Blood of My Blood

by Barry Lyga

  She took another deep breath. This wouldn’t be easy. She couldn’t rely on her legs or arms. She would have to use her core. She had a great core. The solitary yoga instructor in Lobo’s Nod wasn’t very good, but in the few classes Connie had taken, the woman was big on boat pose. Which was suddenly a very good thing for Connie.

  Just then, something in the room shifted.

  Connie froze. Her breath was suddenly enormously loud. Impossibly loud.

  Another sound. Arms and legs shifted under cloth.

  That mound on the bed.

  Not just blankets.

  Oh, God. She wasn’t alone.

  CHAPTER 4

  Howie came to with a lot on his mind and wanted to say it all. All he managed, though, was “Guh!”

  “He’s awake!” a man called.

  “Stay still, kid,” another voice said. It was a woman. Under normal circumstances, Howie would be inclined to listen, but his head was on fire and he ached all over, so he tried to lift his arms, but something strong held him down. Pinned him.

  Even through the fire in his head, he was keenly aware of the bruises that had just been inflicted on him. He groaned with pain and closed his eyes against it.

  “What the hell?” the man said. Definitely a man. Or a woman with a frog in her throat. One or the other.

  “Jesus!” the woman barked. “You hardly touched him—”

  “Kid, are you a hemophiliac?” the man asked.

  Well, duh! Howie thought, and then realized he’d actually said it out loud.

  The woman swore like someone who’d just dropped a chainsaw on her own foot. Howie couldn’t help it. He laughed.

  And then passed out again.

  “You have got to start wearing your medical bracelet,” a familiar voice said.

  Howie blinked sleep gunk out of his eyes, but his ears told him the tale long before his eyes came on line—he was in the hospital. Again. The steady beep-beep of his heart monitor and the sound of squeaky IV-pole wheels on linoleum in the distance were unmistakable.

  For a moment, he considered how sad it was that he’d been in the hospital enough times to recognize it with his eyes closed. Then he decided that this was probably a decent superpower. He was Ear-Man.

  “I’m totally Ear-Man,” he said, his voice clogged and unfamiliar. He cleared his throat with a disgusting hawking sound.

  “Of course you’re human,” said Dr. Mogelof, standing at his bedside and obviously mishearing him.

  “Hey, it’s my favorite ER doctor!” Howie clapped a little, then got too tired.

  “We have to stop meeting like this, Howie. People will talk.” Dr. Mogelof tapped a few spots on her iPad and nodded as though satisfied. “Get some rest. Your parents are on their way.”

  Oh, joy.

  The last thing he remembered was Jazz’s aunt Samantha knocking him to the floor and ripping the shotgun out of his hands. The bandages on his right hand told the tale—he’d been stitched up well there. And it was the hand he jerked off with, too. Damn.

  Had he passed out from the pain? The blood loss? He didn’t know.

  Wait. Not the last thing he remembered.

  He called out to Dr. Mogelof as she was leaving, “Hey, before you go—how’s Gramma?”

  “What?”

  “The old lady. At the house with me. How is she?”

  “Kid, you need to worry about yourself right now.”

  “C’mon. I need to know.”

  “I can’t tell you about another patient. Besides, someone else got her. I was lucky—they gave me you again.”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere with me, doc, but seriously.” Howie pushed himself up in bed, gritting his teeth against the pain. He was bruised all over from his fall to the floor, and now that he was fully awake, he could feel the zone of null-sensation on his forehead where Dr. Mogelof had injected him with lidocaine before stitching him back together. Yeah, he’d passed out, all right. The last thing he remembered was Sam standing over him with the shotgun. He’d probably smacked his head a good one when he blacked out. He wondered if he would have yet another scar. Probably.

  “Anyway, the other person they brought in. That’s Jazz’s grandmother. I think she had a heart attack. And Sammy J was with us and where the heck is she and did anyone call me ’cause Connie’s on a plane to New York and oh man what time is it and did G. William show up and—”

  “Whoa! Whoa!” Dr. Mogelof darted a nervous glance at Howie’s heart monitor. “Don’t make me knock you out for your own good.”

  “Doc, honest, there’s a lot of shizz going down, and I gotta get back in the game.” If Howie hadn’t noticed the thudding in his own chest, the heart monitor would have given it away. As it was, the two of them in syncopation was kind of like the world’s worst hip-hop backbeat. “I gotta call people and check on people and—”

  “Slow down. Start from the beginning.”

  Howie considered. What was the beginning? You could go all the way back to age ten, really, to that day when Jazz had kicked the hell out of the bullies poking bruises into Howie’s arms, but that seemed like a lot of effort, and he was getting tired.

  “I think I’m in love with my best friend’s aunt,” he blurted out.

  “Well, that’s… nice.”

  “I also think she might be a serial killer.”

  Dr. Mogelof stared at him. “You know how to pick ’em, don’t you?”

  “I’m sort of unlucky in love,” Howie admitted. He finally managed to sit up, wincing. “How soon can I get out of here, doc?”

  “Probably in the morning. This is nothing like when you were stabbed.”

  “Not stabbed,” Howie admonished her. “Slashed. There’s a difference.”

  “Believe me, I know. I’m the one who sewed you back together. Anything else? I need to get back.”

  “Gramma. The old woman. I need to know about her. And there might have been a younger woman with her. That’s Sammy J.” Sister to Billy Dent, but I’m not telling you that ’cause who knows if you’ll call the media. Patient confidentiality doesn’t extend to the relatives, right? “I need to know, really.”

  “Look, there’s nothing I can tell you. We picked you up on a nine-one-one call from the Dent house.” There was a slight pause in her voice between the and Dent. Like from pretty much everyone else in Lobo’s Nod. “You’ll be okay. Try not to walk into any more knives or floors, hmm?”

  “Can I at least have my cell phone?”

  Dr. Mogelof rolled her eyes and pointed. Howie craned his neck to follow her finger; his cell was next to him, on the bed’s tray.

  “Right. Thanks.”

  As soon as she left, he snatched up the phone. There was a text from Connie that made no sense. It was an address in New York, followed by bell, guns, Eliot Ness? Mean anything?

  Uh, no.

  First he texted Connie back: wht up, girl? you ok?

  Then he took a deep breath and tapped on JAZZ in his contacts list. in hospital. again. ok, though. He started to gnaw at his lower lip and stopped when he realized he would now have a bruised lip to add to his troubles. call me, he finished. He couldn’t bring himself to text your gramma might be dead to his best friend.

  He sighed. This was supposed to be easy. Keep an eye on Gramma. Keep the other eye on Aunt Samantha. He wasn’t supposed to end up in a hospital bed.

  He figured he’d better get as much done as possible before his parents arrived. He called the Lobo’s Nod Sheriff’s Office, depressingly noting that he was probably one of the few people in town to have the number stored in his phone.

  “Hey,” he said when Lana, the sheriff’s dispatcher, answered, “can I speak to G. William?”

  “Sure,” said a nearby voice, and Howie looked up to see G. William Tanner, sheriff of Lobo’s Nod, standing in his doorway.

  Oh, goody, Howie thought. Here we go.

  CHAPTER 5

  Connie froze on the floor, stupidly hoping against hope that as long as she
didn’t move, the other person in the room wouldn’t be able to find her. But it was a small room. And there was nowhere to hide. Even in the dark, she’d be found. Easily.

  “Who’s there?” a voice asked.

  In her panic, Connie felt her blood rush into her ears. She heard the voice as though it came from a seashell. Connie went silent, but the sucking sound of her own breath through her nose seemed as loud as hurricane winds.

  “Who’s there?” the voice demanded again, and this time Connie thought she detected a tremble in it. Was it possible…

  Was it possible she wasn’t Billy’s only prisoner?

  She heard more movement on the bed, and then—yes!—she heard the sweetest sound ever.

  Metal on metal.

  Handcuffs. She was sure of it. At the very least, it was definitely the clink of a chain of some sort.

  Connie grunted and struggled against her ropes, fruitlessly. Her fall had loosened them a tiny bit, but not nearly enough. Not that she had expected to be able to wriggle out of them.

  She shifted gears, straining her jaw to its widest, then poking at the handkerchief with her tongue. It was, without a doubt, the most ridiculous thing she’d ever done in her life, but in that moment, it was also the most serious. She had to get the handkerchief out. She had to be able to talk.

  “I’m not totally helpless,” the voice said, and Connie’s panic subsided enough to return her hearing to normal; she realized it was a woman’s voice. Her slight quaver could have meant a lie or an adrenaline-fueled truth. With the right length of chain, someone on the bed could still stomp Connie’s head in as long as she was on the floor.

  Connie made muted grunting and moaning noises, trying to sound as docile as possible as she worked at the handkerchief.

  Billy had stuffed it in there tight, but not tight enough. With a gagging, near-vomiting lurch, she finally managed to spit it out and hauled in a huge breath through her mouth.

  “Don’t come near me!” the woman on the bed shrieked.

  “I’m not going to hurt you!” Connie let her head droop until it touched the floor. She was still feeling some buzz from the Darkene. “I’m not going to hurt you, I swear.”

  “Are you on the floor?” the woman asked.

  “Yes. I’m a prisoner here.” She waited a moment. “Like you.”

  The woman said nothing for what seemed a long, long time. Connie heard her breathing—slow, even. Then she heard the clink of the chain again.

  “How do I know that?” the woman asked softly. Scared.

  “Because I’m tied to a chair and pretty much helpless on the floor,” Connie admitted. “Look, my name’s Connie.” Humanize yourself to them. Good advice for dealing with serial killers, but also with their captives, she imagined.

  Her fellow prisoner once again fell silent for a while. Then, at last, she said, “There’s a light switch, Connie. Maybe if we work together, we can get to it somehow?”

  Even though she was bound and helpless, sweet relief flooded every cell of Connie’s body, anyway.

  CHAPTER 6

  Jazz hadn’t even realized he’d passed out again until the sensation of something crawling on his leg woke him with a panicked, heart-choking jolt. Without thinking, he slapped at whatever it was, bringing the heel of his palm down—hard—on the makeshift bandage he’d wrapped around the bullet wound. For a moment, the pain was so huge and broad and blinding that he froze, mouth agape, utterly silent, unable to move even his lips for the shock of it.

  But in the next instant, he screamed—once, short. He had nothing else in him. No fuel for a further bellow of pain. He whimpered instead, desperate to cradle his leg in both hands, terrified to do so. The space around the entry wound felt swollen and ripe, the bandage tighter than it had been. Tears spilled down his cheeks.

  It wasn’t some rodent or insect on his leg as he’d feared. And he dearly wished it was as simple and as easy to deal with as a stray roach or rat.

  No, it was blood. His own blood, of course. The wound was bleeding again. Or still. Maybe it had never stopped in the first place. He didn’t know.

  He flipped open Dog’s cell and shined it on his bare leg. A trickle of blood wended its way down to his knee. That’s what he’d felt in his sleep.

  Damn it. Damn it. Damn. It.

  He didn’t know what else to do. The thought of trying to dig in there for the bullet again made him swoon. Could he rewrap the wound? Even tighter? Apply a tourniquet?

  You put a tourniquet on there and you’ll end up losing the leg.

  Ah, but if you don’t, you’ll end up losing, period.

  He picked at the edge of the duct tape with which he’d circled his thigh. As he peeled it away, it pulled on the hair on his legs, but that pain was nothing compared with when he had to tear the makeshift bandage—his shirt sleeve—away from the open wound itself. He bit down on the same shoe tongue he’d bit down on when getting his pants off.

  Felt like years ago, he’d done that. Years. It had been hours, maybe. He no longer bothered to check the time on either of the cell phones. Pointless.

  Sure enough, fresh blood was oozing out of the wound. He’d somehow pulled the wound open further.

  “Somehow?” With all the thrashing around I’ve been doing, I’m surprised the whole damn leg didn’t fall off.

  He flashed on a brief tableau of himself without that leg, crutching along a sidewalk somewhere. Or limping the hallways of Lobo’s Nod High on a blade, more of a freak than ever. At least the outside would match the inside.

  He had to stop the bleeding. But he had no idea how to do it, other than a tourniquet up high on his leg. Right up around the groin, really. He’d lose everything from an inch or two below the hip all the way down to his toes.

  Was this really a debate to be having? Didn’t staying alive matter more than anything else?

  He felt around for his pants in the dark. His fingers glided along something thin and sharp. The butcher knife. The one Dog had had in his laptop bag. Jazz had forgotten that he’d snagged it and kept it nearby. Just in case Hat came back. He laughed at himself. The very idea… What would he do if that door slid up and Duncan Hershey wandered in? Gesture threateningly from the floor before Hat put a bullet between his eyes?

  And you told the cops Hershey wasn’t the guy. Soooo confident, weren’t you? He’s not the guy, you said. It’s not him, you said. Moron. How’s that working out for you now?

  Skipping the knife, he slapped his hand in the dark until he found his pants. Dragging them over to him, he lay on his back, the pants piled on his chest as he threaded his belt out from the loops. It would suffice as a tourniquet.

  Wait. Wait. Do I need to do this? Dummy…

  With his elbows and his one good leg, he managed to drag himself across the storage unit until he bumped against the body of Oliver Belsamo, the deceased half of the Hat-Dog Killer. Good. He’d left Belsamo’s body near one of the workbenches.

  Gritting his teeth against the strain and the pain, Jazz used his hands to lift his shot leg as high as he could, then—gently—lowered it until he felt the solid wood of the workbench at his heel. He ended up with his leg high in the air, stuck at a nearly right angle from his body. For comfort’s sake, he had no choice but to lean back, resting his head against Dog’s corpse.

  He’d done this before, propping the leg on Belsamo himself. Maybe if he could keep the leg elevated higher this time… That might stop the blood loss enough to keep from needing a tourniquet. He would try it, at least. Give it a little while. See what happened.

  He took a deep breath and let it out. It felt like the first real, clean breath he’d had since being shot.

  He settled back against Dog. Until rigor set in, Belsamo would make a decent enough pillow.

  And that’s how Billy found him.

  Jazz refused to allow himself to drift into unconsciousness or sleep (he wasn’t sure which) again, so he was alert and did not miss the unmistakable sound of a key turning in the p
adlock that held the door to unit 83F shut.

  Hat. Hat was back. To finish the job.

  Jazz rolled partly onto his right side, trying to keep his leg elevated. The awkward movement twisted his left leg a bit, and a new pulse of pain lanced up and down that side of his body, but it wasn’t as bad as it would have been if he’d dragged it across the floor. The elevation was already numbing the leg.

  He heard a slight grunt, and then the door to the unit clanked and rolled up to the ceiling. Jazz’s eyes recoiled at the sudden bright light that spilled in, and he shaded them with a cupped hand, peering into the light, his mind racing. Unless Hat shot him immediately, Jazz figured he had a chance to talk the killer closer to him.… He cast about blindly for the butcher knife. If he could get Hat close enough, he could jam the butcher knife right into that bastard’s heart.

  Ain’t I taught you nothin’, Jasper? Billy’s voice whispered. Heart’s protected by ribs and the sternum. Especially in your weakened condition, better to go for the carotid or the jugular. Or, if you can’t reach that, go for the femoral artery.

  Right. Of course. More fatherly wisdom from Dear Old Dad.

  “Numb, stupid, self-absorbed prick don’t even bother to drag the body in!” the figure silhouetted against the hallway light said, and Jazz blinked rapidly, his quest for the knife forgotten. He was astonished that he wasn’t just hearing Billy’s voice in his head anymore—he was now imagining that Hat sounded like his father, too.

  He shook his head, and his eyes adjusted to the light, and Oh my God. I’m not hearing things after all.

  Billy tsked and kicked lazily at Morales’s body. A whispering sound came from her, and anyone other than Billy or Jazz might have thought—miracle of miracles!—she was still alive, but both Dents knew that sometimes gases built up in corpses are released when the body is moved or further damaged. Morales’s dead sigh was nothing more than that. Her last breath, perhaps, drawn in and never exhaled until now.

  With a swift and sure stride, Billy crossed from the entrance to where Jazz had propped his leg up. Billy had disguised himself—new hair color and length, facial hair, things like that—but no mask could hide Jazz’s father from him. Even if he hadn’t heard the voice, he would have recognized the walk; the way the lips moved; those cold, dead blue eyes.