Blood Line (A Tom Rollins Thriller Book 1) by Paul Heatley (book recommendations based on other books .txt) 📗

Ronald still looks doubtful, but he doesn’t protest.

“When you gonna give him a visit?” Michael says to Harry.

“Soon as we finish up here.”

“All right. Put out the word; tell everyone to be extra vigilant. We may have some more trouble coming our way here. Tell ’em to be careful and to bring us anything they think we oughtta be worried about.”

Harry and Ronald say they will; then they take their leave. Michael remains in the basement, at the table. He wants to be alone for a while. Alone to mourn. He feels a chasm opening within himself, widening. It is his grief. He turns, finally, to the chair where Peter would sit. He sees him there. Flashbacks. Sitting listening. Nodding along. Laughing. Looking worked up when something has pissed him off, when he’s desperate to crack some skulls.

Remembers the last time he saw him. How he looked thoughtful and concerned. How Michael knew he’d been thinking about his brother.

Then he’s gone. The chair is empty again. It will always be empty, in Michael’s eyes. Going forward, no matter who gets to take the seat, they will never take Peter’s place. They will never fill the spot he has left behind.

35

Tom’s bloodied clothes are soaking in the bathtub. He’s rinsed them through already. The water instantly darkened with the blood. Now the water is a light pink.

Tom lies on the bed. In his hand is the Santa Muerte pendant. He has pulled it from his pocket. He holds it tight while he stares up at the ceiling.

It was a gift from Alejandra. She gave it to him the night before he was due to ship out on his third tour. The end of the time he’d come back only to find she was with Anthony, that they’d met and fallen in love in his absence.

She caught him alone out on the porch, gave it to him there. “I wanted to give you this,” she said. She held it out. A small pendant with some black string looped through to make it a necklace. She waited until Tom held his hand out; she placed it into it. Tom studied it. He recognized the figure. He’d seen her before. He’d seen her in Mexico, and he’d seen her in other places, on murals and tattoos.

“Santa Muerte,” Alejandra said. “Saint Death. She will keep you safe while you are away.”

Tom knew why she was giving him this. The night before, as the time crept up for him to be going off to war again, she’d asked him about death, if he was scared. “A bit, yeah,” Tom said. “Of course. I just try not to think about it.”

“If you died over there, what would happen to your body?”

“So long as they could find it, they’d bring it home.”

“And then? Where would it be buried?”

“It’d go to my dad.” Tom shrugged. “It’d be up to him, then. I wouldn’t care much either way, not by then.”

“But America is your home, so they’d bring you back here.”

Tom nodded.

Alejandra looked thoughtful at this. “No matter how long I am in America, Mexico will always have my heart. When I die, that’s where I will be buried. In Guaymas.”

“Have you told Anthony?”

“I’ve told him. I’ve tried to, anyway. I don’t think he likes to think about such things. He’s always quick to change the subject.”

Tom thought it probably went back to their mother. It had taken Anthony a long time to get over it, and he’d acted out for a long while after, too. It was debatable whether or not he truly ever had reconciled himself with her death.

“Do you believe in God, Tom?” Alejandra said suddenly.

“Never really given it much thought before. I’m not so sure I do.”

“Who do you believe keeps you safe when you are over there, fighting?”

“Me. And the men I fight beside.”

Alejandra looked troubled by this. “You don’t believe in something greater than yourself, watching over you, keeping you safe?”

“I guess not.”

The next night, she gave him the pendant. Tom remembers her words. She will keep you safe. He remembers those words every time he touches it.

Alejandra should have had it. Alejandra was the one who needed to be kept safe.

Tom slips it back into his pocket. He checks the time, then leaves the room. He goes to the motel’s reception. Beth is there. She’s alone behind the counter. There’s no one else in the lobby. She leans back in her chair, is playing on her phone. Tom steps in. He clears his throat to get her attention, smiles when she looks up. “Hi,” he says.

She smiles back. “Hello there.” She sits forward, puts her phone down. “You need help with anything?”

“I could do.” Tom strolls to the front of the desk. He makes a show of reading her name tag. “Beth. That’s real pretty. You mind if I call you Beth?”

“That’s fine. It’s my name. I don’t know what else I’d expect you to call me.”

“You hear about that fire, Beth? At that bar?”

She raises her eyebrows. “Oh yeah, I heard about it,” she says. “Think it’s all anyone’s talking about at the minute.”

“Anyone know what caused it?”

She shrugs. “I heard it could’ve been from a gas pipe, but no one’s sure.”

The gas pipe is an excessive theory. Had it been a gas explosion, there’d have been a fireball, nothing left of the building. All he’d done was spread the more flammable bottles of alcohol upon the counter, the tables, the floor, then set them on fire. “Sure sounds like an awful accident. Was anyone inside?”

“Oh yeah, people were killed. One of them was a buddy of my, uh, of a friend of mine.”

He notices she doesn’t use the word ‘boyfriend’. She comes close, but she doesn’t say it. “That’s terrible,” Tom says. “I sure hope your friend is coping all right.”

“He’ll get over it the same way he always does,” she says, rolling her eyes. “He’ll probably hit something.”

“I’m not sure if I