Nocturnal

Jebediah Erickson’s House

There was something familiar about Erickson’s house, but Bryan couldn’t place it. He must have seen it before. It was on Franklin Street, a three-lane one-way that pumped traffic from downtown up to the Marina neighborhood. If you went north, you took Franklin. So sure, he’d probably seen the house in passing hundreds of times.

Like the Jessups’ place, this house was fairly colorless — gray trim against slate-blue walls. The house faced east, toward Franklin. A small yard sat south of the house, with a driveway at the lot’s southernmost end.

Where the Jessups’ place looked like an old English manor, this house was all San Francisco Victorian. A round, four-story, window-covered turret rose up from the house’s front-right corner, peaked cone-roof soaring high into the air. The entryway was a good fifteen feet above the sidewalk level, at the back of a ten-by-ten porch that itself was covered by a steeply peaked roof supported by ornate, gray-painted wood columns. The stairs started about ten feet to the left of the porch; seven weathered marble steps perpendicular to the street led to a small, square landing, then ten more steps running parallel with the front of the house.

They walked up the steps. Bryan took in the intricate, waist-high railing that lined the porch. At the back of that porch sat beautiful double doors made of thickly lacquered oak.

There was something familiar about the place all right, and more familiarity than he could know from just passing by. The place carried an aura, a disturbing feeling Bryan couldn’t nail down.

The answers to everything were inside that house. He knew it, deep in his gut.

“Look at this place,” Pookie said. “What an awesome set for an episode of Blue Balls.”

“Not in the mood to talk cop shows, Pooks.”

To the left of the double doors, Bryan saw an ornate brass doorbell fixture with a scratched black button in the center. He pressed it. The disturbed feeling grew stronger.

As they waited, Pookie rocked back and forth on his toes and heels. “You weren’t a Negative Nancy about the show name this time. That mean you’re down with Blue Balls?”

“No,” Bryan said. “It means I don’t want to talk about cop shows.”

“If you don’t like my name, why don’t you propose one?”

Bryan sighed, cleared his throat. Pookie was trying to be helpful, trying to lighten the mood.

“Fine,” Bryan said. “How about Bryan and Pookie?”

Pookie shook his head. “That sounds like a pedophiliac puppet show.”

Bryan pressed the door buzzer again.

They waited. Still no answer.

“Come on,” Pookie said. “Give me another one, Mister I Know Show-Business.”

“Fine. How about last names? Clauser and Chang? You know, with that curly ampersand thing?”

Pookie shook his head. “No, won’t work. First of all, I’ll be the one nailing all the lonely wives of the murdering big-business guys. That means my name has to come first.”

“Chang and Clauser?”

Pookie shook his head again. “That could be a police drama, if the show was about two gay cops that moonlighted as interior decorators.”

“I’d watch that,” Bryan said, forgoing the doorbell to pound four times on the oak door. “It would be like my favorite show of all time.”

They stared at the door, but nothing happened.

They turned and walked back down the steps. Bryan felt a sense of loss as he walked away, as if the mystery might vanish without him ever knowing the truth. “Pooks, I have to get in there. This house, Erickson, this is the key to everything.”

“How do you know?”

Bryan shrugged. “I just know.”

“That’s not much to go on,” Pookie said.

“Yeah, neither was a dream about some kid being killed at Meacham Place.”

Pookie nodded. “Good point. It’s risky to press our luck, though. Zou will be informed of any warrant we try to get.”

“Fuck warrants,” Bryan said as he opened the Buick’s door. “If she won’t play by the rules, neither will we. We have to do this. I mean, unless you still think I’m crazy?”

Pookie slid into the driver’s seat. “Well, I wouldn’t exactly let you babysit my kids, if I had any. Listen, Bri-Bri, I haven’t forgot what I saw on the roof of Susan Panos’s building. I couldn’t forget that if I drank a gallon of Jack three times a day for a week straight. I don’t know biology, but I’ve bought into Robin’s social networking species thing.”

“Eusocial.”

“Whatever. The point is, I’m with you on this. I’m down for the gunfight. We’ll figure this out, but you are going to promise me that you will not roid-rage your way into that house. We have to think about our next step.”

“Pooks, you don’t understand—”

Pookie slapped the dashboard. “Shut up, Bryan.”

Pookie wasn’t smiling now. Bryan closed his mouth. His friend wanted to be heard.

“I’ve stood by you,” Pookie said. “You owe me. You’re not going in there without a plan, even if I have to knock you out myself.”

“You can’t knock me out.”

Pookie waved his hands dismissively. “That’s irrelevant. We’re going to get the vigilante, we’re going to expose Zou, we’re going to find the Zed-Y killer that’s still out there and anyone else who helped him. We’ll get to the bottom of this Marie’s Children bullshit, but I’ve known you for a long time and you’re way over the edge. Right now you’ll make bad decisions. I won’t. So we do this my way, agreed?”

Bryan felt an urge to get out of the Buick, run back up those steps, kick in the door and let the chips fall where they may. He took a breath and fought that urge down. Pookie had backed him through all this crazy shit. That couldn’t be ignored. Pookie was right — Bryan owed him.

“All right,” Bryan said. “What’s the next step?”

“Let me think for a minute.”

They drove in silence. Pookie didn’t cut anyone off. He turned at random, obeying all the signals. Finally, the Buick turned down California Street, heading toward the Financial District. The setting sun cast an orange-juice glow on the horizon, a glow that back-lit the enlongated pyramid that was the Transamerica Building.

“We need more info on Erickson,” Pookie said. “Black Mister Burns is digging as we speak. I’ll also have Robin test the waters at the Medical Examiner’s Office, see if she can find anything.”

“Okay,” Bryan said. “What about me?”

Pookie smiled, nodded. “You, my little Terminator? I’m not going to ask you to stay away from Erickson’s house, because I saw how you were looking at the place. I don’t really want to hear you lie to me and tell me that you’ll steer clear. So, you do a stakeout, but you just watch, you do not approach. Give me your word you won’t move without backup.”

It was one thing for Pookie to believe Bryan wasn’t a murderer, but another for him to go all-in like this. If the man had his head on straight, he should have cut ties long ago and moved on. Pookie showed loyalty, true friendship — you back your boy no matter what. And for that level of dedication, was Pookie really asking for that much in return? No matter how bad Bryan wanted to go in that house and find answers, he’d do what Pookie asked.

“I just watch,” Bryan said. “I promise.”

Pookie reached out his right fist. “Word is bond.”

Bryan laughed, and the sound surprised him. “Dicker pricker fucker sucker,” he said, and bumped fists.

Bryan felt better. And, he had to admit, Pookie’s way was just flat-out smarter — the archer had survived a six-story drop, then promptly killed a man with a freakin’ arrow. If that didn’t fit the description of bad motherfucker, nothing would. He was too dangerous to take one-on-one.

Bryan settled back and looked out the Buick’s window. He watched the setting sun sink behind the Transamerica Building, counting the minutes until he could get out and hunt.