Read Online Nightcrawlers: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Mystery) by Bill Pronzini - Free Book Online
Authors: Bill Pronzini
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you slept with or lived with or married? If people would just—
Car coming.
There’d been cars before, a bunch of them. This one probably wouldn’t belong to George DeBrissac either, but the lights were coming toward her, high and slow, and she scooted down until her butt was half off the seat. The glare filled the car, only this time they didn’t slide on past. Car slowed and then stopped on the street close in front of the Ford.
Oh, man, she thought, cops. Somebody saw me sitting out here, called 911, and now I’m gonna get hassled.
But it wasn’t cops, cop cars didn’t have high-riding headlights. In the next second she heard gears grinding and then the lights began to retreat and swing out away from her. Backingup. Backing into one of the driveways on this side, close to where she was parked.
Tamara blew out her breath, eased up on the seat until she could squint over the dashboard. Van. No, SUV, one of those big mothers with tinted windows so you couldn’t see inside, gliding up the drive of the brick-faced house directly in front of her. She sighed again. Somebody coming home, people on this block had been coming home the whole time she’d been here.
She’d probably have quit paying attention, except the SUV was right in her line of sight. So she watched it stop within a few feet of a closed garage set just back from the house. Lights went off. Driver didn’t get out right away, must’ve been a minute or so before the door opened. It was dark over there, but the distance wasn’t much more than twenty-five yards. Big dude. Black man? She had the impression he might be, but she couldn’t be sure. Wore dark clothes, some kind of cap pulled down low on his forehead.
A cramp was forming in her left buttock. Terrific. She wiggled, trying to ease it. No good. She needed to sit up, but she didn’t want to do that while the dude was hanging over there, maybe call his attention to her. She wiggled some more, willing him to hurry up, go inside, let her sit up—let her get out of here. Now she
really
had to pee.
He hurried, but not straight into the house. Went around to the back of the SUV instead and hauled up the hatch. Light didn’t go on inside. But in he went, on hands and knees, out of sight for a few seconds. Then he backed out again to where she could see him, and when he straightened up he had something cradled against his chest with one arm. Something a couple of feet long wrapped in what looked like a blanket.
Something that moved, kicked . . . struggled.
Tamara blinked, squinting. Eyes playing tricks. No, there it was again, the kicking, the struggling, while the man hauled the hatch down and slammed it shut. He hugged whatever was in the blanket closer to his chest, using both hands and arms now. Stood for a few seconds, looking around, looking straight at the Ford for a heartbeat—gave her a chill even though she knew he couldn’t see her in the dark—then he half ran across a patchy lawn and up onto the porch. More struggles while he was getting the door unlocked. Then he was gone inside with whatever it was in the blanket.
Dog, Tamara thought. Sure. Sick dog, picked it up late at the vet’s. No big deal.
A light went on in the front room over there, punching a couple of saffron squares in the darkness. Both windows had shades pulled all the way down. She sat up, fidgeting, replaying in her mind what she’d just seen.
Hadn’t kicked like a dog. Or any other kind of animal.
Kicked like . . . what? A kid?
Come on, Tamara. Why would he have a kid all wrapped up like that? Punishment of some kind? Bad boy, bad girl, wrap your sorry little ass in a blanket?
Lord. A kid could smother, all trussed up in the back of an SUV like a piece of baggage. Lot of bastard parents in this world, abuse their kids in all sorts of ways . . .
No. It hadn’t been a kid.
Had it?
Too much imagination, girl. Got to be some simple explanation, nothing weird at all except inside your own
Car coming.
There’d been cars before, a bunch of them. This one probably wouldn’t belong to George DeBrissac either, but the lights were coming toward her, high and slow, and she scooted down until her butt was half off the seat. The glare filled the car, only this time they didn’t slide on past. Car slowed and then stopped on the street close in front of the Ford.
Oh, man, she thought, cops. Somebody saw me sitting out here, called 911, and now I’m gonna get hassled.
But it wasn’t cops, cop cars didn’t have high-riding headlights. In the next second she heard gears grinding and then the lights began to retreat and swing out away from her. Backingup. Backing into one of the driveways on this side, close to where she was parked.
Tamara blew out her breath, eased up on the seat until she could squint over the dashboard. Van. No, SUV, one of those big mothers with tinted windows so you couldn’t see inside, gliding up the drive of the brick-faced house directly in front of her. She sighed again. Somebody coming home, people on this block had been coming home the whole time she’d been here.
She’d probably have quit paying attention, except the SUV was right in her line of sight. So she watched it stop within a few feet of a closed garage set just back from the house. Lights went off. Driver didn’t get out right away, must’ve been a minute or so before the door opened. It was dark over there, but the distance wasn’t much more than twenty-five yards. Big dude. Black man? She had the impression he might be, but she couldn’t be sure. Wore dark clothes, some kind of cap pulled down low on his forehead.
A cramp was forming in her left buttock. Terrific. She wiggled, trying to ease it. No good. She needed to sit up, but she didn’t want to do that while the dude was hanging over there, maybe call his attention to her. She wiggled some more, willing him to hurry up, go inside, let her sit up—let her get out of here. Now she
really
had to pee.
He hurried, but not straight into the house. Went around to the back of the SUV instead and hauled up the hatch. Light didn’t go on inside. But in he went, on hands and knees, out of sight for a few seconds. Then he backed out again to where she could see him, and when he straightened up he had something cradled against his chest with one arm. Something a couple of feet long wrapped in what looked like a blanket.
Something that moved, kicked . . . struggled.
Tamara blinked, squinting. Eyes playing tricks. No, there it was again, the kicking, the struggling, while the man hauled the hatch down and slammed it shut. He hugged whatever was in the blanket closer to his chest, using both hands and arms now. Stood for a few seconds, looking around, looking straight at the Ford for a heartbeat—gave her a chill even though she knew he couldn’t see her in the dark—then he half ran across a patchy lawn and up onto the porch. More struggles while he was getting the door unlocked. Then he was gone inside with whatever it was in the blanket.
Dog, Tamara thought. Sure. Sick dog, picked it up late at the vet’s. No big deal.
A light went on in the front room over there, punching a couple of saffron squares in the darkness. Both windows had shades pulled all the way down. She sat up, fidgeting, replaying in her mind what she’d just seen.
Hadn’t kicked like a dog. Or any other kind of animal.
Kicked like . . . what? A kid?
Come on, Tamara. Why would he have a kid all wrapped up like that? Punishment of some kind? Bad boy, bad girl, wrap your sorry little ass in a blanket?
Lord. A kid could smother, all trussed up in the back of an SUV like a piece of baggage. Lot of bastard parents in this world, abuse their kids in all sorts of ways . . .
No. It hadn’t been a kid.
Had it?
Too much imagination, girl. Got to be some simple explanation, nothing weird at all except inside your own
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