Blood of My Blood (11 page)

“You’re sort of like Superman,” Connie said.

Her father laughed for the first time in what seemed to Connie to have been a very, very long time. “I
am
Superman!” he said, and briefly struck the classic fists-on-hips pose before bestowing a soft kiss on her forehead and leaving the room.

Howie opened his eyes to the stark realization that he had inadvertently lied to G. William.

“Oh, man,” he muttered to himself, “I’m a dummy, I’m a dummy, I’m such a dummy.…” He grabbed his cell phone. There was a text from Jazz—hallelujah!—but he skipped it for now to call the sheriff’s office.

“Hey, G-Dub!” he said as brightly as he could muster. “Totes forgot to tell you something when you were here. You dumped my texts after I left your office, but Connie texted me hours later. An address in New York and the words
bell, guns, Eliot Ness
.”

He held the phone away from his ear as G. William screamed and cursed.

“I totally hear you, Sheriff, but you were busy yelling at me and then my parents got here and then—”

Held the phone away again. For a fat guy, G. William sure could sustain a
long
burst of screaming and yelling.

“Well, I hope this helps. Later!” He hung up and held his phone at arm’s length, squinting at the screen, waiting for it to light up with the sheriff’s office phone number. When that didn’t happen, he finally relaxed and checked Jazz’s text.

hospital? you ok? you still there? what’s going on?

What’s going on? Ha! Not enough texts in the world could explain that. He decided to keep it simple:

yeah still in hospital but leaving soon. where you at?

A moment later:
Believe it or not, in the hospital, too
.

Howie boggled at his phone. Didn’t Jazz know that
he
was the one who was supposed to end up in hospitals? Jazz was horning in on his jam. Not cool.

Joking, he texted back,
what happened, you get shot or something?

Yeah. By an FBI agent. It’s a long story
.

What the hell?

you ok?

Technically, yes. They say I’ll be fine. But I’m also under
arrest and I don’t think they know I have my phone, so I don’t know how long I’ll be able to talk to you
.

Howie stared at the screen. Just when he thought his life couldn’t get weirder, more dangerous, or more complicated, trust Jazz to throw bullets and bedpans into the mix.

dude you owe me many many tattoos at this point

dude you owe me many many tattoos at this point

Jazz fumbled with his phone as the door to his room opened.

Connie’s father.

Connie’s
father
.

What the hell was
he
doing in New York—

Oh, God. If they found Connie’s body, they would have called him. That’s why
…

“What are you doing here? What’s going on? Is Connie—” He sat up too quickly. The handcuff tugged him back, cutting into his wrist and his words.

The door swung shut, and Mr. Hall stood far back from the bed, his arms crossed over his chest. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t see that phone,” he said, “but if the police ask me if you have one, I’ll have to tell them, even though I’m your lawyer.”

“My lawyer?” Jazz tucked the phone under his sheet. He still didn’t know what Mr. Hall was here for, but the fact that
Connie’s father hadn’t begun strangling him indicated that he wasn’t in New York to identify her body. He didn’t know which was worse—Connie found dead or Connie still in Billy’s clutches. If the former, her torment was over. If the latter, she could still be saved. Maybe.

“You’re in a lot of trouble,” Mr. Hall said. “The NYPD thinks you killed an FBI agent and a serial killer suspect.”

“Trust me, forensics will bear me out on this. My fingerprints are nowhere on any of the murder weapons. And I was shot.”

“Which could have happened while you were killing someone else. And the lack of evidence will actually be used
against
you—they’ll point out that your father taught you how to throw off the police. All a jury will see is a kid, raised by a monster, who finally snapped.”

Good point. Wasn’t that exactly why Jazz had begun looking for the Impressionist back in Lobo’s Nod? To prove to the world that it wasn’t him? And you only need to prove that if people already think it’s you in the first place. For the son of Billy Dent, “guilty until proven innocent” was more likely than not. He had no witnesses to speak for him—only complicated forensic evidence that a jury of twelve morons would overlook in favor of kicking the apple that didn’t fall far from the tree. He also had no money to speak of, certainly not enough to hire the kind of lawyer he would need to defend himself. He would be stuck with an overworked legal aid attorney.

“What do we do?” he asked quietly. “Don’t I have to pay you if you’re my lawyer?”

“I can’t lie to you—I don’t usually litigate. And I’m not licensed to practice in New York, so there’s not much I can do right now. But I can keep the cops from hassling you until we get you a New York lawyer. Don’t talk to them, okay?”

Not a problem. One thing about being Billy Dent’s son—you learned not to talk to cops.

“I’m one floor down with Connie,” Mr. Hall said, “but I’ll check in on you as much as I can.”

Jazz shot up in bed, handcuff be damned. “
What
did you say? Connie’s
here
? Is she okay? I need to see her.” It was entirely possible that she was all right physically, but that Billy had done something to her psychologically that no one would notice. “I need to see her right now.”

Mr. Hall harrumphed and shook his head. “Jasper, understand me and believe me when I tell you this: You will never, ever see my daughter again.”

Eventually, Jazz dozed. As the light outside his window turned to twilight and as the relief of hearing Connie was alive eroded his adrenaline rush, the boredom of being stuck in this room alone swaddled him with sleep, and he drifted off.

—
touch
—

This time, it was the sex dream.

—
his hand runs up
—

The cutting dream was on hiatus. He didn’t need it anymore. He knew now that it wasn’t merely a dream—it was a memory. As a child, he had taken a knife and he had sliced
into the flesh of another human being. The sensation of trying to cut his own leg open to dig out the bullet had confirmed it.

Oh, yes, you know—

Then what did the sex dream mean? If the cutting dream turned out to be real, then what did the sex dream mean and who had—

The vibration of his phone startled him from his slumber. He jerked as he woke, once again yanking hard against the handcuff that held him fast to the bed. The pain shivered up his arm.

It was nearly eight o’clock at night. Caller ID showed
HOWIE
.

“You alone?” Howie asked, his voice low.

“Yeah. You?”

“Yeah. My parents are gonna be here soon to take me home, so I figured we better do this now because once I’m in the house, they’re gonna be on me like the fifty tattoos you owe me.”

“Fifty’s a little much.” Jazz glanced at the door. He was certain there was a cop stationed there; Hughes wouldn’t be stupid enough not to have a guard posted. He dropped his voice to a whisper and turned as best the handcuff would allow, showing his back to the door.

“I want a tattoo that just says ‘tattoo,’ ” Howie went on. “It’s a meta thing. Very postmodern. Avant-garde. I don’t expect you to understand. Anyway, hang on a sec.” Jazz heard a clicking sound. A moment later: “You still there, Jazz?”

“Yeah.”

“We’re all in the hospital at the same time. What are the odds? Okay, I’m conferencing in—”

“Jazz!”

It was Connie’s voice. It was the sweetest, sweetest thing Jazz had ever heard in his life. Until that moment, he had imagined her in an ICU or on an operating table, fighting for her life after the depredations Billy had unleashed upon her. Tears surprised him, and he dabbed at his eyes with the corner of the sheet.

He wanted to shout. He longed to scream his joy at her voice until his elation filled every last cubic inch of space in the hospital.

Instead, he forced himself to keep his voice to a whisper: “Are you okay? What did he do to you?”

“Nothing. Well, not nothing, but I got away.”

“You fought off Billy?” He didn’t mean to sound disbelieving, but he actually couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe that Billy would let Connie go, no matter what it took.

“I messed up, Jazz.” Connie’s voice broke into sobs. “I was stupid. I was trying to help you and I came to New York and—”

“Hey, look, guys,” Howie interrupted, “Connie’s dad could come back soon. We don’t have much time. Let’s figure out what’s going on, and keep it quick.”

They tried, but it proved impossible. Too much had happened since the last time they spoke to one another.

Jazz explained to them about the Hat-Dog Killer and the game of serial killer Monopoly. About tracing Belsamo to the storage unit and everything that had happened there.

About his mother being alive.

“I know,” Connie said. “I met her.”

Jazz could not have been more surprised had Connie announced she was pregnant with Howie’s love child.

“I can’t believe this,” Jazz said. “Howie? You still on?”

“Yeah, sorry, I was just trying to figure out the actual odds of us all being in the hospital at the same time.”

“Howie!”

“What? It’s weird!”

“What’s going on down there in the Nod? With Gramma and Aunt Sam?”

“Yeah, about that… Your grandmother’s doing okay in the hospital. Sam is gone.”

“Gone?”

He listened as Howie recounted his night at Gramma’s house. Then, with a little backtracking and some help from Howie, Connie recounted what she’d been up to in Lobo’s Nod and her trip back to New York. Jazz’s relief at her safety flopped in and out of his heart, alternating with his terror at what she’d endured at Billy’s hands and his complete outrage at the danger she’d blithely walked into.

“It was so stupid,” she said, “and I know it was. But there was the picture of you, Jazz. And I couldn’t bear the idea of him hurting you. You get it, right?” There was a thick cast of concern and love and self-recrimination in her voice, and not for the first time, Jazz knew exactly how undeservedly lucky he was. “After the Impressionist and after helping out in New York, I just thought… I don’t know. I thought I could contribute and it was
you
and…” She trailed off, and the three of them said nothing for a while.

“I’m so glad you’re going to be okay,” Jazz whispered at last.

“Tell him the rest of it,” Howie said. “What you found when you dug up his old backyard.”

“Oh, right. What was in the box?” Jazz asked.

And Connie told him. The childhood photos. The plastic toy.

The birth certificate.

Jazz couldn’t breathe for a moment. His mouth opened and closed like a fish lacking water. “It’s not true,” he managed at last. “It’s a fake.”

“Howie can text it to you. It looks real, Jazz.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jazz said. The moment the words came out, he knew they were true. He had been raised by Billy. Taught. Indoctrinated.

But what if it’s not in my DNA? What if I’m not damned by my own blood?

Yeah, what if? Then all that means is that Billy was able to conquer nature. He opened up my head and dumped his crazy in there. I’m not sure which is worse—being born to it or learning it
.

“It makes no difference,” he said again. “We’re not talking about it anymore. It doesn’t matter.”

Connie and Howie gave him a moment. “Jazz…” Connie began.

“Seriously. Not talking about it. Tell me about this bell and the stuff you found at JFK.”

With his eyes closed, he could see Connie pursing her lips and nodding in studied, resigned frustration at his obstinance. “It was some kind of code,” she said. “There was the
bell and the gun at JFK. And then this picture of Kevin Costner, believe it or not, as an FBI agent, and the place where he was hiding was near this place called Ness—”

Jazz nearly choked. “Dude, you all right?” Howie asked, panicked. Connie chimed in, just as concerned: “Jazz? Jazz, are you still there?”

“You’re sure about all that?” he asked. “A bell, a gun, and Ness?”

“Yeah. But what—”

Jazz leaned back on the pillow. It was just the kind of sick joke Billy would play. “Bell. Gun. Ness,” he said.

“Right,” Connie said slowly. “Does it mean something?”

“It’s a name. Not
bell
and
gun
and
Ness
. A name. Belle Gunness.”

“I don’t get it,” Howie said. “Was she a friend of your dad’s or—”

“She was a serial killer,” Jazz told them. “One of history’s rare female serial killers. Over a hundred years ago.”

Silence on the line again. Jazz didn’t want to say the next thing, the obvious thing.

“Then that means your aunt Samantha…”

“There’s a reason she’s disappeared,” Jazz said. He didn’t want to say what came next, because somehow saying it made it real. But he had no choice: “Aunt Sam is Ugly J.”

The antibiotic IV was nearly empty. The saline drip was a newer bag.

Jazz pulled the antibiotic first, easing the needle out of his arm with care. The millimeters of metal slipping through his flesh felt like yards. But after Billy’s suturing of his leg, he could handle it.

A couple of hours ago, a nurse had come by to remove the drain in his leg. He could bend it, and the pain was much, much less than he’d feared. He sensed he would have a limp, but all that mattered right now was that the leg worked.

He had to get out of here, handcuff notwithstanding.

Hughes thought he’d killed Morales. Or had at least been involved somehow. And who could blame him? Hughes had known Jazz a total of four days, and in those days Jazz had nonchalantly broken into someone’s apartment, stolen private property, and disobeyed any number of requests from the police. Top that off with a couple of bodies in a storage unit, and
of course
Hughes thought he was responsible for Morales’s death.

Then there was the more disturbing fact of the matter: Namely, that Jazz
was
responsible for Morales’s death.

You’re gonna be the death of that FBI agent, Jasper. I promise you that
.

Just as Billy had predicted.

You’ll watch her die
.

Hughes had told Jazz to back off on his Hat-Dog theory. He’d expressly and explicitly told Jazz to do nothing, in effect sending him to his (hotel) room while Hughes himself tried to figure out what to do with the illegally obtained evidence Jazz had procured. But Jazz had ignored that command, had gone to the FBI agent with a towering hard-on
for Billy Dent, and had persuaded her to join him on a jaunt to unit 83F.