped red hair got out of the mobile unit and started arguing with the SWAT leader. A cameraman and technician behind her began taping the scene.

  "Goddamn carnival," Kettering said to no one.

  The curtains across the apartment window moved. The asshole inside would now have seen the SWAT truck. Shit.

  The woman screamed. Not fear this time. Pain. Real Pain.

  "Fuck it," Kettering said. He stepped back and put his foot to the broken door again, easily knocking out the screws that held the chain lock in place.

  The side of the woman's face was sliced open, showing teeth and jawbone. She was pale and shivering, in shock. The man with the knife held her in front of himself, the point of the blade at her left eyeball.

  "Stay away from me, motherfucker!" His voice was shrill and out of control.

  Kettering covered the distance from the doorway in two long strides. He jabbed the muzzle of the .38 toward the man's face to hold his attention and simultaneously clamped his fingers onto the wrist of his knife hand. As the man clawed at the gun, Kettering pivoted. There was a loud snap as the man's elbow joint popped.

  He screamed. The knife thumped to the carpet.

  Kettering had the blond young man facedown with his hands cuffed behind his back when Diaz and members of the SWAT team burst into the room. For a moment everyone stood in silent tableau. Then the wounded woman began to wail and everybody moved at once.

  Kettering stood up and eased out of the apartment while the SWAT team and paramedics entered.

  The red-haired female reporter came up the stairs and stood beside him on the walkway.

  "Anybody dead inside?" she asked.

  Kettering looked her up and down. She had a good face, supple body. Tiny crinkles around the eyes would probably keep her from making it as an anchorwoman.

  "Not that I noticed," he said. "Disappointed?"

  "Why would I be?"

  "A body bag being carried out makes a good picture for the eleven o'clock news."

  "That's not fair, Sergeant."

  "Life isn't fair."

  "I just wanted to tell you that was a nice piece of work you did in there."

  "How would you know?"

  "Your partner told me."

  "He talks too much."

  Kettering took a better look at her. She was tall, would go about five-eight barefoot, he figured, looked like a swimmer. Good cheekbones. Wild green eyes that could grab you. Her hands, he saw, were empty.

  "No microphones?"

  "Come on, Sergeant, we have some ethics, you know."

  "No, I didn't know."

  "This wasn't the Screwdriver in there, was it?"

  "Damned if I know."

  "You don't like me, do you?"

  "I don't like what you do for a living."

  "Some people would say that about your job too."

  "Yeah, like Channel Six news for instance."

  "Not all of us follow the party line."

  "I'll tune in for details at eleven."

  "Try eight o'clock. We're the 'prime-time news channel,' remember?"

  "Oh, sure."

  "Seriously, give us a chance. You might be surprised."

  "I'll need some convincing about that."

  She took a card from the pocket of her jacket and handed it to him. "If you've got time one day, I'd like to give it a try."

  He took the card and read:

  CHARITY MOLINE

  CHANNEL 6

  HOTLINE NEWS

  When he looked up, she was heading back down the steps.

  "Hey."

  She turned to look back at him.

  "It isn't the Screwdriver."

  She grinned at him. A real grin, not a coy little smile. "Thanks."

  He watched her go on down and take charge of the camera crew. She moved over in front of the building with a microphone and the cameraman began shooting. When the camera tilted up in his direction, Kettering stepped out of range.

  ***

  Lt. Nathan Ivory was fifty-one years old. His hair was white and his face was deeply lined. He had been a policeman for twenty-seven years. He was looking forward with great anticipation to his retirement with all the perks of a thirty-year man. His kids were out of the house now and on their own, he enjoyed good health, he and his wife were still in love. He had the Winnebago picked out in which they would tour the uncrowded parts of the country where crime was something you watched on television. Lieutenant Ivory figured he just about had it made.

  What Lieutenant Ivory did not need in the final years of his tenure was problems. Detective Sgt. Brian Kettering was becoming a problem. The lieutenant did not ask him to sit down as he faced Kettering across his battered desk.

  "Brian," he said tiredly, "you do know, I presume, the procedures we follow in a hostage situation."

  Kettering spread his hands. "Sure, Nate, but - "

  "And what you and Diaz had this morning was a hostage situation, am I right?"

  "In the strict sense, I suppose - "

  "A situation that clearly called for strict adherence to the procedures?"

  "Basically yes, but - "

  "Basically, my ass. You flat ignored the hostage procedure, is what you did."

  "We brought the asshole in."

  "Sure you did. Somewhat damaged."

  "Is he claiming police brutality?"

  "Not yet, but he hasn't talked to a lawyer. As I was saying, in apprehending the suspect you endangered the life of the hostage, the life of your fellow police officers, your partner, and your own miserable life."

  "The guy was stoned. He was already starting to cut the woman."

  "All the more reason for you to stay the hell out of there. SWAT personnel were already on the scene, I understand."

  "By the time they got organized and up there, the woman could have been sliced into cold cuts."

  Lieutenant Ivory sighed deeply. "Brian, you're a good cop. Your record is one of the best. I could always count on you not to lose control in a tight spot. What I am saying is, you are not the kind of cop I expect to go cowboying in and take a chance on really messing up."

  "Yeah, well ..."

  "I remind you that this is not a television show where the hero cop operates like a lone gun and the lieutenant sits in his office grinding his teeth. This is real life, where the lieutenant tells the hero cop what to do and the cop does it. Got that?"

  "Got it."

  "Good." Ivory stood up and came around the desk. "How are things at home, Brian?"

  "Home?"

  "You know. The place you stop off between shifts. There's a woman there, I believe. And a teenage boy."

  "T
hings are fine."

  Lieutenant Ivory gave him a long, level stare. "Okay, Brian, that's all. Just bag the Dirty Harry stuff, okay?"

  Kettering nodded and walked out of the room without saying good-bye.

  With the lieutenant's door closed behind him, he took out a wrinkled pack of Marlboros, stuck one in his mouth and lit it. He inhaled deeply and coughed.

  "I thought you quit using those things."

  Kettering looked up to see Dr. Edmund Protius, the psychiatrist assigned to the West Valley Police, leaning in the doorway of his own office. Protius was thin, balding, with a sharp, shiny nose. He wore a sweater under a tweed jacket winter and summer.

  "So I started again. You're not going to lecture me too, are you, Doc?"

  Protius hated being called Doc, which was why all the men did it. He dug a pack of Salems out of a jacket pocket and held it up. "I don't think I'm the right man to deliver that lecture."

  "Nobody's perfect," Kettering said.

  Protius's eyes narrowed. "I hear you had a little action this morning."

  "A little."

  "Everything okay?"

  "Sure. All in the line of duty."

  "At home too?"

  "People keep asking me that."

  "So?"

  "Everything's fine. Beautiful."

  "Seriously, Brian, any time you want to talk, I'm here."

  "What would I want to talk about?"

  "How would I know? I'm just saying if you do - "

  "I know where to find you."

  "Good. Say hello to Mavis for me."

  "See you, Doc."

  The psychiatrist watched as Kettering clumped on through the bull pen and out toward the street. He shook out a Salem, lit it, and walked off in the other direction.

  Chapter 3

  As he drove home after the chewing out by Lieutenant Ivory and the invitation from Doc Protius, Kettering made up his mind he would do something about straightening out his homelife. He would sit down with Mavis tonight and talk as long as she wanted to. And he would listen. He promised himself he would listen. By the time he parked the Camaro and crossed the lawn, he was feeling pretty righteous.

  Mavis was coming out of the bedroom as Kettering entered the house. She wore a pair of tight floral print pants and a black turtle-neck. A loose white sweater jacket was thrown over her shoulders. She looked about twenty-five years old. And she looked happy.

  Her body was still good, Kettering saw. But why wouldn't it be? She was only thirty-eight and took good care of herself. There was just the one pregnancy - Trevor. That had been a rough time for Mavis, and they had agreed then to hold the family at three.

  Mavis was wearing her hair soft and loose tonight, the way Kettering used to like it. She had not worn it that way for a long time. Her eyes were bright, alive. He could remember when her eyes shone like that whenever she looked at him. Now he only saw it when she was going out. Alone. Kettering really wanted to say something nice to her, but he couldn't get it past his throat.

  What came out was, "Going somewhere?"

  "This is my class night. There's a casserole for you in the fridge. The bowl with the plastic wrap covering it. All you have to do is pop it in the microwave."

  "What class is that?" he asked.

  Mavis exhaled sharply. "My arts class with Gabrielle Wister. Same night every week. I've been going for almost two months."

  "I don't remember you telling me."

  "Maybe if you listened once in a while ..."

  "What do you need with an art class?"

  "Arts. Plural. I used to make jewelry when we were first married. Remember that? I was pretty good at it. A lot of my friends asked why I didn't sell the stuff. I thought maybe I'd brush up my talent and give it a try now."

  "I still don't see what you need the class for."

  She faced him, her jaw set. "Because I have to do something, Brian. There isn't enough here in the house to keep me busy for half the day. You don't need me. Trevor's gone most of the time. I need something that's mine. Just mine."

  Right then what he should have said was: I do need you, Mavis. I need you so bad I ache for you. I need you to listen to the ugly stories of all the ugly things I see every day, the rotten things I have to do. I need you to tell me it's okay. I'm okay. I need you to be the girl I married again.

  That's what he should have said. But he could no more get those words out than he could right now take into his arms the woman his wife had become.

  "So where is Trevor, anyway? I hardly see him since school let out."

  "He's got a job for the summer, working nights."

  "A job? Our Trevor?"

  "That's what I said. A job."

  "I didn't know that. How come nobody mentions these things to me?"

  "Brian, you may not know it, but you're not that accessible to us."

  "What's that supposed to mean?" He saw her expression. "Never mind, what's this job he's got?"

  Mavis shrugged. "It's nights at some club on Creighton Street. A place where the kids go."

  "What kind of club?"

  "I don't know. Rock music, dancing. Strictly for the younger crowd. It's called The Hole or The Pit ... something like that."

  "What's Trevor doing there?"

  "You'll have to ask him. I would think you'd be pleased that he's earning some money."

  He massaged his brow and headed for the kitchen. "The money's not important. The kid's been acting weird lately. I don't like it."

  "You're still mad about his haircut."

  "That's just one thing."

  Kettering walked out to the kitchen and poured himself a bourbon on the rocks. He raised his voice so Mavis could hear him in the other room.

  "His grades have been really crappy this last year. He's going to have to go to junior college to bring them up enough to get into UCLA, or even Valley State."

  He walked back out to the living room. Mavis was edging toward the door, looking eager to be away.

  She said, "His grades weren't that bad."

  "He can do better. And he hasn't been hanging out with his old friends lately. Who's he spending his time with?"

  "I know he's down at the club a lot," Mavis said.

  "I hardly ever see him. And when he is home, he sits in his room and plays that garbage music on his stereo. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was doing dope."

  "Dope? Trevor? You think he'd touch the stuff with a cop for a father?"

  "Let me tell you, strange things can happen to policemen's kids." In a softer voice he added, "Preacher's kids too."

  "Trevor's all right. It's just the usual teenage rebellion thing."

  "Yeah, well, something's happening to him. Something I don't like."

  "So talk to him," she said. "You're the father."

  "Yeah." He looked down into the glass, clinked the ice cubes against the sides.

  Mavis was at the door now with her hand on the knob. "I'm going to be late," she said. "We can talk about it tomorrow."

  "Matter of fact, you've been acting kind of funny too."

  "Brian, I've got to go."

  "Go then." It came out harsher than he had intended.

  She opened the door.

  He said, "Maybe I'll have a look in his room."

  "You mean search his things?"

  "Since he won't volunteer any information, it's one way to find out what's going on with him."

  "You wouldn't do that to a criminal without a search warrant."

  "That's different. Criminals are protected by the courts. Civil rights stop at my front door."

  "You talk like a real Nazi sometimes, you know that?"

  "I'm a cop."

  Mavis started an angry reply, cut it off. "Speaking of our front door, you'd better have a look at it. We seem to have a graffiti artist in the neighborhood."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "You didn't see it when you came in?"

  "It was dark and I wasn't paying attention."

 
"Take a look." She opened the door and pulled it wide so he could see the outer face in the light.

  From the top of the door all the way to the bottom, in a crude but powerful smear of dark red, was the hunch-shouldered figure from his dreams. And from his childhood. The talons at the end of the long arms seemed to twitch as Kettering stared.

  Doomstalker.

  No spray can had done this, and no brush. It was like a great red splatter that had somehow fallen in this sinister shape. But Kettering knew it was no accident. Anyway, how it got there was not as important as why.

  Iced bourbon spilled out over his hand. Kettering looked down, surprised to see that the hand was shaking. He swallowed the rest of the drink quickly and set the glass on a table inside the door.

  "When did this happen?" he demanded.

  "I don't know. Sometime today."

  "You didn't see anybody outside? Hear anything?"

  "Nothing unusual."

  "Damn it, you must have noticed something. You were here all day."

  Mavis flared at him. "Of course I was here all day. I'm here all day every day. And every night. I don't have a job to escape to."

  "Don't get excited. I just asked if you saw who did this to our door."

  "I don't make a note of every odd noise and every stranger who walks down the sidewalk. If that's what you want, why don't you hire a detective?"

  She left him standing beside the open door and marched stiffly across the lawn to her little car. She got in, slammed the door with unnecessary force, raced the motor, and sped off into the night.

  Kettering watched until the taillights of the Honda disappeared around the corner. He looked again at the ominous crimson shape and swore through clenched teeth. Leaving the door open, he headed for the kitchen.

  An hour later, after he had scrubbed the wooden panel with detergent, solvent, and bleach, the shadow of the Doomstalker remained. He would have to sand down the door and repaint it. Or buy a new door. The headache was pounding at his temples. He knew. Somehow, he just knew that even if he erased the hellish image from the door, the Doomstalker would never go away.

  It was coming for him.

  With an effort Kettering fought down the terrors of childhood and the ugly half-remembered scenes that were stirred up by the angry red image. He tried to kid himself into believing it was merely juvenile graffiti. He directed his anger at the disintegration of his neighborhood and all the other neighborhoods that had once been nice places to live. He raged inwardly at the bleeding-heart judges who kept letting juvenile criminals out "to the custody of their parents." What a laugh. If the little scum-suckers actually had parents, they didn't give a shit what their kids did. A no-win situation if ever there was one.