The Bloodline Trilogy

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The Bloodline Trilogy Page 31

by Adam Nicholls


  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” the man spat and squinted his tired eyes. He sat up quickly, threatened. He was a big man, even when seated. His graying hair was receding around his bulky head, though his eyes were soft and comforting. His hand clutched the covers as he leaned protectively over his sleeping wife. “Robert Parker? Is that you? Get the hell out of my house. Get out!”

  “We need to talk,” Robbie said, ignoring the man’s demands.

  The woman who lay beside him was alerted by the voices, the lights, and all the fuss inside the room. Confused in the way that most people were when woken in the middle of the night, she looked around. A vacant look was on her face, like she had no idea what year she’d woken into. But when her eyes narrowed on the gun, the fear spread through her expression like a bushfire, and she let out a short breath.

  “We’re not going to hurt you, miss,” Val said. “But we do need you to come downstairs and let these two have a conversation. Are you decent?”

  Again, she wore a blank expression but then understood. She nodded, her chin wobbling and her eyes jumping from one person to the next. She looked to her husband for comfort, who only shrugged. Hers was a calm and collected attitude, especially for someone in her situation. Their home—their place of safety and relaxation—had been broken into while they slept, and there was nothing she could do about it.

  The woman climbed out of bed, unashamed of her revealing baby-blue nightgown. Shooting a terrified look at her husband, she left the room as Val and the threatening pistol’s barrel followed her.

  Robbie was alone with the man.

  “You’ve got a nerve,” the man broke the awkward silence. His name was Terry Davenport, and he was a man of strength. Always had been. As an FBI agent—though Robbie was unsure of what exactly his rank was these days—this old contact may well have been the man they needed for their plan. There had never been any assurance he’d be willing to help, but the group was running out of options. “If he hurts her—”

  “She’ll be just fine. But I need you to listen,” Robbie said. He didn’t have a weapon of his own, but Val being downstairs with the man’s wife was probably collateral enough. Failing that, Robbie had the advantage of being clothed. He sat on the end of the bed. The man sat up taller, bare-chested and large-breasted in his old age.

  “Just who the hell do you think you are, bringing this into my home?” His nostrils were beginning to flare with rage. “Half the police are—”

  “I’m sorry,” Robbie said. He meant it, too. “But what do you know about the Agency?”

  Terry’s eyes quickly went from small, dry things to large, bright whites in the dark room. He started to speak but then paused, choosing his words all over again. “You mean the FBI? You know I can’t—”

  “No. The Agency. The one that really governs the police.”

  “Ah…” Terry fiddled with his fingers like he’d been caught with a dangerous secret. Robbie thought he knew this man well though, and he was a straight arrow if there ever was one. “Just ghost stories really. I know it’s been investigated more times than you could think of. How do you even—”

  “By you?”

  “What?”

  “Was it investigated by you?”

  “No, not by me. My department had heard enough rumors to look into it. Nothing ever came of it though.” Terry cleared his throat, coughing into his closed fist. “Look, Parker, you need to leave. I consider you a friend, but I’m a man of the law, and I have a duty. This is your one good chance to get out of here before I’m forced to—”

  “I know, I know. Look, I know this seems… odd, but I need a favor.” Robbie waited for him to laugh, but he didn’t.

  “I’m sure you do.” Terry climbed out of his bed, totally naked and seemingly unembarrassed, and covered himself with his robe. As he tied the sash tightly around his waist, he looked down at Robbie and sighed. “So you’re working with Salinger now?”

  Robbie looked up, his heart racing. How did he know what Val looked like?

  “Relax,” Terry told him, waving his hand. He pressed his ear against the door and listened for his wife’s voice. He must have been satisfied as he then began to pace the room. “I knew who he was the second I saw him. His face is plastered all over the papers. It’s not every day someone comes back from the dead.”

  “He’s one of them, Terry. At least, he used to be. That’s what this whole thing is about.” For the next thirty minutes, Robbie filled him in on everything that had happened. Using his knowledge of what Val had told him, he offered more information still, about the Agency, about Greg and Blake. And Jackie Lang, former officer of the LAPD, who was patiently waiting around the corner with the key in the ignition of their van.

  “Wow.” Terry blew out between thick lips. It seemed as if he was coming to understand their predicament. “What about Rachel Lawrence?”

  “She hasn’t been seen since the agent took her,” Robbie said, wondering what Rachel was like in person. He’d never actually met her—she was taken from the Salingers before he’d been dragged into this whole mess. He realized that everything he knew about Rachel was through other people.

  Terry stopped pacing and came to sit beside Robbie on the bed. “And what do you want from me, exactly? I’d struggle to reopen the case without mentioning that you and I had this conversation.”

  Robbie raised his hands, an accepting gesture of good intentions. “I just want you to look into it. Something is obviously rotten in the state of Denmark, and we’re sick of running. Val is leading us, Terry. He knows everything we need to know. With the FBI behind us, we might just stand a chance at putting a stop to them.”

  Terry shook his head, staring down at his toes as he spread them. “No.”

  “No?”

  “Assuming these people are real—and I believe you, Parker, but not everyone will—do you understand how difficult it would be to stop them? As it stands, we can’t even prove they exist.”

  “But we can.” Robbie pushed himself up onto his feet. “If we can get the evidence you need and point you in the right direction, can you make a move against them? Do you have that kind of power?”

  “My employer has the power.” Terry sighed and put his hands atop his head in the way that stressed people do. “I can try. But honestly, I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

  “Sergeant Houston of the LAPD,” Robbie blurted. “He’s rotten to the core, and I know for a fact he’s one of them. But he’s clumsy. Always has been. If you keep tabs on him, I believe you might uncover something.” He headed for the door, was just reaching for the knob when Terry’s voice called back to him.

  “My wife had better be safe down there.”

  Robbie nodded. “Of course.”

  “Parker.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Perhaps… just a phone call next time?”

  Robbie grinned. There’s the man I always knew. “Sure, Terry.”

  Of course, he’d never wanted to break into the house to begin with. Val and Jackie had sat in the back of the van and agreed that this was the best course of action. After considering that the police might have been called if they’d have handled it differently, Robbie had finally agreed. After all, it had turned out okay.

  Robbie took the stairs two steps at a time, sweeping through the kitchen and seeing Val sitting with Terry’s wife over a steaming cup of coffee. The smell filled the room and teased his senses, but there was no time to stop. They all had somewhere to be.

  Val rose, thanking Mrs. Davenport and apologizing for having scared her. The gun was nowhere in sight, and she was smiling at him for handling it as delicately as he had. It never ceased to amaze Robbie just how understanding Val was of the human psyche, much less his ability to manipulate people.

  They both reached the van, where Jackie sat huffing as if she had somewhere better to be. She didn’t, of course, but Robbie was beginning to understand her frustration. She had, after all, been on the run for twice
as long as he had, and he was already exhausted.

  Still, she sat quietly as he filled her in.

  Their actions were gaining momentum now, and they were on to the next part of their plan. As the van rolled onto the road and into the night, Robbie couldn’t help but peer through the glass. On some level he expected police cars to pin them in from every direction, but no such thing happened. Maybe, just maybe, Terry could be trusted enough to see this through to the end.

  Chapter Four

  It was uncomfortable, cold. Frightening really, and it stank of something decaying. Every now and then she would have a visit from a rat, who would sneakily crawl its way up to her. Every time she saw it, she clapped her hands together and watched it scurry away in fear for its life. Slowly, however, the rodent became her disease-ridden friend. Splinter, she had named it, after the rat from the Ninja Turtles cartoons Blake used to watch.

  Rachel wasn’t being starved though. Twice a day, the man would bring down a tray of food. Usually nothing that would do her any good: Pop-Tarts, cheesy snacks, and cereal bars. At first, she’d kicked it away and demanded answers, but he would only crane his neck at her and leave—dinner tray and all. Soon though, after she’d felt the effects of starvation coming through, she lowered her standards enough to risk eating the cereal bar (at least it was packaged and there was no way he could have tampered with it).

  Over the days—or weeks, she was losing track of time—she’d come around a little more to eating whatever he would present her with. She’d stopped thrashing around and screaming and began to try getting the man to talk. The most she’d managed to get out of him was “I’m t-trying to h-h-help you,” but she struggled to believe it. A few days ago (at least it felt like a few days ago) she’d managed to stop him long enough to ask him to join her. As he was a big man, she thought she could never get the jump on him. But if he was sitting down and the door at the top of the stairs was unlocked, she might just have a chance of running free. The man had actually sat for a moment, though he stayed with his butt on the bottom step, his back to the wall and a cautious look in his eye. He didn’t say much throughout that time, but she felt as if he was coming around.

  There was one thing she couldn’t seem to get used to though. His stutter was one thing, and she would patiently wait for him to finish whatever drawn-out sentences he might care to offer, but the way his head jerked to the left every now and then like he had a nervous tic was unsettling.

  Rachel snapped to life, her confusing jungle of thoughts torn down when the basement door opened again. Usually she would hear the footsteps echo through the room as he approached the door, but this time she’d been so deep in thought she hadn’t noticed. One by one, she watched his feet hit the steps as he descended the stairs, dinner tray in hand. She wondered what he was bringing her today.

  “Mornin’,” he said, studying the tray to make sure he hadn’t spilled anything.

  Is it really the morning? Rachel wished she had a window.

  “Morning,” she replied. She hated being polite to her captor, but it was better to stay on the man’s good side. She watched the tray being lowered to the ground in front of her. Today seemed to be a bit of a special treat: toast with a plastic travel-pot of jam, though the bread was cold, and she dare not imagine the work surface it had been prepared on.

  The man headed for the door and would return soon to collect the tray as he always did. But this time Rachel had a plan, and if he wasn’t careful during his next visit, he would regret having ever fucked with her. For now though, she patiently waited, watching him head back up the stairs, still twitching and trying to hide it by scratching his ear or rubbing his dry forehead.

  As soon as the door closed, Rachel slid the butter knife off the plate and tucked it under the bed sheet—she still hadn’t been given a bed, but the set of sheets on the mattress was at least a little more comfortable. She eyed the toast, was about to take a bite when she heard a slight squeak, and a screwed-up ball of paper rustled in the corner.

  “Hi, Splinter,” she said and could only imagine the rat’s reply.

  Splinter edged closer, his nose twitching in the air as he picked up the scent of cooked bread. Rachel found it amusing to see that a little bit of food could strip an animal of its primitive fear and lend it courage to come closer. As it did, she held a piece out to him and watched the rat crawl over. In a heartbeat, he snatched it up between his teeth and hurried off into the corner, out of sight. Thank you, Rachel, she wanted him to say, and she said, “You’re welcome. Enjoy it—you’re full of diseases anyway. One more wouldn’t hurt.”

  Soon after she’d sacrificed a portion of her meal, the door opened again, and the man stepped down into the orange light. He was still twitching. When he had his head turned, Rachel seized the opportunity to slide her hand under the sheet and clutch the knife. She had no idea how much damage this thing could do; it was relatively blunt and probably useful for nothing more than spreading jam. Still, if she had it in her possession, she could defend herself easily enough. She hoped so, anyway.

  “I like toast,” she told him as he came closer to collect the tray. It was an attempt to distract him. If she could keep him talking, maybe he wouldn’t notice the absence of the knife. “Could I please have it more often?”

  The man looked at her then, assessing her request. His bright-blue eyes lit up, and a smile stole over his face. “Of course, Rachel. I’m not a m-monster.” He bent over and scooped up the tray, the plate rattling around in his unsteady hands.

  The way he looked at it made Rachel panic.

  Her hand tightened around the knife.

  “What, uh… What’s the weather like out there? Is it still cold?” she asked.

  The look on his face said he was trying to figure something out. He looked up at her, the way people look at you when you say something odd. “Huh?”

  “The weather. It’s really cold down here. Is it the same outside?” Although Rachel wasn’t really asking for the sake of knowing, she found she was now genuinely curious. By her reckoning, it must be coming close to Christmas. For only a moment, she pictured a family—one she didn’t know—decorating a tree in their living room.

  “It’s…” His face creased up, and he glanced back down at the tray. Not good. “I don’t k-k-know. I d-don’t go outside m-much. Except to collect rocks. That’s how I found you.”

  Found me? “Well, can’t you look out the window?” Rachel stretched out, feeling cramped and hearing her bones click as she grew taller for a brief instant. Then she curled back into a ball, her sweaty palm still clutching the butter knife.

  The man looked at her again, and then at the tray. He’d obviously noticed something was missing and was trying to figure out exactly what.

  Rachel tensed up.

  He stared at her, his mouth open.

  She looked around, nervous but trying not to make it seem that way.

  To her surprise, the man only turned and hurried back up the stairs. Rachel let out a breath, her nerves causing her to tremble. She wondered if the guy ever had much contact with the outside world. Judging by the mess in his house and what she’d seen of the newspaper clippings upstairs, he came across as a recluse. Maybe he was. Maybe he—

  “No!” His muffled voice boomed from the room above. The door sprung open, and he rushed down the stairs, his feet crashing on the wooden steps. “Give me the knife! Give it to m-me! Give it to me!” He moved toward her at lightning speed. When he raised his hand, Rachel recoiled, but he was only holding out his palm for the silverware.

  Rachel didn’t quite know how to react. She considered denying it. He hadn’t seemed like the most sane man in the world anyway, and maybe she could trick him into thinking that it had been on the tray when she last saw it. No, she thought, intimidated by his towering frame. She slid it out from under the sheet and tucked it into his hand, gazing deep into his eyes with a pleading for… what? Mercy?

  The way he looked at her was surprising. It wasn’t
hate or worry. It wasn’t fear or anger. It was a clear look of disappointment, and it made her feel dirty.

  The man turned again, and he once more headed back up the stairs, huffing and jerking his head like he was losing control. He slammed the door behind him, and a little sprinkle of dust showered down from the ceiling, raining over Rachel’s greasy and unwashed hair.

  She sat staring at the door, still rattled, clenching her fist where the knife used to be. Why did she feel as though she’d done something wrong? She’d read about Stockholm syndrome and wondered if it was a real thing, but that only made her giggle. If she was going to love her captor, she would have to hear a few more words from him first. A lady like Rachel could never see herself being wooed by a slice of toast.

  As the day went on and the next day dragged on by, the man didn’t return. He didn’t bring her any more food. Was she being punished? She spent minutes—or was it hours?—curled up into a ball and holding her growling stomach. She slipped in and out of sleep, thinking of Greg’s horrifying burned face, Blake’s gentle smile, and the way Jackie would tilt her head to one side when she listened.

  Rachel would never see any of those things again.

  She just knew it.

  Chapter Five

  When Terry Davenport got up that morning, his mind had been on nothing other than what Robbie had told him. Start with Sergeant Houston, he’d said with such certainty that only a fool could refuse.

  Terry had called around. There was only so much digging he could do before his superiors summoned him into the office, and then he’d have to face the consequences. After all, he didn’t have permission to pursue this delicate case, and he would probably be denied if he appealed for it. But if he could get something concrete under his belt, perhaps that would help convince them. And for that reason, Terry had got in touch with some old contacts and asked for information on Houston. Within an hour, he’d driven to the sergeant’s home address and waited across the street in the shadows.

 

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