A Blood Thing

by James Hankins

  Andrew looked more closely at the phone. It was a flip phone. Small, no bigger than his palm. It didn’t even seem capable of taking photos. It looked like a throwaway . . . a burner phone. But what did Andrew know about it? Technology was changing every second. Perhaps this thing was capable of recording in HD and 3D while simultaneously monitoring his blood pressure, issuing stock market advice, and changing the channels on his TV.

  He was still looking at the phone when the man leaned closer and said very quietly, too quietly for anyone but Andrew to hear, “Keep that phone with you at all times, Governor. And keep it secret. You’re going to need it after the arrest.”

  The man turned abruptly and hustled away, toward the corner of the senior center.

  What the hell?

  Andrew’s first thought was to have Mike stop the guy, but he hadn’t done anything wrong. Had he? Was that a threat? Had he just threatened the governor of Vermont? But no, he hadn’t. He’d given Andrew a phone, along with . . . what? A warning? A message? He looked down at the device in his hand. When he looked up again, the man was nowhere in sight.

  He tried to conjure an image of the man’s face but saw dozens of different eyes and noses and smiles and hair colors. The portrait in his mind was an amalgam of everyone in the small crowd before him.

  He turned to the trooper at his side.

  “Mike, did you hear what that guy said?”

  “What guy, sir?”

  “He was here a few seconds ago. He just left.”

  “No, sir. And I didn’t sense a threat of any kind. Is everything okay?”

  Andrew nodded. He looked down again at the phone in his hand. Should he give it to Mike? Probably.

  What had the man said? That Andrew would need the phone . . . after the arrest? Whose arrest?

  “It’s an honor to meet you, Governor Kane.”

  He looked up to see a woman standing in front of him with a baby in one arm and her other arm resting around the shoulders of a young boy, maybe eight or nine years old. She smiled and said, “What do you say, Brian?”

  “It’s nice to meet you, sir,” the boy said.

  He held out his little hand. Andrew felt the small black phone in his own hand. With a last look toward the corner of the building where the man had disappeared, he slipped the phone into his pocket, smiled, and shook the boy’s hand.

  “It’s nice to meet you, too, Brian.”

  Andrew shook more hands, smiled as sincerely as possible, and couldn’t stop thinking about the phone in his pocket.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Henry Kane stood in late-afternoon shadow, leaning against the brick building beside him to steady his aim. He placed his crosshairs on the center of Vermont State Police Detective Thomas Egan’s face and watched the cop say something, then shake his head and smirk. Henry didn’t typically relish this part of his job, but he didn’t think taking Egan down was going to cost him much sleep. The guy deserved this more than most. Henry exhaled slowly . . . then took the shot. Then he took two more in rapid succession before zooming his 1000mm Nikon lens wider to include the man to whom Egan was talking—a lowlife named Billy Milton. Henry quickly switched to the video camera hanging from a strap around his neck, just in time to catch Milton handing the detective a fat wad of bills. Egan stuffed the money in his pants pocket and said something. Milton shook his head, turned, and headed off in the opposite direction. Henry kept recording until they were both out of sight. This photographic record of what looked very much like a state police detective receiving a payoff from a local drug dealer wasn’t enough on its own to actually prove anything, but it was certainly strong supporting evidence in an Internal Affairs investigation of a detective suspected of such behavior.

  Henry was looking at the screen on the back of his digital camera, checking the images he’d just recorded, when he heard a furtive sound behind him. A shoe scraping concrete. Damn it. He had figured Egan’s partner would have been at the other end of the building, watching the entrance to the small parking lot in which the transaction had taken place. Henry turned and raised his hands, the camera in his left, his right empty. The video camera still hung around his neck.

  “Don’t move a muscle,” the young detective said. Acne dotted his face, and he had a particularly large pimple where his left cheek met his nose that looked ready to blow any second. Henry was surprised the kid’s voice hadn’t cracked when he spoke. The younger man’s hand rested on the butt of the pistol at his hip.

  “Relax, Detective Simmons,” Henry said. “I’m state police, like you. Got a badge and everything. Want to see it?”

  A brief pause, then, “How do you know my name?”

  “You’ve been riding around with Egan lately, learning the ropes, doing legwork on a couple of drug cases. Probably hoping it will give you a boost up through the Bureau.”

  Simmons had been promoted to the Vermont State Police Bureau of Criminal Investigations less than half a year ago. To Henry, he looked green enough to be getting his nutrition through photosynthesis.

  “Are those cameras?” Simmons asked.

  “Yeah, but don’t worry. You’re not on them.”

  “Who is?”

  “Guess.”

  Simmons said nothing.

  “No guess?” Henry said. “I’ll tell you then. Egan and Billy Milton are on them. But you probably figured that. Just like you can probably figure exactly who I am and what I do.”

  “Thought you might be a PI when I saw you. But if you’re state police, too . . .” Another short pause. “Guess I’d like to see that badge now.”

  Very slowly, Henry reached into his pocket for his badge, then held it out. Simmons kept one hand near his weapon and took the badge with his other. He gave it a quick look and handed it back. “Tom’s my . . . my mentor, I guess,” Simmons said, as if Henry hadn’t already essentially stated that fact.

  “That doesn’t mean you have to go down with him.”

  Simmons blew out an unsteady breath. Henry looked around the empty lot from which Egan had just departed, expecting him to come upon them at any moment. He frowned. He should have been more careful. He never should have let Simmons find him.

  “I can try to keep you out of this, Simmons, but if we don’t end this little meeting of ours fast, Egan’s going to join us. Then he’s going to figure out what’s going on, what I’m doing here with my camera. And with us standing here talking, he might even think you’re informing on him.”

  “I’d never—”

  “Yeah, you and I know that, but does he? He’s known you, what? Five months?”

  “Almost.”

  “Okay, so it’s in both our best interests for you to back off right now, forget you ever saw me, and keep your mouth the hell shut until this investigation concludes. Otherwise, you’ll be hindering an IA investigation. And trust me, you don’t want to be doing that.”

  Henry almost felt sorry for the guy. He clearly had no idea what to do. They didn’t have courses on situations like this at the academy. You’re supposed to bleed blue, of course; every cop knows that. You’re expected to have your fellow officer’s back in all circumstances, at all costs. But what if that officer is dirty and the subject of an Internal Affairs investigation? What if the thing you’ve feared since the moment you learned of his extra source of income is actually happening? Maybe you have a young wife at home—hell, maybe you’ve got a baby on the way. Maybe you’ve wanted to be a cop your whole life. And who knows? Maybe your dad was on the job, too. And now you’re looking down the barrel of a suspension, or termination, or maybe even prison. All because you got hooked up with a crooked cop. What do you do then?

  Simmons said nothing.

  “You hearing me, Simmons?”

  The younger cop sighed and nodded. Henry looked around. Egan wasn’t in sight.

  As if on cue, Simmons’s radio crackled. “Jerry? Where are you?”

  Simmons looked at Henry.

  “Tell him you’ll be right there. You’r
e taking a leak.”

  Simmons nodded, then did as told.

  “Hurry it up,” Egan responded. “I’m hungry.”

  “He’s probably back at the car now,” Simmons said to Henry.

  “You’re gonna keep your mouth shut, right?”

  “Am I in trouble?”

  Henry thought a moment. “You taking a cut?” Henry didn’t think he was, but he had to ask.

  “No, I swear. He’s never even told me what he does at these . . . meetings. I just . . . stand lookout, I guess. Pretend I don’t know what’s going on.”

  Henry believed him. It confirmed what he’d suspected.

  “So, am I in trouble?” Simmons asked a second time, and this time his voice did crack.

  “I’ll do what I can for you.”

  Simmons nodded. His radio squawked again. “Jerry, you taking a leak or a squat? Get the hell back here.”

  “Roger,” Simmons replied. He looked into Henry’s eyes. “Will I have to testify against him? Because that would be . . . I’m not sure how the other guys . . .”

  “It’s probably not gonna be my call.”

  Until now, it had been just Henry’s investigation. He could expand it to include Simmons if he wanted to. He pretty much called the shots in Internal Affairs in all of Vermont, both state and local forces. The local police departments didn’t have their own IA units. They usually chose to investigate minor allegations themselves, like complaints of officer rudeness or other various petty rules infractions, but for more serious complaints, or sensitive matters best left to outside personnel—especially allegations of criminal conduct by officers—departments usually involved the state police Internal Affairs Unit, or IAU. And while similar units in some states—particularly the larger ones—might consist of several officers and civilian support staff, in the Vermont State Police, the IAU was a one-man show. And for the past seven years, the sole star of that show had been Lieutenant Henry Kane. So if Henry wanted to sweep Simmons into the investigation, he could. But he didn’t. Still, that might not end the officer’s involvement.

  “Really, Simmons,” Henry said, “if I had the final say, I’d leave you out of it if I could. But that’s gonna be the state attorney’s call.” Having personally seen Egan engaged in criminal activity of which he now had photographic evidence, he would have no choice but to involve the state attorney’s office. “But like I said, I’ll talk to them, do what I can for you.”

  Simmons looked miserable. “I’d better get back to the car.”

  Henry nodded. “Seriously, you understand the kind of trouble you’ll be in if I learn you’ve breathed a word about this, right? Egan may be your mentor—who knows, maybe he’s even your BFF—but he never should have put you in this situation. You don’t owe him. So don’t do anything stupid. He’s not worth it.”

  Hell, he didn’t even cut you in, Henry thought.

  Simmons nodded. “I hear you.”

  As he watched the young detective walk away, Henry felt conflicted. Investigating his brothers in blue wasn’t always easy on his soul, nor did it get him invited along for after-shift drinks very often, but someone had to do it, and he’d decided years ago that it might as well be him. Every now and then, one of his investigations actually cleared a local cop or fellow trooper, and he was able to submit his final report to his supervisor with the word unfounded beside every allegation. Those were the good days on the job.

  This one wasn’t. As Henry watched Simmons disappear around the corner of a building at the far end of the lot, he wondered whether the younger man would survive this, or whether Henry’s investigation would lead to him getting chewed up in the prosecution’s case against Egan. Either way, it would be out of Henry’s hands.

  He was heading back to his Ford Taurus, parked two blocks away, when his cell phone rang. Caller ID told him the governor of Vermont was trying to reach him. He’d have been more impressed if the governor weren’t his older brother.

  As he answered, it occurred to him that the last time Andy had called him during traditional business hours was six years ago to inform him that their mother had died. He sure as hell hoped for better from this call, but for some reason, he had a bad feeling about it.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Molly Kane ran like hell, her legs and arms pumping, her feet pounding the pavement, inhaling for three strides, exhaling for two, in for three, out for two. Her elbows were bent at ninety-degree angles, her hands open as they passed her body precisely at the height of her hips. She was a machine, every body part in perfect sync, running as though her life depended on it, like starving wild dogs were nipping at her heels . . . the way she always ran, even when she was just out for a late-afternoon run, as she was at the moment. No leisurely jogs for her. After a thorough stretching, she would start off briskly, then increase her speed rapidly until she was practically in a dead sprint, a pace she maintained until she neared home again and was ready for a brief cool-down trot. She had no interest in spending an hour listening to tunes, nodding to other joggers. She didn’t have the time or the patience. So she ran hard and fast, always the same three miles, and she tried to improve on her time every single day. She actually hated running. But she loved being able to run. She loved being in shape. So she hadn’t missed a single day’s run in the four years since she’d left the army.

  As she neared home again, she strained to reach one last gear, pushing for a strong finish. She passed the street sign closest to the end of her driveway, blinking sweat from her eyes, and checked her fitness watch. She’d missed her personal best by twenty-three seconds. Damn. She’d do better tomorrow. She had no doubt.

  She passed through the gate in the wrought-iron fence that surrounded the property and started up the driveway toward the grand Victorian house that she refused to call a mansion, though most others described it that way. Twenty-three rooms and a $5 million valuation would do that.

  She bounded up the porch steps, grabbed the towel she had left draped over the railing, and used it to wipe away the sheen of sweat from her neck and arms. She pushed through the heavy wooden door and entered the dim foyer. She didn’t even glance at the dark, polished wood trim and gracefully arched doorways; or the fine oil paintings hanging over William Morris wallpaper with a delicate green leaf and soft pink chrysanthemum pattern; or the ornate wall sconces that had been converted to electricity during the Taft administration.

  When Molly was a child, this had seemed like a magical place, a home from a storybook about a little girl who had endless adventures with her brothers in its endless number of rooms. Today, though, the magic was gone. It was just a house. Undeniably handsome, admired by many, but too big for her taste, too dark, and too empty. Many years ago, she’d lived here with her parents, her two older brothers—Andy and Henry—and her twin brother, Tyler. And, of course, there was Mrs. Gallagher, who lived in a small suite of rooms on the third floor, and who cooked and kept the house and read the children stories and taught three out of four of them to play the piano at least passably. These days, though, it was just Molly and Tyler in the house, along with Julie Davenport, who lived in Mrs. Gallagher’s old suite and earned her keep by helping out with Tyler. Molly had met Julie almost two years ago at the University of Vermont, where they both were working toward graduate degrees, and had taken an instant liking to her.

  Andy, known to everyone outside the family as “Andrew” or “Governor Kane,” had gone to college and never moved back into the house. Henry had moved into an apartment near the state police academy he was attending at the time and, like Andy, never moved back home. Molly herself had been gone for eight years after enlisting and serving in the army. Patrick Kane, their father and the patriarch of the respected Kane family, had died twelve years ago, and their mother, Emma, had followed six years later. But when Mrs. Gallagher passed three years ago, Molly and her brothers knew one of them would have to live with Tyler.

  To Molly, she was the clear choice. She and Tyler were twins. They’d always
had the closest bond. It was as though she was his lifeline to the rest of the world, so much so that she had almost decided not to enlist to avoid feeling as though she were abandoning him. But serving was something that had been important to her. She’d always felt a sense of duty—first to Tyler, then to her country. And she hoped one day to serve the people of Vermont as a state police officer, as Henry did. So she enlisted, believing Tyler would be okay without her for a few years. For the most part, he was. But then Mrs. Gallagher died and Molly, whose enlistment was up by then, returned to the house in which she’d grown up.

  She followed the sounds of gunfire and explosions down the hall to what had been called the music room for as long as Molly could remember. In one corner sat the baby grand piano on which she had learned countless piano pieces. It was also where she learned that she would never be a very good pianist. In another corner sat Tyler, piled into a leather armchair, a wireless video game controller in his hands, his eyes glued to the TV hanging on the wall above the cold red marble fireplace. Not surprisingly, he was playing a first-person war game. North Vietnamese soldiers fell under his withering fire. As she watched her brother’s fingers deftly manipulate the controller’s buttons and joysticks, the thought struck her that if her fingers could have moved like that, she might have made a decent pianist after all.

  “Still trying to reach your final objective, Sergeant?” she asked him.

  Without taking his eyes off the screen, he said, “Only two more missions left, then I’m done with this game, and I can start on the next Smilin’ Jack one. I already own it, too. Henry got it for me for Christmas.”