Blood World

by Chris Mooney

  Still, Frank was dead-on about the stupid shit you did when you were young and in love—especially the first time you fell hard for someone, believed she was the great love of your life, your soul mate, the person God created only for you. It made the impossible seem possible.

  Frank said, “Where are you?”

  “I was heading home to prepare for my new life on the run. I’m almost there. Let me change out of my clothes. Then I’ll meet you in Long Beach.” Sebastian wasn’t going to ruin a perfectly good Tom Ford suit.

  “Stay home. I’ll take care of Paul. You don’t need to be there, see what happens to your kid.”

  “He is not my kid.”

  “But he is the kid of your former longtime girlfriend or live-in or common-law wife or whatever you called her. You don’t need to be there for the particulars. Sometimes ignorance is bliss.”

  Sebastian’s thoughts shifted to Trixie. Like his dearly departed mother, Trixie had lived her life as a God-fearing woman. She devoted her time to various charities and went to church and organized fund-raisers, many of which were devoted to helping the families of missing carriers. Trixie had had absolutely no idea of her husband’s real business. Sebastian had made sure of it.

  When she was diagnosed with Stage IV malignant melanoma, it was Sebastian, not her, who had brought up Pandora, explaining how carrier blood could destroy cancer cells and halt the progress of the disease, sometimes reverse it. Sebastian said he knew people—discreet people—who could acquire it. No one would ever know.

  But I’ll know, Trixie had told him. It’s illegal and, more importantly, immoral. An abomination. That blood will come from some child who was kidnapped and tortured. If God wants me to die, then it is his will.

  In the end, it didn’t matter. Once melanoma entered the bloodstream, it became one of the most aggressive cancers. Rounds of invasive testing revealed Trixie’s cancer had already worked its way past her lymph nodes and spread to most of her organs. No amount of carrier blood could reverse that. As she lay at home dying, all she thought about was God and the welfare of her son. Paul, she kept telling him, was a good man. He had served his country and deserved a good life. All he needed was some good, orderly direction. Not just from God but from the second most important person in Paul’s life. Sebastian had given her his word. He would watch over Paul. Help guide him.

  Paul, though, had zero interest in real estate. He did, however, have a ton of interest in Sebastian’s other business.

  Sebastian obliged, albeit reluctantly. The cat was already out of the bag. Better to manage Paul and keep an eye on him and where he went than to have him poking his nose around where it didn’t belong.

  I brought him into our thing—I allowed it, Sebastian wanted to tell Frank. And if I’m being honest, I’m not surprised about what he did today. Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew something like this would happen.

  “Don’t do anything until I get there,” Sebastian said.

  Traffic, finally, seemed to be moving. As Sebastian drew closer to his exit, he thought about what Frank had said, about not being there when Paul got to the Long Beach house.

  He’s not my kid, he’d told Frank.

  Which was true. He had never adopted Paul—had never had any interest in the job, either, and, as far as he could tell, Paul had never wanted him to fill out an application. Even as a kid, Paul had never been big on talking. Sure, he’d had plenty to say about sports, movies, and his favorite TV shows, maybe the occasional book he read, but anything deeper than that? Sorry, nothing to say.

  Same with his feelings. Nothing ever seemed to bother him. Whatever happened to him, good, bad, or indifferent, he never showed his true colors.

  “He’s just sensitive. Quiet and insular,” Trixie would tell him. “Insular men are always the most private.”

  Sometimes, she would add, “His father was like that.”

  Sebastian could count on one hand the number of times Trixie had spoken about Paul’s father. That was how she always referred to him: “Paul’s father.” Like he was a store that had gone out of business. She wouldn’t tell him the guy’s name, just that he split town when he found out she was pregnant, and she always ended the conversation with her mother’s favorite words: Good riddance to bad rubbish.

  On paper, everything pointed to Paul being solid. He had never given Trixie much in the way of grief beyond the usual kid shit of not picking up his room or putting away his clothes and his dirty dishes. He rarely got into trouble at school or at home, always got good grades and had plenty of friends, all of them good kids from good families, and, later, plenty of girlfriends—all pretty blondes with the same life ambition of looking good in a bikini. And yet Sebastian had always suspected there was something not quite right with Paul, something that made him different from everyone else.

  An incident when Paul was ten had provided Sebastian with some deeper insight.

  For Paul’s eighth birthday, his mother had given him a three-month-old puppy that was part Tibetan mastiff and part chocolate Lab. With its dark brown fur and shaggy face, the dog looked like a baby Chewbacca, which was the reason why Trixie had instantly fallen in love with the mutt. Chewbacca was Paul’s favorite character from his favorite movie, Star Wars. He’s my favorite because he’s loyal, Paul had explained to him once. Loyal and protective.

  Chewie the dog lived up to his namesake. And Paul, unlike most kids, took over full responsibility, feeding and walking Chewie without having to be reminded or nagged, playing with him in the backyard. Paul had never been big on sleepovers, but the handful of times he agreed to them he had insisted Chewie accompany him.

  When Chewie collapsed in the driveway one morning, Trixie and Paul still asleep, it was Sebastian who brought the dog to the twenty-four-hour emergency veterinary hospital.

  When the vet gave him Chewie’s diagnosis, Sebastian sobbed like a baby right in front of the vet, Chewie lying right there on the examining table after coming out of anesthesia for the X-ray and MRI, the dog wagging its tail limply, no clue as to what was happening.

  While Chewie had been undergoing the tests, Sebastian had texted Paul and Trixie, telling them he had brought the dog with him to the office. When Sebastian pulled into the driveway, his eyes were no longer puffy or bloodshot.

  Paul was home—out back, practicing his free throws. He shot the ball, Sebastian watching it roll off his fingertips, like he’d taught him. Swish. He had made the JV team.

  “I’ve got to talk to you,” Sebastian said after he got out of the car.

  Paul used a forearm to wipe the sweat away from his eyes. “What’s up? Where’s Chewie?”

  “That’s what I want to talk to you about.”

  Sebastian told him about the cancerous tumors the vet had discovered in Chewie’s brain. About how surgery and chemotherapy weren’t options with this type of cancer, and even if they were, the cancer had spread. It was too late. There was nothing to do but say goodbye.

  Sebastian was proud of himself for getting through his talk without his voice cracking. He was grateful for the mirrored sunglasses he was wearing, so Paul couldn’t see him blinking back fresh tears.

  “I’m sorry,” Sebastian said, watching as Paul cradled the basketball against his hip and looked down the long driveway, as though someone were about to arrive at any second to rescue him, turn this situation around. “I’ll take you to the vet’s office.”

  Paul turned back to him, his head cocked to the side. “Why?” he asked, sounding—and looking—genuinely puzzled.

  “So you can say goodbye.”

  “He’s a dog.”

  “No,” Sebastian said. “He’s your dog.”

  Paul’s expression and body language didn’t change. It was as if Sebastian had been speaking another language.

  He’s in shock, Sebastian thought. But he quickly dismissed it because of how eeril
y relaxed Paul was, how the kid seemed to be waiting for more information. In that moment, Sebastian thought of his mother, an intensely religious woman who constantly quoted from the Bible, and he recalled a passage from Mark or Matthew about how the eyes were the lamp of the body, how if they were healthy your body was full of God’s light.

  God’s light wasn’t in Paul’s eyes. There wasn’t any light, not even a flicker of one, because his eyes were dead. And they had always been dead, Sebastian realized—that was the thing that was off about him, what the kid was missing.

  Sebastian pulled into his driveway and stepped out of the car, the memory still fresh in his mind when his phone rang. Frank again.

  “More news from our guy on the inside,” Frank said. “A cop got a solid look at Paul. A female cop who was at the scene. Don’t have a name for you yet, but we’ll know soon, I’m sure.”

  “Paul’s not going to come to you.”

  “You spoke to him?”

  “Not yet,” Sebastian said, staring into his backyard, at the pool. “He’s here.”

  “Here as in your house?”

  “Yep.”

  “What the hell is he doing there?”

  “Judging from where I’m standing,” Sebastian said, “I’d say the breaststroke.”

  CHAPTER 7

  SEBASTIAN HUNG UP and stared at Paul, trying to process what he was seeing.

  Paul had killed five people—no, six, including Jolie’s unborn kid—just a couple of hours ago. He had just dropped an atomic bomb, creating the single worst cataclysmic disaster Sebastian had ever experienced in his business, and the prick decided to swing by here to take a dip in the pool?

  Sebastian unlatched the gate, wanting to bolt into the backyard and leap into the water, on top of Paul, and then, after bashing his head in a few times, hold the stupid son of a bitch underwater until he drowned.

  But Paul wasn’t a skinny teenager anymore; he was a man, and he had come back from overseas with an extra twenty pounds, all of it solid muscle. Then he had gotten heavily into bodybuilding and put on more. Sebastian was twice his age and while he worked out nearly every morning at the health club, doing weights and running on the treadmill, he was a far cry from the man he was during his boxing days—and a little soft, too, carrying an extra twenty pounds from indulging in too many expensive dinners.

  In terms of pure physical strength, Paul outmatched him. But in a fistfight? Sebastian was sure he could take him.

  Or maybe he would just shoot the bastard. Sebastian carried a legally registered subcompact 9mm Glock in a shoulder holster. California had eased up considerably on its gun restrictions when carriers started getting abducted from their homes at all hours, from schools and on the streets. Sebastian was just another card-carrying NRA member wishing to protect himself.

  Only a gunfight wasn’t going to happen here in his quiet neighborhood, where the slightest odd noise would be reason enough for someone to pick up the phone and call the police. The house was neutral territory—which was exactly why Paul had come here. Paul knew Sebastian would have to behave himself.

  But that didn’t mean Sebastian was going to go in unprepared. Always expect the unexpected, he thought, removing the Glock from his shoulder holster. He slid it into his right front pocket as he moved into the backyard.

  When Paul’s outstretched hand touched the pool liner, instead of turning around underwater and doing another lap he came up for air. He saw Sebastian looming above him and whipped his head to the side to whisk away the water.

  “There you are,” Paul said. “Thought you might swing by here.”

  In times of great stress, Sebastian had learned the importance of keeping a lid on his anger—not because it was the right or civil thing to do, as the prison therapist had suggested, but because it was the smart play. Killing Paul out here in the open was off the table—for now. He had to put his anger on hold—for now. Put it on hold, get Paul to Long Beach, and then he would unleash his rage. Take his time.

  Savor it.

  Paul hoisted himself out of the pool, splashing water on Sebastian’s shoes and pants cuffs. He straightened to his full height as if to remind Sebastian of his size and physical power.

  “We’ve got a lot to talk about,” Paul said, padding away and dripping water as he walked toward the opposite side of the pool.

  Sebastian stayed right where he was.

  Paul retrieved the towel draped over the back of a chaise longue, Sebastian looking at the ridiculous tattoos covering Paul’s muscular chest, arms, and back—those decorative, brightly colored skulls, set in candy, with flowers and jewels for eyes; a gingerbread man with a mean and ugly face, and jagged teeth biting down on the blade of a bloody machete. Paul had gotten them halfway across the world, in tattoo parlors in Iraq, but as for the significance behind them, what had inspired Paul to turn his body into a nightmarish version of the board game Candy Land, Sebastian had no idea. He had asked Paul about it a couple of times, but Paul never answered, just shrugged.

  Paul finished drying off and tossed the towel onto the grass and pulled out one of the chairs arranged around the patio table where the three of them had shared many meals together, as a family.

  He’s not my family, Sebastian reminded himself.

  Paul crossed his legs. “You talked with Frank, I take it?”

  Sebastian didn’t answer. He didn’t want to have this conversation outside, their voices carrying so the neighbors or someone walking by with their dog could hear. He walked over to the table but didn’t sit, glared at Paul from behind his sunglasses.

  “Care to explain just what the fuck you’re doing here?”

  “Was just about to ask you the same question,” Paul said. “Frank told me you were meeting us in Long Beach.”

  “I had to stop here. Because of you,” Sebastian lied. He took off his sunglasses, eyes flat as he looked down at Paul. “You’re going to need cash so you can hide out until I clean up your epic cluster—”

  “Relax. The police aren’t coming anywhere near here.”

  “Yeah? And how do you know that?”

  “You’re not the only one with friends on the force.” Paul said it like he knew, exactly, the names of those within the LAPD he and Frank had on their payroll. “Trust me, we’ll be fine.”

  Paul suddenly reached over the side of his chair to grab something sitting on the ground, behind the table. Sebastian stepped forward, ready to lunge if needed, when Paul stopped and cocked his head up at him, grinning.

  “You think I’ve got a gun down here? That I’m going to shoot you in our house?” Paul chuckled and came up with two highball glasses—the set of Baccarat crystal given to Sebastian as a gift by a real estate client who had no idea he was an alcoholic who had been sober for over two decades. Sebastian kept the glasses on a kitchen shelf, where they had gathered dust. Paul, Sebastian noticed, had cleaned them up.

  When Paul reached down again, that shit-eating grin still plastered on his face, Sebastian looked over the tops of the neatly trimmed hemlocks, to the house sitting on the hill above them, the sun burning gold and red against the back windows. The windows were shut, always, because nobody was home. Nobody lived there anymore. Sebastian owned the property, had bought it for privacy, and thought maybe he should take Paul down right now. He had fired the subcompact Glock many times. The report was no louder than a car muffler backfiring.

  Hand in his pocket, Sebastian threaded his fingers around the Glock and clicked off the safety as Paul came up with a dark bottle of something and placed it on the table. The bottle had a gold crown on the top. Paul turned it around so Sebastian could see the label: thirty-eight-year-old Royal Salute Stone of Destiny blended Scotch whisky.

  “You once told me your biggest regret was not having tried this before you got sober,” Paul said.

  It was true. Sebastian eyed the bottle, aware tha
t his mouth was actually watering over the thought of having one measly sip.

  “This shit’s rare. And expensive,” Paul said. “This bottle cost me almost two grand.”

  “And you, what, decided to pick up a bottle today after murdering six innocent people?”

  Paul’s eyebrows rose at the word innocent. “Bought it a while ago, actually. Was saving it for a special occasion. And today is a special occasion—it truly is.” He opened the bottle and placed the little gold crown on the table between them. “Guy who sold it to me said it’s important to let the Scotch breathe for a few minutes before you drink it. Why don’t you go grab us some ice?”

  Sebastian pulled out the chair next to Paul and sat. He could smell the chlorine wafting from Paul’s skin.

  “That mean you want me to go get the ice?” Paul asked.

  Sebastian didn’t answer. Paul leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs again, and smiled, and right then Sebastian realized Paul had very skillfully manipulated him to get him to sit down at the table, make Sebastian think that he had done it of his own accord.

  But that was what psychopaths did. They manipulated. The intelligent ones, anyway.

  “Right now,” Paul said, folding his hands against his hard, flat stomach, “I’m guessing you want to kill me. Understandable, given the circumstances. That won’t solve anything—will, in fact, just lead to a whole new set of problems, the first of which being the cops. You don’t want the LAPD—or the Feds, especially—to start poking around this wonderful facade you’ve created. You’re an ex-con who murdered one of their brothers in blue. Who knows what sort of shit they’ll uncover?”

  Was that a threat? On paper it sure as hell would look like one, but the way Paul delivered it—like he delivered everything, in that soft voice of his, like he cared about you and your well-being—made it seem like he was offering sound counsel, one close friend to another.