Mysterious Blood Relatives (Obscure Blood Book 3) Read online

  For a second, the place was completely normal. Simple household furniture set modestly, a woman and a man sitting on the couch facing the television, but then the whole scene came into play. Firstly, the woman’s hair was completely stiff with dried blood. He spotted the blond tips of the woman’s hair, which hung down past her shoulders, but other than that, it looked as though someone had taken a comb and brushed the blood through it. Dressed in a white frock, the woman sat ramrod straight with her bruised hands in her lap, and all the blood apparently drained out of her.

  The man, on the other hand, looked the worse for wear. Sitting beside the woman, he also faced the television, eyes swollen closed. His face was badly bashed in and blood caked around his wounds. Red-rimmed tears on his shirt indicated multiple knife wounds to the chest. His hands hung by his sides and lay limply against the couch cushions. He had borne the brunt of it all.

  Octa realized that he had been holding his breath as he took the scene in, but then he noticed something missing. He turned to the chief. “The officer wasn’t kidding when he said that this was unlike what they seen, but the crime scene looks very clean of blood. Was the murder committed elsewhere?”

  The chief grimaced and gestured toward the kitchen with her head. Octa’s eyes followed her direction and he spied the complete bloodbath in the room.

  “So the woman was tortured here?” he asked.

  The chief reluctantly took her eyes away from the kitchen and turned to face him. “Noticed the bruised hands, didn’t you? Yes, she was tortured here. From what we can gather, the couple was caught unaware. The back door was jimmied open. The woman was tortured first. Forensics thinks she died a few hours before the husband. He took most of the beating. Apart from the stab wounds, the actual cause of his death will be determined in the autopsy, because if you look at his neck, you can see the ligature marks. He was likely strangled before he was stabbed. I tell you, whoever did this is just sick.”

  Chief Albany shook her head.

  Octa agreed. This was scary, because the murderer actually took the time to place the bodies in a way that if a person were to walk by the house and happened to glance in, they wouldn’t notice a thing.

  “But there is even worse news.” the chief continued.

  That caught Octa’s attention. “What is it?”

  The chief grimaced. “They have a child. A little boy. Caucasian, blue eyes, blond hair, eight years old. He’s missing.”

  ***

  Octa ran his hand through his hair. He had been staring at the computer screen for twenty minutes and he still hadn’t written a single word for this case. Even though it had now become an FBI case because of the missing child, Octa still had to log in all the related details, but he just couldn’t bring his thoughts together. So much had happened in the past 24 hours. Hell, the past month, but he still felt like he was on a roller coaster ride that was starting and stopping after every little while. Sometimes, days would fly past so quickly, and now…

  Octa took a deep breath, shook his head to clear his mind, and started typing. There was just something about this case that he couldn’t put his finger on, something familiar. The woman looked almost angelic in her white dress, but the bloody, sleek hair was unnerving. Octa looked down at his fingers and realized they were shaking. He stood suddenly and announced, “I’m going for a smoke.”

  Hardly anyone looked up from their own files, but Mark, the officer who sat beside him, nodded absent-mindedly. Octa made his way to the staircase, opened the door, and started climbing. The staircase led to the rooftop and soon he was out in the fresh air. Taking the crumbled packet of cigarettes out of his pants pocket, Octa lit one up. He heard the door behind him open and a voice said, “You’ve started smoking?”

  Octa turned and saw Chief Scarlet Albany standing in the shadows. Octa grunted.

  The chief stepped forward slightly, taking care to stay away from the plume of smoke.

  “I know you shouldn’t be here, but you always take care of the weird cases and this one was definitely right up your alley,” she said.

  Octa looked away from the chief and out at the urban scenery. “It’s okay, chief. You needed me and I’m here. It’s my job.”

  The chief raised her eyebrows slightly. “Good, because I want your full attention on this case. I know this year has been hard for you with what had happened with your mother’s case, Bob, and now your wife, but you need to do your job properly. I don’t want to hear any excuses or see any dodgy police work in this. We are cooperating with the FBI in both cases, so you know we have to maintain that as well.”

  Octa threw the cigarette butt on the ground and ground it with his foot. “I know, chief. You don’t need to tell me.”

  Walking away from the chief, Octa went back downstairs, grinding his teeth. I don’t need anyone telling me how to do my job. And I don’t need anyone’s pity so much that they try to justify why they need me to do it. Sometimes I just wish… Octa stopped in his tracks.

  Memories flashed in his mind. He suddenly realized why the whole crime scene seemed so familiar. The woman sitting in white, her blond hair streaked with blood. His mind raced back to the moment Juan killed Lucinda. How her hair was brushed, pulled back. How her white nightdress made her look. Octa felt like someone had punched him in the gut. His chest tightened and he reached out to the wall to steady himself. Could it be?

  Shoving people out of the way, Octa ran back to his desk, grabbed the photographs from the crime scene, and scanned through them. The autopsy report wasn’t in, but he knew she had been bound. Octa stared hard at the woman’s appearance. Her dress was frilly, her face slack. She didn’t look like Lucinda in any way, but with the hair and dress, this was exactly the scene that Octa had engraved in his mind. But this whole blood drain… what was it?

  No, it can’t be. My mind is playing tricks. Octa threw down the photos and sat down, opening the case file, which had all the rudimentary details from the crime scene. Okay, so the man and woman murdered, kid gone, bloodbath in the kitchen… what else? His eyes zeroed in on the items missing. Apparently, the couple kept some savings hidden in a small safe under the bed. It was too early to know exactly how much money it was, but it seemed like a hefty amount. The money had been stolen.

  His phone rang. Octa answered with his eyes still on the file. “Detective Octa speaking.”

  “We’ve got a witness. Says he saw someone escape through an open window around midnight last night. He gave us a description of the suspect,” said the voice at the other end.

  Octa nodded, “All right, good. What is it?”

  Octa heard shuffling sounds on the officer’s end as if he was opening something up. “Ah, here it is. Well, according to the witness, our suspect might be in his early thirties, Caucasian, dark hair, lean build. The witness said that the man had a very rough face and there were even some scars. We didn’t get any specifics, but this is as good a start as any.”

  Octa blinked hard. Scars? Dark hair?

  The officer, oblivious to Octa’s panic, continued. “The witness saw the man around midnight, but the lights on the side of the house were on, so he got a good look. He said the man looked a bit freaked out. He had a bag with him, so I’m assuming he took the money. No word yet about the kid. The suspect also had, get this, red eyes, according to our witness. This probably means the suspect is a junkie who took too much substance and lost his mind. We’ll know more once we’ve finished the sweep, but this is a really lucky lead.”

  “Yeah, real lucky,” Octa murmured, dazed.

  A while later, after getting the news that the crime scene had been scrubbed and closed down, Octa decided he needed to know the identity of the suspect once and for all. What had that man said who had punched him senseless? “You’ve let your brother loose and it’s all your fault?”

  Now he needed to know if this was exactly what that man had been talking about. Grabbing the case file, Octa hurried home so he could get a presentable picture of Juan in hand.
Finally, after some searching, he was able to find one that was fairly recent. Octa noted down the name of the witness and went to see him.

  The witness was a man named Henry, who lived only a couple of houses away from the house where the murder had taken place. As Octa drove, he noticed how deserted the whole neighborhood looked. The road, which had been crowded this morning with news vans, was empty now. The only indicator that something horrendous had taken place here was that of the yellow tape stretched across the main door of the house, along with a squad car posted there for surveillance.

  He nodded in recognition of the officers in the car as he drove past.

  Henry opened the door of his home as soon as Octa knocked, obviously anxious to speak to him.

  “Detective, hello. Come in, please. Would you like something to eat or drink?” Henry asked as Octa sat down on the couch in the living room.

  After declining all offers, Octa asked questions about the whole scene and Henry recounted his tale energetically, apparently thrilled that he was a part of such a big case.

  “I tell you, detective, this is really horrible. I just can’t get the whole thing out of my mind. Had I not seen that person dive out of the window, I would not have known that something was wrong,” Henry said, looking a bit anxious. “I just hope I can help. Are there suspects you’re looking at?”

  Octa snapped out of the funk he was in and nodded, reaching for the picture in his wallet. “We have a few leads,” he lied. Hardly any leads came up at the beginning of any case, but Henry didn’t need to know that. Handing the picture of Juan to Henry, Octa stared hard at the man for any signs of recognition. “This man might become a person of interest in this case, though. I need you to tell me if he resembles with the man you saw coming out of the window that night.”

  Looking down at the picture, Henry’s eyes lit up. “Oh my God, yes. This is him. This is the man I saw.”

  Octa’s breath left his lungs. “Are you sure? Look closely, are you absolutely sure?” he asked, moving closer to Henry.

  Henry didn’t notice, as his eyes were still on Juan. “Yes, yes. This is him. Who is he?” Looking up, Henry startled when he saw the look on Octa’s face. “What’s wrong, detective? Who is this man?”

  Octa didn’t say anything. Snatching the picture from Henry, Octa shoved it in his pocket and stood up. “Thank you for your help, Henry. We’ll be in touch shortly.”

  Dumbfounded, Henry stood up as well. “Detective, how dangerous is this man? I mean, am I in danger?”

  The detective turned, trying to calm himself down. “At the moment, he’s just a person of interest, but this case is a lot more complex than we thought. He didn’t see you, so I’m sure you’re not in any danger. However, I would advise you to keep this conversation to yourself. I don’t want any of this getting out there. Let me remind you, there’s no talking to the press, your friends, or even your family and wife, if you have one. Do you understand me?”

  Henry nodded repeatedly. “I understand, detective.”

  Taking his leave, Octa ambled off to his car, still in a daze. So it was true. Juan was the killer.

  Chapter Four

  Octa ran at breakneck speed, as the hail of bullets followed him, inching closer to him with every running step he took. The first bullet entered his back and the pain exploded, taking the power from his lungs, his heart, his bones. More bullets entered his back, thighs and shoulders as he fell forward, watching in a daze as his blood puddle around him and soaked into the ground he was lying on. The pain was too much, it was too excruciating…

  Octa woke up, gasping for air. He was all right. He was still here. Rubbing his eyes, Octa straightened in his seat as he took in his surroundings. He was still by the warehouse on the east end of town and it was still night. His nightmares were still there, and the fact that his brother had now committed double murders was still certain.

  Shaking his head like he was trying to shake the water out of his ears, Octa wondered why he was at this certain location, but then he remembered. He had just gotten back to the station, his mind racing with new information, when he had gotten a call from his aunt telling him where to meet her. He had tried tracking the number to see where she had called from, but it was untraceable. She probably had a burner phone.

  Octa stretched and yawned, wincing as his wound pinched. It was one in the morning, according to the clock in his van. He had dozed off waiting for his aunt who had yet to show up. Now by the looks of things, maybe she had forgotten that her nephew was waiting for her by the warehouse, or maybe she simply didn’t want to come. Octa felt hugely betrayed.

  Did his whole family need to be insane? Did they all need to go around killing people? Oh, he knew that his own actions hadn’t been so pure of late, but at least when he killed someone, it was either because he was provoked, or because they didn’t deserve to live. But what was his family doing? His father was a serial killer, who had now probably murdered countless people. Juan was out doing God knows what for whatever reason his mind was giving him, and his once-dead aunt was making him wait by an abandoned warehouse.

  Octa noticed another change in circumstances around him. It had been a month since Lucinda’s death and no one had come to kill him. There had been so many attempts on his life before that he wasn’t able to sleep, but was now starting to feel tired. For more than a month, his life had been hitman-free.

  “Not for long if my aunt keeps me here like a sitting duck.” Octa mumbled. Adjusting his seat, he wondered about leaving when he saw a faint light come on in the first floor window of the warehouse. Octa froze. The light shimmered through the dull window panes of the warehouse, and as Octa watched, he saw a shadow move against it.

  Slowly opening the van’s door, Octa reached for his gun and pulled it out. Taking small steps, he made his way to the broken door of the building. Had he spoken too soon about the hitmen?

  It was dark inside the warehouse, but Octa could still make out his surroundings, thanks to the small light on the first floor.

  With soft steps, Octa found the stairs and climbed up, keeping his eye on the landing. He could see two shadows in the room, but it was hard to figure out whom they belonged. Finally reaching the landing, Octa stopped and observed the peculiar scene. Two people were standing near the light, talking to each other softly. Octa’s mouth fell open when he realized that it was his aunt and Detective John Intel.

  ***

  Octa stared, trying to make sense of what was going on.

  John Intel! What is he doing here? Octa wondered. John and his aunt still hadn’t noticed Octa standing at the top of the stairs, staring at them with disbelief. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, so he knew there was no point in creeping back down so he could listen to their conversation. Octa coughed, trying to make them aware of his presence.

  His aunt turned, her expressions unchanged, as if she knew he had been there the whole time but simply chose to ignore him. “Ah, Octa. You’re here.”

  Octa stowed his gun away. “You could have told me you’d arrived. I was about to shoot.”

  John Intel, who had been busy searching his own pockets for something, grunted, “And we all know how much you like to do that.”

  Octa grimaced. He didn’t have time for this. “What’s going on, aunt? What’s he doing here?” Octa nodded toward John. Okay, so he didn’t have anything against the old detective, but this peculiar scene had knocked him for six. He didn’t have time for polite chit-chat.

  His aunt went to the small, propane lantern that was sitting on a table near the window and looked out. “John was the one who got me out of this mess.”

  Octa snorted, “And are you going to tell me what ‘this mess’ is?”

  John grumbled, “So you’re going to tell him?”

  Chelsea shrugged. “I have to, don’t I? After all, we were a part of it for so long.”

  Octa folded his arms and waited. By now, John had gotten was he was looking for from his pockets, and pulled
out a packet of cigarettes with a lighter. Lighting up a Marlboro Light, John leaned back against an old desk that was left after the warehouse was shut down.

  Octa waited. His patience grew thin with every passing minute.

  “Well?” he asked, feeling exasperated as he waited for one of them to say something.

  His aunt took a deep breath. “What I am about to tell you won’t make much sense to you, but you have to remember that every step we took at the time was because we were too silly to realize what we were doing. We were… enlightened with this new world, all this new information and even though deep down, we knew what we were doing was wrong. We still went with it because it was expected from us.”

  Octa held his breath. “Alright. Tell me what it was.”

  Chelsea turned. “You might not know this, but your mother and I were very close. We were thick as thieves and everything we did, we did together, because that’s how we kept one another out of trouble.” She smiled a little. “It was around the time she met your father. He was a quiet man so it seemed very weird that your mother would go for someone like that. She was always talkative, always looking for ways to have fun and make others feel like they could cut loose and let their hair down. She was always that type of person.”

  Octa noticed John intently looking at Chelsea, his eyes alert.

  Oblivious to John’s glare, Chelsea continued, “It was around that time, when we met someone else as well. We were at a bar, all complaining about how getting a job was so difficult and I guess he heard us, because he came to us with a proposition which was too good to refuse. His name was Don Swanson and he had a job for your mother and I if we wanted it. All we had to do was take some envelopes from his office and deliver them to different addresses. Now, you have to understand, this was the 70s. We were still reeling from the energy crisis, and the budget was tight. Like always, those in the middle and lower classes were beginning to unravel because of the effects of the economic crisis. It seemed easy enough. Your mother was dubious, but I really needed money for rent, so I jumped at the task.”