Blood Ties: A Grace Harper Novel

by J. T. Hardy

  A year ago, his oncologist had told him, "You have six months tops. Get your affairs in order." Some docs called him a medical miracle for lasting so long, but dying was still dying, even if you did it in slow motion. He'd had three close calls, and every one had torn out my heart.

  There were only so many times I could say goodbye.

  "Has anyone come to see you, Dad?"

  "How's school going?"

  "I graduated three years ago, remember?"

  Silence for a few heartbeats, then the muttered litany of details and places we'd lived.

  "Dad, look around. Do you know where you are?"

  "Hospital."

  "Do you remember why?"

  He was quiet again, but then he groaned like he did when he rubbed his eyes in frustration. I'd been hearing that groan a lot the last few months. "'Cause there's a tumor named Glioblastoma Multiforme trying to kill me."

  "Right. It also lies, Dad. Focus, think. Has anyone come to see you recently?"

  "Just the nurses."

  "Do you know why someone would have a list with Mom's name on it?"

  "I don't know. He never told me why they came after her."

  After us. My name was on that list, too. Twice. Plus all those other people I'd never heard of. But not his. Did that mean he was safe?

  "Dad, is there someplace you can stay besides your apartment or the hospital for a few days? You have enough cash for a motel?"

  "Always do."

  I'd stopped asking him to come live with me months ago. He always said no and swore we were safer apart, but the urge to start that argument again was strong. If he had one more bad memory lapse, I'd drag him here whether he liked it or not.

  "Time to go, Grace."

  I'd heard those words all my life, right before we'd pack everything we owned into the car and vanish. It wasn't real this time, only his faulty memory, but the familiar fear crackled through me same as it had six months ago when I'd fled Santa Fe for Ft. Lauderdale. Except then, he hadn't even remembered he'd told me to run.

  Stay or go? I knew which one Dad would insist on.

  I sighed and gave him the expected coded response. "Gotta run, Dad, talk to you soon." Love you, Dad.

  "Stay safe, my radish. We'll chat soon."

  Heart pounding, I stared at my phone. It had been five years since we'd had a legitimate Pretty Boy sighting. I'd started to think maybe it was over, that we were finally safe, until Cavanaugh showed up with that damn list.

  But was he a threat? He didn't fit anything Dad had trained me to watch for. Cavanaugh knew something, but it couldn't have been about me specifically or he'd have known who I was. Maybe I was part of something else? That opened up a whole list of new and unsettling questions. I'd always thought the Pretty Boys were only after our family, but that list suggested otherwise.

  Was it a clue about what happened to Mom, and why we'd been running ever since? If Cavanaugh wasn't a threat, he might be an opportunity for answers. Though he could be both.

  I pulled up the list and a browser and typed in the third name from the top--I already knew what had happened to the Antonellis.

  Number three--name crossed off. The woman was fifteen years dead, with a straightforward and detail-free obituary.

  Number four followed the trend with a line through it and a twelve-year-old obituary, plus a news article. Girl's body found. Exsanguination. Police baffled.

  I huffed. Join the club. But it was another indication that this was connected to Mom.

  Number five--also crossed off. No search results, but my money said she was dead as well.

  Number six was a college student who'd been in an accident six months ago and was still in a coma.

  Number seven was Anita Rosenberg, also missing.

  And then me.

  No, that didn't bode well for my future at all.

  I rubbed my temples. Running sucked, and Dad couldn't do it anymore. Another few weeks and he'd need supervision, maybe even constant care. Living with me near Andrews Medical was better for him than living alone in Boulder City, Nevada. We'd have backup here.

  Unless the Pretty Boys had found us.

  I pulled out Cavanaugh's card. Threat or opportunity? Unsure, but worth the risk. I typed in the number. I needed answers before I threw my life away again.

  "Yes?"

  "Hi, it's Grace Harper. I think I might have remembered a name on that list. Someone I might have gone to school with as a kid."

  "Which name?"

  "Can we meet around, say five, at Frisco's? Sports bar down the street from the hospital."

  No answer right away, then a sigh so soft I barely caught it. "Sure, I'll meet you there. Five at Frisco's."

  "See you then."

  I tucked the card away. If he gave me any hints he wasn't alone, he wouldn't see me at all.

  Chapter Two

  Frisco's smelled of cheap beer and suntan oil, but the tables were clean and the bartenders the right level of sexy. I headed for a small corner booth under the head of a stuffed moose with rhinestone sunglasses and a nose ring, right across from a giant mirror that showed most of the bar and its inhabitants.

  I checked the mirror first. The patrons' reflections all looked solid and normal--no hazy ghost images--then I settled in facing the door and scanned the room. The place had a slew of weekend regulars, with plenty of groups talking and hanging out, a few singles, a handful of pairs. Local bar, local clientele. No one skulking in the shadows or staring too long from behind a menu.

  I set the alarm on my phone for twenty minutes anyway.

  I made note of the exits while I twisted up my hair and clipped it. If the heat was this brutal in winter, summer would be apocalyptic.

  An uncomfortable shiver ran along my skin and the hair on my arms stood straight. Someone was watching me. Inside I tensed, but outside I forced calm, faked unaware. I fiddled with my hair again and re-scanned the room for whatever I'd missed.

  There.

  Guy by the bar, major eye candy with the perfect chest for a T-shirt, though his dusky looks were a little too male model for comfort. He ignored everyone around him--including the brunette practically stripping in front of him, vying for his attention.

  I wasn't the Cuban beauty Libby was, but I held my own. It wasn't inconceivable that a hot guy would be scope locked on me. In my experience, though, anything that sexy meant trouble--one way or another.

  Like Dad always said, ignore coincidences at your own peril.

  I moved the drink ads and condiments around, angling for a view of the mirror with him reflected in it. Please be normal. I found the brunette, shifted my gaze right and--

  He moved, zipping out the door like he'd spotted someone breaking into his car. The brunette tried to stop him, but the eye candy was fast. Maybe too fast.

  Don't be paranoid. What if Cavanaugh knows what happened to Mom?

  The eye candy could be nothing, or Cavanaugh could have set me up for the Pretty Boys. Maybe they realized they'd been made and were switching to Plan B. Or this was me being ridiculous and the eye candy was some gay guy who forgot to put money in the meter and had no interest in a flirty brunette.

  It was more likely a lifetime of Dad's safety tips had made me as paranoid as a junkie.

  Cavanaugh wouldn't have tipped his hand and questioned me if he'd planned to set me up. Pretty Boys didn't work that way. They'd have jumped me as I left the hospital.

  Okay, so reconnaissance first, then plan accordingly.

  I left the booth and headed for the brunette and her friends by the bar. She shot me a double take as I walked up.

  "Hi," I said, smiling. "This is going to sound strange, but that guy you were talking to, did he say where he was going?"

  "Why do you want to know?"

  I held up both hands. "I'm not poaching, I swear. He was a real jerk to a friend of mine and I want to make sure he's not coming back anytime soon before she gets here."

  She glanced at her friends and frowned.
They shrugged. Finally, the brunette crossed her arms, only a little less wary. "Said he was late meeting a friend."

  Believable. Also plausible if he wanted to get away from her. "Thanks." I turned, but she grabbed my arm.

  "Hey wait. What did he do to your friend?"

  "Charmed the pants off her, never called."

  The brunette nodded slowly with a knowing frown. "One of those."

  "Proceed with caution if that's not what you're after." I grinned. "If it is, then have fun."

  They laughed and asked me to offer condolences, then turned their attentions to the rest of the guys in the bar. If the eye candy was on the level, he might find a few cold shoulders for a week or two, but no lasting damage to his reputation.

  The door opened and I tensed, but it was only two women dressed in adorable flouncy sundresses. The dresses didn't match exactly, but they'd clearly shopped together.

  Shopping with a bunch of girlfriends sounded nice. Libby had talked about a pair of boots she'd seen just yesterday, and I'd held back suggesting we hit the store at lunch. I should have asked her; that's what friends did. It's also what following Dad's rules earned me--a life of solitude.

  And safety?

  I was still alive, so, yes. That, too.

  I glanced at my watch. Cavanaugh was officially ten minutes late. Possible answers weren't worth the risk anymore.

  The eye candy hadn't come back inside either, and for all I knew he was lurking outside, waiting for me. This could be nothing--probably was nothing--but I didn't like the way he'd been watching me.

  A group of tourists seated at a hightop table stood and started their goodbyes. I slipped in behind them, searching my bag for my keys and a little protection.

  The door opened ahead of us.

  "Ah, Ms. Harper," Cavanaugh said, dodging the tourists. "I'm sorry, I had the worst luck finding a parking space. Quite the crowd." He smiled, seeming as non-threatening as the brunette, but looks were deceiving.

  "Shall we grab a seat?" He gestured toward the table the trio had vacated.

  Bolting would tip him off if he was working with the eye candy who might be a Pretty Boy. I glanced at the mirror behind him. His image reflected the A-OK that he was human.

  "Sure. Thanks for meeting me."

  We sat, awkward as two people on a blind date neither wanted to be on.

  "So," he began, "you were saying you remembered one of those names?"

  For a moment the words froze on my tongue, but I forced them out. "Rebekah and Hannah Antonelli sounded familiar. Are they sisters?"

  "Mother and daughter."

  I barely remembered her, but it still hurt to hear us described that way. I cleared my throat. "I'm sorry, what precinct did you say you were from? Maybe that'll help jog my memory."

  "I work out of Pensacola."

  Where Mom was buried. "It's possible I went to school with the daughter. Are they missing, too?"

  "The daughter is, but it's a very old, very cold case. Do you remember any classmates disappearing?"

  I mimicked careful consideration. "Been a long time. I remember someone dying. A traffic accident? That sound familiar to you?"

  "It tracks with what I know."

  I shook my head. "That was ages ago. You think it's the same person who took your missing woman? Like a serial killer?"

  "I'm still trying to put the pieces together, and most of them don't fit. How long did you live in Pensacola?"

  "Couple of years. Am I in any danger?"

  He paused and glanced away for an instant. "If you are the Grace Harper on the list, I'm afraid you might be."

  Damn. Dumb me just confirmed I was the right Grace.

  "Do you have any leads on who's behind this?" I asked, playing into his whole "I'm a cop" expectation.

  Another shift of his gaze. Cavanaugh could use a few lessons on lying. "I'm still exploring how the list is connected to Ms. Rosenberg. I'd hoped you could shed some light on that."

  I doubted that "we're all being hunted by the same monster" was the kind of help he wanted. "I don't know why I'm on that list."

  And clearly, neither did he. I was risking my life for nothing. This was a fishing expedition, nothing more, and he was here because his only clue was my name. He still had a cop feel, even without flashing a badge, so this could be a case he was working off the books. Maybe it was personal. Maybe this woman had been a lover, or a close family friend and he was going behind his captain's back to find her. He might not even be an actual detective, but some lab tech playing cop.

  You should stop watching so many police dramas on TV.

  "Have you noticed anything strange recently?" he said. "Unfamiliar people, unusual questions, anything feel...off?"

  I flashed him a sheepish grin. "Aside from you?"

  He smiled back. A nice smile, trustworthy, though he might be anything but. "Aside from me."

  "No, not really. A few weird street people, but that's normal around here." My alarm chimed from my pocket. Finally. I jumped and pulled it out, pretending to read a text, and frowned. "I'm so sorry, but I have to go."

  Cavanaugh gaped at me a moment, disappointment in his eyes, but he recovered. "It's nothing serious, is it?"

  "Are you in town long? I'll let you know if I think of anything else."

  "I'm here all weekend."

  Acting preoccupied with my phone, I nodded absently and hurried out the door.

  The sun had set and traffic crept along the street, but only half the cars had their lights on in the shadowy twilight. A muggy breeze swept away some of the bar stench and lifted my hair off my neck. People walked past in both directions, a normal street on a normal Saturday.

  No signs of an ambush, but then, there never were.

  Except it was a terrible spot for an ambush. Too many people and no good cover.

  My car felt a million miles away, backed into a space in the small parking lot next to the bar, directly under a hazy orange street lamp. I reached into my bag and put on the silver-plated brass knuckles Dad had given me for my bat mitzvah. The engraving on the knuckledusters winked at me--May the three enfold you, hold you safe, and keep you strong.

  I checked the area again. Clear.

  Gravel crunched under my feet as I made my way toward my car, keys in one hand, thick bands of silver-coated steel wrapped around the knuckles of my other. A second breeze brushed me, this time unnaturally cold and scented with ozone and woodfire smoke. Gooseflesh peppered my skin.

  I slowed my steps. Cool breezes and ozone often preceded thunderstorms, but the sky was clear, no sign of lightning at all. Ten feet from the car, I hit the unlock button and peeked into the back seat. No one there.

  The traffic sounds cut out. No horns, no rush of passing vehicles, no boom of radios spewing too much bass.

  I checked the street over the roof of my Honda. No one moved. People stood on the sidewalk like mannequins, and even the cars sat motionless.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  I lunged for the door handle.

  "My, aren't you a curious thing, walking when you should be still," a man said, and arms solid as cables grabbed me from behind. The smell of old things burning stung my nose; the ancient stench like a shield around him. I swallowed my panic. The eye candy from the bar had been a Pretty Boy. I leaned into his chest, placed both feet against my car door, and shoved with all my strength.

  He staggered and cried out, knocked off balance. His hold on me loosened, and I wriggled my arms free. We fell to the gravel, him on his back and me flailing on his chest. I elbowed him hard in the ribs with both elbows. And gasped.

  Damn, that hurt!

  Arms stinging, I rolled off the Pretty Boy and onto my knees, my fists up, moving at the speed the world ought to be moving at. But it was still...still.

  Familiar model-quality good looks stared up from the ground. He was indeed the eye candy from the bar. Okay, good. Odds are it was just the one Pretty Boy, then.

  He moved within a blink, on his fee
t in a blur.

  I jabbed with the knuckledusters--hard.

  Metal met groin and the Pretty Boy gasped. He stepped away, but didn't go down in a pile of screaming sleazeball like a human guy would have. Balls of steel or no balls at all?

  I jumped to my feet and threw an uppercut at his chiseled jaw--a solid impact we both felt this time. Jarring pain shot up my arm and rattled my teeth. The Pretty Boy's head snapped around and yellow-green spittle flew from his lips in sparkling chartreuse drops.

  City noise flooded my ears, breaking the eerie silence.

  Gotcha.

  Not for long, though.

  He glared at me, something dark and predatory in his wide eyes, but a bit of shock, too. I'd bet not many of his victims got a shot in. He shook it off and smiled.

  "I hate when he's right," he said an instant before he blurred toward me. A breath later he seized me by the upper arm and hauled me toward an alley at the edge of the parking lot. I struggled, but we marched deeper into the shadows cast by the surrounding buildings.

  They were stronger in the shadows.

  I punched, writhed, flailed at him, but he still wouldn't let go.

  "Be still, you," he said, as if I were a wriggling puppy.

  My wriggling earned me a bit of leeway as my sleeve tore and his grip slid down to my forearm. I couldn't hit him with my knuckledusters from this angle, but if I hung back a little...

  He kept moving forward, dragging me along. The seam of my sleeve cut into my skin under his grip, but his back was to me now. An opportunity at last. We were less than ten feet to the alley and the death I'd had nightmares about all my life...

  This didn't make sense. Why hadn't he already killed me?

  I slipped the dusters off the arm he had a hold of and onto my free hand. I wasn't much of a lefty, but it would have to do.

  At the edge of the shadows I pressed the silver dusters deep into the crook of his elbow. Flesh sizzled and blue and white sparks danced like the Fourth of July. He shrieked and yanked away.

  I staggered and fell into the gravel. He snarled, a sound as unnatural as his speed. A second voice shouted from the alley in a language I didn't recognize. Deep, angry, yet beautiful at the same time, like a piano melody under a thrash metal guitar riff.