Damnation Street

36.

He saw the killer reflected on the darkness of the airport window: a hulking specter of a man, his features half erased by the night outside. Weiss went on eating his cashews. The figure in the window moved to stand directly behind him.

"If you try to turn around, I will kill you, Weiss."

He sat down slowly in the chair at Weiss's back. Weiss felt the stale, hot presence of him on the nape of his neck. He caught a scent that reminded him of close, dank spaces.

The killer spoke again, his voice low and featureless. No foreign accent, no local dialect. His tone was conversational, almost friendly. Weiss did not remember the voice from when he heard it last in the driveway in Hannock, and he did not think he would remember it the next time he heard it either.

"What'll happen is that they'll find you sitting here after hours like a sleeping bum," the killer said. "With your chin on your chest, you know-sitting here. Someone'll call the airport cops, and one'll come and shake your shoulder to get you to wake up. But you won't wake up. Finally, they'll push your head back, tilt your head back. There won't be any marks, no cuts, no blood, not even a bruise. But you'll've been dead for hours. Just sitting here, dead, for hours with no one to give a damn."

Weiss lifted the striped paper bag to his shoulder. "You want a cashew?" There was no answer but a low exhalation. Weiss shook the bag, rattling the nuts. "They're roasted. Salted too. Take some-do me a favor. I can't stop eating the damned things."

In the silence that followed, Weiss realized he could actually feel the other man's rage. He could actually feel it settle over him like a great, dark thunderhead with a world of flash and fire inside.

"Suit yourself," he said. He lowered the bag. He began picking cashews out of it again. "They're good, though."

After a long, breathing moment, the killer murmured, "This was smart, Weiss. The airport. Make me get a ticket, go through the X-ray, security. I like that. It was smart."

Weiss shrugged, his hand stopping with a nut halfway between the bag and his mouth. "I know you could get a weapon through, if you wanted."

"I don't need a weapon."

"Yeah. I know that too."

"All the same. It shows you were thinking. Planning things out. I can appreciate that. Like the jacket you gave to that nigger in the crazy house. That was good too. That was the kind of thing I might come up with. I liked it. You're all right, Weiss."

Weiss had to fight off a shudder. The friendly, conversational voice-the brooding sense of murderous rage: it sent a chill through him. Close up like this, the killer seemed to give off a kind of atmosphere. It was an atmosphere like houses Weiss had been in as a cop. There were certain houses he had moved through, room to room, holding his gun out in front of him. There were moments when he had seen something up ahead through a doorway-blood spatters on the wall in the next room maybe, or a foot sticking out from behind the jamb-moments when he knew what he would find but before he crossed the threshold and found it, when he was surrounded and filled by a pulsing awareness of Death, Death, Death, Death. The killer gave off a pulsing atmosphere like that.

Weiss peered into the dark window in front of him. He tried to pick out the killer's features reflected there. It was no good. All he could see were the runway lights and the jet lights-and his own face, strained and mournful and also afraid.

"So go ahead," the killer said. "You wanted this. Here I am."

Weiss was about to answer when a woman approached the rows of chairs. He saw her image in the window, then glimpsed her in the flesh out of the corner of his eye as she came near. She was old and small and elegant. She had silver hair and was wearing a pink jacket and pearls. She was pulling a wheeled suitcase behind her with one hand and holding a hardback novel in the other.

The Shadowman must have turned to face her. Weiss couldn't see it happen, but he saw the woman stop short. She stood where she was, very still, like a mouse catching wind of a python. Then, without a word, she turned and walked away, very quickly, her luggage wobbling behind her on its unsteady wheels.

Somehow this brought Weiss's own feeling into focus: the boiling in his belly, the tightness in his throat. He dropped the cashew he was holding back into the bag. He couldn't eat any more.

"What do I call you anyway?" he said.

"Foy. John Foy."

"Well, the thing is, Foy: we're near the end of this."

"That's right. That is the thing. We are."

"You heard what I said to the Graves girl, right? You were listening in?"

"I heard it, yeah."

"So you know I'm close. I'm really close. And everything depends on us not doing anything stupid. Either one of us. You see what I'm saying?"

The killer said nothing. Weiss felt the heat and sourness of him.

"What I mean is these things go step by step. Location work like this-it goes step by step. If you move too fast, if you do too much, you blow it. It takes, you know, patience, or else things go haywire on you. That's what I'm saying."

Foy laughed softly. It was a cold sound, cold and empty.

"You afraid I'll go to see the Graves girl myself?" he said. "Is that it? Well, maybe I should. Like you said, she has a number she calls, a way to get in touch with our girl, doesn't she? Maybe I should go ask her what it is."

"Look…"

"She'd tell me, you know. She wouldn't tell you, but she'd tell me. You know why? I'd stick a tampon in her soaked in gasoline. Then I'd light a match…"

Weiss had warned himself about something like this, but it didn't matter. The anger went off in him like a bomb. He started turning in his seat. "You filthy fuck, I'll…"

The grip on his shoulder sent a lancing pain up the side of his neck. He gasped, gritted his teeth.

"Careful, Weiss," said the Shadowman softly.

He let Weiss go. Weiss rubbed the spot, wincing. He settled back in his seat. He found he'd balled the bag of cashews up in his fist. Crushed the nuts to powder. He let the crumpled bag roll from his hand onto the seat beside him. He wiped his palms together to get the salt off. He was surprised how wet his palms were.

"You'll blow it for both of us," he said finally. "You'll lose her. You will."

"Maybe."

"Not maybe. You will. As long as it's just me, there's a chance she'll stay put. A chance she'll trust me and let me reach her. Once you show yourself, it's over. She'll start running again."

"She knows I'm here. She might run anyway."

"She might. But she might not. If all she sees is me, she might not." Weiss rubbed his hands together till they were dry. He worked to steady himself, to steady his voice. "Look, Foy. I don't have to tell you this. You know it's true. You've hunted people before, just like I have. If they don't see you, they stop running. Even if they know you're there. They can't run forever, so they tell themselves you're gone; they convince themselves you're gone and they stop."

"Well, that is right," the killer said thoughtfully. "They do do that, it's true. That's when you get them."

"That's right. You touch the sister, you touch her contact, her middleman, that's it: our girl takes off again. And if she takes off again, that's it for me too: I'm through, I'm done with it."

He could almost hear the killer sneer. "Don't give me that. You're not gonna stop. You can't."

"Try me," said Weiss. He drew the meat of his thumb across his upper lip, wiped the sweat away there too. "Look, just stay out of it, that's all I'm saying. Stay out of it until I find her. If she doesn't see you, if it's just me, she'll stop running, then…"

He let the words trail away. And for a while, there was no answer from behind him. Weiss stared into the window at the light on the runway, the lights of the jets rising and falling, the vague, faceless figure hunkering there behind him.

"Then what?" said the Shadowman finally.

Weiss waited, breathing slowly.

"What happens then? Huh? You gonna kill me, Weiss?"

Weiss breathed and waited.

"That the way you figure it? You think you're gonna kill me?"

"No," Weiss said finally. "I'm not a killing man."

Foy laughed that icy laugh again. "You're not a killing man, huh? Well, I am. I'm a killing man, for sure."

"I know."

"And I will kill you, Weiss. In fact, I want her there to see it. In case she thinks you're her hero coming to save her or something. I want her to see what I do to you, how you die. You think it'll be clean? It will not be clean, my friend. I want her to see that too-to see what I turn you into before I'm done. Then she'll know: it's all me for her. It's just gonna be me, nothing else in her life from then on, that's it. All me. Everything."

Weiss opened his mouth but nothing came out. He was too sick to speak at this point. Just being so near this guy made him dog-sick.

"So what?" the killer pressed on. "Huh, Weiss? I really want to know. What do you think you're gonna do? What do you think's gonna happen?"

Weiss forced the words out. "We'll decide it. That's all."

"We'll decide it," the killer echoed. "You think you're gonna send me to jail? You think they can keep me in some jail somewhere?"

Weiss didn't answer. The killer laughed again, with disdain this time. Then, all of a sudden, he stood up. Weiss saw it in the window and tensed. He saw the ghost of a figure rising, hulking, the face obscured by the night. He felt the atmosphere change, felt the heat and the sourness-the rage-lifting away, a burden lifting.

"All right," the killer said. "All right."

"You'll keep away," said Weiss.

"Until you find her. I'll keep away until you find her. Then I'll be there."

Weiss nodded once. "Good."

There was another moment, the killer hovering over him. Weiss felt his eyes on the back of his neck, felt his ill will burning there, burning.

"Another thing," Weiss said.

Foy snorted. "Another thing?"

"The number. The number Olivia called, that the sister called."

"What about it?"

"You got it, didn't you?"

There was only a second's pause. "Sure. I got it. She didn't even wait till you reached the parking lot. She didn't even wait until the door shut. She picked up the phone the second you were gone."

"Sure. That's how I figured it. I pushed her and she picked up the phone to contact her sister. And you were watching. You got the number, right? You heard the call?"

"Sure."

"So?"

"So what?"

"So save me some fucking trouble," said Weiss.

Weiss saw the reflection of the killer, saw him rear a little, then shake his head. "Oh, that's something, Weiss. You're something. That's good. That's really good. I guess we're a team now, huh? I guess we're partners."

"Just give me the number."

The killer recited it. The number and an address and a name too: Kristy.

"Looks like we're heading back to Nevada," he said.

"Kristy," said Weiss. "You got the name too. That's good."

"Sure. We make a good team, don't we?" said the killer. Then, before Weiss could answer, he said, "Oh-and by the way. You might want to check out the news if you missed it."

Weiss didn't like the sound of that. "The news?"

"The local news. Something about a shooting at the Saguaro Hotel. Yeah, you definitely might want to check it out, Weiss. It'll give you a feeling for how it's gonna be between us."

Weiss stared at the reflection on the dark window. "What…?"

"I'll be seeing you," the killer said.

The reflection sank away to nothing.

When Weiss finally risked a glance over his shoulder, there was nobody there.