Blood List (7 page)

Gene rolled his eyes and shoved Marty left-handed, careful not to burn him with the cigar. His brother pinwheeled his arms, lost his balance, and fell off the picnic table. He landed on his back in a spray of scotch and ice, his red plastic cup tumbling out of his hand on impact. Carl stopped the music, laughing. While Marty dusted himself off, Gene puffed on the cigar and stepped down. He walked up to Doug and wrapped him in a hug.

"I love you, man," Gene said. He pulled back and clapped Doug on the shoulders.

"You're drunk," Doug replied, the barest trace of a smirk tugging at his mouth.

Gene nodded and took another puff. "You're a dad."

Doug grinned. "I am."

Gene looked at Maureen and the girls, who sat under the giant parasol that Sam had brought. Jerri and Sam fawned over the pink bassinettes. "Those are some beautiful girls you've got there. And Maureen looks great." Doug caught her eye, and she waved. Her eyes were all for the father of her children, but flickered to Gene and away before she turned her attention back to the babies.

"Yeah." Doug's tone turned serious. "Can we talk?"

"Sure, Doug. What about?"

They walked toward the swing sets as Carl re-started the music. Marty had poured himself another Glenmorangie and was back on the table, dancing badly. Doug looked out across the city. "It's been six months, Gene. No sign."

Gene groaned. "This is about work?" He looked wistfully back at the picnic.

Doug stopped in his tracks and looked Gene in the eye, forcing him to shift his attention back to the conversation. "No. This is about me. I'm quitting the team."

Gene blinked. "What?"

"After we nail D Street. Maureen wants me out, and I want…." He trailed off. He looked up at the sky, thinking. Gene waited. "I want her. And she can't handle this. It rips her up every time I leave, because she doesn't know if I'll be coming back."

Gene stared off into the distance. "What are you going to do?"

"Not sure. Maybe I'll be a stay-at-home dad."

Gene smiled. "You wouldn't last a week. Those girls will eat you alive."

Doug replied softly, "So you're okay with this?"

Gene puffed on his cigar. "I'm not going to try to talk you out of it. You've got different priorities now. Good for you. And if you want it, your job will always be here."

"Thanks, Gene."

They walked back to the group in silence.

*   *   *

June 22nd, 12:59 PM PST; Paul Renner's Apartment; Los Angeles, California.

Paul was at his computer when the phone rang. He put on his headphones and clicked "answer."

"Hello?" he said.

"Paul Renner?" asked a digitally scrambled voice.

The trace program confirmed the encrypted call came from a recently activated, prepaid cellular phone.

"Yes." 

"Your standard fee is fifty thousand dollars American?" The fake Russian accent was pretty good. The way this client said "fifty thousand" never quite changed enough to disguise his identity.

Paul grunted in surprise. Business had dried up after the Larry Johnson fiasco. He never expected another contract from the same employer.
Might as well play dumb,
he thought.
Fifty grand is fifty grand.

"Plus expenses," he said.

"And to where do I send the information?" He said it like "'info-mission."
Definitely the same man.

"I'll send you a phone," Paul said, playing along. "You'll get a text with an e-mail account. You reply to that address, which will report that the message bounced. I'll retrieve it from there. I need an address."

The man gave him a P.O. Box at the main Postal hub in Baltimore, Maryland.

"One week."

Paul hung up the phone, frowning. In the past two years, this client had paid fifty large a pop to have seven people killed. He used different phones, different accents, and different accounts, but it was the same man. There were a lot of reasons why any given person would be willing to pay fifty grand to see another person dead. Jealousy, blackmail, cheating, irrational hatred. They all made sense, and Paul was happy to provide the service if the price was right. But so many people hated by one man?

A retired policeman, a nursing assistant, a second grade teacher, an unemployed derelict in public housing, the mother of a celebutante known for getting drunk and screaming at her entourage, a community college ombudsman, and a retired garbage man.

Weird.
Paul took out a brand-new NetPhone I-590, fresh out of the box. He went online, activated it, and packaged it for shipping.

A week later, Paul stared at his phone in utter disbelief. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the screen. His mind wouldn't accept what he saw.

Kevin Parsons

271 Hawkes Drive

Lincoln, NE 68508

He read it again, for the hundredth time.

This can't be a test. They don't know who I am.

Research time gave him a few months to figure this out. He could invent a delay if he needed to. He read the name again.

This can't be a coincidence.

He read it again.

If I turn it down, they'll send somebody else.

He read it again.

This can't be a trap. It can't be a test.

The phone shattered against the wall. Paul closed his eyes tight and took several deep breaths. His heart rate slowed. His mind went through the litany.

Kevin Parsons. Age 66. Retired. Widower, lives alone. One child, 36. No grandchildren. No security on the house, no guards, no dog, no frequent visitors. Clockwork schedule:  goes to service on Sundays, then out to breakfast at the Easy Peasy; bowls on Tuesdays, 7:30 PM; jogs every morning at 6:15 AM. An easy kill.
But why would anyone want him dead?

*   *   *

June 26th, 10:45 AM CST; Home of Kevin Parsons; Lincoln, Nebraska.

Paul Renner pulled the rental car up to the driveway of a quaint, 1950s-style split-level, painted a generic off-white with a gray-shingled roof. A plastic trout served as the mailbox, emblazoned
Parsons
in bold white on the side. He gathered his thoughts, suppressing the façade of Paul Renner into background noise.

He got out of the car, patted the fish-box on the head, walked up to the door, and rang the bell. A familiar chime sounded inside the house, followed by his father's gruff voice. "Just a minute!"

The door opened to reveal a man in his mid-sixties. He held a cup of coffee in one hand, a newspaper in the other, and had an enormous grin on his face. His dad had long ago lost the battle to a receding hairline and had only wisps of white above his ears. Despite the hour, he wore white boxer shorts and an undershirt stretched comfortably over a bit of a gut.

"Steve!" his dad cried out and wrapped him in a giant hug, almost spilling his coffee in the process.

"Hi, Dad," Paul said, his voice sounding chagrined.

His father pulled back, his face sly. "What're you doing here, after so long with no visits? Need money?"

It was a long-standing joke. Whenever he visited, Paul tried to give his dad money, or a car, or a new TV, or tickets to the theater. Every time, Dad turned him down. His dad had taken to asking him if he needed money before he could offer anything.

"No, Dad. I'm set for cash."

"Have you talked to your cousin Ryan lately?" his dad asked, leading him to the kitchen.

"Not in a few months. We're both busy, I guess." Paul helped himself to a cup of coffee and pointed at the old, battered toaster oven next to the pot. "Hey, where's the one I got you?"

His dad smiled. "That one works just fine. Pastor Jenkins needed a new one for the hospitality room. Theirs died."

"Huh," Paul said. He took a tentative sip. "Sheesh, Dad, you could strip paint with this." He set the cup on the counter and opened the cupboard, looking for some sugar.

His dad chuckled and took a swallow of his own. "Does the body good." He paused. "You should call Ryan, though. Family's important. The most important thing you've got."

Paul smiled, blanking his thoughts. "I will, Dad, I will. I met his new girl, what's-her-name, not too long ago. We saw a show and caught up a little. She seems nice."

"She
is
nice, Steve. So's that Courtney you brought around that time. I wouldn't mind seeing her around a bit more."

Paul frowned.
That time
was three years ago. Long-term attachments didn't mesh well with his line of work.

His dad hadn't noticed. "You could use a lady in your life, you know? Your mother…."

Paul looked at his dad, startled. Dad never talked about Mom. Never.

"Your mother…." He smiled sadly. "She was the best thing that ever happened to me. The best."

"I know, Pop," Paul said. He blinked.
A blonde woman lay on beige carpet stained red with blood. He pressed his palms into her neck. His hands were too small; he couldn't stop the bleeding. Hot and red, it filled his nostrils, metallic and cloying. Rough hands on his shoulders dragged him to a navy-blue van emblazoned with three yellow letters:  FBI. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't stop screaming.
He blinked again. "I wish I'd known her."

 They drank their coffee in silence. After a few minutes, his dad clapped once. "Well, enough moping about the past. What say we go work on that crawl space?"

"Ooh, goody." 

They put their dishes away and headed to the back of the house.

That evening Paul sat at the kitchen table, a cup of rotgut coffee in one hand and a powdered doughnut in the other, and stared at his father's incredulous face. It felt discordant looking at his dad with the façade of Renner in place, but this wasn't a job for the real him.
Man up
, he thought.
A little cognitive dissonance never hurt anybody.

"You want me to do what?" Kevin Parsons asked.

"I need you to hide for a while," Paul said. "I have a cabin, fully stocked, isolated. Nobody knows it's mine. Nobody could trace you there. I need you to get in the car I've got outside, go there, and not tell anybody. Anybody. And don't use any credit cards along the way."

"But…. Why? For how long?" 

"I don't know. Probably a few months, maybe longer. I can't tell you why, but it's very important."

Kevin frowned out the window, then at his son. "This is ridiculous. Are you in danger?" 

Paul shook his head.

"Am I?"

Paul took a sip of coffee, stalling. He looked at the ceiling, then at Kevin. "Yes."

"From who?"

"I don't know, Dad," Paul said. "But they're going to kill you, and I need time to figure out who they are and how to stop them."

Kevin blinked several times, then pinched his own arm. "Am I dreaming?"

"No," Paul said. Kevin paced in front of the window.

"Steve, this is ridiculous. People are trying to kill me, but you don't know who they are, or how long I'll be hiding, or why they—" He stopped dead, then approached the table. A giant grin split his face as he leaned on the back of a chair. "And where is this cabin?"

Paul didn't like the look of that grin. "Near Lake Tahoe."

His dad flopped into the chair. "Jesus, Son, you really had me there. If you want to buy me a vacation, you don't need to scare me to death. The answer's still no, though. We've been through this, and it's not like I don't appreciate the thought." One look at his son's face and his smile faded.

Paul leaned across the table and grabbed his father's hand. He looked him in the eyes and willed him to understand. "Dad. I'm not kidding. This isn't a vacation. This is hiding, from very bad people."

Come on,
Paul thought.
Just believe it.

"You're serious," his dad said.

Paul squeezed Kevin's hand, then let go. "Yeah, I'm serious." He picked up the doughnut and took a bite.

"But…who on Earth would want me dead?"

"My thoughts exactly," Paul said, leaning back in his chair. "It doesn't make any sense."

His dad frowned. "And how do you know? How are you mixed up in all this, Steve?"

Paul looked into his cup. "You trust me, don't you, Dad?"

"Yeah, of course I do. But this. This is nuts."

"Yes, it is," Paul replied. "Will you do it?"

"Do I have a choice?"

Paul folded his hands over his head and looked at the ceiling. "Yeah, Dad, of course you have a choice. You can stay here until they get you, or you can run somewhere else while I sort this out. Or you could go to the cops, but they won't believe you." He looked at Kevin. "They'll just think you're crazy."

Kevin stared at him across the table. "Son, you have a lot of money, more than a mid-level programmer should have. I've known that for a long time. I raised you better than to be a crook, so I always figured you have to work for the government. CIA or something."

Paul kept his face blank.

"Anyway," Kevin continued, "I know you've been protecting your innocent old dad from it for a long time. Thank you. I've never asked before, but I need to know. Are you a criminal?"

"No," he lied. "I do what I'm paid to do. It's…complicated, and classified, but it's on the up-and-up." Paul kept his eyes locked on Kevin's. Finally, Kevin looked down.

"Okay, son. Okay. I believe you."

"But?" Paul asked.

"But can't you do something about this guy? Like, I stay here, and, when he comes to get me, you and your buddies get him instead?"

Paul sighed. "They'd just hire somebody else. Whoever 'they' are."

"So I go hide in a hole somewhere, and you find out."

"Yup," Paul said. "But it's a nice cabin, Dad. You'll like it. You can hunt and fish, and there's plenty of food, satellite TV and radio, a small library. It'll be nice. I'll give you a cell. I'll call every week, and, once I figure this thing out, I'll come get you."

"So be it. When do we leave?"

Paul picked up the keys. "Right now."