Paul Cleave - Blood Men

“She was suffocated.”

“You have the men who did it?”

“Jack Hunter found him first. It was just one man who killed her.”

“And he killed him?”

“Yes. But first he killed a man who used to assault him in prison, and now he’s looking for the rest. We picked up Edward this morning. He had his daughter with him. He had taken her to the cemetery to visit his wife, and then he took her to a motel to protect her. He was acting. . well, I think he was acting like. .”

“Like she was still alive?” Barlow asks.

“Yeah. I think so.”

“You have any idea where Jack Hunter is?”

“No. It’s why I’m here. I know you dealt with him all those years ago. Tell me, where do you think he may go?”

“I think he’ll find the men responsible for killing his grand-daughter.”

“Then where?”

“I don’t know.”

“He stopped taking his medication.”

“What?”

“When we searched his cell we found his meds. He hasn’t been taking them for days.”

“Then if he can’t find the men he’s looking for, he’ll move on to what he knows best-killing prostitutes. He’s been in jail a long time, Detective, he’ll have desires. The sickness inside him-it will have desires. The problem is twenty years ago he was living two lives, and one of them he was protecting by killing women he didn’t think anybody would notice going missing. Now he doesn’t have that family life to retreat to, or to hide things from. He may go looking for prostitutes, but it’s doubtful he’ll restrain himself to only them. Anybody is fair game to him now, Detective, because he’s on the run and he knows being free is only a temporary thing. Damn it, why did he have to stop taking his medication!”

“He stopped when Jodie Hunter was shot.”

“Yes, yes, I suppose that makes sense. Detective, don’t doubt that Jack Hunter heard voices, and he was intelligent enough to hide it, and to deal with it. He knew he had a sickness, and he knew if he stopped taking his medication that sickness, that desire, would come back. You may want to look at the man who stabbed Hunter in jail, you might find it was Hunter himself who organized it. Probably on the same day. He probably figured he could use his son to help him escape.”

“I’ll look into it,” Schroder says, not in the mood to bolster the shrink’s ego by telling him that’s exactly what happened.

“Hunter is an intelligent man, Detective, and he’s still intelligent even off the meds-the difference is that when medicated, he can be controlled. Right now-well, right now he could be anywhere doing anything. Now that you have Edward Hunter in custody, I strongly suggest you let me see him. I told you he was a danger, and last night proved that. I should see him immediately. I can help him.”

“He’s not in custody.”

“What do you mean? You said you picked him up with his daughter.”

“And then we let him go. He lost his daughter, he was betrayed by his father, we couldn’t keep him after all that. None of this is his fault.”

“You need to pick him up.”

“Why?”

“What kind of state was he in when you released him?”

“He’s a defeated man. We dropped him off at his house. He’s not going anywhere. In fact I’m tempted to put a man on him just to make sure he doesn’t kill himself.”

“He’s certainly a candidate for that, but he’s also capable of something else. Edward Hunter is a man who holds grudges, Detective, and he’s a man who can justify those grudges in different ways. He may not go after the men who killed his wife, but what about the others?”

“Others?”

“From the bank. The bank tellers, the security guard, the media, even the police-anybody who has let him down could be a target.”

“He went to the security guard’s house.”

“What? When?”

“Tuesday night. He got drunk and went there but nothing happened.”

“And you didn’t think this was important enough to let me know?”

“I just told you.”

Barlow takes his hands off his knees and leans forward. “Listen to me very carefully, Detective. You have to go and pick him up. Nothing may have happened when he went to the security guard’s house, but his daughter was alive then. This man is a time bomb. Trust me, Detective, if there’s one thing I know about, it’s time bombs, and this one is about to go off.”

It’s evening when I get home. Kids are out playing in the street, riding new bikes and new skateboards, yelling and laughing, all is good in their world, all is right and happy and I envy each one of them.

Nothing has changed at all in the house. It’s more of a tomb than ever. I walk through the rooms touching things, the walls, the furniture, running my fingers over anything in my path. I sit on Sam’s bed for a while and I sit on my bed for a while and I sit in the living room for a while. It’s like last week all over again only worse. The unbelievable thing that could never happen has happened-again. I can’t even cry. I can’t do anything. I sit in the living room with a can of beer but I don’t open it. I stare at the TV but don’t turn it on. I pick at the stitching on a cushion until it comes apart. The kids outside grow quiet. The day gets darker and they all head inside, some of them bored already with their new gifts. I get up to turn on the light and at the same time somebody knocks on my door. I head over to it, part of me not wanting to answer it, but a bigger part hoping it’s the last bank robber, that he’s come armed and with the ability to help me join my wife and daughter.

I don’t recognize him. He’s been severely beaten and can hardly stand, but he’s managing to do so by leaning against the wall. My dad is behind him holding the shotgun. He’s still wearing the security guard’s clothes from the hospital, only now there are large bloodstains on them, mostly dry.

“I got you a Christmas present,” Dad says, and he pushes the man forward.

I look at my Christmas present, at the blood on it, the torn and bruised wrapping, and I’m sick at the sight of it. I feel no different looking at Dad.

“Please, Dad, go away. It doesn’t matter anymore. This is all over. I’ve lost everything and they’re going to put me in jail for setting you free and the truth is, the truth is. . I just want this to be over. I want everything to be over.”

“This is the man who shot Jodie. This is the man who started it all.”

I close my eyes for a few seconds and exhale heavily, tilting my head back, focusing on the loss of Jodie and Sam. I remember the way Jodie fell forward, her face before the gun exploded, where she thought the worst thing that was going to happen to her was skinned palms and knees. I can still feel the weight of Sam in my arms, lifting her from the floor of the slaughterhouse and carrying her outside.

Then I focus on the man Dad brought me. An average-looking man I’d never have paid attention to in the past, maybe somebody who works at a gas station or repairs shoes, anything other than the man he truly is. His face has swollen up, his left eye closed, his right eye bloodshot. The edges of the duct tape covering his mouth are stained with blood. Dad pushes him again and he falls onto his knees in my hallway. His hands are tied behind him so tight they’ve turned purple. Dad steps inside and closes the door.

“I don’t care,” I say.

“Yes you do.”

Yes. You do.

“I know,” I say.

“I got one of the others,” Dad says. “I made him suffer. I made this guy suffer too. I was going to kill him when, out of nowhere, I realized how selfish that would have been. I’m sorry about what happened to Sam, son, I really am-and Jodie.”