Bad Blood

by Ren Hamilton

  “She didn’t tell me what? Is she in some kind of trouble?”

  “No, she’s not in trouble. She moved out to Forest Bluffs. She’s living there now. She’s part of Joey’s stupid church.”

  Patrick felt like he’d been punched in the testicles. His mind swam, trying to make sense of the words. “She, um, she what? Is she…is she okay?” He was struggling to keep his cool but he knew Robin could hear his voice shaking.

  “She’s okay I guess. I really wouldn’t know, though. They don’t let me talk to her when I call.”

  “Oh. I see. Well, um, are you okay Robin? You don’t sound like yourself.”

  “Not really.” She sighed. “Shep’s been a real prick since this miracle thing. I’m supposed to go out there tomorrow and stay over, but he’s kicking me out the next morning. He says he has work to do. Can you believe that? Work to do. The guy hasn’t had a job since I’ve known him. But I’m going. I want to see what’s going on out there and why they won’t let me talk to Kelinda. When I call, they always tell me she’s at the store or in the shower or something. If it’s any consolation, Obrien, she didn’t tell me she was going either. I had to find out from her parents that she’d moved to Forest Bluffs. The idiots think it’s a real church. Can you imagine?”

  Patrick felt nauseous and lowered himself into a chair. Why would Kelinda move to Forest Bluffs? She of all people knew what a scam it was. Hell, she was the scam.

  “Robin, can I ask you something?”

  “Sure, but if you want me to tell you why she did this, I don’t have the answer. I think she’s a fool to leave you.”

  The compliment warmed him. Robin had never spoken kindly to him before. Perhaps he’d never given her the chance. “No, it’s not that, but thanks. I was wondering if Shep ever talked to you about his past. His childhood.”

  “Of course. I know all about the abuse, the branding with the horseshoe, foster homes and all that.”

  Patrick wasn’t sure what he was trying to say. The thoughts formulated in his mind as he spoke them. “Is that all he ever told you? I mean, is that the only story?”

  “Well, yeah. Why, isn’t that enough?”

  “I guess. I just think it’s strange that we all heard the exact same story, probably word for word. But he never mentioned anything else about his past. I mean, he must have other memories.”

  “Oh, Jesus, Obrien. You’re starting to sound like my Aunt Betsy.”

  The comment took him by surprise, and he remembered the dirty look Betsy had given Shep after Charles’s funeral. “Why doesn’t Betsy like Shep? She doesn’t like him, does she?”

  “Nope. Aunt Betsy has been suspicious of Shep since he and Joey were in high school. She and Uncle Charles got in a big fight over Shep years ago. They didn’t speak for months. You never heard about that?”

  “No, but it seems there are many things I’ve never heard about.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t give it too much thought. I love Aunt Betsy, but she’s a kook with all her psychic shit. Trust me, Obrien. Shep is not that complicated.”

  That’s what I used to think. “Will you give me a call when you get back from Forest Bluffs? I just want to know if Kelinda is okay.”

  “Sure, I’ll call you.”

  “Do you promise?”

  “If I say I’ll call then I’ll fucking call!”

  Patrick grinned, finding the familiar crassness comforting. “Okay, Robin. Take care.”

  He was not reassured by Robin’s assessment of Shep. Shep was a lot of things, but uncomplicated was not one of them. He made a snap decision. He was going to pay Joey and Robin’s aunt a visit. It was time to get some answers, and Betsy was as good a place as any to start.

  When he arrived at Betsy’s house, the front windows glowed with amber candlelight. The house seemed oddly still without funeral guests milling about. As Patrick was getting out of his car, an attractive blond man stepped out of the side door and started down the steps. Betsy came out onto the porch behind him. “Goodbye Seth!” she called out. “I’ll see you next time.”

  The young man waved and skipped toward his car. Patrick startled him, and he jumped. “Oh, hello,” he said. “Are you here for Betsy?”

  “Well yes, I—”

  “Oh, man. You won’t regret it!” he said. “She was right on the spot for me. Have fun.”

  The man moved toward his car, whistling. Patrick stared after him with a befuddled frown. “Hey, tough guy!” Betsy called down to him. “To what do I owe this honor?”

  Patrick smiled and walked to the door where Betsy caught him in a bear hug. Her crew cut had grown in a bit, and she now had a few inches of yellow hair that stuck straight up. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

  “No, not at all. I just finished up with a customer.”

  Patrick raised his eyebrows. “A customer?”

  “Yes. I do psychic readings.”

  “Oh. That kind of customer.”

  Betsy opened the door and led him inside. “Well what did you think? That I’d become a hooker?”

  Patrick laughed. “No, of course not.”

  “Liar. I should send you away right now, but I’m just too damned nice.” She led him into her familiar living room where candles burned on every shelf and end table. “Let me turn some lights on.” She blew out the candles, flicked on a lamp, and curled up on a chair next to the couch where Patrick had seated himself. She wore a long burgundy velvet dress with black beads across the bodice and matching black beaded slippers. Her face was pretty and delicate, similar to Robin’s.

  “Nice outfit,” Patrick said, smirking.

  She laughed. “Yeah, well, I have to look the part, you know. If you come out looking like a housewife the customers don’t take you seriously, no matter how gifted you are. It’s the same with the candles and incense. They don’t really do anything except help the customer relax.” Patrick laughed and Betsy laughed with him. Still grinning, she asked “Why are you here, Patrick?”

  “I need to talk to you about Shep.”

  Her smile dropped. “Oh, shit,” she said. “I was hoping you were having girl trouble or something. Shit. I’d better get some brandy.”

  Patrick looked on as she darted off to the kitchen and disappeared. She returned with a bottle of brandy and two snifters, placing the items on the small table between them. She filled the glasses halfway and handed one to Patrick. Tossing hers back, she immediately poured herself another. “Wow,” Patrick said. “I’ve never seen you drink before, Betsy.”

  She took a swallow and breathed a long sigh. “Yes, well, you’ve never asked me about Shep before.”

  Patrick was silent for a moment, watching her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize this would upset you. I’ve heard that you’re not too fond of Shep. I’d like to know why. Will you tell me?”

  She pointed at him. “Before I say anything, I need to know why you’re asking. It’s not that I don’t trust you. You’re honest, I can see that in your aura.” Patrick glanced around himself, expecting to see a colorful hue emanating from his body. Betsy continued. “You see, the last time I spoke up about Shep, it nearly started a family feud. Joey and Robin are all I have left now. Oh, beside my sister, but she’s a pain in the ass.”

  Patrick leaned closer, looking directly into her eyes. “Betsy, I swear that whatever we say here tonight stays between us. But I’m confused. How did speaking about Shep cause a family feud?”

  Betsy poured herself another brandy, avoiding his eyes. “Are you sure you want to open up this can of worms, honey?”

  “I need some insight into Shep’s past. It’s important.”

  Betsy gazed into the distance, as if seeing something long forgotten. “The last time I spoke up, nobody believed me. Damned fools, God rest their souls. They defended him as if he was their own son. Well, they’re not around to defend him anymore, now are they? Cheers.”

  She tossed back another shot while Patrick watched in amazement. She couldn’t weigh mo
re than a hundred and ten pounds.

  “Betsy, why don’t you ease up on the brandy and tell me the whole story.”

  “You first, tough guy. I’d like to know why after all these years you’ve come to question the authenticity of your dear friend, Shepherd.” She said the name with venom.

  Patrick started talking, and the tale spilled from him like water through a broken dam. He let fly a stream of babble without pause, telling her about the incident with Joey at Monty’s, the phony miracle, losing his job, and finally losing Kelinda. He left out the part about the FBI and the odd Shep-alikes he’d seen following him around the city. Betsy didn’t interrupt. She nodded, or frowned, or shook her head while he talked. When he described the blood pact, her face flushed.

  “So that’s about it,” he said. “That’s everything that’s happened until I showed up here tonight, barring a few minor details.”

  Betsy patted his hand. “Oh, believe me, honey. That’s enough.” She turned away, shaking her head. “I knew that little shit would ruin Joey eventually. He’s dangerous, Patrick. But it’s too late for Joey now. It’s too late. I can feel it in my bones.”

  “Please, Betsy. You’ve got to tell me something, anything. I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

  Betsy studied him for a moment. “Okay Patrick. I’ll talk about Shep. Under one condition. You let me do a psychic reading on you.”

  Patrick leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t know. I’m not really comfortable.”

  She grinned. “You don’t believe in it. Do you?”

  “Sure I do,” he lied.

  Betsy’s smile widened. “Don’t lie, Patrick. When you lie your aura gets little green spots.”

  Patrick laughed. “That’s just the Irish in me. Those are leprechauns.”

  “It’s important that you believe in my ability before I tell you this story. Otherwise, you’ll just think I’m a kook, like everyone else does.”

  “I don’t think you’re a kook, Betsy.”

  “Then let me do the reading.”

  Something went “CLANK” outside and Betsy jumped. “What was that?” she asked, wide-eyed. Patrick went to the window and looked out, but saw nothing. He went out the front door and stepped onto the lawn, scanning the darkness. The air was fragrant with spring smells, including that of a very powerful skunk. He went back inside and bolted the door.

  “I think it was a skunk. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” she said, but she looked a little jumpy. “So, what about the reading?”

  Patrick wasn’t comfortable with Betsy giving him a psychic reading, but she’d always been so kind to him, he couldn’t refuse her. “Will it hurt?” he asked, grinning. Betsy looked pleased that he’d agreed, and went and fetched a candle. She brought it over to the little table next to the couch. She lit the candle and softened the lights in the room.

  “Come back and sit down,” she said.

  “I thought you said the ambience was bullshit.”

  “It is, but you non-believers need all the help you can get. Sit.”

  “What, no foreplay?” Patrick joked, taking a seat across from her.

  Betsy took his hand in hers. “I want you to think of a blank sheet of paper. Clear your mind.”

  Patrick tried to comply, but his mind had become fairly overcrowded as of late. He closed his eyes. The orange candlelight illuminated through his lids. He concentrated on that light, and the softness of Betsy’s tiny hand on his. She squeezed his palm. “Your mother is a redhead too,” she said.

  Patrick opened his eyes a slit. “Yes.” He was surprised but far from amazed. It could have been a good guess.

  “Her name is Brigid. She makes you tense.”

  Patrick opened his eyes. Betsy sat very still with her eyes squeezed tightly shut. Her tiny fingers dug into his palm. “You’re afraid of boxes,” she said, and he scowled.

  “Boxes?”

  She shook her head, brows knit. “No. No that’s wrong. Not boxes. Caskets. You’re afraid of caskets. Coffins. Corpses.”

  “Isn’t everyone?” Patrick snapped defensively.

  “I’m just telling you what I see, Patrick.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “You all right?” Her eyes opened. “The images come faster if I know someone personally. I didn’t mean to overwhelm you. We can stop if you’re too freaked out.”

  “I’m okay,” Patrick said.

  Betsy nodded and breathed deeply for a time. He watched as her smooth countenance tightened into a frown. “Someone has been following you. Did you know that?”

  Patrick nodded, feeling the hairs on his arms stand erect. “Yeah. I knew.”

  Betsy closed her eyes. “Yes. Yes, I definitely see a dark shadow behind you. It’s a male. Are you aware of this person?”

  “Yes,” he whispered. “I know who you mean.”

  “Could you picture his face for me? Picture him in your mind if you can.”

  Patrick imagined the dusty stranger he’d spotted so many times. He pictured him sitting with the blond look-alike at the Chinese restaurant. A shiver of fear passed through him. Betsy’s eyelids fluttered. “Yes,” she said. “Two men, one dark, the other light. I see a train.”

  “Yeah,” Patrick said. “I saw him on the train.”

  Had he known Betsy was legit, he would have fessed up about the strangers following him. He hoped she wouldn’t be angry he hadn’t mentioned it. Betsy was gripping his hand too tightly and Patrick wanted her to stop. He wanted this over. It was starting to frighten him.

  “I see the other one,” she said, digging her nails into his flesh. “Pale hair, almost white. Lovely. Different. He’s not like us. Not like us. He is…he is…he is…”

  Betsy gasped and pulled her hand back, shaking it out as if she’d touched something hot.

  “What? Betsy what is it?”

  She shook her head, then got up and turned on the lamp. She stared at him, rubbing her arms. “He is here,” she said.

  “What do you mean? Who is here?”

  “The man with the pale hair. The one that’s been following you. He’s here.”

  Patrick shook his head. “That’s impossible. I’m sure nobody followed me here. Are you sure?”

  Betsy nodded. “It wasn’t a random impression. It was too close. He’s here, Patrick. Out back somewhere. Hiding.”

  He stared at her, telling himself he didn’t believe her even as goosebumps broke out on the back of his neck. “You’re sure about this?”

  She nodded adamantly, hugging herself. Patrick grabbed an iron poker from the fireplace and made his way quietly out the side door. “Be careful!” Betsy called after him in a harsh whisper.

  A sweat formed on his forehead, though the night was cool and breezy. He crept around the side of the house and headed toward the back yard. Skunk odor lingered in the air, mingling with the sweet scent of new blossoms. Treading softly, he moved in a half crouch until he rounded the back of the house.

  As he came upon the bulkhead, he heard a vague crackling behind the adjacent shrubs. He stopped and squatted low to the ground. There it was again, a crackle, then a tearing sound, like paper. It certainly sounded like an animal. There was something in the shrubs, but it was more likely a skunk eating trash than his mysterious follower. Afraid now that a skunk might spray him, he held his breath and proceeded silently.

  His heart pumped wildly, sounding in his ears loud enough to wake the neighbors. Paper crinkled. The skunk had likely gotten into the garbage bin. He knew he had to take the last step around the corner to see with his own eyes. With the fireplace poker raised over his head, he rounded the corner and used his right foot to part the shrubs next to the bulkhead.

  It was not a skunk. The platinum blond man sat curled up with his knees against his chest. He was surrounded by Hershey’s candy bar wrappers, and his face was smeared with chocolate. He was so engrossed in gnawing on a half-eaten candy bar that he didn’t notice Patrick. Until P
atrick gasped.

  The stranger’s head whipped up. Seeing Patrick, his eyes widened and he uttered something in a foreign language. Patrick didn’t understand the words, but he was pretty sure it was the equivalent of “Oh Shit”.

  The stranger shot up and dove over the shrub, achieving an impossible height before he hit the ground, rolled a summersault and broke into a sprint. Stunned, Patrick stood frozen, watching the stranger dart into the small patch of woods that separated Betsy’s neighborhood from the one beyond. Betsy ran up beside him. “Who was that? It looked like Shep!”

  “I know. But it wasn’t Shep. Stay here, Betsy.”

  Patrick took off after the stranger, struggling to match his speed. He strained his eyes to keep sight of the halo of bouncing platinum curls. The gap between them widened, and Patrick had all but resigned that he wasn’t going to catch him. Then the stranger tripped on a tree root. He rolled a couple of times, then got up and kept running. The stumble allowed Patrick to nearly close the gap between them. They ran, the stranger swift and agile, Patrick awkward and heavy footed. He was close enough to reach out and grab a handful of blond hair when Patrick tripped and went down himself. In a last desperate attempt, he swung the fireplace poker out. The little hook caught the other man around the ankle and they both hit the ground with a thud.

  Patrick scrambled to his feet and stood over the man. The stranger rolled onto his back, holding his ribs and wincing. Patrick held the iron poker threateningly over the blond man’s face. “Don’t move asshole.” It was a tad too Dirty Harry, but in a pinch it would do. The blond smiled up at him, but said nothing.

  “What’s the matter?” Patrick asked. “First day with your new feet?”

  In strange broken English, he responded, “Actually, it has been a few months with my new feet.” He turned onto this side, giggling at his own comment until tears rolled down his cheeks. If it was a joke, Patrick didn’t get it.

  “Why are you following me?” he demanded.

  The man looked up at him, grinning. “It seems that you are the one who was just following me. Yes?”

  “Cut the crap wise ass. Are you working for the FBI?”

  This sent the stranger laughing again, holding his stomach and rolling to one side. Patrick had a momentary chill as the cackle took on a trace of familiarity. It was damn close to Shep’s laugh.