Credence Foundation

Chapter Ten



Trumaine drove back to Sunshine Avenue.

It was late in the night and he was tired, but he needed to get into Jimmy Boyd’s apartment before someone else could get his hands on the card. If his hunch was wrong, the card would still be sitting at the bottom of the desk drawer and he had run for nothing. But if he was right, the punch card was a clue and proof and someone might want to destroy it. If Boyd had really killed himself and if he was the murderer of both Jarvas, then there was a good chance that the card was still at the Rampart.

Trumaine yawned again. He shook his head and tried to stay awake by focusing on what happened on the sidewalk.

At long last, the throng shy of the day had poured out of the decrepit apartments and moldy basements to get a whiff of fresh air and a slice of whatever pie the night brought. All of them were craving for something. Be it repletion, oblivion or lewdness, they would eagerly crowd around those who offered them at the lowest price and buy whatever they needed.

Cheap restaurants, dirty inns and hot dog stands. The gaunt peddlers stoned around the clock who sold cannabis to ease the senses. The impeccably dressed, hyper-alert hawks who sold overpriced, synthetic cocaine to get out of the world for a ride. The seasoned, tired hookers that made it for a job and the younger, wary girls who made it once in a while for a buck.

Tonight, anything and everything could be bought and enjoyed on Sunshine Avenue ...

Trumaine kept on driving; he was almost there now.

He parked in front of the Rampart.

As he climbed from the car, a playful young woman of possibly twenty spotted him.

She wore stylish, high-heeled shoes and a black dress cut by God himself, but she didn’t need any of that to make an impression. Because she had two things that went a long way to beat the competition, if she had any: she was young and she was as fresh as a daisy. Trumaine studied her long platinum hair: clearly, it wasn’t hers—her real hair hid under the wig, it was shorter, a more natural color, chestnut or even jet black, and belonged to a diligent university student.

“You need a ride?” asked the girl with a little, trembling voice that was afraid of both the bigness of the night and its darkness.

“Not tonight, kiddo.”

The girl groaned, disappointed.

“You should keep your nose off the street, baby. The night looks great and friendly, but it can bite hard. Are you willing to take the chance? If it bites, it can be a big chunk of you. You’d better go home, bury your nose in some Science book.”

Trumaine didn’t mean to be nasty, of course. It was just for conversation, a little awkward attempt at kindling some human warmth. But it got the opposite effect on the girl, who rolled her eyes and snorted. The small voice became resentful at once.

“Move along, daddy,” she said. “This is a dating shop. If you’re not dating, you’re just crowding the office.”

Her fierce, black eyes stared at him.

Trumaine grinned, but he felt hurt. “You take no prisoners tonight, huh?”

She didn’t say anything.

“So long,” he said, at last.

He turned on his heels with a scowl, bounded up the Rampart’s marble staircase and got in.

The hall wasn’t empty anymore.

The old desk clerk Trumaine had seen in the morning was on the shift again. He was checking-in a couple of customers for a couple of hours: a middle-aged, paunchy businessman who had since long traded his fit and lean body for a bag of money, and a rotund woman that was with him. She wasn’t so young any more. As she clung to her man, the hem of her skirt crawled up so high on her back it went stellar. That and a wide breast compensated for her lack of beauty.

A third, younger man sat in one of the floral-velvet armchairs ridden with dust mites of the hall. He had a bunch of flowers in his lap and kept throwing side glances at a large brass clock hanging on the side wall. It didn’t take a genius to tell a broken heart. Romeo was going to wait for another hour before he realized she wouldn’t come. She had rather stayed at home, with her parents or with her boring husband. It wasn’t as thrilling and as dusty as being at the Rampart, but it was safe. If Romeo was smart enough, he would give the flowers to the decrepit hotel clerk—it would be a kind thought—and date the lonely angel that waited outside. She would drown his sorrows and make him feel like heaven for a while and he would forget the woman that never came. Possibly for the rest of his life.

But Romeo didn’t look that smart.

Trumaine pouted. He didn’t want to bother the old clerk with fussy questions, so he went straight to the elevators.

Once again, he emerged in the faded-green velvet of the corridor. The wall lamps were now on, but they shed so little light the corridor was still in semidarkness. Something fluttered about the bulbs, where the light should be stronger. It wasn’t moths, just larger flakes of dust.

Trumaine took to the right, until he arrived on the doorstep of apartment 342. The curtains of the large window at the end of the corridor had been drawn. A feeble beam of moonlight bathed the apartment door, casting a neat shadow in the recess where the handle was. It took Trumaine a while to realize that the police seal had been removed and that the door was ajar.

Suddenly alert, he slid his hand inside his jacket, retrieving from his underarm holster an ordinance high-powered taser gun.

Keeping it leveled, he pushed the door open and slipped into the apartment.

Trumaine didn’t switch on the light; his eyes were now accustomed to the dimness. The feeble rays of moonlight reached into the apartment enough for him to glimpse the furniture and move around it.

The living room was silent and motionless. The books lay exactly in the same position he had left them. Even the desktop chair was at its place.

Never losing sight of the bedroom door, he shuffled to the kitchenette. He looked under the small table, then probed the dark hole underneath with the tip of his shoe. Nobody was hiding in there. If someone was still in the apartment, he must be in the next room.

Trumaine gripped the butt of the taser gun and started toward the bedroom. The door was open. It was open when he left. He jerked his head in and out of the room. He did it again, looking in the opposite direction, but he didn’t see anybody. Even tenser now, he entered the bedroom. Kneeling at the side of the bed, he shot a darting glance underneath it. There was nothing there, but layers of old dust. He then tried the closet door, but it was locked from the outside; no way someone could hide in it.

He turned toward the only place he hadn’t checked yet, the bathroom. He followed behind his gun, entering the room.

It was small and nondescript. A tub, its curtain drawn, occupied the far wall. Trumaine held his breath as he shuffled onward. Swallowing hard, he reached out his hand ... and tore the curtain open.

The apartment was empty.

With a sigh, Trumaine returned to the living room. This time, he switched on the light and closed the front door. He crossed to the desk containing Boyd’s books and slumped down on it. He stroked his chin and thought hard.

There was only one answer to why the police seal had been cut and the door forced open. Trumaine already knew that, along with the intruder, another thing was missing from the apartment.

He put the taser on the desktop, then pulled the desk drawer to reveal the blank notebook sitting inside it. He moved it out of the way, looking for the punch card ... but it was gone.

“Damn!”

The card was a clue and he had been stupid enough to let it slip through his fingers. Was the punch card really part of a code? Who had been using it? Jimmy Boyd? Who else? Why did they need to use a code? What was the secret message being delivered? What was Jimmy Boyd up to and why did he kill himself? Did he really kill himself, after all?

As Trumaine tried to find answers to the many questions that were spinning around in his head, something inconceivable happened: a shadow sneaked out of the bedroom ...

Its features hidden, it crept along the wall behind the oblivious detective, trying to make it to the front door. A gloved hand reached out, grabbing the handle, turning it slowly, in total silence.

Somehow sensing the movement, Trumaine jerked around and glimpsed the fleeting shadow.

“You!” he shouted.

He lunged for the taser he had left on the table, spinning back and aiming it at the intruder. But in the short time it took him to do that, the shadow had run.

With a swear, Trumaine gave chase out of the apartment.

He bolted into the corridor, when he glimpsed the shadow turn to the left, headed for the elevators.

Where the hell was he hiding? He had looked everywhere, except inside the locked closet. Even if the intruder had been in there, he certainly couldn’t have come out without making some noise Trumaine would’ve heard. Why didn’t he?

Unless his quarry was a telepath capable of manipulating Trumaine’s mind so that he didn’t see things that were and didn’t hear real noises. If he could do that, he had an abysmal advantage over the detective.

Trumaine hurried around the corner, coming to the elevators, but they were both being used, so no door opened when he pushed the call button.

He swore again, when he heard the sharp, metallic snap of a return spring. From the corner of his eye, he saw the door to the emergency stair close.

He crashed through it, finding himself looking down at the empty staircase shaft. He listened to the vague tapping of hurried footsteps, until he saw the shape of a hand dart at the railing for support.

He aimed his taser.

“Police! Stay where you are!” he shouted. “You’re under arrest for stealing evidence and for trespassing on a sealed-off area!”

That didn’t sort any effect on the intruder, who kept going.

“Don’t move, I said! I’m gonna shoot you!”

The footsteps didn’t stop.

With a groan, Trumaine flung himself downstairs.

Sweaty and flushed, he emerged into the half-filled parking lot of the Rampart.

The intruder was nowhere to be seen.

Trumaine got down to the ground, quickly and quietly, looking underneath the vehicles, between the spread of tires, trying hard to make out a pair of scrambling legs or anything that moved.

When he heard a car door slam, he climbed to his feet. Keeping low, he moved in the direction of the noise, weaving through the parked vehicles. He emerged from behind one of the cars. He slid around it, until he was looking directly at the driver’s door.

“Don’t move, you son of a bitch!” he yelled, at the same time aiming his gun at the still unseen driver.

With a frightened squeak, an old lady with fluffy white hair looked up in terror. No words came out from her lips, she just lifted her quavering hands.

Trumaine lowered the taser with a scowl and motioned for the lady to go. The woman, still unable to speak from the shock, just nodded her head. She moved her shaky fingers over to the shift stick then, stepping ever so carefully on the gas, she crawled out of the garage.

Trumaine exhaled. Once again, he perked his ears, focusing on any noise that could give up the position of the intruder.

At first he heard nothing. Then his attention was drawn to the muffled, high-pitched hum of an electric engine on idle.

Puzzled, he turned around, trying to understand which car in the next row of vehicles it was. He moved along the parked cars, listening to the whir.

One by one, he checked them all—it was none.

To Trumaine’s surprise, the source of the thrum had shifted now. There were so many pillars and walls in the underground parking the noise could easily ricochet off them, deceiving the ear.

The whir seemed to come from another row of vehicles now. It must be so. It surely did ...

Trumaine started in the new direction, checking every car he passed. Only five remained. Four now—

All of a sudden, the last car in the row jerked out with a screech of tires. Its driver unseen because of the lights ablaze, it sped around the aisle.

The hair on the back of Trumaine’s head bristled. He cut through the row, emerging in the middle of the next driveway, bracing himself and leveling his taser at the careening car.

If the rogue driver thought that a taser was no gun, he had it all wrong. A taser had two modes: STUN GUN and ELECTRIC PISTOL. Surely enough, stun-gun mode was no use with a car. But the needle bullet that would be shot in electric-pistol mode was certified to break through an inch of concrete and certainly had no problem at penetrating most windshields on the market.

Trumaine waited for the driver to stop the car and finally surrender, but he didn’t. The electric engine whirred to an earsplitting noise as the tires squealed in protest and shoved the car onward.

So that was it, thought Trumaine—and he shot ...

The solenoid coiled inside the barrel activated in silence. The taser jerked back in Trumaine’s hands as a thick, shiny needle of steel was sucked into the gun from the magazine and propelled at high speed out of the muzzle toward the charging vehicle.

The grin that had curled Trumaine’s lips lasted a very short time. Something he had never seen in his life had just happened ...

At the very same time he had pulled the trigger, the rogue driver had steered away from bullet. The electric dart whipped by inches away from the car. It kept on going, embedding itself with a puff of grit in the farthest wall.

The car sped onward ... hitting Trumaine squarely.

It was only thanks to the car’s low bumper that he just got scooped onto the hood and tossed into the air like a twig.

Almost in slow-motion, he vaulted over the car, looking like a spread-eagled tumbler performing his ultimate trick and crumpled against the next pillar.

He rolled to the floor as excruciating pain exploded in his body like fireworks then, with one last glance at the fleeing car, he fainted.