Bloodline by F. Paul Wilson Page B

notify his next of kin first.
    He'd set up a meet with her, tell her what he knew, and let her take it from there.

7

    As soon as he was on the move, Aaron speed-dialed Julia's cell phone. "It's me," he said when she answered. "You home?"
    "I'm just leaving the office. Why? Something wrong?"
    "Damn right it is. The therapy is a bust. He's on a rampage." She said nothing for a while, then, "Meet me at home." He cut the connection and upped his speed, yet his thoughts raced ahead of him. And his heart raced ahead of his thoughts. He'd finally stopped shaking, but a soaked undershirt lay plastered against his skin.
    He'd been as good as dead tonight. The shock of finding Bolton in his garage had paralyzed him. The look of death in those cold blue eyes, the point of the knife against his throat… he'd almost passed out. The suffocating ride in the trunk and then… salvation.
    But the things that stranger, Robertson, had told him… about Gerhard's torture-murder… they had to be true. It made no sense for Robertson to save him, drive him back to his car, and let him go, just to lie to him.
    Gerhard dead! Il had to be Bolton. He'd found out the detective was investigating him and killed him. And how he'd killed him. Aaron shuddered. That might have been him.
    But why me?
    He posed no threat to Bolton. Of course, he didn't have to. Bolton merely had to perceive him as a threat. But why would—?
    Julia. Had Julia set him up? Had she sicced Bolton on Gerhard and then on him? But why would she do that? Sure, he'd been a reluctant partner in this experiment, but he'd gone along with all her risky plans.
    None of this made any sense!
    He called Marie next and told her he'd be stuck at the institute for a few more hours. Good wife that she was, she said she'd keep some dinner warm for him.
    He got off at Tarrytown and went straight up 9 to Julia's house.
    His superior at the Creighton Institute, Julia Vecca, M.D., M.S., Ph.D., was single, ascetic, politically connected, and intensely, relentlessly devoted to her job as medical director. Aaron had been there a couple of years longer but was not so driven—he had a life outside the institute, after all—and not the least bit connected. Hence her position as director. Which was fine with Aaron. He wouldn't have minded the extra money—something Julia didn't seem to care about—but didn't want the administrative headaches. He shared Julia's commitment to the project, but not her zeal.
    He pulled into the parking lot of her condo complex and parked next to a grime-caked Jetta—Julia's car. Always easy to find. Just look for the dirtiest car on the lot and that would be Julia's. She didn't believe in washing cars. They'd only get dirty again.
    He sat waiting and watching, afraid to leave the locked womb of his Infiniti. No sign of Bolton but that meant nothing. He could be hiding anywhere.
    Aaron stared across the small expanse of pavement and lawn to Julia's front door. So near, and yet…
    He called her again. When she answered he said, "I'm outside."
    "Really? I didn't hear you knock."
    "I didn't. Open the door and wait for me."
    "I don't—"
    "Just do it." He added, "Please."
    After all, she was his boss.
    He saw a rectangle of light appear, silhouetting a vaguely female figure. With his heart pounding he leaped from the car and dashed toward it. Julia backed away, her expression alarmed, as he charged in and slammed the door behind him.
    "Aaron, what the hell is going on?"
    Julia almost never cursed.
    He noticed that she'd let her hair down, an act that made many women more attractive. Julia, however, proved an exception. Her barely shoulder-length mouse-brown hair—just long enough to tie back with an elastic band—was stringy and in need of a good shampooing. Her makeup-free face was pale and shiny as her wide dark eyes regarded him through thick glasses. She'd traded her usual blouse and slacks for a baggy gray NYU sweatsuit that softened the sharp angles of her thin