Bloodline

by F. Paul Wilson

  Creepy.

  A lean, dark-skinned man with a Saddam mustache strolled in carrying a chart.

  “I am Doctor Gupta.” His voice was high pitched, with a lilting Indian accent. “Which one of you is this man’s son?”

  Abe seemed to be in a trance, staring at the prof. When he didn’t answer, Jack pointed to him.

  “He is.”

  Jack wondered how Dr. Gupta could buy that fiction. Hard to imagine a less likely father-son pair.

  Abe shook himself. “What? Oy. Yes. I’m him.” They shook hands. “Tell me about this stroke.”

  “It’s worse than a hemorrhagic stroke, I am afraid, although that would be serious enough. Your father has a brain tumor. That is what hemorrhaged.”

  “Gevalt!” He turned to the prof. “You never told me!”

  “It’s not exactly a brain tumor because it didn’t originate there. It’s metastatic from a lung mass which is in turn metastatic from a renal carcinoma. At least that is what we assume because his right kidney was removed not too long ago. Where would we find his medical records?”

  Abe looked flustered. Jack knew he’d kept in touch with his old professor but this was obviously all news to him.

  Jack jumped in: “But why is he speaking in numbers? I’ve heard of speaking in tongues, but—”

  “The damage reached the Wernicke’s area on the left side of the brain and thus has caused a form of receptive aphasia.”

  “Want to try that again in real-people talk?” Jack said.

  “His speech is preserved but the content is garbled. He is most likely not understanding what we say to him.”

  Abe waved a hand at the prof. “But always with the numbers—why?”

  “Ah, that is most interesting.” Gupta seemed excited beneath his blasé surface. “What numbers has he spoken to you?”

  “Forty-nine just before you came in,” Jack said.

  Gupta jotted something on the chart cover.

  Abe added, “One-sixty-one and three-twenty-nine before that.”

  More scribbling as he muttered, “Fascinating…fascinating.”

  “Not so fascinating,” Abe said, his face darkening. “More like tragic.”

  “Ask him something.”

  Abe shook his head, so Jack leaned over the man and touched his hand.

  “Doctor Buhmann—where’s the Compendium? It’s not in your office. Did you hide it somewhere?”

  The prof looked up at him. “Ninety-one.”

  “Yes!” Gupta muttered as he scribbled.

  Abe’s fury seemed to be growing.

  Jack pulled out the Xerox of the Kicker Man and held it up.

  “Why did you copy this?”

  The prof’s eyes widened. He raised his shaky left hand and pointed at the figure.

  “Six-five-fifty-nine! Two-seventeen!” He snatched the sheet from Jack’s hand and stared at it adoringly. “Seven-ninety-one!”

  More scribbling by Gupta. “Amazing!”

  Abe took a step toward him. He had mayhem in his eyes.

  “Enough already! What’s going on?”

  “Multiples of seven! Every number he says is a multiple of seven! Seven-ninety-one is one-thirteen times seven. Two-seventeen is thirty-one times seven. One-sixty-one is twenty-three times seven. Six-five—”

  “We get it,” Jack said. “So what?”

  Gupta looked up with bright eyes. “I have never heard of such a thing. I’ll have to do a search to see if it’s ever occurred before.”

  Jack could see visions of publishing a paper dancing in his head.

  “But what are you doing about it?” Abe said.

  “We have excellent speech pathologists on staff. I’ve already ordered a consult.”

  “What’s that going to do for his cancer?”

  “I have an oncologist coming in later, but renal cancer at this stage…” He shook his head.

  Abe looked heartbroken.

  Gupta said, “Tell me, he is a professor, yes?”

  Abe nodded.

  “Of mathematics?”

  “No. Linguistics.”

  Gupta frowned. “Odder. One would expect—”

  “Odd you want? Try this: All those numbers he’s multiplying by seven are prime.”

  Gupta stared. “You are sure?” He looked down at the chart cover and checked through the list. “Yes, I believe you are right! Oh, this is marvelous, simply marvelous!”

  He turned and hurried from the room, leaving Jack and Abe staring at each other.

  “All prime numbers?”

  Abe nodded. “And all multiplied by another prime.”

  The creep factor had just doubled.

  They stood and watched the prof stare adoringly at the Kicker Man. His eyes shone like Gawain contemplating the Holy Grail.

  5

  Jack pulled his big black Crown Victoria out of the Upper West Side garage where he kept it for a monthly fee that equaled a mortgage payment in some states. He headed east through the fading light.

  Three messages left with Michael Gerhard’s office voice mail had sparked no callback. Half a dozen calls to his house had gone unanswered as well. Add to that the stuffed mailbox and maybe Mr. Gerhard was on vacation.

  And maybe not.

  Whatever the reason, a knock on his door was called for, which meant a trek out to Flatlands.

  Swell.

  The Flatlands section lay on the far side of Brooklyn. Not even a subway stop out there. He had to drive. And driving anywhere in the city lately made him crazy.

  Ten miles and forty minutes later he was driving past Gerhard’s house on Avenue M. It stood midway along a line of detached, two-story, cookie-cutter houses that must have been depressingly identical when built half a century before, but changes in siding and different plantings over the years afforded them a modicum of individuality. The area had been farmland in the old-old days but was purely residential now.

  Jack slowed as he passed…

  The place looked dark and empty except for one lighted upstairs window. Maybe a security light, but Jack would have expected one downstairs as well.

  He found a parking space two blocks past and walked back. He’d dressed in construction-worker casual for the trip: flannel shirt, jeans, and six-inch, steel-toed Thorogrip Commando Deuces.

  He skirted a puddle on the front walk and stopped on the steps before the door. The place looked like it once had sported a front porch, but that had been enclosed for extra living space. He was raising his hand to knock when he noticed the steps were wet. Hadn’t rained in days. He bent and touched the weather stripping along the bottom of the door…worn…with water leaking through from inside.

  Something wrong here.

  Ya think?

  His instincts urged him to turn and run—not walk, run—back to his car and get the hell out of here. But a need to know made him stay. He promised himself if he could find an easy way in, he’d take a quick look and then be on his way. If a break-in was necessary, he’d skip it and go home.

  He pressed the doorbell button and heard it ring inside. He didn’t expect an answer but you never knew. As he rang it again he turned the doorknob and gave a push.

  Locked.

  He looked around. Nobody about, and he was pretty well hidden in the shadow of the door’s overhang.

  He slipped around the side and found a basement window behind some bushes. He pulled out his little key-chain penlight and briefly flashed it a few times through the dirty window. The beam reflected off a pool of water within.

  Whatever was leaking had been doing so for a while.

  Jack saw no sign that the window was wired, so he tested it—not that he wanted to wade through that water, but he felt obliged to check.

  No luck.

  He could have taken off his jacket, wrapped it around his fist, and broken the window, but he’d promised himself no break-in. So he rose and walked around to the back door. No water leaking out here. He turned the knob and pushed.

 
It swung inward with a melodramatic creak.

  Jack pulled his Glock from the nylon holster at the small of his back and stepped inside.

  “Hello? Mister Gerhard? This is Jack Prince. I’ve been trying to reach you all day. Anybody home?”

  No answer.

  He closed the door behind him and started through the kitchen toward the front. The inside of the house was a moonless night. The floor stayed dry until he reached the living room. There the carpet began to squish under his boots. When he reached the stairs he risked a quick flash of the penlight. The runner was saturated. Water dripped off the uncarpeted edges of the treads. He touched it—cold.

  From somewhere above, the light he’d seen from outside threw just enough illumination to silhouette the banister and newel post on the upper floor.

  He called out again but received no answer.

  Okay. Time to go see what’s what.

  Keeping the Glock ahead of him and pointed up, he took the steps two at a time, squishing and creaking all the way. So much for stealth. When he reached the top he stopped and listened.

  There…to his right…light and water running under a closed door, the faint splash and gurgle of running water within. Three strides took him to the threshold where he pushed the door open.

  Jack’s stomach lurched at the sight of a fully dressed man crouched facedown in an old-fashioned pawfoot tub. Underwater. The bloated condition of the corpse and the attendant stink said he’d been there awhile. Probably be stinking worse if not for the continuous flow of cold water.

  Mr. Gerhard, I presume.

  Jack stepped into the tiny room and did a quick check to make sure he was alone. Then, keeping his pistol trained toward the door, he squatted next to the tub for a closer look.

  The back of the guy’s head and a stretch of his lower back were the only parts above water. Jack was glad he couldn’t see the face. He didn’t know what Gerhard looked like and probably wouldn’t recognize him if he did. The cold tap was running at maybe half speed, keeping the tub overflowing.

  He groaned aloud when he spotted the bungee cord knotted around the corpse’s swollen neck.

  Swell. A murder. How much trace evidence had he left already?

  Another look revealed handcuffs around the wrists; the cord from the neck fed through the eye of a bolt fastened to the bottom of the tub. No, not fastened—drilled through a hole in the bottom of the tub and screwed into the flooring beneath. Another look at the corpse showed the legs bound together at the thighs, knees, and ankles.

  Not just murder…some form of ritual. Or torture.

  This was no place to be hanging out. Past time to get out. But as long as he was here…why not see if Gerhard had any notes on Jerry Bethlehem?

  Toward the front he found a bedroom with an unmade bed, clothes on the floor, and open dresser drawers. Tossed or just a sloppy guy? Jack checked the closet and under the bed, then grabbed a T-shirt from the floor and headed rearward.

  There he found a guest bedroom. He made sure it was empty and moved on to another bedroom Gerhard had converted into an office.

  After pulling the shades on the two windows, Jack flashed his light around and found the usual: desk, filing cabinets, and a computer with a dark screen but a glowing power light.

  He turned off the flash and stood listening. He was ninety-nine percent sure he was alone in the house and one hundred percent sure he had the second floor to himself. As for anyone sneaking up those noisy stairs—no way.

  He stowed the Glock and began searching the office.

  The filing cabinets came first. A quick search showed no Bethlehem or Pickering file. He wiped down the drawer handles with the T-shirt and moved to the desk. No help there. He sat before the monitor and wiggled the mouse with a T-shirt-wrapped hand. The computer awoke and the screen came to life with Explorer up and running.

  The current page was an article on the assassination of abortion doctors in Atlanta. Jack frowned. When was this? The story was dated nearly twenty years ago. It came back to him. Big deal at the time. Someone had shot down a couple of abortionists within a week of each other. The whole country had been buzzing, cops posted at all the clinics and outside doctors’ homes. They’d finally caught the guy and put him away, but it had been all anyone had talked about at the time.

  Just in case, Jack scanned the article for the name Jerry Bethlehem but found no mention.

  He clicked the BACK button. He’d learned a few simple computer tricks—ways to hide his browsing history and locate others’—but didn’t need them here. He found a page of Google search results for “atlanta abortion assassination.” He checked out a few but found no mention of Bethlehem. Maybe related to another case Gerhard was working on? Had he stumbled onto something he shouldn’t have? Was that why he’d been killed?

  Going further back he found searches for “aaron levy md” and “creighton institute,” and finally “gerald bethlehem.” Jack clicked that and was rewarded with half a million hits ranging anywhere from people named Gerald living in Bethlehem, PA, to articles on Jesus or Christmas by guys named Gerald.

  Forget it.

  He found a pen, then a pad with oDNA? written on the top sheet. Huh. He tore it off and shoved it into a pocket. He copied down the search strings, then searched Gerhard’s computer for “Bethlehem.” A folder popped up in the search results window. He opened it and found a list of .jpg files. Clicking through them revealed a series of photos of a man with a neat beard walking with his arm across the shoulders of a young blonde. The flattened perspective indicated they were surveillance photos taken with a telephoto lens.

  He checked out the girl. Had to be Dawn Pickering. Had her mother’s eyes, but a round, pug face and a body bordering pudgy. Not exactly a traffic stopper. What attracted Bethlehem to her? They say there’s someone for everyone. Was that it? Was this the girl of his dreams? Maybe he just had a thing for young stuff. Or was it, like her mother suspected, something else?

  Jack printed out a couple of the shots. The old laser printer turned the color originals into grainy black and white, but at least they gave him an idea what this guy looked like.

  The Bethlehem folder also contained a Word file labeled “Levy.” He opened that and found a telephone number with a 914 area code and an address in Rathburg, New York. Jack had heard of it—someplace north of the city, he thought, but wasn’t sure. He printed out a copy of that too. When he’d folded the printouts and stuffed them in a pocket, he wiped down whatever he’d touched and returned to the bathroom.

  He used the shirt to turn off the water, then squatted next to the tub and tried to piece together what had gone down here.

  The long bungee cord was tied to the rope that bound Gerhard’s knees. It ran forward to and through the eyebolt under the head. From there it stretched up and wrapped around the neck three times before tying into a knot at the nape.

  The links between the handcuffs ran through the eyebolt as well.

  What the hell…?

  And then Jack saw it. Gerhard must have been unconscious when he was hog-tied like this. The cuffs prevented his hands from reaching the knots. The bungee pulled his head down. With the tub filled Gerhard would have to strain against the cord to keep his head above water. Couldn’t strain too hard or the bungee would tighten around his neck.

  He’d probably screamed for help until his throat went raw and his voice failed, but no one heard him.

  Keeping his head above the surface wouldn’t be too difficult at first, but as the cold water lowered his body temperature and his muscles fatigued, he’d be forced to let his head sink to give them a rest. Then he’d lift his head for a breath before letting it sink again. Bobbing for air instead of apples.

  Inevitably, when the muscles became too weak to raise his nostrils above sea level—depending on his strength, that might have taken a day or so—he’d drown.

  Jack shook his head, chilled. Some sick bastard with a major hard-on for Gerhard had spent a lot of time dreaming
this up.

  The PI might have been a good guy, might have been a sleazeball, but nobody deserved this. Well, maybe not nobody—Jack had met a few folks who’d easily qualify—but most likely not Gerhard.

  His last moments must have been awful.

  Big question: Was the sicko who’d dreamed this up Jerry Bethlehem?

  Could be, but Jack could think of other possibilities.

  Private dicks make enemies. With guys like Gerhard who specialize in divorce work—“getting the goods on cheating spouses,” as Christy had put it—it went with the territory. Could be one of his pigeons had been taken to the cleaners in a divorce settlement and come by for major payback.

  Or it could have something to do with the Atlanta abortion killings. No question Gerhard was researching them. Why, after almost two decades? That bothered Jack. Not as if it was an ongoing case. As far as Jack knew, it was closed—the killer caught and punished. Had Gerhard stumbled upon something that would get it reopened? And was somebody willing to kill to prevent that?

  Again, maybe. But this seemed too personal.

  Which brought Jack back to the enraged cheating husband scenario as the most probable.

  But it didn’t let Bethlehem entirely off the hook. Gerhard could have found some dirt on Bethlehem—maybe something incriminating—and tried to blackmail him.

  Jack shook his head. Whatever had gone down, this was not the place to ponder it. He had a couple of surfaces and doorknobs to wipe down and then he was out of here.

  6

  Christy cruised the Queens Boulevard outer road, slowing as she passed in front of the bar. She spotted that damned Jerry Bethlehem’s Harley out front. She’d learned this was his hang when he wasn’t eating at Dawn’s table at the Tower or home working on his latest video game.

  She parked her Mercedes half a block down the street, facing the place. She’d used this spot a number of times before; the perfect vantage point because it offered a clear view of the front entrance.

  She turned off the engine and checked her watch as she settled in for her vigil. Dawnie’s shift at the Tower didn’t end for another hour. She’d most likely be hooking up with Jerry after work. The question was: What would Jerry be up to until then?