Bloodline (9 page)

He wound up in the Rathburg Public Library. A computer search had yielded nothing—the Creighton Institute did not have a Web site and other hits yielded nothing useful. So he'd started searching through the microfilm files of the
Rathburg-on-Hudson Review
and again came up empty. Lots of passing mentions, but no background. Maybe a local paper was the wrong place to look. It seemed to take for granted that its readers knew all about Creighton.

He gathered up the microfilm rolls and returned them to the desk.

"Find what you need?" said the withered, blue-haired lady behind the counter.

"No, unfortunately."

He studied her. She had a Miss Hathaway voice, rickety limbs, a slightly frayed dark blue skirt and jacket with a white silk scarf loosely tied around her neck—to hide the wrinkles? A cloud of gardenia perfume enveloped her. She looked old enough to have dated Ichabod Crane. If she'd spent most of her days around here…

"Are you a native of this area?"

"Born and bred."

"Then maybe you can help me. I'm doing some research on the Creighton Institute but I can't seem to find much on it."

"I'm not surprised. There's not been much written about it." She raised a gnarled finger and tapped her right temple. "But there's a lot stored right up here."

"Would you care to share some of that? I'd be willing to compensate you for your time."

She frowned. "Pay me for letting me ramble on about the old days? Don't be silly."

"Well then, why don't we find someplace where we can sit and have some coffee. I'll buy."

She winked. "Make that a Manhattan and you've got yourself a deal."

This lady was all right.

"Deal. When do you get off?"

"Any time I want. I'm a volunteer." She turned toward a small office behind the counter. "Claire, watch the front desk. I have to go out."

Within seconds she'd shrugged into a long cloth coat and was heading for the door.

"Time's a-wasting and I've only got so much of it left. Let's go."

Jack followed her outside. The sky had gone from clear blue to overcast while his nose had been stuck in the microfilm viewer.

She stopped at the foot of the front steps and thrust out her hand.

"I'm Cilia Groot, by the way."

Jack shook her frail hand. "And I'm Jack." He looked up and down the street and spotted a pub sign hanging over the sidewalk. "What about that place?"

"Van Dyck's? I've been in there once or twice. I suppose it will do."

As they started toward the pub Jack had to ask: "Do you have a dog?"

She looked at him with concern, then down at her coat. "Why? Do I have hair—?"

"No, just curious."

"What an odd question. No, no dog. Three cats though."

Good. Ladies with dogs had been popping up in his life for the past year or so. They all seemed to know more about his life than anyone should. He'd seen one of them right after the accident, but none since. He wouldn't mind sitting down with one—he had endless questions—but he didn't like them sneaking up on him.

He held the door to Van Dyck's and followed her in. Her arrival was greeted by calls of "Hi, Cilia" from the half dozen or so men around the bar.

She waved, then turned to Jack and said, "Let's take that table by the window where we can have some peace."

Fine with Jack.

He helped her out of her coat and they were just seating themselves on opposite sides of the table when the bartender arrived carrying a straight-up Manhattan with two cherries. He placed it before Cilia with a flourish.

"There you go, my dear."

'Thank you, Faas."

Jack smiled. Only been here once or twice, ay?

Faas—was that a first or last name?—turned to Jack. "And what can I get you, sir?"

Jack asked what was on tap and Faas recited a depressing list of Buds and Michelobs and various lights that ended on an up note with the Holland Holy Trinity: Heineken, Grolsch, and Amstel. Jack took a pint of Grolsch.

"So, what can you tell me about the Creighton Institute?"

She took a sip of her drink and closed her eyes. "Nothing so perfect as a perfect Manhattan." Then she looked at Jack. "It didn't start out as an institute of any sort. The original building, with its French chateau design, marble terraces, and classical revival gardens, was built in 1897 by financier Horace Creighton as a summer cottage."

"Cottage?"

"Yes. The Creightons lived there only during the summer months when it was too hot in the city. He said that he chose Rathburg rather than Newport because he liked the climate better and it was more convenient to his business in New York, but I suspect he avoided Newport so as not to have to compete with the Vanderbilts and Astors. Here he could be quite literally king of the hill."

"But I take it there are no more Creightons there now."

"Correct. He lost everything in the stock market crash of twenty-nine. The state government took it over for back taxes and it remained abandoned and boarded up for years. That didn't stop children—yours truly was one of them—from breaking in and using it as a playground. After the war the federal government took it over and turned it into the Creighton Hospital for Disabled Veterans."

"And that's when it was expanded, I take it?"

"Correct." She made a face. "Have you seen those wings they added? Abominations! What an awful, terrible, wretched thing to do to such a grand old house."

She tossed off the rest of her Manhattan and held up her empty glass. In less than a minute Faas appeared with a full replacement. He pointed to Jack's half-finished pint. Jack shook his head.

"When did it become a booby hatch?"

Her brief glare told Jack what he'd hoped to learn from the remark: The locals weren't happy with having an institute for the criminally insane in town.

"In nineteen-eighty-one it passed from the Veterans Administration to another federal entity. That was when it was renamed the Creighton Institute."

Jack finished it for her: "—for the Criminally Insane."

"That was never an official designation," she huffed. "I don't know how that got about, but it's not accurate."

"Okay. But they do house nutcases there, correct?"

"It's a mental research institute. There's never been a lick of trouble since its conversion, not a single incident. The barbed wire is an eyesore, yes, but they mind their business, pay their taxes, and some of the staff have joined the community and become active in local affairs."

"Like Doctor Aaron Levy?"

Her eyebrows lifted. "If you know him, why do you need me for this information. He certainly knows more than I do."

"I know o/him. We'll be having a meeting in the near future, and I wanted to have some background on the place before then."

"Yes, well, he's a nice man, devoted husband and father, and gives generously to local causes, especially the library."

"But as a doctor at the institute, that makes him an employee of the federal government. What branch? Department of Entropy?"

Cilia gave him a tolerant smile. "No one knows. Lord knows I've tried to find out—"

"Why would you want to know?"

"Because someone wants to keep it secret." She smiled. "Why else?"

"Why else indeed?" Jack liked this old biddy. "So no one knows who's running the show? Don't people find that suspicious?"

"Some of us do. I'm one of them. I've been watching and listening and snooping for years, and you know what I think?" She leaned across the table and lowered her voice to a whisper. "Department of Defense."

"But what would the Depart—?"

She held up a finger. "You didn't hear it here. And I'll say no more. But maybe when you meet with Doctor Levy you can wheedle it out of him."

He'd try.

"Odd that that particular branch of the government in question would be funding a mental institution, don't you think?"

She finished her second drink and held up the glass. She weighed all of a hundred pounds, if that, and had downed two Manhattans before Jack had finished his first beer, yet her eyes and speech were as clear as when they'd first sat down.

"Odd and bothersome. If you find out why, let me know. I have an insatiable curiosity."

And one hell of an efficient liver, he thought as he watched Faas approach with a fresh drink.

Jack swung by 903 Argent Drive to get a look at the Levy house. The property out here appeared to be zoned for at least an acre and it looked like all the lots had been wooded to start with. A lot of the residents had left a fair number of trees as buffers between the houses, which tended to be of the brick-fronted, high-foyered McMansion design. The house at 903 sported Taraesque columns.

Probably considered a premiere location, what with some sort of forest preserve across the street. That made for enviable privacy. The owners could stand on their front porches and know that they'd never see another house looking back at them.

The Levy place sported a two-car garage which they probably used. That meant no telltale auto in the driveway to signal when the doc was home.

Jack drove past a couple of times, looking for a spot where he could park and watch for Levy's arrival. No such place in daylight—at least none where he wouldn't attract attention, and maybe even earn a call to the police. In the dark, with all these trees, a different story. He'd have to try something else.

He cruised the area looking for a watch post. His problem was he didn't know what kind of car Levy would be driving, so he needed a spot where he could get a look at the drivers as they passed.

Argent Drive had only one access point from the direction of the Creighton Institute. Jack found an empty-looking house—overgrown yard, no curtains on the windows—with a FOR SALE sign out front. He backed into its driveway, left his car running, and waited. The good news was that daylight saving time was in effect and the sun wouldn't set until around seven. He wished the overcast would clear. He'd need all the light he could get to recognize Levy as he passed.

And so he waited and watched, studying the Levy photo between cars. Around four-thirty traffic picked up. His eyes burned and a dull headache started in his temples as he strained to catch the faces in all the westbound vehicles.

The guy was a doctor with a big house. He wouldn't he driving a Taurus or a pickup. Or would he? Jack knew next to nothing about the man.

A little after five Jack saw an Infiniti M35 go by, driven by a guy who looked a lot like Levy, but he couldn't be sure. Decision time: follow or not follow? He chose follow.

Turned out to be the right decision. Jack stayed a quarter mile behind and eventually saw the Infiniti turn into Levy's driveway. The garage door began to rise as the car eased toward it.

Jack kept going. He'd been debating his next step after locating Levy—knock on his door right away, or wait till he'd relaxed and had a drink? Jack chose now.

He made a U-turn and headed back. He was almost to the house when he saw the Infiniti pull out of the driveway and race off.

Levy wasn't driving. A bearded man who looked an awful lot like the guy in Gerhard's surveillance photos had the wheel.

Bethlehem?

What the hell—?

When Jack saw the guy steer the Infiniti onto the southbound lanes of the Thruway, he knew following had been the right decision. Levy was somewhere in that car. Had to be.

But just to be sure, Jack called the house. A woman answered.

Jack said, "Hi, this is Doctor Bates. Is Aaron there?"

"Doctor Bates?"

"'Yes, I'm new at the institute and I need to verify something with him before I go home."

"Well… he's not here right now. He pulled into the garage a few moments ago but then he pulled right out again. He must have forgotten something at work. Have him call me if you see him."

"Will do. Thanks."

Well, that confirmed that. Levy was in the car. Bethlehem—he was going to assume that's who ho was—hadn't had enough time to overcome him and truss him up, so he must have bopped him and tossed him into the trunk.

What the hell was the connection here? And what would make Bethlehem so desperate that he'd abduct the man in his own garage?

A vision of Levy bungeed facedown in a tub flashed through Jack's head. Even though he hated to resort to cops, the best thing to do here was call the staties and report a stolen car on the Thruway. He'd take care of this himself if he'd been hired by Levy, but he hadn't. So make the highway smokies stop hassling honest, hardworking dudes who just happened to be going too fast, and stop a real bad guy.

Let them pull Bethlehem over and find the good Dr. Levy in the trunk. Not only would the doc be safe, but Bethlehem would end up in the slammer for assault and battery, kidnapping, and whatever other charges the prosecutors could come up with. All of which would solve Christy Pickering's problem as well.

Perfectomundo.

As Jack was reaching for the officialdom phone he saw the Infiniti veer into the Ardsley rest stop. Curious, he followed.

The sun was almost down, casting the long shadow of the barnlike stone-and-stucco food court across the parking area. He saw Bethlehem back the Infiniti into a spot in a far corner that he had all to himself. Jack parked in a more crowded area, then hunkered down to watch.

The driver—definitely Bethlehem, wearing a work shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots—jumped out, trotted over to an old maroon Buick Riviera which he maneuvered around until it was parked next to the Infiniti.

So… this wasn't some spur-of-the-moment deal. He'd planned this out in advance. Jack could see what was coming.

Bethlehem opened the Buick trunk and pulled something from his pocket. Sunlight flashed off the blade that unfolded. Then he opened the Infiniti's trunk. Nothing happened for a moment, and then a man was yanked from one trunk and shoved into the other. It happened so fast that if Jack hadn't been watching for it, he would have missed it.

Bethlehem closed the Riv's trunk, then the Infiniti's. But instead of getting into one or the other, he started toward the restaurant area. Jack watched in confusion.

What the—?

And then he realized that Bethlehem might have a dire need for a pit stop. He'd probably been hiding in Levy's garage for hours. Couldn't relieve himself there without leaving damning evidence. This rest stop was probably his first opportunity.

And gave Jack an opportunity too.

Pulling on a pair of driving gloves, he watched Bethlehem enter the food court, then eased his ear toward the Riviera, backing in next to it. He popped his trunk and raced around to the rear. He kept a collection of burglar tools in the spare tire well. He could hear Levy banging and shouting within the neighboring trunk. No one but Jack was near enough to hear. He pulled an eighteen-inch gad pry bar from the kit, jammed the flat end under the lip of the Buick's trunk lid, and threw his weight down on it.

The lid popped up revealing a disheveled, frightened-looking man with his hands raised before him as if to ward off a blow. Aaron Levy's hair was longer now than in the online photo, and he had heavy five-o'clock shadow, but it was him.

"Get out of there!" Jack said, reaching a hand toward him. "We haven't much time!"

Levy grabbed Jack's hand and levered himself out.

"Who—?"

"The guy who's saving your ass." He pointed to the Crown Vic. "Into the passenger seat. Move!"

Levy hesitated a second, then leaped toward the door. Jack memorized the Riv's license plate as he closed the trunk, then ran around to the driver seat. As soon as he was in he threw the Vic into gear and roared off.

He was a hundred yards away from the other cars when he saw Bethlehem step out of the food court.

"Down!"

Levy ducked as they raced past. Bethlehem didn't so much as glance in their direction as he hurried back toward his car.

As Jack pulled into the southbound traffic, he said, "Okay, we're clear now."

Levy straightened and stared at him. "Who are you?"

"Never mind that. What's Jerry Bethlehem have against you?"

"Jerry Bethlehem? That wasn't—" And then suddenly he clammed.

Wasn't
Bethlehem? That meant Levy knew his attacker and knew him as someone else.

Will the real Jerry Bethlehem please stand up?

"Well, if he wasn't Jerry Bethlehem, who was he?"

Levy ran a shaking hand over his face. "I don't know."

"You're a lousy liar. Do you or don't you know Jerry Bethlehem?"

"Never heard of him."

Another lie.

Levy turned toward him. "But never mind this Bethlehem or whoever he is. Who are you and why did you—?"

"Pluck you from the slavering jaws of death? Name's John Robertson. I'm a private investigator. I've been trying to talk to you for two days now but you keep ducking me. Why is that, Doctor Levy?"

"I remember. You called my office today. Look, I'm sorry, but I'm very busy lately and—"'

"I also called your house last night—and no, I'm not the guy who's been hanging up on you. That was most likely your friend Bethlehem."

"He's not my friend! I—"

Jack watched out of the corner of his eye as he asked, "Ever hear of a guy named Gerhard—Michael Gerhard?"

"No. Never."

The sudden stiffening of Levy's posture said otherwise.

"He's dead. Murdered."

Further stiffening. His voice dropped to a whisper. "My God! That's… awful. I mean, it's awful for anyone to be murdered, but what's this got to do with me?"

"Because there's a chance Bethlehem did it and I think you were going to end up the same way."

Jack then proceeded to describe the scene in Gerhard's bathroom and the man's ordeal before he drowned.

"But-but what makes you think it was him—this Bethlehem?"

"Because Gerhard was hired—just as I was—to investigate him. And I found your name connected to Bethlehem in Gerhard's files. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to add that up."

Levy slumped in his seat. "What… what did I ever do to him to make him want to…?"

For once he seemed sincere. Question was: Who was the
him
he was referring to?

"Only he knows that—and maybe you do too. But I think you'd better do something to keep him from trying again."

"What?"

"I don't suppose you've got your cell phone."

"No. He took it."

Jack pulled his out and handed it across.

"Use mine. Call the cops. Tell them you were abducted and escaped from an old-model Buick Riviera car headed south on the Thruway."

"But surely he'll have ditched the car by now."

"Why? There's a pretty damn good chance he thinks you're still in the trunk and he's finalizing his plans for you as he drives."

Levy took the phone, then handed it back.

"No. Thanks, but no."

"You've gotta be kidding!"

"Sorry. I can't."

"Why the hell not?"

'Tin…"

He paused and Jack could hear the falsificator start to bubble.

"You're what?"

"I'm involved in some sensitive research—federally funded research. I can't have police involved in my activities."

"So instead of pressing charges you're just going to sit back and wait for him to try again?"

"No, I'll have federal authorities look into the matter. They'll take care of it."

"By federal you mean the DoD?"

Levy's head snapped around. "What did you say?"

"You heard me."

He turned and stared out the side window. "Please take me back to my car. Or if you can't do that—"

"I'll take you back."

The Bronxville exit was coming up. Jack could get off there and swing onto the northbound side.

Or he could pull off onto a deserted country road—no shortage of those near Rathburg—and put the screws to Levy until he came across with something straight about Bethlehem.

Because that guy was a bad actor. Jack was now ninety-nine percent sure he'd killed Gerhard. He hoped when the cops worked the murder scene they'd come up with something to connect him. If not, maybe Jack would drop a dime and help them along.

One thing he knew, this was no guy to be messing around with an eighteen-year-old girl. Jack had never met Dawn Pickering but he'd decided to help Christy build a wall between her daughter and Bethlehem.

As for the doc… he'd take him to his car. That would create another deposit to his good-will account in the Bank of Levy. He might need to draw on that someday.

On the ride back he let Levy use the phone to call his wife to reassure her that he was fine and would be home soon. After that he pressed the guy for more information but could pry loose nothing about Bethlehem.

On the subject of his research, however, Levy was a little more forthcoming. But not much.

"It involves genetics."

"Looking for an insanity gene?" Jack couldn't resist: "Or creating
mutants'
?"

"Don't be silly. They're not insane—at least not most of them. We're not altering genes or rearranging them or doing anything but studying them—lots ot looking but no touching. Our findings, when we finally publish them, will have global repercussions."

Oh, no. Another one like Hank Thompson and his
Kick
.

"Don't tell me: You're gonna change the world."

Levy shook his head. "Not the world, just the way people see themselves and others. I'm talking a paradigm shift."

"Fine. But how does that prevent you from calling in the locals to take care of Bethlehem."

"It does. Trust me, it just does."

That was just it though: Jack didn't trust him.

Levy wouldn't say much else for the rest of the trip. Jack eventually dropped him at the rest stop. Levy's car was where he'd left it.

"I'm here," he said, staring at his car as if he'd never expected to see it again. "I'm really here." He turned to Jack and extended his hand. "I don't know how to thank you, Mister Robertson."

"It's John, but most people call me Jack." He pressed one of his cards into Levy's hand. "You take that, and you call me if you ever want to talk about Jerry Bethlehem."

The number connected to one of Jack's voice mail accounts.

"I will."

They both knew that was a lie, but Jack was doing a bread-upon-the-water thing here.

He pulled his Glock and Levy shrank back against the door.

"Wh-what are you doing?"

"Making sure there are no surprises waiting for you in the back seat."

He got out and checked the Infiniti—unlocked and empty. A set of keys and a cell phone lay on the front seat. He motioned Levy over.

"Pop the trunk for me."

Levy reached inside and hit a button. The lid popped open—empty.

"Okay, doc. I guess you're home free. Your guy is probably still headed south, blissfully unaware he's got an empty trunk. But just to be safe, be sure to keep your doors locked and give your garage a good once-over before you get out of your car."

Levy nodded. "I'll do that. And thanks again."

"Yeah."

He watched Levy drive out of the rest stop to make sure no one was following him, then he headed back toward the city.

One strange night.

Lots of questions raised, few answered. But the question was what to say to Christy.

He could scare the hell out of her by telling her about Gerhard's murder and Levy's abduction. But without proof, what would that do to drive a wedge between Dawn and Bethlehem? Might have the opposite effect. If Dawn couldn't or wouldn't believe her snookums capable of such things, it might push her closer than ever to Bethlehem and drive the wedge between her and her mother instead.

Still, Christy had a right to know that her instincts had been dead on the money. But if Levy wasn't pressing charges, and if the police found nothing to connect Bethlehem to Gerhard, she'd have nothing to back up her claims. She'd sound like an overprotective, possessive, paranoid madwoman. Hell, the cops hadn't even released news of Gerhard's death yet. Jack wondered about that, but figured they might want to notify his next of kin first.