element of unpredictability. The right combinations of both internal and external forces must be in place to draw the bloodspawn to the right place at the right time to bring the prophetic resolution to fruition. If we are unable to do what must be done, there still may be a chance. Find the bloodspawn before it is too late.
“May God forgive us…”
Scott flipped the page, but there were no further entries; nothing but the blank, light blue-lined pages of the incomplete diary. And, if what Harry had told him about that night at the Cavenaugh house was true, he already knew why. Closing the book, he slid it away from him on the table, staring out the ice-rippled glass into the frozen yard.
“What happened to the child you saved in that house?” Scott asked, still staring at the dark line of trees at the edge of the yard.
“The state put him up for adoption almost immediately. I tried to find out where he had gone and who had adopted him, but those records were sealed and I had no way of accessing them. My employment with the state was terminated relatively quickly after that, and I no longer have the contacts to get any information at all.”
“So, how old would this child be now?”
“Oh, geez,” Harry said, rolling his eyes back and staring up towards the ceiling. “Twenty- nine, maybe thirty, it would depend on his exact age when I found him that night.”
“So roughly my age?”
“I would say so. He should be right about your age.”
“Is it possible that Matt might have been that child? That he might somehow have survived that car crash and is in the process of accumulating his two hundred?”
“Everything that I’ve seen in these clippings makes it appear as though all two hundred of these people are killed at the same time, not one by one.”
“But could it be possible?”
“I don’t know. I’m no expert on any of this. I’m just now finding out things that I wish I’d known twenty years ago.”
“Then I guess we know what we need to do,” Scott said, rising from the table and scooting the stool in beneath the eating bar.
“What’s that?”
“We need to find Matt,” he said, turning to stare Harry straight in the eye. “We need to find the bloodspawn.”
XII
Monday, November 14th
11 p.m.
The yellow cab slowed in front of the apartment complex, the rear wheels grinding on the snow-packed road as it came to a stop against the curb. Stumbling from the vehicle, the passenger clambered over the curb and glared back at the driver.
“Eight bucks for a five mile ride,” he grumbled, slamming to door.
Jeremy Willis pulled the collar of his jacket over his bright red cheeks. Shoving his hands deep into the pockets of the black leather jacket, he shuffled towards the front door of the complex. Breathing heavily, his breath in a cloud around his face, he grabbed hold of the handle on the door, staring through the glass into the dimly lit lobby. Leaning against the wall momentarily, he fought back the wave of nausea that gurgled up from his stomach, the sea of beer sloshing violently as he blinked his eyes spastically in hopes of staying conscious. Regulating his breathing so as to calm the swell that threatened to overwhelm him, he yanked the door outward and stepped into the lobby.
A gust of hot air blew straight down on him from the overhead vent, giving rise to the goosebumps that crawled across his skin. Three rows of tiny, square mailboxes were built into the wall to his left, the names of the occupants labeled beneath the keyholes on tiny, blue stickers. To his right, the leasing desk sat unattended, the door to the manager's office closed with a little plastic clock sign hanging from the doorknob.
“Will return at 8 am,” the sign read.
Scooting across the tightly knit knap of the bright red carpet, his feet barely leaving the ground, he made his way toward the glass wall with the door in the middle that led back to all of the apartments. Fumbling in his pocket for his keys, he pulled them out, bringing them close to his face so that he could leaf through them one by one until he found the right one. Swaying as he stood, his mouth hanging slack, he pinched the door key between his thumb and forefinger. It took several attempts, but finally he slipped the key into the lock, turning it to the right and pulling open the glass door.
Wrapping his keys tightly in his closed fist, he turned to the right and opened the wooden door to the stairwell, stumbling up the cement stairs. Rounding the landing, he paused to catch his breath before heading up the remainder of the stairs to the second floor. Bursting through the door from the stairwell, he scuffed straight across the hallway, the door to the stairwell slamming shut behind him with a thud. His footsteps echoed on the hollow floor beneath, booming like the thunderous footfalls of a giant through the empty hall.
Slipping his key into the lock for the deadbolt, he sent it back into the door with a resounding thack, dropping his key to the doorknob to unlock it as well. Throwing the door inward, he stumbled into the apartment onto the olive-green and yellow linoleum floor of the entryway, the kitchen immediately to the left.
“Chopper?” he called, staring down the hallway into the living room. “Where are you boy?”
His wet shoes squeaked on the floor as he crossed it, nearly tripping over the seam of the carpet as he stepped into the living room. The television rested on a cluster of cinder blocks at the back of the room beneath the rust-tinged curtains that hung from the window. A tan couch sat in the middle of the room, the matching chair set up just to the right. The seams were tattered, the threads peeling back in clusters, and the bright blue throw pillows that rested in the corners were scattered across the floor, their corners knotted and matted as though they had been chewed.
“Chopper!” he yelled.
A meek whimper issued from down the small hallway to the right.
Whirling, he stopped, prepared to head down the hallway toward the bedroom, but his eyes caught on something else. There was a picture, framed and matted just to the right of the hallway, a gut-wrenching reminder of a better day. He stood to the left, wearing a black suit and tie, his left arm lying across the shoulder of a quite attractive blonde woman wearing a light purple sun dress. In her lap sat a small girl, her shiny blonde hair hung to either side of her smiling face as she clung tightly to a small stuffed dog. She wore a bright red dress, the edges fringed with lace. White tights covered her legs right down to the shiny black, buckled shoes that dangled above the floor, hardly past her mother’s knees.
He couldn’t believe how much younger he looked, his hair full and the suit fitting him perfectly as though it had been tailored just for him. His face looked nothing like it did today, his blue eyes accented by his thick brows, his lips curled back from a genuine smile. It showed none of the wear that aged his face today, his eyes weren’t sunken back into their sockets behind large brown bags, nor were the thin lines that aged his face even beginning to form.
“And Darcy…” he said, running his finger over the woman in the picture, the oils from his skin leaving a transparent line.
She had to have been the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. The only problem was that she knew that just as well as he did. What he had been unable to provide, another had been more than willing to, and she had left him nothing but a simple note on the table.
“See you in court,” the note had read.
He could remember dashing up the stairs and into their bedroom, throwing open the closet door only to find that all of her clothes and shoes were now gone. Spinning around, he could vividly recall the despair that sunk into his chest as he raced into his daughter’s room, only to find it completely empty, the carpet still holding the matted impressions of where her bedposts and her dresser had been. He had fallen to his knees on that very floor, sobbing like a baby, his face buried in his hands for the rest of the night.
That was when the serious drinking had begun.
The next time he had seen her was in court, as she had promised, her new beau loaded to the gills with enough money to bury him alive. Assuming that the worst of his worries were the child support issue, he had been
