Blood Debt (20 page)

Stepping over the legs of a sleeping drunk, they picked up the pace as the pungent smell of old urine and fresh vomit wafted by on a warm breeze.

Compared to the streets, the Center itself was painfully clean. The plywood-and-plastic decor might indicate a lack of funds but not a lack of commitment.

Tony froze just inside the door.

“Are you all right?” Henry asked softly, moving up close behind him and laying a hand on each shoulder.

“Yeah. No. It's just, well, memories . . .” He jerked forward, out of Henry's grip, trying not to resent the knowledge that he couldn't have broken free had Henry not allowed it. “Come on. Let's find whoever's in charge.”

“Him.” Henry nodded toward a tall man with graying hair tied back off a pocked face.

“How can you tell?”

“Power recognizes power.”

“Oh, that's fucking profound,” Tony complained, following Henry through the crowd. He could feel the hair lifting off the back of his neck, and he had to fight the feeling that the last couple of years had been a lie, that this was where he belonged, that he couldn't break free.

Henry turned and caught Tony's gaze before he could look away. “You're out,” he said. “You've gone too far to go back.”

“What're you talking about?”

“I could smell your fear.”

“What?” Tony jerked his head to either side. “In this lot?” When Henry nodded, Tony sighed. “Jeez, I guess I'm changing my shirt when I get home.” They held their positions for a heartbeat, then Tony shrugged. “Look, thanks, okay?”

He didn't say what for. Henry didn't ask.

Except that he was cleaner than most of the people in the room, both physically and chemically, Joe Tait, the director of the Center, could've been one of the many drinking free coffee and hoping for an hour or two without fear. He had an edge that could only have been acquired on the street, a look that said,
I'm not one of them
where
they
were the people who talked about how something had to be done and did nothing.

“Yeah, I might know them.” Tait had listened quietly to the description of the two young men Tony'd seen talking across from the video store, and now he studied first Tony then Henry through narrowed eyes. “Why're you looking for them? Are they in trouble?”

“One of them. We think the other can help.”

“Do what?”

“We're hoping he can tell us where his companion went.”

Tait folded muscular arms over a broad chest. “What kind of trouble's he in?”

“Deadly trouble,” Henry said, allowing the Hunger to rise. They didn't have time to stand around all night playing twenty questions with a man whose suspicions, however justified under other circumstances, kept throwing up barricades. “I need their names and where I can find them.”

“Kenny and Doug.” He gave them up grudgingly. “And I don't know.”

“Which one's which?”

“Which one's missing?”

“The white kid.”

“Doug. But I still don't know where you can find Kenny.” His lip curled as he indicated the room at large. “Feel free to ask around, but don't expect much. These guys have no reason to trust anyone.”

Henry nodded and replaced the masks, releasing the other man. “Thank you.”

As he moved out into the room, Tait closed thick fingers—not noticeably weighed down by heavy silver rings—around Tony's arm. “Just a minute, kid.”

The words brought Henry back, eyes narrowed under lowered brows, but Tony waved him away. Whatever was going on, he wasn't in any danger.

Tait released his hold and propped one thigh on a plywood table. Together they waited until Henry began speaking to a table of teenaged girls. “You okay?”

“Me?”

“Yeah. You. That guy you're with, I know his type. We call them predators down here.” He raised a calloused hand as Tony opened his mouth to protest. “I'm not saying that he's not good to you, but he's obviously the one with the power.”

“It's okay.” Tony fought a near hysterical desire to laugh. It had been a long night, and it wasn't even half over. “Really. He's not that kind of a predator.”

“You're sure?”

His right thumb rubbed the tiny scar on his left wrist. “I'm sure.”

No one in the Center knew any more than Tait had told them although Henry was certain three of the people they spoke to were lying.

“Half of them might know them to see them,” Tony explained as they left, “but not know names or anything else. You stick with your own crowd when you're on the street, and you don't even open up to them. It's safer that way. Now what do we do?”

“I could wait for the liars to leave, ask them a few private questions.”

“Yeah. Or you could ask those guys standing by the car . . .”

There were three of them. Tony heard Joe Tait's voice say, “
We call them predators down here.
“ Had he not seen the real thing, he would have been afraid. As it was, they were merely cheap copies, dangerous but by no means as terrifying as they thought they were—at least not in comparison. “I've got a vampire by my side,” he murmured, “and I'm not afraid to use him.”

Henry smiled and lifted a speculative brow. “Shall we see what they want?”

“I should think that's obvious,” Tony sighed, falling into step.

The largest of the three heaved his butt off the BMW's hood and hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his jeans, rippling the complex pattern of blue tattoos that covered both bare arms. “We hear you bin askin' some questions.”

“Did you?”

Oh, that's bright
, Tony sighed silently, recognizing Henry's dealing-with-idiots voice.
Provoke them. Like they need the encouragement
.

The three exchanged triumphant glances, then the largest spoke again. “We might have some answers.”

“Really?”

“The two you're lookin' for. Names are Kenny and Doug. They work for me. You want them, you go through me.”

“Work for you?”

“Yeah. For me.” The leer made his meaning plain.

Hands clenched, Tony conquered the urge to step behind Henry, to use him as a shield.
I am
not
that kid anymore
.

Henry's voice picked up an edge. He could smell the resurgence of Tony's fear and knew the source. It made it difficult to maintain any kind of civility—even the distant, arrogant civility he'd been using. “Do you know where they are?”

“Sure. We can take you to them. For a price.”

“We pay when we see them.”

Tattoos rippled again as he shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Tony's attempt to match Henry's nonchalance as the five of them walked toward an alley, was hindered by his certain knowledge of what was about to happen.

A dumpster, just barely narrower than the alley, made it effectively a dead end.

Mouth dry, Tony tucked himself into a corner.

Henry touched him lightly on the shoulder and turned around. “Unless they're in the dumpst . . .” He caught the fist driving toward his face and tightened his grip. Bones crushed.

The tattooed man stared in astonishment at the screaming body rolling in the filth at his feet. “You fucking shit!” He flicked free a knife and flung himself forward.

His remaining companion did the same.

Henry dropped the masks. After the slaughter in the warehouse, he had no need to feed, but he loosed the Hunger anyway, driving it forward with rage fueled by Tony's fear. These men fed off the youth of the children they exploited. They were the filthiest kind of parasite, and they were about to get off far too lightly for what they did. They were only going to die.

A moment later, he squatted by the first man, the man whose fist he'd crushed, and grabbed his jaw, forcing him to meet his gaze. The screaming faded to a whimper. “Your friends are dead,” Henry told him softly. “And so are you.”

The rank stench in the alley grew ranker as the injured man's bowels let go.

“Where is Kenny?”

“Samson's got a room he uses, down the street. Doug . . . Doug's gone.”

“Gone where?”

“Don't know. Somebody gave him money. Lots of money. Thousands.” The words spilled out in a panicked rush, as though they could buy redemption. “Kenny says that's all Doug told him. This ain't the first time. Talk says there's a guy who'll buy you off the street. Give you another chance. Talk says you gotta be special.”

“Do the police know this?”

“Who the fuck talks to the police?”

Henry had to acknowledge that, considering the source, it was a valid point. “Is that all you know?”

“Yeah. That's all.” He couldn't move his head, so he rocked his body back and forth, tears spilling down both filthy cheeks. “I don't want . . . I don't want to die!”

Henry's hand moved from jaw to throat.

“Henry.” Tony stumbled over a sprawled body, grateful for the lack of light, and gently touched the rigid line of Henry's shoulder, adapting the comfort Henry had offered him a long moment before. “Don't. Please.”

“If you're sure.”

“I am.”

Leaning forward until the darkness swallowed the other man's will, Henry said softly, “Do not remember us, but remember what happened here tonight. Remember why it happened. Find another line of work.” He straightened his legs, fitting the masks back in place. “Are you all right?”

“Me? I wasn't in the fight.” Brushing past, Tony hurried for the gray rectangle of light at the end of the alley, unable to be anything but glad the pimp was dead and not liking himself very much for that feeling. “Come on, before they strip the car.”

Careful not to touch the pitted metal, Henry heaved both bodies into the dumpster. Aware of the dichotomy in Tony's voice, Henry kept his own carefully neutral. “Hopefully, the scavengers are waiting to see if these three return to claim the prize. I got the impression they weren't nice people.”

“No shit.”

The immediate neighborhood seemed eerily deserted as they emerged onto the street. “What they don't see they don't have to lie to the cops about,” Tony explained as they ran for the car.

The BMW was fine, although a stray cat had sprayed both curbside tires.

“Do you think anyone's made a note of the license plate?” Henry asked, starting the engine and all but popping the clutch as he pulled out of the parking space.

“Yeah. Sure. They all carry around pocketbook computers to jot their observations down in. Get real, Henry, most of these people can't focus on the car let alone the license plate.” He mimed breaking an egg. “You know, ‘this is your brain on drugs'?” When Henry didn't answer, he sighed deeply and closed his eyes. “Looking at the bright side, Doug's not just the second guy to disappear, but you've only got two of the ghosts.”

“Why would anyone sell themselves to a stranger without knowing what they're selling themselves for?”

“They'll
do
a stranger for twenty bucks. For a thousand, who's going to ask questions?” Wiping his palms on his jeans, Tony opened his eyes. “Where to now?”

Pulling up at an intersection, Henry shrugged. “I don't . . .” His head swiveled toward the open window.

“What?”

“That scent . . .”

“You mean stink.”

“No. I mean Vicki.”

The clinic was closed, the waiting room dark and empty, but Vicki could sense a life in the building. A line of light, barely visible around the perimeter of an inner door, suggested someone was working late in the back. A fairly sophisticated alarm system convinced her not to attempt a frontal assault.

“There's got to be another entrance,” she muttered, “if only to keep the fire marshal happy.”

Keeping to the shadows, she turned down Columbia and then into the alley that bisected the block. Two people were sleeping in the first dumpster she passed. An old woman was fishing a meal out of the second. She dropped down off her perch as Vicki approached, clutching a greasy box of beef fried rice in one hand and length of pipe in the other.

“Damn kids! Leave me alone!”

She wasn't drunk or on drugs—Vicki could've smelled either, even over the combined stink of the alley and its occupants—so she was probably one of the thousands of psychiatric patients cutbacks had put on the street.

“I'm tellin' ya, get away!”

Vicki caught the pipe, a little surprised by the force of the blow, and stuffed two tens under the old woman's fingers. White-middle-class guilt money, Celluci'd call it. Maybe. It did nothing to solve the problem, but it beat doing nothing. Marginally.

The old woman sniffed at the money, then thrust it back toward Vicki. “I ain't goin' with ya,” she said. “Not even if you bring the big guy.”

“The big guy?”

“The one what usually offers the money. Big guy. Real big. Got cow eyes like shit wouldn't melt in his mouth, makes ya wanna trust him, but he's mean underneath. I know.” Her brain made a right turn, and the money disappeared under at least three layers of clothing. “Watch out for that big guy, you.” All of a sudden, she squatted at the base of the wall, tucked the pipe under one arm, and began to eat. “Damn kids,” she added.

Vicki moved on.

The clinic had a parking space, a tight squeeze even for the tiny import that filled it, and a back door made of industrial steel. Blinking back tears in the glare from the security light, Vicki noted the pattern of dents. Boot marks mostly although someone had unsuccessfully taken a crowbar to the area by the lock. A small sign read,
When the light is on, ring the bell
. Vicki assumed that the Chinese characters below it said much the same thing.

Why not
She heard the bell ringing inside the building, sensed the life drawing closer.