The Bloodline Trilogy

by Adam Nicholls

  “Give us up,” Blake pleaded, wheezing and whining. “This has gone too far. Please.”

  The man paid no attention to him. He took one last look at the adjoining street to his left and kicked the car into reverse. They pulled out, then swung the car around the destroyed police vehicles and continued to race on.

  It shocked Blake that the car would still move—it had taken one hell of a battering from the ride.

  They slowed down to take another corner, and Silver Hair pulled in between two parked cars. To the unobservant, they would look like two ordinary people in an ordinary car, blending in with their environment. Up close though, there were enough dents and scratches to set their car aside from the others. Pedestrians looked at them with a parade of confusion, excitement, and disgust.

  Blake’s body tensed. It hurt when he looked over his shoulder. One police car that had been pursuing them drove straight on by without a glance, its sirens screaming like rabid monkeys. It seemed unusual that a team of officers so hell-bent on catching them should happen by without so much as a fleeting look at them. They obviously hadn’t been paying attention. They couldn’t have. If they had, they would have noticed the smashed-up windows and the car’s hood bent in two like paper.

  Blake realized he was panting in unsteady gasps. What if they were being tricked? What if a car came from every direction now, forcing them into a corner? Silver Hair was an outstanding driver—there was no doubt about it—but nobody was that good.

  “Do you know where we are?” Silver Hair asked, craning his neck around.

  Blake gawked at the headrest in front of him, cracking his knuckles.

  “Kid,” the man shuffled around and looked him dead in the eye, “in under a minute, more cars will be coming along this way, and I’ll have to draw them away from you. Here’s what you’re going to do: you’re going to get out and change your clothes. Take your jacket off now—they’ll be looking for two men in black jackets, not one man in a plain white T-shirt on foot. Can you do that?” The sudden lowering of his tone was persuasive.

  Blake shifted his gaze to the man, leaned back, and removed his jacket. It was getting hot in here anyway.

  “Good. Now, you’ll need to get some new clothes on, maybe a hat to shadow your face.”

  Blake thought about that. He had left his possessions at the station. Everything he needed: wallet, money, keys. Even his cell phone, which would be handy now. He might have been able to contact Rachel, get some support. Maybe she could have helped straighten things out. “I don’t have any money.”

  “Then steal.” He said it with such confidence, as if it was nothing. “As soon as you’ve done that, you need to go to Rosewood. It’s a pub in West Hollywood. Do you know where that is? Can you find it by yourself?”

  Blake realized that his hands were still shaking. He was about to answer, but as soon as he thought he heard something, he paused to listen closer. Sirens? Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe he could walk out with his hands up and just explain the whole situation.

  Maybe, maybe, maybe.

  Nothing was certain.

  “Do you know where that is?” Silver Hair whacked the seat with the back of his hand, veins bulging in his forehead, his skin blood red.

  “Yes. I think I do.”

  The sirens were getting closer.

  “Go in, sit in the corner, and wait for me there. But stick to the crowds.”

  It sounded like a reasonable idea, if there was such a thing in these circumstances. Whichever path he decided to take, he would have a straightforward option. He could turn himself in, or he could listen to the man, go to the bar, and try to steel his nerves while waiting for further instruction. He could trust this man to some degree—that was, he trusted his abilities. It was his intentions that were not so clear.

  “Who are you?” Blake asked, finally looking up at his face.

  “We’ll discuss that later. Now move.”

  Blake leapt out of the car, almost reaching to open the door that was no longer there. As soon as he was on his feet, the tires spun at a blinding speed, and the car almost knocked him down. The sirens were drawing closer as one cop car rounded the corner and went hurtling toward its target without noticing Blake.

  More sirens screamed in the distance somewhere.

  Blake had to move, and it had to be fast.

  He dashed straight onto the sidewalk, stopping at a hat rack outside a small souvenir shop and trying on a green baseball cap with “I love Los Angeles” inked across it. More police vehicles sped by, totally unaware of his presence. He felt safe, for now. Though the question he asked himself as he looked in the mirror was whether he would go to the bar.

  Why bother when I could just find a way to get in touch with Rachel?

  Blake glanced at the preoccupied shopkeeper, approved of his new appearance, then hurried down the street with his new hat on and his head hung low.

  Chapter Seven

  Glasses clinked together on the other end of the bar. A group of women in business skirts sat up in their seats, hair straightened and nails painted. They looked as if they worked for a major movie studio and were celebrating something.

  It made Blake wonder if he would ever return to work. What would happen to his job now? His future seemed limited to either being on the run until he finally keeled over or, in the unlikely event of vindication, spending his days trying to rebuild his reputation. Even in the best-case scenario, if he were proven innocent, he would always be known as that guy who killed his father and got away with it.

  “You’re going to have to order something,” the barman said, interrupting his thoughts.

  Blake looked up at him: his grade-one haircut, one rotten front tooth, and a plain black T-shirt that showed off every contour of his body. There were tattoos all the way up his arms, though they were indistinguishable from each other. In other words, they were a hot mess. “I’ll just have a glass of water, please.”

  “If you want to sit down, you’ll have to pay for something.”

  “Oh. I don’t have my wallet.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  Blake hesitated. “I’m meeting someone.”

  “This isn’t a goddamn meeting spot.”

  “Look, I’m having a pretty bad day. So how about you put away your bravado, pour me a glass of water, and get off my back? Take something to chill you out while you’re at it.” There he was again, running his mouth. This happened far too often; he would let rage build up inside him from a whispering wind, and then let it out like a hurricane. He knew how much damage he was causing, but it was always too late by the time he managed to shut up.

  The barman looked as though he were about to throw a fit. His eyes spoke in a hot-tempered stare, his face turning red. His fists were clenched, and a vein throbbed at his temple.

  There was a voice. It came from behind Blake.

  “Settle down, comrade.”

  Blake spun on his barstool, barely able to believe his eyes.

  Silver Hair stepped to his side, grinning as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened over the past few hours. Like they hadn’t put the lives of pedestrians at risk and broken ninety-nine laws in the process.

  “Get the man a water,” he told the barman. “Try your best not to spit in it.”

  “Whoa!” The barman’s expression changed into a warm smile, turning him from grouch to pal in less than a second. Their huge hands slapped together, and they shook. There was obviously a past between these two, and it was clear that this barman respected Silver Hair. Certainly more than Blake did anyway. “I thought you were dead.”

  Blake watched as the two men got reacquainted. He felt a bit like a little boy, sitting quietly in his seat while Daddy ran some errands. The brief thought of a father figure entered his mind, saddening him again.

  “That’s the idea, pal. I’m sorry it had to be that way.”

  The barman waved a hand, dismissing it. “Nah, I get it.”

  “Hey, look, wi
thout your help I’ll be dead soon anyway.”

  The barman tilted his head, and then a look of understanding crossed his face. “Ah, I gotcha.” He turned his attention to the women in the corner. “Okay, ladies! Bottoms up. We’re closing down for the day.”

  They looked at him like lost little creatures. A feisty-looking brunette turned in her seat, the bright-pink drinking straw jumping off her lower lip. “You have to be kidding. We ordered food. We paid—”

  The barman clapped his hands and stormed toward them. “I said we’re done.” He pulled her to her feet by her arm and shoved her out the door. Seconds later, the woman’s friends got up and followed, each with their own look of bewilderment and a small flicker of fear as they headed for the door.

  Fast as lightning, the barman bolted the door and turned back to them with a big grin. When he realized that neither Blake nor Silver Hair were laughing, his smile dropped. “What? I’m on my own today. Besides, that was for your benefit.” He flicked his nose with his thumb and sniffed at the same time. “I got a room upstairs. Let’s go talk.”

  They followed him through the door at the back.

  Blake questioned whether it was safe. But if he had come this far in this man’s capable hands, why would he hurt him now? Whoever he was, and whatever he wanted, Blake’s wellbeing must have been one of his main concerns.

  There was a set of uncarpeted stairs, paint-stained and dusty, steep and with narrow walls. Blake’s eyes were level with Silver Hair’s feet as they ascended. If he wanted to, he could run right now, though he had a feeling they wouldn’t let him get very far. But from the looks of it, he was safer with these two than he would be if he went to the police.

  They came into an open apartment composed mostly of dust and old, splintered wood. Beige blankets covered most of the furniture, and a thin, flimsy-looking mattress sat in the corner. There was a window—just one—but it was curtained by newspaper. The sun shone through it, printing text onto the floorboards.

  “Classy,” Blake said.

  The barman turned to his friend and nodded sideways at Blake with obvious intolerance. “There a good reason this kid is snapping at your heels?”

  “There sure is,” Silver Hair said, slapping Blake on the shoulder a little too hard. “This is Salinger’s kid.”

  The barman recoiled, hesitated, like he didn’t believe it. “You’re kidding.” He looked Blake up and down. “But he’s… so small.”

  “Yeah.” Silver Hair laughed. “But a good guy, I’m sure.”

  Blake had never felt so insulted, yet something told him his opinion meant little or nothing in the presence of these men. “You two know my father? How?”

  “Don’t look so surprised, kid,” Silver Hair said. “A total stranger obviously wouldn’t have done all that for you. Which, by the way, you owe me for. Big time.”

  The barman snickered.

  “Owe you? Owe you?” Blood raced through him, burning through his veins. “If it weren’t for you, the police would be filing my statement by now, and I would be in bed with a hot cup of coffee.”

  Both men glanced at each other, a smile of knowledge exchanged from each end. Silver Hair stepped forward, the smile falling into a serious frown. “If it weren’t for me, you would be locked up and then killed in your cell. Those detectives were dirty.”

  Blake could barely believe it. Was he living in a movie? He unclenched his fists, tried to take a deep breath. “Who are you? Why are you helping me? Did you kill my dad?”

  Silver Hair began to smile again, his grimace shark-like. “Sit down, kid. We’d better fill you in on everything. Starting with the fact that your father is still alive.”

  Chapter Eight

  It felt as though he’d been punched in the gut, the wind knocked straight out of him. His head was spinning. He needed to sit down. It was a wave of relief mixed with the sickening anxiety that you get when big news comes your way, good or bad.

  “Alive?” He stuttered the word, imagining how stupid he would feel if he had simply misheard. “Did you say my father is… alive?”

  The barman waved a hand, gesturing them to take a seat on the blanketed sofa. “I’ll get us some beers,” he said, and then disappeared into what looked like a box room. The door barely had time to creep shut when he returned with three bottles in one large hand. He flicked the caps off with his thumb and handed them around.

  Silver Hair took his and sat down, sinking the beer too quickly.

  Blake wasn’t a big drinker, never had been, but he found his shaking hand bringing the bottle to his lips anyway, chugging it down in big, sour gulps.

  “I suppose formal introductions are necessary,” the barman said, pulling up an empty drinks crate and sitting down. “I’m Frank. The last name is not important, but what is important is that your dad saved my life more than once. Greg’s too.”

  Blake glanced over at Silver Hair. “I’m guessing you’re Greg?”

  “Depends on where I am. In this establishment, I’m Greg. Head to Santa Monica, and I’m David. In Torrance I’m James. At the Agency I’m someone else entirely.”

  “The Agency?” Blake asked.

  “Spy stuff,” Greg mumbled and sipped his beer.

  He couldn’t help but laugh. “So you’re a spy.” He pointed his bottle at Frank. “And you?”

  “We’re not spies. We work—”

  “Worked,” Greg corrected.

  “Right. Worked.” Frank cleared his throat. “We worked for a company called the Agency. That company, for lack of a better term, solves problems. Val did too.”

  “No, he didn’t,” Blake said. His heart was on its way to punching a hole through his chest. “My dad is an accountant. He has been ever since I was born.”

  Greg shook his head, pursing his thin lips into a smile. “A killer since long before you were born.” He stood and began to pace around the room. “Probably the best the Agency has ever seen, too. You know, we were partners once.”

  This was too much. There was a searing pain in his head. He felt hot and shaky, and realized he hadn’t eaten. But there was no chance of keeping a meal down now. He took another sip of the beer and winced at its taste. None of this made any sense. “So you’re ex-colleagues. And you both worked with my dad at some point. Am I right?”

  Frank nodded and gulped his drink.

  “Then where is he?”

  Greg stopped pacing, set down his empty bottle, glanced at Frank and then over to Blake. “That’s what we need you for. You see, Val wanted to leave the Agency, which meant faking his own death. That’s just how it’s done with the business—no loose ends. But in order to do that, we needed a fake body and somebody to pin the crime on.”

  Blake mulled that over, putting down the bottle and pushing his hands into his face. What the hell is wrong with these people? Agencies and murderers and shady business. I feel like a Corleone. “What about Marcy?”

  “Who the hell is Marcy?” Frank asked.

  “My father’s wife. Surely she would have recognized the body when they had her identify my father. She would have been the first one to raise an eyebrow, right?”

  Greg let out a breath. “Kid, who do you think planted the evidence? She used the body of some junkie. Don’t worry, he was dead anyway. All it took was a bullet and a bit of bludgeoning to make the face unrecognizable and her say-so that it was Val. Only thing is, she was supposed to pin it on one of our enemies. Guessing she wanted your share of the inheritance.”

  Marcy. How could you do this to me? It was strange what Blake felt then: a surge of anger and a feeling that made him want to hurt her. He’d never felt that way before. Not toward anyone. But this was pretty serious stuff. If not for Greg, Blake could be in prison right now. “This doesn’t make any sense. If it was arranged for me to be locked up without knowing why, what do you need me for?”

  “Val is in hiding. His life at the Agency is finished. What do you think is the one thing that could pull him out of retirement? I’ll giv
e you a clue; it ain’t that wife of his.”

  “Me?” Blake couldn’t quite understand why his dad would want to hear from him. It had been a while anyway, but now that he was probably on a beach somewhere, his past was behind him. “We weren’t that close. Anyway, why would you even want him out of retirement? Isn’t he happy?”

  “He thinks he is,” Frank said, getting up and leaving the room.

  “Right,” Greg continued for him. “What he doesn’t know is that half the Agency are coming for him. Nobody was likely to forget the infamous Val Salinger. He made some enemies with that trigger finger of his.”

  My own dad, a killer. Blake pictured those moments growing up, at the park with his father pushing his swing, laughter and smiles all round. That was back when his mother was still alive. Remembering her made his heart drop even lower.

  “But you worked for this Agency. Why aren’t you trying to kill him?”

  “I left as soon as the hit was ordered on your daddy. There’s no back-stabbing in my genes. I’m just not wired that way. And now the Agency want me dead too. All for your skinny ass. Listen, we need you to help him understand, kid. Make him aware that he isn’t safe on his own. Can you do that for us? Can you do it for him?”

  “I… I guess. But I’m no spy. I don’t know how much use I could be.”

  “More than you think, I’d bet.” Frank moved across the room and soon returned dragging an old-looking oak chest behind him. From the sounds of the scraping across the wooden floor, it appeared to be quite heavy. He set it down with a thunk, confirming Blake’s suspicions.

  “What’s this?” Blake asked.

  “It’s what we came here for,” Greg said. “Your father’s things.”

  They were looking at him expectantly. He glanced between them both and pushed himself out of his seat. He took slow, steady steps toward the chest, unsure of whether he truly wanted to see what was inside. Opening this would confirm what his dad was. It would also disprove everything he’d ever known about him.

  Blake dropped to his knees. He could feel their eyes on him as he ran his fingers over the gold lettering: V.S. The initials felt like an unexplored past—an uncertain future. It was as if these were somebody else’s belongings. He drew a breath, sucking up the smell of old leather, unlatched the lock, and pried open the chest.