Bloodline

by F. Paul Wilson

  He pounded the steering wheel in near-blind rage until a honk warned him that he was veering out of his lane. He straightened the wheel and drove on, seething.

  The guy had played him like a fucking five-string banjo.

  What had Vecca said his name was? John something…like two first names…

  John Robertson. Yeah.

  He bared his teeth. You and me, John Robertson…I think we got us a score to settle.

  7

  Jack reached Forest Hills and went looking for a copy shop or office supply store. He found a Staples on Queens Boulevard and, as promised, made a copy of the DNA comparison with the Creighton letterhead folded out of sight.

  Then he called Christy. Her voice mail picked up on her home number; he left a message and tried her cell. The cell’s voice mail picked up on the second ring—a reliable indication that it was turned off. He left another message for her to call him ASAP.

  A worm of unease wriggled in his gut and he didn’t know why. Bolton had Christy right where he wanted her: on the far side of a chasm from her daughter. No reason to make a physical move against her.

  Should he go over to her place and check it out? No. Didn’t want to take the risk of being seen peeking in her windows.

  Most likely she’d forgotten to charge her phone or turn it on. Or maybe she was rehearsing for that play she mentioned. Could be a rule that all cell phones are turned off during rehearsal. Made sense.

  Kind of a relief in a way. The news he had to give her deserved—no, demanded to be delivered in person. He was dreading the prospect of sitting across from her and looking her in the eye while he told her that the father of her child, the man who abducted her and raped her when she was eighteen, was the same man who’d just made her daughter—their daughter—pregnant.

  He’d almost rather wear a red shirt through a Crips neighborhood.

  But he’d keep trying her phones. Meanwhile, he had time to kill. He didn’t want to return to the city and then come back out again. So he drove around for a while, then decided maybe it was time to become Joe Henry again and pay a visit to Work. He had mixed feelings about the possibility of running into Bolton. On one hand he wanted another chance to get into the guy’s head, see what made him tick and hope he’d let something slip about this baby of his; on the other, just thinking about the guy made his skin crawl.

  He called both of Christy’s numbers again. No answer.

  Time to go to Work.

  8

  Jerry was on edge. Totally. Dawn had seen him flare up before, but he’d always cooled off pretty quick. This was different. He couldn’t sit still. He was like in a chair one minute and out of it the next, turning on the TV, surfing a few channels, then turning it off. He looked like he was ready to totally explode or something.

  “You okay?”

  He stopped between the TV and the easy chair and stared at her.

  “Yeah, darlin. Why?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. You seem, like, tense.”

  “Got a lot on my mind.”

  “Something go wrong at the meeting?”

  “Meet—?” He looked confused.

  “You know. With EA?”

  “Oh, that.” He shook his head. “No, everything’s fine with EA. I’m just bothered by all this friction with your mother. I wish there was a way we could straighten her out and get her on board.”

  “That’s so not going to happen. Way too late.”

  But how sweet of him to care. So totally typical of him to be worried about a crazy woman who’d accused him of awful things, then tried to seduce him.

  Which made Dawn feel totally worse for what she planned to do about the baby.

  She’d found a place called Women’s Choice right here in Rego Park. They said she could come in for an interview and paperwork this afternoon. Then they’d schedule her for tests, and then…

  She’d totally hate herself doing it, but she knew she wasn’t ready to be a mother and couldn’t see any other way.

  “Why don’t you play a game or something. Maybe that new FPS.” Dawn couldn’t remember the title—a new Doom or Half Life or Call of Duty? No matter. First-person shooters always relaxed him.

  He shook his head. “Not in much of a gamin mood. Feel more like doin the real thing.”

  She blinked. “Shooting people?”

  He grinned. “Just kiddin.”

  The look in his eyes…Dawn wasn’t so sure.

  He said, “Maybe I’ll just check my e-mail and surf a little.”

  A spasm of uncertainty gripped her. Had she closed the Women’s Choice Web site? She wasn’t sure. God, if she’d left that window open…

  “Good idea,” she said, turning and dashing upstairs. “I’ve got some errands to run.”

  She ducked into the extra room and checked the computer screen. The screen saver was running. She hopped over and wiggled the mouse. The desktop appeared with no open windows.

  Knew I’d signed off.

  Light with relief, she passed Jerry on his way in. He was giving her a strange look, but she spoke before he could say anything.

  “I’m running out. Need anything from Pathmark?”

  After a couple of seconds he said, “Yeah. Pick me up some beef jerky—the peppery kind. I feel like chompin on something.”

  She gave him a quick kiss. “You got it.”

  She grabbed a sweater from the bedroom and hurried downstairs. She’d go to Women’s Choice first, then swing by Pathmark on her way—

  “Dawn!”

  Something in his voice froze her. She didn’t turn as she heard him race down the stairs behind her. He grabbed her shoulders and spun her to face him.

  “Women’s Choice?” His eyes were wild. “Women’s fuckin Choice?”

  She couldn’t speak, only yammer.

  He said, “I thought it was kind of funny, you checkin the computer before I got to it, so I opened the browser history.” His grip on her shoulders tightened as he shook her. “Women’s Choice! I can’t believe it! You want to kill my baby!”

  “It’s not like that! And it’s my baby too! You don’t have to carry it! I do! And I’m so not ready for that!”

  He wrapped her in his arms and cooed in her ear. “Oh, darlin-darlin-darlin! If you only knew what this baby means to me.”

  The sob that had been building burst free. “I know, I know.”

  “And not just to me. To us. To the world. Our baby is the Key. He’s gonna change the world!”

  “You keep saying things like that and they’re…they’re totally scary. The key to what?”

  “To the future. You’ll be known the world over as the Mother of the Key. Millions of people will worship you and pray to you to speak to your son on their behalf.”

  He was getting scarier by the minute.

  “What do you think I’m gonna be—the Virgin Mary? News flash: I’m so not a virgin and this was a totally maculate conception.”

  He pushed her back to arm’s length. His face was filled with joy as his wild blue gaze bored into her.

  “Darlin, you’re gonna be better than any Virgin Mary. You know why? Because you’re real. But the only way you’re gonna get to be the queen mother is if you have our baby.”

  “Jerry—”

  His grip tightened as the joy faded from his face.

  “And you will have this baby—”

  His grip tightened further and now she saw no joy in his face, only growing rage as he bared his teeth.

  “Jerry, you’re hurting—”

  “—because if you don’t…if you ever do anythin to hurt my baby, you will wish you’d been born dead, darlin. You’ll wish it ’cause I will hunt you down like a bitch cur and I will see you dead. But before you die I will see you suffer the tortures of the damned for killin the prince of the Bloodline. You’ll suffer so long and so bad that you’ll pray to die, you’ll beg to die.”

  His face had gone crimson, spittle speckled his lips, and his eyes…in their pale-blu
e depths she saw exactly what he’d do to her. A scream was surging into her throat when he suddenly let her go and stepped back. He licked his lips and smiled as his complexion faded to normal.

  “But of course, that’s all idle chatter ’cause nothin’s gonna happen to my baby, right? Right?”

  Dawn could only nod. He was back to talking normally now. She so wanted to scream and run but didn’t dare move a muscle—couldn’t. Her limbs were frozen in position.

  He leaned closer and sounded like the SpongeBob pirate. “I can’t heeeeeear you. Right?”

  She found her voice and croaked out a feeble, “Right.”

  What had just happened? He’d gone from totally normal to totally insane, then back to totally normal again in less than a minute. She’d never seen that side of him, hadn’t even guessed it existed.

  Women’s Choice…the idea of aborting his child—why was it always his child?—had like totally set off a bomb in his brain. Made him mad crazy.

  Well, maybe he had a right to be pissed that she was going to end the pregnancy without telling him. The baby was half his, after all. But only half. What about her half? And he wasn’t the one who was going to get all fat and bloated.

  But he’d been totally more than just pissed. He’d been insane. And he hadn’t been kidding about killing her. A shudder passed through her like an earthquake. She knew from his eyes and the way he’d said it that he meant every word.

  “Well, darlin,” he said with his usual warm, friendly smile. “Long as you’ve got your sweater and were on your way out, what say we take a trip down to Work. I feel like gettin myself a couple of cold ones.”

  “Not me. It’s totally boring. And you won’t even let me have a beer.”

  “That’s right, darlin. No more booze for you. Like those signs in the bar say, When you’re pregnant, you never drink alone. You’re not going to get my baby boy drunk. You can have some of that Diet Pepsi you and your mother like so much.”

  “But—”

  “Hush now. I’ve got another reason I want to visit Work tonight. Want to see if a certain someone is hanging around, waiting for me.”

  As he propelled her toward the door, Dawn wondered what she’d got herself into. And if there was a way out.

  9

  Jack stood at the bar nursing a watery Coors Light as he went over his options. At least it was better than an even more watery Bud Light from the ruinators of Rolling Rock.

  The neon Corona clock on the wall behind the bar said 6:30. Still about an hour until sunset. But from what Christy had told him, if Bolton was coming in, he would have shown by now.

  Reminded of Christy, Jack pulled out his phone and called her numbers again. Still no answer. Rehearsal was dragging on. At least he hoped it was rehearsal.

  Someone eased over and leaned against the bar beside him: Dirty Danny.

  “Need any party supplies?”

  “Nope. Sorry. No one’s invited me to any parties lately.”

  Danny gave him a yellow grin. “Well, then have one of your own. That’s what I’d do.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  “Well, you need anything, you know where to find me.”

  Danny moved on and Jack decided he was tired of Queens, tired of wasting his time waiting for people to answer their phones or show up in bars. Time to head home and see if Gia had any plans for dinner. If nothing was on the stove yet, they could head down to Little Italy where Vicky could chow down on Amalia’s mussels in garlic sauce.

  He left the rest of the beer wannabe on the bar and headed for the door.

  10

  A parade of what-ifs were tying Jeremy’s stomach in knots as he maneuvered into a parking spot down the street from Work.

  What if he hadn’t checked Dawn’s browser history?

  What if she’d gone ahead and had the abortion?

  What if she tries again?

  It was like the past was repeating itself. But at least this time he wouldn’t have to go around killing doctors. He hadn’t been able to reveal himself to Moonglow. With Dawn it was different. She knew he was the father, so he could stay close and watch over her.

  Watch over her…what a job that would be…nine months of hell until—

  No, wait. Maybe only a few months of hell. He knew abortions weren’t done after a certain point in a pregnancy. He didn’t know that point, but he’d sure as hell find out.

  The thing was, he’d have to stay right on top of her, not let her out of his sight until that point was reached. Could he do that? How could he get up to Creighton every week for his injection if he couldn’t trust her alone? What was he going to do—chain her in the basement?

  He didn’t want her along now—not if he was going to have to deal with that Enemy posing as Joe Henry—but he didn’t dare leave her home.

  “Shit!”

  “What’s the matter?”

  He looked at Dawn and wanted to kill her for wanting to kill the Key. She’d come so close to ruining everything. He saw the fear in her eyes and realized that might be the key…the key to protecting the Key.

  Fear.

  Make her so afraid of him that the thought of an abortion will never cross her mind again.

  But before the fear…marriage. That way he could have some legal say about the baby. But marrying her wouldn’t be an easy proposition after the way he’d blown up earlier. He knew he’d scared her bad.

  “Nothing, darlin. Just mad at myself for losin it the way I did. You’ve got to understand that though I never wanted a kid, I do now. And like I said, it’s a miracle. I—”

  He squinted through the windshield at the man who’d just stepped out of Work: Joe Henry. No…his name wasn’t Joe Henry…Moonglow’s detective, John Robertson. Or maybe not just a detective. Maybe an Enemy of the Bloodline. And here he was, practically walking into Jeremy’s arms.

  The Others must be watching over me.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m looking at a guy who’s been causing me trouble.”

  Dawn leaned forward and pointed. “Him? You introduced me to him yesterday. I thought he was a friend.”

  “So did I. But I’ve learned different.”

  He heard Vecca’s voice in his head telling him to make the call, then follow the guy until folks from her mysterious, all-powerful agency grabbed him. He heard another voice telling him, Yeah, that would be the smart thing to do because he couldn’t be a hundred percent sure that Joe Henry wasn’t really Joe Henry. He might not be a detective or an Enemy, might just be some everyday shlub who liked beer and video games and was reading Kick.

  Shit! Hank’s book! That was the key. He was carrying it around as a prop—a goddamn prop—because he thought it would make Jeremy lower his guard and let him get in close where he could screw up everything.

  Well, it almost worked. It almost fucking worked.

  Jeremy felt his blood begin to heat.

  Come to think of it, the guy probably didn’t know shit about video games either, because he’d let Jeremy do all the playing.

  The only thing Robertson had played was Jeremy—like Hendrix played guitar.

  He knew his face was reddening.

  And Robertson wasn’t just some smart-ass detective, he was an Enemy. Carrying Kick around proved it, because only an enemy could know Jeremy and Hank were connected. Must know about the Bloodline too, and the Key. That was why he was here—to mess up the Plan.

  His vision took on a red tinge.

  “The fuck!”

  Dawn jumped in her seat. “Jerry! What—?”

  Jeremy ignored her as he hit the trunk release and jumped out. He ran around to the rear and yanked on a ring in the floor. Beneath, in the spare well, he found the tire iron and hefted it. Good solid feel, the lug-wrench end nice and heavy.

  As he started after Robertson, Dawn lowered her window.

  “Jerry, what are you doing?”

  “Just stay here. This’ll only take a minute.”

  “
But—”

  “Be right back. I owe somebody something. Gonna settle up with him.”

  His blood sang in his ears as he hurried through the dying light toward Robertson, long, quick strides eating up the distance between them. The guy was oblivious, just ambling along the sidewalk like he hadn’t a care in the world. Yeah, well, he was about to have a care—a big care. He was about to get messed up.

  Jeremy stepped over the curb and onto the sidewalk a dozen feet behind him. He glanced around. Nobody nearby, nobody looking his way except Dawn.

  Nine feet to go…six…he tightened his grip on the tire iron and chose a spot on the back of the guy’s head. He could almost hear the crack, feel the crunch, see the spray of red when steel hit bone. He took a two-handed grip and raised it high as he closed in.

  This was gonna be good. This was gonna be easy. This was gonna be quick and clean. One skull-crushing shot, plus one more for good measure as he went down, then Jeremy would keep moving, barely breaking stride, walking away as if nothing had happened. Someone would find the guy leaking his brains out onto the sidewalk and call EMS. If he survived, he’d most likely never wake up, and even if he did he wouldn’t remember shit, and be good for even less.

  Jeremy raised the iron higher then and, putting his arms, shoulders, and a good deal of his body behind it, swung—

  And missed.

  At the last second the guy spun and ducked to his right. Jeremy had been set to connect with something hard and solid. Instead the iron whipped through empty air, leaving him stagger-stepping ahead.

  There—to his left.

  He half turned and saw something flashing toward his face—the palm of a hand. Jeremy tried to react but he was off-balance, tilting forward as the heel of that palm caught him square on the nose. He heard a sickening crunch as pain detonated in his face—a July Fourth finale of brightly flashing lights that left him blinded and disoriented. He quit his two-handed grip as he raised his left to fend off another blow while the right tried a feeble backhand swing with the iron. But almost immediately a fist that seemed aimed at his spine or maybe at a place somewhere behind him rammed into his gut, doubling him over. He grunted with the pain, blinked, turned away defensively as he tried to clear his vision for a swing at this guy, wherever he was. That was when something hard slammed against the outside of his left knee, bending it a way it wasn’t supposed to go. The leg gave out and he went down, dropping the iron to put his hands out to break his fall. As he landed on hands and knees something heavy rammed his back, knocking him flat. Then a shoe against the back of his neck, pressing his face into the pavement.