Blood Brother. J. Kerley A.

thanks.”

      The driver grins with bright, even teeth. “It’s gotta be ninety-five degrees. We can’t have our local genius getting heat stroke. Where you need to go?”

      “Town, then. The library.”

      The driver nods, pleased. The boy climbs in the truck. Hard muscles on the driver’s arm dance as he shifts. He drives for a quarter mile before swerving on to a dirt lane scarcely wider than the truck. Branches squeal against the vehicle’s sides.

      “Hey,” the boy yips. “You said we were going to town.”

      The truck bounces to a small clearing and jolts to a halt. The boy’s eyes dart from side to side. Insects buzz from the trees.

      “You recognize this place, son?” the driver says. “You been here before, right?”

      Something in the man’s voice has gotten harder. The twang has disappeared.

      “Listen, mister. I uh, I need to get back to –”

      “It was last year, son. A dead man was found tied to that big pine tree yonder. Someone took a long time to kill him. A real long time.”

      The boy’s hand sneaks to the door handle. He pulls the latch and dives against the door. The door doesn’t give. The boy’s terrified face turns to the driver.

      “Locked,” the man says, his voice calm. “Under my control. It’s all under my control. Look here …”

      The driver lifts his blue work shirt to reveal a pistol in his belt. Pictures and voices from the past align in the boy’s mind. He recalls who the man is, when they met, what was said.

      The boy closes his eyes, thinks, It’s over.

      The driver looks into the shadowed woods. “There was blood everywhere the day that man got torn apart. Someone said he didn’t know people had that much blood in them.”

      “You’re wrong, mister,” the boy protests, his voice high and tremulous. “I didn’t do anything. I never been here before. I swear I ain’t never –”

      “SHUT THE FUCK UP, KID!”

      The insects are silent. Birds freeze in the trees. It’s as if time has stopped. When the man’s voice starts again, so does everything else.

      “I’ve studied on that day a lot, son. More than you can believe. You know what I came up with in my thinking?”

      “What?” the boy whispers.

      “I’ve never heard of so much anger busting free. So much …letting out. You know what I mean by letting out?”

      A long pause. “No. Not really.”

      “Letting out is like floodwater piling up behind a dam. You can picture water rising behind a dam, right?”

      The slightest motion as the boy nods. The driver continues speaking.

      “The dam holds back the water – keeps it inside, under control. But a dam can’t stop the rain. So let’s say it keeps raining, day and night. The water rises and that held-back lake gets longer and wider and deeper. You know how that goes, don’t you? Maybe from experience?”

      “Yes.” The boy’s whisper is almost lost in the sound of the insects.

      “The dam’s a strong one and wants to hold. But that rain whips down day and night. Water keeps backing up, pushing harder. What do you think happens next?”

      The boy’s face quivers and his eyes shimmer with liquid. A crystal tear traces down his cheek.

      “It keeps raining. And the dam breaks.”

      The man reaches over and erases the boy’s tear with his thumb.

      “No, son. The dam opens just in time. And that’s how it saves itself.”

       ONE

      It was a morning for firsts.

      My first landing at LaGuardia Airport, my first escort from a 737 while the other passengers were ordered to remain seated, my first hustling through a terminal by security police, my first ride in a siren-screaming police cruiser through gray Manhattan rain.

      And I, Detective Carson Ryder of the Mobile, Alabama, Police Department, had accomplished them all in the past twenty-three minutes.

      “No one’s gonna tell me what this is about?” I asked my driver, a Sergeant Koslowski by the nameplate. We skidded sideways through an intersection. Koslowski spun the wheel, goosed the gas, and we straightened out two inches from tagging a taxi. The hack driver gave us a bored glance and I wondered what it took to scare a New York cabbie.

      “No one told me nothin’,” Koslowski growled. “So how can I tell you somethin’?” The growl fit; he looked like a bulldog in a blue uniform.

      “What were you told, exactly?” I asked.

      “Pick up your ass at the airport and deliver it to an address in the Village. There, now you know as much as me.”

      Two hours ago I had been at my desk in Mobile, drinking coffee and waiting for my detective partner, Harry Nautilus, to arrive. My supervisor, Lieutenant Tom Mason, had called me into his office and closed the door. His phone was beside the cradle, thrown down instead of hung up.

      “You’re on a new case, Carson. You got to be on a plane to New York City in twenty minutes. Your ticket’s waiting. The plane too, probably.”

      “What the hell? I can’t just up and –”

      “There’s a cruiser waiting outside. Move it.”

      Koslowski did the sideways skid again, setting us on to a slender street. He jammed the brakes in front of a three-story brick warehouse. We threaded past four radio cars with light bars flashing, a Forensics van and what I took to be a command van. There was also an SUV from the Medical Examiner’s office. Whatever had gone down, the full cast and crew was present and accounted for.

      I saw a portly man shambling our way, his black hat tucked low and his gray raincoat rippling in the wind. Mr Raincoat opened my door and I stepped out.

      The guy looked in his late fifties, with a round face as morose as a bloodhound. His nose was large and beaklike. His eyes sagged above, bagged below, and probably looked sad even when a woman said Yes. Unlike everyone else, he seemed in no hurry. He offered his hand. “My name is Sheldon Waltz, NYPD. Friendlier folks call me Shelly, which I invite you to do. How was your flight?”

      The warmth and sincerity in his voice made me drop pleasantries in favor of the truth. “I hate jets, Shelly. I’d have preferred being shot here by cannon.” I paused. “You gonna tell me what’s going on?”

      He sighed and patted my back. Even his pats seemed doleful. “Actually, I was hoping you might tell me.”

      The warehouse reeked of stale water and fresh rat droppings. We walked a plank floor toward a service elevator. A print tech dusted the paint-peeling wall for latents. I thought the tech was shooting me curious side-eyed glances, but realized he was studying Waltz. Also eyeing Waltz was a young guy in a Technical Services jacket who sat cross-legged on the floor with a small video monitor in his lap. He looked ready to spring into action, just as soon as someone told him what the action was.

      To the right the corridor opened into a side room, the light coming from a bank of ancient fluorescents, bulbs sizzling and giving a jittery quality to the scene. I saw three detectives inside, the Alpha dick spotlighted by a sharp bark as the others bobbed their heads. Alpha was a woman, early thirties, with an ovoid face, slender lips, dark hair pulled straight back and held with a rubber band. Efficient and aerodynamic. Her rust-colored, no-frills business suit had a gold badge hanging from the jacket pocket. Her eyes flashed with intelligence and she looked