Blood Men: A Thriller

“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.





chapter sixty-one


“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.