Betrayers(73)

She crept forward, turning her body, praying there’d be nothing in the way when she swung the pole.

He came up the last step; shifted the yellow ray toward her as he turned onto the platform, the light glinting off the blade of the knife in his other hand.

Two quick steps and she whipped the pole at the shape of him with all her strength.

He heard her and the swish of the pole—too late. Nothing got in the way of the swing; the end of the pole hit him high up on the body and sent him reeling sideways, howling. He slammed into one of the studs with enough force to shake the platform and make him lose the knife—she heard it drop and bounce metallically as he caromed off, teetered on the platform’s edge.

Tamara swung again and this time her aim was better: smacked him hard upside the head, a solid impact that tore the pole out of her grasp and the flashlight out of his. All the smacking, clattering sounds combined to create hollow rolling echoes; the torch swirled light like a pinwheel. She saw him twist, flail, topple backward, and fall onto the exposed joists. A scream tore out of him as soon as he landed—must’ve broken something, because he couldn’t stop himself from rolling down between two of the joists, into and through the puffs of fiberglass insulation.

Another strangled shriek, then a loud thud that choked it off. After that, only a thick, charged silence.

Tamara let out her cramped breath in a little sob of relief. The flashlight had stayed on the platform; it was rolling from side to side, casting long yellow arcs. She picked it up. The adrenaline rush was fading now; her hand shook so badly she had to take a double grip to hold the light steady. At the platform’s edge, she aimed the beam at the spot where he’d fallen. She could just see him down there, all twisted up, not moving.

Lord of mercy, she thought.

Her wobbly legs carried her to the ladder, down it through the closet and bedroom into the hallway. Filmy white dust in the air there, filtering out of the dining room. Plaster dust.

She looked in through the doorway. More dust and pieces of plaster littering the floor, the ceiling cracked and bulging where the weight of Delman’s body had crashed into it. Damn wonder he hadn’t busted all the way through, be lying here on the floor with that plaster dust all over him. Black punk in white-face.

Landlord’s gonna be pissed, she thought. Probably make me pay to have the ceiling fixed.

Laughter, the wild kind, bubbled up in her; she clamped her jaws tight to keep it in. If she let it out, she knew she might not be able to stop.





27


JAKE RUNYON


It was late, almost ten, by the time he got to Bryn’s house. He’d called her from Ullman’s, while they were waiting for the Daly City police, and she still wanted to see him tonight, no matter how late it was. Did he mind? No, he didn’t mind. Not tonight, not anytime. She didn’t even need a reason; all she had to do was ask.

“You look tired,” she said when she let him in.

So did she. Tired and stressed out. Drinking again, too. She wasn’t drunk or even high, but he could smell the wine on her breath and her eyes wore a slight glaze.

He said, “I can use a cup of tea.”

“I’ll put the kettle on. Bad night?”

“Bad enough.” That was all he’d say about it. And she wouldn’t ask any more. She understood that he didn’t like to talk about his work, preferred to compartmentalize his personal and professional lives. Even if that weren’t the case, he wouldn’t have told her what he’d seen in Zachary Ullman’s bedroom, what had happened out there tonight. Child porn was a highly emotional issue with just about everybody, all the more so for a psychologically fragile mother with a nine-year-old son who’d been taken away from her.

Neither of them said much until the tea was ready and she’d poured another glass of wine for herself and they were on the couch in the living room. She brooded into her glass for a little time before she said, “What happened today . . . I don’t like burdening you with it, but I need to talk to someone, someone who’ll understand.”

“What happened?”

“Bobby came to school with a fractured arm. The principal called me when he couldn’t get hold of Robert.”

“The boy okay?”

“His arm, yes. It’s not a bad fracture—hairline crack of the ulna.”

“How’d it happen?”

“He said he fell on his way to school.”

“Said he fell? You don’t believe him?”

“I don’t know what to believe,” Bryn said. “He wouldn’t talk about it, wouldn’t look me in the eye. And he didn’t tell anyone at school, classmates or teachers. One of the teachers found out when another boy pushed him in the hall and he yelled and clutched his arm.”