The Broken Ones (43 page)

It was an old single-lever mortise lock. Of all the locks he’d picked in the locksmithing course at the academy, the single levers were the oldest and easiest to corrupt—a bent piece of wire would open them, as would most keys of the same type. Oscar pocketed the Taurus and quietly pulled out his own house keys, careful not to let them jingle, and found the one for his own home’s back door. He slid it slowly into the keyhole; it fitted and turned easily.

Now was the test. If the resident within had so much as a single barrel bolt inside the door, he was stymied. He gently twisted the doorknob.

The door creaked just a little and opened in its jamb.

Inside was darkness, but the chorus of smells was much stronger: fresh flowers and tobacco and cinnamon incense. Oscar pulled out the pistol again and felt his way forward, left arm swinging in the dark like a blind man’s. It found something round and small as a child’s skull. His fingers traced across it, and he smiled to himself. It was a small sphere of timber, the cap of a newel post. Stairs.

He kept as close to the wall as he could, slowly pressing and releasing his weight with each rising step. As he climbed, the smells grew stronger yet, and he became aware of vague shapes: an edge here and there, a rail, banisters. As his head grew level with the next story’s floor, a strip of light appeared: a line of candlelight from under a closed door.

Oscar stood still. Now was the time to call the controller to send support units, Code One. But if he dialed now Naville might hear him and take another way out of his hidey-hole. But that wasn’t the real reason Oscar didn’t call. He wanted to catch the man himself.

He padded softly toward the closed door.

And something crinkled underfoot.

He stood stock-still, cursing his luck. He listened, and felt his heart pushing hard behind his ribs. No sound from behind the door.

Oscar slowly raised his boot.

Beneath it was a bottle cap.

And the light beneath the door went out.

Oscar swore under his breath. If Naville slipped away, he would never be found. A rock spider who had survived three decades in maximum security knew how to keep a low profile. It was now or never.

Oscar reached into his pocket for his pencil flashlight, held it beneath the grip of the Taurus, and stopped in front of the door, bracing for a shotgun blast through the thin timber. He raised one boot and kicked hard just below the lock. The door burst inward with a crash of splintering timber and snapping metal. He flicked on the flashlight, stepped quickly inside, and ducked.

His heart raced as the light swept left to right, up and down, picking out details of an utterly unremarkable room: two wooden chairs at a tiny lopsided table; the curved arm of a tattered sofa with a blanket neatly folded at one end; a plant stand holding a jar of wildflowers; an unlit kerosene lamp; a small transistor radio on a sagging chipboard bookshelf that held only half a dozen westerns; a kitchenette that was merely a sink and a gas hot plate, with a breadbox and a small Tupperware container of spreads and cereals. Oscar fixed the beam on something noteworthy: a large mortar and pestle, flanked by a dozen jars of seeds and stalks. A large earthenware bowl covered with chicken wire. From the ashes on the mesh came the powerful, smoky kick of burned cinnamon.

“Albert?” Oscar said. “Albert Naville?”

Across the room, in an indented nub of a hallway, clustered three narrow doors. One was wide, showing an old porcelain toilet. A second was ajar, and through the gap Oscar saw a single towel hanging on a glimmer of flaky chrome rail. The third door remained closed.

Oscar crept to the bathroom door and carefully pushed it all the way in, keeping the gun barrel back and ready. The bathroom was empty.

He went to the closed door and listened. From behind came a soft but insistent sound, a whispered rustling like a dozen small birds trapped in a box. The thought of wings made Oscar’s heart gallop faster.

“Albert?”

No answer.

He put the pencil flashlight between his teeth, took the cold brass
handle in his left hand, and in one move twisted the knob and threw wide the door. In the same instant, he dropped low, grabbed the flashlight, and swept it across the room.

There was no one in it. In the far wall was set the small, single window Oscar had seen from the alley. It was wide open. Cold air rushed in on a stiff breeze, and the busy, winglike flutter grew louder. Oscar looked up.

“Fuck,” he hissed.

Every square inch of the ceiling was covered with papers. Hundreds of sheets were pinned by thumbtacks to the ceiling, and they jittered and flapped in the wind. And every page was filled, either with words or with drawings or symbols. Some were English, some Latin, some French; hundreds more were covered with the rune-like cuneiform Oscar had seen on the idol, and on Penny Roth. Pictographs and hieroglyphs: Egyptian, Chinese, Mesoamerican. And symbols: vévés, crosses, swastikas, ankhs, eyes of Horus, signs of the zodiac, and stars. Dozens and dozens of seven-pointed stars.

Oscar shined the flashlight around the rest of the room. Leaning against one wall was an old aluminum stepladder and, beside it, a small wooden footlocker. The room was otherwise empty except for a woven sea-grass mattress in the center of the floor, and a notebook and pen.

Oscar heard a distinctive metallic click behind him.

The voice that followed was calm and unhurried.

“You never looked behind the couch.”

Oscar felt adrenaline flood up his chest and neck. “My ex-wife used to say the same thing when I lost my keys.”

He went to turn, but the voice froze him. “No, no,” said the man behind him. “Turn off your flashlight and put that cannon down.”

Oscar flicked off the flashlight, and realized that a softer, warmer light came from behind him. Naville was holding a candle. He slowly bent and placed the Taurus on the wooden floor, not far from a notebook and an open cardboard box of thumbtacks.

“Kick it away.”

Oscar nudged the heavy pistol across the floorboards with his boot. And at last turned to face Albert Naville.

Naville was more than a head shorter than Oscar, a spare man with no spare flesh. Despite the cold, he wore just a singlet and shorts; his limbs looked ropy and strong. Although he was in his sixties, Naville’s
face was strangely youthful; he was clean-shaved, and his eyes and lips shared an odd, detached smile, as if he were remembering an unfunny joke told by someone pleasant but witless. His feet were bare, and his long silver hair was loose about his shoulders. It seemed that Oscar had disturbed him at his work. No time to dress, but time enough to find his pistol: a tiny derringer, but with two big holes in twin barrels. It looked to Oscar like a Noris Twinny—a nine-millimeter next to useless over more than twelve feet or in nervous fingers, but Naville was only six feet away and seemed eerily relaxed.

He noticed Oscar looking at the small gun, and his eyes twinkled. “Yes, beware the little things.”

He gestured for Oscar to remove his jacket. Oscar dropped it to the floor, revealing the empty holster under his left arm.

“You know, I was in two minds about you,” Naville continued, and motioned for Oscar to lift his arms and turn full circle. “I am a student of behaviorism as well as innatism. I said to myself, don’t underestimate Oscar Mariani. He may yet be his father’s son.” He nodded at Oscar’s trouser cuffs. Oscar lifted them, revealing no ankle holsters, no more weapons. Naville seemed satisfied and grinned, showing a hint of the wild smile that Oscar had seen in the newspaper clipping. “And here you are.”

Oscar wondered if he could close the distance between him and Naville before a lead slug smashed into his heart, and decided there wasn’t a hope in hell.

“Where’s Taryn Lymbery?” Oscar asked.

Naville tutted. “Straight into it, Detective. Where’s the foreplay?”

“It’s not too late, Albert. You can go back to your cell, no need to extend your sentence. You just have to tell me—”

“Cut it,” Naville said, glancing at his watch. “And kick me your jacket.”

He kicked the jacket to the old man.

Naville knelt. “Now, which pocket do you keep your cuffs in?”

“I don’t remember,” Oscar said.

Naville shook his head, disappointed. He kept the Twinny trained on Oscar and began to search the jacket pockets. Oscar saw something small catch the flickering light on the floor behind Naville. Two thumbtacks had escaped their box.

He said, “Who are you working with, Albert?”

Naville pulled out Oscar’s key ring, a cigarette lighter, and his bribery stash of condoms, tea bags, and Viagra tablets. “I’m a solo flyer, Mariani. Didn’t your father teach you anything?” He looked up at Oscar and affected a frown. “Or maybe he couldn’t be bothered.”

He grinned and kept searching.

“You screwed up dumping Penny in the sewage plant, didn’t you, Albert? Bet they weren’t happy with you then.”

Something flashed behind Naville’s eyes. “You’re a shithouse guesser,” he said. “I’m amazed you found me at all.”

The old man glanced again at his watch.

“When are they getting here?” Oscar asked.

Naville hesitated as he emptied pockets. “There’s no ‘they,’ Mariani.”

“They’re coming, aren’t they? You keep checking your watch. That’s what you did when you heard me outside. You grabbed your phone and you called your betters.”

“They’re not my—” Again, a flash behind the old man’s eyes: something twisting and reasonless as fire. Oscar realized that Naville was, indeed, almost mad. “Things will be easier if you just tell me where your cuffs are.”

“Did they let you kill Taryn Lymbery? Or were you only allowed to mark her, since you screwed up so badly with Penny Roth?”

“
I
didn’t screw up.” Naville bit down on his next words. This time his sharklike smile had to thrash harder to beat down the madness in his eyes. He lifted the pistol. “Keep stalling and I’ll shoot you right here and burn it all down. I’ve done it before. Handcuffs, please. Now.”

Oscar could see the snub barrel of the Twinny shaking. The knuckle of Naville’s trigger finger was turning white. Oscar swallowed down his fear and shrugged.

“So now they’re freezing you out. They don’t need you anymore. They’ve got the altar, so now they can get rid of Bert Naville before he fucks up again.”

“I didn’t fuck up!” Naville snapped, stabbing the pistol toward Oscar’s chest. His wild grin was unmoderated now: it was the same savage smile Oscar had seen in the photograph of Naville cuffed to Sandro. Naville’s hand was shaking. His blood was up. “Cuntish Marianis,” he whispered. “Cuntish guessers.”

Naville looked at his watch, did a calculation in his head, then
kicked Oscar’s jacket away. He was done searching for the cuffs. “I wanted to keep this place. Too bad.”

He aimed the pistol at the center of Oscar’s chest.

Oscar clapped his hands together and shouted in his best approximation of a correctional officer: “Inmate Naville!”

The old man jerked instinctively. The Twinny barked, and Oscar felt hot air brush his cheek like a salamander’s lick as Naville took a startled step backward and suddenly howled, reflexively grabbing at the thumbtack in his bare heel.

Oscar dropped and jumped for the Taurus.

Naville, unbalanced on one foot, spun as he tried to follow Oscar with the Twinny.

The trigger pull on the .44 was heavy, but there was no time to cock it first. He aimed for Naville’s thighs, and squeezed. The boom of the large gun shook the cold air in the room. A hole the size of a softball appeared in the wall behind Naville. The old man bleated and aimed the derringer at Oscar’s face.

Another thunderclap, and a large part of Naville’s upper leg disappeared, and a violent fountain flumed out behind it. The old man twisted and collapsed like a breaking chair. The Twinny yacked again, but Naville’s second shot went wide, high into the wall.

“Naville!”

The old man dropped the Twinny and grabbed at his spouting leg. He was spasming, his mad eyes wide and searching.

Oscar could see that a fistful of flesh was gone from the upper thigh. Shattered bone protruded and blood gushed. He scurried over and clamped both hands down and into the deep wound. Blood simply squeezed out between his fingers, under his palm.

“Where is Taryn Lymbery?” Oscar said. “Albert? Where is Taryn? Is she dead?”

Naville’s face grew white, and suddenly all the years flowed back onto it. His other leg began jolting like a dog’s in sleep.

Oscar squeezed harder, fingers probing and catching on sharp bone, trying to find the artery and stop the tide. “Who were you doing this for, Albert? Is it Haig? Albert!”

Naville’s eyes lost focus and his jaw suddenly jerked wide.

“Naville!”

The old man went still, and breath slid out of him in a soft sigh.

Oscar looked around. A puddle the width of a child’s wading pool had flowed from the body.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

And he glimpsed Naville’s watch.

A car was coming. Naville’s accomplices.

Oscar grabbed the Taurus and his flashlight and hurried through the lounge room, looking around wildly. No sign of Naville’s phone. He ran down the stairs and into the alley. The loud reports of the pistols had roused residents of nearby buildings, and shadowed figures appeared from dark doorways. “It’s all right,” Oscar said, running and trying to hide the bloody .44. “Police! Go back inside.”

It had no effect; more figures began to arrive, murmuring and shouting over the wind: What happened? What’s down there? Who shot who?

Oscar ran to the head of the alley, where a small but growing crowd had gathered. “Move away!” he called. “Police!”

Someone flicked on a bright flashlight and shined it down the alley.

“No!” Oscar shouted, and pushed through the onlookers to try to stifle the beam.

“Fucking cops,” someone said.

“Put in a complaint,” suggested another, and there was a burst of laughter.

Oscar saw the headlights of a dark car appear at the far end of the street.

“Back
inside
!” he hissed.