Free San Francisco Night by Stephen Leather Page A

even checked inside shoes, but found nothing.
    “Come on, Lee,” he muttered to himself. “Help me here. Give me something to work on.”
    Nightingale checked the wardrobes and closet space in the other two bedrooms, bathroom cabinets, drawers and even looked under the beds. Nothing. He went back downstairs.
    He thought back to his years as a police officer.  He’d been on dozens of  drug searches and it had always surprised him how predictable dealers were when it came to hiding their wares. Toilet cisterns, loose floorboards, freezers. The floors in the house were solid hardwood and not easily lifted and all the toilets were plumbed into marble walls, but there was a large fridge-freezer in the kitchen, a stainless steel German model that was almost big enough to walk into.
    There were a dozen or so frozen steaks, each the size of a dinner plate, and underneath them a Tupperware container containing a small leatherbound book, the cover scuffed with age. Nightingale sat down on a stool by the breakfast bar and opened the book.
    It appeared to be gibberish at first sight, but Nightingale had seen something similar before. It was mirror writing,  as used by Da Vinci to write his diaries and by generations of Satanists to hide their activities. Nightingale tried to make out a few words, then realized he was looking at reversed, Latin. He slipped the book in his raincoat pocket. Finding a way to decipher it could wait till he got back to his hotel. He shivered. It had gone suddenly cold in the kitchen. There was an air-conditioning unit set into the wall but it didn’t seem to be on. He buttoned his coat and headed for the front door.
    As he stepped into the hallway he realized that his breath was feathering in the cold air. He stopped, frowning. His hands were cold and he blew on them, then realized his feet were freezing, too. He stamped his Hush Puppies on the hardwood floor , but it didn’t warm them and it didn’t make any sound. A wave of fear swept over him, the hairs on his neck stood on end and his stomach started to cramp. The urge to panic and run became almost uncontrollable as he spotted a wisp of yellow smoke at the bottom of the front door. His eyes widened as the plume of smoke grew larger, thicker and darker until he could hardly see the door at all. The temperature dropped even further and he began to shiver uncontrollably. He backed down the hall as the smoke began to coalesce.
    His legs had gone numb and he could no longer feel his feet. He took a step back and almost stumbled. Ice was forming on the walls. The smoke was shimmering as if it was made of ice crystals. Something formed within the cloud. A face, but not a human face. Then a claw, but not the claw of any animal Nightingale had ever seen. Another face formed, a girl, crying, then it disappeared and lower down a mouth filled with teeth appeared, snarled and then vanished. Nightingale shivered, then shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. The shifting cloud was closer now, so close that he could almost touch it.
    He retreated along the hall, and into the living room, slamming the door behind him. He pushed an armchair against the handle, then watched in horror as the yellow smoke reappeared on his side of the door.  Within seconds the smoke started to coalesce again. Faces. Shapes. Talons. A shifting mass of horror. Ice began to form on the walls and his breath was feathering as soon as it left his mouth. Nightingale staggered around one of the sofas and as the solidifying cloud followed him. He stumbled towards the door, flung it open and hurtled down the hall and into the kitchen.
    Nightingale became aware of a dog barking, in the distance but getting closer. There was a knife block by the sink with half a dozen wooden-handled knives embedded in it. Nightingale pulled out a carving knife just as the swirling cloud oozed into the kitchen.
    He held the knife in front of him, swishing it from side to side. The barking was louder now