Blood Men: A Thriller

“The men who did this, they have something inside them too, not a voice like we have, but something that makes them different. Each of them must have some criminal history,” he says. “Think about it, it’s obvious.”


I think about it. I think about what Schroder said last night, our nice friendly chat about people getting locked away and let right back out, our nice friendly chat about what a huge revolving door prison is these days.

“They’ve all spent time in jail,” he carries on. “Had to have. I’m betting some of them, if not all of them, probably met in jail. That’s what jail is, right? For me, it’s my home. I’ll never see outside of these walls again, but for these men it’s a place to learn new skills, make new friends.”

I stay silent, but continue to listen.

“Jail takes people in, it educates them in very, very dangerous ways, then it spits them back out into society. Most if not all of Jodie’s killers have walked in and out of these doors for various crimes.”

“And you know who these people are, right? It’s why you’re telling me. You want me to find these people to satisfy your darkness.”

“I think we can help each other out,” he says.

“No way. This is bullshit,” I say. “I’m not helping you out.”

“Would that be such a bad thing, son? Or would you rather let them go free? The voice can be a bad thing, son, but it can be a good thing too. You can use it to make the men who did this pay for what happened.”

“To satisfy your darkness?”

“No. To keep you sane. If you can’t control it the way I could, you’re going to hurt good people.”

“Hang on a second. Are you saying you controlled it all those years?”

“Of course. I gave in to it as well, in a way, but I controlled it. That’s why I never killed anybody who mattered.”

“You killed eleven prostitutes,” I say. “How can you say they don’t matter?”

“They don’t.”

“They do.”

“Compared to what? Compared to my own family? My friends? Our neighbors? They didn’t matter compared to anybody else I knew. Once you can control it, it’ll keep you from hurting good people. It’ll keep you from going off the rails and losing your daughter. The monster won’t go away now, not if it’s taking the steering wheel and making you do things. If you can’t control it, you’re going to be more like your old man than you ever thought possible. We’re blood men,” he says.

“What?”

“Other people, they’re attracted to looks, or money, nice jobs, all the hollow things in this world. Other men are attracted to tits or ass, women are attracted to smiles and eyes. Your monster, my darkness, they’re attracted to blood. It makes us blood men.”

He stands up, and suddenly I realize that this meeting, if that’s the word for it, is over. I stand up too. Dad reaches over and grabs my hands.

“No touching,” the guard says, and when Dad doesn’t let go, the guard comes over and separates us. “That’s enough for today,” the guard says, stamping his authority on us.

Dad walks away. “I love you, son,” he says, but he doesn’t turn back to say it. “No matter what happens now, remember that.”

I don’t know how to answer him, so I don’t. I walk away too. And it’s not until I’m in the parking lot that I look down at the folded piece of paper in my hand.





chapter twenty-three


I haven’t seen my father’s handwriting in twenty years. He used to help me with my homework. We’d lie down on the floor in the living room with the TV going but the volume mostly down, discussing why bees collected honey or how seven wouldn’t divide into twelve. He’d write things down for me, he’d read over my assignments and jot down ideas in the margins, other times he’d take notes out of whatever books I was searching through for answers. He has this elegant printing style, where the letters don’t bleed into each other, each one separate, easy to read, easy to recognize even after all this time. He always wanted me to be the best that I could at school. Those days come back to me, the smells of my mum baking something, or cooking dinner, the TV going, laughter, warm weather, a dog barking, school uniforms, life.

Another car pulls into the parking lot. It’s a rundown Mercedes, the type that isn’t old enough to be classic, but nowhere new enough to be cool. There’s a long scratch running along the bottom of the passenger side. A guy, maybe around twenty, steps out of it, his dreadlocks bouncing.

“Hey, bro, what up?” he asks, tilting his head upward as he does so. I immediately hate him. His T-shirt is full of holes and has I ATE AT THE BLEEDING BUDGIE all in capital letters across the front of it. No picture, no further explanation, maybe there’s a punch line on the back, but I don’t look. He realizes his mistake in speaking to me because I ignore him. He shrugs and heads in through the glass doors.

The air in the car is so hot it almost curls the paper my dad gave me. I wind the windows down but it doesn’t help. I read it over a couple of times and think about what it means.