Blood of My Blood (6 page)

Howie tried his best, most dashing smile on G. William, but the sheriff was having none of it. He planted himself with a solid thud on a chair next to Howie’s bed and glared intimidatingly enough that Howie forgot the joke he was about to crack.

“It’s one thing for Jasper to go gallivanting all over God’s creation like some kind of idiot, but it’s gonna get you killed one of these days, Howie.”

“Probably when my parents get here.”

G. William snorted an unamused blast of air from that misshapen nose of his. “You think your parents are what you have to worry about? Your biggest concern is sitting right in front of you.”

“What do you mean? I didn’t do anything!”

“You have a funny definition of ‘didn’t do anything.’ Since I saw you last, you went to see a person who you claimed could be a serial killer. You got a senior citizen in the hospital. And, oh, yeah, you warned Connie that I was onto her.
That’s right, Howie—I dumped your phone records, including your texts, right after you left my office. Was ‘go ghosty’ supposed to be some kind of clever code that a dumb hick like me couldn’t break?”

Ah, man. G. William was onto them. “Pretty sure you violated my right to privacy or something by doing that,” he said, but his heart wasn’t in it.

“Don’t act as stupid as you look, Howie. It doesn’t suit you.” G. William leaned in close. “And now—because of you—Connie’s gone missing. We can’t find her. She took your advice and vanished.”

Howie grunted and turned away from G. William. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Where did she go, Howie? This isn’t a game. She could be in a lot of trouble. If she gets hurt, it’s on your head.”

Great. Just what I need. Already have Gramma on my conscience, so now we have to add Connie, too?

“I don’t know anything,” he said quietly, pretending to be captivated by the drip-drop of the IV fluids in his line. “I don’t know where she went, other than to New York.”

“Look me in the eye, Howie.”

Reluctantly, Howie returned his attention to the sheriff. “I really don’t know, G. William. All I know is that the guy on the phone told her to go to terminal four at JFK. We don’t know why.”

G. William nodded thoughtfully for a moment, then fiddled with his smartphone, texting. “That’s a bit more than we had before. I’ll let the NYPD and JFK security folks know.”

“What’s the deal with Gramma?” Howie asked. “And Sam. Where’s she?”

“Jazz’s grandmother is in the ICU. She’s in rough shape, Howie. I’m not gonna lie to you. She had a scare, and with a heart as weak as hers, that’s bad, but the blow to the head…” He shrugged. “They’re doing their best. They think she’ll pull through, but when you’re that old and frail, even the best doctor’s opinion is just a guess.”

“What about Sam?” Howie asked quietly, absorbing the news about Gramma.

“The one you think is Billy Dent’s partner? The woman none of us knows a damn thing about? That one?”

“Get out. Now.”

The new voice was familiar—too familiar. Howie groaned at the sound of his mother, brittle and strong at the same time.

“Mrs. Gersten,” G. William said politely, rising from the chair and tipping his hat. “Sorry we have to meet under these circumstances again.”

“I said, ‘Get out,’ Sheriff. Howie is a minor.”

“You can’t question him without us present,” Dad said. “And we’re not consenting.”

“Your son is a material witness to a—”

“Get out!” Mom shrieked at the top of her lungs, and Howie winced.

“Mom, be cool.”

“I will not ‘be cool.’ And if you ever go near that Dent boy again, I will—”

“I’m almost eighteen. You can’t—”

“We’re not talking about this in front of the sheriff,” Dad interrupted, then turned to G. William. “If you have more questions, you can wait until I get a lawyer in here.”

G. William shuffled to the door, stepping aside to let Howie’s parents move past him to the bed. “I guess I have enough for now. Thanks for your help, Howie.”

Just outside the door, he paused, holding it open long enough to peer back into the room. “By the way, Howie—that person you were asking about?”

Howie nodded.

“Well, she’s gone,” G. William said. “Wasn’t at the house when the EMTs got there. She just up and vanished.”

A chill ran down Howie’s spine as the door slowly swung shut and he was left alone with his parents.

Duncan Hershey did not anticipate taking any pleasure in killing his wife and children. It was just something he would have to do. Now that he had won the game and ascended past the pathetic Dog to the ranks of the Crows, the Hat Killer was ready to take his next step.

There would be a new name. A new town. Fresh new women to take, to possess, to reduce to nothing.

But first he had to erase his old life. That was the plan. His wife and children had, for a time, served their purpose. They had made him appear human and, therefore, less suspicious. But now they dragged at him, like a parachute caught in the wind. They held him back.

The sooner done, the better. While he longed to take his time and give each of them the personal touch, he knew that a horribly murdered wife and children would only cast suspicion on the missing, surviving father. It was always the way. The world always blamed men, when it was truly the women
who were at fault. The women, who held themselves back and above. The women, who tempted and taunted.

So Hershey planned a meticulous tragedy involving the apartment’s gas stove. It was possible that people in the apartment below might meet their end as well—he was unsure exactly how big the explosion would be—but the collateral damage would make the “accident” more believable.

And how sad for the father, who happened to be out at the moment of the explosion. Oh, the media would fete him for his stoicism afterward. And when he chose to leave town, to disappear, well… Who could blame him?
Poor man. To lose his whole family like that… I would leave town, too
.

Hershey would vanish. Then reappear where least expected, like the best of magicians.

And then the killing. The sweet, sweet killing!

The plan was perfect. Hershey’s new life as a Crow would be perfect. Only one thing stood in his way.

Billy Dent.

Hershey sat at his kitchen table, staring at the knobs on the stove, the unturned knobs. His plan had been devised months ago and took little to put into action. But he’d been told not to. He’d been told to do nothing, to kill no one.

By Billy Dent.

It was past midnight. Down the hall, his wife slept. His children slept. Sleep and death were cousins, after a fashion, and it galled the Hat Killer that his family cozied up to one and not the other this night. Who was Billy Dent to tell him not to kill? Billy Dent had come late to the game, which had begun the previous summer, run by Ugly J. The Hat Killer
had not liked Ugly J, of course. Ugly J was too lax. And there was a lilting, laughing tone to Ugly J’s voice that Hershey despised. It made him want to reach through the telephone and pull Ugly J to him and begin sloughing off flesh with a sharp knife, whittling down through the muscle, all the way down to the bone, his work’s soundtrack the sweet and innocent screams of someone being tortured. Such music.

But at least Ugly J had made some sort of sense. Roll of the dice and a number, and then “Bring proof” and “Now we accelerate.” Sensible. Rules.

Then, suddenly, Billy Dent had begun calling in the dice rolls. Arrogant and commanding. Demanding. Insisting on side games.

WELCOME TO THE GAME, JASPER
.

Hat had added that sentence to the woman left on the S line at Billy Dent’s decree, writing it in lipstick across her dead and sagging breasts. Written it.
Written it
. Leaving a handwriting sample for the police. An insidious and stupid order, but Hat had followed, had played the game to its conclusion.

It wasn’t his fault that Dent’s son had showed up with the FBI agent.

A fog had come over Hat in the storage unit. He’d lusted for Jasper Dent’s death. Yearned for it.

He did not care for killing men. Men meant nothing to him. They were worthless since they allowed themselves to be controlled by women.

But Jasper Dent…

To kill the son of Billy Dent. To kill the child of the man
who had taken over the game and made Hat’s victory riskier and more difficult…

Had Ugly J still been his usual contact, he would have killed the Dent boy without a second thought. But Billy Dent was not to be trusted. He was mercurial.

And so he’d done the best he could—left the Dent boy alive but where he could not alert the police. Then he’d contacted Billy, and Billy had…

Hat gritted his teeth and stared down. He realized that he was standing, no longer at the table, but now looming over the stove, his right hand already on one of the knobs.

Billy had told him to kill no one.

To kill no one!

Didn’t Billy know how impossible that was? Might as well tell the lion not to eat the gazelle! Tell the Venus flytrap to let the bug go.

Hershey bristled. One Crow should not tell another not to kill! And Hershey was a Crow now. He’d won the game. He’d ascended. Billy Dent was not the Crow King, and even the Crow King should not—

There was a knock at the door.

Billy grinned as the door opened and he beheld, for the first time, Duncan Hershey, one-half of the Hat-Dog Killer.

“Evenin’, Duncan,” he said.

Hershey scowled as he ushered Billy inside. “It’s technically morning,” he said with an air of annoyed officiousness.
“It’s past midnight. Long past midnight.” A pause. Then, whispered: “They should have been dead already.”

They were in a short, narrow vestibule. No room for maneuvering. Hat blocked the way farther into the apartment, which was just fine by Billy.

Billy clapped a hand on Hat’s shoulder. “I understand your dilemma. But I’m here to resolve it for you.”

“I don’t need your help. I have a plan.”

“I’m sure you do. But then you shot my son and left him bleeding where no one could help him. So your plan comes after mine, you see?”

“Ugly J said—”

“Yeah, well, I’m the one here.”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“Course not. You’re not smart enough to be afraid of me.”

And then Hat did exactly what Billy knew he would do, exactly what Billy had been waiting for: He pulled a big kitchen knife from behind his back and lunged at Billy with it.

It was a laughable attempt. Billy had seen it coming at least ten seconds before it happened. Hat had come to the door with both hands in full view, so as soon as he reached back with one, Billy knew what he was in for. It would have to be a knife, of course, because Hat wouldn’t want the noise of a gun.

Knives were easy. In the confined space of the vestibule, Hat couldn’t get in a good swing, so he had no choice but to jab at Billy’s midsection.

Billy was ready.

He didn’t even try to sidestep the blade. He chopped down hard with the edge of his hand, smashing into Hat’s knife hand with bone-shaking force. Hat yelped in pain; Billy, prepared for it, was silent.

The knife, propelled down, missed Billy’s gut, catching on his belt instead, cutting partially through before the blow to Hat’s hand numbed his fingers enough that he let go of it. Billy had a scratch on his belly, but no big deal.

The knife clattered to the floor. Billy’s hand was going numb, too, from the hit, but he didn’t need that hand. Not right now.

Before Hat could react, Billy threw up his forearm, lodging it at Hat’s throat, driving the man back a step until he fetched up against the wall. At the same moment, he drove his knee into Hat’s groin. Hat would have wailed in pain had Billy not been cutting off his air supply.

Hat’s one hand was useless. His other Billy met with his own good hand, pinning it to the wall. With his weight pressing against Hat, Billy had him completely off-balance and immobilized, all for the price of a belt.

“Hell, now, Duncan—you sure that’s your best play? You maybe want a do-over? Take another shot at old Billy?”

Hershey struggled against Billy. Billy jammed his knee a little higher against his balls. Hat’s face began turning purple.

“I only kill for, well, for pure reasons. I kill them what don’t matter, them what call to me, what summon me with their need for dyin’. I don’t kill for petty reasons. I don’t kill for hate. Or revenge. Nothing like that. You hearin’ me, Duncan?”

Hershey said nothing. His eyes had gone panicked. His lips burbled as Billy leaned harder on his windpipe.

“I guess what I’m trying to explain to you, Duncan, is that this ain’t bringin’ me no joy. This is like a football player runnin’ for the subway train, got it? A person doin’ what he’s good at for a really pedestrian reason. A really
insulting
reason.”

Hat’s eyes began to roll back. His nostrils flared, desperate for breath.

“And I suppose if I thought you cared for them, I would do your wife and your kids next. But I know you were lookin’ forward to that, so I’ll tell you what, high-and-mighty Hat Killer, high-and-mighty Crow: I’m gonna leave ’em alive. Just to piss you off. They’re gonna outlive you. How do you like that?”

Hat shuffled his feet, trying to get an angle that would allow him to push back. But he couldn’t find the right purchase. And he didn’t have any strength left, anyway, as his cells and muscles pleaded for more oxygen.

Billy wiggled a finger. “Hey, look at that! My hand’s comin’ back to life. Well, good. That means maybe this
will
be a little bit of fun after all.”