Bloodline

by Jill Jones

  Victoria fought to keep her mind clear. This was incomprehensible. Surrealistic. A dream. Or rather, a nightmare. Trey twisted her arms behind her and forced her to walk toward the house. She felt the knifepoint against her throat. She prayed that one of the servants was home but then remembered this was Saturday, their day off.

  “Trey…” she said, trying to plead with him to let her go.

  “Shut up.”

  “What are you going to do? Take it out on me because Meghan betrayed you? I never told her to leave you. She just didn’t feel for you what you felt for her. I told her to be honest with you.”

  “I said shut up!” He shoved her into the door while he pressed the opening code into the alarm system. Victoria’s mind raced. What had he meant when he’d said he had gotten even with Meghan? Had he killed her? If so, why had Matthew Ferguson confessed to the murder in his suicide note? If she was to die tonight, she was determined that she’d go to her grave with some answers.

  Inside the house, Trey dragged her into the main living room where a low light burned from a set of recessed lighting above the mantel. It was an elegant room but inhospitable and had always made Victoria uncomfortable. Above the fireplace, a portrait of Marilyn Delaney glared down at them.

  Mother.

  Victoria called upon all of her knowledge of psychology to try to come out of this alive. “This isn’t about Meghan, is it, Trey? It’s about your mother.”

  “Don’t try to pull that psychological shit on me, Tori.” With his knife, he sliced the silken tiebacks from the brocade drapery and bound her hands painfully behind her back.

  Victoria was beside herself with fear and desperation, but she pressed her point that Trey had been a victim, hoping to gain his sympathy. “You hate your mother because she’s always dominated you. I know she has because I’ve seen her do it. You were innocent, Trey. You were her victim.”

  He slammed her into a chair and stared at her, panting. “Yes, goddammit, I was her victim. Every time I turned around, she was in my face. I was never good enough. I was never good enough for her, or Meghan. I was Meghan’s victim, too. Whores! Both of them! All of you!” he shrieked, picking up a fire iron and waving it at the portrait of his mother. “Fuck you!” With that he skewered the painting right in his mother’s belly.

  Victoria managed to pull herself out of the chair and started to run, but he grabbed her again and forced her to the floor, face down. To her surprise, he sat on her. “Keep your mouth shut,” he warned. She could scarcely breathe, much less cry out.

  Strangely, Trey suddenly turned chatty. “I’m going to kill you, Tori. Just like I killed the rest of the whores. But I want you to know how you are going to die.” She heard a snap, like a rubber band, and could feel his body moving, like he was arranging something with his hands. “You know that business trip I was on? Well, guess where I went on my new job? I started in the Midwest. In Chicago. Just after the opera. Then I made a stop in Kansas City for bar-b-que. Played a little golf in Phoenix.” He laughed. “A whore in one there. But you didn’t get my pun. My jokes never made the newspapers.”

  Victoria went cold. No, those details never made the news. The sick, twisted jokes that the Ripper copycat had played at the scene of his murders had never been revealed to the media. There was only one way he could know about those.

  Trey Delaney was Traveling Jack.

  And he’d just put on surgical gloves to execute his next murder. Victoria rested her head against the floor and closed her eyes, holding back tears. How could she have been so stupid? So blind? But she had known Trey. They had been friends for a lifetime. It couldn’t be…And yet it was. He was continuing his litany of death, accurately describing each crime with details only the killer would know.

  “Why, Trey? What made you do it?”

  “I would have been called to the work sooner or later, but it was divine intervention that you invited me to that symposium. When I listened to your boyfriend prattle on about Jack the Ripper, I realized my time had come. I knew more about that case than he ever did, understood what drove the man who was the most brilliant killer of all times. I got the story from the master’s own hand, you see.”

  She didn’t see, but she didn’t press him about it. He was clearly mad. Her time was short, and she wanted an answer to only one question. “Did…did you kill Meghan?”

  He rolled her over onto her back so he could look into her eyes. She knew what he wanted to see there. Fear. Terror. He needed to see that, because it put him in control. This time, she could not hide her fear, for she knew soon she would lose everything to the killer she’d called friend.

  “Did I kill Meghan?” he repeated her question with a sneer. “Yes, I killed her. I was away at law school, but I couldn’t get her off my mind after she broke off our affair, so I came home unexpectedly that night. She told me to leave, said she had a date. I left, but I followed her. I wanted to know who she was meeting that she considered better than me. I followed her to that sleazy motel. I saw what room she went into. I knocked on the door, thinking they were both in there humping it. I was ready to kill both of them.” Sweat beaded Trey’s forehead as he went on.

  “But she was alone. She answered the door wearing nothing but a smile. But it wasn’t for me.” His face filled with anguish as he relived that night. Victoria listened in sickened astonishment to his confession.

  “She had to be punished for her betrayal. So I took this…” He held the knife beneath one of Victoria’s ears, “and did this…” She felt the keen-edged steel trace a stinging line across her throat to the other ear, and she choked trying to draw in a short breath.

  “I punished her,” he said, holding the dagger up and tasting her blood from the tip of the blade.

  “You didn’t punish her. You murdered her,” Victoria cried at him, anger overcoming her fear. “You butchered her.”

  “Yes, I butchered her,” he said in a low growl. “I took my time, just like the master did. I cut her into little pieces so she could never hurt me again. And I watched later from the parking lot as the little prick who thought he was her lover went into the room and discovered my handiwork. Ha. You should have seen the bastard run. He never called the cops. He never told anyone.”

  In an instant, Victoria understood what had happened that night. She glared up at Trey. “You sorry son-of-a-bitch.”

  His face contorted with fury. He dropped the knife and lunged at her, his fingers encircling her neck.

  “She was a whore,” he screamed. “She deserved to die. And so do you.”

  His fingers tightened around her neck. She gasped for air and found none. Blood sang in her ears, and her vision faded.

  Her last conscious thought was of Jonathan, the man she loved and would never see again.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Jonathan’s plane landed at Dulles shortly before eight pm, and he was the first one off. During the short second leg of his journey, he’d grown increasingly anxious, until now he was a walking bundle of nerves. He shot down the concourse like a madman, headed for the bank of telephones. He dialed Victoria’s apartment for what seemed like the hundredth time, and for just as many times, he got the answering machine. Mosier. He had to get in touch with Mosier. He could send the police to the Thomas’s home faster than Jonathan could get there. Frantically, he searched the fat DC metro area telephone directory for Mike Mosier’s number, but there was none listed that was even remotely close. Beads of sweat popped out on his brow. Christ Almighty, he had to find her!

  He looked at his watch. Surely she and Trey had arrived her parents’ house by now. He racked his brain, trying to remember her parents’ names. He clearly remembered Barbara. But what was her father’s name? Recalling that she’d said he was a prominent attorney and a partner of Trey Delaney’s father, he thumbed furiously through the Yellow Pages and ran his finger down the long list of law firms until he came to one called “Thomas and Delaney.” That had to be it. Although he suspected the offices we
re closed at this hour, he dialed the number anyway, hoping some clerk might be working late and pick it up. Such was not his fortune, however. The system answered automatically, giving the office hours and other information about the practice.

  Jonathan was about to hang up when the recorded voice said, “In case of extreme emergencies, you may dial…” and gave another number. Repeating the number aloud again and again so as not to forget it, he dialed it frantically. The line rang six times before someone answered.

  “Hello. This is Detective Inspector Jonathan Blake of Scotland Yard. Please, I must speak to Mr. Lloyd Thomas. It’s urgent.”

  The female voice on the other end of the line was unimpressed. “Mr. Thomas is unavailable. May I have him call you?”

  “No, you don’t understand.” Panic nearly took Jonathan’s breath away. “Mr. Thomas’s daughter, Victoria, is in grave danger. Can you find him? I must speak to him immediately. Please!” He almost screamed into the phone.

  The woman was clearly surprised. “Victoria? One moment please.” She put him on hold, and he waited for an agonizingly long time. After what seemed an eternity, a man’s voice came across the wire.

  “Mr. Blake? This is Lloyd Thomas. What’s going on here? My assistant said something about Victoria being in danger.”

  “Yes, sir, she may be. Where is she?”

  “She’s…just left.”

  “With Trey Delaney?”

  “Why, yes. What’s this all about, Blake?”

  With as much control as he could muster, Jonathan explained the situation to Victoria’s father, praying that he would believe the story, as wild as it sounded. “She’s his next victim. I’m certain of it. Where did they go?”

  “Good God! I…I’m not sure where they went. But they couldn’t have gone far. They only left the house a short while ago.”

  Jonathan got directions to the Thomas’s home, then told Lloyd to call the emergency number and alert the police to be on the lookout for the vehicle they were driving. “And if you know his home number, call Mike Mosier and get him on it.”

  Jonathan had brought only one small carry-on bag, so he was at the taxi stand in a matter of minutes, trying not to think about how precious few minutes Victoria might have. He gave the taxi driver the address of the place where she had last been seen—her parents’ house—and told him there was an extra fifty dollars in it for him if he got Jonathan there in less than half an hour. Then he held on for dear life as the man careened the cab through the traffic, bent on earning his bonus.

  It wasn’t hard to find the action once they turned into the sedately elegant suburb where the Thomases lived. Several police cars sped through the quiet streets just ahead of them, sirens blaring. “Follow them,” he instructed the driver. His gut twisted in terror. Would any of them get to Victoria in time?

  The cars all converged at the same time on the grounds of an impressive mansion, in front of which was parked Victoria’s car. “Dear God,” Jonathan growled as he yanked the taxi door open. He raced to the front door, ignoring the shouts of the uniformed policemen who followed him.

  “Victoria!” he called, and pounded on the door. Not waiting for an answer, he pressed the large brass lever and pushed his way inside. “Victoria!”

  The house was dark except for lights coming from the nearby living room. Jonathan rushed toward the room, but at the doorway froze in horror at the sight that met his eyes. Trey Delaney knelt astraddle Victoria’s inert figure, his hands around her neck and a look of twisted ecstasy on his face.

  “You bastard!” Jonathan cried out and lunged at Delaney. He lost all reason, ignored all caution. His only thought was to rid Victoria of this false friend once and for all. He slammed his entire body against Trey’s, knocking him to the floor, stunning him, but only momentarily. With brute strength, Trey pushed Jonathan away and scrambled for a knife that lay nearby on the floor. The knife he had planned to use to carve up Victoria after the kill.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” Jonathan said, kicking his hand as he reached for the weapon. But Trey’s determination overcame the painful blow, and he rallied, clutching the knife and advancing toward Jonathan.

  “So, Inspector,” he hissed, breathing heavily, “you think you’ve come to her rescue. Well, too bad. You’re too late. She’s already dead. The stinking whore is dead, although I didn’t get the pleasure of cutting her.”

  “Drop it, Delaney!” A familiar voice came from somewhere nearby, and Jonathan glanced in the direction of the sound. Behind Trey, Mike Mosier and two uniformed policemen stood poised and ready to shoot.

  But Trey did not drop the knife or alter his stance. Instead, he gave forth a hideous laugh and, blade raised, charged full force at Jonathan. The crack of gunfire exploded in the room, and Jonathan saw Trey halt in midstride, a surprised look on his face. He fell first to his knees, and then crumpled into a heap on the floor.

  Dazed, Jonathan dashed to where Victoria lay unconscious on the carpet. He knelt beside her, touching her tenderly but desperately, searching for a pulse, a breath, any sign of life. “Don’t leave me, Victoria,” he pleaded, his voice hoarse over the ache in his throat. “Please, don’t leave me.”

  The paramedics moved in, and reluctantly he left her side to give them room to work. His vision was blurred with tears, but he was aware that the room was filling with people. From somewhere nearby, he heard a woman’s scream.

  Victoria’s eyelids felt as if they were made of lead. She struggled to open them, wondering why it seemed so difficult to wake up. She managed at last to peer out into the world, a world that was mostly white. She closed her eyes again. Was she dead? A dull pain registered in her throat when she swallowed. Dead people didn’t feel pain, did they? She opened her eyes again, wider this time, and turned her head slightly to one side. There, dozing by her bedside, was Jonathan Blake.

  She frowned, confused. What was Jonathan doing here? Wasn’t he supposed to be in London? But where was “here” anyway?

  “Jonathan?” She tried to speak, but found no voice. He must have heard her stir, however, for he woke up immediately and leaned over her, taking one of her hands in his.

  “I’m here, my darling,” he murmured and bent to kiss her cheek. “Don’t try to talk now. Everything’s going to be all right.”

  The tears in his eyes and the emotion in his voice only confused Victoria more. What the hell was the matter?

  And then it all came rushing back. The disastrous birthday scene, Trey’s confession of the murders, his vicious assault on her. Her eyes widened at the memory. Trey had tried to kill her! Her lifelong friend had tried to kill her. Just as he had killed her sister. Her fingers tightened around Jonathan’s as the monstrous truth washed over her. She began to tremble, and then her whole body began to quake violently, and tears flooded down her cheeks. Tears of horror, and anger, and grief. Not Trey! He could not have done this to her!

  Jonathan sat on the bed and enfolded her in his arms, rocking her gently. “Shhh,” he whispered, soothing her. “It’s over, darling. It’s all over. Everything’s going to be all right now.”

  Victoria wondered how anything could ever be all right again. She felt so…betrayed. Nothing was as it seemed anymore. How could she believe anything or anyone ever again? And yet, feeling the warmth of Jonathan’s arms around her, hearing the tenderness in his voice, she knew she could believe in him. He was real, and honest, and somehow had managed to be here for her when she needed him most. He restored her faith, and her soul. She brought his fingertips to her lips, grateful beyond words for his love.

  Gradually, she pulled herself together again. Her throat and head throbbed with pain, but she needed answers. She forced herself to speak. “What happened?”

  “Don’t try to talk now,” he urged again. “Your throat is severely injured.”

  But she had to know. “Trey…?”

  “Is dead. I came on the scene just as he thought he’d strangled you. He attacked me, and the police shot him.”r />
  Dear God. Victoria closed her eyes and felt another hot tear trickle down her cheek. Jonathan brushed it gently away.

  At that moment, the door opened, and Victoria looked up to see her mother and father peering in at her with anxious expressions. “She’s awake,” Lloyd said, a relieved smile softening the lines of his face. Her mother rushed to her bedside, and Jonathan stood up. Barbara Wentworth Thomas, with reddened, puffy eyes and smeared mascara, looked more disheveled than Victoria had ever seen her, and more beautiful, for suddenly she appeared human after all. Barbara took her in her arms, and Victoria didn’t resist.

  “Oh, sweetheart,” her mother murmured, sitting on the side of the bed, holding her daughter and crying openly in a display of emotion Victoria had never before experienced from her reserved mother. “The doctor says you will be fine. You’ll be fine,” Barbara repeated, as if to reassure herself.

  Victoria glanced over her mother’s shoulder, and to her amazement, she saw that her father was crying. And in that moment, Victoria understood at last the depth of the love her parents had for her. They weren’t demonstrative people, but she knew without a doubt they loved her nonetheless. She straightened to look her mother in the eye and grated over the bruises in her throat the words she’d rarely said to her. “I love you, Mother.” She turned to her father and whispered, “And I love you, too.”

  Her mother took both her hands and looked into Victoria’s eyes. “I’m so sorry. I’ve been a miserable mother. I drove both of you away, you and Meghan, and…and I almost lost you both because of it.” Her grief was so deep it sliced through Victoria, too. She drew her mother back into her arms and held her until Barbara shed all the tears she had withheld since Meghan’s death. It had been a horrible seven years for all of them, but Jonathan was right.

  Now it was over.

  Now it was time for the healing to begin.