Chapter Thirty-One

After paying on the lower floor and wishing the upstairs girl a good night, Dave went back out into the rain and into his BMW.

He lingered in front of the car for some seconds, just to give the mysterious someone a good chance to realize what he had bought, put the big box on the back seat, and drove off.

So far nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

“How’s it looking on your side?” he asked his lapel button.

“Still nothing, still nothing, ah,” the voice said in his ear.

“What do you mean—ah?”

“There’s a scooter following you, I think. Th-th-there, now I’m following the scooter.”

Dave saw a far speck of light in his side view mirror, “Okay, I think I see it.”

He drove for twelve minutes in the sparse late traffic. Kamikaze rain drops flung themselves at the front windows and after the resulting miniscule explosions streamed downwards—a thousand tiny, short-lived streams that blurred the lights of the nighttime city.

Sometimes a surf of rainwater would rise for a second from under one of the wheels. The tiny headlight remained in his mirror.

Not so mysterious now that people know that they should be on the lookout, Dave thought. A total amateur actually.

He reached his home and parked.

Dave got out of the driver’s seat, opened the back door, and took out the box with the toy. He thought he heard a scooter park somewhere in the shadows.

The rain drops drummed on him, on the roof of his car, and on the box in his hands.

Whistling like a very guilty person, Dave opened the door of the block’s foyer, and went up into his apartment via the elevator.

Once at home, he switched on all the lights, to make it easier for an outside observer to figure out on which floor and on which side he resided.

He then waited for five minutes, sitting at the kitchen table and looking at the box.

This was a mid-level toy, which spoke two hundred sentences in eight languages and could play the part of an innocent victim; a dirty and willing victim; a willing virgin; a daughter; and a niece.

He took the girl out of the box and plugged her in. It was supposed to take three hours to charge her up for a night’s session.

He tried to read the instructions but couldn’t concentrate. He crumpled the piece of paper impatiently and stood up.

“I’m going out now, into the direction of the twenty-four seven.”

“Do it,” said Andy’s voice, “I’m close, watching.”

Dave fixed the motion sensors in unobtrusive corners of the walls and walked out of his apartment, locking only the lower lock. He turned towards the shop.

“Well?” he asked after a few yards.

“Nothing yet. Keep walking until you turn the corner.”

“I’m there. Anything?”

“No, nothing. Ah, here it is.”

“Infrared?”

“Yeah, glowing like a human. Small, though. Just went into the block’s entrance.”

“Okay, I’m coming over.”

“Do it, I’m keeping watch here.”

Dave hurried back to his bleak high-rise, raising a mist of rainwater with his shoes. His attention though, was focused entirely on the tiny screen which he held. It was now active.

“I’m getting my motion detectors data, the perp’s at my home door.”

“Want us to go get him?”

“No, let’s wait. Woop. The kitchen detectors went off, he’s in the kitchen.”

Five minutes passed. How long does it take to dismember a toy-girl, wondered Dave. What if we miss him on his way out somehow? He stood at the corner of the building, struggling with the desire to run to his home. Then the little screen lit up again. “The front door detectors again, he’s coming out.”

“I’m coming,” Andy said and appeared at a run almost instantaneously. He took out his gun and nodded at Dave. Dave approached the door, preparing to swing it open, but the lights inside suddenly switched on, glowing mutedly through the thick reinforced glass. Someone was already about to open the door from the inside. A shadow grew.

Dave took a step back and Andy leveled his gun at the door.

The door swung open.

Mrs. Timmons trotted out with her rounded old pug shivering and snorting through its steaming runny nose.

Her eyes fixed on Andy’s gun before he could hide it.

“Help,” she screamed, and grabbed her precious dog with surprising alacrity, cradling it to her bosom.

Dave waved at Andy to follow him and ran into the building. Mrs. Timmons had just blown their chance of surprise.

Inside, he immediately heard steps—receding steps—someone was running up the stairs.

Their prey.

“Stop, stop or we’ll shoot,” he shouted as he jumped over three steps at a time, trying to gain on the unknown fugitive. He heard Andy right behind him.

They ran up two floors, grinding into dust paint flakes from the unmaintained walls, squashing cigarette stubs, and crushing the incidental syringe.

Then Dave suddenly saw a leg flash for a second at the turn of the stairs.

They had gained—the perp was now just yards away.

With a blood-curdling shout, he put his whole energy into one final push, turned the corner and saw a small figure at the top of the flight of stairs.

The detective lunged with outstretched hands and felt his fingers close on fabric. Staggering, he pulled the fabric at himself, feeling it yield. In a moment the small figure was in his grasp; a whirlwind of arms and legs, kicking and scratching.

“Let me go, let me go,” a child’s voice screamed as the detective barely held on to the struggling body. “Let me go. I hate you. Let me go.”