In the Blood (7 page)

Chapter Twenty-two

As soon as we get home, I head straight for the garage. All the time, my heart pounding. He had feelings for me. FOR ME. Like he wanted to touch me. Do disgusting things to me. Yeah, he fought it. So he said. Though it’s not like I would remember if he touched me as a baby, would I?

And then there’s Granddad. I thought he liked me—we had such a good relationship. And he left me his Buick. I just can’t believe he’d do those things to Dad. How could he? It’s disgusting. Depraved. And why didn’t he do anything to me? Maybe he was grooming me but didn’t get the chance to do anything about it. Thinking back, I don’t remember any time we were alone. Dad was usually there. But who knows whether he was protecting me or saving me for himself.

I’ll never know.

It’s fucking crazy how you think you know people and they turn out to be monsters.

“Jed,” Summer calls as she walks from the kitchen into the garage. “I’ve just dropped Amy back. How did it go? Was it awful?”

Awful? That’s one way to describe it, I guess. Not sure I should tell Summer about it, though. If it disgusts me, what the hell would it do to her?

“Yeah, you could say.”

The stench. The look on Dad’s face. What he said to me. Every last tawdry detail will be etched on my mind forever.

“Did the police get what they wanted?”

She leans against the Buick. My pride and joy. Ha. How can I keep working on it, knowing that it was left to me by a child-abusing creep? I loved that car, and now it’s tainted with his disgusting perversions. Thank the fuck he died before Amy was born. Dad was an only child, so who can say if Granddad would’ve gone after young girls as well, given the chance.

And what about Grandma? Did she know what was happening to her son? I’ve read stories where the mother of an abused child keeps quiet because they’re scared of losing their partner, or they’re just plain scared of them. Was she one of those? I find it hard to believe. She always seemed to be the one in charge. Maybe she just didn’t know.

“They wanted me to find out why he did it and also how many other victims there were. So, no not really. Well, maybe a little. I couldn’t stay in there, not after what he told me.”

Summer touches me on the arm, and I recoil. I can’t help it. The thought of anyone touching me at the moment disgusts me. Even Summer.

“What did he tell you?” she asks, stepping away from me.

I hitch in a breath, bracing myself to tell her. “He forced himself not to abuse me.”

Summer’s eyes widen with shock. “What?”

“Which makes me think that’s why he went after the other children. It’s my fault. Even if he did deny it when I asked him.”

And he only did that because he’d figured that if I felt guilty I’d hate him even more. Like that’s possible.

“You can’t blame yourself for anything he did. He’s sick. Deranged, or whatever. It’s nothing to do with you.”

How can she be so sure? It’s an obvious conclusion, if you ask me.

“He also told me that his dad abused him when he was a boy. Gross, isn’t it?” A lump forms in the back of my throat, and tears threaten to fall from my eyes.

Pull it together Jed.
Summer steps forward to where I’m standing, puts her arms around me, and hugs me tightly. And for some reason now I don’t mind. Her arms are so warm, I want to stay wrapped in them forever. But I can’t because I’m gonna lose it if I don’t pull away soon. “I’m okay,” I say, gently pulling away from her arms and moving to the side, brushing my eyes with the back of my hand.

“Jed, Jed.” The sound of Amy’s voice coming from outside the garage pushes thoughts of Dad out of my mind. She can’t know there’s anything wrong.

“In here,” I yell, holding a finger up to my mouth so Summer realizes not to say anything. Which, of course, isn’t necessary because she knows how we are shielding Amy from everything.

Amy runs in with Dawson close behind. “Can we get some cookies?” she asks, jumping from side to side. “Then we’re going to ride our bikes in the yard, aren’t we?” She looks at Dawson, who grins and nods.

“I was coming to see you and bumped into Amy,” Dawson says, his face flushing.

Summer and I exchange a glance, a tiny smile crossing her face. For a few seconds it feels just like a normal day.

But, of course, it isn’t.

Chapter Twenty-three

I was awake all night, playing over and over in my mind the meeting with Dad. It was like a living nightmare. I kept thinking about what he said. About what I said. About what I didn’t say. I feel like shit for being such a coward that I couldn’t stay long enough to find out about the other victims.

It was the one thing I could do to help those parents, who have no idea what happened to their children. And even though what Dad did was nothing to do with me, the guilt’s strong. Despite what Summer said, I can’t stop thinking that if he’d abused me then some of those other boys might still be alive. I know that’s crazy talk. And that I shouldn’t go down that track, but how can I not?

At six this morning, I came downstairs to the garage where I’ve been cleaning all my tools. It’s the sort of mind-numbing task that I need at the moment, because that’s all my brain can cope with, what with all the conflicting thoughts in there.

And there’s one overriding thought at the back of my mind that won’t let me go.

Is Dad saying that because his dad was an abuser and he also ended up being one that I’m going to end up the same?

Is that what he’s saying? Is that
really
what he’s saying?

No.

Fuck no.

It can’t be. It just can’t be.

Unable to clean any longer, I drop the tool I’m holding on the bench and run upstairs to my bedroom where I open my laptop and start poring over all the research again, but this time focusing on what causes someone to be like that.

I just want to know one thing.

Is being a pedophile something you’re born with? Is it in the blood?

First my grandfather, then my father, and, some time in the future, me?

It seems to depend on lots of things. And nothing’s definite. If someone was abused as a child, then it might make them abuse. Which is like Dad. But also it could be that there’s something psychologically different about a person, which makes them do it. Is that Dad, too? Then again, the research also points to it being linked to family relationships. Granddad was very strict and didn’t think boys should cry. Is that important?

I just don’t know. It’s all pretty damn confusing.

And how does that relate to me? If it’s to do with psychological make up, I’m very like Dad in so many ways. Mom used to say so all the time. The way I talk, walk, act. And what’s even worse is that Dad is just the same as his dad. All three of us had this obsession with everything being neat and tidy. All three of us love structure in buildings. All three of us have a temper.

Fuck.

It’s not rocket science to see where this going.

There’s gotta be a strong chance that I’m going to turn out like them. Maybe more than a chance. After all, it sounds like Dad didn’t want to be like his father. But he said he was driven to do it anyway.

Even though, at the moment, I don’t have any dodgy thoughts, it could happen. And the thought just makes me want to vomit.

Jesus. I’m like a walking time bomb.

Unless there’s something, anything, I can do to stop it. But what?

I remember reading about prisoners in some Scandinavian countries being given certain drugs to stop them getting stiffys. “Chemical castration,” they call it. How about if I could get hold of the drug? Yeah, right. And how likely is that? It’s not like any doctor’s gonna give a seventeen-year-old the drug. It’s hardly a recognized
preventative
med.

Sighing loudly, I wander to the window and stare out onto a normal street, with normal people doing normal things. There’s Dawson shooting hoops in his yard. There’s Mrs. Range talking to Dawson’s mom. Mr. Mackenzie, Summer’s dad, is pulling up in his car. What would they say if they knew what I’d found out? If they knew that they’re
still
living next door to a pedophile? Or pedophile in the making, if we’re splitting hairs.

They’ve yet to come to terms with finding out about Dad. Their buddy. Their drinking partner. The man they trusted with their children ever since they can remember. The ripples it sent through our
perfect
community can still be felt. And now it’s gonna happen again unless I do something. Like disappear off the face of the earth. Run away to some place no one knows me. Except I can’t leave Amy alone with Mom. She needs me.

Suddenly, a sense of powerlessness envelopes me.

I
hate
my father

I
hate
myself.

I
hate
…

I throw myself face down on my bed. Why me? Why the fuck me? Nothing’s going to be the same again. I can’t bear that I feel so normal at the moment and that’s not enough. I have real feelings for Summer. That’s normal, right? And there’s Dawson, the only young boy I know well. I like him as a kid. I like him a lot. And that’s normal, too, right? Nowhere in any part of my head do I have inappropriate feelings for him. And yet, sometime in the future, I could turn into an evil monster.

There has to be something else I can do. But it’s like fighting in the dark since I’ve no idea how or when I’m going to change. Or even if I’ll change. I know I don’t want to, but it sounds like Dad didn’t, either. I could always go back and talk to Dad about it. Ask him to tell me how it happened with him. When he first got the urges… My skin crawls even thinking about him having urges toward those boys. I don’t want to, but how else can I deal with what might happen to me?

Chapter Twenty-four

Robert Morrison

Age ten.

Twin brother to Rebecca.

Brother to Maria.

Son of Ross and Justine.

Plays Little League; star player.

Pet dog called Brutus, an English boxer.

Runs everywhere and never sits still.

White blond hair, buzz cut.

Eats nonstop but never puts on weight.

Favorite food is corn dogs.

Favorite teacher is Mrs. Jackson, Art.

Favorite TV show: The Simpsons, especially Homer.

Best friends with Jacob and Chris.

Benjamin Franklin’s third victim.

Dead.

Chapter Twenty-five

I’m so crazy mixed-up. It’s only been a few hours since I realized what might happen, yet it seems like a lifetime. My head’s pounding, my fists are clenched, and it feels like I’m about to internally combust. And the thing that I keep coming back to—the one question I need answering—is did Dad warn me because he’d worked out for himself that I was going to end up like him and his dad?

And if he had figured on all this, then why the fuck did he still have children?

Why?

For fuck’s sake, why?

The pent up resentment and anger inside of me is so intense I don’t know what to do with myself. Actually, I do. A drink. That’s what I need. A long, emotion-dulling drink. I stashed the vodka from my bedroom in the garage after I found Amy hiding in my closet the other day.

I go back to the garage and head straight for my toolbox. I yank open the bottom drawer and pull out the bottle. Opening it, I take a long swallow.

“Jed?”

Shit. It’s Summer. I pull the bottle away from my lips, but not before some drips down the side of my mouth. While hurriedly screwing on the cap, I wipe my mouth on my arm and then lean into the Buick and slide the bottle under the seat.

As much as it tears me up, I can’t be friends with her now. If there’s a chance I’m going to end up like Dad, then I have to distance myself from anyone who matters to me. Even Amy, eventually. But, for now, it has to start with Summer. I’ll have to tell her to stay the hell out of my life. It’s for her own good, not that she’ll accept that, knowing Summer. But I know what’s best. And it’s best for her, for everyone, if I’m kept at arm’s length.

God, I can’t even imagine the look on her face if she ever found out I was doing the same things my father and grandfather did.

Better her to think I’m an asshole than a pedophile-in-waiting.

“What?” I snap, watching as Summer saunters up to the trunk, smiling.

She stops dead in her tracks, shock momentarily etched across her face before she smiles again.

“I wanted to see how you were feeling after yesterday.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Summer frowns. “What’s happened?”

“What do you mean?”

“What’s happened since yesterday when we talked to now when you don’t want to?”

“Nothing.” I shrug.

She walks down the side of the car, her short skirt swaying from side to side, then peers through the window and leans right in. Within a couple of seconds she pulls out the bottle, which she waves under my nose. I snatch it from her, and throw it back into the car.

“Drinking won’t help,” she says, recovering her composure and placing her hands on her hips in defiance.

“And you know that how?”

If there was a law against
do-gooding,
she’d get life.

And more to the point, what does she know about the need to drink? Her life is so perfect. Dad, CEO of a national company. Mom, at home looking after her and her younger sister. Two vacations a year, one skiing and the other to the Mediterranean. The epitome of a
Disney
family.

“It’s been nine months since you found out about your dad, and you’ve gone from being a straight A student to barely passing. I know yesterday was tough for you, but you’ll get through it. You have to think of the future.”

Ha. The future. Like she has any idea what she’s talking about.

Like I’m ever going to be anything more than the son of a murdering child predator.

Oh, wait, unless I actually become one of those murdering child predators.

Fuck my life

I have no future.
Not now. Not ever. And the sooner people begin to accept that, the better it will be.

“My grades or my drinking have nothing to do with you. You’re not my mom.”

How can a seventeen-year-old girl exhibit such
parent-like
qualities? It’s not natural.

“I’m your friend, and I’m concerned. What’s wrong with that? Why are you being so mean?” She takes a step toward me and rests her hand on mine. It’s like a bolt of electricity shoots up my arm, and I jump back. Why does her touch do this to me? Rhetorical question. I know why. But I can’t get sucked back into my feelings for her. I’ve gotta keep a distance. However hard it is.

“You want to know?” I snap, my heart pounding relentlessly in my ears. “You really want to know?” I narrow my eyes, projecting all the anger I feel in her direction. Except the anger I feel is with myself for putting Summer in the position where she feels sorry for me. I know she helped me and Amy before, but that’s it. I don’t need her now, and I definitely don’t need her pity. Pity’s for losers.

“Of course,” she says, nodding her head encouragingly, though she does take a tiny step backward.

She’s not so sure of herself now. And how bad does that make me feel?

I close my eyes for a second and take a deep breath. “You talk about my future like I have some say in its direction. Like if I study hard and go to school, the world is there for me. It’s not.” My voice gets louder with every word I utter. “It’s fucking not. And never will be. There’s nothing out there for me other than to follow in my father’s footsteps.”

“Don’t say that, Jed. You’re not going to follow in his footsteps; you’re nothing like him. At least not down deep, which is where it counts.” She draws in a breath and smiles nervously.

Tempting as it is to explain everything, to silence her once and for all, I think better of it. It will only make her more determined to interfere in my life. And I’ve already resolved not to make anyone care about me. It will only lead to more hurt if things turn out how I think they will. I’m best left alone to look out for myself. The past is long gone, and however much I want to change it, I can’t. Not now. Not ever.

“Summer, you’re talking crap. Leave me alone, I’m busy.”

Beads of sweat form on my brow, and I wipe them away with the back of my hand. I don’t know why. The last time I looked, it was only about sixty-five degrees. It could be because, in all the years we’ve known each other, I’ve never spoken to Summer like this, and I don’t like it.

“I also wanted to ask you about my car,” Summer says, winding some of her hair tightly around her finger.

It’s a nervous habit she’s had since she was very young which shows itself when she’s in stressful situations. I’ve never been the cause of her doing it before, and I hate that I am now. But if it means she keeps her distance, it’s gotta be a good thing, hasn’t it?

“What about your car?” I demand, pushing my guilt at making her so uncomfortable to the back of my mind. I can’t fold now. I’ve got to concentrate on the bigger picture. Which means she has to keep away from me.

“It started making funny noises this morning. Sort of like a banging sound when I put my foot on the brake pedal.” She makes the noise, and at any other time I’d have laughed at her impression. Now, nothing seems funny.

“And I need to know this because…?”

I don’t know how much more I can push this.

“Because you’re good with cars, and I thought you could check it out for me,” she replies, her voice wobbling.

I’ve always loved fixing cars for people. I got known for it, and the money I made paid for a new chassis for the Buick. This is the first time I’ve been asked to look at a car in nine months, since Dad’s arrest.

“I don’t fix cars anymore.” I turn my back on her and pull open the top drawer of my toolbox and start lining up the spanners. Hopefully she’ll get the hint and go.

“Please,” she implores.

I spin back around and glare at her. “What, like you can’t afford to take it to a regular garage? Stop, Summer. Stop. I’m not your pet project. Leave me alone and go back to your world of blue skies and puffy white clouds.”

I turn, snap the toolbox drawer shut, and march toward the door, knocking her out the way in the process.

“Hey,” Summer yells after me. “If that’s the way you want to be then screw you, Jed Franklin.” Her voice cracks.

She rushes past me and runs across our yard and over the dividing hedge to her house. I stare at her retreating back and suddenly, desperately, crave my old life. But craving the past is for dummies. There’s only the present and the future to consider now, neither of which look good to me.

I stride down the rest of the drive and onto the street. The brightness of the sun makes me squint, so I turn and head back to the sanctity of my garage and my bottle of vodka. What used to be my favorite time of year is now just a reminder of the past and my abhorrent future. My dad sexually abused, tortured, and murdered most of his young victims in the spring.