Bloodline rj-11

by F. Paul Wilson

  Toward the front he found a bedroom with an unmade bed, clothes on the floor, and open dresser drawers. Tossed or just a sloppy guy? Jack checked the closet and under the bed, then grabbed a T-shirt from the floor and headed rearward.

  There he found a guest bedroom. He made sure it was empty and moved on to another bedroom Gerhard had converted into an office.

  After pulling the shades on the two windows, Jack flashed his light around and found the usual: desk, filing cabinets, and a computer with a dark screen but a glowing power light.

  He turned off the flash and stood listening. He was ninety-nine percent sure he was alone in the house and one hundred percent sure he had the second floor to himself. As for anyone sneaking up those noisy stairs—no way.

  He stowed the Glock and began searching the office.

  The filing cabinets came first. A quick search showed no Bethlehem or Pickering file. He wiped down the drawer handles with the T-shirt and moved to the desk. No help there. He sat before the monitor and wiggled the mouse with a T-shirt-wrapped hand. The computer awoke and the screen came to life with Explorer up and running.

  The current page was an article on the assassination of abortion doctors in Atlanta. Jack frowned. When was this? The story was dated nearly twenty years ago. It came back to him. Big deal at the time. Someone had shot down a couple of abortionists within a week of each other. The whole country had been buzzing, cops posted at all the clinics and outside doctors' homes. They'd finally caught the guy and put him away, but it had been all anyone had talked about at the time.

  Just in case, Jack scanned the article for the name Jerry Bethlehem but found no mention.

  He clicked the BACK button. He'd learned a few simple computer tricks—ways to hide his browsing history and locate others'—but didn't need them here. He found a page of Google search results for "atlanta abortion assassination." He checked out a few but found no mention of Bethlehem. Maybe related to another case Gerhard was working on? Had he stumbled onto something he shouldn't have? Was that why he'd been killed?

  Going further back he found searches for "aaron levy md" and "creighton institute," and finally "gerald bethlehem." Jack clicked that and was rewarded with half a million hits ranging anywhere from people named Gerald living in Bethlehem, PA, to articles on Jesus or Christmas by guys named Gerald.

  Forget it.

  He found a pen, then a pad with oDNA? written on the top sheet. Huh. He tore it off and shoved it into a pocket. He copied down the search strings, then searched Gerhard's computer for "Bethlehem." A folder popped up in the search results window. He opened it and found a list of .jpg files. Clicking through them revealed a series of photos of a man with a neat beard walking with his arm across the shoulders of a young blonde. The flattened perspective indicated they were surveillance photos taken with a telephoto lens.

  He checked out the girl. Had to be Dawn Pickering. Had her mother's eyes, but a round, pug face and a body bordering pudgy. Not exactly a traffic stopper. What attracted Bethlehem to her? They say there's someone for everyone. Was that it? Was this the girl of his dreams? Maybe he just had a thing for young stuff. Or was it, like her mother suspected, something else?

  Jack printed out a couple of the shots. The old laser printer turned the color originals into grainy black and white, but at least they gave him an idea what this guy looked like.

  The Bethlehem folder also contained a Word file labeled "Levy." He opened that and found a telephone number with a 914 area code and an address in Rathburg, New York. Jack had heard of it—someplace north of the city, he thought, but wasn't sure. He printed out a copy of that too. When he'd folded the printouts and stuffed them in a pocket, he wiped down whatever he'd touched and returned to the bathroom.

  He used the shirt to turn off the water, then squatted next to the tub and tried to piece together what had gone down here.

  The long bungee cord was tied to the rope that bound Gerhard's knees. It ran forward to and through the eyebolt under the head. From there it stretched up and wrapped around the neck three times before tying into a knot at the nape.

  The links between the handcuffs ran through the eyebolt as well.

  What the hell…?

  And then Jack saw it. Gerhard must have been unconscious when he was hog-tied like this. The cuffs prevented his hands from reaching the knots. The bungee pulled his head down. With the tub filled Gerhard would have to strain against the cord to keep his head above water. Couldn't strain too hard or the bungee would tighten around his neck.

  He'd probably screamed for help until his throat went raw and his voice failed, but no one heard him.

  Keeping his head above the surface wouldn't be too difficult at first, but as the cold water lowered his body temperature and his muscles fatigued, he'd be forced to let his head sink to give them a rest. Then he'd lift his head for a breath before letting it sink again. Bobbing for air instead of apples.

  Inevitably, when the muscles became too weak to raise his nostrils above sea level—depending on his strength, that might have taken a day or so—he'd drown.

  Jack shook his head, chilled. Some sick bastard with a major hard-on for Gerhard had spent a lot of time dreaming this up.

  The PI might have been a good guy, might have been a sleazeball, but nobody deserved this. Well, maybe not nobody—Jack had met a few folks who'd easily qualify—but most likely not Gerhard.

  His last moments must have been awful.

  Big question: Was the sicko who'd dreamed this up Jerry Bethlehem?

  Could be, but Jack could think of other possibilities.

  Private dicks make enemies. With guys like Gerhard who specialize in divorce work—"getting the goods on cheating spouses," as Christy had put it—it went with the territory. Could be one of his pigeons had been taken to the cleaners in a divorce settlement and come by for major payback.

  Or it could have something to do with the Atlanta abortion killings. No question Gerhard was researching them. Why, after almost two decades? That bothered Jack. Not as if it was an ongoing case. As far as Jack knew, it was closed—the killer caught and punished. Had Gerhard stumbled upon something that would get it reopened? And was somebody willing to kill to prevent that?

  Again, maybe. But this seemed too personal.

  Which brought Jack back to the enraged cheating husband scenario as the most probable.

  But it didn't let Bethlehem entirely off the hook. Gerhard could have found some dirt on Bethlehem—maybe something incriminating—and tried to blackmail him.

  Jack shook his head. Whatever had gone down, this was not the place to ponder it. He had a couple of surfaces and doorknobs to wipe down and then he was out of here.

  6

  Christy cruised the Queens Boulevard outer road, slowing as she passed in front of the bar. She spotted that damned Jerry Bethlehem's Harley out front. She'd learned this was his hang when he wasn't eating at Dawn's table at the Tower or home working on his latest video game.

  She parked her Mercedes half a block down the street, facing the place. She'd used this spot a number of times before; the perfect vantage point because it offered a clear view of the front entrance.

  She turned off the engine and checked her watch as she settled in for her vigil. Dawnie's shift at the Tower didn't end for another hour. She'd most likely be hooking up with Jerry after work. The question was: What would Jerry be up to until then?

  The place was called Work. Ha ha. Very funny. Honey, I'm really busy at Work and wont be home till late.

  She'd peeked in there a while baek. It was a sort of eatery-bar—pool hall. Not the sort of place she'd expect a well-heeled guy like Jerry to hang out. His expensive clothes didn't exactly match the decor—or the other patrons for that matter. She couldn't imagine any of them going home to a Rego Park condo a tenth as luxurious as his. Christy had never been inside, but she knew the complex—very tony—and Dawn had gushed about all the 'state-of-the-art electronics it housed.

  Bethlehem a
te lunch at Work almost every day and hung out at the bar when he wasn't stalking Dawn at the Tower.

  But every once in a while he'd disappear. Like yesterday. Where did he go? That was what Christy intended to learn.

  This was what they called a stakeout, right? Mike Gerhard should be here, doing this. Or that new guy, Jack. Maybe she could convince him to take over after he located Gerhard.

  She had a good feeling about Jack—never did get his last name. How had she let that slip by? His reluctance to get too involved inspired a strange sort of trust. He didn't seem to be money motivated. None of that grubbing attitude: Sure-sure, I'll do—or pretend to do—anything you want, just pay me. Oh, he wanted to get paid, but she sensed it was as much to set a value on his efforts as to make a living.

  The thing was, someone had to watch Bethlehem. Someone had to catch him in the act.

  What act, she didn't know, but he was hiding something. Had to be. As soon as she'd set eyes on him, standing in her living room, she'd sensed something wrong. Maybe it was the strange way he'd stared at her when he walked in. Whatever it was had sent ripples of revulsion through her…

  … and yet, he was sexy in a way. The lazy Southern drawl, the longish hair, the long, lean frame, the mystery of what lay behind that beard, the mesmerizing blue eyes that seemed to pierce you…

  Maybe it was that bad-boy thing. He had a certain sense of danger about him that, in another time, another place, might have attracted her. But to know that it was aimed at her daughter, attracting her… well, that was too much to bear.

  Maybe because he'd been with her little girl—not yet with her in that sense back then—just… with her. She'd wanted him gone, wanted to kick him out on his ass, but she couldn't. They'd only go elsewhere, and she wanted him where she could keep an eye on him.

  Finally they did go elsewhere. To his place. And once they got there she knew they wouldn't limit their relationship to working on video games. At least not for long.

  The thought sickened her.

  Not that she was a prude. Anything but. She'd lost her virginity at sixteen and had got it on with half a dozen different boyfriends in high school before… never mind. She didn't want to think about that. But the operative word was the boy in boyfriend. They were boys—her age or maybe a year older. They were all growing and learning the sexual ropes together. This Bethlehem creep had the benefit of a whole extra lifetime of experience beyond Dawn's. What was he into? What was he teaching her? What was he making her do?

  Don't you hurt my little girl.

  And she knew he was going to hurt her. Not emotionally, by dumping her after he'd used her up. Christy could help Dawn through that. No, worse. He wanted something from her. But what? And why Dawn?

  Dawnie… how could an Ivy League—bound girl act so dumb? And sound dumb too. Despite all her reading and all her A's in English, she'd fallen into the "like" and "totally" habit of her peers. Really, with laws about everything else, why couldn't they pass a law about the number of times someone could use "like" per day?

  So she'd started fining Dawn—twenty-five cents for every time she misused "like." It had worked, making her conscious of it, and her use trailed off. Christy had just instituted a similar program to wipe out "totally" when that man came along.

  Did he care about Dawnie—at all?

  She couldn't believe that, and so she needed something on this cradle-robbing bastard.

  She hoped tonight would be the night he'd make a mistake. She'd follow—

  There he was, sauntering out of the bar, talking on his cell phone as if he didn't have a care in the world—and all the while making a wreck of Dawnie's.

  And yet, watching the sinuous way he moved, the swing of his shoulders, the twist of his narrow waist, she couldn't help feel a pull. She understood why Dawn was so gaga over him. He was sexy—no other word for it. He could have just about any woman he wanted.

  So why on Earth did he want Dawn?

  Unlike so many other mothers, Christy had never kidded herself about her daughter's looks. Dawnie was plain. Those words would never leave her lips. In fact she'd always told Dawn she was beautiful. And inside she was. But the girl wasn't stupid. She had a mirror. And knowing she wasn't pretty had had its effect, pushing her into academics instead of boys. Which was wonderful. Plenty of time for guys later.

  All of which made her a sitting duck for a magnetic guy like Jerry Bethlehem.

  Again the question: Why Dawn?

  Not knowing the answer made Christy's skin crawl.

  She watched him hop on his Harley. He had a sporty little Miata too, but tonight he was using the bike. She watched him adjust his helmet and wished he didn't wear one. Then she could pray he got hit by a car and wound up brain dead. Or maybe she'd run him off the road and—

  The thought shocked her. Where had that come from?

  From deep in her gut. If push came to shove, she'd do anything to keep Dawnie safe from him. A mother protected her own.

  She remembered her pregnancy. She'd been single and scared, with her mother royally pissed that she was knocked up. She'd planned to give up the baby, but the instant she'd held her little girl in her arms she felt herself change. She was going to find a direction, make a life for herself and this baby. It was the beginning of a new day, a new life for her, and so she'd named the baby Dawn.

  Trite, yes. But she'd been Dawn's age at the time and it had seemed like the right thing to do.

  Up ahead, Bethlehem revved his engine and took off with a roar. Christy followed and cursed as she saw him head toward Queens Boulevard.

  She followed him to Rego Park and, sure enough, he was heading for the Tower. She slowed as he pulled into a narrow spot at the curb. Dawn ran out to meet him and give him a big hug and a long kiss. Christy's stomach turned as she watched him fondle her buttocks.

  She had to get something on this son of a bitch.

  God, she wished she could follow him some night to a house where he visited a wife and kids. Wouldn't that be great? Threaten him with exposure if he didn't leave Dawn alone. Show her proof if he didn't heed the warning.

  Yes, the truth would hurt her little girl, but the truth was the truth, and shouldn't be hidden.

  Except in my case, she thought.

  That was the danger in hiring a detective. He might broaden the investigation, uncover things better left hidden, start asking questions she didn't want to answer.

  7

  Jack sat in his idling car, cell phone in one hand, Dr. Levy's number in the other.

  To call or not to call.

  He'd just come from the scene of a torture-murder. It might not have anything to do with what he'd been hired for. In fact, odds were high against it, but not in the sure-thing range.

  Did he want to get involved in this? Did he want to touch anything the late Michael Gerhard had touched?

  Not really. But he'd accepted a fee to find out what Gerhard had learned about Jerry Bethlehem, and since Gerhard wasn't talking, Jack felt obligated to speak to at least one person the PI had contacted.

  What the hell.

  He punched in the number. After three rings, a man answered.

  "Yes?" His voice sounded a little strange… tentative.

  "Is this Doctor Aaron Levy?"

  "Who's calling?"

  "I'd like to ask the doctor a few questions about a man named Jerry Bethlehem."

  "Who?"

  "Jerry Bethlehem. I—"

  "Never heard of him!" he said, but his tone said otherwise.

  "Are you sure? I was given to understand—"

  "Who is this?" A sharp jump in pitch and volume. "Are you the one who just called and hung up?"

  "No, I—"

  "You are, aren't you. I don't know what your problem is, but I want you to stop it."

  "But I'm not—"

  "Are you listening? Stop this or I'll have you found out and stopped. And

  I'm not talking about calling the police. I'll be going much higher up. So s
top this if you know what's good for you."

  And then he hung up.

  Whoa. That was one rattled man. He'd mistaken Jack for someone making harassing phone calls. Gerhard? Unlikely if Levy'd had a hang-up tonight.

  Looked like he was going to have to arrange a face-to-face with Dr. Levy.

  He put the car in gear, powered up his officialdom phone, and dialed 911. He told the operator he was a neighbor of Gerhard's and that water was leaking out his front door. He said he'd knocked but no one answered and he was afraid something was wrong inside. He broke the connection without leaving a name.

  Not the sort of message to spark EMTs to race to the scene, but eventually someone would get around to checking it out.

  He turned off the phone. He reserved it exclusively for calls that had the remotest chance of being traced. Those were the only times he powered it up.

  He had no sources in officialdom and no way of knowing what kind of tracking capabilities the emergency services center had. Even though the number was untraceable to him, they might be able to pick up some sort of identifier code from his phone and track it. And they might not. But he did know they couldn't trace a powered-down phone. So he kept it off.

  Was this any way to live?

  Yeah. A major pain in the ass at times. A constant battle of wits. But he found it hard to imagine life any other way.

  THURSDAY

  1

  "You're going to buy a map?" Abe said. "What for a map when you've got Mapquest?" He turned to his computer. "I'll look it up for you right now."

  An hour after a simple breakfast of plain old Entenmann's crumb cake and newspaper skimming at Abe's rear counter—no story on finding Gerhard's body yet—Jack was readying to wander off in search of a New York state map. The one he had was falling apart.

  "Don't bother. I've already got driving directions from Mapquest, but I like a map I can fold and unfold. I like to see the big picture."

  "You want a big picture, I can get you a satellite photo of where you're going."