Blood Men: A Thriller

“Wait . . . you were an accountant?”


“You were nine years old when I was taken away. Don’t try pretending you have no idea what I used to do for a living. You’re just like your old man,” he says.

I don’t answer him. I don’t even want to think about it.

“And the voice confirms it. My darkness and your monster—they’re as similar as we are.”

“This is crazy,” I say. “You’re crazy. I don’t know why I came along. I hate myself for showing up yesterday. I’m going to go,” I say, but don’t make any motion.

“You came here to learn,” he says, “not to dismiss everything I say.”

“No. I came here because . . . ,” I trail off, suddenly unsure.

“Because you want answers. Everything that’s happened over the last week . . . You’re hearing the voice, aren’t you, Jack? It’s come back.”

My dad smiles. It’s the same smile I remember when I was a kid, and part of me, one small part of what makes up the whole of who I am—at least according to my dad—wants to hug him, wants to cry against his chest and ask him to make everything better.

“You’re here to ask for my help,” he adds.

I lean forward and the guard seems about to say something, but stops when he sees I’m not leaning forward for a hug or punch. I lower my voice. “You said it was a good thing the cops had no idea who killed Jodie. What did you mean by that?”

My dad glances up at the guard, who is openly staring at us, then my dad leans in too, and suddenly we’re pals, we’re whispering secrets—let the good times roll.

“It means what you think it means.”

“I think it means that you’re insane. That you couldn’t care less about what happened to my family. Or even to your family.”

“No you don’t,” he says. “It means what it means.”

“Which is?”

“It means those men are still out there, awaiting justice, and there isn’t any reason it has to be police justice.”

“Except for the law,” I say.

“Did the law step in to save your wife?” he asks. “Does the law warm up the other side of your bed at night? Does it give your daughter somebody to look up to? Make her school lunches and tuck her in at night and tell her to have sweet dreams? Is the law there to hold your life together, is it there to hold your daughter’s hand and tell her everything is going to be all right? Was it there to stop the blood dripping out of Jodie’s body when she hit the road?”

“Shut up,” I say. “I don’t want you talking about her like that.”

“Twenty years ago, son, you weren’t ready to kill that dog, but the darkness, your monster, made you do it. You killed that dog and the police came sniffing around with their questions. The darkness tries to make you impulsive, son, and twenty years ago your darkness got me arrested.”

“Huh? What are you talking about?”

“It was that damn dog. You killed it, and you invited the police into our neighborhood. Do you remember you wrapped the steak in a plastic bag? You did, and when you gave the steak to the dog you dropped the plastic bag. The bag was from home, son, and it had my fingerprints on it. They matched the prints found with the prostitutes. The police got warrants to search houses in the street because they knew a killer lived there. They came with their questions and then they came back with more. They searched the garage, son. They looked for the mix of sharp things you put into that steak, and they found them. But they found other things too. Other . . . mementos.”

“You kept things from the victims?”

“Small things. Earrings, mostly. Sometimes a necklace. I couldn’t help myself. They came looking for fishhooks and nails and they found souvenirs of my women.”

“You were . . . wait, you were caught because of me?” I ask.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he says.

“Honestly, I don’t know if I care whether it was my fault or not,” I say. And it’s true. Am I glad my father was caught and could no longer kill? Yes. Am I upset he was taken away? Absolutely. I think about what it means. On one hand I’m a hero. I saved future victims. On the other hand I betrayed my family. If I hadn’t listened to the voice, if I hadn’t killed that dog, my sister, my mother, they’d still be alive. I killed them as surely as I killed that dog. Last week I sacrificed Jodie to save a bank teller. Twenty years ago I sacrificed my family to save other prostitutes. What does that make me? Does it make me a trader in death?

“Son, I’m not blaming you. You couldn’t know, and you were too young to control the darkness. Since that dog you killed, how many times have you heard it?”

“Why are you telling me any of this?”