Bloodline rj-11

by F. Paul Wilson

  Jack followed. If Bolton knew where Dawn was hiding, Jack wanted to be there when they met up.

  He trailed him out of town onto the Grand Central where he headed north. When he switched over to the Deegan, still going north, Jack had a pretty good idea where he was headed. When he segued onto the Thruway, Jack was sure.

  Destination: Rathburg.

  And the only reason he'd be heading there tonight would be to see the author—the supposed author—of that letter.

  You wanted to see what a provoked Bolton would do, Dr. Vecca? Well, lady, you're about to find out.

  13

  "Hey, doc. How's it going?"

  Julia sat up in bed with a start. That voice. She knew it. She fumbled for the lamp on her nightstand and turned it on.

  Her heart nearly stopped when she saw Jeremy Bolton sitting on the foot of her bed, some folded sheets of paper in his hand. She slept in an oversized T-shirt and comfy pants, revealing nothing, yet for some reason she found herself clutching her sheet and blanket up to her neck.

  Two black eyes and a bruised, swollen nose made him look even more threatening.

  "Jeremy. What… what happened to you?"

  He sneered. "As if you didn't know."

  She didn't know… why would he think she did? But a more important question arose.

  "Why are you here?"

  "Ohhhhh, I think you know."

  She forced some indignation into her voice and hoped it sounded convincing.

  "No, I don't, Jeremy, and I want you out of my house right now."

  "That ain't gonna happen." The finality in his tone jarred her. "We got things to discuss."

  "Well, whatever they are can wait till morning. Call my office first thing and I'll—"

  "Tonight, doc. Tonight."

  Something in his eyes frightened her. She'd always felt in charge with him—as much as anyone could be in charge of someone with that much oDNA—but tonight was different. Someone or something had unchained the beast in him. A very scary thought.

  She considered screaming but dismissed that. No one would hear her, and it would immediately relegate her to a subordinate position. She had to maintain her rank as his overseer.

  "'tV'i v well, then. Lei me pul on some clothes and I'll meet—"

  "No. Here. Now."

  And now she detected a new undertone in his voice, his expression. Fear? Had he got himself in trouble?

  Robertson!

  Had he gone wild and done something that could be connected to him?

  "You didn't do anything foolish to that detective, did you?"

  "7b him? No." He pointed to his nose. "But he did a tap dance on me—as you knew he would."

  "Don't be ridiculous. You didn't… do to him what you did to Gerhard, did you?"

  "No. Not yet. But I ain't here about Robertson. I'm here about you." Fury lit in his eyes as he raised the papers. "And these… your recent correspondence."

  She shrank back. "What?"

  He tossed them at her. "Tell me what the fuck you were thinkin when you wrote that."

  She grabbed them, retrieved her glasses from the nightstand, and began to read. Astonishment warred with cold, sick dread as the words flashed through her brain.

  Dear Ms. Pickering… the man you know as Jerry Bethlehem … recently an inmate at this facility… special experimental program… raped your mother… is your father … have his baby… murdered your mother… have initiated procedures to rescind his release and return him to this facility. . .

  Signed with her name—only that wasn't her signature. Not even close.

  She looked up at him. "I never wrote this! It's pure fiction! It's… it's deranged!"

  "Don't gimme that!" he gritted through his clenched teeth. "Only you could have figured it out."

  "'Figured it out'?" And then the meaning came through with a cold shock. "You mean it's true? That girl is your daughter?"

  He shot to his feet and leaned over her. That was when she noticed some sort of iron bar in his hand.

  "Cut the shit! You know damn well she is—you did the test!"

  Julia shrank back against the headboard. "I did no such—"

  "Shut up! You think I'm stupid? You think I go around givin out samples of my DNA?" He pointed the metal bar at her. She could see now that it was a tire iron. "No, it was you. It could only be you. You been suckin my blood and lookin at my genes since I got here. You gotta full file on me. You're the only one who coulda put this together."

  … he murdered your mother . . .

  She didn't doubt he had. Was this homicidal madman the Jeremy Bolton that girl's mother had seen before she died? And Gerhard—had he felt the fear slithering through her right now?

  His diction had gone south—far south. And that, she knew, meant trouble. She glanced at her phone—no help there. Was he going to kill her? No. He couldn't. He wouldn't.

  Why was this happening? Who had set her up like this?

  And then she knew.

  "Please, Jeremy! Don't you see? Doctor Levy's framed me. He wrote that letter, trying to goad you into attacking me." She almost said "killing" but didn't want to put the idea in his head if it wasn't already there. "If you do, the agency will track you down and put you away."

  And if he did kill her, Aaron would step into the void. It all fit.

  He stepped closer, his eyes wild.

  She held up a trembling hand. "Stop, Jeremy! It's a trap! For both of us!"

  He didn't seem to be listening.

  "It was my daddy's Plan—to purify his Bloodline and to bring the Others back here where they belong."

  "'Others'? What are you—?"

  "My brother and me, we been part of it. And now when it's all come true, when the baby—the Key to the future—is finally on the way, you come along and ruin it!"

  "Baby? You mean she's pregnant?"

  "You know damn fuck well she is! You said so right in your letter."

  Julia didn't know about that, but a part of her brain, a part that wasn't scared nearly as senseless as the rest of her, wanted to examine that child, test it, observe it, watch it grow.

  Key to the future? Who knew? But it might be the key to her survival.

  "I can help you with your child."

  Another step closer. Foam flecked his lips as his voice rose to a shout.

  "There ain't gonna be no child! Because now, thanks to you, Dawn knows I'm her daddy, and sure as shit she's gonna get rid of my baby! You've ruined everything! Everything!"

  With that he raised the tire iron.

  Now Julia screamed. "Jeremy! Please! NO!"

  "Yes!" he said as he swung.

  She raised her arm and screamed in pain as her ulna cracked. He swung again. She tried to fend him off with her other arm but couldn't raise it fast enough.

  The last thing she heard was the crunch of her skull as it caved in.

  14

  Finally Jeremy stopped swinging. He didn't know how many times he'd hit her but his arms had tired.

  He looked down at what was left of Doc Vecca: Below the neck she was undamaged; above… another story. Mostly bloody goo with chunks of bone. Gonna need fingerprints to identify this one.

  Now, with the rage-fire cooling, he started to realize what he'd done, how he'd royally screwed himself.

  This agency Vecca kept talking about… if they were half as tough and connected as she'd said, they'd be after him as soon as her body was found—probably no later than mid-morning tomorrow when she didn't show up for work.

  Had to get out of here and disappear. Fast.

  Shit. If he only had Moonglow's two hundred fifty K. Easy to disappear with that. For a while, at least. He'd have to make do with what was in his bank account. Clean that out first thing tomorrow and hit the road.

  But first… one more score to even.

  Levy.

  Maybe Vecca had been telling the truth. Maybe she hadn't signed the letter. Maybe it had been Levy instead. One way or another that weasel had
to be involved. He'd always had it in for Jeremy, always against using him for the clinical trial.

  Might as well make as big a splash as possible before dropping out of sight. In for a dime, in for a dollar, as Daddy used to say.

  Levy had a date with Vecca in that great laboratory in the sky—tonight.

  15

  When it became clear where Bolton was headed, Jack had been tempted to turn around and head home. No question about Bolton's first stop. But would he make a second?

  The possibility bothered Jack, so he found a place near the woods where he had a view of Levy's street, fished a brand-new goody from the spare tire well, and made himself comfortable.

  After a while his eyes wanted to close and he'd had to shake himself awake a couple of times. But the drowsiness fled when he saw a silver Miata pull up in front of the house.

  Bolton, damn him.

  Jack's plan had been to put a couple of degrees of separation between him and Bolton: Light his fuse, point him at Vecca, and let him deliver the payback for Gerhard and Christy. That done, Jack could sit back and watch from afar as the agency reeled him in and threw away the key.

  But that wasn't going to be possible now.

  Wait. Why not? Levy was almost as responsible as Vecca. Why not let him take a hit?

  Because he wasn't alone in there. Bolton might very well kill everyone in the house.

  Shit.

  Jack was going to have to get his hands dirty. Just what he'd wanted to avoid.

  He eased out the door and hurried toward Levy's house. When Jack caught up to Bolton—carrying that same old tire iron—he was halfway across the lawn, silhouetted in the light from the lamps flanking the front door. He stopped a dozen feet behind him.

  "There you are! I've been looking all over for you!"

  Bolton froze, then turned. Jack couldn't see his features, but knew Bolton could see his.

  "You!" He started toward Jack at a limping run. "You ain't gonna sucker me this time, motherfu—!"

  "Hey, now, wait!" Jack said, backpedaling. "That was all a big misunderstanding!"

  He slowed enough to let Bolton get close, then speeded up as he took a swing.

  "I'll show you a misunderstanding!" Bolton said as the iron cut through empty air.

  Jack was off the curb now and backpedaling toward his car with Bolton in hot pursuit. He was glancing over his shoulder, making sure he was on course, when Bolton lunged forward for another swing. Jack felt the breeze from the tire iron, but no more. The move cost Bolton, though, twisting his knee and worsening his limp.

  Just a little farther…

  As Jack backed around the rear of his car, he pulled a Taser M-18. When Bolton reached the trunk area, he fired it. The darts flashed out and pierced the T-shirt and the skin beneath, sending fifty thousand volts into his central nervous system. The tire iron went flying as Bolton hit the pavement doing an epileptic variation on the worm. Jack released the trigger and he lay still.

  He looked at Bolton, then at the Taser.

  "Whoa."

  First time he'd tried one. He tended to favor a blackjack or sap for this kind of work, but Abe was always going on about how unreliable they were—hit too hard and the joe never wakes up, or not hard enough and you've got to give him a second tap, which might put him in vegetable land as well. After all, the reason for a sap was to put someone down, not dead. So Abe had lent him this baby on a trial basis. Jack was sold. The Taser was a keeper.

  He glanced up and down the empty street. No one about. He popped the trunk, then lifted Bolton and dumped him inside. One thing about this trunk: Plenty of room. Enough for three or four Boltons, easy. Maybe more. Could be why Vinnie Donuts liked Crown Vies.

  After slipping into a pair of gloves, he grabbed his roll of duct tape and quickly fastened Bolton's wrists behind him. Then bound his ankles, then his knees—lots of tape. As he worked he envisioned this piece of crap drugging Christy, slitting her wrists, and watching her bleed to death, all after seducing her child—their child, for Christ sake.

  No more community theater for Christy, no more listening to My Fair Lady…

  He looked at this smear of human scum with a legacy of four corpses and a pregnant teenage daughter and sensed the darkness he kept bottled up breaking free. He felt his lips retracting, baring his teeth. He glanced over at the bloody tire iron lying in the gutter, temptingly near.

  Don't lose it… don't lose it…

  … yet.

  He wrapped the tape extra tight, and as he worked, Bolton's eyes fluttered open. He gave Jack a dazed look, then tried to move. When he realized he couldn't, his eyes widened in shock, then blazed with anger.

  "Pussy motherfucker! Can't even fight me straight up and fair!"

  Jack tore a shori strip of tape off the roll.

  "Fair? You mean as in meeting on a field of honor? This from a guy who shot two unarmed doctors in the back, water-tortured a detective, and murdered his own sister while she was unconscious. Fair? You gotta be kidding."

  "In a fair fight my bloodline'd kick your bloodline's ass!"

  Jack fought the driving urge to shove the tape down Bolton's windpipe. Instead he slapped it across his mouth.

  "A fair fight presupposes I've got something to prove to you. Dream on."

  Bolton's eyes blazed with wild hatred as he began kicking and thrashing. The Taser darts were still stuck in his chest. Jack reached down, grabbed the pistol, and gave him another dose.

  Bolton began a different sort of thrashing.

  16

  Lying awake in bed, Aaron heard something that sounded like a car door slamming outside, then the roar of a big engine racing away. He got up and peeked out the front window.

  Nothing moving out there. Could have been anybody.

  He'd been jumpy lately. Well, why not? Bolton had killed again and might not be through. Who knew what he'd—

  Aaron started as he noticed an arc of reflected light just beyond the corner of his front yard, behind the big junipers. It looked like the fender of a car. No one was supposed to be parked out there.

  With his heart thumping he padded downstairs to his study where he grabbed his pair of mini-binoculars and focused ihem on the car. lie gasped as he recognized a Miata.

  Bolton had a Miata.

  Aaron stood paralyzed for a moment, then snatched up his phone and punched in 911.

  17

  Jack cruised the Thruway truck stop lot till he found what he was looking for: an idling eighteen-wheel rig parked facing the food court and between two others of its kind. He backed up to the space between it and its neighbor to the right, then opened his trunk and hauled Bolton out. He grabbed the coil of half-inch nylon cord he'd just picked up at a Home Depot along the way, then crawled under the refrigerated trailer, dragging the struggling Bolton behind him.

  He'd gone on autopilot along the way, feeling nothing, almost as if he were watching himself from afar as he looped the cord around Bolton's taped legs, tying multiple knots on knots, then secured the other end to the cab's rear frame rail. All through the process Bolton twisted and thrashed, breath snorting through his nostrils as he made frightened squeals and moans behind the tape.

  When Jack finished, he looked at him. Couldn't make out his features in the dark; all he saw was a wriggling, oblong shape making faint, muffled, panicky noises.

  "Having a bad day, Jeremy?" he said, raising his voice above the sound of the engine as he patted him on a shoulder. "It's about to get worse."

  More whining and thrashing.

  "I want you to take this personally. I'm sending you off to your greater reward this way because I don't want you identified for a while, maybe not ever. I also don't want you to die too quickly. It won't take you near as long as it took Gerhard, but long enough."

  He crawled out from under the trailer and stood listening: The noise from the idling cab drowned out Bolton.

  Jack returned to his car and parked it halfway between the truck and the on-ramp to the
Thruway. Then he took out a sheet with the phone numbers Russ had found for him.

  Two names, two numbers, two women. The widows of Doctors Horace Golden and Elmer Dalton. Nancy Golden had remarried, Grace Dalton had not. Never ceased to amaze him how many secrets could be ferreted out through the Internet.

  He dialed Nancy Golden—now Nancy Emerson—then Grace Dalton. He gave them both the same message: Jeremy Bolton has disappeared from Creighton. No one's talking because no one knows where he is. Then he hung up.

  Exactly thirteen minutes after the second call, a lean man in a cowboy hat and boots strode up to the cab, flicked a cigarette away, and climbed in.

  Jack got out and stood by his door as the driver did some revving, then ratcheted into gear and started moving. Bolton must have worked the tape off his mouth somehow, because Jack heard him. His scream dopplered up, then down as the truck accelerated past.

  He got back in and followed. The rig had barely made it to the entrance ramp when Jack's headlights picked up a gleaming line of red winding from beneath the trailer.

  A line of blood… a bloodline.

  … my bloodline'd kick your bloodline's ass!

  Jack stared at the red streak.

  There goes your bloodline.

  But this was not the end of Bolton's bloodline—or Jonah Stevens's. It lived on in Thompson and in Dawn, especially in her baby. Where was Jonah's bloodline headed? The man had concentrated it for a purpose, aimed it toward some end. What?

  He couldn't help thinking of Emma and his own bloodline. Where would she have taken it?

  Nausea tickled his stomach. He pulled over and onto the shoulder, stopped for a few deep breaths.

  Bloodline…

  Had to call Levy tomorrow… set up a meet… needed some info only he could supply.

  18

  Hank broke off in midsentence and looked around. He'd not only forgotten what he'd been about to say, but where he was.

  He looked down from his makeshift stage and saw seventy or eighty faces staring up at him. Now he remembered… he was speaking to a Kicker group in the basement of a clubhouse in Howard Beach.