The Living Blood

by Tananarive Due

  Be ready, my man. The Black Panther’s warning crashed into Lucas’s head again.

  35

  Miami

  Justin’s call from his father came at ten that night, just when he’d begun wishing that by some miracle the phone would refuse to ring. “Car’s on the way,” Patrick said, and Justin could visualize the excited, boyish smile on his father’s face. “Let’s rock and roll, kid.”

  Feeling a sudden bout of painful stomach cramps, Justin went quickly into the master bathroom to steal one last quick hit from his pipe, which he had hidden in an old Christmas-cookie tin in the bathroom cabinet, behind the sponges and cans of cleansers. Holly knew he kept a stash, but she didn’t like his smoking in the house, not since the girls were old enough to ask questions. He and Holly had partied together all through the early years of their marriage, going to concerts and watching campy horror movies in a pleasant marijuana haze, but she’d turned into a real prude on the subject of dope since the twins were born. She’d given up smoking when she first got pregnant, and as far as he knew, she hadn’t taken a single hit since. Justin admired her dedication to their kids, but in another way, strangely, he felt almost as if she’d betrayed him. She wasn’t the same woman he’d married.

  As soon as that thought occurred to him, with a barking laugh Justin coughed out the smoke he’d been trying to seal in his lungs. That was a fucking joke, all right. Yeah, Holly was the one who’d changed. Holly was the one running around doing God knew what, setting herself up to spend the rest of her life in prison. Holly was the one who’d lost her mind.

  Bullshit.

  Justin took another long hit, closing his eyes as he felt the smoke seep into his lungs. It was so quiet in here, he could hear the fitful pounding of his heart, so loud it seemed like the sound-effect heartbeats in a slasher movie. The past few days had been so strange, it was becoming hard to remember what his life had been like before, as if it had all been a polite precursor to now. This was the part that was real. The disbelief, the sleeplessness, the lies. This.

  He didn’t have to ride this train if he didn’t really want to, Justin told himself in the bathroom, trying desperately to reach for the lucid self he knew had to be hiding inside him somewhere. He’d been riding longer than he’d planned, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t jump off. When his father showed up in the limousine outside his house, he could just stroll out there in the moonlight and say, Sorry, Dad, I’ve changed my mind. That was all.

  So why wasn’t he going to do that?

  Justin didn’t understand it, but he knew he wouldn’t. He’d known it ever since his father had first taken him out to the mansion on Star Island where they were about to spend their weekend. Ever since he’d met that . . .

  What?

  A man? That description seemed generous for the wrinkled, dried-out, old corpse in the wheelchair his father had introduced him to. It just so happened that, unlike most corpses, this one was breathing, and his eyes were open, darting back and forth like two wet, little bugs. And he could talk, even though his words had been labored. His father had warned Justin not to be too shocked by the man, but that warning had been useless. Justin had gasped aloud when he’d seen the guy. How could he help it? He hadn’t known people ever looked as old as that, that it was possible to become so shrunken and deformed.

  And his father and the corpse, the two of them, had laughed at him.

  Yesss, lad, it’s quite a shock, isssn’t it? Not the sssort of thing you sssee every day. Thisss is what two hundred twenty yearsss on earth will do to you. Thisss is the work of that bassstard Father Time.

  But not to worry, the corpse went on. He was about to become a young man again, he said, and he was going to see to it that Justin and his father remained young, too. Forever.

  Recalling that strange day—by far the strangest of Justin’s life so far, although he had a feeling that distinction was about to change—Justin fought off a wave of shivers that started at his neck and worked its way down his spine. His father and the corpse had woven a tale for him more outlandish than anything he’d ever seen in a Hollywood screenplay, about African immortals and magic blood. And it was all very simple to prove, the corpse told him. All Justin had to do was allow his father to cut his forearm with a pocketknife.

  Again, as he’d done dozens of times since that day, Justin rolled up the sleeve of his dress white shirt, his traveling shirt (had to make this “business trip” look good for Holly, after all), and gazed hard at the spot where he knew his father had sunk that blade into his skin, ripping a three-inch tear that had made Justin howl. He wanted to make sure his eyes hadn’t been fooling him. It had only happened three days ago, and scars like that took a long time to heal; sometimes they never did. But there was no mark on Justin’s arm—nothing—and if could believe his father, it was because the talking corpse had squeezed a few drops of what looked like thinned-out blood from the tip of a syringe into his fresh, open wound. By nightfall, the deep cut had already stopped hurting. By the next day, it had sealed itself up neat and clean. By yesterday, the mark had looked like an old scar.

  And today . . . it was just gone.

  Thisss blood is your birthright, Jussstin. Do you want it?

  At the time, feeling freaked out and angry over his new wound, Justin had held his tongue just long enough to get the hell out of that horror house, but he’d given his father an earful on his way home. Told him he needed to see a shrink. Maybe it was time to put him in a home. All the booze had finally caught up with him.

  But two days later, when he’d finally been convinced that the rapid healing was not only his imagination, that something extraordinary had happened to him, something he couldn’t explain, he’d been more willing to listen. He’d studied his father’s medical tests, comparing his new tests to the ones he’d had taken shortly after his surgery. And he’d remembered the existence of that impossible living corpse, a man who was clearly too old to be alive.

  God help him, that was all he’d needed. Convincing.

  Nothing but ashes left in the pipe’s charred bowl. Justin put his pipe away, gargled with mouthwash, and walked into the bedroom, where his black flight bag was already waiting for him on the bed. He flung the bag over his shoulder and turned off the bedroom light without daring to glance back at the familiar room, his old life. But as he walked though the upstairs hallway, he couldn’t ignore the twins’ closed door. He stood in front of the door for a moment, reading the hand-scrawled Girls Only sign they had made with pink construction paper and a purple Magic Marker; Holly had pasted a Polaroid picture of the smiling girls beneath the admonition. Justin remembered feigning hurt feelings when the sign had first gone up three weeks ago, after which the girls had assured him, “But you’re our daddy, and daddies don’t count!” To prove it, they’d led him inside their precious domain, one taking his left hand and the other taking the right.

  Tonight, Justin opened their door as quietly as he could, and light from the hallway spilled into the darkened room. The twins’ bedtime was eight o’clock, so they were long asleep by now. Justin hadn’t lingered over their good-night kiss because two hours ago, he’d still been trying to convince himself his father wouldn’t call. Now, knowing better, he cursed himself for not gazing longer into his precious girls’ eyes. Despite his father’s assurances, Justin knew there was a possibility, however slim, that he might never again have the chance.

  So, instead, Justin gazed at them sleeping in the side-by-side wooden twin beds that had been designed as a bunk bed, but neither he nor Holly had felt comfortable with the idea of one of them sleeping so high. Casey, in particular, had been disappointed because she’d been planning to pretend she was sleeping in a treehouse when it was her turn to have the top bunk. Maybe when she was eight, Justin had promised her, but he had a hard time believing he’d be ready then either.

  With a seashell night-light burning in the outlet beside their beds, Justin could see the hues of pink and purple that made up his daughte
rs’ room, professionally decorated from the time he and Holly had moved into the house. With the dolls, books, and pillows in every corner, this was the most delicate room in their house. His father had warned him they were spoiling the girls with the ruffled curtains and murals of merry-go-rounds, but what the hell would Patrick O’Neal know about spoiling children? There was no such thing, Justin had decided. Oh, children could be spoiled all right, but not by kindnesses. Only the other way, in the truest sense of the word.

  “Was that Pat on the phone?” Holly asked quietly, startling him from behind.

  The spell was broken. Justin took one last look at his sleeping daughters cocooned beneath their blankets and pulled the door closed. “Yep. The car’s on the way.”

  “I don’t know why you guys would book such a late flight. It’ll be after midnight when you get to New York. I wish you were leaving in the morning,” Holly said, a small pout in her voice. She looked exhausted; she’d been doing laundry downstairs, even though Justin had hoped they would have time to make love before he left, which was their tradition whenever he went out of town. Somehow, it hadn’t worked out. He’d been in his office and she’d been in the laundry room, and the subject hadn’t come up. Regretting the loss, Justin tenderly brushed a stray tuft of blond hair from her brow.

  “I know. That’s Dad’s fault.” There really was an 11:35 P.M. flight to La Guardia on Delta that night, Justin had made sure of that, but he and Patrick wouldn’t be on it.

  “You and your dad are awful chummy lately,” Holly said. Justin thought there was something accusatory in Holly’s words, but he could hardly be sure.

  “Isn’t that a good thing?”

  A gentle shadow passed across her dark eyes. “I don’t know, hon. You tell me.”

  “You’re damn right it is. It’s the first time in my life he seems to give a shit about me.” The tremor in Justin’s voice surprised even him; it wasn’t acting. He hadn’t expected to feel so emotional when he talked about his father, but there it was. And it was true, he realized. For all these past days, he’d been banging his head against the wall trying to figure out why he was even letting himself hear the bizarre things his father had been telling him, but he’d just stumbled onto it, hadn’t he? It was all about dear old Dad. Maybe it was thirty years too late, but he was finally getting some attention from the son of a bitch.

  Immediately, Justin felt guilty for the smile that lit up Holly’s face. He had to be a better liar than he’d ever imagined, because he’d thought his wife could read his moods better than anyone else on the planet, and she wasn’t the least bit suspicious that he’d become an impostor standing inside her husband’s body.

  “Then I’m glad,” she said, wrapping her arms around his waist. Feeling her midsection bump against his groin, Justin felt a faint glow of arousal he knew he would have to ignore. Comfortably, she nuzzled her chin against his breastbone, gazing up at him. “I hope you two have a great trip, with lots of father-son bonding. Call me on the cell when you get a chance, okay?”

  “Sure thing, sweet stuff,” Justin said, kissing her lips lightly. He was amazed she couldn’t hear the frantic pounding of his heart. “I’ll let you know when we’ll be back. Shouldn’t be more than a couple of days.”

  Now, Justin knew why his father had been such a monstrous liar when Justin was a kid, even about the little things. Because it was easy, that was all. Because he could.

  • • •

  “Why do you look so pale? Have a drink,” Patrick O’Neal said, offering Justin a tumbler of Scotch from the limousine’s wet bar. The television set was on, but it was playing only snow.

  Justin shook his head. “Not my drug of choice. I’m cool. Just tell me what I’m in for.”

  It was Clarion’s stretch limo, so they sat far from each other in the plush, gray seats. The driver, safely behind his closed-glass partition, was piping in some kind of salsa music, but Justin didn’t mind. At least the music was loud enough that they wouldn’t be overheard.

  Justin’s father regarded him in silence for a moment, grinning. “They’re in the air as we speak. Two of them, a black guy and a black woman. It’s a private plane, a private hangar over at Tamiami Airport. Unless something goes wrong with those custom guys in our pocket, they should be at the house by morning. Rusty Baylor himself and one of his men are riding along. But this is where we come in: Nobody else knows the truth, Justin. Just us and, hopefully, our two guests. If luck is on our side, the black guy they’re bringing is one of them. Baylor says he’s about six-six. That’s a match to Mr. O’Neal’s father. It’s a very, very good sign, kiddo.”

  One of them.

  Justin felt his heart take a leap, as if it hoped to free itself from his body. Maybe he should have accepted the Scotch after all, he thought. The blood had healed his arm, he could buy that, but it was still hard to swallow the story about African immortals—or that the old geezer’s father might still be walking around somewhere, a young man. It was insane to believe that.

  “So, if nobody else knows, who’s talking to . . . these people? Mr. O’Neal?” Justin asked.

  “Exactly right,” Patrick said, licking his lips. “He’ll be relaying questions to us through an earpiece. He won’t be in the room, though. We have to keep these guys secured, and Mr. O’Neal can’t leave his floor. So it’s up to us to get the information. First we’ll draw their blood. Nash, the head of security you met, will help Mr. O’Neal analyze it in his home lab. Mr. O’Neal has an electron microscope, and he’s going to look at it himself. Same for the stuff they found.”

  “Christ,” Justin said. “I’m surprised that old guy can even see.”

  “Let me finish, because this is the important part,” Patrick said, all joviality gone. “If we get the results we want, we have our immortals. Bingo. If not, we have to start asking questions. They had blood on their premises—three bags of it, and I’m pretty sure it’s the right stuff—so if they claim they don’t know where it came from, they’re full of shit. They’re lying.”

  Patrick said this with real anger, Justin noticed, as if these strangers had committed an offense against him. Maybe he’d really bought that old codger’s story about their birthright, Justin thought. He just didn’t know if he believed any of it. Even if the guy was as old as he said, how could he know they were descended from him? It was all so outlandish.

  Patrick stared hard at his son. Then he reached into the back of his waistband and pulled out something that glinted in the overhead light: a nickel-plated automatic gun. Solemnly, Patrick extended the gun to him.

  Justin felt the blood drain from his face. “Wh-what the fuck—”

  “Take it.”

  “What the hell am I going to do with that?”

  “It’s a precaution, son. Those people will be restrained, but we’re to be armed at all times we’re with them. Do you need a review on how to use this weapon? This is the safety. The first thing you do when anyone hands you a gun is to check to see if it’s loaded, which this is—”

  Justin scooted back in his seat, distancing himself from the weapon. His stomach cramps were back, in full force. “No way. You didn’t say anything about a gun. I’m not shooting anybody. And what do you mean we’re supposed to question them? You’re not talking about electric shocks and stuff like that, are you?”

  Patrick was firm, still holding out the gun. Clearly, he wasn’t going to answer until Justin took it from him, so finally Justin did. The weight of it startled him for a moment, and he gazed at it with fascination. His father had always promised to take him out to a shooting range when he was a kid, but he’d never gotten around to it. Now, they were about to go shooting after all.

  “Mr. O’Neal knows we’re not trained in interrogation. We’re not in there to shock anybody or beat them up, Justin. One of us might do a little slapping around to make our point now and then, but that’s all. There are other people, like Baylor and his guys, who can do more.”

  Had his father always b
een like this? Who the hell was this guy? Justin stared at his father with the same detached fascination he’d felt while he’d first examined the gun. Patrick’s silver hair was neatly combed, efficiently gelled in place until it thinned to a snakelike ponytail hanging down the back of his neck. And he was leaning forward, his hands folded calmly between his knees, explaining the scenario as if he’d been questioning prisoners his entire life.

  “Basically, think of it as good cop, bad cop,” Patrick went on. “These people have been through a lot. They’ve watched people die and they’ve been treated like shit. By the time they see us, they’ll be relieved. They’re looking for friends. We’ll bring them coffee, food, whatever. But we’ll be firm. And if it turns out they’re not the immortals, we have to let them know those big mean guys outside are going to kill them if they don’t cooperate. So”—Patrick smiled, raising his eyebrows expectantly—“you want to be the good cop or the bad cop?”

  In that instant, Justin’s cramping doubled him over. He covered his mouth, fighting hard not to vomit his dinner all over the limousine’s carpeted floor.

  “I thought that weed you like so much was supposed to be good for a bad stomach,” Patrick said wryly. “But then again, I never figured you had it for medicinal purposes.”

  “Back off, Dad. No jokes. I can’t do this.”

  “Bullshit.” Patrick’s voice was so violent that Justin gazed up at him, halfway expecting to see a gun pointed at him. His father’s eyes were bright, and he’d turned red-faced. “I’m sure Mr. O’Neal’s staff can find you some Pepto-Bismol, some ganja, whatever gets you through the day, sonny boy—but you can do this, and you will. You know how I know? Because I gave you a chance to back out, and you didn’t. Why the hell do you think I sent you to lunch with Rusty Baylor instead of doing it myself? So you could see what this was about, up close and personal. So you wouldn’t have any questions in that Pollyanna little mind of yours. And you went for it, Justin. You gave the order. You had these people kidnapped.”