Jonathan Kellerman - Blood Test

He twirled the axe handle like a baton, chewed on a strawlike mustache hair.

“The police found the remains of another body up there,” I said. “A woman.” I let the question hang in the air.

He grinned.

“I know what you’re thinking, but no. I would have liked to put mom there but she had the bad manners to have a stroke and die in bed a couple of years ago. It pissed me off, because I’d been planning it for years — there’s a plot reserved for the old man that I’ll fill one day. But she escaped. Then I got lucky. I was doing a late gig at Lancelot’s and this old broad in the front row was really coming on to me. Stuffing ten dollar bills down my jock, licking my ankles. Turns out she was a doctor. Radiologist. Divorced a couple of months and out for a wild night. She came to my dressing room, sloshed to the gills, started pawing me, sending out real strong signals. It turned me off and I was gonna kick her out. But when I turned on the lights I saw it: she could have been the old bitch’s twin sister. Same dried-up face, upturned nose, rich bitch manner.

“I smiled, said Come on in, honey. Let her do me, right there in the dressing room. The door was unlocked, anyone could have come in. She didn’t care, just hiked up her skirt and got on top. Later we went to her place, condo penthouse in the Marina. Made it again and then I strangled her in her sleep.” His eyes widened innocently. “The burial plot had been chosen. Someone had to fill it.”

He leaned the axe against the oven, reached into one of the shopping bags with his free hand and brought out a large peach.

“Want one?”

“No thanks.”

“They’re good. Good for you, too. Calcium, potassium. Lots of A and C. Make a great last meal.”

I shook my head.

“Suit yourself.” He took a large bite out of the fruit, licked the juice from the ends of his mustache.

“I’m no threat to you,” I said, choosing my words carefully, “I just want to help your little brother.”

“How? By pumping him full of poisons? I read all about the stuff they wanted to use on him. That shit causes cancer.”

“I’m not going to lie and tell you the drugs they use are harmless. They’re strong — poisons just like you said. But that’s what it takes to kill the tumors.”

“Sounds like a load of shit to me.” His jaw tightened and the beard bristled. “She told me all about the doctors there. Who’s to say you’re any different?”

He finished the peach and threw the pit in the sink. Took out a plum and dispatched it, too.

“Come on,” he said, picking up the axe. “Stand up. Let’s get it over with. I wish for your sake that I’d gotten you the first time, with the shotgun. You wouldn’t even have known what hit you. Now you’re gonna have to suffer a bit, waiting for it to happen.”

I walked to the door, the tip of the rifle nudging the small of my back.

“Open it slowly and carefully,” instructed Carmichael. “Keep your hands on your head and look straight ahead.”

I obeyed him shakily and heard the rustling of the shower curtain, the sound of Nona’s voice.

“You don’t need to hurt him, Doug.”

“Go back in. Let me handle this.”

“But what if he’s right? Woody’s burning up—”

“I said I’ll handle it!” the blond man snapped, with sudden loss of patience.

Her unseen response caused him to soften his voice.

“I’m sorry, Sis. It’s been heavy and we’re all stressed out. When I finish with him we’ll settle down, drop some B-twelve. I’ll show you how to cool the little guy down. Couple weeks he’ll be fine and we’ll split. This time next month I’ll be teaching him how to shoot the waves.”

“Doug, I—” she began. I hoped she’d continue to plead my case, providing diversion for a sudden run. But she stopped midsentence. Padded footsteps were followed by the whisper of the curtain closing.

“Move,” said Carmichael, angered by the hint of rebellion and expressing it by jamming cold steel into my kidney.

I pushed the door open and stepped into darkness. The chemical stench in the air seemed stronger, the bleakness of the mesa more pronounced. The husks of the unused machines were giant, rusting carcasses, sprawled passive and silent across the ravaged terrain. It was far too ugly a place in which to die.

Carmichael prodded me through the corridor created by the stacked oil drums. My eyes darted from side to side, searching for escape, but the black cylinders formed high metal barricades, mercilessly seamless.

Several yards before the end of the passageway he started talking, offering me options.

“I can do it while you’re standing, kneeling, or lying on the ground the way I did the Swopes. Or, if being still freaks you out, you can make a run for it, get a little exercise to take your mind off what’s coming. I won’t tell you how many steps I’ll give you, so you can pretend it’s like a regular run. Make believe you’re in some kind of marathon. When I run I get high. Maybe you will, too. I’m using a heavy load so you won’t feel a thing. Kinda like one big rush.”

My knees buckled.

“Come on, man,” he said, “don’t fall part. Go out with style.”

“Killing me won’t do you any good. The police know I’m here. If I don’t return they’ll be swarming over this place.”

“No sweat. As soon as you’re out of the way, we’re splitting.”

“The boy can’t travel in his condition. You’ll kill him.” The rifle jabbed painfully.

“I don’t need your advice. I can take care of my own.”

We walked in silence until we reached the mouth of the metal hallway.

“So how do you want it,” he demanded, “standing still or running?”

A hundred yards of flat, empty land lay before me. The darkness would provide some cover for a run but I’d still be easy to pick off. Just beyond the void were hills of scrap metal — strips of sheet-iron, coils of wire, the derrick behind which I’d hidden the Seville. Meager sanctuary, but finding cover among the detritus would gain me time to plan...

“Take your time,” Carmichael said magnanimously, savoring the starring role.

He’d played this scene before, was working hard at coming across cool and in control. But I knew he was as unstable as nitro and just might start blowing his lines if provoked. The trick was to get him sufficiently distracted to lower his guard, then flee. Or attack. It was a deadly gamble — a sudden burst of rage could just as easily yank his trigger finger. But there wasn’t much to lose at this point and the idea of submitting passively to slaughter was damned distasteful.

“Make up your mind?”

“It’s a bullshit choice, Doug, and you know it.”

“What?”

“I said you’re full of shit.”

Growling, he spun me around, tossed the rifle away, and grabbed the front of my shirt, pulling it tight. He raised the axe and held it poised in the air.

“Move and I’ll slice you like cheese.” He panted with anger, face glistening with sweat. A feral smell emanated from the mass of his body.

I kneed him hard in the groin. He yelped in pain and relinquished his grip reflexively. I pulled away, landed on the ground, scurried backward like a crab, scraping my knees and palms. While fighting to push myself upright I pressed my foot against something round. A large metal spring. It rolled, I was upended, and fell flat on my back.

Carmichael charged forward, hyperventilating like a child coming out of a tantrum. The edge of the axe caught a glint of moonlight. Shadowed against the blackness of the sky he seemed immense, fictional.

I yanked myself up and crawled away from him.

“You’ve got a big mouth,” he gasped. “No class, no style. I gave you the opportunity to end it peacefully. I tried to be fair but you didn’t appreciate it. Now it’s gonna hurt. I’m gonna use this on you.” He hefted the axe for emphasis. “Slowly. Turn you into garbage piece by piece and make it last. In the end you’ll beg for a bullet.”