In the Blood (6 page)

Chapter Nineteen

The police leave, and Mom disappears back upstairs without even talking any more about it.

I check to make sure Amy’s still okay and head to the garage. My bolt hole. It’s where I go to clear my head and work on the classic car left to me by my grandfather in his will. My most treasured possession, a 1960, dark red metallic Buick.

Leaning against the car, I draw in some deep breaths. It feels like there’s this huge weight on my shoulders, and the pressure bearing down on me is intense. Of course, in my head, I know I have to go and see him. Those other families deserve to find out about their children.

But… BUT… My heart tells me different. To ask me to sit across from that man. My dad. The monster. Who’s worse than an animal. To ask me to do that, I just don’t know whether I physically can. It was okay when I was just
thinking
about speaking to him to find out why he did it, but now that it’s actually got to happen… That’s a whole new ball game.

I pull my cell from my pocket and text Summer. The one person in this world I can talk to. And yet all the time I debate with myself about putting some distance between us. To save her the embarrassment of being associated with me.

Meet me in the garage.

In less than a minute, I hear her light footsteps as she runs up the path and into the side door leading to the garage. My breath catches in the back of my throat as she comes into view.

“Hey,” she says, the bright smile on her face freezing as she catches sight of me. “What’s wrong?”

My heart leaps when I see the concern on her face. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for things to be different, to see if there’s any hope of getting together with her.

“The police came by. They want me to go and visit Dad in prison later today.”

“Noooooooooo! Why? What did you say?” she asks, the words tumbling out of her mouth at ninety miles an hour. She reaches out and touches me on the arm, and a feeling of warmth courses through my veins.

“Off the record, he said he’d consider pleading guilty, and he may be able to tell them where some other children are if I go and see him. But the attorney is adamant that he hasn’t officially changed his plea and is only suggesting this stuff as a way to see his kid. Shit, Summer. I said I’d think about it, but what choice do I have?”

The color drains from her face, and she slowly shakes her head from side to side. I feel guilty now for telling her. It would’ve been better if she didn’t know everything.

“That’s awful. Has he actually admitted it then? Because surely if he has then they can use that as evidence.”

“No, he hasn’t admitted it.
Implied
is the word the police used. Which is why they want me to go.”

“What did your mom say?”

“Nothing. Surprise, surprise. She said it’s up to me. It’s freaking me out.”

So many thoughts are whizzing through my mind. What questions should I ask him? Or should I not ask questions and just let him talk? Even if he does tell me all about what he’s done, is it gonna help? Do I
really
want to hear all about how he abused those poor defenseless boys? How he murdered them? Is he going to tell me that letting them die in the end was a moment of compassion? Or what if he says he relished seeing the instant their last breath left their tiny bodies? That he got off on that, too. Do I
really
want to know?

I used to think I did, so I could understand more. But, you know, I don’t. It won’t change anything, other than give me the grossest of nightmares.

“You have to try and distance yourself, if you get what I mean. Go in there, but pretend it’s not you and that you’re an objective observer. That’s what I do when I have to do something I don’t want to. Like going to the dentist.” Her hand shoots up to her mouth. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to compare what you’ve got to do with going to the dentist. I was just trying to explain what I meant.”

She makes it seem so simple. And, for her, it probably is. Everything’s so uncomplicated in her world. She has bad days and problems just like everyone else, but she chooses to focus on the bright side of things. Glass-half-full and all that. And her problems are nothing like
this
. She’s not tormented by the sort of crazy thoughts I have. And why would she be? On the scale of things, I’d say her life was pretty damn perfect.

“I know what you mean. And that’s a good idea. But it won’t be easy.”

Which has to be the understatement of the year. How can I sit opposite my father, totally divorce myself from everything horrific he’s done and the sixteen years we had together before his past caught up with him?

“I wish I could go with you, but I’ve arranged to babysit Dawson while his mom goes out. And I can’t really let her down; sorry.”

Some support would’ve been nice. Someone to talk to about it. But I guess that’s not gonna happen now. And I can’t expect Summer to cancel looking after Dawson. It’s money in her pocket, and I can manage on my own.

“That’s okay. The police might not let you come with us, anyway.” I shrug.

Which reminds me, I guess I’d better phone the detective and get it over with. The sooner the better, or it’ll only play on my mind. And there’s enough shit in there at the moment without adding to it.

“Call me as soon as you get back.”

She touches me on the arm, and I start. I then move my whole body, so she doesn’t think that her touch repelled me or something. Which, of course, it didn’t. Far from it. Every time we touch, it’s like fireworks exploding in my brain. And I’d do anything for that feeling to stay with me forever. But it can’t, because I’m the son of a pedophile and she deserves better than to be with someone like that.

“Will do.”

Chapter Twenty

I glance out the window and see Detective Spalding striding along the sidewalk and turning into our driveway. Mom has to go with me to the prison because I’m not eighteen. She wasn’t happy about it, saying that someone had to look after Amy, but Summer offered to have her while she was babysitting Dawson.

“Hi, Jed,” Spalding says as I open the door for him. “Are you ready?”

That’s debatable, seeing as I’ve wavered between going and not going at least twenty times in the last thirty minutes.

“I am, and Mom won’t be long. Do you want to come inside?”

I’m numb with fear at the thought of what’s gonna happen. Not because I’m scared of seeing Dad. But I am scared of hearing stuff about what he’s done to other children. I don’t know how it’s gonna affect me. Which I know is pathetic. It’s not like I’m directly affected by it. Not like the families of his victims.

“Sure, thanks. I want to go through the procedure with both of you before we leave.”

After sitting in silence for five minutes, Mom finally walks into the living room. At least she’s not wearing her usual track pants and tee. She’s sort of made an effort, though her skirt has a black mark on the front.
Old Mom
would’ve rather walked across hot coals than go out with a stain on her clothes.

“Hello, Mrs. Franklin,” Spalding says, standing up. “We just need to go through a couple of things and then we can go.”

“Fine,” Mom says.

Could she be any more blasé about it? You’d think he was giving her a shopping list.

“Firstly, Jed, you’ll be on your own with your father, but don’t worry because your mom and I will be watching and listening from outside.”

“Like a two-way mirror?” I ask, trying to sound calm and in control.

I look at Mom, but her face is giving nothing away. How’s it gonna be for her, I wonder, seeing Dad for the first time since it all happened? Surely she must think something about it.

“Yes, that’s right. Secondly, if you’re comfortable doing so, there are a couple of questions I’d like you to ask him.”

In case Dad recants and won’t keep his side of the bargain, I suppose, then at least they could use my visit as evidence.

“I guess. It depends on the questions.”

No way am I going to start asking for explicit details. The postmortems on the boys should have told them everything they need to know. Science is so advanced now, there’s nothing that will go unchecked.

“We’d like you to ask him outright why he did what he did.”

Yeah, well that’s something we all want to know. Though he’ll probably say that he doesn’t know, or something inside made him do it. In my pedophile research, I read a lot of case studies and, when interviewed, the pedophiles all said things similar to that.

“So you can use it as an admission of guilt?” I ask, thinking that they must have an ulterior motive for me asking.

“It will make the case more solid if we have a record of him admitting it to you,” Spalding replies nodding.

“Okay. I can do that.” I think. “What else?”

Spalding hesitates. “He’s likely to be more open with you than us, so if you could ask how many more victims there are and get any details of their whereabouts, that would be a great help.”

A
great help.
This isn’t school and I’m handing out books for the teacher. This is fucking serious. I don’t know what Spalding’s game is. Is he trying to play it down so I don’t worry? Or is this just another case for him and he’s grateful for a bit of
help
?

“What makes you think he’ll tell me?”

“He asked to see you, which is a good start.”

Whatever. I feel like a pawn in a giant chess game being controlled by some force on high. What they’re asking me to do isn’t right. It’s not. Someone should be stopping this.

I glance across at Mom, but it’s like she’s not even listening to what he’s saying. She’s too busy smoothing out the nonexistent creases in her skirt.

“I’m not sure. I’ll have to see what happens. Sorry. Can we go now? I want to get this over with.”

Chapter Twenty-one

As they unlock the interview room, a blast of cold air engulfs me and a shiver shoots down my spine. I swallow hard. The smell of stale sweat wafts over from where Dad’s sitting and assaults my nostrils, turning my stomach.

I keep my eyes focused on the stone floor, counting the cracks and trying to step over them. The door slams and locks behind me, causing me to jump. Approaching the table, I force myself to look up. My inside’s in knots. I know it’s Dad; he has the same face, the same hair. But it’s like he’s shrunk into himself. In court, I saw he was a lot thinner, but being up close to him, it’s even worse. His eyes are sunken into his head, and his complexion is yellowish with several pimples across his chin. Who is this man?

I toss a glance over my shoulder at the locked door, and panic washes over me. Shit, I can’t do this. Beads of perspiration form on my forehead and my hands are really clammy. I’ve gotta get out of here. I don’t know what to say. It’s not fair. Why am I being put through this?

“Hello, Jed,” he says quietly as I turn to look in his direction, his voice devoid of any emotion.

My breathing is labored, but I fight against it and force myself to inhale deeply and calm down. I’m here now, I’ve promised to do it. People are depending on me.

“Dad.”

I pull out the chair and sit opposite him. He reaches out to touch my arm, which is resting on the table, but I quickly pull it away. Touching wasn’t part of the deal. The thought of it makes my skin crawl.

“How are your mom and Amy?”

I shrug.

“And you?” he adds.

I shrug.

I can’t do it. Panic bubbles in the pit of my stomach. This is freakin’ crazy. How can I sit across from such a disgusting monster and make polite conversation? I can’t. I just can’t.

You can
, says a voice in my head.
Remember what Summer said about distancing yourself. You’re here to help other families. Concentrate on that.

“Why did you do it?” I blurt out.

The sooner I get this over with, the sooner I can hightail it outta here.

His eyes glaze over. It’s like he’s not listening. Doesn’t want to listen.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he finally replies. “I want to know about you. How have you been? What’s happening in your life? What about Summer, you still sweet on her?”

What’s he playing at? The crazy fuck. Does he think I’m here to make small talk?

“You lost the right to be interested in my life the day we found out about you. So stop trying to be like a dad to me. Because you’re not. As far as I’m concerned, you’re dead to me. Do you hear me? D.E.A.D.” I bang my fist on the table.

My heart is pounding, and I start to shake. This isn’t what was meant to happen. I glance across to the window where I know Spalding and Mom are watching. Any minute now, someone will come in and take me out of here. And I’d have failed.

I pull in some deep breaths, all the time staring at him. He doesn’t seem at all fazed by my outburst. It’s like he expected it.

“Why, Dad? Why?” I say, forcing my voice to come out calm and restrained.

Just tell me
, I inwardly plead.
Tell me and then we can end this farce
. How can he really love me if he wants to put me through this? It’s like I’m part of one of his sick sadistic games.

“I couldn’t help it,” he says deliberately. “I knew it was wrong, but I couldn’t stop myself. That’s why, when I saw you in court, I knew we had to talk. There are so many things you have to know.
Need
to know. I had to fight my feelings for you when you were young. And it wasn’t easy. I wanted to. God knows I did, but I didn’t. Surely that’s got to count for something? I stopped myself. Unlike my father when I was a boy.”

My jaw drops, and I fall into myself, clutching my stomach. It’s like I’ve been sucker punched.

“What?” I whisper, my mouth so dry the word only just made it out.

I don’t believe what I’m hearing.

“When I was a boy…”

“Shut up. Just shut up. I heard you. Shut up.” I ram my hands over my ears, trying to block out the sound of his voice. Except I can’t, what he said is ringing around my head, over and over and over.

His father, my granddad, touched him. He wanted to touch me, and who knows what else. It’s sick. Sick and perverted. And I’m meant to sit here and listen to him telling me like he’s talking about the fucking weather.

“Jed, listen to me.” I hear the muffled sound of Dad’s voice, penetrating my defenses. “Try to understand. I love you. I left you alone.”

Left me alone!

I bang my hands on the table and glare at him. “Yes, and went for those other poor boys instead. What are you saying, Dad? That because you didn’t go after me you had to go for the other children? That it’s all my fault? Is that what you’re saying? Is it?”

My whole body shakes it’s so tense, and my voice sounds about three tones higher than normal. Like it belongs to someone else.

“No, it’s not like that. What I did wasn’t your fault. I just want you to try and understand what it was like for me.”

He rests his head in his hands. What does that mean? Is it an admission of guilt? That the police can use? Finally he glances up, a look of resignation on his face.

“Enough,” I say, standing up and pushing against the table, causing my chair to go flying. I run to the door and thump it. “Get me out of here,” I shout.