Bloodline

by F. Paul Wilson

  He’s gonna kill me, he’s gonna curb me then he’s gonna break my neck and then the Plan’ll die because sure as shit Dawn’ll have an abortion before I’m cold in the earth.

  “What the hell’s up with you?”

  Jeremy’s vision cleared and he found himself face-to-face with the tire of one of the parked cars. And the guy was talking to him instead of kicking the shit out of him. Good sign.

  He knew he should lie still and look like he was beaten down and wait for a chance, but then he thought again of how this guy had played him and the rage rushed back full force.

  “You motherf—”

  He tried to roll and rise but pain shot through his knee like someone had a knife in it and the foot pressed harder, grinding his cheek against the concrete.

  “Easy, there. What I ever do to you?”

  “I know who you are, you lousy—”

  “And just who is that?”

  “I don’t know your real name but I know it ain’t Joe Henry and it ain’t John Robertson—”

  The pressure against his neck increased.

  “Whoa! Let’s back it up there. Where’d you hear the name John Robertson?”

  “What difference it make? I know it’s fake. I know you and your friends been doggin my ass for months now, tryin to kill the Bloodline, but it ain’t gonna work.”

  More pressure. Jeremy thought his jaw was going to break.

  “Months? You need some heavy medication, dude. I don’t know anything about a Bloodline and I never heard of you until last week.”

  “Bullshit!” He had to speak through forcibly clenched teeth.

  But the guy’s voice carried a ring of truth. Something in his tone said he hadn’t heard of Jeremy before. So what was the deal? Was he just a detective like he said?

  “Then why you been doggin my ass? Why you been messin with my life?”

  “It’s what I do.”

  He realized then that the guy wasn’t going to kill him, because if that was what all this was about, he’d have picked up the tire iron and be doing to Jeremy’s skull what Jeremy had been planning for his. If he just lay still and shut up, he’d live to fight another day.

  But then he thought of how this jerk had suckered him into looking bad in front of Dawn and his mouth started running.

  “Better kill me now, asshole, because there ain’t no place you can hide from me. It’s me or you, so you might as well end this right here and right now, otherwise—”

  Jeremy hadn’t thought the pressure on his neck could get any worse, but it did, and for an awful second he thought he’d gone too far, pushed too hard, and the guy was really going to do it.

  But then the pressure eased…very slowly…as if it took every smidgen of the guy’s will not to do as Jeremy had suggested. He heard a laugh—as forced sounding as any laugh Jeremy had ever heard.

  “You mean kill you? You’re not worth the hassle.”

  And then the pressure was gone and he heard fading footsteps. He looked up and saw the guy walking away with his back to him, just leaving him here, and not even looking over his shoulder—not once.

  What’s he think I am? Cow shit he can just scrape off his shoe and walk away from? No way.

  He saw the tire iron less than half a dozen feet away. Yeah. No funny stuff this time, no surprise moves. This time he’ll wish—for the last two seconds of his life—that he’d finished him when he had the chance.

  Jeremy pushed himself up from the pavement and—

  His knee—a bolt of lightning shot through it again. He’d forgotten about his goddamn knee.

  He wasn’t going nowhere.

  As he rubbed the swollen joint he stared at the tire iron he’d never reach and at the retreating figure of the mystery man who still hadn’t looked back. He wanted to scream.

  And then he heard running footsteps and Dawn’s voice coming up behind him.

  “Ohmygod! Ohmygod! Did he hurt you?”

  He felt like such a jerk. How the hell was he going to spin this?

  11

  Jack noticed his hand still shaking as he went to fit the car key in the ignition.

  He’d forced himself to walk away from a living, breathing Jeremy Bolton—an act that ranked near the top of his Hardest-Things-I’ve-Ever-Done list—and leave the scene.

  Alibi or no alibi, Jack was sure now that he’d killed Gerhard.

  Every fiber of his self-preservation instinct had screamed to kill the son of a bitch and end it there, but a higher center had warned that he was too exposed, that some concerned citizen might have seen all or part of the attack from a window or across the street and called 911. Witness accounts of who was the aggressor would depend on when they’d tuned in. If they missed Bolton swinging for the fence with his tire iron, then Jack would be listed as the assaulter instead of the assaultee. But even if not, Jack wanted no part in a police report.

  The cautious end of his brain had also reminded him of the agency behind Creighton that would come looking for him.

  So he’d walked away, fighting head-to-toe adrenaline shakes as he forced himself to maintain a cool saunter. No worry about Bolton sneaking up behind him on that knee—his sneaking days were over for a while. When Jack had reached the corner, he’d trotted for his car. He’d parked it well out of sight of Work.

  He turned the key and pulled out, moving away from the area.

  When he’d left Work he’d spotted Jeremy out of the corner of his eye, crossing the street as he came his way. The fact that he hadn’t called out, and the way he was holding his right arm tight against his side, told Jack that something was up, something not good.

  So he’d listened to Bolton coming up behind him—those cowboy boots weren’t built for stealth—and made his move when he heard a sudden increase in footsteps.

  Jack had been surprised at first at how fast Bolton folded, but thinking about it now he realized he should have expected it. Bolton had been locked up since his late teens. Whatever street smarts he might have had were long atrophied. And life at Creighton had weakened them further. While the place’s maximum security lockup wasn’t exactly a country club, it was a long, long way from hard time. Even if Bolton had worked out—and it looked like he had—strength wasn’t enough in a fight. His oDNA might make him mean but it didn’t make him fast or tough or smart. He’d folded like a cheap lawn chair.

  But that wasn’t the most striking thing about the encounter.

  I don’t know your real name but I know it ain’t Joe Henry and it ain’t John Robertson…

  The words echoed silently through the car. How had Bolton heard the name John Robertson? Certainly not from Jack, so that left only two other possibilities: Levy and Vecca.

  But right now he was worried more about Christy.

  After putting about a mile between himself and Bolton he tried Christy’s numbers again, and again got no answer. He didn’t feel right leaving town without at least going over to check on her place. No reason anymore to stay away—his role as Bolton’s new video gamer friend was dead.

  He had Christy’s address but these streets were confusing as hell. She lived on 68th Drive, but that ran parallel and next to 68th Road which ran next to 68th Avenue. Finally he found it—a decent-size, older, well-kept, stucco-walled house with high-peaked gables and an attached two-car garage. Worth a gorgeous penny.

  No lights on inside. Not encouraging. He pulled into the driveway, got out, and went to the front door. He rang the bell three times and used the brass knocker between rings.

  No answer.

  A vision of Christy lying dead or close to it inside began to form.

  One more place to check. He’d noticed that the two-car garage had small windows placed high in the metal doors, too high to look through. He walked around the back and found a double-hung window into the garage. His penlight revealed that it was empty.

  Relieved, he returned to his car. If her Mercedes had been there he would have felt obligated to break in for a look-see. Its ab
sence made it most likely that she was at rehearsal with her phone off.

  He headed for Manhattan. She’d have to wait till tomorrow to learn the truth about the father of her grandchild.

  Looking on the bright side, Jack had just been given a reprieve of sorts.

  12

  “I still think I should have called the cops,” Dawn was saying as she applied an ice-filled baggy to his swollen knee. “Why didn’t you let me?”

  “Okay, for the fourth time,” Jeremy said—damn, his voice sounded like he was holding his nose—“I don’t want them thinkin I’m some kinda trouble-maker. You know, like every week I’m gonna be in some kinda fight.”

  That, for once, was the truth. The second was that someone might have seen him with the tire iron. Why make a bad situation worse?

  “Yeah, but, well, that guy’s totally dangerous. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anybody move so fast. One minute you were coming up behind him, a second later you were on the ground. For a moment there I wasn’t sure what happened. I thought you’d disappeared.”

  Go ahead, he thought. Rub it in.

  But he knew that wasn’t what she was up to.

  She’d changed from the frightened girl in the car to instant caregiver. Like seeing him hurt had flipped some sort of switch inside, and suddenly she couldn’t do enough for him. She’d helped him to his feet and brought the car to him, saving him a painful walk. Then she’d driven him home, stretched him out on the couch, and had been playing nurse ever since.

  “And why won’t you tell me what’s up between you and that guy? I thought you were friends.”

  Couldn’t before—his head had been too fuzzy to come up with something. But he had a story now.

  “Not friends, acquaintances. I didn’t know it but he scammed a friend of mine in the city—duped him out of a small fortune—and now he’s come out here to set me up.” He did an embarrassed shrug. “I don’t know what happened. I saw him and thought of how he just about ruined my buddy, and I guess I lost it.”

  “Well, he just about ruined you. Look at your nose,” she said for the tenth time, clucking over him like a mother hen. “It’s like twice its normal size. That’s so got to hurt.”

  “Like crazy.”

  Not true. Kind of numb, really, but why tell Dawn that? Maybe this was the key to keeping her under control: Get hurt, be needy, bring out her mothering instincts, let her think she’d taken charge. He was pretty sure he could find ways to keep it up until the baby was too old to be aborted, then he’d take over again.

  “Poor thing. Do you think it’s broken?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “We’ve totally got to get you to a doctor.”

  Like hell. Last thing he needed now was a doctor.

  “I’ll be all right. But maybe just a little more ice for the nose…to help the swellin.”

  “You got it,” she said and hurried off to the kitchen.

  Good. He needed to be alone for a couple of minutes. Needed to think and that wasn’t easy with her yakking and hovering over him like a hummingbird on speed.

  The guy…Jeremy figured he’d call him Robertson for now, because he’d seemed concerned that Jeremy knew that name…maybe he wasn’t an Enemy. He’d sounded baffled when Jeremy had mentioned the Bloodline…and had sounded sincere when he’d said he’d never heard of him until last week. If he was an Enemy, wouldn’t he have killed Jeremy while he had the chance?

  Maybe he was just what Vecca and Levy had said he was: a detective.

  It’s what I do.

  Yeah…a detective. And one who knew his business. He’d somehow connected Jeremy and Hank—his carrying that copy of Kick around sort of proved that—but how?

  Creighton. Had to be. All those meetings Hank and him had had, with Hank pretending to be researching a book. Had Vecca or Levy ratted? He didn’t see why they would, but he didn’t trust those two, especially not Levy.

  Well, however he’d found out, he was tough—Jeremy’s swollen nose proved that—and smart. And it was plain he was going to keep on digging and poking and meddling until he screwed everything to hell.

  Only way he’d stop was if he met with a fatal accident. Or got fired—and Jeremy couldn’t see Moonglow doing that. As long as she was paying him, he’d keep—

  Hey, what if he stopped getting paid for another reason besides being fired? What if the lady doing the paying suddenly stopped signing his checks…because she was dead?

  Jeremy thought about that for a few seconds, then rejected it. Wouldn’t work. Too risky. Some neighbor might have seen them arguing. She got killed, someone might mention that. Dawn might be on the outs with dear old Mom at the moment, but her bad feelings would go poof when she heard she was dead. And if she got even the tiniest idea in her head that Jeremy might have had anything to do with it—after seeing him with the tire iron, she might not think that was so far-fetched—she’d be on the first train to Abortion City.

  But what if it looked like an accident?

  No. Better yet—what if it looked like suicide?

  Jeremy raised himself to sitting. He liked that. Moonglow had been acting crazy lately, and no one knew that better than Dawn. If Mom offed herself, Dawn would think it was partly her fault. She’d go on a major guilt trip, and with no family, there’d be only one person she could turn to.

  Oh, yeah, he liked this a lot.

  “What are you smiling at?”

  He jumped at the sound of Dawn’s voice. He looked up and saw her approaching with a fresh ice baggy. Had he been smiling? Yeah, probably. Why not?

  “Just thinkin about what good care you’re takin of me.”

  Inspiration struck then—he grabbed his neck and groaned.

  “What’s the matter?” She was at his side in a second. “You all right?”

  “My neck—that guy must have crunched it harder than I thought.”

  “I’ll get you some Advil.”

  “This ain’t Advil pain, darlin. I’m gonna need something stronger—a lot stronger.”

  “But we don’t—”

  “Yeah, I know. But I know where we can get it.”

  “Where?”

  He winked at her. “Dirty Danny.”

  “Oh, no. Not him. He looks like a total scuzz.”

  “He is. But he has the real thing.” Grimacing, he struggled to his feet. “I’ll score a few Vicodins to get me through the night.”

  “Are you crazy? You can’t go down there now. You sit here and I’ll go.”

  “No way, darlin. I’d rather suffer all night than let you anywhere near the likes of Dirty Danny. Gotta be me.”

  Dawn shrugged with annoyance. “All right, so it’s gotta be you. But no way you’re driving. I’ll take you down there—right up to the door.”

  Jeremy hid a smile. Exactly what he’d figured she’d do. Exactly what he’d intended her to do.

  13

  “Jerry boy!” Dirty Danny said, catching Jeremy’s limp as he approached, then fixating on his nose. “What the fuck happened to you, man?”

  True to her word, Dawn had dropped him off at the front door and was double-parked outside now, waiting for him. He’d had a bad moment when he’d stepped inside and hadn’t seen Dirty Danny at the bar, but then he’d spotted him moving away from one of the booths, stuffing something in his pocket along the way—a completed sale.

  “Guess,” Jeremy said, looking him in the eye.

  Danny grinned and shrugged. “I dunno. Get hit by a truck or something?”

  Apparently no word had got back to Work about what had happened. Good. He didn’t want to be embarrassed to show his face here.

  “Close enough. I’m hurtin a bit. Got any Vikes?”

  Danny grinned as his hand slid toward his pocket. “Does the pope shit in the woods? You want brand name or generic?”

  “What’s the diff?”

  “Brand goes for three times more. Same stuff in the pill, but some people just gotta see that VICODIN stamped on it.”


  “Not me. Dozen generics’ll do.” He kept his voice level, casual. “Could use a few roofies too.”

  Danny’s eyebrows rose. “You want to forget about the accident?”

  “Maybe. How much I need for a good night’s sleep?”

  He’d pulled out half a dozen little snack-size baggies and was sorting through them.

  “A one-milligram tab oughta do it.”

  “And what if I want some heavy forgetting?”

  Danny grinned again and nudged him with an elbow. “Looking to get into someone’s panties?”

  Jeremy gave him an offended look that was only part put-on. He didn’t need a date-rape drug.

  “You think I can’t get there on my own?”

  “No-no. I think that young thing you’ve got hanging on you—”

  “Name’s Dawn.”

  “Right. Dawn. I think she proves you’ve got mucho mojo.”

  “The forgettin dose?” Getting info out of this asshole was like pulling teeth.

  “The fer-sure dose is five migs with booze, a few more without. Goes to work in fifteen-twenty minutes.”

  “Gimme a dozen.”

  “You got it.”

  14

  Back in the car, after giving Dawn an edited version of the buy—no mention of the roofies—Jeremy pulled out his phone.

  She glanced at him. “What are you doing?”

  “I’ve decided you’re right. I’m gonna call the cops on this guy.”

  She smiled. “Finally you’re listening to reason.”