Hidden in the Blood: A Novel of the Terribly Acronymed Detective Club (Book 5)

Chapter Sixty-Two: Al, Saturday

"Well, now, isn't this an interesting situation," a voice called from above him.

Al opened his eyes and discovered he was lying face up. He was pretty sure that before he blacked out, the last thing he remembered was falling, seeing the gravel driveway rising up to meet him. Before that, he remembered feeling something cold sliding into his back on his right side. He'd been feeling pretty proud of himself for finally taking action against someone threatening someone he loved, and pretty clever for saving that nice shard of glass for just this situation, and then immediately he'd felt the reprisal, something far worse invading his insides and disrupting his bodily functions.

"We didn't think we'd be seeing you again, son," a second voice added. "At least, not so soon."

Al blinked and looked to see Dad staring down at him. Dad being Charles Mackenzie. "What?" he asked in confusion.

"That wasn't a very smart thing to do," the first voice said, and Al turned to see Sam staring down at him on his other side.

"Oh, fuck," Al groaned. "Don't tell me I'm down the well again."

"Well, it's not as far down this time," Dad said.

"I met Uncle Richard," Al said, apropos of nothing. "He knows he's my real father now. I don't think he's overjoyed about it."

"Well, he wouldn't be, would he, the cuckolding bastard," Dad said.

"I like my half-siblings, though," Al said. "For the most part they've been welcoming, but that might change if they found out we were more than just cousins, and I think they might have suspected something was up tonight, after Emma's little slip."

Dad nodded shrewdly. "Gaining half-siblings hasn't done your health any good, though."

"Oh, you mean my being on the ground?" Al asked. "About that. Can I get up?"

"Nobody's stopping you," Sam said. He offered his hand, and Al grabbed it and pulled himself to his feet. 

When he noticed his body was still on the ground, though, he gasped. "Holy fuck! Am I dead?"

"No, you're not dead," Sam said. "You're talking to us, aren't you?"

"The last time I was talking to you, I was in a coma," Al said. "That was nearly dead."

"And like we said, you're not as far down the well," Dad said. "You're brain's just placed your consciousness in a safe room, so to speak, while your body does its best to repair itself."

"Repair itself?" Al looked down at his body, saw the wet spot on his back, and said, "I was stabbed, wasn't I."

"That's what your body is telling us."

He looked around, saw Agnes screaming as if she'd lost everyone she ever loved, saw Emma screaming for her Dad (it only occurred to him now that tonight was the first time she called him Dad) and felt sorry for them, wishing he could tell them he was here, that he could see them. Then he saw the two unmarked police cars with bubble lights flashing, blocking the entrance to the roundabout, and four police officers in plain clothes with guns pulled on the two goons, one of whom had dropped the knife that had his blood on it and made a poor attempt at kicking it away.

It was smart of them, Al had to admit, to use a knife instead of a gun. Knives were quiet but just as deadly, and could be used to intimidate just as effectively. If they'd been here to kill Agnes, or even to get her into their car, and it was clear they'd intended to do at least one of those things, they could have sped away and nobody over at the party would have been the wiser. 

Thank goodness for Joanie, Al thought. When Rachel had texted Lauren that the Mercers were at the party, Lauren had texted back and said she'd talked to Joanie and Joanie had talked to her superiors; they must have sent officers as fast as they could, and they couldn't have come at a better time. Wait, scratch that. If they'd come even a minute earlier, Al wouldn't have had to stab the one goon in the hand with the glass shard, and he might not be bleeding on the ground right now.