Blood Debt (25 page)

As he did, he sat back and stared at her. “You said we'd never find a donor that big.”

“I was wrong.”

“Still . . .” He shook his head. “Three in two months. I'm concerned about the frequency. If we're caught, we won't be doing anyone any good.” His mouth twisted. “Especially ourselves.”

Dr. Mui leaned forward, fingertips touching. “This donor came to us under rather unusual circumstances. However,” she amended as he raised a hand in protest, “I'll merely point out that if we don't take advantage of this opportunity now, we won't have a chance later. I've taken the liberty of changing certain parts of the routine so we won't attract the attention you're worried about.”

“It would be a shame to miss the sale . . .”

She waited while he chewed and thought, secure in his reputation of
never
missing a sale.

“All right,” he said at last. “What have you done?”

This could be the difficult part. “I had Mr. Sullivan escort him to one of your guest houses. He doesn't know where he is, and he's not at the clinic attracting attention.”

Swanson's mug hit the table hard enough to slop tea over the edge. “And you were worried about the neighbor seeing
you
?”

“He arrived just after dawn, I doubt anyone saw him. And if they did—you often have guests.” As soon as possible after the transplant, the buyers left their careful seclusion at the clinic and recovered under close supervision in one of Ronald Swanson's guest cottages—equally secluded and much less likely to be accidentally discovered. Who, after all, would wonder at a wealthy man having wealthy friends. “I can only stress that this may be our one chance for this particular match.”

“But here . . .”

“I can do all the preliminaries here. He won't have to be moved until the last possible moment.” She watched Swanson openly as he stood and walked to a window that looked out over the property, the closest of the two guest houses clearly visible through the trees. “It is, of course, your decision.”

“And if I tell you to get rid of him, I take it it will cost me as much as if I tell you to go ahead.”

He didn't seem to expect an answer, so she waited silently.

“Well,” he sighed at last, pausing to drink a mouthful of tepid tea. “As I've said before, it's a waste of money if you hire a specialist and then don't listen to them. You're the doctor, and if you believe this is our best possible chance for this match . . .”

“I do.”

“Then go ahead. I'll call our buyer.” All at once, he jabbed finger at her. “You're sure he's healthy?”

“I'm positive.”

“Good. Because after that last fiasco, a satisfied customer can only be good for business.”

“. . . midmorning showers are expected to clear by noon and the greater Vancouver region will enjoy a beautiful afternoon with temperatures reaching a high of twenty-seven degrees. The department of Parks and Recreation reports . . .”

Tony hit the mute button and frowned. Television had become an immediate news source—the camera crews occasionally arrived at crime scenes before the police. Even if they were keeping the whole black market kidney thing under wraps during their investigation, there should've been something about a Metropolitan Toronto Police Officer beaten up and strapped to a bed in a North Vancouver clinic.

Henry had said the police were going to the clinic, so the police had gone to the clinic. That much was inevitable.

“Okay, so the rest of the country hates Toronto—they still wouldn't have just left him there, would they?”

He put the sound back on for the baseball scores, set the VCR to record the news at noon and at six, and turned off the TV, unable to shake the feeling that something had gone terribly wrong.

“You're overreacting,” he told himself as he stuffed a clean shirt in his backpack. “So it didn't make the early news; so what? It was probably too early.” He picked up his roller blades, then he sighed and put them down again. Scribbling,
I'll be at Gerry's
and the phone number on a piece of paper, he stuck it to the fridge with a Gandydancer magnet.

Henry'd thought it would all be over by sunset, that there'd be no uneasy spirits waiting at the foot of his bed. Tony didn't plan on being around when Doug and his handless friend arrived to prove him wrong.

“Is he awake?”

“Yeah. He had a piss and a glass of water. We going to feed him?”

“Of course we're going to feed him. Go and see if there's any food in the kitchenette.”

“I'm not cooking for him,” Sullivan grumbled.

Dr. Mui paused on her way to the bedroom and half turned, the black bag she carried bumping against her legs. “I beg your pardon?”

The big man shuffled in place for a moment, defiantly meeting her gaze, then his eyes dropped, he mumbled inaudibly, and headed toward the fridge.

“Make enough for yourself as well, you'll be staying here as long as he is.”

He leaned back over the counter, looking worried. “What about the clinic?”

“Harry and Tom can manage without you for a few days.” She waited pointedly for him to continue doing as he'd been told, then went into the bedroom. “I know you're awake, Detective. Open your eyes.”

Celluci'd heard that voice before, back in the clinic. This was the woman the orderly had been talking to in the hall, the woman who'd sedated him. Although he hadn't mentioned it to Vicki—it'd been hard enough to convince her to leave him as it was—he thought that the lack of emotion in the quiet voice, the cold, clinical discussion of his fate, had made her sound the way he'd always assumed vampires should sound—as though people were cattle. She sounded a lot more like a member of the bloodsucking undead than Vicki ever had.

Except that the sun was up and this woman was still walking around and he had to admit, she certainly didn't look as dangerous as she sounded. Watching her cross to the bed, he suddenly remembered a line from the first Addams Family movie, “
I'm a homicidal maniac, we look just like everyone else
.” All thing considered, it wasn't very comforting.

“So.” He was pleased to hear he sounded a lot less shaky than he felt. “What are you planning?”

“So,” Dr. Mui mimicked his tone, mocking him. “How much do you know?” When trying to decide whether or not Richard had panicked unnecessarily when he'd brought the detective in, she'd had him try beating the answer to that question out of his captive—without success. In the end, she'd concluded it was better to be safe than sorry. After all, he had been following Richard's vehicle, so he had to know something.

“Obviously, what I do or don't know doesn't matter any more, or you wouldn't be in here.”

“Very astute, Detective.” Because the guest cottages were used by recovering buyers, the ruffles, and comforters, and pillows covered a hospital bed. Sullivan had installed the standard restraints. “I had a lab run a blood sample last night, and although your cholesterol level is slightly elevated, you're a very healthy man.”

“Under other circumstances, that might be good news.” Twisting his neck at a painful angle, he managed to keep her in sight while she lifted equipment out of her case. The clear plastic bags with the hose attached looked very familiar. When she set them on the edge of the table, one end swung free. Blood bags. “Jesus H. Christ . . .”

Dr. Mui glanced down at him and shook her head. “You needn't look at me like I'm some kind of vampire, Detective. Your blood will be put to very good use.”

To very good use?
All at once, it became clear that hiding just how much he knew would give him no advantage at all. “Pretransplant transfusions to help the new body accept the kidney?”

“Precisely.” But she volunteered nothing further, merely continued making her preparations.

Celluci'd given blood before, on numerous occasions, but this time he couldn't take his eyes off the needle. It looked about six inches long and as big around as a drinking straw. He jumped when she swabbed the inside of his elbow with alcohol and tried to jerk his arm away from the length of rubber hose.

“This doesn't have to hurt,” she told him, needle poised for entry, “but it can. If you move, it may take two or three attempts to find the vein.”

“Two or three?” He watched the point descend. “Put like that, I think I'll stay still.”

“Very wise.”

His blood surged up into the hose and disappeared over the edge of the bed.
Oh, yeah, Vicki's going to be really pissed now.
It was a comforting thought. He let his head fall back onto the pillow. “What am I to call you?”

“If you must call me something, Doctor will do.”

“Can I assume you're not going to spill your guts about your motives, your methods, and the reasons you don't believe you'll be caught.”

“You can.”

From watching her work, he'd thought it was a fairly safe assumption. There didn't seem to be much else to say, so he kept quiet. In Celluci's experience, few people could handle silence. After a very short time they'd start to talk just to fill it with noise. He'd gotten a number of confessions that way.

He didn't get one today. Finally, unable to stand it any longer, he said, “You'd have gotten away with it if they hadn't found that body in the harbor.”

“The body found in the harbor has not been identified. The police will find no record of his operation in any of the local hospitals, so they'll assume he came from out of town.” Moving with a speed that said she'd done this many times before, she deftly exchanged an empty bag for a full one. “The removal of his hands, added to the recent gang-related carnage, will direct the search even farther from the truth. As the entire incident becomes more and more complicated, and no one steps forward to advocate for the deceased, budget cuts should kill the investigation entirely.”

“The
police
investigation,” Celluci pointed out meaningfully.

“Your investigation has ended,” Dr. Mui reminded him. “Your friends don't wish to become involved with the police, and the officers they sent to find you . . .” She spread her hands. “. . . did not. Your friends will not find you here.”

You have no idea how resourceful my friends can be.
But he didn't say it aloud as he had no desire to put the good doctor on her guard. She seemed like the type who'd hang garlic over the door, just in case.

“Besides . . .” A drop of blood glistened on the end of the needle as she pulled it from his arm. “. . . you won't be here long.” A cotton ball and a bandage later, she was on her way to the door.

“Doctor?”

Her expression, as she turned, clearly said she was not happy about being questioned.

Celluci grinned, figuring a little charm couldn't hurt. “I was just wondering. Will I ever play the piano again.”

Dr. Mui's lips pressed into a thin line. “No,” she said and left.

A few moments later, as he was testing the restraints yet again, the door opened. Tensed muscles relaxed slightly as he saw it was nothing more dangerous than the big man carrying a bowl.

“Doc says I've got to feed you.”

“And you are?”

“Sullivan. That's all you've got to know.”

It didn't take long for Celluci to realize why Sullivan was smiling. The instant oatmeal had been micro-waved hot enough to burn the inside of his mouth and the big hand clamping his jaw shut kept him from taking in any cooling air until he swallowed. When he coughed orange juice out his nose, the mild eyes glittered. Vicki'd called them cow eyes, but they looked more like puppy eyes to him. Unfortunately, the puppy appeared to be rabid.

The cloth that scrubbed his face hard enough to lift skin, squeezed soap into his mouth.

“Christ, where did you learn your bedside manner?”

“Kingston Penitentiary.”

“You worked in the infirmary at Kingston Pen?”

Sullivan nodded.

“Why?” Celluci spat out soap. “Because you've got a deep abiding need to nurture?”

The smile, constant throughout the torment, broadened. “Because I like to hurt people, and there's not much sick people can do to stop me.”

Hard to argue with, Celluci admitted, grunting in pain as Sullivan heaved himself onto his feet helped by a fist grinding knuckles deep into thigh muscles.

He slept most of the morning, waking once to have a bottle of water poured down his throat.

“You need to replace your fluids,” Sullivan told him as he choked.

Lunch was a repeat of breakfast as far as Sullivan getting his jollies was concerned only it involved soup and a shackled trip to the toilet. Celluci knew the escape attempt was doomed before he tried it, but he had to try.

“Do that again,” Sullivan growled as he slammed the detective's head into the wail. “And I'll break your legs.”

He was still searching for a witty response when his head reimpacted with the wallpaper.

“On Thursday afternoons, Ronald Swanson always visits the hospice he created as a tribute to his dead wife.” Followed by the cameraman, Patrica Chou took several quick steps across the parking lot and shoved her microphone in the face of the man climbing out of the late model Chevy. “Mr. Swanson, a few words, please.”

He looked down at the microphone then up at the camera and finally at Patricia Chou. “A few words about what?” he asked.

“The work that's being done here. The dire necessity for people to sign their organ donor cards so that places like this don't need to exist.” She smiled, looking remarkably sharklike. “Or perhaps you'd like to use the time explaining rewarded gifting—a disingenuous oxymoron if I've ever heard one. Do you actually believe that camouflaging the payment changes the underlying reality that organs would be provided for remuneration?”