Bloodline Page 8

  “What do you know about these?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing.” He pointed to the copy of Kick. “But I know a lot about that.”

  Jack noticed a tiny Kicker Man tattoo in the web between his thumb and forefinger.

  “Fine, but—”

  “You’ll love it, I can tell. It’ll be like a wire into your brain. I’ve read my copy so many times it’s damn near worn out.”

  Jack pointed to the tattoo. “Who’da thunk.”

  The guy held up his hand. “That lets the world know I’ve dissimilated and evolved. I’m a Kicker and proud of it.”

  He scanned and bagged, then said, “That comes to twenty-four-seventy-one.”

  Jack reached for his wallet. “Comes to more than that, I think.”

  The guy smiled and lowered his voice. “The Kick is on the house.”

  “Yeah? Where does it say that?”

  “I’m giving you a special discount. You know, Kicker to a soon-to-be Kicker.”

  “No thanks. I’ll pay.”

  The guy spoke through his teeth as he pushed the bag toward Jack. “Take it.”

  “I’ll pay my own way, if you don’t mind.” He pushed the bag back. “Scan the book. Now.”

  The guy glared at him as he snatched the book from the bag, scanned it, then shoved it back in.

  “Forty-two-oh-seven.”

  Jack handed him a MasterCard. The John Tyleski identity was still good. Barring a glitch he’d probably keep it until fall.

  After he signed and pocketed his receipt, he picked up the bag and started to turn away.

  “I see you at the rally, I’ll kick your ass.”

  “That a pun?”

  The guy looked confused. “Huh?”

  “Never mind. What rally?”

  “The Kicker rally at the Garden next month. Don’t you know nothin’?”

  “I know I won’t be there.”

  The guy nodded and sneered. “Oh, you’ll be there. Once you read that book you won’t be able to stay away.”

  “No, really. I won’t. I might’ve gone, but now you’ve scared me off. I don’t want to get my ass kicked. Get it? Kicked?”

  The guy’s expression said he didn’t. Jack waved and left.

  Quality folk, these Kickers.

  As he stepped onto the sidewalk he thought of the Compendium of Srem: No word yet on whether security had followed up on the Kicker janitor. Petty theft was probably low on their list of priorities. Looked like Jack was going to have to resolve this on his own.

  3

  As Jack waited in line at the Thruway’s Yonkers toll plaza, he watched with envy as the E-ZPass cars zipped past without stopping. He didn’t leave the city often enough to make an E-ZPass account useful, but even if he did he probably wouldn’t open one. Maybe he was paranoid, but who knew what was really in the transponders clipped to all those windshields? GPS technology being what it was, or soon would be, he couldn’t risk the possibility of someone being able to pinpoint his car at any time.

  Call me crazy, but a few extra minutes in line ain’t such a bad price for a little peace of mind.

  After paying he continued north to the Tarrytown exit where he followed 9 north. The directions led him through greening hills and valleys toward Rathburg, New York, but he was only dimly aware of the scenery.

  Other images—book cover images—kept him distracted. One was the Kicker Man and the question of how a figure from the Compendium had wound up on the cover of Hank Thompson’s book. The other was the eyes on the cover of the Jake Fixx novels.

  Back to back he’d encountered two authors who knew things they shouldn’t. Coincidence? He’d been told no more coincidences in his life and he’d come to believe it. But where was the connection?

  He’d wanted to hole up in his apartment and read the novels, but hadn’t had time—not with this Rathburg jaunt looming. He’d got a look at the back covers, however, where he learned that the hero, Jake Fixx, was an ex-Navy SEAL and former CIA black-ops expert. Usually these characters are one or the other, but this guy was both. He’d been betrayed by his superiors—weren’t they all?—and had gone underground. He now lived in secret, helping those who couldn’t help themselves. A rogue Robin Hood, sticking it to the Man at every chance.

  Hoo-boy. Cliché piled on cliché.

  Many times Jack wished he’d had SEAL training or its equivalent. To learn about weapons and ammo and demolition in an organized setting instead of piecemeal on and off the street—wouldn’t that have been a treat. And having an FBI or CIA connection would be beyond cool. Want to know about this Jerry Bethlehem? All he’d have to do was get a fingerprint and have his contact run it through the databases. Probably wind up with a whole file on him.

  But not for Jack. He had to do it the old-fashioned, low-tech—damn near no-tech—way.

  So, the Jake Fixx character was far off the mark, but the Rakshasa! and Berzerk! story lines weren’t. Especially the first, involving a ship full of flesh-eating demons—the rakshasa of Indian mythology—controlled by a Hindu madman who was going to set them loose on Manhattan if a magic jewel was not returned to him. Much more lurid and melodramatic than the reality Jack had survived a couple of years ago, but uncomfortably close to the mark. In Berzerk! the blood of one of the surviving rakshasa was the source of a drug that drove people into murderous rages—way too close to the truth.

  Jack shivered. It was like this writer, this P. Frank Winslow, had been peeking over his shoulder the past two years.

  He shook it off as he cruised into Rathburg. Had to concentrate on getting a little face time with Dr. Aaron Levy.

  Rathburg proved to be an old, rustic, Sleepy Hollowesque town, like so many others along this stretch of the Hudson’s east bank. Washington Irving could have slept here. Probably had. Tudor-style buildings with cracked stucco and peeling beams leaned over the narrow streets as Jack followed his directions to Riverview Road. Once there he didn’t have to check the street numbers to find 2681: Had to be the huge mansionlike structure that dominated the rise overlooking the river.

  Sunlight glinted off the concertina wire that crowned the stone wall along its perimeter. The arched front checkpoint—maybe the only entrance—had a heavy, wrought-iron gate and a uniformed guard visible through the window of a stone gatehouse. The plaque on one of the columns read CREIGHTON and no more. No mention of it being an institute or place for the criminally insane. Just the name.

  Jack was set to turn into the drive and try to bluff his way in when he saw the security camera atop the gatehouse. He didn’t want his face recorded if he could avoid it.

  As he drove past he checked out the sprawling building standing a good five hundred yards from the street. It looked just right for the criminally insane because it appeared to have been designed by a schizophrenic. The central section looked like a French stone chateau. If Jack had to guess, that was probably the original structure because it looked all of a piece. But whoever had added the wings—a graduate of the Berlin Wall school of architecture, from the look—hadn’t bothered to continue the same design. And yet a third wing that didn’t match any of the others had been added on the left.

  Not exactly maximum security. Concertina wire was mean, but hardly impassable.

  He drove back to town and parked. He’d looked up the Creighton Institute’s number earlier. First he’d try to get to Levy through channels. His office was the best bet—if phone calls were making him paranoid, he’d feel less vulnerable there than at home.

  Since he did not know Levy’s extension, he was shunted into a phone tree. He hated goddamn phone trees so he kept pressing 0 until he reached a human. He told her who he was looking for and she switched him to a line where a female receptionist or secretary or whatever picked up and announced that he’d reached Dr. Levy’s office.

  “Is the doctor in?”

  “Who’s calling, please?”

  “Name’s John Robertson. I’m a private investigator.”

 
He’d met the real Robertson a few years before his death. A sharp old dude who’d liked to wear a Stetson. Jack had kept his card and made duplicates, adopting his identity now and again but not his sartorial taste. He’d changed Robertson’s address to one of his mail drops and kept renewing his investigator’s license. Anyone checking with the New York Department of State would learn that John Robertson was the real deal.

  The identity had proven handy over the years.

  “And what do you wish to speak to the doctor about?”

  “That would be between him and me.”

  Jack sensed a sudden drop in temperature on the other end of the line.

  “I’ll see if he’s in.”

  After a full minute’s wait—she probably had her answer in ten seconds—she came back on the line.

  “I’m sorry, but Doctor Levy will be in meetings for the rest of the day.”

  “Okay. How about tomorrow?”

  “He’s booked all day then too.”

  “And the next day?”

  “I’m sorry, but Doctor Levy is a very busy man. Perhaps you could send him a letter?”

  “Perhaps I could.”

  Jack broke the connection.

  Okay. After his brief conversation with Levy last night, he’d pretty much expected that. He’d have to follow him after work and look for an opening for an ambush conversation.

  He checked his watch. Still hours to go before quitting time.

  Time to go exploring.

  4

  He wound up in the Rathburg Public Library. A computer search had yielded nothing—the Creighton Institute did not have a Web site and other hits yielded nothing useful. So he’d started searching through the microfilm files of the Rathburg-on-Hudson Review and again came up empty. Lots of passing mentions, but no background. Maybe a local paper was the wrong place to look. It seemed to take for granted that its readers knew all about Creighton.

  He gathered up the microfilm rolls and returned them to the desk.

  “Find what you need?” said the withered, blue-haired lady behind the counter.

  “No, unfortunately.”

  He studied her. She had a Miss Hathaway voice, rickety limbs, a slightly frayed dark blue skirt and jacket with a white silk scarf loosely tied around her neck—to hide the wrinkles? A cloud of gardenia perfume enveloped her. She looked old enough to have dated Ichabod Crane. If she’d spent most of her days around here…

  “Are you a native of this area?”

  “Born and bred.”

  “Then maybe you can help me. I’m doing some research on the Creighton Institute but I can’t seem to find much on it.”

  “I’m not surprised. There’s not been much written about it.” She raised a gnarled finger and tapped her right temple. “But there’s a lot stored right up here.”

  “Would you care to share some of that? I’d be willing to compensate you for your time.”

  She frowned. “Pay me for letting me ramble on about the old days? Don’t be silly.”

  “Well then, why don’t we find someplace where we can sit and have some coffee. I’ll buy.”

  She winked. “Make that a Manhattan and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

  This lady was all right.

  “Deal. When do you get off?”

  “Any time I want. I’m a volunteer.” She turned toward a small office behind the counter. “Claire, watch the front desk. I have to go out.”

  Within seconds she’d shrugged into a long cloth coat and was heading for the door.

  “Time’s a-wasting and I’ve only got so much of it left. Let’s go.”

  Jack followed her outside. The sky had gone from clear blue to overcast while his nose had been stuck in the microfilm viewer.

  She stopped at the foot of the front steps and thrust out her hand.

  “I’m Cilla Groot, by the way.”

  Jack shook her frail hand. “And I’m Jack.” He looked up and down the street and spotted a pub sign hanging over the sidewalk. “What about that place?”

  “Van Dyck’s? I’ve been in there once or twice. I suppose it will do.”

  As they started toward the pub Jack had to ask: “Do you have a dog?”

  She looked at him with concern, then down at her coat. “Why? Do I have hair—?”

  “No, just curious.”

  “What an odd question. No, no dog. Three cats though.”

  Good. Ladies with dogs had been popping up in his life for the past year or so. They all seemed to know more about his life than anyone should. He’d seen one of them right after the accident, but none since. He wouldn’t mind sitting down with one—he had endless questions—but he didn’t like them sneaking up on him.

  He held the door to Van Dyck’s and followed her in. Her arrival was greeted by calls of “Hi, Cilla” from the half dozen or so men around the bar.

  She waved, then turned to Jack and said, “Let’s take that table by the window where we can have some peace.”

  Fine with Jack.

  He helped her out of her coat and they were just seating themselves on opposite sides of the table when the bartender arrived carrying a straight-up Manhattan with two cherries. He placed it before Cilla with a flourish.

  “There you go, my dear.”

  “Thank you, Faas.”

  Jack smiled. Only been here once or twice, ay?

  Faas—was that a first or last name?—turned to Jack. “And what can I get you, sir?”

  Jack asked what was on tap and Faas recited a depressing list of Buds and Michelobs and various lights that ended on an up note with the Holland Holy Trinity: Heineken, Grolsch, and Amstel. Jack took a pint of Grolsch.

  “So, what can you tell me about the Creighton Institute?”

  She took a sip of her drink and closed her eyes. “Nothing so perfect as a perfect Manhattan.” Then she looked at Jack. “It didn’t start out as an institute of any sort. The original building, with its French chateau design, marble terraces, and classical revival gardens, was built in 1897 by financier Horace Creighton as a summer cottage.”

  “Cottage?”

  “Yes. The Creightons lived there only during the summer months when it was too hot in the city. He said that he chose Rathburg rather than Newport because he liked the climate better and it was more convenient to his business in New York, but I suspect he avoided Newport so as not to have to compete with the Vanderbilts and Astors. Here he could be quite literally king of the hill.”

  “But I take it there are no more Creightons there now.”

  “Correct. He lost everything in the stock market crash of twenty-nine. The state government took it over for back taxes and it remained abandoned and boarded up for years. That didn’t stop children—yours truly was one of them—from breaking in and using it as a playground. After the war the federal government took it over and turned it into the Creighton Hospital for Disabled Veterans.”

  “And that’s when it was expanded, I take it?”

  “Correct.” She made a face. “Have you seen those wings they added? Abominations! What an awful, terrible, wretched thing to do to such a grand old house.”

  She tossed off the rest of her Manhattan and held up her empty glass. In less than a minute Faas appeared with a full replacement. He pointed to Jack’s half-finished pint. Jack shook his head.

  “When did it become a booby hatch?”

  Her brief glare told Jack what he’d hoped to learn from the remark: The locals weren’t happy with having an institute for the criminally insane in town.

  “In nineteen-eighty-one it passed from the Veterans Administration to another federal entity. That was when it was renamed the Creighton Institute.”

  Jack finished it for her: “—for the Criminally Insane.”

  “That was never an official designation,” she huffed. “I don’t know how that got about, but it’s not accurate.”

  “Okay. But they do house nutcases there, correct?”

  “It’s a mental research institute. Th
ere’s never been a lick of trouble since its conversion, not a single incident. The barbed wire is an eyesore, yes, but they mind their business, pay their taxes, and some of the staff have joined the community and become active in local affairs.”

  “Like Doctor Aaron Levy?”

  Her eyebrows lifted. “If you know him, why do you need me for this information. He certainly knows more than I do.”

  “I know of him. We’ll be having a meeting in the near future, and I wanted to have some background on the place before then.”

  “Yes, well, he’s a nice man, devoted husband and father, and gives generously to local causes, especially the library.”

  “But as a doctor at the institute, that makes him an employee of the federal government. What branch? Department of Entropy?”

  Cilla gave him a tolerant smile. “No one knows. Lord knows I’ve tried to find out—”

  “Why would you want to know?”

  “Because someone wants to keep it secret.” She smiled. “Why else?”

  “Why else indeed?” Jack liked this old biddy. “So no one knows who’s running the show? Don’t people find that suspicious?”

  “Some of us do. I’m one of them. I’ve been watching and listening and snooping for years, and you know what I think?” She leaned across the table and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Department of Defense.”

  “But what would the Depart—?”

  She held up a finger. “You didn’t hear it here. And I’ll say no more. But maybe when you meet with Doctor Levy you can wheedle it out of him.”

  He’d try.

  “Odd that that particular branch of the government in question would be funding a mental institution, don’t you think?”

  She finished her second drink and held up the glass. She weighed all of a hundred pounds, if that, and had downed two Manhattans before Jack had finished his first beer, yet her eyes and speech were as clear as when they’d first sat down.

  “Odd and bothersome. If you find out why, let me know. I have an insatiable curiosity.”

  And one hell of an efficient liver, he thought as he watched Faas approach with a fresh drink.