Blood of My Blood (15 page)

“Sorry,” he slurred. “Thought this was the men’s—”

He didn’t get to finish, because Jazz jabbed at him with the Taser, hoping that Ryan wouldn’t piss his pants when the voltage hit. Ryan’s whole body seized, and he went down in a satisfying heap.

Jazz locked the door and removed Hughes’s overcoat, then the hospital gown, standing naked over Ryan, who, groggy, now panicked and tried to move his frozen limbs.

“Don’t worry,” Jazz promised him, “I’m not going to take your virtue or anything.”

Moving swiftly, he tore the gown into strips and used them to gag Ryan. Then he used Finley’s handcuffs to fasten him to the pipe under the sink, maneuvering carefully in the confines of the restroom.

Once Ryan was secured, Jazz stripped off his clothes, leaving the poor guy the dignity of his skivvies at least. Ryan had, thankfully, not pissed himself—maybe the electricity clamped down on his urethra. Whatever the reason, Jazz was grateful that he wouldn’t have to explain away urine stains on the pants he’d already begun thinking of as his.

The clothes were a bit too big, but better too big than too small. He dressed in Ryan’s socks, shoes, pants, and shirt, then threw the overcoat back on over it all. He added Ryan’s cell to his collection and rummaged in his wallet for cash, discovering nearly a hundred bucks as well as learning that Ryan’s name was actually Mark.

“Sorry to do this,” Jazz said. “I would explain, but you’re
pretty drunk. Someone will eventually find you in here, so just hang tight.”

He paused, about to leave, when a thought occurred to him. Kneeling down, he set his cell phone on Ryan/Mark’s heaving, terrified chest. “You hold on to this, and I’ll trade it back for yours someday. Assuming I get out of this alive. If I don’t, well, keep it to make up for me stealing yours.”

Since the bathroom door opened inward, Jazz hooked his hand inside as he left, knocking the trash can over. It would make it harder for someone on the outside to open the door and give him a little more time.

He made sure that the bartender wasn’t looking his way. The TV was back to soccer already.

He threaded through the bar and slipped outside.

There was a ridiculously hot blond on Fox News blaming Congress and the mayor of New York for Billy Dent’s reign of terror. Those exact words—
BILLY DENT’S REIGN OF TERROR!
—flashed in a migraine-red box under her as she ranted.

Home from the hospital but confined by the Parental Annoying Authority Act to his bed for the time being, Howie couldn’t quite follow the logic. Still, the blond was hot, and when Howie muted the TV it was easy to pretend that he could lip-read her saying,
Howie, you are so dashing, what with your bruises and your stitches. I can feel my panties sliding right off me
.

Then again, Howie thought, maybe he shouldn’t bother checking out the talent. The last woman he’d wanted to give his heart and (more importantly) his loins to had turned out to be a serial killer.

She could have killed me as I lay on the floor, unconscious. I got lucky. Maybe she doesn’t kill men, just women.
I don’t know. I can’t figure out serial killers or women. Combine them and I got nothin’
.

He blinked as he realized that Jazz was on TV. Unmuting the TV, he heard:

“… after assaulting members of the NYPD. The younger Dent is believed to be armed and almost as dangerous as his father.…”

As he watched and realized that Jazz was on the run and wanted for a string of crimes, he decided that fame was a double-edged sword that probably shouldn’t be handled by hemophiliacs or their best friends.

“And let me just say this,” the commentator went on. “If New York City let its citizens carry firearms, we’d see the Dents either locked up or—better yet—dead already.”

Howie imagined the city of New York armed to the teeth, terrified neighbors blowing one another’s heads off as fear set imaginations afire and itchy trigger fingers on the highest alert. Sounded like the most moronic idea ever, and that was coming from a guy who’d put the moves on a serial killer.

He switched around the channels until he found one not in talking-heads mode, this one with a live feed from the hospital where Jazz and Connie had been admitted. A very pissed-off cop was giving what looked like an impromptu press conference.

“—including assault, robbery, battery, impersonating a police officer. And that’s just to start—”

Jazz was in big-time trouble. No question about it. Which could mean only one thing.

Howie sat up in bed and grabbed his phone from the nightstand. 3… 2… 1…

The phone rang. Caller ID said
MARK CULPEPPER
, but Howie wasn’t surprised at all to hear Jazz say, “We don’t have much time, Howie.”

“Mark Culpepper? Nice alias, Rambo.”

“Am I all over the news still?”

“You could say that.”

“Have they shut down the city yet?”

“Not so far as I can tell. Looks like mostly Brooklyn is on high alert.” As if on demand, a list of bullet points appeared on the TV, among them:
DENT WOUNDED, ON FOOT
and
BELIEVED TO BE CONFINED TO BROOKLYN
.

“Okay, that’s good. I managed to get to Manhattan. Let them look in Brooklyn all they want.”

“Do you even know the difference? What if they’re the same place?”

“We drove over a bridge. I recognized it from when Hughes took me to Manhattan.”

“Who’s we?” Howie was beginning to worry now—had Jazz gotten mixed up with Billy? Was he on the run with his dad for some reason?

“Gypsy cab. I think that’s what they call them. He was on duty all night. Hadn’t seen the news. I paid the guy a hundred bucks to get me to Manhattan, hidden under a blanket in the backseat. Told him it was a fraternity prank. Nice guy. Chatted with him. Passed the time. Got out right before the blockades went up.”

“So, now what?”

“Can’t tell you.”

“You wound me.”

“Well, you wound easily.”

“This is true. But come on—give me a clue. Let me help.”

“No. The cops will come to you eventually. It’s better if you can’t tell them anything.”

“I wouldn’t squeal on you.” Howie pouted, even though Jazz couldn’t see him.

“Yes, you would.”

“I totally would,” Howie admitted. “I’m weak. I lack character, Jazz. That’s my problem. That’s always been my problem. I blame my mother. For coddling me.” He thought for a second. “And I guess for carrying the hemophilia gene in the first place, too.”

“Save it for your shrink. I need you to do something for me. I’m going to call you later from a different phone.”

“So I am part of the plan?”

“Of course, you idiot. Do I ever do anything crazy or illegal without you?”

“I feel so much better now.”

“And Howie—whatever you do, you can’t tell Connie anything. Got it?”

“Scout’s honor.”

“You better not have your fingers crossed.”

Howie stared down at his free hand. He did, indeed, have his fingers crossed.

“Totally don’t,” he promised.

Now Jazz needed a woman.

Preferably, one old enough to have kids of her own. That meant the optimum level of maternal pity.

He watched several walk by from his position in a graffiti-stained doorway. Most were close to his age, college girls, traveling in clusters and pairs. Smart and safe. Good for them. He wasn’t interested in them, but maybe someone else was. Someone like his father. Safety in numbers was never a bad idea.

Even at this late hour, he spied one or two with children. Heading home after a late dinner with family, maybe. They were no good to him. He wanted someone old enough to have kids, but not actually with them. Women in the presence of their children were the deadliest of the species.

He knew he would need to compensate for his appearance. He was a male (bad), young (even worse), and tall and fit (worst of all). He needed to look as helpless and pathetic as possible.

And hope that anyone on the street at this hour hadn’t seen the news yet.

He spotted her at the end of the block, headed his way. Midthirties, from the look of her. Well dressed. A professional, coming home from a late night at the office. Perfect.

Jazz took a deep breath, reran his plan in his mind—
Measure twice
—and then dashed out into the street as though in a panic, looking behind him. Certain to emphasize his limp, he ran toward her, always checking over his shoulder. He made sure to “accidentally” trip and fall long before he got to her.

Sprawled on the sidewalk, he panted and heaved, then pushed himself up on his good knee and both hands, scanning around himself, a fox desperate to elude the hounds.

He was wondering if he would need to amp up the melodrama when he heard her:

“Are you all right?” she asked. She stood a good ways off, well out of his reach. Best possible decision on her part. She had one hand in her purse already. Cell phone? Maybe. Pepper spray? Possibly. Was pepper spray legal in New York? Jazz didn’t know, but he did know that he wanted to avoid a face full of the stuff. His day sucked enough already.

With a great show of agony, Jazz dragged his bad leg around and managed to sit up against a trash can. He scrubbed his face with both hands, as if wiping away tears.

“I need help,” he said as plaintively as he knew how. Still, she didn’t approach. Which was fine. He didn’t actually need her close to him.

“I’ll call an ambulance—”

“No!” Jazz said. He wanted to shout it but was afraid his raised voice would frighten her away. “Please. No ambulance. No cops. I just need to get away from him.”

Him
. The magic word. Jazz and the woman were now bound together by their mutual terror of an amorphous, unidentified, but very real male threat.

“Who?” she asked.

“It’s my father.” And that was the last true thing Jazz said to the woman.

With the press reporting rumors that Hat-Dog was dead or in custody, the already-cramped street around Brooklyn’s 76th Precinct was jammed with news vans, reporters, and citizens just desperate to know what the hell was going on. Even though it was nearly midnight by the time he returned to the precinct—having been interrogated and examined at the hospital like a victim—Hughes still discovered a sizable crowd on the street.

I’m with you
, Hughes thought as he pushed through.
I want to know what’s going on, too
.

Hat-Dog was dead. Hughes was certain of that, but proving it would be the work of many weeks. Knowing that Belsamo and Hershey had conspired to execute Hat-Dog’s victims was one thing; proving it to the satisfaction of the law was another.
Because Jasper Dent says so
wasn’t valid evidence in a court of law.

He finally bulled his way through the crowd to the door of the precinct, which was guarded by a uniform who nodded
and let him in. The din of the crowd abated only slightly once he was inside. He headed for the captain’s office.

Niles Montgomery wasn’t the sort to lose his temper—very calmly and with no bombast, he handed out orders to his lieutenants: Ramp up the bridge and tunnel patrols, widen the Billy Dent search parameters, stay alert. Hughes waited until the lieutenants had scampered off to do their captain’s bidding before clearing his throat.

“Don’t say a word.” Montgomery slid into his chair and sighed for what seemed to be an entire minute. “Just tell me you’re ready to announce the Hat-Dog stuff is over. It’ll take a little of the heat off.”

“I’m not ready to announce that yet.”

“Come on!” Montgomery slapped his desk blotter, the first sign of the toll the past couple of days had taken on him. “The kid predicted two killers, right? You’ve got two dead suspects, both of whom had access to the storage unit. Done deal.”

“Right. So I announce Hat-Dog is dead, and then another body shows up, and we look like we can’t take a dump without a map to the crapper.”

Montgomery chuckled, but it was hollow and grim. “Lou, do you honestly believe the Hat-Dog Killer is still alive and active?”

Hughes had to admit that he didn’t.

“Then put together a statement, and let’s turn down the heat the tiniest bit, okay? We have enough on our plates now with the Dents.”

“We’ve already missed the boat on that,” Hughes said
with all the confidence he could muster. “Trust me on that. I’m telling you, Jasper’s already out of the borough. We need to shut down Port Authority and the bridges out of Manhattan—”

“You think he has magic powers or something? He’s wounded. I thought this kid was a bumpkin from the sticks. What makes you think he even knows how to get
to
the city, much less get out?”

“He’s a bumpkin with the smarts of his dad. We need to use the Patriot Act to get access to the kid’s phone and e-mails, as well as the phones and e-mails of everyone he knows. The girlfriend. The people back in Lobo’s Nod. Maybe something leads us to a safe house.”

“Lou, this kid isn’t Osama bin Laden. He’s seventeen years old, and he’s injured and alone.”

“The Patriot Act is for terrorism. This kid’s got people terrified. We don’t know if he’s in cahoots with his dad or not, but it sure looks like it to me. I shouldn’t have to remind you that Morales is dead. We have multiple crime scenes and all kinds of craziness going on, and we can’t tell the good guys from the bad guys. Hell, maybe Belsamo and Hershey were innocent in all this. Maybe the Dents framed them.” He held up a hand to keep Montgomery from interrupting him again. “I don’t really believe that. But someone will put it out there. All I’m saying is this: We don’t know enough to feel confident that the Dent kid is innocent. I’m not saying we put him down like a dog, Cap. I’m saying we get him and hold him and sweat him for information. Meanwhile, CSI and the labs
do what they do. And when we have some actual information, then we can start seeing who we kick loose. Anything else is irresponsible. And dangerous.”

Montgomery sighed heavily and steepled his fingers before him, elbows on the desk.

Hughes pressed on: “At the very least, start tracking
my
phone. He took it with him. I’m giving you permission; you don’t need a warrant or anything.”

“Okay, yeah, let’s do that.” Montgomery picked up the phone on his desk, and just then a uniform barged in, breathless.

“Captain!” she shouted, completely unnecessarily. “We have a lead on Dent!”

The lead was on Jasper Dent, not Billy, but Hughes would take it.

The guy’s name was Mark Culpepper, and he’d been found unconscious, bound, gagged, and in his birthday suit plus skivvies in a bar bathroom in Boerum Hill. Jasper’s cell phone, nearly dead, had been found on him. Stunned and still slightly drunk, Culpepper sipped bad precinct coffee in one of the interrogation rooms as Hughes and Montgomery watched through the one-way mirror. He’d had little to say, but a canvass of the bar turned up a bartender who claimed to have seen Dent.

The bar was pretty far from the hospital where Jasper had
escaped. He’d made it much farther on foot than anyone could have anticipated.

“Well?” Hughes said.

Montgomery’s eyes narrowed as he looked through the glass. “I can’t say we need to shut down the whole city, but I can say this: It’s time to start talking about it.”