Bloodline

by F. Paul Wilson

  The readout indicated background levels, and no increase when Levy moved it closer to Jack.

  Okay,” he said as he slipped it back into the drawer. “One question. I’ll answer one question.”

  Jack intended to ask more, but figured he’d go with the Big One again.

  “Why is Jeremy Bolton out of jail?”

  Levy seemed prepared for it. His face was as expressionless as a DMV photo, and half as happy.

  “Who told you he’s out?”

  “Your face did a few moments ago.”

  “Sorry. I’m not responding to that.”

  “You said you’d answer one question.”

  “And I will. But I didn’t say any question.”

  “If you want to play word games—”

  “I hope you’re not going to threaten me, because you’ll be asking for a world of trouble.”

  Jack sat down—figured it was time for Levy to start getting used to the fact he was going to be here awhile.

  “Really?”

  “I did a little background on you, John Robertson, private detective.” He flashed a mirthless smile. “You look awfully good for a dead man.”

  Uh-oh.

  Jack smiled. “That happens all the time. There’s another detective with the same name…”

  Levy was shaking his head. “Someone is paying the dead man’s annual license fee. And that would be you. So let’s have you answer a question for me: Who are you?”

  “The man who saved your life.”

  Levy looked annoyed as he dropped into the chair behind his desk.

  “Do you have to keep bringing that up?”

  “I will till it works. Now spill: Why’s Bolton running free and nobody knows about it? Check that: I know about it. And I know he’s posing as Jerry Bethlehem.”

  Levy raised his hands. “For the love of God, keep that to yourself. I don’t know who you are, but I do feel a debt to you. So unless you want your life turned into a living hell, forget what you know.”

  The genuine distress in Levy’s voice disturbed Jack.

  “Who’s going to bring the hell? Bolton?”

  He shook his head. “No. Look, this is big—bigger than you can imagine. You’re dealing with a powerful government agency with roots in the Pentagon, congress, and ultimately the White House. This is important to them. You interfere with their plans and they’ll comb through your life for every little—”

  “Got to find me first.”

  “Oh, they’ll find you. You may think you’re hiding behind this John Robertson persona, but they’ll rip through that like tissue paper. Everybody leaves tracks. They’ll find yours and follow them and make you wish you’d never been born.”

  Jack’s stomach turned sour. Yeah, he’d gone to elaborate lengths to insulate himself from scrutiny, but a motivated organization with enough manpower, access to all sorts of databases, the power to twist arms…he wouldn’t stand a chance. They’d haul him up from underground and hold him to the light. And have a field day with what they’d find.

  But he couldn’t let Levy see that he’d touched a nerve.

  “So that’s why you didn’t want to call the cops.”

  He nodded. “I’m not immune from their wrath. Nobody is.”

  “What if I’ve got nothing to hide?”

  Right.

  “Everybody’s got something to hide. But just in case you’re that rara avis with a spotless life, it won’t remain spotless for long. If they can’t find something, they’ll manufacture it.”

  Jack knew in his case they—whoever they were—wouldn’t have to manufacture a thing.

  Still, he had to know.

  “Heard and understood. Now, back to square one: What’s he doing running around free?”

  Levy stared at him. “Are you insane?”

  “It’s sort of the general consensus.”

  Another long stare, followed by a sigh. “All right then. It’s all legal—legal in that the agency in charge of Creighton has designed a closely monitored, special-circumstances release.”

  “Whoever’s in charge of the monitoring sure as hell dropped the ball. Where was his monitor when he drowned Gerhard? Or shoved you into your trunk?”

  “Not that kind of monitoring. Nobody’s got binoculars on him all the time. And besides, who says he killed Gerhard? When did it happen?”

  Jack could only guess. “Tuesday night I’d guess.”

  Levy gave a quick, nervous smile. “There you go. All day Tuesday—day and night—he was at Creighton for testing. It’s his blood we monitor.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  Levy hesitated, then said, “Considering what you already know, I can’t see what difference it makes to tell you. This release program is a clinical trial of sorts. We’re testing a special medical therapy developed for a certain subset of violent criminals.”

  “What kind of therapy?”

  “That is off-limits. All I can say is that it is designed to suppress violent tendencies. The subject shows up for a weekly injection and blood tests to monitor the level of the drug in his system.”

  “Got a medical bulletin for you: It’s not working.”

  “It’s a clinical trial. We don’t know the proper dose yet. We expect a setback or two in the early—”

  “Setback? Torture and murder—”

  “I can assure you he did not lay a finger on Gerhard.”

  Jack would need more than just Levy’s word.

  “What about kidnapping? Just a ‘setback’?”

  “You keep blaming him without proof. And he has an alibi. The attempted abduction was…unfortunate. But it doesn’t mean the trial is a failure, it simply means we need to adjust the dosage. Which we have. I’m sure nothing like that will ever happen again.”

  Jack stared at him. “You’re not sure at all.”

  Levy looked away—confirmation enough.

  “We’ll make you the same offer we made Gerhard.”

  “Who’s ‘we’?”

  “Why…” He seemed flustered for a second. “Why, Creighton, of course. We’ll pay you whatever you might have received from Mrs. Pickering and—”

  “Gerhard took your offer?”

  A nod.

  Crook.

  “And true to his word, he said nothing to the Pickering woman. So you can see there was no need for Jeremy to even talk to him, let alone kill him.”

  “Speaking of Mrs. Pickering, what’s the story with Bolton and her daughter?”

  “Well, he’s a hetero male, she’s a female the same age he was when he was locked up. What more story do you need?”

  Keeping in character, Jack said, “Yeah, I suppose the first thing I’d do once I got out of stir was hook up with some poontang.”

  “Well, it wasn’t the first thing. The very first thing he did was get himself tattooed.” He held up his hand and pointed to the web between his thumb and forefinger. “Right here, of all places.”

  Jack remembered the Kicker in the bookstore yesterday.

  “Tattoo of what?”

  “Some ridiculous little stick figure.”

  Jack felt a chill ripple across his back.

  “With a diamond-shaped head?”

  “Why, yes. How did you know? You’ve never been that close to Bolton.” His eyes narrowed. “Or have you?”

  Jack didn’t answer immediately. His brain was too wrapped up in all the unfolding connections. Connections…not coincidences.

  Jeremy Bolton was a Kicker.

  “Excuse me?” Levy said, waving a hand. “Are you there? How did you know?”

  Jack shook himself. “That figure is all over Manhattan. Followers of a book called Kick.”

  Levy snapped his fingers. “Right. Bolton once had a book with that figure on its cover. What’s it mean?” He grimaced. “Working at Creighton tends to insulate you from the zeitgeist.”

  Jack wished he could escape the zeitgeist. He didn’t know what the figure meant, but knew he had to find the conn
ection.

  “The author, Hank Thompson—”

  “Did you say Hank Thompson? That’s the author who’s been interviewing Bolton.”

  Jack felt as if he’d been kicked.

  “What? Why? How?”

  “Research. His next book is going to be on the Atlanta abortionist killings.”

  Funny…just a few hours ago he’d said he hadn’t decided yet. But he might simply be keeping the topic under wraps.

  That didn’t bother Jack anywhere near as much as the way two supposedly separate parts of his present-day life were intersecting.

  “I’m kind of surprised you let anyone get near Bolton.”

  “The last thing we wanted, believe me. We turned him away but Thompson threatened to take us to court. We feared he might win—freedom of the press and all that crap—so we granted him access. But we’ve limited it as much as possible.”

  “How limited?”

  “Thompson had one hour access a week.”

  “He did time at Creighton back in the nineties, you know.”

  “Of course I know. Our security had him fully vetted before we let him in. Unfortunately he turned out to be just what he said he was: a former inmate and a bestselling author.” He smiled. “I never knew he was the author of Kick. I’ll have to read it sometime.”

  “Their stays at Creighton overlapped. Any chance they could have met there?”

  He shook his head. “Highly unlikely. Prisoners in the maximum security wing have no contact with the other residents. He told us it was the Creighton connection that inspired him to write Bolton’s story.”

  All very probable. Maybe even explained Thompson’s reluctance to talk about Creighton, but a part of Jack wasn’t buying it.

  Damn, he wished he’d known this before interviewing Thompson. Could have asked some interesting follow-up questions when he said he hadn’t decided what to write next.

  “Would you believe,” Levy was saying, “Thompson says he thinks Bolton is innocent, that he was framed by the real killers?”

  “Who were…?”

  “Who else? Radical Christian extremists.”

  “Any chance that’s true?”

  “Are you kidding? Not in a million years. I’ve seen the case files—we check out every inmate exhaustively—and the evidence against Jeremy Bolton was overwhelming. After what he did to me, can you doubt his impulsive violence?”

  No, Jack couldn’t.

  “What did you tell Thompson when you let Bolton out?”

  “Nothing. Didn’t need to. He’d completed his interviews before the start of the trial.”

  “A convenient coincidence. Could they possibly be meeting outside?”

  Levy shook his head. “Bolton is violent but he’s not stupid. If Thompson exposes him—accidentally, or deliberately for the publicity—the clinical trial is over and Bolton is back behind bars.”

  Jack had a strong sense that that was just where this man wanted him.

  Levy waved Thompson away.

  “Anyway, back to this Pickering girl. I just wish she were a few years older, then we wouldn’t have her overprotective mother in the picture.”

  “How did you sneak him back into civilization?”

  “We put him through the witness protection program—even the FBI didn’t know his real identity.”

  “So you Earl Scheibed him into a law-abiding citizen. Why put him in Queens?”

  “He wanted Rego Park and he persuaded the Bureau to put him there.”

  “Wait-wait-wait. He wanted Rego Park? Why?”

  “I have no idea. I remember thinking it odd—born and raised in Mississippi, and he insists on Rego Park, Queens. Go figure.”

  “Yeah. Go figure.”

  Something about that bothered Jack, but he couldn’t say why.

  “The other odd thing is his money. He was set up with an apartment and a stipend to provide him with the essentials, but not enough to be comfortable. The idea was to spur him to get a job. He’s been locked up since his teens. We gave him some training, but we wanted to see how he functioned as an adult in the real world.”

  “He’s telling people he designs video games.”

  “Yes, I know. He’s obsessed with them—structure, design, gameplay. He probably could design one.”

  “But he doesn’t. He doesn’t do much of anything according to Mrs. Pickering. Yet she told me he’s got a beautiful townhouse with state-of-the-art computer and AV setups. How’s he afford that?”

  “We don’t know. He goes out and buys these things for cash. When we ask he won’t tell. When we threaten he says what’s the difference where he gets his money as long as it’s not jeopardizing the clinical trial?”

  Jack wondered if Thompson might be the source—paying him for an exclusive story.

  Thompson’s reticence about Creighton was becoming more and more understandable.

  “So, you tell him to ’fess up or you’ll haul his ass back behind bars, but he blows you off. Seems to know you don’t mean it. He indispensable?”

  Levy looked at him. “Let me put it this way: If we can succeed in taming and making an upstanding citizen of Jeremy Bolton, we can succeed with anyone.”

  10

  Christy paced her living room, wringing her hands as she waited for that man to arrive.

  Even though she’d been expecting it, she jumped at the sound of the doorbell. Instead of moving toward it she stood frozen, frightened.

  She’d asked a possible murderer to meet her. Alone. In her home.

  Am I crazy?

  As a precaution she’d hidden her little semiautomatic within easy reach under a cushion, but she doubted she’d need it. That man seemed obsessed with her daughter. Possessive. He wouldn’t do anything that would cause him to lose her. One sure way of doing that was to harm her mother.

  At least Christy prayed it would be that way. What if he was some sort of Svengali who could force Dawnie to stay with him even after he’d harmed her mother?

  All right. Enough of that. Be calm. This is going to work. He’s not going to hurt you because you’re not going to threaten him or accuse him of anything. What was the point anyway? She’d toyed with the idea of calling the police and telling them what she knew about Michael Gerhard, but without proof—with no body even to indicate there had been a crime—she’d wind up right where she was now.

  So she’d come up with another way.

  The bell rang again. She moved to the door and opened it. There he was, standing on the front steps. He wore jeans and a fitted black western shirt that clung to his frame. Christy couldn’t deny his aura of raw-boned animalism. Once again she could see why Dawnie was so taken with him.

  “May I come in?” he said, his tone and expression neutral.

  Well, at least it was a cordial start. She stood aside and motioned him into the room.

  “Please.”

  Before closing the door she sneaked a peek to see if Dawn had tagged along, but saw no sign of her. She decided to address him with the same level of cordiality.

  “Forgive me for not offering you a drink or a seat, but I don’t think our business here will last all that long.”

  “Business?”

  Might as well get to it.

  “Yes. I have a business proposition for you.”

  “Really.” He drew out the word. “Okay. I’m listenin.”

  She picked up a Talbot’s shopping bag from the coffee table and handed it to him.

  “That’s yours if you agree to certain conditions.”

  Frowning, he took it and glanced inside. Then he looked up at her.

  “Cash?”

  “A quarter of a million dollars.”

  After her confrontation with Dawnie and this man, she’d run out and withdrawn it from the money-market account she used to hold her cash between trades. The bank had given her a hard time but she’d insisted. This was worth every penny if it worked.

  “What?”

  “It can be yours. All you have
to do to earn it is say good night to Dawn tonight as usual, and then drop out of her life forever.”

  His blue gaze bored into her, through her. “You must think I’m the worst sort of lowlife.”

  She stepped back, closer to the pistol. Remember: no threats, no accusations.

  “My only thought is that you are the wrong man for Dawn.”

  He shook his head. “You got it all wrong. I’m the right man for Dawn, the rightest man in the world. Our destinies are twined. Together we’re gonna change this big ol’ world.”

  Christy wanted to scream but kept her tone level. “I want you out of her life and I’m willing to put my money where my mouth is. Take it.”

  Of course he could take the cash and stay with Dawn, but that would cause a fall from grace in her eyes. Dawn would want him to give it back, and if he refused…

  “You don’t get it, do you. We was made for each other. I’ll fight to keep her and I’ll fight anyone who tries to come between us. But more”—he pointed a finger at her—“and you as a mother ought to appreciate this—I will protect her from all harm. I will trade my life for hers if it comes down to that.”

  The words stunned her. Not so much because she hadn’t expected them, but because of the undeniable sincerity behind them. This man would indeed die for Dawnie.

  Why? He’d known her only a few months.

  This was crazy.

  He stepped to the side and dumped the stacks of bills onto the coffee table.

  “What are you doing?”

  He said nothing as he pulled out his cell phone. She watched as he opened it and started pressing buttons.

  Calling Dawn? Oh, no!

  “What are you doing? Who are you calling?”

  “Nobody.” He aimed the flip top of the phone at the pile of bills and pressed a button. “Just gettin proof.”

  “Proof of what?”

  And then she knew. Her heart twisted in her chest when she realized what he was up to.

  “No, please. Let’s forget this ever happened! Please?”

  He smiled as he slipped past her, opened the door, and stepped out into the night.

  Christy stood there, numb, bloodless.

  What would make a thirty-something man turn down a quarter of a million dollars to stay with a naïve eighteen-year-old? Most people would say it had to be love, but Christy couldn’t buy that.