The Living Blood

by Tananarive Due

  “How will we get inside?” Teferi shouted.

  Dawit opened his eyes, his reverie broken. Brushing rainwater from his face, he quickly surveyed the palatial three-story house. All of the visible windows were hidden behind shutters, so the house stood before him like a fortress. The most vulnerable points were the rectangular-shaped garage door and the white double doors beyond the stately portico. The portico was ringed by large, potted bougainvillea bushes that were whipping in the wind, nearly stripped of their bright flowers.

  “Through the front door!” Dawit shouted back. “Stand aside, and give me your weapon.”

  Was anyone here? The rear of the house faced the bay directly, separated from the water by only a modest strip of land, so the owner would have been wise to evacuate. What must have looked like a choice location before was only a ludicrous death trap now. No cars were visible, but the garage looked easily large enough for six vehicles. And even if the occupants had fled, there might be clues here about where to search next for Jessica’s sister, Dawit decided.

  If the house was empty, he and Teferi would search it and wait out the storm. If not . . .

  Dawit adjusted Teferi’s weapon so that it would not discharge frozen pellets, only a precise blast of icy air. He raised the weapon to the doors, pressed the muzzle to the space where the dead bolt’s bar bound them together, and squeezed the trigger. There was a loud fizzing sound. Dawit moved the weapon down to the lock at the doorknob, squeezing again.

  That should do it, he thought. Dawit backed up two steps, then rushed at the door to kick it. When he did, the metal locks split apart like ice. Instantly, aided by the wind, the door flew open, banging loudly against the wall inside. So much for the element of surprise, Dawit thought.

  “I’ll go inside first,” he said, readjusting Teferi’s weapon before he gave it back to him. Then, he readied his Glock. “You stay clear until I call. And try to avoid a bullet to the head.”

  “We’re agreed on that, at least! My goodness, I haven’t seen combat since . . . let me think . . .”

  Without waiting for the end of Teferi’s thought, in a bent stance, Dawit entered the dimly lit house. His eyes adjusting quickly, Dawit examined the spacious living room; he saw a corridor to the left, a one-story picture window too large for shutters facing the bay before him, and a grand spiral staircase to his right. There was an elevator underneath the stairs, and when Dawit heard the whirring of the descending elevator, he realized it must already have begun its journey when he’d broken through the door. There was a small ding when it landed. Had the occupants heard the crash? Most likely.

  Dawit braced himself alongside the elevator, out of the occupants’ line of vision, waiting for the metallic doors to open. When a black man with a mustache cautiously peeked out to see if anyone was in sight, he and Dawit came eye to eye. Not a foot separated them.

  “Motherfu—” the man began, wide-eyed, but Dawit silenced him with a bullet between the eyes. When he heard the click of a second gun being readied inside the elevator, Dawit estimated the point of the sound’s origin both from the sound and the scent of cigar smoke on the man’s breath. Then, he bent his wrist past the door into the elevator car, firing three more times. He felled the second man without even having him in sight. A gurgling cry from inside signaled to Dawit that it was safe to check his handiwork; the second man, who had the dark skin and hair of a mixed-race Latino, had dropped his gun and was desperately clinging to his throat, where blood was spurting in rhythmic jets. To be merciful, Dawit shot him through the heart. The dead man slumped to the floor.

  Dawit felt adrenaline singing in his veins, and his silent breathing had grown shallow, excited. You fool, Dawit chided himself, glancing down at the two dead men. Alexis might have been in this elevator, too. What then? Jessica had not sent him here to murder her sister.

  The dead man lay blocking the elevator door’s path, so the door remained open. He and Teferi might need to use this elevator themselves soon, if the downstairs search proved fruitless. Now, Dawit had to look for Alexis and brace for further attacks. He noted how many rounds he had remaining in the handsome compact, black pistol in his hand: He had fired four times, which left him with at least eleven rounds. He had one additional magazine in his pocket, so he had to be more conservative, he decided. Even with a knife in a sheath strapped against his back and Teferi to assist him, he could not be sure they were equipped to face however many others might be waiting for them here. “Teferi—inside,” Dawit called.

  The hunt was truly under way.

  • • •

  “What the bloody hell—”

  “Was that what I think it was?”

  The loud banging noise from downstairs broke the silence in the room and lifted Justin from his horrified trance. For the past two minutes, he’d felt as if he’d been sucked into the last scene from Taxi Driver, when the camera rises above the set and stares down at the carnage below, splaying it with surreal clarity. The surrealism had begun as soon as he’d seen his father appear in the hallway behind Dr. Shepard with his gun raised high. He’d felt a disconcerting blend of relief and disappointment; the relief was because he’d realized that the scientist’s only real chance to escape would be to shoot everyone before they could try to stop him, and that meant him, too.

  The disappointment, he didn’t understand. Stockholm syndrome, maybe. Or maybe just the tender look on the scientist’s face when he’d talked to his son on the telephone, when it had dawned on Justin in Technicolor that he’d helped kidnap a boy’s father. He had busted up a family. The scientist was a man, a father, just like him. How would he feel if he’d been abducted? He marveled at how he’d overlooked the turpitude of it all before.

  So when his father had appeared in that shadowed hallway, Justin had felt the words Watch out! surging from his throat, and he hadn’t been sure if the warning had been intended for his father or the scientist. He would never know, not now. He did know that he’d never expected his father to shoot like that. Even though he heard the thunderous peal of the gunshot, and even though he’d seen his father’s gun smoke, and he’d seen blood spray from the back of the scientist’s head, he still didn’t believe it. And he especially didn’t believe the expression on his father’s face as he’d fired; Patrick had been biting his bottom lip with an intense grin, almost as if he’d been masturbating instead of killing a man.

  Justin had jumped, clamping his hands over his ears but wishing he’d hidden his eyes instead, whispering, No no no no no.

  The scientist lay facedown, soaking the carpet with blood from the gaping wound that had torn open a chunk on the back of his head, a grisly combination of bone, blood, and brain that would have made Justin vomit if he had truly grasped that it was more than a hallucination. And Alexis had crawled to the scientist on the floor, with the chair bound to her ankles dragging behind her. She wrapped herself around the scientist’s limp, sprawled form while she sobbed against him in silence.

  Time had frozen just like that for what seemed like an eternity.

  Then, bang. Justin had snapped out of the dream with a frenzied heart. The noise downstairs sounded like the front door had just crashed open. Was it the storm? Or maybe it was the police!

  Baylor was the first to react to the sound; he picked up the pistol from the floor, then pushed past Patrick to make his way out of the bedroom doorway. After snatching his own pistol from the nightstand, the Irishman scurried behind him. They did not look frightened; they looked hungry. Yes, Justin remembered, these were professional soldiers. Some part of them lived to kill.

  And in that instant, despite a sickening taste coating his throat, Justin was glad of it.

  Justin watched his father pick up the pistol in front of his feet. Only a moment before, this gun had been in the scientist’s hand. “Justin,” Patrick said, speaking so sharply that Justin’s eyes went to him. Patrick extended the gun. “Stay here, and lock the door. Tie the woman back up. I need to see what the hell’s going
on.”

  Justin searched his father’s eyes for a softness that might say, Son, I had to kill a man, and we both know that’s a shame, but I had to do what I had to do. But there was nothing, no apologies, no regret, as if the episode had not occurred. With a yawning sense of imbalance, Justin realized he did not know his father. Or, maybe he always had, he just hadn’t wanted to. Because if he had ever fathomed what his father might do, murdering a man while his back was turned, Justin would not have let his daughters sit on this man’s lap. Even once.

  “Did you hear me? Take it, I said. I don’t have time for your prissy horseshit.”

  Feeling numb, Justin took the gun and fit the butt in his hand. The gun was still warm from the scientist’s grip. Justin looked at the sprayed blood, which had stained the doorway and wall like a busted water balloon. The taste in Justin’s mouth grew acrid.

  “What did I just say to you?” Patrick said, holding Justin with unblinking eyes.

  “Lock the door. Tie the woman up.” Justin felt he’d regressed, that he was eight years old again, repeating one of his father’s lessons: Don’t talk back. Don’t bother Daddy when he’s fighting with Mommy. Don’t give Daddy a lot of theatrics. Tie the woman back up for Daddy.

  Patrick scowled at Justin, then surprised him by lashing out to slap his face. The blow wasn’t hard enough to turn his head, but was painful enough to make him cry out. “Ow, goddammit—”

  Justin’s head became sharply clear again. He’d been drifting somewhere.

  “We need this woman, or we’re fucked. Do you understand that? Don’t screw this up.”

  “Yeah, okay, right,” Justin said, irritation rapidly eating away at his numbness. “I got it. Just go on. I’m fine.”

  Patrick patted Justin’s sore cheek, affectionately this time. He half-smiled at Justin, as if Patrick had won something. His eyes were downright merry before he turned to leave.

  Fuck you, Justin thought. You haven’t won a goddamned thing.

  He locked the door behind his father.

  “I’m going to get you out of here,” Justin whispered to the woman, kneeling beside her. He hadn’t known he was going to say that, but he was utterly relieved he had. He felt his fear, repulsion, and shame slipping from him like a shed skin, and the acidic taste in his mouth started to fade.

  If Alexis had heard him, she didn’t respond. She was still sobbing over the scientist’s corpse, her fingers traveling across his neck and chest the way someone might touch something she believed was only imaginary. Justin wondered if they’d been sleeping together.

  Justin shook her shoulder. “Look, I’m sorry about what happened to him, I really am, but you need to get out of here now. I’ll hide you somewhere.”

  Even as he spoke, he realized he didn’t know where he could hide a woman, even in a house this size. But he would figure something out, he decided. One of the upstairs closets, maybe. If he had to, he would hide there with her and shoot anyone who discovered them.

  “I need some blood,” Alexis choked. She cradled the scientist’s head gently, then began to tug on his shoulders to turn him over, exposing his face. Lucas Shepard’s head dangled, and his mouth hung open, blood streaming from a dislodged front tooth. But his eyes, mercifully, were closed. Justin could not have stared into those eyes.

  Oh, shit, Justin thought, she’s lost it. Their one chance to escape, and she’d flipped out.

  “Listen, lady, I will drag you out of here if I have to. You can’t do anything for him.”

  “I thought I felt . . . a pulse,” she said, frantically pressing her ear to the dead man’s bare chest. She listened, her wide eyes facing Justin but not seeing him. “It’s not there now, but . . . I thought I felt something. . . . Get me some of the blood. Let me heal him.”

  There were four mini-explosions from downstairs. The sounds might have been a quirk of lightning, a backfiring car, a falling power line—but they sure as hell had sounded like gunshots. Jesus, maybe someone had broken into the house and was trying to steal the blood from them. Two of the security guards had fled earlier in the day, he remembered; maybe they had heard about the blood somehow and had pretended to flee, planning to ambush them later.

  “Someone’s in the house!” Justin said, perspiration beading beneath his nose.

  “Yes, I know. Maybe my sister sent someone,” Alexis said tranquilly. “Please help me get some blood.” She was gazing straight at him now, her red eyes full of tears. Her face was dotted with burn marks—her cheeks, her forehead, even the tip of her nose—and Justin felt dirty looking at her. He wished he could heal her and make those ugly marks disappear. “I don’t want to lose him.”

  Justin watched her as she flattened the scientist’s back against the floor. She began to methodically pump his chest with her palms pressed against his lower rib cage. Several pumps, then she pinched his nostrils shut and breathed into his mouth. CPR. Justin had learned it in high school, but he’d never seen it performed in life. The sight of the technique, carried out with this woman’s well-trained assurance, made him feel hope. Absurd and far-flung hope, but hope.

  “Do you . . . do you really think . . . ?” He swallowed hard, trying to snatch his thoughts as he gazed nervously at the door. “You mean, even with a g-gunshot like that . . . ?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never tried to heal a brain injury,” Alexis said, her face contorted with sorrowful concentration. “But I have to try. Please.”

  Justin felt his head snap. The image of his father’s grin and the spray of blood from Dr. Shepard’s head assaulted him, and his gun fell soundlessly to the carpet. What little rationality had remained, apparently, had spread too thin, and suddenly his mind was empty. Unburdened.

  “I don’t have the blood,” he said dully.

  “Then you have to go find it.”

  Justin stared at Alexis blankly for a moment. Then, suddenly, he heard himself laugh. He was appalled at the sound, but his mortification only made him laugh harder. He tried to cover his mouth, but nothing helped. His insides ached. He doubled over, gasping. At the same time, he felt tears in his eyes.

  “Stop it. You’re hysterical,” Alexis told him.

  “We’re gonna die here today, lady,” Justin said, catching his breath. His eyes were glued to Alexis’s hands, drawn by the futility of her life-giving motions as she pumped the scientist’s chest. “All of us, not just him. He’s the lucky one. Don’t you get it? If guns don’t get us, that storm will. And I can’t help you. I can’t do anything. I’m nothing.” By now, he was sobbing.

  “I need that blood. A drop of it might do it. Just one drop.”

  Justin wondered if Alexis was tangled in her own hysteria. She thought she could bring a dead man to life when nothing but death was all around them. Death had broken the door open and was already in the house.

  “Forgive me,” Justin whispered to Alexis. He felt himself making the sign of the cross, the way his mother always had when his father came home late, or didn’t come home at all. “Please?”

  At that, still pumping, Alexis glanced up at him askance. “Do you know CPR?”

  “I . . .” He swallowed, unable to finish. “In high school . . .”

  “Then help me. Pinch his nose just like this, and breathe every fifth time I compress his chest. Keep his neck arched so the passageway stays open, see? Then blow in the air, and do it in rhythm. It’ll be better with two of us.”

  “Better,” Justin repeated. He liked the sound of the word. Yes, it would be better.

  Justin knelt alongside the scientist, sliding his hand behind the dead man’s neck to cup it. His palm shivered when he felt the slick blood there, but he held on. The man’s neck was still warm. A little cooler than it should be, maybe, but warm. He could do this. If it was his final act on earth, God would see he had shown this man mercy. God would forgive him. Wouldn’t He?

  This was a hell of a time to realize he believed in God, Justin thought.

  “Now,” Alexis instructed.r />
  Justin pinched the scientist’s nostrils tight, pressed his lips to the dead man’s, and breathed out all the air he could gather from his lungs.

  54

  Shadows

  The bees, mercifully, had stopped stinging. For now.

  The stinging always came in orchestrated waves, bidden by an unseen force. Then the pain would stop for a time, giving Jessica a false memory of peace before the attacks began again. By now, her eyelids were swollen nearly shut, to mere slits, and from time to time she thought she recognized the sound of her own screams.

  “I’m here, Fana!” she called out when she remembered herself and where she was. She called out despite the burning of her tongue, which was so bloated from bee stings that it seemed to fill her mouth, a lump of throbbing flesh. “Fana, come back!”

  Hellfire was stinging bees. She must have gone to hell. She had made her way to hell somehow, and she hadn’t even died to get there.

  But she had died, she remembered suddenly. Once.

  Jessica did not know if it was real or only her imagination—the two, she had discovered, were closely related, nearly inseparable—but the bedroom was filled with bees by now, clogging the air, covering the window, papering the walls and the floor. When Jessica strained to see, squinting, all she recognized of Fana was the lump of bees still in a vague sitting position where the bed had once been. But the bed was hidden, along with everything else that had once been in sight. Hidden by the dark mass of bees. She had nearly forgotten the storm, because she couldn’t hear anything except flitting insect wings and the bees’ steady hum. The sounds roared in her ears.

  Jessica could no longer sit up. She was sure the bees’ venom was affecting her, slowing down her body functions, but her biggest concern was the bleeding. Her nosebleed was awful by now, and Jessica could feel herself losing strength as blood ran from her nose in a stream. Something was draining her blood. She wasn’t vomiting and bleeding from her eyes the way Kaleb had, but she was losing her blood all the same. Her clothes were soaked in it.