Bloodline

  Jack gave that two seconds of thought, then said, “Deal.”

  Bolton waved the empty pint glass toward the bar, saying, “Laurie, honey. You wanna get this fellow another on me?”

  Just then a sloppily dressed guy, maybe forty, stepped up to the table.

  “Need any party supplies?”

  Bolton jerked a finger over his shoulder. “Beat it, Danny. You know better.”

  Danny looked at Jack. “You?”

  “Git!” Bolton said.

  Danny got.

  Jack watched him slouch away. “I assume he’s not in the paper-hat and blow-out horn trade.”

  Bolton smiled. “Not exactly. You just met Dirty Danny. Specializes in E and such. I ain’t into that shit. You?”

  “Not lately.”

  Jack figured Bolton wouldn’t want to get caught holding if Danny drew heat and got pinched.

  He sat opposite Jack and grabbed the PSP. He put on the glasses and attacked the game. He didn’t look up as Laurie arrived with Jack’s beer. Gave no sign that he noticed. Total immersion.

  Jack studied him as he played, watched the Kicker Man tattoo on his left hand dance as his thumbs worked the buttons. He couldn’t read Bolton’s eyes through the glasses, but he could see the facial muscles twitch under his beard, saw smiles—by turns rueful or delighted—twist his lips now and then.

  Didn’t look much like a stone killer.

  Finally he put it down, pulled off the glasses, and slid everything back toward Jack.

  “Totally awesome. Gotta get me one of them.”

  Totally awesome…yeah, he’d been hanging with an eighteen-year-old.

  They exchanged names—both lying. Jack wasn’t sure how he came up with the name Joe Henry, but that was what he used. They hung out and talked about video games. No question about it, Bolton was a hard-core gamer. They swapped tips and stories about MGS, Halo, Grand Theft Auto, and others. Jack had played them all, but not to the levels Bolton had reached. Then again, Jack had had more to do in his adult life than sit in a cell and push buttons.

  And all the while they talked, Jack’s gaze kept drifting back to the Kicker Man tattoo. Bolton must have noticed. He held up his hand, palm inward, and stretched his thumb and index finger apart.

  “You like this?”

  “Been seeing more and more of them. I guess that means you’re a Kicker.”

  “A fully dissimilated Kicker. You know what that means?”

  “No, but I’m learning. I’m halfway through the book.”

  “No shit? Well, you’re all right, then. A gamer and a Kicker—”

  “Not yet.”

  He smiled. “Oh, you will be. You’ll be dissimilated before you know it.”

  This was the second time someone had told him that. Not a comforting thought.

  “But anyway—a gamer and a Kicker-to-be. Cool.”

  Jack couldn’t resist: “What do you know about the author? Hank Thompson, isn’t it? Ever hear of him before?”

  Bolton’s eyes narrowed. “Why you askin that?”

  “Oh, just wondering. One minute nobody’s ever heard of him, next he’s on TV and his little Kicker Man is everywhere. Pretty amazing.”

  Bolton eased back. “Yeah. Pretty damn-fuck amazin.”

  Something in the tone…chagrin? A hint of animosity? Jack couldn’t peg it.

  He let it drop and they moved on to reminiscing about their favorite Atari games in the old days.

  “My momma was poor, so I never had a console of my own, but I made sure I hung out with kids who did. Missile Command—I loooooved Missile Command.”

  Bolton was animated, lively, charming, easy to be with. If Jack hadn’t known what he knew, he might have found himself liking the guy. Easy to see why Dawn had fallen under his spell.

  He couldn’t see this guy doing what had been done to Gerhard. Must have been somebody else. And given that, was it possible he’d been framed for the Atlanta murders as Thompson had said?

  Perhaps…but his abduction of Levy hinted at what he might be capable of.

  Jack needed to know more about this guy. Which was why he was here…

  “And when I wasn’t wearin out an Atari Two Thousand’s joystick, I was plunking every quarter I could steal into the arcade.”

  That reminded Jack of something.

  “Hey, there’s a place in the city that has all the old arcade games. We could head in and—”

  Bolton shook his head. “Maybe someday, but not for a while.”

  “Hey, if you’re short—”

  “Hell no, I ain’t short. I just got other things to do. I’m what you call a man with a mission. Can’t get sidetracked till I done what needs doin. Then I get to the fun stuff.”

  Jack couldn’t help leaning forward. This was what he’d come for. He couldn’t believe Bolton was going to tell him.

  “What needs doing?”

  Bolton got a faraway look. “Workin on a project. Real important. Got to concentrate on that. But when it’s rollin, when I done my part, I can coast until the big day.”

  “What big day?”

  He grinned, more to himself than Jack. “Why, the comin of the Key to the future, of course. A new world.”

  Jack was speechless for a moment, then managed a feeble, “Huh?”

  Bolton shook himself. “Just kiddin.”

  Jack glanced again at the tattoo.

  “This wouldn’t have anything to do with Kickers, would it?”

  Again the narrowed eyes. “What makes you say that?”

  “Well, that author’s always saying he’s out to change the world.”

  Bolton smiled. “Yeah, he is, ain’t he. Well, he’s right about one thing: The world’s gonna change like it’s never changed before. What’s up’ll be down, and what’s down’ll be up.”

  He glanced at the Coors clock on the wall.

  “Whoops. Gotta go.” He rose and stuck out his hand. “Nice meetin’ya. Maybe we’ll work out a two-player arrangement one of these days and see who’s top dog.”

  “Yeah. Let’s do that.”

  He watched him go but didn’t follow. Couldn’t. Had a date in Rathburg for his payoff. Bolton was most likely heading over to the diner to hook up with Dawn.

  Jack stayed where he was, an uncomfortable mix of feelings stewing around him.

  A “key to the future”…what the hell was that?

  But a changing world, up moving down and down moving up…it all reeked of the Otherness.

  4

  Jack pulled into the A&P parking lot half an hour early and set up watch from a shaded corner.

  Around a quarter after he saw Levy’s Infiniti enter, followed by a battered and dirty old Jetta. They parked in adjoining spaces, then Levy got out and spoke to the driver of the Jetta, a middle-aged woman. After a brief conversation, Levy returned to his car and the Jetta moved two lanes away where the driver had a clear view of the Infiniti.

  A little research had revealed that Levy occupied the number two spot at Creighton, right below medical director Julia Vecca. Could the driver be Vecca? Seemed like a long shot. Hard to believe the medical director of a federal facility would drive around in a heap like that.

  Whoever she was, what was she doing here?

  Jack could think of a couple of ways to find out, but settled on the most direct.

  He pulled on a pair of leather driving gloves, stepped out of his car, and walked the perimeter of the lot until he was behind the Jetta. Then he beelined for it.

  She jumped and let out a short, sharp screech when he yanked open her door.

  “You won’t be able to hear a thing from here. Come and join the meeting. I don’t want you to miss a word.”

  She stared up at him through thick lenses. Her gray-streaked brown hair managed to be simultaneously mousy and ratty. Her suit was wrinkled and her white blouse showed ring around the collar. She grabbed for her phone.

  “I’m calling the police!”

  He took her arm and gently
pulled her from the car.

  “No need, lady. We’re just taking a short walk to your pal Levy’s car over there, where we’ll sit and get to know each other.”

  The fear in her eyes turned to annoyance as she allowed herself to be led across the lot.

  Levy’s eyes fairly bulged through the windshield when he saw Jack and his companion. He jumped out of the car and stepped toward them.

  “Julia, I—”

  Julia, ay? Thanks for the ID.

  Jack waved him back inside. “Nothing’s changed, doc. We’ve got a table for three now, that’s all.”

  Jack opened the front passenger door and ushered Vecca into the seat, then climbed into the rear.

  “Comfy,” he said as he settled on the soft cushions. He shoved a gloved hand toward Levy. “Now, as they say at the Oscars: the envelope, please.”

  Without a word, Levy slapped it into his palm. Jack opened it and pretended to count, then stuffed it into a pocket.

  “Okay. Now that that’s out of the way, why are you here, Doctor Vecca?”

  She jumped at the sound of her name, then turned in her seat and focused suspicious eyes on him.

  “You know who I am? How? Have I been under surveillance?”

  He winked at her. “I’ll never tell. But you might consider washing your underwear between wearings.”

  That had been a guess but, considering her appearance, an easy one. She glared at him.

  “I came here to get a look at the man who is blackmailing us. I must say, I’m not impressed.”

  “Then why didn’t you simply arrive with the doc here?” When she didn’t answer, he added, “Oh, I get it. You didn’t want me to know you were involved. You need deniabilty so you can leave Levy in the lurch should this whole situation head south, right?”

  Vecca reddened while Levy’s neutral expression said he’d already figured that.

  “And as for blackmail,” Jack went on, “I didn’t ask for this. I was offered.”

  “That’s immaterial. Just make sure you do what you’re being paid for—which is nothing.”

  “Or what? You’ll sic Bolton on me like you sicced him on Gerhard?”

  He was probing here, looking for a reaction.

  “I’ve heard enough of this.” She opened the car door. “Remember what I told you.”

  She slammed the door and stormed back to her car.

  “I do believe I’ve upset her.”

  Levy cleared his throat. “The only way to truly upset Doctor Vecca is to threaten her protocol. She’s got a lot invested in this clinical trial.”

  “Enough to want Gerhard dead?”

  “She did not ‘sic’ Bolton on Gerhard. I told you—he was with us the night you say Gerhard was murdered.” He cleared his throat. “You mentioned oDNA last night. Tell me honestly: Where did you hear of that?”

  “The stuff that doesn’t exist?”

  “It’s obvious that you know it does, so I see no point in denying it. But where—?”

  “Let’s trade. You tell me about it and I’ll tell you where I heard about it.”

  “You heard about it from Gerhard, didn’t you.”

  “First time I ever laid eyes on him he was dead.” Jack wasn’t giving anything away. “You first.”

  Levy looked around the half-full parking lot. Vecca had putt-putted off in her junker.

  “Let’s move the car.”

  “Where?”

  “I’ll show you.”

  Jack leaned forward for a look over the backrest and saw Levy’s RF detector resting on the console.

  “Afraid somebody’s listening?”

  “No, of course not. I’d just like a change of scenery.”

  The RF detector was reading only background, but Levy could be worried about a laser eavesdropper—bounce a beam off a window and hear everything inside. Then again, he could have something arranged…

  Jack reached back and pulled out his Glock. He held it low and racked the slide. The cartridge in the chamber popped out and bounced off the rear of the front seat. All for show, but the sound effect brought the desired result.

  Levy said, “You brought a gun?”

  “Of course.” He pocketed the ejected cartridge. “Didn’t you?”

  “No! I don’t even own one.”

  “Probably should. Okay, take us where you want to go.”

  5

  Julia watched Aaron’s car pull out of the lot with that private investigator, John Robertson, still in the rear seat.

  She’d made a circuit and come back to the A&P to talk to Aaron after the detective left, but apparently they’d made other plans. She wondered where they were going and what they could possibly be talking about. She was tempted to follow but had a better idea.

  Before, as she’d driven away, she’d realized she’d seen the investigator get out of his car shortly after she’d pulled into the lot. She hadn’t paid it much mind at the time, just a man getting out of a big black car. But that man had turned out to be Robertson.

  He was gone but his car remained.

  Julia pulled up before it and wrote down the license plate number.

  Probably thought he was smart. Aaron had told her about his assuming the identity of a dead investigator. She’d noticed he wore gloves so as not to leave any prints. Probably thought he had all bases covered, that he’d fully insulated his identity.

  Well, he’d better think again. He wasn’t dealing with the hoi polloi here. He was dealing with another kind of investigator—a scientific investigator used to probing the secrets of life itself. Probing the secrets of one man’s miserable life would be a cakewalk.

  That remark about her underwear still rankled. How embarrassing. Had he been spying on her? Well, turnabout was fair play.

  She’d give the plate number over to the agency and let them run with it. In a matter of hours they’d know everything there was to know about this man. His life would be an open book.

  Smiling, she pulled away.

  John Robertson, or whoever he really was, had made his last snide remark. He’d rue the day he dared to cross swords with Julia Vecca.

  6

  After driving in a meandering loop that brought them to a construction site, Levy parked on a dead-end street in the growing development. Apparently the workers had the weekend off.

  “Well,” Jack said, peering around. “This is intimate.”

  “I work for suspicious people. Now, tell me where you heard about—”

  “Uh-uh. You first, remember?”

  Levy sighed. “Very well…”

  Very well? Who said very well?

  “One of the fallouts of the human genome project has been the realization of how much—ninety-eight or ninety-nine percent—of our DNA is noncoding. In other words, junk. Or at least seems like junk. Since we can’t find any useful purpose it serves, we call it that. But that doesn’t mean it was never useful. Most of us think it’s mainly leftovers from viruses and the evolutionary process.”

  Jack was disappointed. He’d heard of junk DNA. But Levy seemed too interested in oDNA for it to be junk.

  “I don’t buy oDNA as just junk.”

  “It is and it isn’t. Some junk DNA is oDNA, but not all oDNA is junk.”

  “Thanks for clearing that up.”

  “I know it’s confusing. Let me go back to the beginning. Back in the eighties I began working on an NIH-funded project that was looking to identify genetic markers for ‘antisocial’ behavior. This was all very hush-hush because of the controversial nature of the work.”

  “What’s so controversial about that?”

  “Politics, my boy. Politics. A number of NIH conferences on the subject were canceled because of protests. They’re all afraid that if these markers are identified and confirmed beyond doubt, how will the information be used? Specters of the eugenics movement and the holocaust get invoked and everyone shrinks away. And then come the religious fanatics: it’s original sin, not God-given DNA that causes mankind to break
the Commandments.”

  “The good old creationists, sabotaging knowledge wherever it rears its ugly head.”

  “Recently they’ve tarted up creationism with some pseudoscientific gobbledygook and are trying to slip it into schools as ‘intelligent design,’ but it’s still creationism.” He snorted. “Intelligent design! It’s laughable. Look at the cetaceans—creatures that must live, feed, and mate in a medium they can’t breathe.”

  Jack nodded. “Yeah. If that’s intelligent design, God must be a blond.”

  Levy laughed. “Exactly. And has anyone who pushes intelligent design ever looked at the human genome? It’s a mess—an absolute mess.”

  “But it somehow gets the job done.”

  “That it does, using only one or two percent of what’s there. Back in those days, we hadn’t yet mapped out the genome. The Human Genome Project was just a dream. But I did find consistent markers in certain violent criminals. Not all of them, but in enough to keep the funding going. Adapting a fluorescent antibody test developed by Julia Vecca allowed me to stain nuclei to show the presence of this DNA variant.

  “Once we had that, we needed a criminal population to test. We collected samples from all the federal prisons, and the ones who scored highest were moved to Creighton, which became dedicated to researching the variant.”

  “Were they all violent?”

  “The top scorers, yes, though some white-collar criminals were up there too. But just because they were locked up for nonviolent crimes didn’t mean they weren’t violent. We could only go on their convictions. We didn’t know how they treated their wives or kids or the family dog.”

  “The closet sadists.”

  “Right. But with the explosion of knowledge and investigational techniques in the late nineties and early aughts, we found a subset of pseudogenes among the junk.”

  “Fakes?”

  “How do I put this? They’re ancient ancestors of functioning genes, but they have no coding ability. They fall under the junk umbrella. But these particular pseudogenes are so unique that you could almost say they indicate a variant strain of humanity…another evolutionary line…another human race that got pushed aside.”