A Measure of Blood by Kathleen George Read Free Book Online

him. I have rights.
    Don’t you touch him, don’t you go near him. He’s not yours.
    But I can see he is.
    Oh, you’re wrong, wrong, wrong.
    He knew she was lying. Well, I am going to get to know him. I’m taking him for a day, two days. A father and son should know each other.
    Matt! she cried. Matt, leave the house. Go. Go now. Run. Go to a neighbor. Just run.
    He heard the door slam behind him. You bitch, telling him to run. From me.
    She grabbed his arm, hard. Yes. You’re acting really funny. Are you … Are you on something?
    No. Stupid. Why can’t I talk to him?
    He’s not yours.
    I’ll find him. I have rights . He shoved her and one of the pans on the counter behind her vibrated and fell to the floor. He moved to the door, thinking he would chase down his son wherever he went. She came after him. She was holding a kitchen knife.
    Please leave us alone.
    You’re lying.
    No. She looked to a table near the door where there was a cell phone charger. But he saw the phone wasn’t there. She blocked the door. She still had the knife. I went to New York. I went to a clinic. He tried to grab at the knife hand because she was holding the knife out toward his gut. He grabbed the knife from her.
    He got it, he got the knife.
    The hateful way she looked at him—
    Then he had blood on him. She slumped to the floor. He grabbed a kitchen towel and pulled at the stain on his shirt, wiped his hands. He had to get out of there. He descended the stairs from the second floor to the first floor and out the door. He wound around the building, all the while looking for his boy. He looked everywhere, quickly. Down the street maybe … He walked down Morrowfield, passing one man talking to his own little boy, passing an old woman pulling a wheeling cart of groceries.
    He couldn’t stay. His car had been parked around the corner on Murray in front of the Russian store that had caviar signs in the window. He got in, still wiping at his clothes.
    Up ahead was a little boy. Matt. His head throbbed. He started up and drove down the block but when he got there, he saw it was another kid, older. He was so weak he wondered if he’d been stabbed, too. He drove a block to the parkway and found himself taking the Monroeville ramp. The car seemed to decide. Murraysville, Route 22, State College.
    His mother looks at him, smiles, almost a question.
    BEFORE THE ELEVEN O’CLOCK NEWS on Sunday night, Colleen is collapsing in front of a TV with John Potocki. They’re at her place, exhausted, and she’s cradled in his arms. They need to sleep soon so they can get back to it at five in the morning, fresh. There are no leads at all except what the little boy told them. They can’t even be sure the killer is the same guy who bothered Maggie Brown at the grocery store.
    Some cases aren’t ever solved. Ever. The man might have been asking for her wallet.
    Potocki sighs and changes position. He wants to resolve their living situation, either move in here or find a house they can both agree on. “I feel like I’m living out of a suitcase,” he said last night. “I don’t even know what shirts I have over here.”
    She still wants to have the possibility of her whole house to herself. He worries, she knows, that she’s still in love with Christie. But that’s done, that was fantasy, not real, just Christie having his Christie effect—the ultimate strong, square father figure, thoughtful and plain old charismatic. Her phone rings; she sees the ID and picks up. “Hey Boss. You must have something.”
    â€œThe boy has disappeared.”
    â€œOh … Oh my God.”
    â€œHe’s not at the Panikkar place. We’re combing the neighborhood. I’ve called the kid’s friends and he isn’t there. I called Sasha. He isn’t there. Apparently the kid has a thing about running off, according to Sasha. That’s the hopeful part.