Blood List by Patrick Freivald, Phil Freivald Page B
Authors: Patrick Freivald, Phil Freivald
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undershirt stretched comfortably over a bit of a gut.
"Steve!" his dad cried out and wrapped him in a giant hug, almost spilling his coffee in the process.
"Hi, Dad," Paul said, his voice sounding chagrined.
His father pulled back, his face sly. "What're you doing here, after so long with no visits? Need money?"
It was a long-standing joke. Whenever he visited, Paul tried to give his dad money, or a car, or a new TV, or tickets to the theater. Every time, Dad turned him down. His dad had taken to asking him if he needed money before he could offer anything.
"No, Dad. I'm set for cash."
"Have you talked to your cousin Ryan lately?" his dad asked, leading him to the kitchen.
"Not in a few months. We're both busy, I guess." Paul helped himself to a cup of coffee and pointed at the old, battered toaster oven next to the pot. "Hey, where's the one I got you?"
His dad smiled. "That one works just fine. Pastor Jenkins needed a new one for the hospitality room. Theirs died."
"Huh," Paul said. He took a tentative sip. "Sheesh, Dad, you could strip paint with this." He set the cup on the counter and opened the cupboard, looking for some sugar.
His dad chuckled and took a swallow of his own. "Does the body good." He paused. "You should call Ryan, though. Family's important. The most important thing you've got."
Paul smiled, blanking his thoughts. "I will, Dad, I will. I met his new girl, what's-her-name, not too long ago. We saw a show and caught up a little. She seems nice."
"She is nice, Steve. So's that Courtney you brought around that time. I wouldn't mind seeing her around a bit more."
Paul frowned. That time was three years ago. Long-term attachments didn't mesh well with his line of work.
His dad hadn't noticed. "You could use a lady in your life, you know? Your mother…."
Paul looked at his dad, startled. Dad never talked about Mom. Never.
"Your mother…." He smiled sadly. "She was the best thing that ever happened to me. The best."
"I know, Pop," Paul said. He blinked. A blonde woman lay on beige carpet stained red with blood. He pressed his palms into her neck. His hands were too small; he couldn't stop the bleeding. Hot and red, it filled his nostrils, metallic and cloying. Rough hands on his shoulders dragged him to a navy-blue van emblazoned with three yellow letters: FBI. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't stop screaming. He blinked again. "I wish I'd known her."
They drank their coffee in silence. After a few minutes, his dad clapped once. "Well, enough moping about the past. What say we go work on that crawl space?"
"Ooh, goody."
They put their dishes away and headed to the back of the house.
That evening Paul sat at the kitchen table, a cup of rotgut coffee in one hand and a powdered doughnut in the other, and stared at his father's incredulous face. It felt discordant looking at his dad with the façade of Renner in place, but this wasn't a job for the real him. Man up , he thought. A little cognitive dissonance never hurt anybody.
"You want me to do what?" Kevin Parsons asked.
"I need you to hide for a while," Paul said. "I have a cabin, fully stocked, isolated. Nobody knows it's mine. Nobody could trace you there. I need you to get in the car I've got outside, go there, and not tell anybody. Anybody. And don't use any credit cards along the way."
"But…. Why? For how long?"
"I don't know. Probably a few months, maybe longer. I can't tell you why, but it's very important."
Kevin frowned out the window, then at his son. "This is ridiculous. Are you in danger?"
Paul shook his head.
"Am I?"
Paul took a sip of coffee, stalling. He looked at the ceiling, then at Kevin. "Yes."
"From who?"
"I don't know, Dad," Paul said. "But they're going to kill you, and I need time to figure out who they are and how to stop them."
Kevin blinked several times, then pinched his own arm. "Am I dreaming?"
"No," Paul said. Kevin paced in front of the window.
"Steve, this is ridiculous. People are
"Steve!" his dad cried out and wrapped him in a giant hug, almost spilling his coffee in the process.
"Hi, Dad," Paul said, his voice sounding chagrined.
His father pulled back, his face sly. "What're you doing here, after so long with no visits? Need money?"
It was a long-standing joke. Whenever he visited, Paul tried to give his dad money, or a car, or a new TV, or tickets to the theater. Every time, Dad turned him down. His dad had taken to asking him if he needed money before he could offer anything.
"No, Dad. I'm set for cash."
"Have you talked to your cousin Ryan lately?" his dad asked, leading him to the kitchen.
"Not in a few months. We're both busy, I guess." Paul helped himself to a cup of coffee and pointed at the old, battered toaster oven next to the pot. "Hey, where's the one I got you?"
His dad smiled. "That one works just fine. Pastor Jenkins needed a new one for the hospitality room. Theirs died."
"Huh," Paul said. He took a tentative sip. "Sheesh, Dad, you could strip paint with this." He set the cup on the counter and opened the cupboard, looking for some sugar.
His dad chuckled and took a swallow of his own. "Does the body good." He paused. "You should call Ryan, though. Family's important. The most important thing you've got."
Paul smiled, blanking his thoughts. "I will, Dad, I will. I met his new girl, what's-her-name, not too long ago. We saw a show and caught up a little. She seems nice."
"She is nice, Steve. So's that Courtney you brought around that time. I wouldn't mind seeing her around a bit more."
Paul frowned. That time was three years ago. Long-term attachments didn't mesh well with his line of work.
His dad hadn't noticed. "You could use a lady in your life, you know? Your mother…."
Paul looked at his dad, startled. Dad never talked about Mom. Never.
"Your mother…." He smiled sadly. "She was the best thing that ever happened to me. The best."
"I know, Pop," Paul said. He blinked. A blonde woman lay on beige carpet stained red with blood. He pressed his palms into her neck. His hands were too small; he couldn't stop the bleeding. Hot and red, it filled his nostrils, metallic and cloying. Rough hands on his shoulders dragged him to a navy-blue van emblazoned with three yellow letters: FBI. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't stop screaming. He blinked again. "I wish I'd known her."
They drank their coffee in silence. After a few minutes, his dad clapped once. "Well, enough moping about the past. What say we go work on that crawl space?"
"Ooh, goody."
They put their dishes away and headed to the back of the house.
That evening Paul sat at the kitchen table, a cup of rotgut coffee in one hand and a powdered doughnut in the other, and stared at his father's incredulous face. It felt discordant looking at his dad with the façade of Renner in place, but this wasn't a job for the real him. Man up , he thought. A little cognitive dissonance never hurt anybody.
"You want me to do what?" Kevin Parsons asked.
"I need you to hide for a while," Paul said. "I have a cabin, fully stocked, isolated. Nobody knows it's mine. Nobody could trace you there. I need you to get in the car I've got outside, go there, and not tell anybody. Anybody. And don't use any credit cards along the way."
"But…. Why? For how long?"
"I don't know. Probably a few months, maybe longer. I can't tell you why, but it's very important."
Kevin frowned out the window, then at his son. "This is ridiculous. Are you in danger?"
Paul shook his head.
"Am I?"
Paul took a sip of coffee, stalling. He looked at the ceiling, then at Kevin. "Yes."
"From who?"
"I don't know, Dad," Paul said. "But they're going to kill you, and I need time to figure out who they are and how to stop them."
Kevin blinked several times, then pinched his own arm. "Am I dreaming?"
"No," Paul said. Kevin paced in front of the window.
"Steve, this is ridiculous. People are
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