Betrayers (Nameless Detective Novels) (23 page)

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.

T
he 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.

I couldn’t keep looking at those photographs; just the few random glances made my eyeballs feel seared. A low keening sound shifted my gaze toward the doorway. Ullman was slumped against the jamb, hanging on to it with both hands, tears leaking out of his haunted eyes. I’ve only hated one man as much as I hated him in that moment, and I’d been responsible for that man’s death. I had vowed never to let anything like that happen again, but it took effort to beat down a savage urge to hurt Zachary Ullman. Hurt him bad. If I hadn’t brought Jake along . . .

I quit looking at Ullman. The desk was in my line of sight
then, and on it next to the laptop computer was a bronze-colored, rough-textured tin box about three sizes larger than the one Emily had found and brought home—part of a set. I went over there, worked the lid up.

Runyon said, “What’s in there?”

“His cocaine stash. Full Baggie.”

“One more charge against—Bill!”

I swung around. Ullman was no longer hugging the jamb; the doorway was empty.

Runyon ducked into the hallway with me close behind. Ullman had made it into the living room by then—I could hear him bang into something in there. But he wasn’t trying to get out of the house, wasn’t anywhere near the front door. He was hunched at an end table next to a recliner, clawing open its single drawer.

I yelled his name and Runyon made a lunge in his direction.

Too late. Ullman straightened, pivoting, and he had a gun in his hand.

“Stay away! Don’t come any closer!”

Runyon pulled up short. So did I. We’d both missed the gun in the quick search earlier, too intent on hunting for the child porn. Hadn’t occurred to either of us that Ullman might have one, and it should have—Christ, it should have. The piece was a small-caliber automatic and he wasn’t just holding it; he was waving it wildly in front of him in a hand that trembled like somebody afflicted with Parkinson’s. The wildness was in his eyes, too; they bulged as if they might pop from the pressure.

I said, “Put it down, Ullman. Don’t make things any worse for yourself.”

“No! I don’t want to shoot you, but I will if you try to stop me. I will!”

“You can’t run,” Runyon said. “How far do you think you’d get?”

“Stay where you are, don’t come near me.”

He backed away from the recliner. We were between him and the front door, but he wasn’t going that way. He kept backing, waggling that damn gun, into the dining room, where he bumped into a chair and almost knocked it over. He didn’t seem to notice, just kept on backing.

The kitchen, I thought. That was where the door to the garage was.

Runyon and I were up on the balls of our feet, leaning forward a little, like sprinters waiting in the blocks. Ullman was halfway across the dining room now. Two more steps and he’d be into the kitchen, out of our sight. One more—

Go!

Him running in the kitchen, us running crouched through the dining room. Runyon, younger and faster, was ahead of me when we neared the kitchen arch. From there I could see Ullman at the garage door, yanking it open. He jabbed the automatic in our direction and we both ducked aside reflexively, but he didn’t fire. He plunged through, slammed the door behind him.

We were there in a couple of seconds, but when Runyon grabbed the knob it bound up in his hand. He said, “Snap lock. Won’t take long to break it.”

“I’ll try to stop him out front. Careful, Jake—don’t go up against that gun.”

He didn’t answer.

I ran back into the living room. There was a brass urn on a stand against one wall; I grabbed it on the way by. Not much of a weapon, but I had to have something. I could hear Runyon
working on the door in the kitchen, thought I heard the lock snap free before I went charging outside.

Down the steps in three quick jumps, across a strip of lawn to the garage. The door was still all the way down and I didn’t hear anything to indicate it was about to come up. I stopped and stood there breathing hard, the brass urn slick in my fingers, while thirty seconds, a minute, ticked away and the foggy cold dried the sweat on me and made me shiver. Sounds filtered out from inside, faint, unidentifiable. None of them was the rumble of a car engine; I’d’ve been able to hear that clearly enough. What the hell was happening in there?

Another few seconds and I found out. The automatic opener finally whirred and the door began to slide up. There was plenty of light inside—the overheads were on. I took a firmer grip on the urn, set myself, and bent to look under the bottom edge.

Ullman’s Hyundai was sitting there dark and silent.

Then, as the door ground all the way up, I saw Runyon standing next to the car, the driver’s door wide open and Ullman unmoving inside. The little automatic was in Runyon’s hand; he semaphored it over his head to let me know he had it.

I let out a heavy breath, set the urn down, and went in there. Ullman was sitting with both hands on the steering wheel. All the wildness was gone; so were the tears. His eyes no longer bulged, didn’t even blink. His face was a literal mask of misery. Not self-pity—raw, naked misery.

I said to Runyon, “What happened?”

“He wasn’t trying to run. He came out here to kill himself.”

“I couldn’t do it,” Ullman said in an empty voice. “I thought this time I could, now finally I could, but I couldn’t. I can’t. I’m too much of a coward.”

“You’re a hell of a lot worse than that.”

“I know,” he said. “Don’t you think I know what I am?”

Runyon said, “He had the piece to his temple when I got in here. Just kept holding it there, didn’t move when I took it away from him. Took me a minute to find the door opener.”

“Let’s get him inside.”

Ullman said, “Why don’t you just kill me? Couldn’t you do that? Make it look like I killed myself?”

“You’re not going to get off that easy.”

“I’d rather die than go to prison. I want to die. I ache to die.”

Runyon and I traded glances. Somebody might accommodate Ullman someday in whatever prison facility he ended up in. Child molesters and child porn addicts were bottom of the barrel inside the walls, primary targets for con vengeance.

We dragged Ullman out of the car and back into the house, sat him down on the living room couch. While I called the Daly City cops and told them what we had, Runyon went to close the front door; I’d left it wide open. He bent to look at the hanging chain plate, beckoned me over when I was done with the call.

“Plate tore out clean,” he said. “I think I can screw it back in so the damage won’t show.”

“I doubt that it matters now.”

“Why don’t I do it anyway.” He got out one of those multi-bladed pocketknives and went to work with the screwdriver blade.

I took up a stand in front of Ullman. The way he was sitting, motionless, the haunted eyes staring out from under drooping lids, he might have been a propped-up cadaver. His face was corpselike, too: the color and consistency of white wax inlaid with filaments of blood.

“I know you hate me,” he said, his mouth barely moving, “and I don’t blame you. But you can’t possibly hate me as much as I hate myself.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Every day for the past fifteen years, loathing myself. Do you know how many times I tried to put a bullet through my head? Dozens. Literally dozens. I came close once, but at the last second I couldn’t do it. I’m too much of a coward.”

“You said that before.”

The words kept running out of him in a hushed, barren voice, almost a whisper, as if he were confessing cardinal sins to a priest. “Cowardice and self-hatred. That’s why I started using cocaine. I thought that if I got high enough, I could pull the trigger or swallow pills or poison . . . something, anything, to end it. But all the cocaine did was make me hate myself a little less. And after a while it had the opposite effect. It made the sickness worse, the cravings even more intense.”

The taste of bile was in my mouth. I wanted to spit, swallowed instead.

“I’m sorry about Emily,” he said.

“Don’t talk to me about my daughter. Don’t say her name.”

“She found the little box in the school parking lot. I don’t know how I could have lost it; I was always so careful. Maybe I lost it on purpose, subconsciously; I don’t know. I was terrified when she came to me, told me she’d found it and took it home . . . terrified when you came here last night. But not anymore. Now I’m glad. I’m glad it’s almost over.”

He fell silent. The silence lasted long enough for me to think he’d run out of words, but he hadn’t. Not quite.

“There’s something else I have to say, something I want you to know.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” I said. “Save it for the police and your lawyer.”

“I never hurt a child, never touched a child. Never. Never wanted to. It was the looking I needed, that’s all. Looking. Looking.”

“We both know that’s a lie, Ullman. Men like you always want to do more than look, whether you act on the impulses or not. The only thing that stopped you was fear of getting caught.”

“No—”

“Your students, my daughter, every child you taught or came in contact with, you imagined up there on that bedroom wall. And not with some other pervert—with you. Always with
you.
”

He stared straight ahead for a few seconds. Then, slowly, he lifted one hand and passed it down over his face, and when it dropped into his lap his eyes were closed—the same gesture you’d use to close the eyes of a corpse.

Zachary Ullman may not have had the guts to shoot or poison himself, but he was dead just the same. And had been for a long time.

Dead man breathing.

The funny thing was, she wasn’t afraid.

There she was, sprawled out on the floor against the stairs with her skirt hiked up around her ass, blood leaking out of her nose and pain pulsing through her, and all she felt was rage. Even when Delman took the switch knife out of his pocket and snicked it open, the thin curls of fear that rose in her burned away almost immediately, like paper on a hot fire.

He takes another step, she thought, I’ll kick him in the balls. Squash ’em like grapes until the juice runs out.

But he didn’t take another step. He said, “You just couldn’t leave it alone, could you?” The smile that wasn’t a smile was gone now. His mouth was hard, bent out of shape with a fury that matched hers. Hate radiated off of him; you could almost see the shimmers. “Had to come after me and my mother, lay some hurt on us. Well, now it’s your turn, baby. Now you’re getting the hurt laid on you.”

She sucked air through her mouth, struggled to sit up on the bottom stair riser. Her nose felt swollen, big as a balloon,
numb. Blood dribbled into her mouth; she pawed and spat it away. The whole front of her blouse was splattered with it.

“Don’t even think about screaming,” he said. “You do and I’ll stick you like the pig you are.”

Screaming wouldn’t do her any good anyway. Her downstairs neighbors, white couple, the Jastrows, both worked late jobs that didn’t get them home until after eight. She said, in a voice that didn’t sound like hers, thick and nasal, “Murder’s not your thing, Antoine.”

“Don’t bet on it.” Then, “Antoine. Shit.” Then, “Best deal we ever had going, six-figure payoff. Clean, smooth, and you fucked it up. You’re going to pay for that, Tamara.”

“How? Cut me up? Beat me up?”

“You’ll find out.”

“Your mama know you’re here?”

“Shut up about my mother.”

“No, she doesn’t know. Your idea. She won’t like it when she finds out.”

“Get up off the floor.”

“Why don’t you come down here with me?”

“Smart-mouth bitch.” He kicked her ankle, kicked her again above the knee, hard enough to make her grimace and clamp her teeth. “Get up off the goddamn floor!”

Tamara pulled her skirt down, managed to turn onto her hip, then onto her knees facing the side wall. It took a little effort, one hand on the wall and the other on the railing, to get onto her feet. Her breathing still wasn’t right. Air made whistling, wheezing sounds in her nasal passages.