Bloodline rj-11

by F. Paul Wilson

  When they reached the copier, the prof looked all around to make sure no one was near—in the process making himself look either sneaky or guilty or both—then opened the Compendium to a random page, pressed it against the glass, and hit the button. As the light bar made its transit, Buhmann did another three-sixty scan of his surroundings. Jack looked at the ceiling to keep from laughing.

  The prof pulled the copy from the tray. After giving it a quick once-over he pumped his fist in the air.

  "Yes! Yes!"

  A few seconds later they were back in his office. Buhmann's hand shook like he had Parkinson's.

  "Look! The translating property—it doesn't work with a machine. What you're seeing here is the handwriting of the original author."

  Jack stared at the vaguely glyphic squiggles.

  "Srem?"

  The prof shrugged. "We don't know anything about Srem—does the word refer to a man, a group, a location? Who knows? But what we're looking at here is a language of the First Age."

  "How do you know?"

  "Because I've studied languages all my adult life. There is no known human language that even approximates this." He looked at Jack. "And I can't tell a soul?"

  Jack took the sheet and ripped it in half, then in quarters, then stuffed the pieces in a pocket.

  "Not a soul. Eyes only, remember?"

  The prof heaved a sigh. "Very well. How long do I have to study it?"

  Jack glanced at his watch. He'd arranged to meet Christy P. at two. He could get that done, then be back here by four.

  "I can give you a couple-three hours."

  Doc Buhmann's eyes widened. "Hours? 1 was talking weeks!"

  Should have known. No good deed goes unpunished.

  "Hey, prof, the idea was just to let you have a peek. According to Abe, all you wanted was one look before you passed on to meet the Great Curator in the sky. Isn't that what you said?"

  "Yes… yes, I suppose I did. But this is the find of a lifetime."

  "We're not going to argue, are we?" Jack reached for the book. "Because in that case—"

  The prof's hands hovered protectively over the book.

  "All right, all right! A few hours it is. Which means I haven't a moment to waste."

  He sat, turned his back to Jack, and began flipping pages.

  "Remember," Jack said. "The book stays right here. No sharing, no photocopying. Agreed?"

  The prof fluttered a hand at him without looking up. "Yes-yes. Agreed. Now allow me some peace and quiet, please. I must make every minute count."

  Jack stepped to the door, then hesitated. He looked back. Was he going to regret this? He did owe the guy, but would this little kindness come back to haunt him?

  Or was he being too much of a tight ass? How much could it hurt to lend him the damn book for a week or two? Jack wasn't doing anything with it. It was just taking up space in his apartment.

  He shook his head. Too risky. He didn't know what was in the weird book, and someone might find something they could put to use in a bad way.

  A couple of hours… he'd give the old man a couple of hours, but that was it.

  6

  Like Abe's shop, Julio's bar was another constant star in the chaotic firmament of Jack's life. The dead potted ferns and such still hung in the window; Lou and Barney still stood at the short curved bar, keeping it from tipping over; the dim interior carried the familiar tang of tobacco smoke and spilled beer; and the FRKK BKER TOMORROW… sign still hung over the stacked liquor bottles.

  Lou looked up, ready to stamp out his cigarette if he saw a stranger.

  "It's okay," he announced to the other smokers. "Just Jack."

  Julio let the regulars smoke when only other regulars were around. The anti-smoking laws pissed him off: If people didn't like a smoky atmosphere they could go to one of the bars down the street. But he wasn't stupid—all it took for a big fine and maybe license problems was one phone call from a stranger who'd stopped in for a taste and encountered fog.

  "'Just Jack'? That's a helluva welcome."

  Lou wore dusty work pants and a denim jacket. He flashed a gap-toothed smile and raised a pinky.

  "For a second there I mistook you for some panty-wearing yuppie dropping by for a glahss of shah-doe-nay."

  Jack raised a menacing fist. "You're cruisin', Louie."

  Lou laughed and turned back to the bar. Jack continued on to his usual table against the rear wall. From behind the bar Julio raised his hands: a coffeepot in one, a green bottle in the other. Jack pointed to the Yuengling lager. Used to be Julio would hold up a Rolling Rock but Jack had abandoned the brand after Anheuser-Busch bought it and closed the old Latrobe brewery. The American beer wars: If a smaller competitor is making a better beer, don't try to outdo them, just buy them and shut them down.

  Up yours, Budweiser.

  As Jack was settling himself with his back against the wall, Julio arrived with the Yuengling. A short man whose bulging muscles filled out his white Flying Spaghetti Monster T-shirt, Julio sported a pencil-line mustache and another of his awful colognes.

  Jack sniffed and made a face. "What is it this time? Perfume de Muerte?"

  "It's called Aztec God. Great, huh?"

  "Swell. Look, I'm expecting a customer in about ten—"

  "Really?" Julio broke into a grin. "You getting back into business? Tha's great, meng!"

  Jack realized he shouldn't have said "customer." He was pretty sure she wasn't going to be one.

  "We're just going to talk."

  "Yeah, but tha's how it always starts. Pretty soon you gonna be fixin' stuff again."

  Maybe, maybe not.

  Impending fatherhood had placed Jack in a position where he couldn't see much choice but to ascend from underground and put himself on the world's radar. Abe had set up a new identity for him and Jack had gone as far as taking the first step toward becoming a citizen when the hit-and-run changed everything.

  With Emma's death the need for a new identity had lost its urgency and he saw little use in pursuing it. Easier to stay where he was… out of sight and out of his mind.

  "We'll see."

  As Julio headed back to the bar, a well-dressed blonde stepped through the door and froze, wrinkling her nose. Jack saw Lou stub out his butt and hide the ashtray under the bar. Julio spotted her and veered in her direction. A few whispered words and then he was leading her back toward Jack.

  "Someone here to see you," he said as they stopped before the table.

  Jack rose and offered his hand.

  "Christy? Jack."

  She took his hand gingerly and gave it a squeeze.

  Julio said, "You want beer? Wine? Coffee?"

  She looked the cosmo type, and like she wanted one, but she shook her head.

  "No, thank you."

  Jack indicated the opposite chair. "Have a seat."

  She sat—gingerly. She rested her handbag on the table—gingerly. She touched the tabletop—gingerly.

  Jack hid a smile. The furniture did tend to be a little sticky and Miss Priss had probably never been in a workingman's bar.

  He gave her a quick once-over. He didn't know much about women's clothes, but her light blue skirt and jacket looked pricey. So did the semi-sheer white blouse beneath. No question about the diamond rings and bracelets: the real thing. She wasn't dressing for success; this was the way success dressed.

  She wore her bobbed, ash-blond hair—not the real thing, like Gia's—parted in the middle, and had eyes almost as blue as Gia's. Maybe she had a nice smile, but Jack couldn't tell. Right now she looked tired and grim.

  "Usually places on the Upper West Side are…" She seemed to be searching for a word.

  "Nicer? Julio's is a holdover from the times when you came to this neighborhood to save on rent." He sipped from his Yuengling. "Sure you wouldn't like a drink?"

  Her expression stayed tight. "I'd love one—I'm a Diet Pepsi addict—but I'm not sure my immunizations are up to date."

  Oooh,
a regular Margaret Cho.

  "Okay. You wanted to talk. The floor is yours."

  She leaned back, looking even more tired.

  "Where to begin? Dawn's a good kid. Turned eighteen in March, graduates Benedictine Academy next month with honors."

  "B-A, huh? Must be smart."

  "Great academic smarts—though you'd never guess it by the way she speaks—but no common sense, apparently. She's been accepted to Colgate. She's got a wonderful future ahead of her, and then this son of a bitch comes along and…" She shook her head. "Sorry."

  Jack shrugged. "Don't be. Tell me about him. When did he come along?"

  "Right after the first of the year. Started showing up at the Tower Diner where Dawn works."

  "The Tower Diner?" Jack knew a lot of diners but not the Tower. "Where's that?"

  "Queens Boulevard in Rego Park. Close to home."

  "No offense, but you don't look the diner type."

  She leaned forward and tapped her index finger on the tabletop.

  "I grew up waitressing in diners and Waffle Houses and IHOPs and God knows where else. Nothing wrong with the Tower, and nothing wrong with waiting tables there. It's good for a kid to have a job. Teaches them what the real world's like. Lets them see what kind of hole their government leaves in their check every week. And waiting tables sharpens your people skills."

  Jack remembered a now-extinct Little Italy trattoria where he waited tables when he first came to town. Made some friends on the staff, but didn't think he'd added to his already abundant charm.

  "You're telling me you don't come from money, I take it."

  Her laugh was bitter. "I come from nothing. Never went to college, at least not formally. Took courses here and there along the way, though. But most of what I know I learned on my own, and all of what I own I've earned on my own."

  "How?"

  Here was something Jack wanted to know.

  "Day trading."

  "Really." Hadn't expected that. "I heard most folks had dropped out of that."

  "Because they lost their shirts, most likely. But I seem to have a knack for it. I started with a little money back in the nineties when you couldn't lose. I made it grow, and kept it growing even after the bubble burst in 2000—learned you could make money even in a down market if you knew what you were doing."

  "Good for you."

  "And you know what? It's the perfect job for a mother. You do it from home. I'd finish my trades and be logged off before Dawnie walked in the door. I was there for her every day, ready to take her anywhere she needed to go. No having to go through what I did growing up. I gave her every opportunity to maximize her potential—and she has a lot—and now this."

  Okay. Now to the heart of it.

  "So now this older man comes into her life and… what?"

  "He all but takes over, that's what."

  "How does a guy in his mid-thirties take over an eighteen-year-old's life?"

  She looked away. "I think they're having sex. In fact I'm positive they're having sex."

  "Lots of eighteen-year-olds are having sex. Probably most of them."

  "Not with men twice their age."

  Yeah, Jack could see how the thought of your teenage daughter in bed with a guy her father's age could upset you. But since the girl was past the age of consent, you couldn't use the system to pull them apart. You had to go outside the system.

  Where Jack operated.

  "What's her dad think of this?"

  "He's not in the picture," she said, her tone matter of fact. "Never was, never will be."

  He drained his Yuengling. "Okay. Give me the Reader's Digest version. She's working at this diner and he's what—a regular?"

  Christy nodded. "His name is Jerry Bethlehem and he began showing up sometime in January. After a while he started asking to be seated at one of Dawn's tables. I remember her telling me about this really interesting guy with the cool job who was a great tipper."

  "What sort of cool job?"

  "A freelance video game designer."

  Jack nodded. That did sound pretty cool.

  "Dawn's never been into video games, for which I'm glad—nothing but time wasters—but that's just what allowed him to set his hook into her."

  "I don't get it."

  "Neither did I at first. He's clever. He told her she was just the person he needed to talk to because she was an untapped market for games. If he could design a game that appealed to non-playing girls and young women like her, he'd have every video game company in the world pounding on his door."

  "And if she helps him design it, he'll cut her in."

  "Full partnership—fifty-fifty. She'll be queen of the video game industry. Or so he says."

  Money and fame… quite a siren call.

  "So he lures her over to his apartment—"

  "Oh, no. He's too smooth for anything so obvious. A move like that would have set off Dawnie's alarm bells right away. And he has a townhouse, by the way. What he does is suggest they sit down and brainstorm the project at her house so he can meet her folks and assure them that he's not some nut case with bad intentions."

  "Which you believe he's had all along."

  "I don't believe. I know."

  "How?"

  "I…" Suddenly she looked unsure of herself—the first time since she'd walked in. "I just do."

  Jack's skepticism must have shown.

  "Don't look at me like that," she said. "A mother knows. This man is a seducer."

  "So you've met him?"

  "Right in my own living room. Bold as day. 'How do you do, Mrs. Pickering.' 'You have a wonderful-brilliant-beautiful daughter, Mrs. Pickering.' But Mrs. Pickering wasn't born yesterday."

  Jack now knew what the P in Christy P. stood for. Something familiar about "Pickering"… from a long time ago.

  Anyway… a single mother with a guy her own age making a play for her daughter. Sure, the protective instinct comes out, but Christy Pickering seemed to be protesting a tad too much. Maybe more than a tad. Envy, maybe? Jealousy? A little hey-what's-wrong-with-me? thing going down here?

  "Is this Jerry Bethlehem good looking?"

  She shrugged. "He's no Matthew McConaughey, if that's what you mean, but he's not bad looking. Mostly it's his eyes. He's got these piercing blue eyes that seem to look into your soul and let you feel you're looking into his."

  "And what do you see there?"

  "If you're naive, you see truth."

  "And if you're not?"

  "Ice."

  Whoa. "That so?"

  "You're giving me that look again. His eyes can convince people who haven't been around the block that everything he's saying is the truth, but I've read Charles Manson has eyes like that."

  Jack had read that too.

  "Has he got some sort of cult thing going? Preaching revolution?"

  "No… he's not even promising the moon with this video game scheme, but he's a bent wire. I feel it in my bones. He plays at being this charming, folksy Southerner but deep down he's a redneck hick and I can't believe he designs video games."

  "But if they're hanging out in your living room, how—?"

  "If only! That's where they started, but then they began meeting at his place because he has a better computer. Now Dawn's talking about moving in with him."

  "But she'll be going off to Colgate—"

  She threw up her hands. "College? Who needs college when you're going to conquer the video game world?" Her voice rose in pitch. "'It's a twenty-seven-billion-dollar-a-year industry, Mom, and Jerry and I will be its king and queen.'" She returned to normal. "So what's college going to do for her?"

  Her lips quivered as she blinked back tears. She pulled a tissue from her purse and dabbed her eyes.

  "Sorry. It's just that our life has been kind of a Hallmark card until now. And okay, maybe I've been living vicariously through Dawn, giving her all the opportunities I never had, giving her every possible chance to be everything she could be. And so, yes, seeing he
r throwing it all away on some video game pipe dream with a guy twice her age is killing me. But it's more than that. There's something wrong with Jerry Bethlehem. He's hiding something. I want to know what it is—I want Dawn to know before it's too late. Before he… hurts her."

  "Hurts her how?"

  She dabbed her eyes again. "I don't know. But he's got something bad planned for her. I just know it."

  Jack didn't know the truth of that in the real world, but sensed it was very real to Christy.

  "So you hired this PI to get something on him."

  "Right. Michael Gerhard. His specialty is divorce work—getting the goods on cheating spouses."

  A million of those guys around the city. A lot of them ex-cops.

  "And he found…?"

  "Nothing. At least nothing I know of. He's not returning my calls. He came to my house, seemed very organized and professional. I wrote him a retainer check—which he cashed the next day—and haven't heard from him since."

  "When was that?"

  "Two weeks ago."

  "Not so long—"

  "He said he'd contact me in a few days with a preliminary report. He called four days later and told me that since Mister Bethlehem—he was very formal about the creep—was a freelancer without a nine-to-five job, it was taking a little longer to build a database on him. When I didn't hear from him after that, I gave him a call. No answer, no call back." She flashed Jack a defiant look. "I paid him good money and I want results—I want them before Dawn moves out."

  "Is she headed that way?"

  "Not yet, but she's been fiddling with the suitcases in the basement. Time's running out."

  "Because you feel it will be easier to keep her from going than to get her back?"

  She nodded. "But Gerhard hasn't returned one of my calls."

  "He have an office?"

  "No." She chewed her lip. "The address I thought was his office turns out to be a Mailboxes R Us or something like that. His phone is a cell."

  "Might just mean he's keeping his overhead down."

  Not every PI had a wisecracking receptionist and kept a .38 in the top drawer and a bottle of scotch in the bottom.