Bloodline

by F. Paul Wilson

  “I’m just wondering what they found on the tox screen. This mysterious caller—is he right? ’Cause if he is, how does he know? Unless your mother didn’t kill herself.” He put his hands to his head. “I can’t handle this. It reminds me too much of my own mother. It’s freakin me. I gotta go out.”

  “Where?”

  “Just out. I need some air.”

  “I’ll go with—”

  “No. I just need a little time. I’ll be better when I get back. I need to be alone.”

  “And I need not to be alone.”

  “Hang on there, darlin. I’ll be just a little while.”

  As he limped toward the door she thought of a way to stop him.

  “But you can’t drive with that leg!”

  “I’ll manage. I’ll take your car.”

  And then he was gone.

  Dawn picked up the nearest thing she could find—the universal remote—and hurled it at the door. The battery cover popped off when it hit and the batteries went flying.

  How could he do this? What was so important that he had to leave her now of all times? It was like totally heartless.

  An awful thought crept up on her. What if he didn’t love her as much as he said? What if he was sneaking off to see someone else? He’d been looking at his watch as if waiting for a certain time.

  No way. Don’t be stupid, Dawn. You—

  The doorbell rang.

  She smiled. So he couldn’t drive after all. Told him.

  But why was he knocking?

  She hurried down the foyer steps and opened the front door. Instead of Jerry, a stranger stood there. She eeked in surprise and went to slam it closed but stopped herself. He held a clipboard and a manila envelope and didn’t look the least bit threatening. Longish blond hair and one of those gay little mustaches, wearing some sort of coverall.

  “Special delivery. Is a”—he checked the clipboard—“a Dawn Pickering here?”

  “Yes. That’s…”

  Should she identify herself to a stranger? The guy looked harmless enough. Even looked a little familiar. Maybe she’d seen him making deliveries before.

  Oh, WTF.

  “That’s me.”

  He handed her the envelope. “Then this is for you. Just sign here, please.”

  “What is it?”

  He smirked. “They never tell me and I didn’t open it.”

  “Who’s it from?”

  “From whoever’s on the return address, I’d guess.”

  She signed. The guy gave her a little salute and was off.

  “Wait. Am I supposed to like tip you?”

  “Don’t worry about it. All taken care of.”

  She closed the door and looked at the return address: A sticker carried the logo of something called the Creighton Institute. The name J. VECCA, MD was typed under it.

  Never heard of either.

  She tore open the envelope and pulled out two sheets of paper. The first was a letter, dated today.

  Dear Ms. Pickering—

  I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I fear if I don’t tell you, no one else will. And you must know.

  Dawn’s gut crawled. Was this about Mom?

  It concerns the man you know as Jerry Bethlehem. That is not his real name. I am restricted from giving you his real name, but I can tell you that he was recently an inmate at this facility. When you look us up, as I’m sure you will, you’ll find that Creighton Institute is part of the federal penal system.

  Oh, God. This couldn’t be true. It had to be some awful prank.

  The man you know as Jerry Bethlehem was released as part of a special experimental program. He has been under observation. We know that your mother was having him investigated. We tried to discourage that because it jeopardized our release program. But when she discovered that the man you know as Bethlehem was her half brother, we became curious.

  You see, we’d wondered why he had gone straight to your town upon his release, and why he had sought you out. The reason was not his blood relationship with your mother, it was his blood relationship to you.

  What…because he was my uncle?

  Now we come to the difficult part. The man you know as Jerry Bethlehem is a rapist. We weren’t certain before, but our tests have confirmed that he raped your mother 19 years ago. She never saw him so she never could identify him. You were conceived during that rape. This is why she could never tell you who your father was. She didn’t know.

  The paper shook in Dawn’s hands. No way…no fucking way.

  I know what you’re thinking. No way. We felt the same. But genes don’t lie. Unknown to you, I obtained a sample of your hair and did some testing of my own. The man you call Jerry Bethlehem is your father.

  Oh, this was sick. This was so sick.

  But even stranger and more baffling than that is the fact that he wants you to have his baby. Please look at the accompanying DNA paternity analysis. It leaves no doubt.

  Dawn did just that. She saw her name…Jerry’s…

  Probability of paternity 99%.

  A fake! It had to be!

  She went back to the letter.

  I know you’re thinking that a report like this can be faked. I assure you it isn’t. I also assure you that I am genuinely concerned for your well-being. Especially after what I suspect he did to your mother last night.

  Mom? What?

  I cannot prove it yet, but I am reasonably sure that he murdered your mother. She had ordered a DNA comparison between you and him (possibly to try to show you the genetic dangers of involvement with a man she assumed to be your uncle). The test results would have shown her the awful truth—that he was not your uncle but rather your father. And at last she would know the identity of her rapist. We believe he drugged her with Rohypnol (the street name is “roofie,” I believe—perhaps you’ve heard of it) and staged her suicide.

  Lies! A pack of lies! Had to be!

  But then she remembered that this wasn’t the first time Jerry had been accused of murder. Mom had said he’d killed her first detective. Dawn had laughed at the idea back then—Jesus, was it only a week ago?—but she wasn’t laughing now.

  What I’m telling you is easily verifiable. Simply bring samples of his hair (a dozen strands or so from a brush or a shower drain will do) and yours to any commercial lab and ask for a paternity DNA analysis. The results will confirm what I’ve told you.

  I assure you this is not a hoax. I am a real person and you may call me at the above number at any time to discuss this, or I will be glad to meet with you in person. I must warn you, however, do not mention this to your father. He has a history of violence. Perhaps you have seen evidence of that, perhaps not. Nevertheless, I assure you it exists, and he can explode when things do not go his way.

  I have initiated procedures to rescind his release and return him to this facility, but that will take time. Once he learns of this, his personality may become unstable, his behavior unpredictable. I suggest you vacate the premises. We can offer you shelter until he is safely incarcerated again.

  Remember, you can call me at any time if you have questions.

  Julia Vecca, MD

  Director of Medical Services, Creighton Institute

  “Oh, really, Julia Vecca, MD?” Dawn said aloud. “Maybe I’ll do just that.”

  She ran back up to the main floor and grabbed her phone. This had to be some sort of scam cooked up by Mom and her detective before she died. More proof of how far her mind had slipped.

  But that would mean she’d known she was going to commit suicide…and planned to use it against Jerry.

  Dawn’s mind balked at the improbability.

  Make the call.

  She looked at the number on the letterhead. As if. She wasn’t born yesterday. The letterhead was probably a total fake and she’d bet the number would be answered by someone coached to repeat all this bullshit.

  She called information and asked for the number of the Creighton Institute in Rathburg, New York. N
ever even heard of Rathburg.

  To her shock, the operator gave her a number—the same one on the letterhead.

  Her finger shook as she punched it in. She reached a voice mail tree that informed her that the medical offices were closed but if this was an emergency she should hit “O.” She did and found herself speaking to a woman with some sort of accent. Yes, a Dr. Vecca was on staff—head of the medical department—and no, she was not available until tomorrow. Another doctor was on call. Could he help?

  Dawn hung up and stood there feeling gooseflesh run up her arms as she told herself it couldn’t be, it totally couldn’t be. Jerry couldn’t be a criminal…but what did she know of his past? He always avoided talking about it. It had made him deliciously mysterious before. But now…

  As for being her father…they so didn’t look anything alike.

  And killing Mom? Dosing her up with roofies and killing her? Come on! She knew about roofies—heard a million warnings to be on the lookout for someone slipping a date-rape drug into your drink at a party. Where would Jerry even—?

  OMG! Dirty Danny! She herself had taken him down to score some Vicodin. He could have picked up some roofies too.

  Wait-wait-wait. He was with her all night.

  Or was he? He could have slipped her one and knocked her out for the night. Was that why she’d felt so totally groggy this morning? And she’d thought he couldn’t drive, but he was out driving right now. Last night, while she was zonked, he could have slipped out and—

  No. Stop. This is insane.

  But putting the letter together with what had been going on…they fit too well. And he seemed so interested in the results of the drug screen. Was that because…?

  Coincidence. Had to be.

  But if Jerry had bought roofies, where would he hide them?

  God, she hated herself for doing this, but she was going to have to search the place. Not finding any wouldn’t mean anything, of course—he could have used them all or taken them with him—but she hoped it might ease her mind.

  6

  Jack had removed the wig, the mustache, the nostril dilators, and the cotton pledgets from inside his cheeks. He hadn’t been sure how well Dawn would remember him from their one meeting in Work, but decided not to take any chances.

  What a stroke of luck that Bolton had left Dawn home alone on the first day of surveillance. He’d expected—and been mentally prepared for—a wait of up to a week.

  He wondered what had drawn Bolton out tonight. Didn’t matter—it had given Jack a chance to put the letter and test results in Dawn’s hands. Whatever happened next would be a matter of luck and circumstance. Dawn’s youth and naïveté would work in Jack’s favor.

  Ideally, she would swallow the whole story—why not? It was all true—and come running out of the house.

  More than likely she’d be in complete denial at first; but after a while she’d start to recognize a few parallels between her experience and the letter.

  Even if she was so enthralled with Bolton that she stayed in denial and showed the letter to lover boy, it would cause a major disruption in Bolton’s life, maybe even enrage him enough or panic him enough to do something stupid enough to throw a big-enough monkey wrench into the Creighton clinical trial to shut it down.

  One thing Jack knew he wouldn’t do was hurt Dawn—because what hurt Dawn would hurt the baby.

  But no matter what she did with it, that letter was going to rock Jeremy Bolton’s world.

  7

  Jeremy sat at a corner table in Work sipping a Bud and waiting for Dirty Danny to show. The guy was usually here by now, bothering everybody to buy his shit. Where the fuck was he? An hour here and no sign of him. Jerry couldn’t ask about him because that would connect him and Danny—the last thing he needed. But it hadn’t stopped people from asking what had happened to him.

  “How’s the other guy look?”…“What happen? Step in front of a truck?”…“Dawn catch you with another babe?”…and on and on.

  He felt like he was going to explode.

  He didn’t have a firm plan yet. He figured it best to play it by ear. Get Danny to meet him outside…tell him he had a customer for him, real paranoid but with a major jones. Anybody else and Danny might be suspicious. But he knew Jeremy, knew he wasn’t hurting for dough or drugs. He’d come along. Drive him to a secluded spot, use the trusty tire iron—no surprises this time—then strip him of his wallet and of most of his stock. They’ll call it a drug deal gone bad. Another pusher gone. No loss.

  But the damn guy had to show first. And Jeremy had to wait. Couldn’t risk putting it off till tomorrow. If word got out tonight that the cops found roofies in Moonglow, tomorrow would be too late.

  Getting rid of Danny would do it. Then he’d be home free. Dawn was his alibi against any suspicions the cops might have about him and Moonglow, and even any she herself might have. He’d dropped the gloves in a strip mall trash bin; they were probably in the county dump by now. The roofies had gone down a storm drain. Nobody and nothing to connect him to the dead Mrs. Pickering.

  Yep. Home free after tonight.

  8

  “Oh, God!” Dawn wailed. “Oh, NO!”

  She knelt outside the closet in the extra bedroom—“the shit closet,” he’d called it. Seconds ago she’d been on her feet, but her knees had given way.

  She’d started going through Jerry’s backpack, looking for roofies. She’d come up empty everywhere else, and then she’d unzipped the main compartment.

  She hadn’t found drugs. She’d found something a lot worse.

  A Talbot’s bag containing a quarter million in cash.

  She’d seen it before. At Mom’s place. Only one way Jerry could have got his hands on this.

  She screamed.

  Oh, God, he killed Mom. But she was already out of their lives. He had no reason to hurt her. Unless—

  Oh, shit! If the letter was right about him killing Mom, it could be right about why he’d done it.

  To keep her from finding out that he was her rapist, that he was Dawn’s father.

  My father?

  This was a nightmare, a total nightmare. Had to be. She was going to wake up any second and find herself next to Jerry and write this off as the worst dream of her life.

  But even if that happened, who was Jerry, really? She didn’t know.

  One thing she did know was that she could so not count on this being just a bad dream.

  A line from the letter came back to her: I suggest you vacate the premises.

  Totally.

  Clutching the wall for support, she struggled to her feet and lurched toward the hall. Thoughts cascaded through her brain in a jumbled avalanche, tumbling, bouncing off each other without connecting, without coherence. She had to get out, find a place away from here to think, sift out truth from lies, if she could.

  If she could…

  But how could she know—ever really know the truth about this?

  What I’m telling you is easily verifiable. Simply bring samples of his hair…and yours to any commercial lab and ask for a paternity DNA analysis.

  Just what she’d do. Because she totally had to know.

  She stumbled to the bathroom and found his hairbrush. He used it a lot, saying he was afraid it was thinning on him and he’d read where regular brushing would stimulate it. She used to think it was cute, but now nothing seemed cute.

  She grabbed a comb and cleaned the brush, removing a lot more than a dozen strands. She stared at the tangle in her hand.

  What if this proved that Jerry was really her father?

  For God’s sake, Dawn, he’s old enough to be your father!

  How many times had Mom said that?

  Other memories followed…straddling him in ecstasy, sucking his—

  She leaned over the toilet and vomited.

  Had to get out of here. But Jerry had her car. So what? She’d take his. Do anything to get away and stay away until she’d figured this out.

  But
stay where? Her house was out. A motel? But she didn’t have much money.

  The bag.

  She rushed back to the shit closet and grabbed the bag from where she’d dropped it, then hurried down to the main floor. She grabbed a set of Jerry’s keys from the bowl and was heading for the door when she saw lights sweep across the windows. She peeked out and saw her Jeep pulling into the driveway.

  No! No, she couldn’t confront him, couldn’t even face him or stand being in the same room with him until she knew the truth. Had to get out.

  Since she couldn’t take his car, her first thought was to run—go out the back door and keep on going. But that wasn’t going to work. And even if she could somehow get to her car, he’d only chase after her in his.

  She looked down at the bowl where they tossed their keys when they came in, and had an idea.

  9

  Jeremy sat behind the wheel of the Jeep and composed himself. Had to be cool and calm and pretend like nothing was wrong.

  That asshole Dirty Danny hadn’t shown. Jeremy had finally broke down and asked for him. Nobody had seen nothing of him today.

  Damn it!

  Okay. Be cool.

  He’d work things out. Who knew? Maybe Danny was already dead, killed in a real drug deal gone bad.

  Wouldn’t that be a kick?

  He got out and took deep breaths all the way to the front door. By the time he let himself in he was the Jerry Bethlehem everyone knew and loved. Well, not everyone.

  “I’m home, darlin.”

  No answer.

  His foot kicked a piece of paper. He looked down and saw a torn-open envelope. He picked it up. Dawn’s name on the front and…

  His mouth went dry and his heart stuttered when he saw the return address: Creighton Institute. And Vecca’s name.

  What the—?

  Dawn! Where was she? He limped up to the main floor calling her name, but still no answer.