Bloodline

by F. Paul Wilson

  He made a show of dialing, then shook it and tried again.

  “Shoot. Must’ve done something to it when I hit the ground. Mind if I borrow yours?”

  “Go ahead.”

  When he dug it out of her handbag, he punched in Moonglow’s number. He figured if she saw Dawn’s name come up on caller ID she’d pick up sure. But she didn’t. She could be in the shower or something, but this was a sign that she might not be home.

  He cut the connection.

  “What’s the matter?” Dawn said with a laugh. “Cops not home?”

  “Bad connection.” He turned to her, all sincere and vulnerable. “I don’t know if this is such a good idea.”

  “Try again. Just hit redial.”

  “Okay.”

  And he did. Still no answer at Moonglow’s. He cut the connection again.

  “Nope. Can’t do it. Just realized that my friend doesn’t want to press charges ’cause he feels like such a jerk. So what’s the point?”

  Dawn sighed. “Yeah. Maybe you’re right.”

  She sounded disappointed. So what? Jeremy had something more important on his mind: Moonglow wasn’t home.

  Interesting. Tonight could be the night. The sooner the better.

  15

  “Say, darlin,” Jerry said from where he was stretched out on the couch. “What’ve we got to drink?”

  Oh, no, Dawn thought, giving him a disapproving look. No way.

  “You are so not going to mix beer and Vicodin—not while I’m around.”

  He smiled. “Yes, dear.”

  She couldn’t believe what a totally different person he’d become since he got the crap kicked out of him. Almost like he’d had the mean beat out of him too. She’d been a little scared of him before—a lot scared after he’d threatened her—but when she’d seen him go down some fierce protective instinct had surged to life. If that guy had stayed around he’d have found Dawn clinging to his back, clawing at his eyes.

  Yeah, Jerry had threatened to kill her, but that was just talk. Hyperbole. He’d never hurt her. He’d said he’d die for her and she believed him. He’d just been shocked she’d been thinking of aborting his baby. That was all—the shock talking, not Jerry.

  “Darlin, how about a glass of that diet junk you drink?”

  Her Pepsi? Was he kidding?

  “But you hate that.”

  “Hey, I’m desperate and I’m not in the mood for water. Let me try some of that. If I can’t finish it, you can.”

  “Okay.”

  She went to the kitchen and poured him a glass from the big three-liter bottle in the fridge. Poured herself a short one and gulped it down.

  God, she totally loved this stuff. She checked the level: Getting low.

  Okay, face it, girl: You’re addicted. You’ve got a major Pepsi jones. Another thing she could blame on Mom. Better remember to pick up more tomorrow. Running out would be like tragic.

  When she brought the glass back to Jerry she found him closing up her cell phone.

  “Calling the cops again?”

  He smiled. “Forgot to check my voice mail earlier.”

  She handed him the glass and watched as he took a sip. He grimaced.

  “Maybe it’d be better if it had some ice in it. Could you get me a couple of cubes?”

  She sighed and reached for the glass. “Sure.”

  He held it back. “Just the cubes. I’ll keep this here, okay?”

  “Yeah. Okay.”

  Kinda weird, but…

  She got him the cubes. When she returned she found him swirling the glass. Didn’t he know that would make it go flat? She dropped the cubes in and he swirled them around before taking a baby sip.

  He shook his head. “Nope. Can’t do it. Tastes like medicine.” He held out the glass to her. “You finish it.”

  Some people…

  She took it back and chugged half of it.

  “Best stuff in the world.”

  He smiled. “I knew you wouldn’t let it go to waste.”

  “Better believe it.”

  She felt his eyes on her as she finished it off.

  Then he yawned. “I’m beat.” He laughed. “In more ways than one. I think I’ll turn in. Want to come snuggle with me?”

  “Are you sure you’re up to—?”

  Another laugh. “Not tonight, darlin. When I said ‘snuggle,’ I meant snuggle.”

  She wasn’t tired, but there wouldn’t be much else to do with Jerry conked out. Why not?

  “Okay. Let’s snuggle.”

  16

  Jack was halfway across the Queensboro Bridge when his phone rang. He checked the ID and hit TALK when he recognized the number: Christy. What a relief.

  “Where’ve you been, lady? I’ve been calling all day.”

  “I know. I just got your message. Sorry. I’ve been out on the beach at Montauk.”

  What had she been doing way out on the eastern tip of Long Island?

  “Not exactly swimming weather.”

  “No, but this time of year it’s a good place to be alone and do some thinking. And as you well know, I’ve got a lot to think about.”

  Jack chewed a lip and thought, Not nearly as much as you’ll have after you hear the latest.

  “So you turned off your phone?”

  “Of course not. What if Dawn needed to reach me? No, the battery ran out. I forgot to charge it. I’m so scattered lately. I guess I didn’t hear the warning beeps over the surf. I sat on the beach and stared at the ocean, walked up and down the waterline, found a fish place and had fried clams for lunch. When I checked it and found it dead it took me a while to get back to the car. Got it plugged into the charger now.”

  “Come to any decisions?”

  “Well, the big question was, What do I do next? What should I do next? Should I do anything? Dawn’s eighteen, which means she’s an adult in the eyes of the law. She can make her own decisions and I have no legal right to interfere. So should I just back off and wait till this whole tawdry affair falls to pieces—as it must—and she comes back home?”

  Fall to pieces? Jack knew Bolton wasn’t about to let that happen—at least not until his baby was born.

  “I can’t see you going for that.”

  “Damn right. I couldn’t. Dawn may be eighteen, but she’s only eighteen. She may be legal, but she’s still just a kid inside.” Her voice rose. “I can’t stand it! And I can’t stand by and watch her ruin her life! I’ve got to keep trying, I’ve got to find some way to make this right!”

  Jack clenched his teeth. He was just a quarter mile from Gia’s place—warm smiles and hugs from his two ladies. If he was smart he’d wait till tomorrow to break the news. But he heard the pain in her voice, the naked need to save her daughter.

  What he had to tell her might very well break up Dawn and Bolton for good, but it would be a live grenade dropped into the heart of her life.

  Christy, the man who raped you every day for weeks and weeks is the same man who has made your daughter—yours and his—pregnant.

  How was he going to look her in the eyes and force those words past his lips?

  But she had to know. She had a right to know. Because she’d asked him to learn whatever he could about the man bedding her daughter, and this was what he’d discovered.

  Jack decided then that he wanted—needed—to get this over with, to remove this burden of truth and send it home. Tonight.

  “Maybe I’ve found that way.”

  Eagerness crowded her words. “You have? What? What?”

  “It’s not for the phone.”

  “Come on, Jack. Please?”

  “Trust me.” He thought of the copies of Levy’s printouts in his pocket. “This needs show as well as tell.”

  “Okay, then. I’m about an hour from home. Where can we meet?”

  “Your place is as good as any.”

  “But I thought you didn’t want to be seen with me.”

  “He’s on to me, so it doesn’t matt
er anymore.”

  “I can be there in an hour—maybe less if I hurry.”

  Jack had reached the end of the bridge and began looking for a way to get back on the Queens-bound lanes.

  “All right. I’m on my way.”

  “Hurry. I can’t wait.”

  Yes, you can, he thought. You’ll wish you’d waited forever.

  17

  It didn’t take long for Dawn to fall asleep. Jeremy listened to her slow, even breathing for about ten minutes, then got up and limped out to the living room to find her phone.

  Time to call Moonglow again.

  If she was home, he’d just wasted a roofie on Dawn. Even if not, this still might turn out to be a waste.

  He hit REDIAL for maybe the sixth time tonight—every time Dawn had left the room. And this time turned out the same as the others: no answer.

  Excellent.

  He went back into the bedroom and gave her a nudge. She didn’t stir. Not even a little.

  Double excellent.

  Earlier he’d gone into the bathroom and dissolved one of the olive-green roofies in some hot water in a medicine cup. When he’d sent Dawn back for the ice cubes, he’d poured it into the Diet Pepsi. Odorless, tasteless, she hadn’t a clue…

  She’d be out till morning.

  His only worry was whether or not the roofie would hurt the baby. He couldn’t see how one milligram could matter.

  Now…to Moonglow’s place.

  He slipped out, taking a pair of winter gloves plus Dawn’s phone and keys. He took her SUV—no way he’d be able to bend his swollen knee far enough to get into the Miata. Damn good thing it was his left knee too—he’d never be able to drive if it was the right. He dashed to the Home Depot where he bought a cheap utility knife, all razorbladed up and ready to use.

  When he reached Moonglow’s he called again. Still no answer.

  He parked down the street and limped back in the dark. He made a circuit of the outside of the house and found no sign of anyone home. So he pulled on his gloves and let himself in with Dawn’s house key. Easing the door closed behind him, he stood listening.

  All quiet.

  He went straight to the kitchen and opened the fridge where he found the ever-present bottle of Diet Pepsi. Like mother, like daughter. This one was two-thirds full. Moving quickly—she might pull into the driveway any minute—he emptied it until only eight ounces or so remained. A single glass.

  Even though the kitchen faced the backyard, he didn’t want to risk putting on the lights. So, using the open fridge to show the way, he took a disposable plastic cup and crushed eight roofies in it with a spoon. He dissolved the powder in an ounce of warm water, then poured the solution into the Pepsi.

  As he was swirling the bottle he heard a hum. He stopped and listened, then realized it was the garage door opener.

  Shit!

  Moving as fast as he dared or could, he stowed the Pepsi back in the refrigerator, then rinsed the spoon and dropped it into its drawer. After crumpling the plastic cup, he shoved it into his pocket as he hopped-limped for the back door. He eased it closed behind him and found a dark corner of the backyard that allowed a good view of the kitchen.

  Lights went on as Moonglow crossed the dining room and disappeared.

  Where’d she go? Not straight to bed, he hoped. Too early. Maybe the bathroom?

  After a couple of minutes she reappeared and he pumped a fist as she went straight to the fridge and pulled out the Diet Pepsi. He tensed as she paused and held up the bottle. Had he left any sediment? No. The roofies had been completely dissolved when he’d poured in the solution. She must be thinking she’d left more in the bottle.

  She shrugged and emptied the bottle into a glass, took a long gulp, then carried the rest to somewhere else in the house.

  Yes!

  He’d give it time to work before he got down to business.

  And then it would be bye-bye Moonglow.

  18

  “Come on!”

  Jack sat behind the wheel and fumed. Traffic had come to a standstill, leaving him trapped on the eastbound LIE between Mount Zion Cemetery and Maspeth. He’d passed this way just an hour ago traveling west and everything had been fine. Had to be an accident.

  And then he heard sirens and saw flashing lights in his rearview mirror. A cop cruiser and an ambulance passed him on the shoulder.

  Swell. An accident with injuries.

  He turned off his car and reached for his phone. Better call Christy and tell her he’d be late. Just what he wanted to do: Draw this out.

  No answer. Probably taking a shower, something he wished he were doing.

  He plugged his iPod into the radio, selected shuffle, and let her rip. Nilsson’s voice filled the car. Vicky’s favorite viewing these days was a DVD of the old TV special, The Point, and Jack had become a fan of the sound track.

  “This is the town and these are the people…”

  19

  Jeremy heard Moonglow’s phone start to ring. He knew from his multiple calls tonight that her voice mail picked up after the fourth. He counted four rings.

  Time to check her out.

  He limped up to the dining room window and peeked in. Empty. But it offered a line of sight into the living room at the front of the house, and there he spotted her, sprawled on the couch.

  Excellent.

  He let himself in and made his way to where she lay with her eyes closed and mouth open. He nudged her.

  Nothing.

  Nudged her again—hard.

  Nothing. Completely conked out.

  Excellent.

  He slipped his arms under her and lifted. Groaning with the pain in his knee, he carried her upstairs, stopping ever few steps and leaning against the wall to relieve the weight on his leg. Finally he made it to the master bathroom where he laid her gently in the tub—didn’t want any bruises.

  As he stepped back to stare at her, she began to snore.

  Decision time: clothes on or off? Tough one. Different people did it different ways. Much as he’d love to see her naked again after all these years—what a fine piece of ass she’d been as a teenager—he decided to keep it simple.

  Leaving her clothes on, he started the water, nice and warm.

  While the tub was filling he returned to the kitchen where he loaded two baggies with ice cubes—Dawn’s first aid for his bruises had given him this idea—then limped back upstairs. He arranged Moonglow’s arms and hands on the edges of the tub, palms up, then placed an ice bag over each wrist.

  During his seemingly endless years at Creighton, Jeremy had devoted a lot of time to planning his own suicide. He’d been sentenced to two consecutive life sentences with no possibility of parole, so he was sure he’d never get out, and just as sure that he’d failed his daddy and the Bloodline. So what was the point of living—especially if it meant spending another thirty or forty years like that?

  Of course if he’d known he was going to be let out for this drug trial, his attitude would have been different.

  He’d been allowed to draw books from the Creighton library with all its medical texts, and he’d read a lot about suicide, especially accounts of failed attempts and the reasons they’d failed. Often it was ignorance—taking non-lethal doses of drugs or cutting a vein in the wrist instead of the artery, not knowing that a vein will often clot up long before the person bled to death. More often it was failure of nerve—the rope is tied to the beam and knotted around the neck, but the clown just can’t make himself step off the chair; or the pistol is loaded and cocked with the muzzle pressed against the side of the head, everything in place except the guts to pull the trigger.

  Jeremy had known he’d never have a chance at a gun, but getting hold of something sharp enough to slice through his skin was not all that far-fetched. The most surefire way was to slice through one of the big arteries in the neck, but Jeremy wasn’t sure he could cut his own throat. And if he botched it—if his hand faltered and he didn’t cut deep enough to
get it done—he’d be on suicide watch the rest of his life.

  He could slit his wrists, though. At least he thought so. So he’d studied up on wrist-slitting techniques, learning why the failures failed and the successes succeeded. The key was something called the radial artery. It lay closest to the surface at the wrist, on the near side of the base of the thumb—where doctors and nurses like to take the pulse. Put a deep long cut into one—or better yet, both—and life would pump out of you pretty damn quick.

  The ice packs were his own innovation. He didn’t know how far down the eight roofies had put Moonglow, so he figured the numbing effect of the cold would keep her still. The last thing he wanted was her waking up and starting to struggle when the blade bit into her arteries. The whole idea was to make this look well thought out and deliberate on her part: Her only child was pregnant and had moved out after a terrible fight. Her behavior had become increasingly weird. Finally, in a fit of depression, she took her own life.

  Boo-hoo-hoo.

  Poor Moonglow. Or Christy. Or whoever.

  The water level had risen almost to her chin. He shut it off but left the ice packs in place a little longer—the more numb her wrists, the better. To kill time he wandered through the house, keeping an eye peeled for a certain Talbot’s bag. Had she put that quarter mil back in the bank? If not, it sure as hell would come in handy. No good to her after tonight, that was for damn sure.

  He found it lying on its side in the bottom drawer of her dresser. Take it or leave it? Who knew she had it? He, Dawn, her bank, and maybe—this was a long shot—her detective. Who had she told she was planning to use it to buy off her daughter’s boyfriend? The bank? Hardly. The detective? Maybe, but he’d have no reason to believe she hadn’t redeposited the money, and no way to find out.

  He grabbed the bag and returned to the bathroom. He’d find a safe spot to stash it at his place for the big rainy day that was sure as hell on its way.

  Okay. Let’s get this over with.

  He removed the ice bags, then pulled the utility knife from his pocket. He wrapped the fingers of her right hand around the handle, then guided the point of the blade toward her left wrist—she was right-handed so it made sense that she’d cut her left first. As he pushed it beneath the surface, he felt water fill his glove. Taking a breath, he made a deep, long cut along her radial artery. She gasped as crimson spurts swirled into the water. Her eyes opened and gave him a glassy stare that lasted maybe two seconds, then closed again.