F. Paul Wilson - Bloodline

The links between the handcuffs ran through the eyebolt as well.

What the hell…?

And then Jack saw it. Gerhard must have been unconscious when he was hog-tied like this. The cuffs prevented his hands from reaching the knots. The bungee pulled his head down. With the tub filled Gerhard would have to strain against the cord to keep his head above water. Couldn't strain too hard or the bungee would tighten around his neck.

He'd probably screamed for help until his throat went raw and his voice failed, but no one heard him.

Keeping his head above the surface wouldn't be too difficult at first, but as the cold water lowered his body temperature and his muscles fatigued, he'd be forced to let his head sink to give them a rest. Then he'd lift his head for a breath before letting it sink again. Bobbing for air instead of apples.

Inevitably, when the muscles became too weak to raise his nostrils above sea level—depending on his strength, that might have taken a day or so—he'd drown.

Jack shook his head, chilled. Some sick bastard with a major hard-on for Gerhard had spent a lot of time dreaming this up.

The PI might have been a good guy, might have been a sleazeball, but nobody deserved this. Well, maybe not nobody —Jack had met a few folks who'd easily qualify—but most likely not Gerhard.

His last moments must have been awful.

Big question: Was the sicko who'd dreamed this up Jerry Bethlehem?

Could be, but Jack could think of other possibilities.

Private dicks make enemies. With guys like Gerhard who specialize in divorce work—"getting the goods on cheating spouses," as Christy had put it—it went with the territory. Could be one of his pigeons had been taken to the cleaners in a divorce settlement and come by for major payback.

Or it could have something to do with the Atlanta abortion killings. No question Gerhard was researching them. Why, after almost two decades? That bothered Jack. Not as if it was an ongoing case. As far as Jack knew, it was closed—the killer caught and punished. Had Gerhard stumbled upon something that would get it reopened? And was somebody willing to kill to prevent that?

Again, maybe. But this seemed too personal.

Which brought Jack back to the enraged cheating husband scenario as the most probable.

But it didn't let Bethlehem entirely off the hook. Gerhard could have found some dirt on Bethlehem—maybe something incriminating—and tried to blackmail him.

Jack shook his head. Whatever had gone down, this was not the place to ponder it. He had a couple of surfaces and doorknobs to wipe down and then he was out of here.

6

Christy cruised the Queens Boulevard outer road, slowing as she passed in front of the bar. She spotted that damned Jerry Bethlehem's Harley out front. She'd learned this was his hang when he wasn't eating at Dawn's table at the Tower or home working on his latest video game.

She parked her Mercedes half a block down the street, facing the place. She'd used this spot a number of times before; the perfect vantage point because it offered a clear view of the front entrance.

She turned off the engine and checked her watch as she settled in for her vigil. Dawnie's shift at the Tower didn't end for another hour. She'd most likely be hooking up with Jerry after work. The question was: What would Jerry be up to until then?

The place was called Work. Ha ha. Very funny. Honey, I'm really busy at Work and wont be home till late .

She'd peeked in there a while baek. It was a sort of eatery-bar—pool hall. Not the sort of place she'd expect a well-heeled guy like Jerry to hang out. His expensive clothes didn't exactly match the decor—or the other patrons for that matter. She couldn't imagine any of them going home to a Rego Park condo a tenth as luxurious as his. Christy had never been inside, but she knew the complex—very tony—and Dawn had gushed about all the 'state-of-the-art electronics it housed.

Bethlehem ate lunch at Work almost every day and hung out at the bar when he wasn't stalking Dawn at the Tower.

But every once in a while he'd disappear. Like yesterday. Where did he go? That was what Christy intended to learn.

This was what they called a stakeout, right? Mike Gerhard should be here, doing this. Or that new guy, Jack. Maybe she could convince him to take over after he located Gerhard.

She had a good feeling about Jack—never did get his last name. How had she let that slip by? His reluctance to get too involved inspired a strange sort of trust. He didn't seem to be money motivated. None of that grubbing attitude: Sure-sure, I'll do—or pretend to do—anything you want, just pay me. Oh, he wanted to get paid, but she sensed it was as much to set a value on his efforts as to make a living.

The thing was, someone had to watch Bethlehem. Someone had to catch him in the act.

What act, she didn't know, but he was hiding something. Had to be. As soon as she'd set eyes on him, standing in her living room, she'd sensed something wrong. Maybe it was the strange way he'd stared at her when he walked in. Whatever it was had sent ripples of revulsion through her…

… and yet, he was sexy in a way. The lazy Southern drawl, the longish hair, the long, lean frame, the mystery of what lay behind that beard, the mesmerizing blue eyes that seemed to pierce you…

Maybe it was that bad-boy thing. He had a certain sense of danger about him that, in another time, another place, might have attracted her. But to know that it was aimed at her daughter, attracting her … well, that was too much to bear.

Maybe because he'd been with her little girl—not yet with her in that sense back then—just… with her. She'd wanted him gone, wanted to kick him out on his ass, but she couldn't. They'd only go elsewhere, and she wanted him where she could keep an eye on him.

Finally they did go elsewhere. To his place. And once they got there she knew they wouldn't limit their relationship to working on video games. At least not for long.

The thought sickened her.

Not that she was a prude. Anything but. She'd lost her virginity at sixteen and had got it on with half a dozen different boyfriends in high school before… never mind. She didn't want to think about that. But the operative word was the boy in boyfriend. They were boys —her age or maybe a year older. They were all growing and learning the sexual ropes together. This Bethlehem creep had the benefit of a whole extra lifetime of experience beyond Dawn's. What was he into? What was he teaching her? What was he making her do?

Don't you hurt my little girl.

And she knew he was going to hurt her. Not emotionally, by dumping her after he'd used her up. Christy could help Dawn through that. No, worse. He wanted something from her. But what? And why Dawn?

Dawnie… how could an Ivy League—bound girl act so dumb? And sound dumb too. Despite all her reading and all her A's in English, she'd fallen into the "like" and "totally" habit of her peers. Really, with laws about everything else, why couldn't they pass a law about the number of times someone could use "like" per day?

So she'd started fining Dawn—twenty-five cents for every time she misused "like." It had worked, making her conscious of it, and her use trailed off. Christy had just instituted a similar program to wipe out "totally" when that man came along.

Did he care about Dawnie—at all?

She couldn't believe that, and so she needed something on this cradle-robbing bastard.

She hoped tonight would be the night he'd make a mistake. She'd follow—

There he was, sauntering out of the bar, talking on his cell phone as if he didn't have a care in the world—and all the while making a wreck of Dawnie's.