Blood of My Blood

by Barry Lyga

  When you die, Connie, it will be ugly, the voice had said. I promise you that. And I also promise you that I will be a little sad at that moment. But only a little bit.

  Nestling against her pillow, she stretched one hand out as far as she could, resting it on the arm of the wheelchair. Close enough to Whiz’s hand to feel the heat radiating from him. Whether Jazz’s love for her was alive or dead, she would take solace in his courage and his conviction. Even if he killed Billy, he would still be the boy—the man—she’d fallen in love with. And if he never wanted to see her again, that would still be enough. She would not back down. She would not succumb to her fear.

  Go ahead and come for me, you bitch, you bastard. Come for me. I won’t go quietly, and I promise you this much: I’ll take everything from you that I can before I die.

  CHAPTER 42

  Restlessly pacing his bedroom the next morning, Howie tried to envision the next steps, the world to come. But the portents were murky at best. He’d always relied on his ability to understand Jazz, or at least to predict his movements. Their years of friendship hadn’t stripped away all of Jazz’s mystery, but they had dragged at least part of the cloak off. Howie had always felt that he could see the line Jazz would walk up to, but never cross. Now, after Jazz’s reaction to news of Gramma’s death, after watching him dig up his grandfather with manic intensity and in such utter silence, without their usual mordant banter… After all this, Howie wasn’t sure how much of Jazz was still inside Jazz.

  What happens to the sidekick when the good guy goes off the rails? He didn’t know. He had a sudden, disturbingly bright flash of memory from some horror movie he and Jazz had watched as kids, in which the good guys were—one by one—possessed by an alien life force. And at the end, there were only two guys left, and one of them was possessed and with his last conscious thought begged his buddy, “Kill me. Please kill me.”

  Howie tried to imagine Jazz demanding that of him. Would Jazz recognize the moment when he was about to step over the line he’d drawn for himself years ago? Would he be able to resist? Or maybe he would pause just long enough—murder in his eyes—to turn to his best friend and ask him to perform that one service only a best friend or a mortal enemy could perform.

  Stop me, Howie.

  And there would be only one way.

  Cut it out, Howie. It’s not going down that way. Jazz could never kill anyone. And he’s smart enough to know not to rely on me to stop him.

  Except the words rang hollow even when not spoken aloud. Howie had been Jazz’s friend for a long time, half their lives. Howie knew that his friend was perfectly capable of killing someone. That had never been the question. The question—the one Howie had assiduously avoided thinking for years, the one now neon-flashing before him, unavoidable—was would Jazz kill?

  It could happen. He could cross that line.

  What do I do? What am I supposed to do? Do I turn him in? Is that what I do? Turn him in to the cops and see what happens?

  It was the most sensible course of action. It savored of right, but it also had the sour aftertaste of betrayal. For all of Jazz’s faults, he’d never once turned on Howie. Did that buy Jazz a free pass for the rest of his life? How far was Howie’s gratitude for that childhood-bully save supposed to stretch, and did its surface area cover capital crimes? Bros before hos was one thing, but bros before the rest of the world? If Jazz showed up tonight in Howie’s backyard, tossing pebbles at his window to lure him out there, and Howie crept down the stairs and out through the garage, only to find Jazz covered in blood and toting Billy’s severed head, saying, Hey, man, things got a little out of control. I need to borrow your car, well, WWHD? What would Howie do?

  He was only a tiny bit scared to find that he imagined the theoretical Howie already digging in his pocket for his car keys.

  Mom knocked at his door just then, bearing the cordless phone. Howie had been so absorbed in his own morbid morality play that he hadn’t even heard the phone ring. “It’s your principal. He has assignments from your teachers.”

  Howie took the phone. You would think helping to catch a serial killer and landing in the hospital after confronting another one would result in the pity scissors being brought out and some substantial amount of slack being cut, but no. The dedicated educators at Lobo’s Nod High demanded that their battered and bruised hero still cram their usual wads of useless knowledge into his rattled and shaken skull. He flounced onto the bed and said, “Yeah, hello?”

  “Hello there, Howie,” said the last and worst voice Howie had ever expected to hear.

  Paralyzed on his bed, staring up at Uma Thurman and—for the first time in his life—not enjoying it, Howie could only say, “Hello, Mr. Dent.”

  “Mr. Dent.” Billy chuckled. “So polite. Always did have manners, Howie. When you chose to use ’em, that is. Your parents raised you right. Speakin’ of—how are Tom and Melinda? Did your dad ever figure out what was wrong with his hip?”

  Howie couldn’t swallow. His throat had closed over, and no matter how much he tried, he just couldn’t.

  “Now, Howie, I know it’s been a while since we talked, but you can’t hold that against me. Them fine folks at Wammaket made it difficult for me to keep in touch, even with my boy’s best friend. You gotta forgive me for my rudeness and for being so out of touch.”

  “Sure,” Howie managed at last. He spied his cell phone on the nightstand. He should text someone; that’s what he should do. Yeah. Totally. He snatched it.

  Billy rambled on, his tone light and conversational. “You keep bein’ all silent like that, and I’m gonna think maybe it ain’t just rudeness. I’m gonna start thinkin’ maybe you’re distracted. Maybe by your computer or your cell phone. Maybe you’re trying to let someone know who you’re talking to. I get that. I really do. But, Howie, I sort of want to chat with you a little bit, and if you go reportin’ me, we’re gonna have to cut this short. And if we get cut short, well, then I’m gonna have to kill both your parents.”

  Not a single inflection changed as Billy threatened Howie’s folks. Billy could have been ordering eggs over easy from his favorite waitress. The screen of Howie’s phone showed the beginning of a text message to his mother: call sheriff now. not principal. billy dent! be ca

  Be careful, it was supposed to continue. Advice Howie had to apply to himself now.

  “Maybe you think I’m bluffing,” Billy went on, sounding not in the least bit offended. “I encourage you to rethink that. I’m on a burner cell. By the time they trace me, I’ll be long gone. And your parents will never know what hit ’em.” Howie could almost see the shrug. “Well, that ain’t entirely true. They’ll know what hit ’em—they just won’t have long to think about it.”

  Calling Billy Dent’s bluff seemed like a very, very stupid way to get his parents off his back. Howie set the cell phone down.

  “Are we clear?” Billy asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Sir! Howie! What on earth? You ain’t never called me sir in my life! Now tell me,” Billy went on, “how’s your dad’s hip?”

  Beyond surreal. “It, uh, it’s okay. He changed his golf swing a couple-three years back and—”

  “Always told him golf weren’t no way for a man to spend his leisure time.” Billy tsked. “You be sure to give him my best, you hear? And I hope when they locked me up, he went over to my place and got his rake and leaf blower outta the garage before that sumbitch had the place bulldozed and burned down.”

  “I… I think he did.”

  “And tell your mom… Hell, Howie, I ain’t got the time. I sure am sorry. We’ll have to do this some other time. I gotta admit—at first, I wasn’t too pleased with Jasper bringin’ home a wounded puppy like yourself. But you grew on me. My boy always seemed… brighter when you were around. Almost like when his momma was still with us.”

  Billy spoke as though she were dead. Was she, for real now? Howie clenched his teeth and kept himself from asking. As long as Billy wanted to tal
k, Howie would let him. At some point during the Dent ramble, he’d rolled out of bed and flipped open his chemistry notebook, paging past molecules, formulas, and the obscene doodles with which he populated margins. As quickly as he could and as completely as he could, he was keeping a record of the conversation. Why? He didn’t exactly know. But he visualized a near-future sit-down with Jazz, and his best friend groaning as he tugged at his own hair. You didn’t take notes? Billy was talking, and you didn’t write anything down? A very Jazz thing to say.

  “You still in touch with my boy?” Billy asked. “Don’t bother lying to me, Howie. I got ways of tellin’ if you’re being truthful or not. Most parents got that sense. Mine’s just, well, finer tuned, let’s say. It’s even better in person ’cause there are certain… let’s call ’em methods, yeah… certain methods I can use to make sure you ain’t being untruthful.”

  “I don’t know where he is.” It was sorta-kinda the truth. Last night, before letting Howie leave the cemetery, Jazz had told him about a hidden shack out in the woods. Howie knew it was likely Jazz was there, but he didn’t know it for a fact. Technically.

  If Billy could tell Howie was splitting hairs, he didn’t let on. “You got a way of communicating with him, though, right?”

  “Yes.” Howie couldn’t think of a way to parse that one in any fashion that Billy would find believable.

  “Well, good, then. I got a message for him.”

  “I’ll write it down.”

  “I bet you would.” The flesh on Howie’s neck and arms curdled into goose bumps. Something about that knowing tone… It made him feel as though Billy were right over his shoulder. He checked just to be sure. Nothing.

  “This ain’t a written kind of message, though,” Billy went on. “It loses a little something in the translation, you catch my meaning? So give me your cell phone number.”

  Oh, man? Seriously? Do I have to give my phone number to Billy freakin’ Dent? For reals?

  “What’s takin’ so long?”

  Howie sighed and rattled off the number.

  “Good.” Billy’s voice was a satisfied purr. “Now you just wait a minute or two. Somethin’s coming to your phone. You take it to Jasper.”

  “Does a card go with this present?” Howie’s natural inclination to snark would be the death of him, he figured, but at least he’d die with something witty to say.

  Billy roared with laughter, dramatically out of proportion to Howie’s weak joke. “Ain’t no need, Howie. Trust me: Jasper’s gonna know exactly who this comes from.”

  Oh, joy, Howie thought as the line went dead.

  He snatched up his cell phone and stared at the screen, waiting.

  As soon as his parents were gone for the day, Howie pulled out of the driveway and headed to the Hideout. He had made the mistake of listening to the beginning of the audio file Billy had sent to him, and he wished for a way to scrub through his ears right down into his brain. Maybe some combination of bleach and a wire brush could remove what he’d heard. That voice… Jesus.

  He found himself speeding and eased off the gas. The last thing he needed right now was to get pulled over or run himself off the road. His air bag would probably kill him.

  The Hideout was back along a deserted dirt road. Howie had lived in the Nod his entire life and never once even noticed the road, much less prowled its length to discover the old abandoned shack back there. Score one for the serial killer gene and its uncanny ability to detect creepy places no one else would ever want to find.

  He spied a rough stone structure through the dense cluster of denuded trees. If it had been spring, summer, or even fall—if there’d been any foliage at all—he would have missed it. It was maybe ten feet to a side, crawling with creeper vines and moss. Nature’s camouflage.

  He climbed out of the car and took in the place, trying not to be hurt by the revelation that Jazz had a special hidden place that only Connie knew about, that his best friend had kept a secret from him.

  Well, okay, technically two secrets. After all, as kids Jazz had never looked at Howie over a lunch of bologna on white and juice boxes to say, “Hey, man, by the way: My dad totally kills people. A lot.”

  Howie’s nascent jealousy and outrage quelled quite a bit when he actually opened the door and beheld the Hideout. A part of him had been expecting a sort of supervillain lair, another part a true playa’s pad, complete with seduction lighting and a glass bowl filled with a variety of condoms.

  Instead, the place was a dump. It smelled of dust, mildew, dirt, and that peculiar bloody scent of sheer cold. An undercurrent of kerosene floated beneath it all, no doubt from the space heater just inside the door. There was a single window—if you could call it that—with a milky, almost-opaque sheet of plastic stapled to it; a few rickety barstools clearly scavenged from the curbside on trash days; and a sad-looking beanbag. Sprawled atop the beanbag was an equally sad-looking Jazz, sleeping.

  Jazz looked no better than he had last night in the cemetery, but at least he looked no worse. Figuring Jazz would have to avoid stores in the town where everyone knew his face, Howie had sneaked several water bottles, some Gatorade, a few apples, and a fistful of protein bars from the Gersten kitchen before heading out. When he nudged Jazz awake and held a bar out in front of him, his best friend didn’t even say “Good morning.” He snatched the bar and barely took the time to peel back the wrapper before eating it.

  Howie arranged his loose, overlong form on the chair that appeared most capable of providing both support and comfort. He got maybe halfway to each, which he figured was pretty lucky, all things considered. Jazz devoured the protein bar and an apple in an orgy of gnashing teeth and belches, washing the food down with water, chasing it with pills from the prescription bottles, and then more water.

  “Good call on the meds,” he said. “’Cause when you hear this, you’re gonna wish you were stoned out of your mind.” Howie held up his cell and waggled it. As Jazz guzzled Gatorade and munched through another apple, Howie set his phone on a chair between them, cranked up the volume, and played the file. Even though he didn’t want to.

  “… is on now.” The voice was familiar. Billy’s. It went on: “Brought this little thing here and now we’re gonna use it, ain’t we? Sound good to you?”

  Something muffled in response. Desperate.

  “We’re gonna get started now,” Billy said, and that was the last time he spoke for the remainder of the audio file, which lasted a bit more than twenty-five minutes.

  First, there was just that muffled voice again. “Wait,” Howie thought he heard. Again: “Wait.”

  Then the voice jumped suddenly, sharply, turning into a high-pitched “Nonononononononono.” Cut off just as suddenly and then a scream, a scream unlike any Howie had ever heard before. It was babies in a blender. It was dogs wriggling, still alive and whining to the moon while spiked to the ground with spears. That scream went on for a full minute before breaking off and transforming into thick, heaving, wet sobs.

  Howie drew his knees to his chest, as if they were armor. Jazz chewed his way through another protein bar, staring at the phone. Like a kid watching TV. Rapt, but not disturbed.

  Jesus, Jazz.

  A rough, rhythmic sound. Firm, but somehow wet.

  Howie expected another scream, but heard only a low, guttural groan, interrupted by more sobbing.

  Oh, God, he thought. Is this Jazz’s mom? Is Billy torturing her in order to get Jazz to—

  “Jazz, dude, can we—”

  “Shh.” Jazz stayed focused on the phone, cutting Howie off with a hiss and a chopping movement from one hand. Impossible though it was, he appeared healthier and more vibrant, as though hearing the torment revitalized him.

  A solid, chunk sound. A slap? A punch? Definitely flesh and bone against flesh and bone. Howie flinched as though struck. Jazz was a marble column, a granite statue. He was The Thinker with a half-eaten protein bar and a seriously damaged psyche.

  The voice again:
<
br />   “Pweeeeeeth.”

  It took a moment. Howie realized it was Please, spoken with lips and a tongue horribly wronged.

  It went on. Howie twisted and turned in his seat. What the blue hell was he doing here? The message was for Jazz, not for him. He should have left the phone and hightailed it home, or at the very least waited in the car.

  At last, it ended. Not with a final scream or another plea for mercy, but rather with the flat click of the recorder shutting off.

  “Oh, Jesus.” The Hideout was cold, but Howie’s forehead was dotted with sweat; his armpits were swamped with it. “Double-u tee effing ef, man! What was that?”

  “A message. Instructions.”

  “Are you kidding me? That was torture porn. For reals. That was beyond—”

  “It was for me. Not for you.” Jazz blinked and looked over at Howie as though just realizing he was here. “I should have told you to go. I’m sorry.”

  Howie regarded his best friend for a moment, searching for the old Jazz in there. He thought he detected something way back in those eyes, but he couldn’t be sure. Jazz’s expression was nearly blank, his speech slow and too deliberate, a robot reading lines.

  He’s gone over the edge, hasn’t he? He’s locked down, shutting everything out. He’s decided what he’s going to do.

  “I brought you a blanket,” Howie said for absolutely no reason, except that maybe the banal details of life would force Jazz to think of something other than blood and death. “Thought you might—”

  “Not necessary. This is ending today.” He stood and frowned, then turned to Howie. “That other thing I asked you to do…”

  Howie shook his head. “No time last night.” He anticipated an outburst from Jazz; the silence was worse. “If my parents take away my keys, I can’t—”

  “Just do it now, please,” Jazz said, far too politely.

  “Jazz…”

  Jazz reached behind the beanbag and held out a large, black-gray book in a plastic Ziploc bag. “I need you to take this.”