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

“But why?” he says, thinking out loud. “Why would she do this?”

“Who, Ben?” Tom says. “Who are you talking about?”

“Did she get close to me just to do this?”

“What’s her name, Ben?”

Ben is about to answer; then he clamps his mouth shut. “Tomorrow,” he says. “Tomorrow, I’ll confront her about it. Tomorrow, one way or another, I’ll know.”

“Who is she, Ben?” Tom says. “What’s her name?”

Ben hangs up. He bites down hard on the inside of his cheek. This is for him, not Tom. He has to ask her. He has to.

He feels like he’s going to be sick.

47

Anthony called the police in Harrow, asked them about Alejandra’s body. They tried to ask him if he knew anything about that night, if he knew who had shot her and why. He lied, said he didn’t. Said he was her cousin, and he’d only just heard what had happened.

The cops will be looking for him, since his father snuck him out of the hospital. He’s a witness to what happened that night, to the death of Alejandra. He can’t tell them who he really is. Luckily, they buy his lie. Believe he’s her cousin. They put him through to the coroner’s. Her body has been cremated. No one came forward to claim her.

“I’m coming,” Anthony said.

“And who are you, sir?” the voice on the other end said. “Are you family?”

“I’m her boyfriend,” Anthony said. He didn’t lie this time. “I’m the father of her child. The child that was still inside her when you burned her to ash.”

He was holding the phone tight against the side of his face. There were tears in his eyes.

“Oh,” the voice said, suddenly quiet. “I’m so very sorry for your loss.”

Now Anthony is going back. He’s returning to the town where it all happened, where it’s still happening, but he’s not thinking about his brother or the Right Arm of the Republic. He’s thinking only of Alejandra, of the baby.

Jeffrey is with him. He’s driving. Anthony is in no state to do so.

“It’s gonna be uncomfortable for you,” Jeffrey said before they left, “on the road, in your condition. Don’t try to be a hero. If you’re in too much pain, if you need to stop, you just say so. You need painkillers, you need to throw up, you need to rest, anything, just say the word.”

They’ve been on the road for two hours now. The journey has been in silence. Anthony is sore, he is uncomfortable, but he will not admit it. He will not do as his father said and tell him so. He doesn’t want to stop, doesn’t want to rest. He just wants to get Alejandra and their child. He can suffer anything for this.

He looks out the window. They listen to Springsteen on the CD player. Earlier, Jeffrey had asked, “If you ain’t gonna talk, you mind if I put on some music? It’s gonna be a long trip for me otherwise.”

“Please yourself,” Anthony said. He’d known his father would put on the Boss. He’s not sure he’s ever heard him listen to anything else.

With every mile, they get closer to Texas. Back to her. She’ll return to him. Anthony keeps telling himself this, his teeth gritted, trying not to make a sound to give away how sore he is. His back hurts, his arm hurts, but it is his head that is the worst. It feels like it’s splitting open again, like all the healing his skull has gone through thus far is being undone.

It’s hot, too. Even with the air conditioning blowing. Anthony feels sweat drip down his spine.

Jeffrey begins to pull off the road.

“What’re you doing?” Anthony says.

“Gas stop,” Jeffrey says.

While his father fills the tank, Anthony gets out of the car, takes a walk around the building to stretch his body, try to clear his head. The pains abate, for now. When he gets back to the car, Jeffrey is waiting for him. He’s bought snacks, too.

“Hungry?”

“Not right now,” Anthony says. The sight of the candy, of the chips, makes him feel sick.

Jeffrey puts it all on the backseat, then pulls out, back onto the road.

Another ten minutes pass. Anthony wants to ask. Wants to know. He can’t keep it to himself any longer. “Have you heard anything from Tom?”

“No,” Jeffrey says. “But I’ve been keeping an eye on his progress.”

Anthony looks sidelong at his father. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Means I’ve been checking the news.”

“And?”

“He’s killed a few of them already, far as I can tell. But, y’know, he’s a pro. He covers it up, makes it so it ain’t so obvious. If I didn’t know what I was looking for, I wouldn’t see it.”

Anthony takes a sharp breath through his nose. He shouldn’t have asked. “You get any names?”

“I saw names,” Jeffrey says. “But they didn’t mean anything to me.”

“You didn’t think I’d wanna know?”

“I didn’t think you were gonna ask. You’ve been real stubborn about this whole thing.”

“I’ve got a right to be stubborn.”

“I didn’t say you don’t.”

“You shouldn’t have called Tom,” Anthony says. “You never needed to call him.”

“So you’ve said.”

“And I’ll keep saying it, because it’s not getting through to you.”

Jeffrey doesn’t respond. Anthony looks at him, staring straight ahead. The sinews flex and tense in his father’s jaw. He’s gritting his teeth. Hard, by the looks of it.

“You had no right,” Anthony says.

Again, Jeffrey does not say anything.

Anthony turns away from him, back to the window. He tells himself, every minute that passes, they get closer to Texas. Closer to Alejandra.

They continue the rest of the way in silence. It’s not comfortable.

48

Beth has left for work. Harry is still in bed, lying back. He’s not wearing anything save for his underwear and the blanket tangled in his legs. He’s smoking a cigarette and flicking through his phone. Looking at old photos that he hasn’t looked at in years. Peter is in them. They’re all in them, all the council of the Right Arm