Blood List

by Patrick Freivald

  Doug walked up the sidewalk, hand in hand with Maureen, to the yellow, two-story colonial. Maureen opened the door and called out, "Hi, Robbie!" A cute little projectile in the form of Evan Barnhoorn flew across the living room and leapt into the air with a gleeful cry. Doug intercepted the squirming child and flipped him upside-down. Holding him up so that they were face-to-inverted-face, Doug gave his best bad-cop face.

  "Who are you?" Doug asked, digging his fingers in just enough to tickle with every word.

  Evan squirmed and giggled. "Uncle Doug!" he said reproachfully. "I'm Evan!"

  Doug gave him a thoughtful stare while Maureen suppressed a smile. "Can't be. Evan is a little tiny thing. You're all grown up!" Evan giggled again. "How old are you now?" Doug asked.

  "Six!"

  "Six? That's impossible. You can't be six yet."

  "Can, too!" Evan said. "Someday I'll be as old as you! As old as Aunt Maureen!" Marcy Barnhoorn stepped into the living room, smiling. A plump woman in her mid-forties with disheveled strawberry blonde hair framing her face, she had a vitality about her that outshone her appearance, even through her flour-dusted hands and apron. She raised her eyebrows and mouthed the word coffee?

  Doug flashed her a smile and a quick nod, then flipped Evan right-side up. Maureen stepped around him to greet her sister-in-law.

  "And how old is your Aunt Maureen, little man?" Doug asked.

  "Old!" Evan said.

  Doug set him down and tousled his hair. "Brave little guy, aren't you? Now where's your dad?"

  "Robbie's out by the garage," Marcy said. "Why don't you go find him, and I'll brew the coffee and catch up with my favorite girl?"

  "Sounds like a plan, ma'am," Doug said. He gave Maureen a quick kiss and headed for the back door.

  "For how long?" Robbie asked as he flipped the steaks on the grill.

  "We're not sure," Doug said. "We're assuming he's in danger until we catch D Street, so think of it like witness protection." The steaks smelled fantastic, but Robbie always overcooked them.

  "And this guy is how old?"

  "Sixties. Retired. Wants to get back to his grandchildren. Wants to not get murdered even more."

  "Good plan," Robbie said. "It'd probably ruin his year."

  "Yeah. Can you do it?"

  "Yeah," Robbie said. "We've got a couple of apartments we use as safe houses. There's no reason we couldn't put him up for the foreseeable future. I'll make it happen."

  "Great," Doug said. "I'll let Gene know."

  "Speaking of Gene, how did he take the news?"

  Doug froze. "I haven't said anything yet."

  Robbie held up a finger. "Wait a minute. You haven't said anything to him about leaving the team, or you haven't told Mo you aren't?"

  Doug looked uncomfortable. "I haven't decided yet." He turned to face Robbie directly. "I'm kind of hoping I can talk her out of it. I can't imagine doing anything else."

  Robbie let out a low whistle. "I'll pretend we didn't have this conversation then. Let you deal with Big Sis."

  "Good idea," Doug said. "Because if I have to hear it from her that she heard something from you, I'll have to kill you. And then Marcy will kill me. And then Mo will kill her."

  Robbie smiled. "So are you excited?"

  "Thrilled," Doug said, taking a sip of beer. "Terrified. She's an amazing woman. I can't imagine the forces of nature her kids will be."

  Robbie rolled his eyes. "With your luck they'll have her temperament and your size."

  * * *

  November 16th, 9:55 AM CST; Glenview Manor Apartments; St. Louis, Missouri.

  Robbie Barnhoorn parked the car in the back lot of a gargantuan white building, one of ten just like it scattered across the landscape. He killed the engine and looked at his passenger. Larry Johnson was bald, heavily wrinkled, and grotesquely tan. He looked like a shriveled apple in a heavy sweater. "Well, Larry, we're 'home.' Apartment 4B is yours. We've got guys in 4A, and the rest of the floor we keep empty in case we need them."

  Larry looked out the window and sighed.

  Robbie patted him on the shoulder. "It's just until they catch this guy."

  He sighed again. "I know. Let's take a look."

  Upstairs, Robbie knocked on the door to 4A. After a few seconds it opened, revealing a stocky man with a bristly gray beard, wearing nothing but green boxer shorts. The man's eyes widened, and he stepped back. "Sorry, Robbie, I didn't realize we had company."

  Smirking, Robbie stepped into the apartment, revealing a kitchen to the left and a small living area straight ahead. "Larry, this disgrace to the Bureau is Josh Santee. Josh is an undercover who needs to lay low for a while. If you need anything, just ask. He looks like a wild boar even with clothes on, but he's a pushover. Josh Santee, Larry Johnson. Larry is staying across the hall for a while."

  Josh stuck out his hand. "Pleased to meet you."

  Larry shook his hand. "Likewise."

  "Put some pants on," Robbie said. "It's almost ten in the morning." As Josh ducked into a bedroom, Robbie called out, "Hey, where's Nick?"

  "Shopping. He'll be back in a while."

  "Nick Faughn is Josh's roommate," Robbie said to Larry. "He's a VICAP guy in town to help us with a case." Larry raised his eyebrows questioningly. "Violent Criminal Apprehension Program, similar job description as Palomini's team, but he does kidnapping, not mass killers." Robbie helped himself to a cup of coffee. "Coffee?"

  "Herbal tea if you've got it," Larry said. "Or just water."

  Robbie rummaged through the cupboard and emerged victorious with a box of Chamomile. He put a cup of water in the microwave and started it.

  Josh emerged from the bedroom in jeans and an Arizona Cardinals T-shirt. "Better?"

  "Much," Robbie said.

  Josh raised his chin at Larry. "You from Jersey?"

  Larry smiled. "Orange. Way back. How'd you know?"

  "Newark." He thumbed his chest. "I could hear it in your voice. Not much, but there's a little in there, hiding under all that Southwest."

  "Huh," Larry said. "You'd think a couple decades in Utah'd take care of that." He shrugged. "You're good."

  "I can mimic most accents pretty good, and hear them better than just about anybody in the Bureau. When I'm not undercover, I do some forensic linguistics stuff."

  "Wow," Larry said.

  "Don't let him fool you," Robbie said. "He's every bit as dumb as he looks."

  "Thanks, Rob," Josh said. He knocked on the counter twice. "You guys want some breakfast? I'm starving."

  Chapter 7

  May 17th, 12:28 PM EST; Kendall Memorial Park; Washington, D.C.

  Gene rolled his eyes and shoved Marty left-handed, careful not to burn him with the cigar. His brother pinwheeled his arms, lost his balance, and fell off the picnic table. He landed on his back in a spray of scotch and ice, his red plastic cup tumbling out of his hand on impact. Carl stopped the music, laughing. While Marty dusted himself off, Gene puffed on the cigar and stepped down. He walked up to Doug and wrapped him in a hug.

  "I love you, man," Gene said. He pulled back and clapped Doug on the shoulders.

  "You're drunk," Doug replied, the barest trace of a smirk tugging at his mouth.

  Gene nodded and took another puff. "You're a dad."

  Doug grinned. "I am."

  Gene looked at Maureen and the girls, who sat under the giant parasol that Sam had brought. Jerri and Sam fawned over the pink bassinettes. "Those are some beautiful girls you've got there. And Maureen looks great." Doug caught her eye, and she waved. Her eyes were all for the father of her children, but flickered to Gene and away before she turned her attention back to the babies.

  "Yeah." Doug's tone turned serious. "Can we talk?"

  "Sure, Doug. What about?"

  They walked toward the swing sets as Carl re-started the music. Marty had poured himself another Glenmorangie and was back on the table, dancing badly. Doug looked out across the city. "It's been six months, Gene. No sign."


  Gene groaned. "This is about work?" He looked wistfully back at the picnic.

  Doug stopped in his tracks and looked Gene in the eye, forcing him to shift his attention back to the conversation. "No. This is about me. I'm quitting the team."

  Gene blinked. "What?"

  "After we nail D Street. Maureen wants me out, and I want…." He trailed off. He looked up at the sky, thinking. Gene waited. "I want her. And she can't handle this. It rips her up every time I leave, because she doesn't know if I'll be coming back."

  Gene stared off into the distance. "What are you going to do?"

  "Not sure. Maybe I'll be a stay-at-home dad."

  Gene smiled. "You wouldn't last a week. Those girls will eat you alive."

  Doug replied softly, "So you're okay with this?"

  Gene puffed on his cigar. "I'm not going to try to talk you out of it. You've got different priorities now. Good for you. And if you want it, your job will always be here."

  "Thanks, Gene."

  They walked back to the group in silence.

  * * *

  June 22nd, 12:59 PM PST; Paul Renner's Apartment; Los Angeles, California.

  Paul was at his computer when the phone rang. He put on his headphones and clicked "answer."

  "Hello?" he said.

  "Paul Renner?" asked a digitally scrambled voice.

  The trace program confirmed the encrypted call came from a recently activated, prepaid cellular phone.

  "Yes."

  "Your standard fee is fifty thousand dollars American?" The fake Russian accent was pretty good. The way this client said "fifty thousand" never quite changed enough to disguise his identity.

  Paul grunted in surprise. Business had dried up after the Larry Johnson fiasco. He never expected another contract from the same employer. Might as well play dumb, he thought. Fifty grand is fifty grand.

  "Plus expenses," he said.

  "And to where do I send the information?" He said it like "'info-mission." Definitely the same man.

  "I'll send you a phone," Paul said, playing along. "You'll get a text with an e-mail account. You reply to that address, which will report that the message bounced. I'll retrieve it from there. I need an address."

  The man gave him a P.O. Box at the main Postal hub in Baltimore, Maryland.

  "One week."

  Paul hung up the phone, frowning. In the past two years, this client had paid fifty large a pop to have seven people killed. He used different phones, different accents, and different accounts, but it was the same man. There were a lot of reasons why any given person would be willing to pay fifty grand to see another person dead. Jealousy, blackmail, cheating, irrational hatred. They all made sense, and Paul was happy to provide the service if the price was right. But so many people hated by one man?

  A retired policeman, a nursing assistant, a second grade teacher, an unemployed derelict in public housing, the mother of a celebutante known for getting drunk and screaming at her entourage, a community college ombudsman, and a retired garbage man.

  Weird. Paul took out a brand-new NetPhone I-590, fresh out of the box. He went online, activated it, and packaged it for shipping.

  A week later, Paul stared at his phone in utter disbelief. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the screen. His mind wouldn't accept what he saw.

  Kevin Parsons

  271 Hawkes Drive

  Lincoln, NE 68508

  He read it again, for the hundredth time.

  This can't be a test. They don't know who I am.

  Research time gave him a few months to figure this out. He could invent a delay if he needed to. He read the name again.

  This can't be a coincidence.

  He read it again.

  If I turn it down, they'll send somebody else.

  He read it again.

  This can't be a trap. It can't be a test.

  The phone shattered against the wall. Paul closed his eyes tight and took several deep breaths. His heart rate slowed. His mind went through the litany.

  Kevin Parsons. Age 66. Retired. Widower, lives alone. One child, 36. No grandchildren. No security on the house, no guards, no dog, no frequent visitors. Clockwork schedule: goes to service on Sundays, then out to breakfast at the Easy Peasy; bowls on Tuesdays, 7:30 PM; jogs every morning at 6:15 AM. An easy kill. But why would anyone want him dead?

  * * *

  June 26th, 10:45 AM CST; Home of Kevin Parsons; Lincoln, Nebraska.

  Paul Renner pulled the rental car up to the driveway of a quaint, 1950s-style split-level, painted a generic off-white with a gray-shingled roof. A plastic trout served as the mailbox, emblazoned Parsons in bold white on the side. He gathered his thoughts, suppressing the façade of Paul Renner into background noise.

  He got out of the car, patted the fish-box on the head, walked up to the door, and rang the bell. A familiar chime sounded inside the house, followed by his father's gruff voice. "Just a minute!"

  The door opened to reveal a man in his mid-sixties. He held a cup of coffee in one hand, a newspaper in the other, and had an enormous grin on his face. His dad had long ago lost the battle to a receding hairline and had only wisps of white above his ears. Despite the hour, he wore white boxer shorts and an undershirt stretched comfortably over a bit of a gut.

  "Steve!" his dad cried out and wrapped him in a giant hug, almost spilling his coffee in the process.

  "Hi, Dad," Paul said, his voice sounding chagrined.

  His father pulled back, his face sly. "What're you doing here, after so long with no visits? Need money?"

  It was a long-standing joke. Whenever he visited, Paul tried to give his dad money, or a car, or a new TV, or tickets to the theater. Every time, Dad turned him down. His dad had taken to asking him if he needed money before he could offer anything.

  "No, Dad. I'm set for cash."

  "Have you talked to your cousin Ryan lately?" his dad asked, leading him to the kitchen.

  "Not in a few months. We're both busy, I guess." Paul helped himself to a cup of coffee and pointed at the old, battered toaster oven next to the pot. "Hey, where's the one I got you?"

  His dad smiled. "That one works just fine. Pastor Jenkins needed a new one for the hospitality room. Theirs died."

  "Huh," Paul said. He took a tentative sip. "Sheesh, Dad, you could strip paint with this." He set the cup on the counter and opened the cupboard, looking for some sugar.

  His dad chuckled and took a swallow of his own. "Does the body good." He paused. "You should call Ryan, though. Family's important. The most important thing you've got."

  Paul smiled, blanking his thoughts. "I will, Dad, I will. I met his new girl, what's-her-name, not too long ago. We saw a show and caught up a little. She seems nice."

  "She is nice, Steve. So's that Courtney you brought around that time. I wouldn't mind seeing her around a bit more."

  Paul frowned. That time was three years ago. Long-term attachments didn't mesh well with his line of work.

  His dad hadn't noticed. "You could use a lady in your life, you know? Your mother…."

  Paul looked at his dad, startled. Dad never talked about Mom. Never.

  "Your mother…." He smiled sadly. "She was the best thing that ever happened to me. The best."

  "I know, Pop," Paul said. He blinked. A blonde woman lay on beige carpet stained red with blood. He pressed his palms into her neck. His hands were too small; he couldn't stop the bleeding. Hot and red, it filled his nostrils, metallic and cloying. Rough hands on his shoulders dragged him to a navy-blue van emblazoned with three yellow letters: FBI. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't stop screaming. He blinked again. "I wish I'd known her."

  They drank their coffee in silence. After a few minutes, his dad clapped once. "Well, enough moping about the past. What say we go work on that crawl space?"

  "Ooh, goody."

  They put their dishes away and headed to the back of the house.

  That evening Paul sat at the kitchen table, a cup of rotgut coffee in one ha
nd and a powdered doughnut in the other, and stared at his father's incredulous face. It felt discordant looking at his dad with the façade of Renner in place, but this wasn't a job for the real him. Man up, he thought. A little cognitive dissonance never hurt anybody.

  "You want me to do what?" Kevin Parsons asked.

  "I need you to hide for a while," Paul said. "I have a cabin, fully stocked, isolated. Nobody knows it's mine. Nobody could trace you there. I need you to get in the car I've got outside, go there, and not tell anybody. Anybody. And don't use any credit cards along the way."

  "But…. Why? For how long?"

  "I don't know. Probably a few months, maybe longer. I can't tell you why, but it's very important."

  Kevin frowned out the window, then at his son. "This is ridiculous. Are you in danger?"

  Paul shook his head.

  "Am I?"

  Paul took a sip of coffee, stalling. He looked at the ceiling, then at Kevin. "Yes."

  "From who?"

  "I don't know, Dad," Paul said. "But they're going to kill you, and I need time to figure out who they are and how to stop them."

  Kevin blinked several times, then pinched his own arm. "Am I dreaming?"

  "No," Paul said. Kevin paced in front of the window.

  "Steve, this is ridiculous. People are trying to kill me, but you don't know who they are, or how long I'll be hiding, or why they—" He stopped dead, then approached the table. A giant grin split his face as he leaned on the back of a chair. "And where is this cabin?"

  Paul didn't like the look of that grin. "Near Lake Tahoe."

  His dad flopped into the chair. "Jesus, Son, you really had me there. If you want to buy me a vacation, you don't need to scare me to death. The answer's still no, though. We've been through this, and it's not like I don't appreciate the thought." One look at his son's face and his smile faded.

  Paul leaned across the table and grabbed his father's hand. He looked him in the eyes and willed him to understand. "Dad. I'm not kidding. This isn't a vacation. This is hiding, from very bad people."