Tess Gerritsen - Bloodstream

Noah’s gaze dropped to the table, a clear indication he was being evasive. “I felt like it.”

“You drove to the boat ramp and just parked there?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you see Doreen Kelly?”

“I don’t even know what she looks like!”

“Did you see anyone?”

A pause. “I didn’t see any lady named Doreen. Stupid name.”

“She was not just a name. She was a person, and she’s dead. If you know anything at all-”

“I don’t.”

“Lincoln seems to think you do.”

Again that angry gaze slanted up at her. “And you believe him, don’t you?” He shoved the chair back and stood up.

“Sit down.”

“You don’t want me around. You want Mr. Cop instead.” She saw the flash of tears in his eyes as he turned for the kitchen door.

“Where are you going?”

“What difference does it make?” He walked out, slamming the door behind him.

She stepped outside and saw that he was already stumbling away into the woods.

He had no jacket, only those tattered jeans and a longsleeved cotton shirt, but he didn’t seem to care about the cold. His anger and hurt were driving him recklessly forward through the snow.

“Noah!” she yelled.

Now he had reached the lake’s edge and he veered left, following its curve, crossing into the woods of the neighboring property.

“Noah!” She plunged into the snow after him. He was already far ahead and with each angry stride he increased the distance between them. He’s not coming back.

She began to run, shouting his name.

Now two figures, off to her left, caught her eye. Lincoln and Floyd had heard her voice and were in pursuit as well. They had nearly caught up when Noah glanced back and saw them.

He began to run, toward the lake.

Claire cried out: “Don’t hurt him!”

Floyd grabbed him just as they both reached the edge of the ice and he hauled him backwards. They both tumbled into deep snow. Noah scrambled back to his feet first and he flew at Floyd, fists swinging, his rage out of control. He thrashed, howling, as Lincoln grabbed him from behind and wrestled him to the ground.

Floyd scrambled back to his feet and drew his weapon.

“No!” screamed Claire, and terror sent her churning through the snow. She reached her son just as Lincoln cuffed the boy’s hands behind his back. “Don’t fight them, Noah!” she pleaded. “Stop fighting!”

Noah twisted around to look at her, his face so contorted by fury she didn’t recognize him. Who is this boy? she thought in horror. I don’t know him.

“Let-me-go!” he shrieked. A bright drop of blood slid from his nostril and splattered onto the snow.

She stared down in shock at the splash of red, then looked at her son, heaving like an exhausted beast, his breath steaming the air. A fine line of blood glistened on his upper lip.

New voices called out to them from a distance. Claire turned, and saw men crossing toward them. As they came closer, she recognized the uniforms.

State police.

The noise was driving her crazy. Amelia Reid leaned on her desk and clutched her head, wishing she could block out all the sounds assaulting her from different parts of the house. From the room next door came the thump of J.D.’s god-awful music, pounding like a demon’s heartbeat against her wall. And from the living room downstairs came the shout of the TV, its volume turned up to the max. She could deal with the music, because it was just noise, an irritant that chewed away at the farthest margins of her concentration. The TV, though, insinuated itself right into her mind because it was the voices of people talking, their words distracting her from the book she was trying to read.

In frustration, she slammed it shut and went downstairs. She found Jack in his usual position for the evening, slumped in the plaid Barca Lounger, a beer in his hand. His Royal Highness, farting in his throne. What awful desperation had driven her mother to marry him? Amelia could not imagine ever choosing such an option, could not even bear to contemplate a future with such a man under her roof, belching at her table, discarding his filthy socks like droppings on the living room floor.

And at night, to lie in bed with him, to feel his hands on her flesh… An involuntary sound of disgust escaped her throat, drawing Jack’s attention from the evening news. He looked at her, and his blank expression changed to one of interest, maybe even speculation. She knew the reason for it, and almost felt the need to cross her arms over her chest.

“Can you turn it down?” she said. “I can’t study.”

“So shut your door.”

“I did shut my door. The TV’s too loud.”

“It’s my house, y’know. You’re lucky I let you live here. I work hard all day. I deserve to relax in my own home.”

“I can’t concentrate. I can’t do my homework.”

Jack let out a half-belch, half-laugh. “A girl like you doesn’t need to blow a circuit in her brain. You don’t even need a brain.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Find a rich man, toss that pretty hair of yours, you got a meal ticket for the rest of your life She bit back an angry retort. Jack was baiting her. She could see that smirk on his lips, the thin mustache tilting up at one corner. He liked to get her angry, enjoyed seeing her upset. He couldn’t get her attention any other way, and Amelia knew he was titillated by any flash of emotion she displayed, even if it was rage.

With a shrug, she focused instead on the TV Icy withdrawal was the way to deal with Jack. Show no anger, no feelings at all, and it drove him crazy. It showed him exactly what he was: irrelevant. Inconsequential. Staring at the screen, she felt herself regain a measure of control over him. To hell with him. He couldn’t get to her, or at her, because she wouldn’t let him.

It took a few seconds for her brain to register the images on the screen. She saw a brown pickup being towed by a police truck, saw the blurred figure of a boy, face covered, as he was escorted into the Tranquility police station. When she finally understood what she was looking at, she forgot about Jack entirely.

“…the fourteen-year-old boy is currently being held for questioning. The body of forty-three-year-old Doreen Kelly was found this morning on a remote stretch of Slocum Road, east of Tranquility.

According to an anonymous eyewitness report, the suspect’s truck was seen weaving erratically on that same stretch of road around nine P.M. last night, and unspecified physical evidence has led police to take the youth into custody.

The victim, wife of Tranquility Police Chief Lincoln Kelly, had a long and troubling history of alcoholism, according to several town residents.

A new face appeared onscreen, a woman Amelia recognized as a cashier from Cobb and Morong’s. “Doreen was sort of the local tragic figure around here. She’d never, ever harm a soul, and I just can’t believe someone would do this. Only a monster would leave her out there to die.”

Now the TV showed a stretcher bearing a shrouded body being loaded into an ambulance.

“In a community already rocked by the tragedy of last night’s high school violence, this latest death is just one more blow to a town ironically named Tranquility…

Amelia said, “What are they talking about? What happened?”

Jack’s colorless eyes showed an ugly flicker of amusement. “Heard about it in town today,” he said. “That doctor’s kid is dead meat.”

Noah? Surely he’s not talking about Noah.

“Ran over the police chief’s wife last night, over on Slocum Road. That’s what some witness says.”

“Who’s saying that?”

Jack’s expression of amusement had spread to the rest of his face, tugging his lips into an ugly smile. “Well, that’s the question, isn’t it? Just who did see it?” He raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “Oh! I almost forgot. That’s the boy you’re all sweet on, isn’t it? The one you think is something special. Well, I guess you’re right.” He looked back at the TV and laughed. “He’s gonna be real special in prison.”