Bloodline

by F. Paul Wilson

  Aaron said, “Your ‘numero-uno priority’ is the therapy.”

  Jeremy shook his head. “You got that wrong, doc. I’m goin along with the therapy just so’s me and Dawn can be together. Me and Dawn—that’s all that matters. Anybody who gets between us goes down. ’Cause me and Dawn…” He grinned like a man who knew the world’s greatest secret. “…we’re gonna change everything.”

  9

  “What on Earth is so interesting?”

  Jack looked up from his copy of Hank Thompson’s Kick. He was propped up in bed by two pillows, reading in a pool of light from a goosenecked lamp attached to the headboard. The rest of the bedroom lay dark around him.

  He glanced at Gia where she lay beside him. She’d turned over to face him. Her eyelids were at half mast. She looked ready to drop off any minute.

  “Is the light keeping you up?”

  “Nothing keeps me up when I get tired, you know that. But what’ve you got there? You never read in bed.”

  Jack didn’t know how to explain it. He’d returned from Rathburg feeling restless and uneasy. He sensed he was being drawn into something he should avoid, dragged into a place he didn’t want to go. Christy Pickering seemed to be at the heart of it. Since talking to her he’d had a priceless book stolen from a stroked-out old man, found a dead body, and witnessed—and foiled—an abduction.

  Or was it all coincidence?

  Yeah, he’d been told no more coincidences for him, but surely that didn’t apply to everything in his life. Coincidences did happen in the normal course of events. He couldn’t buy that something was preventing everyday coincidences.

  He couldn’t see how the loss of the Compendium could be connected to the Pickering problem. But he most certainly saw a connection between the Compendium and the book in his hands: the four-armed stick figure.

  Jack had a pretty good idea of how the theft had gone down: the Kicker janitor—they still hadn’t found him—had seen the prof at the Xerox machine copying the drawing of the Kicker man. He’d recognized it and decided he wanted it.

  Why?

  Then again, why not? Judging from today’s experience at the bookstore, “mine” and “not-mine” appeared to be concepts either unappreciated or not easily grasped by Kickers—especially when it came to books.

  The janitor had been around the museum. One look at the Compendium and he had to know or at least guess it was worth a fortune. Which was why he’d disappeared. Probably trying to fence it now.

  The idea of the Compendium in the wrong hands bothered Jack. He didn’t know to what uses it could be put, but he had a feeling they weren’t all good.

  Tomorrow he’d see if he could get the guy’s name and do a little tracking on his own. He doubted the cops would tell him—too bad he wasn’t Jake Fixx with all those law enforcement contacts. He’d have to look elsewhere. Maybe the museum staff…

  But right now he wanted to see if Hank Thompson gave any clue as to how an ancient symbol—of what, he wished he knew—from an equally ancient one-of-a-kind tome had ended up on the cover of his book.

  He held it up for Gia.

  “I was intending just to skim through it, but the first part of the book is a memoir and I sort of got caught up in this guy’s personal story.”

  Hank Thompson hadn’t had it easy growing up. Far from it. Born in Arkansas in poverty to a single mother who died young, his unnamed absentee father would visit him now and again, but never helped him off the foster-home merry-go-round he rode into his teens. Yet Thompson didn’t seem to bear him any animus. Seemed to revere him instead.

  “How far along are you?”

  “He’s just coming out of his teens and surprisingly up front about the petty crimes he committed.”

  Gia yawned. “You think he really committed them or is just looking for street cred?”

  “It rings true.”

  Gia looked at him. “You’d know, I guess.”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  Thompson’s account reminded Jack a little of the time he spent on the street when he first arrived in the city. He’d wanted to stay below the radar, and that meant working off the books for cash and hustling for every buck. He wasn’t proud of some of the moves he’d made back then.

  Gia yawned again, then lifted her head and kissed him on the cheek.

  “Have fun. I’m outta here.”

  As she rolled over and tugged the blanket up over her head, Jack returned to Kick.

  Thompson had just turned nineteen in the story when he started stealing cars in Columbus, Georgia, and driving them into Alabama where he got top dollar from a chop shop in Opelika.

  Maybe this was why so many Kickers had criminal records—they identified with Thompson.

  He read on…

  Then came a major turning point in my life. One bright hot summer day I wheeled a Lexus LS 400 into one of Jesse Ed’s bays. The Lexus was still the new kid on the automobile block back then and damn hard to find in the South. This was a primo grab and I was expecting a big payday. What I got instead was trouble. Instead of finding a grinning Jesse Ed waiting with his acetylene torch, I found a gang of Alabama state troopers who’d raided the place about an hour before I got there.

  Well, let me tell you, I smoked that Lexus’s tires backing out of there and led those troopers on a merry old chase back to the state line. Beat them too. But I ran into a Georgia state cop roadblock where they shotgunned my tires.

  I was so royally pissed at getting caught that I guess you could say I went a little bit nuts. It took four of those boys to take me down. And take me down they did. If someone had been around with a video camera, I could have been the white Rodney King.

  I woke up the next day battered and bloody and facing not just a local GTA rap, but federal charges for ITSMV. (For those of you who’ve never been on the wrong side of jail bars, that’s grand theft auto and interstate transportation of stolen motor vehicles, respectively.)

  Jack had to smile. Yeah, he could see where getting busted simultaneously for both state and federal raps could be a life-changing experience.

  He read on with amusement about Thompson’s troubles with incompetent—at least according to him—public defenders and drunken judges and crooked prosecuting attorneys, but the chapter’s last paragraph stopped him cold.

  Well, no question the Lexus was stolen, but they couldn’t prove I did the actual stealing, so I skated on the GTA charge. But I couldn’t dodge the ITSMV. Not with all those pursuing Alabama smokies as witnesses to my crossing the state line in a stolen car. So I was looking at federal time, and not in some country club either. They had me slated for the Jesup medium security FCI when out of the blue came a reprieve. Oh, not that kind of reprieve. I was still going to do time, but in much cushier surroundings. Don’t ask me why, but for some reason the federal government, in all its wisdom, had decided to ship me to the East Coast, to a place in New York I’d never heard of. I didn’t know it then, but the Creighton Institute would change my life.

  Jack stared at the page in shock. This was too much of a coincidence to be a simple coincidence. It was happening again: Something was pulling his strings.

  But the question remained: Why had a nobody car thief like Hank Thompson been shipped across the country to a federal facility?

  Jack had a feeling that, whether he wanted to or not, he’d be searching for the answer.

  FRIDAY

  1

  “You’d like to talk to Hank Thompson?” Abe said. “Want I should arrange a meeting?”

  Jack smiled. “Why don’t you do just that.”

  He took a bite of one of the bagels with fat-free cream cheese he’d brought along. Time to get serious about Abe’s waistline again.

  He thought Abe was kidding when he picked up the phone, but then listened as he got the number of Vector Publications from information. He dialed that and asked for publicity. As he waited he put his hand over the mouthpiece and turned to Jack.

  “Who do you want t
o be and what paper are you from?”

  “You think you can pull this off?”

  “Of course. Such a publicity hound I’ve rarely seen. Been on every radio station in town already. Probably be on WFAN if he could work in a sports angle. This rally of his he’s pushing like there’s no tomorrow.”

  This might work. Jack had some questions for Thompson—details he hadn’t shared in the book. Like what had really gone on at Creighton. He’d made vague mention of counseling and psychological testing, but no mention of why the long arm of the federal government had reached across the country to pluck him out of the county jail in Columbia. And did he know a certain Dr. Levy.

  “Okay. I’ll be John Tyleski.” Why not? “And I’ll be from…” He didn’t want a New York City paper—the publicity people would be familiar with the names on the local book beat. He thought back to his boyhood when the city papers near home were in Philadelphia and Trenton. “Say I’m with the Trenton Times.”

  Abe nodded as he started to speak again—with no accent. “Hello, publicity? Who there is handling Hank Thompson? Oh, you are. Excellent. I’m Moishe Horowitz, features editor for the Trenton Times.”

  Jack mouthed, Moishe Horowitz? Abe shrugged.

  “Yes, well, one of my reporters happens to be in New York today and we’re wondering if Hank Thompson would be available for an interview. We’d like a face-to-face if possible. Yes, of course.” He fumbled for a pen and handed it to Jack. “Let me give you my reporter’s cell number. His name is John Tyleski and his number is…”

  Jack scribbled it down on the back of an envelope and Abe read it off. Abe closed with a few stroking pleasantries about the success of the book and what a wonderful job they were doing promoting it.

  “There,” he said as he hung up. “What could be simpler? Her name is Susan Abrams and she’ll call after she talks to Thompson.”

  “Great.” Jack took a sip of his coffee. “What do you think about all this? The Kicker Man links the Compendium to Thompson, and Thompson’s linked to the Creighton place. Christy Pickering is linked to Jerry Bethlehem—whoever he really is—who’s linked to Doctor Levy who works at Creighton.”

  “Bethlehem is linked to a dead man as well, don’t forget.”

  “I’m not. But I wonder why there’s been no mention of Gerhard’s death. You sure you haven’t seen anything?”

  “Not a word.”

  If Abe hadn’t read it, then it hadn’t been published. He pored over every inch of his papers.

  “Why are they keeping it under wraps?”

  “Maybe he was more than he pretended to be. Maybe he worked for this group you mentioned already that runs Creighton. Your instincts say what?”

  “That the Creighton Institute is the key.”

  “I agree. Might be something going on there that connects everything. Then again, maybe not.”

  “Well, I know someone on the inside at Creighton, and he owes me—big time. But I’ve got a feeling that’s not going to be enough to make him open up.” Jack checked his watch. “Gotta run. I’m meeting Christy Pickering in an hour.”

  “Go already. I’ll do searches on Creighton. Such fun I’ll have.”

  “See if you can get me an interview with Winslow while you’re at it.”

  If he was going to go to the trouble of printing up some business cards, might as well multitask them.

  2

  Jack rode the R out to Forest Hills. He did not want what he had to tell Christy floating along over a phone—land line or cell, no telling who was listening these days. Christy had begged him to meet her outside the city. He’d agreed. She’d hired a block of his time, so why not?

  He’d opted for the subway over his car. Rush hour had passed, and even if it hadn’t, he was headed against the morning flow. It was a local but he had time.

  He plowed further into Kick. According to Thompson, his stint at Creighton didn’t put him on the straight and narrow so much as make him more choosy about his activities, opting for the dubiously legal over the blatantly illegal. He worked various scams and cons that Jack found uncomfortably familiar.

  Been there, done that.

  He closed the book and glanced down at the rumpled copy of this morning’s Post on the seat next to him. He’d already been through the paper looking for news of Gerhard’s death. Strange that it hadn’t been announced.

  Maybe he should try another call…

  He looked around. Less than a dozen other people on the car in various states of age, quality of clothing, and consciousness, either dozing, walled off behind headphones, staring at the ads or at the floor. His gaze came to rest on one of the sliding doors. He hadn’t noticed it when he came in, but someone had spray-painted an all-too-familiar figure on its lower half…

  Couldn’t get away from the Kicker Man, it seemed.

  Okay. Nobody within earshot. He pulled out his officialdom phone, powered it up, and gave 911 another try.

  “Emergency Services,” said a woman’s voice.

  “Yes, I called the night before last about a problem with a house in my neighborhood and nothing’s been done about it.”

  “What house was that, sir?”

  Jack gave Gerhard’s address. “There was water running out the door and I was afraid maybe someone had left the water on or, God forbid, died while running the sink.”

  “Let me look that up for you, sir.” After a pause, she said, “We sent someone out there this morning and—”

  Jack put a huff into his tone. “This morning? What took you so long? I called you two days ago.”

  “Yessir, but things have been extremely hectic lately, and we must prioritize. I’m sure you can understand that when we have to choose between, say, a missing child or someone found unconscious in an alley, and a water leak, we put off the water leak. I assure you, we got there as soon as our schedule allowed.”

  Jack couldn’t argue with that.

  “So you were there this morning. What did you find? Was everybody okay inside?”

  “Well, they went in and…let’s see…it says here they found extensive water damage—apparently an upstairs tub had overflowed—but the house was empty.”

  Empty! How…?

  “Mister Gerhard wasn’t home?”

  “It says no one was home.”

  Jack sat in silent shock. What the hell? He wasn’t crazy. He’d seen Gerhard’s bungeed-up body.

  “Is there anything else I can help you with, sir?”

  “No…thank you very much.”

  He hung up and turned off the phone. Someone had gone in and removed Gerhard’s body. Who? Bethlehem? Someone had left him there with the water running. Why go back?

  None of this made sense.

  His other phone rang: Susan Abrams of Vector Publications calling. It just so happened that Hank Thompson was going to be visiting their offices this afternoon. If Jack could be there at two thirty, he could interview Hank in their conference room.

  Jack said he’d be there and she gave him the address.

  He reopened Kick and began skimming so he’d be up to speed when he faced Thompson. But images of Gerhard’s corpse kept flashing between him and the pages.

  The car pretty much emptied out at Woodhaven Boulevard—everyone going to Queens Center Mall, he guessed. He watched a pregnant woman, a brunette six months or better along, get on and take a seat. She carried a bebe shopping bag. She glanced around, flashed him a quick, shy smile, then pulled a magazine from the bag.

  Gia had been just about that far into her pregnancy before…

  Before it was ended.

  He felt his mood darken. The lights seemed to darken too. He’d been in a decent mood, hadn’t thought about Emma for a whole couple of hours, and then this lady had to show up and ruin it.

  Not her fault, of course.

  He tried not to look at her as the train moved on.

  As the train was pulling out of the 67th Avenue station, the car’s forward door opened and a couple of hip-hop
zoolanders swaggered in. Could have been sixteen, could have been eighteen. Hard to tell. Ghetto manqué white kids—headed for Forest Hills, no less—regurgitating the clichés of the sideways Amahzan baseball cap, the way-too-big basketball jersey, and the baggy, falling-off jeans. These guys had added some gang accessories, like blue stubby do-rags under the caps and blue-and-white bead necklaces along with the gold.

  Crip never-bes.

  The shorter one snatched the paper from the old dude near the front and tossed it across the car.

  “What you readin that fuckin shit for, asshole? It’s all lies!”

  His buddy laughed as they moved on, leaving the old guy scrabbling to reassemble his paper. They passed Jack, giving him a don’t-mess-with-us look. Jack looked back down at his book.

  Trouble today? No thanks.

  After they’d passed he glanced up in time to see the taller one stomp on one of the pregnant girl’s feet as he went by. The kid was wearing sneakers, but Jack bet it hurt.

  She winced, then said, “Don’t you say ‘Excuse me’?”

  They both swung on her.

  Tall got in her face and said, “Shut the fuck up, bitch, ’cause I got my balls in your mouth!”

  Shock flattened her features. “You’ve got what?”

  Short said, “Aww, bitch, you better shut the fuck up because he’s got his balls in your mouth!”

  Jack felt a switch close inside. He knew that on another day, in different company, he might have laughed at how pathetic they were. But they’d picked the wrong moment and the wrong lady.

  He laid the book on the seat beside him. “I think you owe her an apology.”

  They turned as one and stared at him.

  Short shot him a hard look. “The fuck you say?”

  Tall held out his right hand. Looked like he’d used a black Sharpie to decorate his palm with a crude version of the same stick figure as on the door.

  “Don’t even think about fuckin with us, man! We’re dissimilated!”