Blood Lines

by Mel Odom

He parked beside his daddy’s Ford F-150. After a minute, because he knew his daddy didn’t like any sudden movement out in the yard, Don got out of the car and walked toward the home.

  The ranch house was a small three-bedroom that Tyrel McHenry had built with his own hands before he’d asked for his wife’s hand in marriage. He’d wanted to give her a good home, and he had. He still managed the roofing and upkeep on his own, though Don and Shel had both spent considerable time helping out while they were growing up.

  Don was just stepping up onto the wooden veranda that ran around two sides of the house when he heard his daddy’s voice from the side.

  “Kind of late for you to come calling, ain’t it?” Tyrel asked.

  Don froze where he was and—for just a second—felt as guilty as he had when he’d tried to come sneaking home back in high school after staying out too late with Shel. That hadn’t happened often. Shel had stayed out a lot, but Don hadn’t.

  “Yes, sir,” Don said. “I wouldn’t have come if it hadn’t been important.”

  Tyrel sat in the dark of the porch in one of the two rocking chairs that had been on the veranda as long as Don could remember. They’d taken some mending over the years too, but they’d stood up under the weather and the time. Tyrel had built them as well.

  “Your brother was shot,” Tyrel said flatly.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I already know that. Them people he works with called.”

  In the dark, Don couldn’t see his daddy’s face. He had no idea how his daddy was taking the news, but he sounded as calm as ever.

  “They said they couldn’t get hold of you,” Don said.

  “They left a message.”

  Confusion spun through Don. “They called more than once.”

  “They did.” Tyrel rocked gently in the chair.

  “You didn’t answer the phone.”

  “Didn’t need to. I heard their message. If anything changes, I expect they’ll leave a different message.”

  Feeling overcome, Don sat down on the edge of the porch like he’d often done when talking to his daddy. They hadn’t ever talked for long. God knew Don had tried, but Tyrel McHenry had just never been one for long-winded conversations. It came to Don then that he’d probably talked to his daddy more that day than he had in years.

  “They say Shel’s hurt pretty bad,” Don said.

  “He’ll be all right.” Tyrel’s voice was firm and unyielding. “He’s been hurt before.”

  Don sat there for a moment and tried to figure out what he was going to say next. Then he realized that there was no other way than to just say it.

  “I’m going up there, Daddy,” Don said. “Commander Coburn said Shel needs to take some time off to heal up. Now I know Shel; he’s not going to want to do that. So I figured I’d go up there and bring him on back here so he could be with family.”

  “That sounds good. But I’m betting you won’t get him to come.”

  “I’ve decided I’m not coming home without him. For one, he needs to rest. And for another he hasn’t been around his family—” his daddy, Don wanted to say—“in a long time.”

  “Good luck with that. You know how stubborn Shel can be.”

  And I know who he gets that from, Don thought, but he didn’t dare say it.

  “Maybe,” Don said cautiously, hoping he was sounding like he’d just come up with the idea on the spot, “he’d listen if you told him that.”

  Tyrel stopped rocking. “Ain’t my business to be telling a man full growed what he ought to be doing.”

  “You’re his daddy.”

  “Both of y’all are an age you don’t need a daddy telling you what to do.”

  “Then come with me and ask him to come home.” Don tried to stare through the darkness to see his daddy. But he couldn’t quite see the older man’s hard face. “I can get another plane ticket.”

  For a long moment, Tyrel didn’t say anything. During that time Don thought his daddy was actually considering the possibility.

  “You go ahead on and do that if you’ve a mind to,” Tyrel said. “But it ain’t for me to do.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I just told you it wasn’t.”

  Anger got past Don’s defenses. He didn’t understand his father. He never had. Not when it came to being involved in family.

  “That’s your son up there lying in that hospital bed,” Don said hoarsely.

  “He’s gonna be fine.”

  “You don’t know that. They don’t know that. That’s why they called.”

  For a moment Tyrel didn’t speak. “Don’t go getting yourself all worked up into a lather, boy. Come morning, everything is gonna be fine, and you’ll find out you just got yourself upset for no reason at all.”

  Shaking, Don stood. “Daddy, I’m going to tell you something I haven’t ever told you. Maybe I should have. I just don’t know.”

  “Maybe you should just hold on to that,” his daddy cautioned, “before you say something you can’t take back.”

  “I’ve held on to it too long already.” Don took a deep breath and asked God to stand beside him while he spoke. “When Joanie was pregnant with Joshua, I was so afraid of becoming a father because I didn’t know how to be one. I was afraid I wasn’t going to be able to love him enough. I was afraid we weren’t going to have anything in common.”

  “You didn’t have no cause to think that way.”

  “Didn’t I?” Don couldn’t believe it when he stepped up onto the porch. “You raised Shel and me, but you haven’t been the best father you could have. Half the time—especially after Mama died—I don’t think you even cared.”

  “Yet here you are,” Tyrel said. “Standing on your own two feet and telling me man-to-man what’s on your mind.”

  “You weren’t there, Daddy. You weren’t there when my children were born. You weren’t there when I was scared to death I didn’t know how to take care of them. You weren’t there when Shel shipped off to the Marines. You weren’t there when most of his unit had gotten killed in the Gulf War and the Marines thought he was dead too.” Tears stung Don’s eyes and he let them flow.

  “I think maybe it’s time you went on home,” Tyrel said quietly. “You’re getting too worked up. You’re worried about your brother, and that’s understandable.”

  “You know when I realized how little of a father you’d been?” Don asked. His voice was so tight with emotion he almost couldn’t speak.

  “Don—”

  “When I held Joshua in my arms the first time,” Don said. “That’s when. I held my son and realized how good it made me feel. That’s when I realized how much Shel and I had missed growing up.”

  “I never cut and run on you boys,” Tyrel grated. His voice was tight with some emotion too, but Don didn’t know exactly what it was. “I was there every day. Putting in time on this ranch. Making sure you had a roof over your heads, plenty of food on the table, and clothes on your back.”

  “There’s more to being a father than that, Daddy.”

  Tyrel pushed up out of the rocking chair. Don felt afraid for just a moment. He’d seen the deep anger that resided in his daddy. Tyrel had never turned those hard hands on his sons, but Don had always thought it was possible. Although since Tyrel had never flattened Shel while he was growing up, maybe it wasn’t. Because Shel had sorely tried his patience.

  “You know the biggest thing I was afraid of when Joanie was pregnant?” Don asked in a quieter voice. “I was afraid I was going to be you. I didn’t want any child of mine to grow up with a daddy like I had.”

  “It’s time for you to go,” his daddy said. “You need to get some sleep if you’re gonna catch a plane outta here in the morning.”

  Don tried to think of something else to say and couldn’t. Helplessly, he watched his daddy walk to the front door, enter, and lock the door behind him. The house was completely dark inside.

  Although he thought about going to the door and demanding to be let in, D
on knew that wouldn’t do any good. Tyrel was through talking, and when that happened, there was nothing else to be done.

  In the quiet darkness on the porch, Don took a deep breath and wondered if he’d destroyed what little remained of the fragile connection he had with his daddy. He tried to tell himself that he’d be better off.

  Shel had walked away from their daddy for the most part. He only stopped in often enough to remember why he’d left home.

  “Daddy,” Don said loud enough to be heard through the closed door, “I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings. But I’m not sorry I said what I said.”

  There was no answer from the darkened house.

  After a few more moments, when he was sure his daddy wouldn’t be answering, Don turned and walked back to his car. He stood beside it for just a moment and bowed his head in prayer.

  God, you want me to honor my mother and my father. You have to know how difficult this is. Please show me how, because I can’t find a way on my own.

  Lifting his head, Don got into his car and drove back toward home. There was a lot to be done by morning.

  >> Interview Room

  >> Federal Bureau of Investigation Field Office

  >> Charlotte, North Carolina

  >> 0017 Hours

  Victor sat motionless and stared at the one-way mirror. Occasionally he took note of his reflection, but there was nothing there he wanted to see.

  He kept seeing Bobby Lee.

  As he sat there, Victor tried to assess how he felt. He hadn’t tried to do anything like that in years. Normally he didn’t bother. Normally there was enough whiskey, drugs, and women at hand that he didn’t need to feel much of anything. He’d always operated on instinct.

  Instinct is the survival of the species, Victor told himself. Having kids is part of it.

  Only someone had gunned down his kid.

  When he’d seen the EMTs walk the big man out of the tattoo shop and seen all the blood gushing out of him, Victor had known the man was in trouble. Only an artery pumped like that.

  Personally, Victor hoped the man died. But in case he didn’t, Victor had memorized his face. If the man lived, retribution was going to be swift and final. It didn’t matter who he was. Some other father was going to lose his son too.

  The door opened, and Urlacher entered.

  Victor didn’t even glance at the FBI agent. He kept track of him in the mirror.

  “Don’t know what you’re doing here, supercop,” Victor said. “The deal’s off. It died with my boy.”

  “That’s not how I see it,” Urlacher said.

  Victor grinned slow and easy. “Then you need to get your eyes checked.”

  Urlacher sat at the table. “You’re still in a world of hurt. You aren’t free of me yet.”

  “If you could make anything stick, we wouldn’t be in here talking, would we?”

  With a tired sigh, Urlacher leaned back in his chair.

  “Do you really think all your fed bosses are going to let you just hang around here trying to trip me up?” Victor asked.

  Urlacher didn’t answer.

  “I don’t think so. Especially not as deep as you like to run personnel on a job.”

  “Are you just talking to hear yourself?”

  Victor grinned again, even though he didn’t truly feel like it. “I was going to offer your undercover buddy a deal tonight. Before you decided to be a hard case about it. Maybe you’re ready to listen to that now.”

  “I’m here about the opium that’s showing up in North Carolina.”

  “There’s a Salvadoran gang running opium through North Carolina.” Victor shook out a cigarette, the first one he’d had since he’d been returned to the interview room. He lit up and dragged a deep lungful. “Maybe taking them down would be enough to satisfy the people you’re banging heads for.”

  Urlacher seemed to contemplate that for a moment. “What Salvadoran gang?”

  “Mara Salvatrucha,” Victor said. “They named themselves after some kind of army ant. Whatever they are, they’re mucho trouble. You interested in them, supercop?”

  “You don’t get your opium from them.”

  Victor grinned. “I don’t deal in opium. Don’t know where you get that idea.”

  “It’s more than an idea.”

  “Then prove it. Arrest me. Let me call my lawyer. Then I’ll be out of here as soon as he posts bail for me. And whatever you get some DA to charge me with, my attorney’s going to beat. Then we’ll turn around and sue you for false arrest. It’ll make a nice retirement package.”

  Urlacher frowned. “I’ve heard of the Mara Salvatrucha. They also call themselves MS-13.”

  “One of the most notorious gangs operating out there right now,” Victor agreed. “Those guys are big-time hard-core. They’ll bury you soon as look at you.” He knew that from personal experience; they’d already crossed paths a couple times, and blood had spilled like water. “They’ve even got themselves a History Channel special.”

  “What do you have?”

  “I got names. Places. Players. Routes they use to bring cargo in from Houston right up Interstate 35, then out Interstate 40 to here. If I give you what I got here, then you can follow the play back there and bring down some major players.”

  “Are they getting work from the same place you are?”

  Victor smiled and spread his hands. “I don’t sell drugs. I already told you that.”

  Urlacher cursed.

  “These guys deal opium,” Victor said. “Get it from a Yakuza connection down in Mexico. The Japanese mafia is treading on the toes of the Colombian cocaine cartels. Gonna be a real shooting war down there when this all breaks loose. Might help domestically if you could start working on getting a handle on it now.”

  Urlacher only stared at him.

  “So what’s it gonna be, supercop?” Victor asked in a flat voice. “That’s the deal on the table. You want to ante up and play with the big boys? Or are you gonna roll the dice with Mr. DA?”

  17

  >> Intensive Care Unit

  >> Presbyterian Hospital

  >> Charlotte, North Carolina

  >> 0814 Hours

  When he tried to open his eyelids and found that they weighed about a hundred pounds each, Shel knew he was on serious pain medication. The too-bright illumination from the overhead track lighting was another clue. The fact that his nose itched told him that at least one of the prescribed meds was Demerol. His nose always itched when he was on Demerol.

  “Hey.”

  Woozy, Shel rolled his head to the side. The room seemed to spin. He closed his eyes involuntarily.

  “Easy,” a soft feminine voice suggested. “Go slow.”

  Shel checked his teeth with his tongue. It was a habit after all the fights he’d been in. At least this time it didn’t seem like any dental work was involved. Everything was where it was supposed to be.

  “You still with me?” the woman’s voice asked.

  When he recognized her voice then, Shel said her name. “Maggie.”

  “Got it in one, Marine.”

  Shel didn’t want to try to smile. He always looked goofy when he was on Demerol and smiled. Some of the guys he’d toured with had pictures to prove it. But he smiled anyway because Maggie was there and he thought it was great she was there. In fact, everything seemed kind of great.

  He blinked his eyes open again. “Good to see you, Maggie.”

  “I bet.” Maggie stood at the foot of the hospital bed. “How are you feeling?”

  “Better than I’ve felt in a long time.”

  Maggie laughed.

  “Didn’t know you were twins.” Shel tried to focus and bring the two images back into one. He almost had it, but it took nearly everything he had to accomplish that.

  “I think I’ll suggest to the nurse that they cut back on the meds,” Maggie said.

  “Sure.”

  “If you start hurting, you’ll want to let them know.”

  Shel nodd
ed, and the effort seemed like it took forever. The room spun again too.

  “Can I get something to drink?” he asked.

  “You can have ice.”

  Shel sighed.

  “Sorry, big guy. Nurse’s orders. With all the painkillers you’re on, if you drink water, it might come back up.”

  “Ice,” Shel agreed.

  Maggie fed him a few ice chips with a plastic spoon.

  Shel savored them, holding them in his mouth till they slowly melted and relieved some of the parched sensation in his throat. That was from the tube the emergency room people had shoved down his esophagus to keep the airway open. The next couple of days weren’t going to be pleasant swallowing.

  “How bad is my arm?” he asked.

  “Nothing permanent,” Maggie replied. She spooned more ice chips into his mouth. “The bullet tore into your upper thoracic cavity and struck the underside of the glenohumeral joint. There was some—”

  “English,” Shel protested.

  “The bullet hit you in the chest and caught the underside of the ball and socket joint in your shoulder.”

  “Now that I can understand,” Shel said, “but only because I’ve had a few shoulder separations.”

  “The surgeon did mention there had been previous operations.”

  Shel nodded. “Football.”

  “Then you know the rehab you’re going to have to do to get everything back in shape.”

  “No permanent damage?” Shel asked again because he wanted to hear it once more. One of his biggest fears was that he’d get disabled somewhere along the way, then shelved at a desk job or released on a medical discharge. All he had was the Marines. If something like that happened, he didn’t know what he’d do with himself. He didn’t have a family like Don, and he was pretty sure he didn’t want one.

  “No permanent damage,” Maggie agreed. “The bullet deflected downward and went into your right arm. It nicked the brachiocephalic artery just enough to cause problems.” She paused. “Remy probably saved your life. Twice. When you went down, the EMTs couldn’t get to you.”