Bad Blood

by Ren Hamilton

  The young man nodded casually, but his face flushed. “I see.”

  Litner pretended not to notice Jon’s sudden discomfort. “Tell me, Jon. Is your father’s birth name not in fact Wesley Jackson Shepherd?”

  Jon flinched. He took a breath. After another awkward silence, he forced a strained smile. “Well. You are a resourceful bunch, aren’t you? The answer to your question is yes. My father was indeed born Wesley Jackson Shepherd. How did you know that?”

  Litner pressed on, ignoring the question. “Is your father also the same Wesley J. Shepherd, only child of Melvin and Eugenia Shepherd, who lost their lives in a caving accident at Pearl Chasm fifty-two years ago this fall?”

  Jon’s face went stiff. He wrung his hands and let out a nervous laugh as he hopped of the chair. “Yes. My grandparents were Melvin and Eugenia Shepherd. And yes, they died in that accident. I was never able to meet them, obviously. Your talents are wasted on the historical society, Mr. Morgan.”

  “Thank you,” Litner said.

  “You see, the thing is Roger, what you’re referring to is a deeply personal account,” the boy said. “I’ll have to check with my father to see if he’s feeling well enough to speak with you himself. I’m not sure he’d be comfortable with my discussing this particular topic with you. It is a very painful memory for him, even all these years later.”

  “We don’t want to be any trouble,” Agent Litner said with a look of compassion.

  “Oh don’t worry. My father is a very spirited man, even now. If he doesn’t want to talk with you, he will plainly tell me so. But, after all, it doesn’t hurt to ask. You did drive all the way from...where are you from?”

  “Boston,” Litner said.

  “Ah, yes. Boston. If you’ll all just wait here, I’ll go in and check on Dad. Excuse me.”

  Jon left the room. Patrick watched him walk through the closed door outside the sitting room and shut it behind him.

  “He’s weird!” Robin whispered.

  “What do you mean?” Patrick asked.

  “Did you see what he’s wearing? Who wears clothes that fussy just to hang around the house? He looks like he’s going to a country club for brunch.”

  “Well, we can’t all be as stylish as you Robin.” Patrick smiled as he looked down at her short black sundress.

  “Yeah, well maybe if Mr. Mysterious over here had told us what our mission for the day was, I would have dressed the part,” she pointed a thumb toward Agent Litner. “Which reminds me. How come Patrick and I didn’t get fake names, Roger?”

  Agent Litner stared at the closed door. He got up and walked toward it, listening just outside.

  “Do you think the old man will talk to us?” Patrick asked. Agent Litner didn’t answer. He was scowling at the closed door, his head cocked to one side.

  Robin looked at Patrick. “Oh-oh. Secret Agent Man is thinking again. What’s wrong Litner?”

  He continued to stare at the door, frowning. “I don’t know. Maybe nothing.” He tapped on it. “Jon?” He was answered with silence. He tapped again, a little harder this time. “Jon, it’s Roger. Is everything all right?”

  No response. Litner looked back at Patrick and Robin. Patrick shrugged. He knocked a third time, with his full fist. “Jon, do you need some help in there?” Again, there was no answer. Agent Litner turned the knob, finding it locked. He jiggled it a few times, then pushed his weight against it in a quick, solid motion, and the door swung inward.

  “Litner!” Patrick hissed. “What the hell are you doing?”

  Litner disappeared into the room. Patrick and Robin stood, watching with matching expressions of confusion. Then Agent Litner’s voice called out. “Son of a bitch!”

  They ran into the room. It was a quaint, country style bedroom. The bed was made up with multi-patchwork quilts and ruffled pillow shams. But the bed was empty, as was the room. Litner stood in front of an open window looking out onto the stretch of yard in the back, which blended into thick woods. “He took off,” Litner said. “He went through the window.”

  “With his old man?” Patrick asked.

  Litner lifted his leg, hoisting himself over the window ledge. “There is no old man,” he said, and dropped out of the window onto the grass.

  Patrick and Robin went to the window in time to see Litner sprinting off into the woods. “What the hell is going on?” Robin asked.

  Patrick shook his head. “You’ve got me.”

  They both leaned over the windowsill, straining to see into the woods where Litner had disappeared.

  Several minutes later someone screamed. It was a cry of pain, and it sounded like the young man Jon’s voice. Robin and Patrick looked at each other. “Should I go help Litner?” Patrick asked.

  “No! We don’t know who this Jon guy is. He could have a gun or be a serial killer!”

  “A serial killer wearing Ralph Lauren?”

  “They don’t all look like Manson. Besides, Litner knows what he’s doing. Need I remind you that you are an accountant, not a cop?”

  “Sure. Rub it in. Hey! I see them!”

  Agent Litner’s snow-white hair and Jon’s wispy yellow locks were easy to spot coming out of a clearing in the woods. Jon had one arm slung over Litner’s shoulder, favoring his right leg. Patrick ran out of the bedroom in search of a back door. Robin followed. They found a back door and ran to Litner, who half-carried the young man across the lawn. Jon’s handsome face was twisted in pain. “What the hell did you do to him?” Robin asked.

  “I didn’t do anything to him. He tripped over a log while trying to outrun me.”

  The blond man grunted. “I think I sprained my ankle.”

  “Let’s get you inside,” Litner said. “Patrick, help me out here.”

  Patrick grabbed Jon’s other arm and they carried him back into the house. They set him down on his leather couch. Litner propped his leg up onto a pillow and examined the ankle, which was already swollen and beginning to turn colors. “This is going to need some ice. Patrick, could you get some ice?”

  “No, Patrick. Do not get me any ice,” Jon said sharply. He glared at the three of them, all pretense of pleasantry gone. “Who are you people?”

  “Why did you run like that?” Patrick asked.

  Jon hoisted himself up. “I don’t have to answer that. I don’t have to answer anything. This is my house! You’re not from the historical society. Who are you people, and what do you really want?”

  Patrick felt nervousness rise inside of him. Litner remained calm. “Where is your father?” he asked.

  “My father is dead.”

  Litner shook his head. “No death certificate has been registered for Wesley Jackson Shepherd, or any of his other chosen names.”

  Jon slid backward a bit, wincing as his foot fell off the pillow. “If I say my father is dead, then he is dead. I’d like you to leave.”

  “If he is dead, then why did you say he was in the other room?” Litner asked. The agent had a knack for ignoring the statements he didn’t choose to address, like Jon’s ordering them out.

  Jon flushed red. “Look,” he said, “tell me what you people want, or get the hell out of my house. You are trespassing. I’m going to call the police.”

  “You don’t seem to have a phone,” Litner said. “At least not nearby. If it was in your pocket, I suspect you’d already have it in hand. I find that odd. Living all the way out here with no phone? Why is that?”

  Jon’s eyes widened, and there was no mistaking the fear in them. He stood. “Okay. That’s it. Get out.”

  Patrick’s panic escalated as Jon hobbled backward away from them. Things were getting out of hand, though you couldn’t tell by looking at Litner. He sat calmly on the couch, tapping his pen on his thigh. Patrick stepped forward. “Agent Litner, maybe we should go,” he said in a panicked whisper.

  It wasn’t until Litner turned to Patrick with a death stare that he realized he’d used Litner’s real name. And his title. Oops.

  J
on’s face fell. “Agent? Agent of what? Who sent you?”

  “Where is Wesley J. Shepherd?” Litner pressed.

  “Tell me why you want to know!” Jon shouted.

  “Now take it easy, Jon. We just want to ask him some questions,” Litner said, standing.

  The young blond man shuffled back until he was leaning against a wooden table with drawers, hands behind him. Even Litner didn’t seem to expect the gun when Jon pulled it out and aimed it at them. “If you come near me, I will shoot you!”

  Litner held his hands up. “Take it easy. Nobody is here to hurt you.”

  Jon trembled, holding the black handgun in front of him menacingly. “I’m leaving,” he said. “I’ll kill you if you try to stop me.”

  “We mean you no harm, Jon,” Litner said. “You misunderstand our motives. If you’d just let us explain—”

  “You don’t need to explain. I know who really sent you. So my time is up then, is it? Well. I’ll kill myself before I give him the satisfaction!” Jon turned the gun and pressed it to his own temple.

  “No!” Patrick screamed and lunged toward Jon.

  Jon turned to him, keeping the gun pointed at his own head. “Don’t come any closer Patrick, if that’s your real name.”

  “Patrick, please step back and let me handle this,” Litner said calmly.

  Patrick looked at Litner. “No. No I won’t. You are not handling this well.”

  Litner’s face stiffened. “Excuse me?”

  “He has a gun to his head! I wouldn’t say it’s going well, would you?”

  “Patrick,” Litner said with an unspoken warning. “Let me handle this.”

  Patrick did not want to see any more blood this month. If this kid blew his brains out, that would be it. Patrick’s mind would snap like the worn-out twig it was. “Please, Litner. Just tell him the truth!”

  Jon’s face was still fearful, but he looked at Patrick curiously now. “You,” he said, pointing the gun at Patrick. “You tell me why you’re here.”

  Patrick glanced at Litner, who waved his arm in a resigning gesture.

  “An old man was murdered recently,” Patrick said. “A doctor. He was killed in a cave out at Pearl Chasm.”

  Jon flinched and brought the gun down a couple inches. “What?”

  Patrick held his hands up. “Before this old man died, he wrote the name Wesley J. Shepherd in the dirt. Agent Litner traced the name to this address. So you see we don’t want to hurt anybody. We just need to ask your father some questions.”

  Jon looked distant for a moment. He still held the gun but it was lowered mainly to the floor now, a flood of emotions crossing his handsome face. “Was it…Dr. Lichtenstein?”

  Patrick nodded with enthusiasm. “Yes. Yes! Dr. Lichtenstein. Did you know him?”

  Jon took a step toward Patrick. “Are you a cop?”

  “No.”

  Jon took another step, gazing at Patrick like he suddenly held some fascination. “Then how are you involved in this…murder case?”

  Patrick swallowed hard. Jon’s presence was making him feel funny the closer he got. “Personal reasons.”

  Jon tentatively reached out and touched the side of Patrick’s neck. Patrick flinched but didn’t move. Trailing a finger along Patrick’s temple, the young blond man moved even closer and stared deeply into Patrick’s eyes. The room fell still. Patrick’s heart beat furiously as he waited to see what Jon was going to do next.

  A look of stunned realization widened Jon’s eyes and he gasped, taking a step back. “My God!” he said. “You’re the Shield, aren’t you?”

  Patrick’s head spun. “What did you say?”

  “He is the Sword, and you are the Shield. Do you know what I speak of?”

  Patrick’s mouth went dry. “Yes.”

  Jon licked his lips, eyes still frozen on Patrick’s. “Then it has begun again,” he said, then looked down, rubbing his forehead. “Shit. It’s begun again.”

  “How do you know about that?” Patrick whispered. “How can you possibly know about that?”

  Jon’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “How do I know? By the shattered look in your eyes. And the smell of his blood in your veins.”

  Patrick shook his head. “Who are you?” he asked the blond stranger.

  “I am Wesley Jackson Shepherd. I’m the one you are looking for.”

  You? But you’re—’’

  “I’m sixty-two years old.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Wesley J. Shepherd put his gun back in the drawer, then opened a bottle of wine and sat across from them in his puffy leather chair. Taking a delicate swallow, he swirled the red liquid with an air of sophistication that did not match his youth. “So,” he said, “who wants to start?”

  “Why don’t you start, Jon? Or is it Wesley now?” Patrick asked.

  “Wesley is fine. I’ve been hiding behind other names for years. It’s refreshing to use my own. But you’re the guest, Patrick. You speak first.” Patrick stared back at him and said nothing. Wesley chuckled. “I see how difficult this is going to be. You want information from me, but don’t trust me enough to give information in return. I am willing to give you information, but I do not completely trust you either.”

  “Do you really claim to be sixty-two years old?” Robin asked.

  “I don’t just claim it. I am it.”

  Patrick could hold his tongue no longer. “How do you know Shep? You do know him, don’t you?”

  Wesley flinched, his shoulders tightening. “Shep. He’s still calling himself that, is he?”

  “Yes,” Patrick said. “He is…still calling himself that.”

  Wesley looked at Patrick, brow creasing in a puzzled frown. “How is it that you can leave your Sword?”

  The question caught Patrick by surprise. “What do you mean?”

  “You are the Shield, am I right?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Then you must have a Sword. How is it that you can be away from your Sword?”

  “Do you mean Joey?”

  Wesley looked off into the distance. “Joey,” he whispered. “How were you able to leave your…Joey?”

  “I just did.”

  “Do you live with him?”

  “Yes. But I’ve only been living with him for a short time.”

  “Wow. You must be very strong.”

  “Why?”

  “Do you get headaches? If you’re away from him, I mean.”

  Robin’s head swiveled back and forth between them. “What’s he talking about, Patrick?”

  Sighing, Patrick nodded. “Headaches, yeah. That’s putting it mildly.”

  “And do you dream of him?” Wesley asked.

  Patrick stood. “Okay look, you seem to know more about what’s been happening to me than I do.”

  Wesley smiled sadly. “He chose to keep you rather less informed this time. At least he’s learned something.”

  “What is your connection to Shep?” Robin asked. “Who exactly are you?”

  “Who am I?” He stood and took a bow. “I am the Sword. The chosen one.”

  “You?” Patrick said. “I don’t understand.”

  “I am the original. Do you see the life your friend Joey is living? Well, that was supposed to be me. I was the first. I’m the one your pal Shep made all his mistakes on. I, my good people, am Zirub’s self-proclaimed fuck up. Cheers.” He sat down and tossed back his wine.

  “Zirub,” Patrick whispered and took his seat again. “So you really do know Shep.”

  “Know him? Oh yes. Better than I care to. I swore I’d never speak of these things. Under threat of death. And other unsavory things.”

  “Please,” Patrick urged. “We think Shep may be planning something horrible.”

  “Oh, you can bet on it.”

  This got Litner’s attention. “Do you know what he’s planning?”

  “I know some of it, but not his endgame.”

  “What do you know?” Litner asked. “Anything
might be helpful.”

  “What I do know likely can’t help you. I was given his motivations, but we never got that far beyond the initial stages of my…messiah training to discuss final goals in detail. He’d feed me information as we went, but only what he thought I could handle. I think he was waiting for me to mature fully before he shared everything. I was only ten years old when I first encountered him.”

  “What?” Robin said. “Are you trying to say that Shep is sixty-two years old as well?”

  “Fifty-two actually. Fifty-two earth years anyway.”

  “Get out of here!” Patrick said.

  Wesley shrugged. “Just giving you the facts.”

  Robin hung her head, releasing a shivering breath.

  “You all right?” Patrick squeezed her shoulder.

  “This is all difficult for me to accept.” She glanced at Wesley. “Shep and I were...involved.”

  Wesley looked alarmed. “Did you use condoms?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You heard me. It’s important.”

  Flushing, she glared. “Yes. We used condoms.”

  “Always?”

  “Yes, always. Why? Does he have a disease or something?”

  “No. He doesn’t have a disease. He does have…something, however.”

  “You’re losing me,” Litner said. “Please, Wesley, just tell us what you do know about Shepherd.”

  He took a deep breath. “Okay. Have you heard of a mythical being called Zirub?”

  “A priest showed us the story,” Litner said. “But I assumed, perhaps wrongly, that it was not a widely known tale.”

  “It’s not. But it’s sure as hell known to me.” Wesley limped over to the fireplace, leaning on the mantel. “This band of five Powers went against the orders of their superiors and crossed the byways, with all intentions of making it to earth. Their entrance was blocked as their plan was discovered before they reached their destination. When they tried to retreat back from whence they came, that entrance was blocked as well. They were trapped in the shapeless void. And so on. I know this tale well,” he said bitterly. “Zirub himself told it to me.”