The Bloodline Trilogy
Adam Nicholls
Copyright © 2018 by Adam Nicholls
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For Charlotte.
Always.
Clean Kill
Chapter One
It was the middle of the night, and Val Salinger was ready to die.
Although he hadn’t really slept—stirred was a more fitting term for his fidgeting. His life was coming to an end, and he knew it. So who could blame him for missing out on his forty winks? More than anything, he had wanted to tell her about it. But he couldn’t—it wasn’t a part of the plan, and Val always followed the plan.
Gently rolling onto his side, he studied her for a moment. Her skin glowed in the moonlight, and her hair fell onto the pillow where it spilled into gorgeous yellow tails. God, Marcy, you look so beautiful tonight. She hadn’t changed in the twenty years they had been married. She looked different—there was no doubt about that—but Val thought she had acquired an essence of grandeur over the years. A real Helen Mirren type, he thought. Saying goodbye to her—or not saying it—was the hardest thing he’d ever had to do.
Val sighed and slipped out of bed, something that had become even harder to do at his age. “Tender at sixty” is what they had always said he would be. They were right. His bones felt like twigs, and his bladder was weak. He whined under his breath as he got to his feet.
Marcy stirred.
Val froze, careful not to wake her. What would he say if she caught him? That he was going to the bathroom, he supposed. What else could he say? He watched her for a moment more, her chest rising and falling as she breathed. Caught like a deer in headlights, he continued to watch until she let out a large breath and rolled back over. Val breathed too, grabbed his robe from the back of the door, and slid out of the room.
The hallway was freezing, which was to be expected from a house this old. The ceiling height was almost three times his size: plenty of room for the warm air to drift up. Shivering, he slipped on his robe and padded down the stairs, careful not to trip in the dark. For a minute, he paused, realizing this was the last time he would ever use these stairs. He didn’t like that idea, but this was necessary.
Downstairs, he felt a lot more comfortable making a noise. The kitchen was on the other end of the house from the bedroom, and the ceilings were thick enough to muffle any sounds—even the screech of the chair as he slid it out from under the dining table and sat down facing the back door.
There was nothing to do but wait.
Minutes passed, leading into hours. The sun was just beginning to peer over the horizon, lending a thin yellow line to the sky. Val hoped it would happen soon, before Marcy woke up and wondered where he was.
At the first sight of the sun was all he had to remember. That way there could be no confusion, no excuses. No “so sorry, sir, my clock was an hour fast.” That’s how it had always been, and there would be no exceptions for him.
His nerves were rattled, tensed victims of the dreadful anticipation. He rose from the chair, went to the cupboard under the sink, and took an unopened pack of cigarettes from the back. He’d almost forgotten about them. How long had they been there? Since he’d given them up, he supposed. It had been one of Marcy’s better ideas, though it didn’t matter much now. He unraveled the packaging and slid a cigarette between his lips. It felt right at home there, in its proper place.
Val turned on the stove, hung his face over the flame and lit the cigarette. He coughed at first, his body rejecting all the poisonous chemicals. The second drag was smoother, almost pleasurable. He snatched up a used coffee mug and placed it on the table, then eased back into the chair. The minutes dragged by, Val taking puff after puff, occasionally rolling the cigarette around the rim of the mug, watching as spent ash fell into it.
The door handle twisted from the outside, startling him. The door creaked open, first revealing a hand, then an arm, a man’s coat, and finally a face. Val looked at him. He’d had no idea the Agency would send him, but he was glad they had; he could trust this man. There was something in his eyes, something cool and assuring. Perhaps that’ was why Val had taken to him in the first place.
“Mr. Salinger,” he said from the doorway with a slight nod for a greeting.
Val took a deep drag of the cigarette and dropped it into the mug, hearing it extinguish at the bottom with a hiss. He noticed his hands were trembling. He cleared his throat. “When a man comes to kill me, I would expect him to be on first-name terms.”
The man grinned, his dimples giving way to a perfect set of teeth.
“You know,” Val said, rubbing a hand at his graying beard, “I haven’t smoked in twelve years. It’s funny, the things we do when the end is in sight.”
There was a profound silence, save for the birds singing outside. Neither man could look the other in the eye. Not after everything they’d been through together. Not after what they knew was coming.
“What’s it like?” the man asked, his gaze finally meeting Val’s.
“Preparing your own death?”
The man gave one small nod.
“It’s… a relief. I’m not afraid of what happens next. Not so much. I’m more frightened for the poor sons of bitches I leave behind. There’s a shitstorm coming, my friend.”
“I know.” The man nodded, then reached into his coat and drew a gun. It was heavy looking and black—the color of danger. “Val Salinger, are you ready to die?”
Val stood, feeling that ache in his bones one more time. He tightened the cord of his robe and stood straight. He closed his eyes and nodded. He heard the pistol click but not the crack that followed. Instead, he saw all his sins, all his good deeds and bad. He saw all his birthdays, the ones where he had laughed and cried, and even the ones he thought he’d forgotten. He saw Marcy, looking lost with red, tear-filled eyes, and he hoped—in that final second—that she would be okay without him.
Chapter Two
I hate that guy, Blake thought as he emptied his bladder into the urinal. I hate, hate, hate him!
He’d been working his client for over four months, making him truly believe just how much he was worth. There had been moments when Blake even believed his own words. That was his talent: talking his way out of anything, and sometimes even into things. What he wasn’t fond of, however, was the amount of degrading ass-kissing that came with it. He could barely remember the days when he felt a sense of pride about what he did for a living. Maybe he would quit someday, move abroad and live on a beach somewhere… maybe. But for now, as soon as he zippered up and got the hell out of there, he would be back in the meeting, sucking up to his boss just like any other day.
When he was done, Rachel burst through the door and stormed over to the sink, her hands groping her long, blonde hair like the teeth of a comb.
Blake jolted, desperate to prevent her from seeing his private parts. After all, they were private for a reason, and he wasn’t interested in being on display unless there was a little something in return. Though she would have to be single, unlike now. But even if those were the circumstances, could he perform so casually with such a close friend?
“Oh. My. God,” she said as she hoisted herself onto the sink basin. “That was amazing.”
<
br /> “The accuracy or the flow?” he joked, pulling up his zipper. He walked back to the sink, shooting her a cheeky grin. Apparently his jokes weren’t funny, though Blake would disagree.
“Listen,” she said, and he could feel her watching over him from her elevated position. “You really have them sweating in there. If I didn’t know any better, I would say you own them. Got enough room in your pocket for all that cash?”
She was right. He’d been the head of the marketing department for almost a decade now, and he was damn good at his job. If he hadn’t originally wanted to be a solicitor—and before that, an archaeologist—he would have felt like he was born to promote. The downside to his talent, however, was that everybody praised him except for his boss.
Blake ran the tap. Steam rose as the scalding water whooshed out, and he dunked his hands under it. He caught sight of his reflection in the mirror, switched the water to cold, and splashed it to his dry eyes with cupped hands. The water was cool and refreshing upon his skin. He felt more awake and more alert. Alert, but no more pleased with himself than he had been five minutes ago. This wasn’t the life he wanted. He craved adventure, freedom. To be the hero for once rather than the kind of sleazy salesman he despised.
“My pockets are deep, Rachel,” he said, taking a breath, “but did you see the way Evatt was looking at me? It’s the same look you have when you lose a drinking game. I doubt I’d live long enough to spend a penny of that cash.”
Rachel grinned, her smile wide and bright. “Come on, buddy.” She play-punched his arm. “I don’t lose drinking games.”
It was true. He’d never seen her lose one, and he’d known her for most of his life.
“Look, business is good,” she added, dropping back to her feet and stumbling as if taking her first steps. “Evatt sent me in here to tell you to close the deal at thirty thousand. Don’t haggle for more. He was firm about that.”
“Evatt sent you in here? To the men’s bathroom?”
“He sent me to wait outside, but I’m impatient.”
“Don’t I know it.”
Rachel took small steps toward the door, stretching out her arms and yawning as if she had just got out of bed. “See you in there. You reel them in, and I’ll send them running with their tails between their lily-white legs.”
Blake huffed and sighed at the idea of betraying his morals. “Sure. I’ll just pack away my conscience so I can take the good people’s money. This is wrong.”
“So? You’ve been lying through your teeth since you hit puberty.” And with that, she left the room, the door swinging shut behind her.
All right, he told himself, studying his own tortured face in the mirror. Happy Blake. Strong Blake. Smooth, trusting, everybody’s-best-friend Blake. He forced a smile that seemed horribly genuine. He only wished he knew why he’d been so frustrated lately. You’re working too hard, he told himself, or you’re getting too old for this game. He was only thirty-seven, so he dismissed it with a smirk.
Deep breath.
This was it now. He would go into the next room, offer a price that was way too high and have them lower it. Then he would accept, everybody would shake hands, and he would go home to be alone again in his own miserable existence, ready to start all over the next day.
Blake was just leaving, adjusting his tie and straightening up, when the door swung open, and Rachel came bursting back in. “What the hell did you do?” Her frown creased up her forehead, and her cheeks flushed. He hadn’t seen her this way since The Great Pregnancy Scare of ’09.
Frozen, confused, Blake struggled to find his voice. “You tell me.”
“There are cops asking around the office. Looking for you.” She grabbed the door and pushed it closed, peering through the thin gap.
“So? Show them in.” It should have been that easy, but the way she was acting suggested there was more to it than that. “I haven’t done anything,” he said, trying to calm her with a chuckle, but it barely even convinced him. “Probably just enquiring about a disturbance or something. Let’s just go see what they want.”
Blake reached for the door.
Rachel put her back to it, stopping him. “Then why are there three cars outside?”
“Cop cars?” That didn’t seem right to him.
“Yes!”
“Well, I didn’t—I mean, can’t you just tell them I’m not here?”
“That’s exactly what I did, but they’re going to search the building. Whatever you did, sweetie, get out of here. Go. Just let me send them up a floor. You can go out the back door.”
“But I—” Blake hesitated. He hadn’t done anything wrong… had he? For a moment, he thought about running. But what would be the sense in that? This wasn’t some bust at a drug den. He was a respectable working adult—save for the “daylight robbery”—and he was pretty sure he could work his magic on these officers. “This is silly.” He pushed Rachel to one side, struggling to get out.
“Idiot,” was the last thing he heard as he left the room. He could hear her trailing behind him, eager to see the conclusion to this exciting event.
As he walked through the office building and toward the front desk, Blake could feel eyes all over him. He knew the positions of the cubicles and all adjoining offices. He knew who sat behind each desk and caught them all rising from their chairs to get the gossip. But they wouldn’t get any details from him. He knew exactly how this kind of thing worked; they would hear whatever the cops had to say, and the rest of the story would fill itself in like a game of Telephone.
This doesn’t look good. The first cold shivers of sweat formed at the nape of his neck. He loosened his tie and unhooked the top button of his shirt as he came up beside them. Neither of them seemed to be particularly pleased with him.
“Are you Blake Salinger?” The cop was tall, lean, and black. His head was bald, but the roots still showed through like millions of black freckles, suggesting the hair had been shaved. He scowled, his accusing eyes looking stern and serious. “I’m Detective John Howard. This is Detective Winters.”
His partner hung back, his hair fair and his pale face seeming more curious than focused. It was clear that he was the follower, and this confident man was the leader.
Blake trembled, nervous and embarrassed like a child who’d been sent to detention. “Yes?”
He’d barely got that one word out before Howard stepped forward, reached out, and grabbed his wrist. Blake felt a shooting pain up through his shoulder, and then again with the other arm. His thumbs were forced inward.
“I’m arresting you for the murder of Val Salinger. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”
It hit Blake like a speeding car. Had he said Val Salinger? This couldn’t be right. Whatever had happened to his father, he had nothing to do with it. He couldn’t have—he loved him. Or at least, he had, back when they were close. “This is ridiculous. I didn’t—”
“You have the right to an attorney,” Howard continued through gritted teeth. “If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you.”
Blake felt the handcuffs tighten around his wrists. The cold steel pinched his skin. For the first time in recent memory, he was lost for words. His mouth hung open in utter bewilderment and confusion. This is a dream, that’s all. Just a bad dream. He was escorted downstairs, tugged around like a criminal. A helpless animal being dragged to his end. He belonged to the law for now, and he was being forced into a walk of shame through his own office building. People stood and stared with a mixture of disgust and intrigue.
Blake lowered his head, locking his eyes on the floor.
“Don’t worry, Blake,” Rachel said, struggling to catch up to them in her high heels. “I’ll call Marcy. She can help you. Just don’t say anything until she gets there.”
I don’t plan to.
He lifted his head fast enough to see her brushed aside by Winters, the younger detective. He hoped she was rig
ht, that Marcy would do whatever it took to get him out of there.
His heart raced inside his chest. Sweat rolled down his temple, off his cheek, and then splashed to the floor. He could barely believe this; until now his only concerns for the day had been the meeting, his lunchtime, and what movie to watch that night. He’d had no idea he would get hauled out of work and to the police station. Least of all for the murder of his father.
It’s just a dream, that’s all. Just a really shitty dream.
Outside, he felt the detective’s hand on his head as he was shoved into the back of the police car. The door was slammed shut, and he sat looking at the exterior of the building. For all he knew, this was the last time he would see this place.
The detectives climbed in, started the engine, and pulled out onto the road, the other vehicles trailing behind them. Blake caught a glimpse of Rachel’s face in the entranceway: a strong, worrisome frown, and a faint hint of shame.
Chapter Three
Nobody had said much for most of the journey. Blake stared lifelessly out the window, watching the rain shower onto the road. It was interesting to see people scramble about to get out of the rain—it served as a distraction, though the fact kept hitting him; they think I killed my father. My father is dead, and they’re sending me to jail for it.
He was dying to ask what had happened to his dad, but he couldn’t. They wouldn’t give him any information. Quite the opposite; they would expect details from him. Only he had nothing to give them. What Blake hoped, among many other things, was that his dad was still alive, and that this was all just one nasty prank. Every time he tried to tell himself it was, the reality of it sank back in, weighing heavily on his mind.
Blake had to keep his mouth shut. He’d heard the man: “anything you say can and will be used against you…” and that was too true. He would have to be careful so his words would not get twisted. This kind of thing was on TV all the time. The defendants would put one foot out of line, and their whole case would go up in smoke. Every sentence from here on out, no matter how trivial it seemed, would have to be considered carefully.
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