Deadly Pedigree

Deadly Pedigree - By Jimmy Fox


PROLOGUE



Murder has a family tree. Its ancestors and descendents are causes and consequences. Every act of murder gives birth to an eternal bond, spanning countless unwitting generations, scorning the limits of mortal time. This bond, this spawn of murder, instantly and forever alters all that has passed, all yet to be, insatiably reaching across the ages to lock events and individuals together in unbreakable, deadly kinship.

The frail man slowly pulling himself up the stairs needed no words to comprehend this truth. He heard, always, in every tongue devised by man, the weeping of the dead, without number, to confirm it. Language was irrelevant, impotent to express what he knew with every cell of his being, what it meant to be a member of this fatal family.

The stairway was steep, and nearly as hot and muggy as the New Orleans summer afternoon outside. The old man touched his chest and stomach alternately, as if not sure where the pain was worse. Sweat covered his blanched face. He clung to the handrail for support. His breath came short and shallow.

More than once the old man froze after ascending a few steps and covered his face with trembling hands.

Darkness. Cannot breathe! Is it the grave, so often escaped? Those voices, long ago. The same today, but different. Were they not utterly destroyed? Do they yet live? Yes. They rise up from the blood they spill. Black rivers, oceans of blood, pressing down upon me now.

“Let up dude. You’re gonna kill him.”

“So? One less kike in the world. Big f*ckin’ deal.”

“Give him some air, dude. Old man, can you hear? You gonna stop what you been doin’? Hey, old man! Listen: keep your mouth shut, mind your own business, or we’ll be back.”

“Yeah, a*shole. Next time we won’t use a f*ckin’ pillow.”

Cannot…breathe!

Each time the terror assailed him, he shook off his fear and proceeded upward, drawing strength from a secret source.

Now, his chin set defiantly, his gaze fierce, he pushed up the left sleeve of his outdated but carefully preserved sport coat. His shirt cuff rode easily up his bone-thin forearm to reveal blue-green tattooed numbers.

“You think you have won again?” he said bitterly to the echoing staircase, as if to an old invisible adversary. “No, no! I will have the final victory. You will remember, you will all suffer. This time, this time it will be you.” He fastidiously rearranged his damp shirt, tie, and coat.

From an inside pocket he removed a slim, dimpled silver flask. He coughed and took a furtive swig. Then he smoothed the two clumps of white hair on either side of his fragile skull and resumed the struggle toward his destination.





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