Paul Cleave - Blood Men

“I didn’t kill anybody,” I say, “except for the guy who made me drown you, and the guy I ran over-but that was an accident. I didn’t even kill Bracken. It was the woman.”

“We know. We checked the prints on the knife. There was blood on them. Location of the prints beneath the blood showed she was the one holding them when it got used. You’re sitting okay as far as that one goes, and maybe for Church too, if you can prove self-defense,” he says, “if you hear what I’m saying. You or your dad had to defend against him. But Jesus, Eddie, you helped a serial killer escape. We can’t write that one off.”

“When she killed Bracken she took away our chance of finding Sam alive.”

“Then we need to find her before your father does,” Schroder says. “There’s another thing, Eddie. Your father. It turns out he’s the one who put Harwick up to stabbing him.”

“What? What are you saying?”

“It was all a setup. He got Harwick to stab him, to hurt him enough to require hospital treatment but not enough so he’d need a morgue. He knew you’d come and get him. He played everybody. He completely played you.”

I wonder at what point Dad decided to use his daughter-in-law’s death to his advantage; whether the man knew immediately he could use the tragedy to escape. I wonder if he even cared about what happened to Jodie. I’d like to think it at least took him a few days to think it through, but for some reason I don’t think it did. For some reason I think the moment the news was broken to him about the bank robbery he knew in an instant he was going to manipulate me; that he would tell me about the darkness and the monster and would get me to become like him; that the only thing standing between him and freedom was an innocent stabbing of the kind where every major organ was missed, where he could spend the night in a hospital so understaffed that only a single nurse was seen.

“I’m sorry, Eddie.”

“You got the rest of the bank robbers?”

“We got the names. One of them we have in custody, one of them we’re still looking for.”

“And the third?”

“The third was found a few hours ago. He was cut up so badly we were lucky to identify him. We found your father’s prints at the scene.”

I stare at him without saying a word. My dad got one of the men who killed Jodie. I don’t know how I feel about this. I don’t know how I feel about anything. I’m numb, too numb, all I have now is all this hurt from Sam not being here.

“Did you tell your dad to kill these men?”

“No.”

“But you’re glad he’s made a start, right?”

“Yes.”

“How’d he get the name?”

“I. . I don’t know. Maybe from Church. Maybe he had it all along.”

“Maybe.”

“What’s going to happen to me?”

“For now? Nothing. We can’t link you to any premeditated killings. The blood results came in and have cleared you with Kingsly. I’m sorry I didn’t believe you earlier-it’s just that, well, I was certain you’d killed him.”

“The blood cleared me?”

“We ran it against your father’s and none of the markers matched, it’s a completely different blood type, so whoever killed Kingsly isn’t related to your father.”

“It didn’t match,” I say.

“You sound surprised.”

“What? No. No, of course not,” I say, my mind racing. What does this mean? What does this mean?

“You set your father free, and for that we should be keeping you in custody, Edward, but things having gone the way they have, those who make these kinds of decisions have agreed that you can go home instead. For now anyway. You’ll have to answer for it-and not to me, but to a judge. If your dad doesn’t hurt anybody innocent and we get him back real soon, I’ll do what I can to help you. Of course there are other factors to consider, like. .”

He keeps talking but I’m no longer listening. All I can think about is the blood type. My blood type doesn’t match my father’s blood type. If Schroder took blood from me now and compared it to the blood found at Kingsly’s house, it would match, only he’s got no reason to do that. He’s got no reason because he doesn’t suspect me anymore. He’s got no reason to run the blood found at Bracken’s office because he knows it’s mine. If he took blood from me now and compared it to my father. .

It wouldn’t match, the monster says, so maybe it hasn’t gone quiet at all.

How is that possible?

Come on, Eddie. You can figure it out. And Jack-he has no idea. Poor, poor Jack. You and your father are nothing alike and that makes me your very own creation.

“Edward? Hey, Edward? You listening to me?”

“Huh?” I focus back on Schroder. “What?”

“I’m telling you there are other things to consider here. Nat and Diana know the full story. They know you didn’t start this. . war. But. . Edward, this is hard, but they don’t want you to see them again. Other than the. . funeral, they want you out of their lives. Forever.”

“Am I free to go now?”

“I guess.”

“Then I want to see Sam,” I say, and Schroder drives me to the morgue.

“This is all very unusual,” he says.

“It’s an unusual situation.”

“Well, yes, I suppose it is, but it’s Christmas Day, Detective, and on Christmas Day I don’t want to see patients. I want to spend it with my children. My ex-wife had them last Christmas, and this year it’s my turn.”

“This won’t take long,” Schroder says.

Benson Barlow sighs. “Then you’d better come in,” he says.

The house suggests that psychiatry pays well. There have to be four or five bedrooms in the place, it’s two years old at the most, and if Barlow lives here alone except for when he’s allowed the children, then it must be a very lonely place to live in. Barlow leads him through to a study where there are books arranged by size and color, and there’s a view of a gated swimming pool beyond the bay window that people with emotional hang-ups paid for. The sun is shining down hard on it. He can hear a couple of children laughing from somewhere in the house, and a TV going. Barlow looks different from the other day, he’s more like a real person and not a parody. He’s wearing shorts with about a dozen pockets and a polo shirt, and his limbs and scalp have reddened from the sun.

“Take a seat,” Barlow says, and Schroder notices the study is laid out the same way he imagines Barlow’s office in town must be laid out. Barlow takes a seat behind the desk and leans back in his leather office chair. He picks up a pad and a pen, seems to realize his mistake, and puts them back down. He interlocks his fingers and rests his hands on his knees. Schroder sits opposite him in another leather office chair-thankfully not a couch. There are a couple of diplomas on the wall and some expensive-looking art. There’s a manual typewriter in the middle of an oak desk, both of which are perhaps from the fifties. There’s a closed laptop up on a shelf behind Barlow and a small cactus plant next to it.

“This is no doubt about Edward Hunter?” Barlow asks.

“You’ve been listening to the news?”

“Yes. I heard what happened. He helped his father escape from the hospital, though I’m not sure why he would do such a thing. Edward despises his father.”

“Edward Hunter had his daughter kidnapped by the men who killed his wife.”

“Oh dear,” Barlow says. “Oh no, the poor girl. And Hunter helped free his dad because he thought his dad could help find her?”

“Yes.”

“And did they?”

“They found her, but it was already too late,” Schroder says.

“Too late? Oh. . you mean. .,” he trails off.