Blood Lies

by Daniel Kalla

  The alarm in Kyle’s voice ratcheted up my blood pressure. As soon as the door buzzed, I yanked it open and ran to the elevator. I stepped out onto the twelfth floor and raced down the corridor to Kyle’s suite. His door was ajar. Pushing it open, I walked inside and followed the hall into the expansive living room. The floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the lights from the boats and ferries chugging through the darkness of Puget Sound, but it barely registered with me.

  Looking washed out and skinny in his oversized brown bathrobe, Kyle emerged from the kitchen with a cup of coffee in each hand. “Ben.” He held out one of the cups for me. “What the hell?”

  “I guess I made the news this morning.”

  He grunted a laugh. “You are the news this morning.” He put the coffee down on the counter and lifted up a copy of the Seattle Post-Intelligencer. In a lab coat and stethoscope, my hospital ID photo had made the front page.

  I slammed my cup down beside his and snatched the paper from his hand. I scanned the article. The S.P.D. had labeled me a “person of interest.” The reporter described me as a former boyfriend of the female victim, but there was no mention of my blood at her apartment.

  I looked up from the paper to see Kyle eyeing me impassively. “What gives, Ben?”

  I took a long sip of coffee, scalding my tongue in the process. “The police came for me yesterday….” Without minimizing the evidence against me, I went on to tell him of the mounting suspicion I’d fallen under.

  Kyle nodded noncommittally. “So if it’s not your blood, whose is it?”

  “Aaron’s, I think.”

  Kyle’s eyes widened. “Seriously?”

  “Nothing else makes any sense.”

  His expression held steadfast. “Are you telling me that with all their high-tech gadgetry, they couldn’t tell your blood apart from Aaron’s?”

  “Being identical twins, we have the same bone marrows,” I said, aware that I’d automatically begun to refer to Aaron again in the present tense. “That means we produce identical blood right down to the corpuscle or blood cell. Indistinguishable on DNA testing.”

  He fought back an amused grin. “That’s borderline creepy.”

  I stared hard at my cousin. “Kyle, do you think Aaron could be alive?”

  Kyle shook his head. “That trunk of his car…”

  “They never found his body.”

  Kyle rubbed the back of his neck. “Ben, no one has seen Aaron in over two years.”

  “Which makes sense if he wants people to think he is dead.”

  Kyle stopped rubbing. “Why would he do that?”

  “I don’t know,” I sighed. “You knew more about Aaron’s life in the last few years than anyone. As his business partner, can you think of any reason he might have wanted to fake his own death?”

  Kyle sipped his coffee slowly. When the cup left his lip, I noticed a new lesion that looked like an early cold sore above the edge of his upper lip. “Let’s go to the living room.”

  Taking our coffees, we headed into his living room and sat down in the soft leather chairs. Dawn was beginning to break. Behind Kyle, I could make out the shadowy forms of the vessels churning through Puget Sound.

  Kyle viewed me with a look that bordered on apologetic. “Right before I was diagnosed, I had a falling-out with Aaron.”

  I folded my arms over my chest. “Over?”

  “B.C. bud.”

  “The marijuana?”

  “The purest, most potent stuff in the world,” Kyle sighed. “They grow it like wheat in spots in British Columbia. Nowadays the bikers and other nasty big hitters control the business, but a few years ago, Aaron and I were two pioneers of the B.C. bud import business in Seattle.”

  Aaron’s involvement in the drug trade wasn’t news to me, but it didn’t make it any easier to listen to Kyle describe the specifics. “You paid cash for the pot?” I asked.

  “Cash or coke,” he said. “A dead easy trade. We had a foolproof transport system. We bought the B.C. bud in bulk in Vancouver. Hundreds of kilos. And we were making five hundred percent markup on the product flipping it in Seattle.”

  I swept the apartment with a wave of my hand. “Helped pay for this, huh?”

  “Yes.” Kyle shrugged sheepishly. “Paid for anything we wanted, including our own drugs. We funneled much of the profit into aboveboard investments. Aaron managed our portfolio. He was a financial wizard, too. Soon we had a steady stream of income from our legitimate investments.”

  I shook my head impatiently. “So what led to your falling-out?”

  “Aaron wanted out of the drug business,” Kyle said. “He always felt guiltier than I did. I argued it was only marijuana, but that didn’t make it sit any easier with him. He figured we didn’t need to rely on the trafficking for our income or even to support our own”—he cleared his throat—“costly habits.”

  “You disagreed?”

  “I was so greedy, it’s sickening.” Kyle chuckled a sigh that evolved into a harsh cough. He caught his breath. “There was more to it. We’d become a vital link in the supply chain. Neither of our trading partners on either side of the border wanted the middleman to drop out of the picture.”

  I snapped my fingers. “Philip Maglio?”

  “Phil was one of them, but he wasn’t alone. The East Indian gang members who supplied much of our B.C. bud were no happier.” Kyle pulled an imaginary gun from his bathrobe’s belt. “And those guys are notoriously quick on the draw.”

  I was beginning to piece it together. “So you didn’t want to give up the money or get yourself killed by leaving the drug running business.”

  “You’ve got it.” Kyle blew out his lips. “But Aaron didn’t see it that way. He’d changed. He called us ‘grief merchants.’” Then he added admiringly, “And unlike me he didn’t need a second chance at life to see the light.”

  “Maybe he did,” I thought aloud. “Would your partners have let Aaron just walk away from the business?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Why did they let you?”

  “I got sick. Even those morons couldn’t expect me to run a business out of a bone marrow transplant ward.”

  I mulled over the chronology in my mind. “Aaron disappeared shortly after you started treatment, right?”

  “Three or four months.” Kyle looked away. “I always assumed one of our partners killed Aaron for leaving them high and dry in terms of the supply chain.”

  “But you don’t have proof?”

  “No.”

  “Sounds like Aaron had good reason to get the hell out of town,” I said. “Especially if he could make it look as if he didn’t get out alive.”

  “I guess.” Kyle played with the spears of his thinning hair. “The irony is, I was allowed to walk away from it all scot-free simply because I had cancer.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “I take it you mean about the scot-free stuff, not the cancer.” Kyle’s smile faded quickly. “Look, Ben, say Aaron really is alive. How do you know he’s not involved in everything?”

  “As in, setting me up?”

  He shrugged.

  I wavered a fraction of a second. “No way. He wouldn’t do that to me. And certainly not to Emily. Someone either coaxed the blood from him or stole it. Simple as that.”

  Kyle nodded.

  I reached out and touched my cousin’s bony shoulder. “Kyle, I have to find Aaron.”

  “And just how do you plan to do that?”

  “I’m going to start my search in Vancouver.”

  His frown gave way to a sympathetic smile, the kind reserved for someone you know is heading out on a wild-goose chase. “I guess it’s as good a place as any to start.”

  “But I don’t know how to cross the border.”

  He flashed a grin that was vintage bad-boy Kyle. “I can get you across.”

  Chapter 16

  After the sun rose, the blinds in Kyle’s condo were all drawn, hiding me from the view of people
in the nearby buildings, and Puget Sound from me. I paced the living room waiting for Kyle to return. He had left clutching a bag of hypodermic syringes, declaring it was his morning to pass out clean needles to the addicts in the neighborhood behind Pioneer Square. With a laugh, he said that his life wouldn’t be worth living if he screwed up the weekly distribution schedule set by the ex-addict who coordinated the volunteers for the needle-exchange program.

  He promised to return within two hours and take me to Vancouver. I asked again how he planned to get me across the border, but he simply flashed a mischievous smile and told me I would have to wait and see. Though frustrated by Kyle’s amused evasiveness, I found his confidence reassuring. I even relaxed enough to focus on something other than self-preservation.

  My stomach was still too unsettled to eat, but I craved more coffee, so I walked into the kitchen to refill my cup. Standing by the carafe, I found myself wondering in which of the many pale cabinets was Kyle’s stash of liquor. Remembering that Kyle had forsaken alcohol, I didn’t bother opening them. I topped up my coffee cup and headed back for the living room.

  I stopped on the way to leaf through a stack of pamphlets on the countertop. Entitled “Faith Will Make You Clean,” the brochure was surprisingly well written and only minimally preachy. Presenting a firsthand account that bordered on inspirational, it described how a hardcore addict found God after an intentional heroin overdose.

  I wondered if a single user would ever bother to read the pamphlet. I’d learned from experience that it’s impossible to coax anyone into sobriety. Our family butted heads against that wall with my father and Aaron too many times to count.

  But when it came to Aaron and me, blood turned out to be even thicker than cocaine or crystal meth. Despite his chronic drug use, our bond persevered. Even our blowout (three years before his disappearance, when I’d pummeled him for sharing a crack pipe with Emily) didn’t drive the same permanent wedge between us as it had between Emily and me. Though I didn’t speak to Aaron for months after I’d called off the engagement, I eventually accepted his version of events. Emily had come to him seeking drugs. If he hadn’t supplied them then, by her own admission, she would’ve gone elsewhere. Within half a year of the fight, Aaron and I were as tight as ever.

  Many of our friends and family had trouble understanding how an addict and a doctor could maintain such closeness despite monumental differences in their life choices. Even I didn’t understand it. The fact that we shared the same DNA down to the last gene must have played a role, but there was more to it. We complemented each other. We were usually there for one another in times of need. And more often than not, Aaron (as high-functioning an addict as I’ve ever met) ended up in the supporting role.

  In the year before his disappearance, after he’d relocated to Vancouver, Aaron would still surprise my parents and me with unannounced appearances. I remembered his final visit vividly, and not only because it was the last time I ever saw him.

  After a tiring afternoon shift in the ER, I walked into my house just before midnight to find Aaron sitting in my kitchen with the newspaper spread open on the table in front of him.

  I was shocked by how much weight he’d lost in the four months since I’d last seen him. He’d never been overweight, but because of my cycling, I’d always been a few pounds lighter and a waist size smaller. Now the opposite was true, though I hadn’t gained an ounce. The rest of Aaron’s appearance alarmed me as much as his skinniness. His hair was long and unkempt. With a patchy beard, his face’s pallor highlighted the dark bags beneath his eyes. Even when he looked up from the newspaper and smiled, deep frown lines cut across his forehead and wrinkled his eyes. Rather than four minutes older, he suddenly looked ten years older than me.

  He hopped up from the table and walked over to greet me with a hug, the grip of which was as forceful as ever. “Ben, you look as if you just saw a ghost.”

  “Not far off. What the hell happened to you?”

  “Jenny Craig,” he said with a tired smile.

  I wasn’t laughing. “Come on, Aaron.”

  “The last six months have been up and down for me.”

  I stepped back and studied him. It was like looking in a funhouse mirror that distorted my own image. “Are you sick?”

  “Not really.” He shrugged. “I’m a bit off my food and stuff. Call it career stress. Maybe even life stress.”

  “What exactly is your career?”

  “We’ve been over this.” He sighed a laugh. “I’m a day trader.”

  “As in stocks?”

  He shrugged again. “Yeah, stocks. Bonds and real estate, too.” Then, for the first time ever, he added, “But mostly I dabble in human misery.”

  “You mean you sell drugs,” I said, having suspected it for years.

  He nodded. “Indirectly,” he said with a sniff.

  Aware of his bloodshot eyes and frequent sniffles, I said, “You’re coked up now, aren’t you?”

  He stared blankly at me.

  “Is the junk what’s making you look so ill?”

  He shook his head and walked past me into the living room. “I told you, Ben. I haven’t eaten well lately. Speaking of, why don’t we order in? Not Chinese, though. I get my fill of that in Vancouver. You can’t beat the Chinese food up there.”

  Despite his evasiveness, I sensed that the time wasn’t right to press him. “Do you need a place to crash for a while?” I asked.

  “No thanks. I held on to my condo here in Seattle. It’s sitting empty now.”

  “So you’re going to move back home?” I asked hopefully.

  “Eventually, maybe.” He plunked himself down on the couch. “I have to go back up to Vancouver soon. Lots of loose ends to tie up.”

  I followed him into the living room. “Aaron, if it’s money you need—”

  He waved his hand to interrupt. His grin was a blend of amusement and gratitude. “I’ve got plenty, but thanks, bro.”

  “Then what?”

  “Some of my colleagues”—he emphasized the last word with disdain—“aren’t so easy…” His voice trailed off.

  “Aren’t so easy to what?”

  “It’s complicated. And messy.” He shook his head. “Like the last ten years of my life.” He bit his lip and then changed subjects again. “You know I saw Emily in Vancouver a few weeks ago.”

  I stiffened, feeling both butterflies and knots in my stomach. I hadn’t heard Aaron mention Emily’s name in the three years since our blowout. “What was she doing in Vancouver?”

  “We were busy catching up on old times. Something to do with a ski resort at Whistler.”

  “Good for her,” I grunted.

  “It might be.” Aaron sighed and his eyes drifted away. “But she’s still as messed up as I am. She gave me this whole song and dance about kicking her habit, but you don’t fool a fellow junkie that easily.”

  “Why are you telling me this, Aaron?”

  His eyes focused on the floor. “When she took off her jacket, her sleeve accidentally pulled up. In the moment it took her to push it back down, I saw the marks.”

  “Track marks?”

  He nodded. “She’s mainlining now. Even I am not that stupid.”

  I knew Aaron never injected his drugs. Frankly, I thought his pride in that one act of “restraint” was misplaced. Aside from the risk of communicable diseases, I didn’t see much of a distinction between smoking cocaine and crystal meth and injecting them. Though I understood his point; intravenous drug use represented an even further tumble down the slippery slope for Emily. “What do you expect me to do about that?” I asked.

  “Expect?” He chuckled. “I don’t expect you to do anything, except maybe rejoice at how smart you were to have called off the engagement.” He paused and his voice quieted. “I thought you should know.”

  “Thank you,” I said, though I didn’t know exactly what I was thanking him for.

  Aaron’s chin hung on his chest and his shoulders slumped. I
began to wonder whether my brother was suffering from depression, which so often accompanies addictions. “Hey, how about we get that chow?” I asked, trying to lift the mood.

  Aaron shook his head. He leaned forward and grabbed the edge of the table. “I’m so sick of this, Ben.”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  “Remember that treatment facility you mentioned a few months back?”

  “Sure,” I said, filling with unexpected hope. Aaron had never shown the slightest interest in treatment before. “My friend who runs it is a psychiatrist specializing in addictions. I can call him tonight, if you want.”

  “Not tonight, but soon.” He looked up at me, his face flushed with uncharacteristic fierceness. “Ben, I am going to do whatever it takes to escape what my life has become.”

  I rested a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, Aaron, that’s great!”

  “Whatever it takes,” he repeated as if steeling his resolve.

  The door to the condo opened and the memory slid from my mind.

  Kyle walked in without the bag of syringes he’d left with. He viewed me with a puckish grin. “Dr. Horvath, you ready to blow this Popsicle stand that we call America?”

  I nodded.

  “Grab your bag,” he said, turning back to the door.

  I picked up the musty knapsack, double-checked that I still had Peter Horvath’s ID, and then followed Kyle out to the elevator. We rode in silence to the underground parking below his building. We stopped by a gray Lincoln sedan parked not far from the elevator. Kyle raised his hand and clicked a fob, making the lights on the sedan flash twice.

  Kyle must have noticed my surprise. “What? Were you expecting us to sneak into a Canada in a Ferrari or on the back of a Harley?”

  I smiled. “Not sure, but I’ll tell you this: I wasn’t expecting to see you drive around in Grandpa Jack’s car.” Jack was our paternal grandfather, who always drove a huge Cadillac or Lincoln, up until his second stroke, after which someone from the Department of Motor Vehicles finally wrestled the keys out of his hand.

  Kyle laughed. “It’s the new me. Come winter, I’ll probably move down to Florida where I’ll eat dinner at four o’clock and then spend the rest of the day at shuffleboard or canasta.”