Betrayers(67)

Full dark now. Getting on toward six o’clock. No telling when Ullman would finally show up; if he’d gone out to dinner or a show or a meeting of some kind, they could be here for hours. Pretty soon he’d have to call Bryn, tell her he’d be late, might not be able to make it at all tonight. Better do it now, get it over with—

No.

Headlights crawling toward them through the mist, slowing, turning into Ullman’s driveway.

Bill laid fingers like steel bands on Runyon’s arm. “That’s him.”

“Can’t make out if he’s alone.”

“Not yet.”

The garage door rolled up down there. Enough light from inside spilled out for a clearer view of the car—a light-colored compact—and the shadowed interior.

“He’s alone,” Bill said.

The car disappeared inside the garage; the door rolled down again.

Runyon asked, “How much time do we give him?”

“Enough to get inside the house. We move as soon as a light goes on.”

It didn’t take much more than a minute. The instant the front window became a pale yellow rectangle, they were out of the car.

Fast walk across the street, up the front path—careful not to make any noise as they climbed to the door. Bill leaned on the bell, kept his finger on it. Footsteps. And a voice said, “Who is it? Who’s out there?”

Bill glanced at Runyon, shook his head. He jabbed the bell again.

“I said who’s out there?”

And again.

Rattle of a dead-bolt lock. Runyon stepped aside, into the heavy shadows, so he couldn’t be seen when the door opened partway on a chain.

“You again. What’s the idea of ringing my bell like that—”

Bill said, “Let me in, Ullman. I want to talk to you.”

“No. I have nothing to say to you. Go away.”

“I’m coming in, one way or another.”

“No, you’re not—”

Ullman tried to close the door. Bill jammed his body against it, and Runyon crowded in next to him to help hold it open. A bleated “No!” from inside. B & E if they busted the chain . . . and the hell with it. Their combined weight shoved it taut, snapped the plate loose on the second push; the door flew inward, the knob banging loudly off the inner wall.

Bill shoved in after it. Over his shoulder Runyon saw Ullman’s slight figure backing away with his hands up in front of him, his narrow face pinched white with fear.

“Two of you! My God, what’s the idea, what do you want? I’ll call the police—”

Bill said, “You won’t call anybody.”

“Are you here to beat me up? Is that what—”

“Shut up. Just stand still and be quiet, don’t give me an excuse.”

They crowded Ullman down a long hallway that opened into a smallish living room at the rear. Nothing special about it—nondescript furniture except for a long oak sideboard, a flat-screen TV, three cases stuffed with books. Bill went to the sideboard, opened doors to look inside. Runyon moved to the bookcases, scanned the spines of a mix of hardcovers and trade paperbacks. Science and history subjects, mostly, and a smattering of classical fiction.

“Nothing,” he said.

“Nothing here, either.”

“Oh my God,” Ullman said, “what’re you looking for?” He was so scared now he was shaking visibly.

“You know the answer to that.”

“No. No . . .”

Dining room next, with Ullman stumbling along behind them. Nothing. Kitchen. Nothing. Down a short cross-hallway to the first of three closed doors, probably a bedroom.

“No!” Ullman screamed the word this time. “Don’t go in there; you can’t go in there!”

Bill pulled the door open and Runyon followed him in.

Bedroom, all right. But like no bedroom Runyon had ever seen or wanted to see again. Bill had been right, dead right. It was all there—all the proof he or the law would ever need. On the dresser and the bedside table, in another bookcase, no doubt on the computer that sat on a trestle desk. And on the walls. Jesus, especially on the walls.

Child porn.

The worst, the sickest imaginable.

This wasn’t just a bedroom; it was a goddamned filthy shrine.





25


The photographs were the worst.

There were seven or eight of them, all in color and hideously graphic, a couple blown up to the size of small posters. Grown men with both girls and boys, the youngest six or seven, the oldest Emily’s age. Entangled bodies and leering male faces. Images to make you puke. And there’d be more, a lot more, on Ullman’s computer and the VHS tapes and stacks of scrapbooks in the bookcase. He wasn’t just a sick son of a bitch who got off on kiddie porn; he was archiving the stuff with the aid of Joe Hoffman and others like him.