Precious Blood (45 page)

Where were they?

Maybe Farrar was out, foraging for supplies; from the looks of it, he seemed to be getting by mostly by scavenging. But he wouldn’t leave the soldering iron on like that, let alone the generator and compressor.

No, he was here.

Jenner turned to face the empty room.

Could they have left the building? He walked over to the windows and peeled back the plastic to peer down on the ground below. This wing, too, was surrounded by a rubble-strewn wasteland.

He turned back to the room, uncertain.

He shone his beam around the room. Then he heard a grunt.

He turned off the flashlight immediately and pressed against the wall in the shadows, squinting into the space, trying to find the source of the sound. There was another grunt, and a silhouette began to take shape in front of the compressor, swelling up from the floorboards.

It resolved itself into the shadow of a man, but instead of standing, he remained bent, worrying at something at his feet. Slowly, the man dragged another body out onto the floorboards, then stood straight.

Farrar turned and immediately saw Jenner.

He took a step toward him, uncertain.

Jenner said, “Don’t move. I have a gun. I’ll kill you if you give me an excuse.”

He held his arm forward a little so that Farrar could see the pistol.

Without a word, Farrar dipped to one side and began to run at Jenner.

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Above the noise of the engines, he heard Ana shout, “He’s got an ax!”

He squeezed the trigger, but it wouldn’t budge, and Farrar kept coming. Jenner fumbled for the safety, couldn’t shift it, threw the weapon down, grabbed the crossbow from the desk, and spun around to pull the trigger.

The crossbow bolt shot into Farrar’s chest, near his left shoulder. He staggered in surprise, stopped and coughed.

Jenner frantically searched the bench top, hands tearing up the surface, feeling for another bolt, but all he could see were arrows. His scrambling fingers tipped a narrow box, spilling stubby crossbow bolts across the bench. Jenner grabbed a bolt, pushed it into the groove, and started to pull the bowstring back.

Farrar was standing halfway across the room, staring at the shaft of the crossbow bolt sticking out of his chest, his breath coming in fast gulps. He coughed again, spitting blood.

The bowstring bit deep into Jenner’s fingers as he pulled.

He pointed the weapon down, pinning the small bar at the tip to the floor with his foot, then leaned back, putting all his weight into dragging the string back to cock the crossbow.

Farrar straightened with difficulty. He grinned as he watched Jenner struggle with the crossbow, then lifted his hand to show Jenner the hatchet. He steadied himself and stood staring at Jenner, tossing the ugly little ax effortlessly back and forth between his hands. He sprinted at Jenner, the hatchet held high.

He lunged, swinging the hatchet down, but stumbled as his foot plunged into one of the holes in the floor, the hatchet sweeping short of Jenner. Jenner brought the crossbow up, squeezed the trigger and shot a bolt into Farrar’s flank, then ran past him to the other end of the room, to the girl.

He knelt by her, touched her face, felt her move.

Turning, he saw Farrar moving toward them, the crossbow bolt protruding from his chest, the second dangling limply from his side, the small ax held low.

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Jenner backed up, deliberately drawing him away from Ana. Farrar veered wide around her, cutting off Jenner’s route should he try to make a run for the stairway, then came straight at him, pushing him back.

His hands bleeding, Jenner hurled the useless crossbow at Farrar, missing him. Jenner grabbed an old wooden chair, lifted it, and pointed it toward Farrar.

Farrar swung at it hard, the blow of the hatchet reverberating up through Jenner’s arms as the chair cracked open.

Jenner held the chair back up, lunging at Farrar, trying to push him away as he came forward. Farrar steadily hacked at Jenner. A final, violent overhead swing shattered the chair, leaving Jenner holding the back strut and one of the legs.

Jenner tossed the back away and lifted the wooden leg.

Farrar edged forward, the hatchet at hip height. He was baring his teeth in a bloody smirk, and then Jenner knew why.

Farrar had backed him into the corner, deliberately cutting off his escape routes. And, even wounded, Farrar could move faster than him.

He held the chair leg up and braced himself.

Farrar took his time, moving in closer, carefully shifting his weight from foot to foot. He planted his legs squarely in front of Jenner, feet apart, then slowly raised the hatchet above his head, breathing in slow and deep as he steadied himself for the strike. His eyes locked on Jenner’s, his torn mouth hanging in a sneer as he prepared for the kill.

He froze, then staggered a little. His expression changed to one of surprise, eyes unfixed and mouth open. The hatchet dropped from his hand as he stumbled forward, a dark stain spreading along his side.

He kept coming toward Jenner, gait wide-based like a tod-dler’s, arms open, pushed from behind by Ana, who was still clinging to the long black pole on which she had impaled him.

Jenner stepped around him, grasped the pole as she col-Precious Blood

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lapsed, and pulled it out of Farrar, sending him slumping against the corner.

Leaning against the wall, Farrar turned to Jenner. He saw the pole, saw the girl on the ground, and understood. His head bowed slightly.

Jenner stood there, pointing the pole at Farrar’s chest.

Farrar coughed, blood spattering the plastic over the window next to him. He looked at Jenner, struggling to catch his breath.

Farrar’s speech was glottal and wet, but Jenner managed to understand “She would have been the best . . .”

Jenner didn’t answer.

Farrar bent over, panting. He looked up at Jenner and said, “It hurts! Doctor! It hurts!” twisting his mouth back into a grin.

He half straightened, smiling wider, a small knife hidden in his palm.

“Should I lie down? If I lie down, will I bleed slower?” He spit out a gout of bloody slobber. “Help me, Doctor? Will you help me?”

Jenner didn’t move.

Farrar looked at him. “It would be better if I lie down.”

His mouth was bleeding faster now, thick dribbles onto his shirt and neck.

Jenner said, “Lie down if you want.”

The sound of a siren filtered into the room. Through the windows over the water, Jenner saw the blue light of a police boat.

He turned back to Farrar.

Farrar spat blood and murmured, “Ah. The cavalry.” He nodded. “I’ll greet them on my feet.”

“Okay, stand if you want.”

Farrar straightened and then bent double, clutching his belly with both hands.

After a couple of seconds, he straightened again, his breathing fast and shallow. He asked, “How many do you think they’ll be?”

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Without waiting for an answer, he sprang forward, the tip of the knife flashing as he slashed at Jenner. The blade carved into Jenner’s arm, but he pushed past it, driving the pole deep into Farrar’s chest, ramming it deep into his trunk, trying to force it out through the other side. He wedged Farrar against the wall, leaning on the pole with all his weight, feeling Farrar’s body lift as the warm blood poured down the shaft onto his fists.

Farrar twitched on the rod, gasping, eyes glassy. He tried to speak, but managed only silence and bloody spittle. He twitched again, and was motionless.

Jenner carefully gathered Ana up into his arms and carried her to an old sofa by the windows, dragging it to turn it away from Farrar’s body.

She was shivering; he took off his coat, wrapped her in it.

She was thin and pale, her face filthy, crusted with mud and dried blood, her eyes swollen near-shut. He held her, stroking her matted hair, held her face to kiss it.

His hand swept down her shoulder, over her hips, to stroke her leg. He stopped; there was a nail protruding from her skin. He pulled it out, then knelt in front of her, feeling her for injuries, pulling out two more nails. She barely flinched.

Over on the workbench he found a plastic bottle of drinking water and a rag. He wet it and wiped her face. Then her wounds, and his shoulder, and then sat with her, pulling her close, holding her against him as they waited.

They lay together for a while; eventually the room began to strobe with flickering blue-and-white shadows. Later, he remembered pulling himself to his feet, tearing down the plastic over the windows to shout to the harbor patrol.

He remembered yelling to them, Jun pointing up at him from the lead boat, the blue light the white light, the blue light the white light, lighting up the girl on the sofa by the window, the blue light the white light, and beyond that, across the water, across the river, the light of New York City, vast and brilliant and impossibly beautiful.

acknowledgments

Thanks to my long-neglected family, who’ve been wildly supportive throughout; to all of my wonderful and peculiar friends, who’ve made my life in New York City far more exhilarating and exotic than I could ever have dreamed possible; to my esteemed colleagues, past and present, at the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner of the City of New York, the New York County District Attorney’s Office, the Dade County Medical Examiner’s Office, and the New York Police Department; to every magazine editor who’s trusted me with an assignment, and then shown me how to make it better; and to the agents and editors who’ve carefully shepherded this project right from the start.

About the Author

JONATHAN HAYES, a veteran forensic pathologist, has worked in the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner of the City of New York, performing autopsies and testifying in murder trials since 1990. Born in Bristol, England, he attended medical school at the University of London before moving to the United States to train in pathology at the Boston University Medical Center and in forensics at the Dade County Medical Examiner’s Office in Miami. Since 1993, he has held a teaching appointment at the New York University School of Medicine. He lectures nationally on forensic science. Hayes is also a former contributing editor at
Martha Stewart Living
and writes regularly for the
New York Times, New York, GQ, Gourmet,
and
Food & Wine.

He lives in New York City.
Precious Blood
is his first novel.

Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

Raves for the electrifying debut thriller by
JONATHAN HAYES

PRECIOUS BLOOD

“A nail-biting masterpiece.”

USA Today

“Absolutely authentic.”

New York Times

“Not for the squeamish. . . . Hayes fills his story with interesting forensic details . . . and a compelling hero. . . .
Precious Blood
is a promising debut, representing an interesting new voice in the genre.”

Chicago Sun Times

“Hayes balances the horror with humanity. . . .

Totally satisfying. The novel is enriched by the author’s insider knowledge. Hayes has been a New York City medical examiner for 17 years, and it pays off in the book’s gritty realism.”

Cleveland Plain Dealer

“First-time novelist Jonathan Hayes seems poised to claim a solid reputation in the subgenre of forensics crime fiction. . . . Hayes puts the focus on character and plot while melding in enough crime scene detection to give his novel authenticity and validity. . . .
Precious
Blood
is a dark, hard-boiled procedural that soars.”

Ft. Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel

“Hayes makes us care about the characters, and the investment pays off with the action-packed plot. . . . [He] is off to an impressive start.”

Fort Worth Star-Telegram

“Nicely detailed forensic work. Fans of
CSI
and the like would definitely like this one.”

Library Journal

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

PRECIOUS BLOOD. Copyright © 2007 by Jonathan Hayes. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

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