Bloodline

by F. Paul Wilson

  The place was called Work. Ha ha. Very funny. Honey, I’m really busy at Work and won’t be home till late.

  She’d peeked in there a while back. It was a sort of eatery-bar–pool hall. Not the sort of place she’d expect a well-heeled guy like Jerry to hang out. His expensive clothes didn’t exactly match the décor—or the other patrons for that matter. She couldn’t imagine any of them going home to a Rego Park condo a tenth as luxurious as his. Christy had never been inside, but she knew the complex—very tony—and Dawn had gushed about all the state-of-the-art electronics it housed.

  Bethlehem ate lunch at Work almost every day and hung out at the bar when he wasn’t stalking Dawn at the Tower.

  But every once in a while he’d disappear. Like yesterday. Where did he go? That was what Christy intended to learn.

  This was what they called a stakeout, right? Mike Gerhard should be here, doing this. Or that new guy, Jack. Maybe she could convince him to take over after he located Gerhard.

  She had a good feeling about Jack—never did get his last name. How had she let that slip by? His reluctance to get too involved inspired a strange sort of trust. He didn’t seem to be money motivated. None of that grubbing attitude: Sure-sure, I’ll do—or pretend to do—anything you want, just pay me. Oh, he wanted to get paid, but she sensed it was as much to set a value on his efforts as to make a living.

  The thing was, someone had to watch Bethlehem. Someone had to catch him in the act.

  What act, she didn’t know, but he was hiding something. Had to be. As soon as she’d set eyes on him, standing in her living room, she’d sensed something wrong. Maybe it was the strange way he’d stared at her when he walked in. Whatever it was had sent ripples of revulsion through her…

  …and yet, he was sexy in a way. The lazy Southern drawl, the longish hair, the long, lean frame, the mystery of what lay behind that beard, the mesmerizing blue eyes that seemed to pierce you…

  Maybe it was that bad-boy thing. He had a certain sense of danger about him that, in another time, another place, might have attracted her. But to know that it was aimed at her daughter, attracting her…well, that was too much to bear.

  Maybe because he’d been with her little girl—not yet with her in that sense back then—just…with her. She’d wanted him gone, wanted to kick him out on his ass, but she couldn’t. They’d only go elsewhere, and she wanted him where she could keep an eye on him.

  Finally they did go elsewhere. To his place. And once they got there she knew they wouldn’t limit their relationship to working on video games. At least not for long.

  The thought sickened her.

  Not that she was a prude. Anything but. She’d lost her virginity at sixteen and had got it on with half a dozen different boyfriends in high school before…never mind. She didn’t want to think about that. But the operative word was the boy in boyfriend. They were boys—her age or maybe a year older. They were all growing and learning the sexual ropes together. This Bethlehem creep had the benefit of a whole extra lifetime of experience beyond Dawn’s. What was he into? What was he teaching her? What was he making her do?

  Don’t you hurt my little girl.

  And she knew he was going to hurt her. Not emotionally, by dumping her after he’d used her up. Christy could help Dawn through that. No, worse. He wanted something from her. But what? And why Dawn?

  Dawnie…how could an Ivy League–bound girl act so dumb? And sound dumb too. Despite all her reading and all her A’s in English, she’d fallen into the “like” and “totally” habit of her peers. Really, with laws about everything else, why couldn’t they pass a law about the number of times someone could use “like” per day?

  So she’d started fining Dawn—twenty-five cents for every time she misused “like.” It had worked, making her conscious of it, and her use trailed off. Christy had just instituted a similar program to wipe out “totally” when that man came along.

  Did he care about Dawnie—at all?

  She couldn’t believe that, and so she needed something on this cradle-robbing bastard.

  She hoped tonight would be the night he’d make a mistake. She’d follow—

  There he was, sauntering out of the bar, talking on his cell phone as if he didn’t have a care in the world—and all the while making a wreck of Dawnie’s.

  And yet, watching the sinuous way he moved, the swing of his shoulders, the twist of his narrow waist, she couldn’t help feel a pull. She understood why Dawn was so gaga over him. He was sexy—no other word for it. He could have just about any woman he wanted.

  So why on Earth did he want Dawn?

  Unlike so many other mothers, Christy had never kidded herself about her daughter’s looks. Dawnie was plain. Those words would never leave her lips. In fact she’d always told Dawn she was beautiful. And inside she was. But the girl wasn’t stupid. She had a mirror. And knowing she wasn’t pretty had had its effect, pushing her into academics instead of boys. Which was wonderful. Plenty of time for guys later.

  All of which made her a sitting duck for a magnetic guy like Jerry Bethlehem.

  Again the question: Why Dawn?

  Not knowing the answer made Christy’s skin crawl.

  She watched him hop on his Harley. He had a sporty little Miata too, but tonight he was using the bike. She watched him adjust his helmet and wished he didn’t wear one. Then she could pray he got hit by a car and wound up brain dead. Or maybe she’d run him off the road and—

  The thought shocked her. Where had that come from?

  From deep in her gut. If push came to shove, she’d do anything to keep Dawnie safe from him. A mother protected her own.

  She remembered her pregnancy. She’d been single and scared, with her mother royally pissed that she was knocked up. She’d planned to give up the baby, but the instant she’d held her little girl in her arms she felt herself change. She was going to find a direction, make a life for herself and this baby. It was the beginning of a new day, a new life for her, and so she’d named the baby Dawn.

  Trite, yes. But she’d been Dawn’s age at the time and it had seemed like the right thing to do.

  Up ahead, Bethlehem revved his engine and took off with a roar. Christy followed and cursed as she saw him head toward Queens Boulevard.

  She followed him to Rego Park and, sure enough, he was heading for the Tower. She slowed as he pulled into a narrow spot at the curb. Dawn ran out to meet him and give him a big hug and a long kiss. Christy’s stomach turned as she watched him fondle her buttocks.

  She had to get something on this son of a bitch.

  God, she wished she could follow him some night to a house where he visited a wife and kids. Wouldn’t that be great? Threaten him with exposure if he didn’t leave Dawn alone. Show her proof if he didn’t heed the warning.

  Yes, the truth would hurt her little girl, but the truth was the truth, and shouldn’t be hidden.

  Except in my case, she thought.

  That was the danger in hiring a detective. He might broaden the investigation, uncover things better left hidden, start asking questions she didn’t want to answer.

  7

  Jack sat in his idling car, cell phone in one hand, Dr. Levy’s number in the other.

  To call or not to call.

  He’d just come from the scene of a torture-murder. It might not have anything to do with what he’d been hired for. In fact, odds were high against it, but not in the sure-thing range.

  Did he want to get involved in this? Did he want to touch anything the late Michael Gerhard had touched?

  Not really. But he’d accepted a fee to find out what Gerhard had learned about Jerry Bethlehem, and since Gerhard wasn’t talking, Jack felt obligated to speak to at least one person the PI had contacted.

  What the hell.

  He punched in the number. After three rings, a man answered.

  “Yes?” His voice sounded a little strange…tentative.

  “Is this Doctor Aaron Levy?”

 
“Who’s calling?”

  “I’d like to ask the doctor a few questions about a man named Jerry Bethlehem.”

  “Who?”

  “Jerry Bethlehem. I—”

  “Never heard of him!” he said, but his tone said otherwise.

  “Are you sure? I was given to understand—”

  “Who is this?” A sharp jump in pitch and volume. “Are you the one who just called and hung up?”

  “No, I—”

  “You are, aren’t you. I don’t know what your problem is, but I want you to stop it.”

  “But I’m not—”

  “Are you listening? Stop this or I’ll have you found out and stopped. And I’m not talking about calling the police. I’ll be going much higher up. So stop this if you know what’s good for you.”

  And then he hung up.

  Whoa. That was one rattled man. He’d mistaken Jack for someone making harassing phone calls. Gerhard? Unlikely if Levy’d had a hang-up tonight.

  Looked like he was going to have to arrange a face-to-face with Dr. Levy.

  He put the car in gear, powered up his officialdom phone, and dialed 911. He told the operator he was a neighbor of Gerhard’s and that water was leaking out his front door. He said he’d knocked but no one answered and he was afraid something was wrong inside. He broke the connection without leaving a name.

  Not the sort of message to spark EMTs to race to the scene, but eventually someone would get around to checking it out.

  He turned off the phone. He reserved it exclusively for calls that had the remotest chance of being traced. Those were the only times he powered it up.

  He had no sources in officialdom and no way of knowing what kind of tracking capabilities the emergency services center had. Even though the number was untraceable to him, they might be able to pick up some sort of identifier code from his phone and track it. And they might not. But he did know they couldn’t trace a powered-down phone. So he kept it off.

  Was this any way to live?

  Yeah. A major pain in the ass at times. A constant battle of wits. But he found it hard to imagine life any other way.

  THURSDAY

  1

  “You’re going to buy a map?” Abe said. “What for a map when you’ve got Mapquest?” He turned to his computer. “I’ll look it up for you right now.”

  An hour after a simple breakfast of plain old Entenmann’s crumb cake and newspaper skimming at Abe’s rear counter—no story on finding Gerhard’s body yet—Jack was readying to wander off in search of a New York state map. The one he had was falling apart.

  “Don’t bother. I’ve already got driving directions from Mapquest, but I like a map I can fold and unfold. I like to see the big picture.”

  “You want a big picture, I can get you a satellite photo of where you’re going.”

  “No thanks. But you can do a reverse look-up on Doctor Levy’s phone number for me.”

  “I thought you had an address already.”

  “I do, but I just want to check.”

  “You mean you want me to check.”

  “Okay, I want you to check. Please?”

  Jack had been into computers from his early teens through his college years. But after he’d dropped out—of everything—he lost touch with the cyber world. His early years in the city had been a catch-as-catch-can existence, with no permanency, no way to stay wired in. Only in the past few years had he begun exploring the World Wide Web. A lot had changed in the years he’d been disconnected. He was still in an acclimation stage.

  Abe, on the other hand, with his international connections and dealings, was a whiz—or as he’d say, a maven.

  He watched Abe do some mousing and keyboard tapping, frown, do some more, then come up with…

  “Nothing. The name and address connected to that number are restricted.”

  Jack shrugged. “I’ll go with what I have then. How’s the professor, by the way?”

  Abe shook his head. “Again I dropped in on him last night. No change. His mind…I don’t know. Still with the numbers.”

  “Shame. Okay, I’m off on my map quest.”

  “Wait. I just thought of something. Let me try a straightforward lookup.” More tapping. “Ha! Here’s an Aaron Levy, M.D., at twenty-six-eighty-one Riverview Road in Rathburg, New York.”

  “That’s the address I have. Okay, we’ve found him. What can you tell me about him?”

  Abe did his click-click-tap-tap thing and then smiled.

  “Here’s something mentioning him as an attendee at a fund-raiser for the Rathburg Public Library.”

  “Got a picture?”

  “What for you want a picture?”

  “Because I’ve got a lawyer’s chance of heaven of getting through the front door to see this guy. I’ll have to use some backdoor tactics. And to do that I need to know what he looks like.”

  “Here we go: ‘Doctor Aaron Levy, associate director of patient care at the Creighton Institute, with his wife, Marie, and daughter, Mollie’ at the same fund-raiser.”

  Abe turned the monitor toward Jack. He saw a smiling dark-haired man in his early fifties with a dark-haired woman of the same age, flanking a dark-haired girl who looked about twelve or so. The article, from the Rathburg-on-Hudson Review, had appeared two years ago.

  “Perfect. Print that out for me, will you?”

  “It’s printing already.”

  “Great. And while we’re waiting, see where I can find this Creighton Institute. I saw that mentioned on Gerhard’s computer. Sounds like a hospital or something.”

  “Here it is: The Creighton Institute. And you’ll never guess the address.”

  “Twenty-six-eighty-one Riverview Road in Rathburg?”

  “You got it.”

  “Okay. That’s where he works. But where does he live? There’s gotta be a way—”

  “Tax records, maybe. No, wait. Let me Google this.” Abe started tapping again. “New…York…property…search…” He hit ENTER. “Gevalt! Let me fill in these boxes. County…Westchester. Town…Rathburg. Name…Aaron Levy. Enter.” A pause, then, “Here it is: Nine-oh-three Argent Drive.”

  Jack felt a little queasy as he said, “Print that out for me too.”

  Abe shook his head as he hit PRINT. “This is terrible.”

  Jack knew exactly what he was feeling.

  “Because it’s so easy?”

  “Frighteningly so.”

  “Makes me glad I rent, Abe. Go back to that Creighton Institute. What else can we find out about it?”

  “Let’s see.” After a few more clicks Abe leaned back and looked at him. “Oy. The full name is the Creighton Institute for the Criminally Insane.”

  Jack shook his head. “Swell.”

  2

  Broadway seemed like a good place to find a map, so Jack ambled west.

  Broadway ran north-south up here. A few blocks downtown, at 79th Street, it broke from the grid and started angling east, crossing the city on a diagonal all the way down to the East Village where it headed due south again.

  He spotted a Barnes & Noble and saw a display of Kick in its front window. The cover was hard to miss with its bold black type and stick-figure drawing against a neon-yellow background.

  He stared at the Kicker Man, feeling that same odd sensation.

  Enough of this wondering. He needed to find out why that figure looked so…what? Familiar?

  A placard with a similar color scheme posted behind the display read:

  JOIN THE KICKER EVOLUTION!

  Evolution?

  He went inside, picked up a trade paperback, and flipped through it. Large type and a little Kicker Man in each of the breaks.

  “Save your money, man.”

  Jack looked up and saw a long-haired guy in jeans and a tie-dyed shirt giving him a sidelong look.

  “Say what?”

  “That book.” He spoke in a conspiratorial whisper from the corner of his mouth. “It’s a load of crap, man.”

  Noddi
ng knowingly, he moved off.

  Well, well. A reader review. But not a helpful one. Jack expected a load of crap. He simply wanted to know how Hank Thompson had come up with that four-armed man.

  He found a New York State map and headed for the checkout counter. On the way he passed a “New Paperback Fiction” rack where a cover caught his eye: cobalt blue with a pair of glowing yellow eyes—definitely not human—staring out above a pile of pills. He stopped when saw the title: Berzerk!

  Those eyes were startlingly close to a rakosh’s. And the pills…last spring he’d run up against a drug with a lot of street names, one of which was Berzerk—misspelled just as it was on the cover.

  And then his heart stuttered a beat when he read that it was “a Jake Fixx novel” and “sequel to Rakshasa!” by P. Frank Winslow.

  He snatched it from its rack and grabbed a passing employee—a twenty-something guy with thin hair and thick sideburns.

  “What is this?”

  The guy looked at Jack, then the novel, then Jack. “We call that a book.”

  A comedian. Yay.

  “I know that. But who’s this guy Winslow? How many of these has he written?”

  The guy shrugged. “I dunno. You’ll have to check with Information.”

  “But you work here.”

  “Yeah, but I just put them on the shelves. I don’t read them. Sorry. Check with Information.”

  Jack did, but the kiosk was empty. He found the fiction section and searched through the W authors where he found one copy of Rakshasa. He checked out the cover and found the same cobalt blue, same glowing eyes, but instead of pills, a freighter floated in the foreground.

  “Christ!”

  He didn’t know what was inside, but from the look of the covers it seemed like someone was peeking into his life.

  The information kiosk was still empty so he headed for the checkout area. With no line he walked up to the only cashier, a guy with a shaved head and a black soul patch.

  Jack slapped the novels on the counter and pushed them forward.