Bloodline rj-11

by F. Paul Wilson

  But what was he supposed to say next? How could he have forgotten? He'd given this speech so many times he could repeat it in his sleep.

  Something was wrong. But what?

  And then he knew: Something… someone was missing.

  Jeremy… Jeremy was gone.

  He didn't know how or why or where, but Jeremy's light had flickered out. Hank felt it, knew it. Just as he'd known, so many years ago, that Daddy was gone and never would be coming back.

  Had an Enemy gotten to him? That was the most logical explanation.

  Hank searched for grief but found only fear. He'd never been that close to Jeremy, hadn't even liked him, to tell the truth. He was more concerned about being next on the Enemy's list.

  He looked again at his audience. Could one of them be lurking in the crowd, waiting for a chance to kill him too?

  He fought the urge to turn and run. That would be stupid. He was safe here among the Kickers. This would be the last place the Enemy would try for him.

  He calmed himself and resumed speaking. But not his usual spiel. He started telling them about a young woman—alone, afraid, no family, pregnant, thinking she hadn't a friend in the world. But she did have friends and family—the Kickers. He told them how she and her baby were important to the future of the Kicker movement, to the future of the whole world, and how the Kicker family would find her and shelter her and protect her from those who feared and hated the dissimilated.

  THURSDAY

  1

  Hank stood by the copy machine and watched as it started to spit out the brightly colored sheets. He grabbed one to double-check.

  Dawn's photo looked grainy but that couldn't be helped. He'd enlarged it from one of the shots he'd taken when he'd tracked her down while Jeremy was in Creighton. The text said she was missing and offered a thousand bucks for any information leading to her discovery. He'd set up a special voice mail account for the calls. He knew a lot would be cranks, but he had plenty of manpower at his disposal to check them out.

  He handed it to the nearer of the two Kickers who had accompanied him.

  "This is what she looks like. This is who we're looking for."

  The guy studied it for a few seconds, then handed it to his companion.

  Later today he'd start handing out stacks of the flyers to the Kickers at the Lodge. They in turn would distribute bunches to all the Kickers they knew, who would spread them to all the Kickers they knew, and so on and so on.

  He turned back to the newspaper he'd brought along. Still no report of the death of Jerry Bethlehem, or Jeremy Bolton. But he did find mention of an unidentifiable body dragged along the Thruway beneath a truck last night. Could that be Jeremy?

  He shuddered. From now on, he wasn't traveling anywhere alone. He'd find a reason to have at least two Kickers with him at all times.

  Just to be on the up and up, he'd filed missing persons reports with the NYPD on both Jerry Bethlehem and Dawn Pickering. Hank had been surprised at how seriously the cops had taken his reports. He later learned that their disappearance made them prime suspects in Dawn's mother's faked suicide. Hank had tried to glean more details but failed.

  What a damn mess. The only upside was that he'd have both cops and

  Kickers on the lookout for Dawn. His big worry was that she and the baby had died along with Jeremy. But he didn't think so. Through the night the tenuous link he'd had to Jeremy had been replaced by a link to the baby. He sensed it was alive and well. That meant Dawn was alive and well too. And thus findable. Hank was going to find her first. And then, just as in his dreams, the Kicker Man would snuggle that baby in its arms and protect it from all Enemies.

  2

  Dawn eased herself into the warm water of the tub.

  Like mother, like daughter, right?

  But Mom hadn't had a choice. This was Dawn's idea, her own doing.

  She felt like total hell. She'd been up all night drinking rum and Diet Pepsi. Sure, the rum wasn't good for the baby—at least that was what she'd heard—but nowhere near as bad as what was about to happen to both of them.

  She'd agonized over what to wear until she'd realized she was just delaying the inevitable.

  She listened for any sounds from the house—like anybody trying to get in. About an hour ago, as she was working up the nerve to get off her butt and do it, she'd heard sounds outside. Thinking it was Jerry, she'd slid back into her hiding place.

  But it hadn't been Jerry. Two men, strangers. She didn't know how they'd got in, but they had, and they were searching the place. They hadn't said a word, but she'd seen their feet. They went through the whole house, silent as shadows. And then they left. She'd waited a long time before coming out again.

  Who were they? Had they been looking for her, or for Jerry? Whatever, it had totally spooked her into action. Get it done before someone else came nosing around—like the local cops "processing" the crime scene—and totally ruined her chance.

  So now, dressed in the same clothes she'd worn all yesterday and last night, she unwrapped the razor blade she'd found in the garage and held it up to the light. It looked so sharp. Little bits of rust flecked the edges. Couldn't rust give you tetanus? Not that it mattered.

  Okay… had to get up the nerve to do it.

  She'd known girls in school who cut their arms with blades like this. How did they do that? Why? Yeah, short, shallow little slices that probably didn't hurt too much, but it had so never made sense to her.

  Had to do this now before she totally lost her nerve.

  She placed the razor's corner point against her left wrist, just below the base of her thumb, and lowered her arm into the water. Closed her eyes, took a breath, and slashed the blade across.

  She cried out with the pain. God, that hurt! Hurt like crazy!

  She opened her eyes and looked. All those glasses of rum and Pepsi threatened to come up when she saw the scarlet billows flowing from her wrist.

  Scarlet billows… that was in some song Mom used to like…

  A blast of panic flashed through her as she watched her blood, her life flowing out of her. What had she done? This was crazy. She—

  No. She so deserved this, had it coming for being a total jerk. No way she could live with herself after all the pain and death and misery she'd caused.

  She looked at her right wrist. She'd intended to slit that as well but the first cut had hurt too much. And with the way the left was bleeding, she doubted she'd need it.

  An odd sort of peace slipped over her like a warm blanket. She'd done it. In a few moments her cares and troubles would be totally over. No more worries, no more guilt, no more heartbreak.

  Just… peace.

  3

  Doc Levy looked like hell in the late afternoon light coming through the Argonaut's window. Off his feed as well. Hadn't ordered anything but a glass of seltzer.

  Jack had left voice mail about how they needed to meet—pronto. He'd known something was bothering Levy when he'd called back. Sounded frazzled. Jack had a pretty good idea why.

  Levy hadn't been able to get free until now, and so here it was, tour-thirty, and he looked like he hadn't slept in days.

  Jack hadn't had much sleep either. He'd hunted for Dawn most of the day and come up empty.

  "Something bothering you?" Jack said.

  For all he knew, he looked as jumpy as Levy. With good reason, considering what was to come in the next few minutes.

  "Bothering me?" Levy chugged some seltzer and gave him a funny look. "Don't you listen to the news?"

  Jack shook his head. He let Abe filter much of his news. "Depresses me."

  "Obviously you haven't heard then. Remember Doctor Vecca? You met her when—"

  "I remember."

  "Well, she's dead. Murdered. Head splattered all over her bedroom."

  "How awful."

  He hoped he sounded sincere.

  "But you know what's worse? Maybe I shouldn't say 'worse,' because she's dead and I'm not—no, it is worse: They f
ound the murder weapon—a tire iron coated with her blood—on the street outside my house."

  "Bolton?"

  He paused, then, "How'd you know?"

  "Seems to like tire irons. Came after me with one, or have you forgotten?"

  He ran a shaking hand through his dark hair. "To tell you the truth, I had. His prints were all over it. The blood was Julia's and traces were found inside his car—also outside my house."

  "No wonder you're upset."

  "As if that isn't enough, someone called the Golden and Dalton families and told them that Bolton had escaped and no one had reported it. They're screaming bloody murder. That news should be hitting the airwaves any minute. Not that you'd hear."

  "Sounds like you'd better catch up to Bolton. Anybody have any idea where he is?"

  "No. And that's what frightens me. The local cops and state police are looking for Jerry Bethlehem, who's listed as the owner of the car. But the agency knows to look for Bolton and has been scouring the area without finding a trace of him. Even sent a couple of agents to comb his girlfriend's house. Nothing."

  Jack wanted to know more about their search. Had they found Dawn? He took an oblique approach.

  "Well, he either ran off or was given a ride. The only ones 1 can think of who'd give him a ride are Dawn Pickering and Hank Thompson."

  "Thompson checks out. The girl's gone missing. House is empty. They think she might be dead too."

  Jack shook his head. "Can't see him doing that. It'd mean the end of the baby as well."

  "I agree. Which means he hasn't gone far." Levy looked around. "I drove here looking over my shoulder the whole way. I've got a guy from the agency watching my house—my wife, my little girl…"

  A twinge of pity prompted a little reassurance from Jack.

  "Relax. You've got nothing to worry about."

  Levy's eyebrows shot up. "Oh no? He left his car and the murder weapon in front of my house!"

  "'Left' is the operant word. He's on the run. He won't be back."

  "I wish I could be so sure."

  Jack figured it was time to get down to the real reason for this little meeting. His palms began to sweat.

  "You bring your little test kit?"

  "Hmm?" Levy pulled himself back from somewhere else. "Oh, yes. Here."

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box, maybe the size of a bracelet jewelry box. He set it on the table and lifted the lid to reveal a little eyedrop bottle and a square card with what looked like a coffee stain at the center of its glossy surface.

  Jack stared at it. "That's it? That's all there is to it?"

  "What did you expect—test tubes and a gas chromatography unit? Yes, that's it. And as I told you on the phone, it can't leave my sight. Only Creighton staff and certain screeners for the agency are allowed access to these kits."

  "What do I do?"

  "All we need is a drop of your blood." He patted his pockets. "I could have sworn I brought a packet of lancets—"

  "Never mind." Jack pulled out his Spyderco and flipped it open. "This oughta do."

  Levy stared at the blade. "I said a drop of blood, not a whole unit. A finger stick, not surgery."

  Jack didn't smile. This wasn't funny.

  Levy said, "You sure you want to do this? What are you going to do with the result?"

  "They say knowledge is power."

  "Not in this case. Whatever the result, there's nothing you can do about it."

  Jack knew that. But he had to know.

  He wiped the blade with a paper napkin, then made a quick short slice in his fingertip. Barely felt it. As blood welled in the slit he looked up at Levy.

  "Now what?"

  "Without touching the card, let a drop fall on that beige area."

  Jack complied and watched the drop expand on the glossy paper. Levy took some sort of oversized toothpick and began mixing the blood into the beige residue.

  "It's a variation on the old latex agglutination method. Basically a yes-or-no test. If we get clumping, it's positive. No clumping—negative."

  "No telling the amount?"

  He shrugged. "Sure. The more clumping, the more positive, but that's too crude and too subjective to rely on. The gold standard is a full quantitative analysis."

  After stirring the blood and the beige, he took the little plastic bottle, removed the cap, and squeezed three drops of clear fluid onto the mix. He picked up the card and started tilting it this way and that. His cell phone rang. He handed the card to Jack.

  "Just rock it back and forth to mix it."

  Jack took it and looked. His breath caught as he saw little flecks begin to form in the fluid. He heard Levy's voice faintly, as if he were sitting four tables away.

  "You what? You found him? Wh—?… Oh, dear God… But how—?… Yes, I see… No, not at all. Thanks for calling. It takes a load off my mind, but dear God. Who could have—? Okay, okay. As soon as I get back."

  His gut acrawl, Jack watched the flecks enlarging, sticking to each other, forming clumps.

  "Jack? Jack?"

  Levy tapped him on the arm and Jack looked up.

  "What?"

  "Bolton's dead."

  Jack almost said, Yeah, I know, but caught himself in time. He returned to watching the clumps expand while Levy prattled on.

  "The agency heard about a body found dragging beneath a truck on the Thruway. Most of his skin was gone so they had no fingerprints or even facial features to go on. But since the truck's last stop had been a few miles from Rathburg, they ran a quick DNA and damn if it wasn't a match for Bolton."

  "Uh-huh."

  Jack felt a vague disappointment. He'd wanted Bolton to go unidentified for a while, preferably forever. That way Vecca's agency would concentrate on finding the escapee and forget about Christy Pickering's investigator.

  Levy ran a hand across his face. "This is incredible. He'd been tied there, but God knows by whom."

  "Uh-huh."

  Levy craned his neck. "What's going on?" He reached for the card. "Let me see that."

  Jack pulled it back. He didn't want Levy to see it—didn't want anyone to see it.

  "Come on. Give it over."

  What the hell. Jack laid it on the table and slid it toward him. Then watched Levy's eyes widen.

  "Dear God!" He looked up at Jack, then back to the card, then at Jack again. "You're playing tricks on me, right? What did you do—sprinkle something on this while I wasn't looking? That's it, right?"

  "I wish."

  Levy did the up-and-down look again.

  "Dear God, this can't be true! I've never seen agglutination like this! It puts you right up there with—" His phone rang again. He checked it, then pointed at Jack. "I've got to take this, but do not leave, understand?"

  Jack felt boneless—he wasn't going anywhere.

  "Yes?" Levy said, jamming the phone to his ear. "What? What sort of letter? Read it to me."

  As Levy listened, Jack stared at the clumps—the agglutination, as Levy put it.

  Last night, after following the line of Bolton's blood until it petered out, he hadn't felt a shred of guilt or regret or remorse. Why not? Easy: Because Bolton had suffered a fate he'd have had no hesitation inflicting on someone else.

  Then an ugly thought had bobbed to the surface: Didn't that make him just like Bolton?

  No. Of course not. He hadn't wanted to do it, had planned a hands-off solution that would force the agency to take out Bolton for killing Vecca…

  … which Jack had put him up to.

  But Bolton's arrival at Levy's, bloody tire iron in hand, had left Jack no choice.

  Could have simply shot him and buried him.

  Bad option. Too many chances to leave trace evidence.

  But to tie him under a truck? That was something one of Levy's heavy oDNA carriers would do.

  Right.

  The possibility had sickened him, but he needed to know. So he'd asked Levy to bring one of his screening kits.

&nb
sp; "Dear God!"

  If he says that once more…

  "Not her signature? Then who—?" He looked at Jack and paled. "I'll follow up on this later." Without taking his eyes off Jack he folded the phone and placed it on the table. "They found a letter in Julia's bedroom, the room where she was murdered. It's signed but the signature isn't even remotely like hers. It tells all about Bolton's paternity to Dawn and…" He shook his head. "Only two people knew about that: You and I. And I didn't write that letter, so that leaves…"

  "Why are you looking at me?"

  "Because you—"

  "Forget this letter jive. What about my test?"

  Levy glanced at it again.

  "What's to tell? You're in the Jeremy Bolton league of the oDNA tournament. I'll bet you even top him."

  Jack leaned back. Just what he'd been afraid of, what he hadn't wanted to hear but sensed he would.

  Levy was pointing—no, jabbing a finger in his direction, his face even paler, his voice a hoarse whisper.

  "You! It was you! You tied Bolton beneath that… you wrote that letter to set him off… you knew he'd come looking for Julia and—"

  "How can you know whether the therapy's working if you don't provoke him? Wasn't that the gist of her approach?"

  "Yes, but—oh, dear God—"

  "Would you please come up with another expletive or exhortation or whatever? Please?"

  He wasn't listening. "Bolton came to my house after killing Julia! It wasn't the Pickering girl or Thompson who gave him a ride, it was you. Oh dear God!"

  "Didn't I ask—?"

  "You tied him to that—oh dear God." He shrank back against the booth's rear cushion. "What kind of a man does something like that?"

  Jack didn't offer an answer. They both knew: One carrying a load of oDNA.

  Levy gathered himself. "But then again, you probably saved my life."

  "Probably?"

  Levy glanced away. "Okay. Definitely."

  "Let's say all of what you say is true. That leaves me with a problem, doesn't it."

  "What?"

  "You."

  Levy flinched. "M-me?"

  "You know an awful lot about me. Maybe too much. What am I going to do about that?"