Bloodline (34 page)

Jack stood at the bar nursing a watery Coors Light as he went over his options. At least it was better than an even more watery Bud Light from the ruinators of Rolling Rock.

The neon Corona clock on the wall behind the bar said 6:30. Still about an hour until sunset. But from what Christy had told him, if Bolton was coming in, he would have shown by now.

Reminded of Christy, Jack pulled out his phone and called her numbers again. Still no answer. Rehearsal was dragging on. At least he hoped it was rehearsal.

Someone eased over and leaned against the bar beside him: Dirty Danny.

"Need any party supplies?"

"Nope. Sorry. No one's invited me to any parties lately."

Danny gave him a yellow grin. "Well, then have one of your own. That's what I'd do."

"Why am I not surprised?"

"Well, you need anything, you know where to find me."

Danny moved on and Jack decided he was tired of Queens, tired of wasting his time waiting for people to answer their phones or show up in bars. Time to head home and see if Gia had any plans for dinner. If nothing was on the stove yet, they could head down to Little Italy where Vicky could chow down on Amalia's mussels in garlic sauce.

He left the rest of the beer wannabe on the bar and headed for the door.

A parade of what-ifs were tying Jeremy's stomach in knots as he maneuvered into a parking spot down the street from Work.

What if he hadn't checked Dawn's browser history?

What if she'd gone ahead and had the abortion?

What if she tries again?

It was like the past was repeating itself. But at least this time he wouldn't have to go around killing doctors. He hadn't been able to reveal himself to Moonglow. With Dawn it was different. She knew he was the father, so he could stay close and watch over her.

Watch over her… what a job that would be… nine months of hell until—

No, wait. Maybe only a few months of hell. He knew abortions weren't done after a certain point in a pregnancy. He didn't know that point, but he'd sure as hell find out.

The thing was, he'd have to stay right on top of her, not let her out of his sight until that point was reached. Could he do that? How could he get up to Creighton every week for his injection if he couldn't trust her alone? What was he going to do—chain her in the basement?

He didn't want her along now—not if he was going to have to deal with that Enemy posing as Joe Henry—but he didn't dare leave her home.

"Shit!"

"What's the matter?"

He looked at Dawn and wanted to kill her for wanting to kill the Key. She'd come so close to ruining everything. He saw the fear in her eyes and realized that might be the key… the key to protecting the Key.

Fear.

Make her so afraid of him that the thought of an abortion will never cross her mind again.

But before the fear… marriage. That way he could have some legal say about the baby. But marrying her wouldn't be an easy proposition after the way he'd blown up earlier. He knew he'd scared her bad.

"Nothing, darlin. Just mad at myself for losin it the way I did. You've got to understand that though I never wanted a kid, I do now. And like I said, it's a miracle. I—"

He squinted through the windshield at the man who'd just stepped out of Work: Joe Henry. No… his name wasn't Joe Henry… Moonglow's detective, John Robertson. Or maybe not just a detective. Maybe an Enemy of the Bloodline. And here he was, practically walking into Jeremy's arms.

The Others must be watching over me.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm looking at a guy who's been causing me trouble."

Dawn leaned forward and pointed. "Him? You introduced me to him yesterday. I thought he was a friend." '

"So did I. But I've learned different."

He heard Vecca's voice in his head telling him to make the call, then follow the guy until folks from her mysterious, all-powerful agency grabbed him. He heard another voice telling him, Yeah, that would be the smart thing to do because he couldn't be a hundred percent sure that Joe Henry wasn't really Joe Henry. He might not be a detective or an Enemy, might just be some everyday shlub who liked beer and video games and was reading
Kick
.

Shit! Hank's book! That was the key. He was carrying it around as a prop—a goddamn
prop
—because he thought it would make Jeremy lower his guard and let him get in close where he could screw up everything.

Well, it almost worked. It almost fucking
worked
.

Jeremy felt his blood begin to heat.

Come to think of it, the guy probably didn't know shit about video games either, because he'd let Jeremy do all the playing.

The only thing Robertson had played was Jeremy—like Hendrix played guitar.

He knew his face was reddening.

And Robertson wasn't just some smart-ass detective, he was an Enemy. Carrying
Kick
around proved it, because only an enemy could know Jeremy and Hank were connected. Must know about the Bloodline too, and the Key. That was why he was here—to mess up the Plan.

His vision took on a red tinge.

"The fuck!"

Dawn jumped in her seat. "Jerry! What—?"

Jeremy ignored her as he hit the trunk release and jumped out. He ran around to the rear and yanked on a ring in the floor. Beneath, in the spare well, he found the tire iron and hefted it. Good solid feel, the lug-wrench end nice and heavy.

As he started after Robertson, Dawn lowered her window.

''Jerry, what are you doing?"

"Just stay here. This'll only take a minute."

"But—"

"Be right back. I owe somebody something. Gonna settle up with him."

His blood sang in his ears as he hurried through the dying light toward Robertson, long, quick strides eating up the distance between them. The guy was oblivious, just ambling along the sidewalk like he hadn't a care in the world. Yeah, well, he was about to have a care—a big care. He was about to get messed up.

Jeremy stepped over the curb and onto the sidewalk a dozen feet behind him. He glanced around. Nobody nearby, nobody looking his way except Dawn.

Nine feet to go… six… he tightened his grip on the tire iron and chose a spot on the back of the guy's head. He could almost hear the crack, feel the crunch, see the spray of red when steel hit bone. He took a two-handed grip and raised it high as he closed in.

This was gonna be good. This was gonna be easy. This was gonna be quick and clean. One skull-crushing shot, plus one more for good measure as he went down, then Jeremy would keep moving, barely breaking stride, walking away as if nothing had happened. Someone would find the guy leaking his brains out onto the sidewalk and call EMS. If he survived, he'd most likely never wake up, and even if he did he wouldn't remember shit, and be good for even less.

Jeremy raised the iron higher then and, putting his arms, shoulders, and a good deal of his body behind it, swung—

And missed.

At the last second the guy spun and ducked to his right. Jeremy had been set to connect with something hard and solid. Instead the iron whipped through empty air, leaving him stagger-stepping ahead.

There—to his left.

He half turned and saw something flashing toward his face—the palm of a hand. Jeremy tried to react but he was off-balance, tilting forward as the heel of that palm caught him square on the nose. He heard a sickening
crunch
as pain detonated in his face—a July Fourth finale of brightly flashing lights that left him blinded and disoriented. He quit his two-handed grip as he raised his left to fend off another blow while the right tried a feeble backhand swing with the iron. But almost immediately a fist that seemed aimed at his spine or maybe at a place somewhere behind him rammed into his gut, doubling him over. He grunted with the pain, blinked, turned away defensively as he tried to clear his vision for a swing at this guy, wherever he was. That was when something hard slammed against the outside of his left knee, bending it a way it wasn't supposed to go. The leg gave out and he went down, dropping the iron to put his hands out to break his fall. As he landed on hands and knees some-thing heavy rammed his back, knocking him flat. Then a shoe against the back of his neck, pressing his face into the pavement.

He's gonna kill me, he's gonna curb me then he's gonna break my neck and then the Plan'll die because sure as shit Dawn'll have an abortion before I'm cold in the earth.

"What the hell's up with you?"

Jeremy's vision cleared and he found himself face-to-face with the tire of one of the parked cars. And the guy was talking to him instead of kicking the shit out of him. Good sign.

He knew he should lie still and look like he was beaten down and wait for a chance, but then he thought again of how this guy had played him and the rage rushed back full force.

"You motherf—"

He tried to roll and rise but pain shot through his knee like someone had a knife in it and the foot pressed harder, grinding his cheek against the concrete.

"Easy, there. What I ever do to you?"

"I know who you are, you lousy—"

"And just who is that?"

"I don't know your real name but I know it ain't Joe Henry and it ain't John Robertson—"

The pressure against his neck increased.

"Whoa! Let's back it up there. Where'd you hear the name John Robertson?"

"What difference it make? I know it's fake. I know you and your friends been doggin my ass for months now, tryin to kill the Bloodline, but it ain't gonna work."

More pressure. Jeremy thought his jaw was going to break.

"Months? You need some heavy medication, dude. I don't know anything about a Bloodline and I never heard of you until last week."

"Bullshit!" He had to speak through forcibly clenched teeth.

But the guy's voice carried a ring of truth. Something in his tone said he
hadn't
heard of Jeremy before. So what was the deal? Was he just a detective like he said?

"Then why you been doggin my ass? Why you been messin with my life?"

"It's what I do."

He realized then that the guy wasn't going to kill him, because if that was what all this was about, he'd have picked up the tire iron and be doing to Jeremy's skull what Jeremy had been planning for his. If he just lay still and shut up, he'd live to fight another day.

But then he thought of how this jerk had suckered him into looking bad in front of Dawn and his mouth started running.

"Better kill me now, asshole, because there ain't no place you can hide from me. It's me or you, so you might as well end this right here and right now, otherwise—"

Jeremy hadn't thought the pressure on his neck could get any worse, but it did, and for an awful second he thought he'd gone too far, pushed too hard, and the guy was really going to do it.

But then the pressure eased… very slowly… as if it took every smidgen of the guy's will not to do as Jeremy had suggested. He heard a laugh—as forced sounding as any laugh Jeremy had ever heard.

"You mean kill you? You're not worth the hassle."

And then the pressure was gone and he heard fading footsteps. He looked up and saw the guy walking away with his back to him, just leaving him here, and not even looking over his shoulder—not once.

What's he think I am? Cow shit he can just scrape off his shoe and walk away from? No way.

He saw the tire iron less than half a dozen feet away. Yeah. No funny stuff this time, no surprise moves. This time he'll wish—for the last two seconds of his life—that he'd finished him when he had the chance.

Jeremy pushed himself up from the pavement and—

His knee—a bolt of lightning shot through it again. He'd forgotten about his goddamn knee.

He wasn't going nowhere.

As he rubbed the swollen joint he stared at the tire iron he'd never reach and at the retreating figure of the mystery man who still hadn't looked back. He wanted to scream.

And then he heard running footsteps and Dawn's voice coming up behind him.

"Ohmygod! Ohmygod! Did he hurt you?"

He felt like such a jerk. How the hell was he going to spin this?

Jack noticed his hand still shaking as he went to fit the car key in the ignition.

He'd forced himself to walk away from a living, breathing Jeremy Bolton—an act that ranked near the top of his Hardest-Things-I've-Ever-Done list—and leave the scene.

Alibi or no alibi, Jack was sure now that he'd killed Gerhard.

Every fiber of his self-preservation instinct had screamed to kill the son of a bitch and end it there, but a higher center had warned that he was too exposed, that some concerned citizen might have seen all or part of the attack from a window or across the street and called 911. Witness accounts of who was the aggressor would depend on when they'd tuned in. If they missed Bolton swinging for the fence with his tire iron, then Jack would be listed as the assaulter instead of the assaultee. But even if not, Jack wanted no part in a police report.

The cautious end of his brain had also reminded him of the agency behind Creighton that would come looking for him.

So he'd walked away, fighting head-to-toe adrenaline shakes as he forced himself to maintain a cool saunter. No worry about Bolton sneaking up behind him on that knee—his sneaking days were over for a while. When Jack had reached the corner, he'd trotted for his car. He'd parked it well out of sight of Work.

He turned the key and pulled out, moving away from the area.

When he'd left Work he'd spotted Jeremy out of the corner of his eye, crossing the street as he came his way. The fact that he hadn't called out, and the way he was holding his right arm tight against his side, told Jack that something was up, something not good.

So he'd listened to Bolton coming up behind him—those cowboy boots weren't built for stealth—and made his move when he heard a sudden increase in footsteps.

Jack had been surprised at first at how fast Bolton folded, but thinking about it now he realized he should have expected it. Bolton had been locked up since his late teens. Whatever street smarts he might have had were long atrophied. And life at Creighton had weakened them further. While the place's maximum security lockup wasn't exactly a country club, it was a long, long way from hard time. Even if Bolton had worked out—and it looked like he had—strength wasn't enough in a fight. His oDNA might make him mean but it didn't make him fast or tough or smart. He'd folded like a cheap lawn chair.

But that wasn't the most striking thing about the encounter.

don't know your real name but I know it ain't Joe Henry and it ain't John Robertson
…

The words echoed silently through the car. How had Bolton heard the name John Robertson? Certainly not from Jack, so that left only two other possibilities: Levy and Vecca.

But right now he was worried more about Christy.

After putting about a mile between himself and Bolton he tried Christy's numbers again, and again got no answer. He didn't feel right leaving town without at least going over to check on her place. No reason anymore to stay away—his role as Bolton's new video gamer friend was dead.

He had Christy's address but these streets were confusing as hell. She lived on 68th Drive, but that ran parallel and next to 68th Road which ran next to 68th Avenue. Finally he found it—a decent-size, older, well-kept, stucco-walled house with high-peaked gables and an attached two-car garage. Worth a gorgeous penny.

No lights on inside. Not encouraging. He pulled into the driveway, got out, and went to the front door. He rang the bell three times and used the brass knocker between rings.

No answer.

A vision of Christy lying dead or close to it inside began to form.

One more place to check. He'd noticed that the two-car garage had small windows placed high in the metal doors, too high to look through. He walked around the back and found a double-hung window into the garage. His pen-light revealed that it was empty.

Relieved, he returned to his car. If her Mercedes had been there he would have felt obligated to break in for a look-see. Its absence made it most likely that she was at rehearsal with her phone off.

He headed for Manhattan. She'd have to wait till tomorrow to learn the truth about the father of her grandchild.

Looking on the bright side, Jack had just been given a reprieve of sorts.