Innocent Blood by Graham Masterton Read Free Book Online Page B

said. ‘We met yesterday. When the school was bombed.’
    He shaded his eyes with his hand. It was the young woman with one sandal. She was wearing brass-rimmed sunglasses with very tiny oval lenses, and a white ribbon around her neck.
    â€˜Well, this is one heck of a coincidence,’ he said. ‘What are you doing here?’
    â€˜I guess the same as you. Trying to clear my head.’
    â€˜You weren’t hurt, were you?’
    â€˜No, it didn’t hurt. How about you?’
    â€˜My . . . uh . . . my son died. I lost my son.’
    â€˜Oh my God, I’m so sorry.’ She reached out and touched his forearm. ‘You must be absolutely torn apart.’
    â€˜He was hit by a flying nail. I didn’t even realize. You and I, we were talking, and all the time he was bleeding to death in the back of my car.’
    â€˜That’s tragic. I don’t know what to say to you.’
    â€˜Don’t worry, my wife does.’
    â€˜She doesn’t blame you, does she?’
    â€˜Blame me? The way she talks, you’d think I planted that bomb myself.’ He looked around. A suntanned young man in a blue and yellow T-shirt was standing not far away, eating an ice-cream cone. ‘Are you alone?’ he asked. ‘Or is that . . .?’
    She turned, and frowned, and then she shook her head. The young man lifted his ice cream to her in salute. ‘No,’ she said, ‘I’m all by myself.’
    â€˜Maybe I can buy you a coffee, or a drink.’
    â€˜All right,’ she nodded. ‘A drink. I think I’d like that.’
    They crossed Palisades Beach Road together, and halfway across she took hold of his hand, as if they were already friends. A woman in a soiled floral-print dress was standing on the opposite side of the road with a shopping cart piled high with old newspapers and broken lampshades and 7-Up cans. As they crossed she cackled like a chicken and called out, ‘Young love! Don’t it make you want to throw up!’ But the young woman still didn’t let go of his hand.
    Frank took her into Ziggy’s, a light and airy bar with a blond wood floor and shiny stainless-steel chairs. On the wall behind the counter hung a strange painting of six women with blue faces, their eyes closed, their hair waving in the wind.
    â€˜I’m Frank,’ said Frank, holding out his hand.
    â€˜Hello, Frank. You can call me Astrid.’
    â€˜What does that mean? Isn’t Astrid your real name?’
    â€˜What’s in a name, Frank?’
    Frank resisted the temptation to quote Shakespeare. That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet .
    â€˜They do a great strawberry daiquiri here,’ he told her.
    â€˜OK. Strawberry daiquiri it is.’
    â€˜You said you lost somebody close to you.’
    Astrid took off her hat and placed it on the table, with her sunglasses neatly folded in the brim. ‘I . . . ah . . . don’t really want to talk about it, Frank, not today. Today I came out to think about something else.’
    â€˜Yes, I’m sorry. Did you see the news? It looks like some Arab terrorist group is supposed to have done it.’
    â€˜Maybe.’
    â€˜Jesus, though. I can’t imagine how anybody could blow up innocent children like that. I mean, what kind of demonic thought process was going on in their heads when they decided to do it?’
    Astrid looked at him with those pale, pale eyes. ‘Everybody’s fair game, Frank, to people like that. All they think about is showing the world how aggrieved they are. They don’t care who suffers. They don’t care who dies.’
    The server came over in shiny blue hot pants and Frank asked for a strawberry daiquiri and a Scotch. ‘By the way, the police want to interview as many eye witnesses as they can find. I have their number if you want to go talk to them.’
    â€˜I don’t