Blood of My Blood

by Barry Lyga

  “I jumped off a fire escape.”

  Dad gasped. Cullins shrugged as if to say, Sounds about right. “You have some ligament damage and pulled muscles in the right leg. It’s going to hurt for a while, but you’ll be fine soon enough. The left leg, though… You have a fractured femur, and you’ve broken your left foot in six places. Including,” she said with something like a flourish, “the absolute worst place to break a foot. It looks like you continued ambulating after the damage, too.”

  “I was running from a serial killer,” Connie said coldly. Who was this woman to judge her?

  “Conscience!” Her dad was both angry and terrified at once.

  “I’ll tell you all about it later,” she promised him.

  “Well,” Cullins said, “we’ve stabilized everything and put some pins in your foot. Had to rebreak one of the mets, but that’s the worst we had to do. You’ll be on crutches for a few months, then in physical therapy after that.”

  Connie absorbed this. Okay, it wasn’t quite as bad as she’d thought. Unless Cullins was lying to spare her patient’s feelings, Connie would get through this. It would take time, but she would be able to say she’d stared down Billy Dent and lived to tell the tale.

  Cullins cleared her throat. “There is one more thing.… We ran a tox panel and found Rohypnol in your system.” She glanced at Connie’s dad, who sat impassive and motionless.

  “Darkene,” Connie said, remembering. “He shot me up with it.”

  “I thought you’d like to know that, well, given your condition when you came in and the presence of Rohypnol, we ran a rape kit. We found nothing.” The doctor hesitated. “That doesn’t… What I’m saying…” She looked over at Connie’s father again before turning back to Connie. “Would you prefer we discuss this in private?”

  “I wasn’t raped,” Connie said. “He didn’t rape me.”

  The doctor breathed out heavily. “Okay. I’m sorry to ask about it, but the rape kit looks for certain signs, but you were so bruised and cut up all over that there’s always the chance that—”

  “Nothing sexual happened. I would tell you if it had. Really.”

  “Good. I’m glad to hear it. Get some rest, Connie. It’s the best thing for you right now.” Cullins nodded curtly and left.

  Connie settled back on the pillow. She was missing her sleeping bonnet, and her hair was probably as big a wreck as her face and leg, but she couldn’t summon the energy to care. Jazz loomed large in her mind; where was he? Hadn’t the police notified him that she’d been found? There was too much happening, and it was too overwhelming. She’d been able to stave it off with the dry medical facts from Cullins, but now that the doctor was gone, she could do nothing but relive what had happened, then jump to the mystery of Jazz’s location, and then back to her time with Billy, and over and over, in a loop that spun around her like glittering confetti in a whirlwind, each sparkling bit a memory or a worry that she could glimpse but never capture.

  Her father took her hand. “What happened, Connie?” he asked, his voice gentle. He already knew about the Auto-Tuned voice, he told her, the dig at the Dent house, and the birth certificate. “Sheriff Tanner told me all that, but what happened here?”

  As she remembered it, recounted it to him, the fear and the helplessness came over her again. It was as though she was back in the claustrophobic room with Jazz’s mother, bound, trussed for the slaughter. She was safe now; she was with her father, and even though they fought and even though she was far past the age when his mere presence could offer shelter, none of that mattered. In that moment, in that hospital room, she had her father, and she told him all of it, everything Billy had said, everything he’d done. About Jan and the handcuffs and the chair and the window and the fire escape and the jump. Her father said absolutely nothing, just squeezed her tighter at certain moments. When she was finished, he murmured at her, lips against her forehead, and she couldn’t understand him, but that, too, didn’t matter.

  The painkillers were still in her blood. She fell asleep in his arms.

  She woke later to find her father still sitting by her bedside, texting. Mom, no doubt. When he saw she was awake, he smiled gently. “Hungry? It’s been a while.”

  How much time had passed since she’d fallen asleep? How much time had passed since she’d crashed through that window? Since the snack she’d eaten on the plane to New York? She didn’t know and didn’t want to know. Her stomach tightened at the thought of food.

  “I don’t know if I can handle it.”

  “The doctor said you could have something if you wanted, but if you’re not up to it…”

  “I just don’t—”

  The door swung open, and Detective Hughes walked in. He looked haggard and exhausted, more so than her dad, more so than Connie herself felt at that moment.

  “Ms. Hall,” he said, clearly restraining himself. The last time Connie had seen him, he’d been friendly. Now he was on edge, ready to snap, and Connie figured she had played a part in that. He glanced at her dad. “Mr. Hall, I assume?”

  “You are…?”

  Connie quickly explained who Hughes was; her dad nodded along, keeping a wary eye on the detective.

  “You have something to tell us, I imagine?” Hughes cut her off as she was in the middle of her explanation. He brandished a notepad and pen. “Found running like a crazy person through Clinton Hill… You’re not even supposed to be in New York, right?”

  Connie started with the Auto-Tuned voice in the Nod and brought him up to date as quickly as she could. It felt like it took forever, especially given that Hughes’s expression evolved from exhausted annoyance to aggressive disgust as she went on.

  “Ness Paper?” he asked her at one point.

  “Kitty-corner to there, yeah.”

  Hughes stepped outside for a moment. She could hear him on a phone or walkie-talkie, barking orders. She heard him say “BOLO” and “close a four-block radius.”

  “Am I in trouble?” she asked her dad.

  “I don’t think you did anything illegal,” he told her. “Stupid, yes.”

  “I know. I was—”

  “You were trying to help Jazz. You didn’t realize you were being led right into a trap. I know.”

  “It was still stupid, though,” Connie admitted.

  Her father nodded slowly, reluctantly. “We all do stupid things, Conscience. If they don’t kill us, they weren’t stupid enough, I guess.”

  Hughes came back in, practically shaking in anger. Connie had the sense that if her father hadn’t been present, Hughes might have started yelling. As it was, his voice strained and shook as he spoke. “So let me get this straight: You wandered into the lair of the world’s worst serial killer. You evaded airport security to do this. You specifically flew to New York to do this. You didn’t bother telling anyone what you were doing. Am I right so far?”

  “I told Howie,” Connie said.

  “Who the hell is Howie? Never mind; I don’t want to know. You—”

  “Detective,” Dad said, “I’m going to ask you to watch your tone. My daughter has been through hell.”

  And whose fault is that? Hughes clearly wanted to say, but he didn’t. “You didn’t think to tell anyone until just now that you were with Billy Dent last night?”

  “I’ve only been conscious for—”

  “She’s been through a lot—”

  “Sir, I’m sorry, but I’m talking to your daughter because I need to talk to your daughter. I’ve got two dead suspects from a serial killer investigation, as well as a dead FBI agent on my hands. And I’ve got Billy Dent on the loose in my town, and your daughter is the last person to see him. Now that she’s awake and lucid, I will speak to her.”

  Dad pursed his lips for a moment. He and Hughes glared at each other, but Dad turned to Connie and nodded.

  “I didn’t know the clues would lead to Billy,” Connie explained. “The voice on the phone said it wasn’t Billy.” She had liked Hughes when she’d fi
rst come to New York, but now she couldn’t stand him. “You know, this is all your fault. You’re the one who brought Jazz here in the first place.”

  She’d expected that to shut him down, but no luck. “I brought him here as a consultant. To sit in a room and look at some files. Check out some crime scenes. Not to go off on his own and get people killed.”

  “Get who killed?”

  Hughes’s phone rang. He answered and listened for a moment, then swore with words that would have had Connie grounded until graduation. “They went to Billy’s apartment,” he told them when he’d hung up. “No one was there. Just the bed you described, the room in disarray as you described it. Oh, but they did find your phone there, so I guess it’s all good, huh?” Barely able to contain himself, he spun around to leave.

  “Get who killed?” Connie demanded. “You said Jazz got someone killed. What did you mean? Where is he?”

  For a moment, she thought he would ignore her and keep walking, but he paused with his hand on the doorknob. Without turning to her, he said, “We found him in a storage unit. We think he was involved in the murder of a suspect in the Hat-Dog killings. A dead FBI agent was at the scene, too.”

  That couldn’t be true. There had to be an explanation. “Jazz wouldn’t kill anyone,” she said.

  Now Hughes turned around. His face seemed too small for the rage it expressed. “I’m glad you think so. But there were two dead bodies there… and your boyfriend. That makes him a suspect. And apparently, his father just happened to show up to sew up his bullet wound. Very convenient.”

  “Bullet wound?” Connie heard her heart monitor ping in alarm, but she ignored it. “He was shot?”

  Dad put a calming hand on her arm. “Detective, maybe you could just tell us exactly what’s going on, instead of making us pull it out of you.”

  Hughes laughed mirthlessly. “Oh, sure. Let me help you out, put your fears to rest. After you went barreling through my city without a care in the world. You want an update? Here it is: The Hat-Dog Killer turned out to be the Hat-Dog Killers, and they’re both dead, along with an FBI agent. And Billy Dent is loose somewhere in my city, and if you think I’m letting your boyfriend go anywhere, you’re nuts.”

  “What exactly is he accused of doing?” Dad asked very, very calmly.

  “He’s accused of killing an FBI agent,” Hughes said, “and I’m sure I’ll have something else by the time I’m through. In any event, I don’t want him going anywhere for the time being.”

  Connie opened her mouth, but her father tightened his grip on her arm, silencing her. “Detective,” he said, “where exactly is he right now?”

  “One floor up.”

  Connie bolted upright in bed, then whimpered in pain as her leg jostled. “I have to see him!” she said. “I have to—”

  “No one’s seeing him.”

  “Except for his lawyer, you mean,” Dad said.

  Hughes shrugged. “I’m sure at some point Legal Aid will get someone down here.”

  Connie saw the struggle as it flitted past her father’s face. It took only an instant, and then it was gone. Her father stood up, shoulders back, and cleared his throat.

  “Well, I am his lawyer, Detective. Jerome Hall, at your service.”

  Hughes’s face fell. A classic Oh, crap moment if ever there was one. Connie couldn’t help grinning, even though it hurt.

  After Hughes left them, Connie’s dad took a moment in her little en suite bathroom to splash water on his face. He looked like anything but a lawyer in his jeans and golf shirt; more like a bored, tired suburban dad headed to a cookout.

  “I’ll be quick,” he promised her. “I’m just going to check in on him, and then I’ll be right back.”

  “I’ll be fine, Dad. I’m sure not going anywhere.” She hesitated, not wanting to ask the next question, fearful it would prompt him to change his mind. But her curiosity outweighed her dread. “Why are you doing this? You don’t even like Jazz.”

  Dad shrugged. “Like doesn’t enter into it. When you become a lawyer, you swear an oath to uphold the law. Doesn’t matter who you’re upholding it for.”

  “You’re sort of like Superman,” Connie said.

  Her father laughed for the first time in what seemed to Connie to have been a very, very long time. “I am Superman!” he said, and briefly struck the classic fists-on-hips pose before bestowing a soft kiss on her forehead and leaving the room.

  Howie opened his eyes to the stark realization that he had inadvertently lied to G. William.

  “Oh, man,” he muttered to himself, “I’m a dummy, I’m a dummy, I’m such a dummy.…” He grabbed his cell phone. There was a text from Jazz—hallelujah!—but he skipped it for now to call the sheriff’s office.

  “Hey, G-Dub!” he said as brightly as he could muster. “Totes forgot to tell you something when you were here. You dumped my texts after I left your office, but Connie texted me hours later. An address in New York and the words bell, guns, Eliot Ness.”

  He held the phone away from his ear as G. William screamed and cursed.

  “I totally hear you, Sheriff, but you were busy yelling at me and then my parents got here and then—”

  Held the phone away again. For a fat guy, G. William sure could sustain a long burst of screaming and yelling.

  “Well, I hope this helps. Later!” He hung up and held his phone at arm’s length, squinting at the screen, waiting for it to light up with the sheriff’s office phone number. When that didn’t happen, he finally relaxed and checked Jazz’s text.

  hospital? you ok? you still there? what’s going on?

  What’s going on? Ha! Not enough texts in the world could explain that. He decided to keep it simple:

  yeah still in hospital but leaving soon. where you at?

  A moment later: Believe it or not, in the hospital, too.

  Howie boggled at his phone. Didn’t Jazz know that he was the one who was supposed to end up in hospitals? Jazz was horning in on his jam. Not cool.

  Joking, he texted back, what happened, you get shot or something?

  Yeah. By an FBI agent. It’s a long story.

  What the hell?

  you ok?

  Technically, yes. They say I’ll be fine. But I’m also under arrest and I don’t think they know I have my phone, so I don’t know how long I’ll be able to talk to you.

  Howie stared at the screen. Just when he thought his life couldn’t get weirder, more dangerous, or more complicated, trust Jazz to throw bullets and bedpans into the mix.

  dude you owe me many many tattoos at this point

  CHAPTER 15

  dude you owe me many many tattoos at this point

  Jazz fumbled with his phone as the door to his room opened.

  Connie’s father.

  Connie’s father.

  What the hell was he doing in New York—

  Oh, God. If they found Connie’s body, they would have called him. That’s why…

  “What are you doing here? What’s going on? Is Connie—” He sat up too quickly. The handcuff tugged him back, cutting into his wrist and his words.

  The door swung shut, and Mr. Hall stood far back from the bed, his arms crossed over his chest. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t see that phone,” he said, “but if the police ask me if you have one, I’ll have to tell them, even though I’m your lawyer.”

  “My lawyer?” Jazz tucked the phone under his sheet. He still didn’t know what Mr. Hall was here for, but the fact that Connie’s father hadn’t begun strangling him indicated that he wasn’t in New York to identify her body. He didn’t know which was worse—Connie found dead or Connie still in Billy’s clutches. If the former, her torment was over. If the latter, she could still be saved. Maybe.

  “You’re in a lot of trouble,” Mr. Hall said. “The NYPD thinks you killed an FBI agent and a serial killer suspect.”

  “Trust me, forensics will bear me out on this. My fingerprints are nowhere on any of the murder weapons. And I wa
s shot.”

  “Which could have happened while you were killing someone else. And the lack of evidence will actually be used against you—they’ll point out that your father taught you how to throw off the police. All a jury will see is a kid, raised by a monster, who finally snapped.”

  Good point. Wasn’t that exactly why Jazz had begun looking for the Impressionist back in Lobo’s Nod? To prove to the world that it wasn’t him? And you only need to prove that if people already think it’s you in the first place. For the son of Billy Dent, “guilty until proven innocent” was more likely than not. He had no witnesses to speak for him—only complicated forensic evidence that a jury of twelve morons would overlook in favor of kicking the apple that didn’t fall far from the tree. He also had no money to speak of, certainly not enough to hire the kind of lawyer he would need to defend himself. He would be stuck with an overworked legal aid attorney.

  “What do we do?” he asked quietly. “Don’t I have to pay you if you’re my lawyer?”

  “I can’t lie to you—I don’t usually litigate. And I’m not licensed to practice in New York, so there’s not much I can do right now. But I can keep the cops from hassling you until we get you a New York lawyer. Don’t talk to them, okay?”

  Not a problem. One thing about being Billy Dent’s son—you learned not to talk to cops.

  “I’m one floor down with Connie,” Mr. Hall said, “but I’ll check in on you as much as I can.”

  Jazz shot up in bed, handcuff be damned. “What did you say? Connie’s here? Is she okay? I need to see her.” It was entirely possible that she was all right physically, but that Billy had done something to her psychologically that no one would notice. “I need to see her right now.”

  Mr. Hall harrumphed and shook his head. “Jasper, understand me and believe me when I tell you this: You will never, ever see my daughter again.”

  Eventually, Jazz dozed. As the light outside his window turned to twilight and as the relief of hearing Connie was alive eroded his adrenaline rush, the boredom of being stuck in this room alone swaddled him with sleep, and he drifted off.