Blood Debt (26 page)

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“Nothing? Everyone has something to say, Mr. Swanson.”

Irritation began to replace the confusion. “If you want to speak with me again, make an appointment with my secretary.” He pushed past her, shoulders hunched, striding toward the building.

The cameraman danced back out of the way with practiced ease, never losing his focus. “Do we follow?” he asked.

“No need.” She switched off her mike and indicated he should stop taping. “I accomplished what I came here to do.”

“Which is?”

“Rattling Mr. Swanson's cage. Keeping him off balance. Nervous people make mistakes.”

“You really don't like him, do you?”

“It's not a matter of like or dislike, it's all about getting a story. And believe you me, there's a story under all that upstanding businessman philanthropic crap.”

“Maybe he's Batman.”

“Just get in the car, Brent, or we're going to miss the library budget hearing.”
The library budget hearing
, she repeated to herself as she peeled rubber out of the parking lot.
Oo, that's cutting edge journalism
,
that is.
She wanted Swanson so bad she could taste it.
I wonder what's happened to that detective.
 . . .

“I just ran into Patrica Chou in the parking lot.” His tone suggesting he'd have preferred to run over Patrica Chou in the parking lot, Swanson closed the door to Dr. Mui's office. “Something has to be done about that young woman.”

“Ignore her.” Dr. Mui stood and smoothed the wrinkles from her spotless white lab coat. “She's only trying to goad you into creating news.”

“Why me? This city's crawling with television crews and movie productions. Why doesn't she go bother an actor?” He swept his palm back over the damp dome of his head. “You don't think she knows anything, do you?”

The doctor studied him dispassionately. The exchange with the reporter had clearly unsettled him. “Knows what?” she asked as though there were, indeed, nothing to know.

“If she's watching my house and she saw you this morning . . .”

“She'd assume, like anyone else, my visit concerned the clinic.”

“But . . .”

“She's making you paranoid.”

Swanson visibly pulled himself together. “I beg your pardon, Dr. Mui. Something about that woman invariably causes me to overreact.”

“Apparently, she has that effect on most people,” the doctor allowed. “Do we have a buyer?”

“We do. He'll be here tomorrow afternoon.”

“Good. I'll set up the transfusions as soon as he arrives, and if all goes well, we'll perform the surgery the day after.” She brushed past him and opened the door. “Shall we?”

“Before we go around, have there been any changes I should know about since last week?” he asked as he followed her into the hall.

“Mathew Singh died this morning.”

“Mathew Singh,” Swanson repeated. The mix of grief and anger in his voice contrasted sharply with the clinical detachment in the doctor's. “He was only thirty-seven years old.”

“He had been on dialysis for some time. He went to status four two days ago.”

“It's criminal. Absolutely criminal.” As it always did, anger began to overwhelm the grief. “We're talking about an uncomplicated operation with broad parameters for a match, and still people die. What is wrong with our legislators that they can't see presumed consent upon brain death is only the moral option. I mean, look at France—they've had presumed consent since 1976 and their society hasn't crumbled. Well, except for that Jerry Lewis thing, and you can hardly blame that on transplants.”

As Swanson continued his familiar diatribe, Dr. Mui worked out a timetable for the next forty-eight hours. Attention to detail had brought them this far undetected, and although the odds of their unwilling donor causing any trouble were slim, he was a detail that had to be carefully considered. Live transplants had a ninety-seven percent initial success rate over ninety-two percent for cadavers, and, since the very rich could not only afford the best immunosuppressant drugs but tended to be paranoid about post-op infections, all of their buyers had, thus far, beaten the odds. Perhaps in this particular instance she should forgo that five percent. . . .

Celluci jerked awake out of a dream that involved a great deal of blood and not much else he could remember. He lay quietly for a moment, listening to the pounding of his heart, feeling the sweat pool beneath the restraints, a little surprised that he'd slept at all. From the change in the pattern of shadow on the opposite wall, he figured it had to be close to four, maybe five in the afternoon. Sunset was at 7:48. By nine at the absolute latest, Vicki would be riding to the rescue.

She'd tear the clinic, and anything that got in her way, apart looking for him.
Almost a pity Sullivan won't be there
, he thought, amusing himself for a moment or two with a vision of Vicki and Sullivan face-to-face.

If the clinic came up empty, Vicki'd go after Swanson. If Swanson was involved, the calvary would arrive before midnight, and at this point, he'd worry about bringing the police in after his butt was safe and sound. But if Swanson wasn't involved—and there was still no sure indication that he was—Vicki'd have no quick way of finding him.

And she'd only have until dawn.

He had an unpleasant feeling that dawn would be the deadline in more than one respect. The bandage over the puncture in the crease of his elbow itched, suggesting he not wait around to be rescued. If they were taking his blood, what else would they take? Could surgery be far behind? And after surgery . . .

“Oh, Christ, that's just what I need—an eternity haunting Henry-fucking-Fitzroy.”

Twelve

THEY were still there. Henry knew it before he opened his eyes. As the day's weight lifted off him, the certainty of their presence settled down to replace it. One of two things had to have happened; either the people who'd grabbed Celluci had evaded arrest, or there were other people involved the police investigation hadn't yet uncovered.

There is, of course, the third possibility.
He lay silently listening to the lives around him, senses skimming past the absence of life that waited at the end of his bed. Perhaps due process wasn't good enough.
They want a vengeance more evisceral and less
 . . . Unfortunately, the only word he could think of to finish the thought, was legal.
Which leaves Detective Celluci, up until now the most involved, no part of the end result
.

But he'd known from the beginning if it came to that evisceral vengeance, it would be in spite of Detective Celluci. For honor's sake, he'd attempted to stay within the parameters of the law; it hadn't worked.

And what about Vicki?

Even before the change she'd been willing to acknowledge that law and justice were not necessarily the same thing. While she couldn't strike the final blow, not without crossing the line Celluci had drawn in the sand, Henry doubted that she'd try and stop his hand. His lips drew off his teeth in an involuntary snarl at the thought.

Finally, because he could put it off no longer, he opened his eyes.

They stood where they had for the past six nights. Doug. The companion he'd acquired in death. And wrapped in shadows too dark for even Henry to pierce, the unseen chorus; an added emphasis from the damned.

Henry sighed. “You guys still here?”

An inferior question at best and not the one he'd intended to ask. Although the spirits clearly didn't like it, it was enough.

Celluci was not in the condo.

Vicki was as certain of that as she was of anything. Teeth bared, she glared around the darkness as though she might scare up an answer or two. Celluci knew when sunset was. If he could be here, he would. Since he wasn't, he couldn't.

And that meant someone, somewhere, was going to pay.

As she yanked on her clothes, muttering threats, a saner voice in the back of her head suggested that perhaps he'd merely been held up by the police, the long arm of the law being festooned as it was in red tape.

Fourteen hours of red tape?
she asked it scornfully, rummaging around in the bottom of her duffel bag for a pair of clean socks.
Not even in Canada
.

And if he's just stayed late talking shop?
the little voice inquired.

Then I know who's going to pay, don't I?
She had a sudden vision of pinning Celluci to the bed by his ears and grinned ferally.

But she didn't for a moment believe there was such a simple explanation for Celluci's truancy.
Something
had gone wrong.

“I'm not saying that something
hasn't
gone wrong,” Henry snarled. “I'm saying that charging blindly out to the rescue isn't the answer.”

“Then what do you suggest?” She stormed past him, into the condo, aware of his response to the anger she'd thrown at him when he opened the door but ignoring it. His reaction to her, hers to him, territorial imperatives—they were all unimportant under the circumstances. “Shall we wait around until his body shows up floating in the fucking harbor?”

Henry managed not to slam the door behind her, but only just and his success probably had more to do with the mechanism of the door than self-control. “I'm saying two things, Vicki. One, I'm not giving you my car keys and two, before
we
go anywhere, shouldn't
we
get a little more information?”

“We?” Vicki repeated leaning over the back of the couch, her fingers imprinting the green leather right next to where her fingers had gone through the green leather on that first night in Vancouver. “You had your chance to get more information at sunset, and you blew it.
I
am the investigator.
You
are the romance writer. You called me for help. And I won't hurt your stupid car.”

“You're not getting my stupid car, and you were willing enough to use my services in the past.”

“That was before I had
services
of my own.”

“With me, Vicki. Or not at all.”

She jerked erect, eyes silvering. “Are you threatening me?”

“I want to help you!” he spat through gritted teeth.

Vicki stared at him in some surprise, her eyes slowly losing their silver. “Why?”

“Because we're friends.” His teeth remained locked together, making the pronouncement sound less than friendly, but his hands weren't around her throat and he figured that had to count for something. “Isn't that what you kept saying? That we're friends, and there's no reason for that to change just because you've acquired a new lifestyle? Aren't those your exact words? This may come as a surprise to you, but I consider Michael Celluci a friend as well—at the very least, a comrade in arms.” His lip curled. “And I do not desert my people.”

As territorial imperatives went, there were things Vicki was willing to share and things she was not. By the time Henry realized his mistake and remembered that Celluci was firmly entrenched on the side of not-willing-to-share, Vicki's fingers had closed around his shoulders. Over four-and-a-half centuries of experience had no chance against the intensity of her rage. A fraction of a heartbeat later, he hit the floor, her thumbs hooked to rip the arteries on both sides of his neck, her teeth bared, and her eyes blazing silver shards of pain into his.

“Michael Celluci is mine.”

There was no possibility of compromise in the words and only one possible answer, for he could not let her get away with intimidation. He was older. This was
his
territory.

“Trust me, Vicki, he's not my type.”

If a soft answer had the potential to turn away wrath, a smart-ass response saved the situation from melodrama.

Vicki blinked, loosened her grip on Henry's throat, and sat back. “I could have killed you,” she growled, her tone shading from anger to embarrassment.

“No.” With her hands resting on either side of his neck, he decided not to shake his head. The emphasis might end up entirely misplaced. “I think we're past that, you and I.”

“Ha! So I was right. I was right, and
you
were wrong.”

He couldn't stop the smile. She was, after all, barely three years old in the night and this was one of those times it showed. “Yes, you were right.” When she stood, creating a careful distance between them, Henry rose as well. “Celluci has always been yours, Vicki,” he told her softly when they were eye-to-eye again. “If you doubt that, you do him a disservice.”

Had she still been mortal, she would have reddened. As it was, she backed away until her calves hit the couch. “Yeah, well, that you consider him to be one of yours will no doubt thrill him all to bits.” Since she was at the couch, she sat. “So let's have a look at those news programs Tony taped. Maybe we'll get a better idea of what's going on.”

Emotional self-discovery had never been one of Vicki's strong points, Henry reminded himself as he picked up the remote. The prospect of eternity had cracked the protective shell she'd worn most of her life, but there were pieces remaining that still needed to be levered free.
Celluci's problem
, he acknowledged thankfully and turned on the television.

A Metropolitan Toronto Police officer had not been found tied to a bed in a North Vancouver clinic.

No one had been arrested for selling kidney transplants.

Red-gold brows meeting over his nose, Henry stopped the tape. “I don't understand,” he said, more to himself than to Vicki. “I sent the police out to Project Hope.”

Vicki's first impulse was to suggest that age had robbed him of persuasion, but June nights were too short for her to provoke another fight merely for the sake of pissing him off. “Then they didn't find him.”

“He wasn't exactly well-hidden.”

“Then he wasn't there.”

“If he's been moved . . .” Henry let the sentence trail off. Vancouver was a very large city. He shuddered at the sudden vision of Michael Celluci spending an eternity haunting the end of his bed.

“I'll find him.”

“How?”

She stood, the motion fluid and predatory. “First, we make a few discreet inquiries and find out what actually happened last night at the clinic after we left. Then . . .” Her eyes glittered. “. . . we play it by ear. Or whatever other body parts we have to tear off to get an answer.”

Typical
, Celluci thought, craning his head to see the IV line that had been inserted into the back of his hand.
Good doctors, evil doctors
—
none of them ever bother to mention what the hell they're doing to you. Like you haven't any right to know what they're fucking around with.
“Excuse me, but it's still
my
body.”

“Yes, it is.”

Startled, he swiveled his head around to stare up at the impassive face of the doctor. Then he realized he'd spoken that last thought out loud. Although earlier attempts indicated he wouldn't accomplish much, he supposed it wouldn't hurt to try and continue the conversation. “Then would you mind telling me just what is it you're doing?”

“Replacing fluids.” She packed the bag of blood away in the small cooler.

“You know there's a limit to how much of that stuff you can take out.”

Dr. Mui snapped the cooler closed and turned to go. “I know.”

“So there's a lab involved in this, too, eh?”

One hand on the door, she paused and gave him much the same look he could remember receiving from his third-grade teacher—who, if he remembered correctly, had never liked him much. “Don't be ridiculous, Detective. The labs do the work they're sent. There's no need to involve them in the details.”

Okay, no evil labs. While that bit of good news had no bearing on his present circumstance, it was encouraging in a larger sense. “What about during the operation? You're going to need an assistant—because as good as you may be you don't have three hands—and with two people under, you'll need an anesthesiologist as well.”

“What makes you think there'll be two people under, Detective? Packed in sterile ice, a kidney can safely last almost forty-eight hours after removal.”

“Two separate operations would increase the risk of detection.” He kept his voice level, disinterested, as though he were not going to be intimately involved in those operations. “My guess is you do them both at once. Sequentially if not simultaneously.”

Dr. Mui inclined her head, acknowledging his theory. “Very perceptive of you, Detective. Your point?”

“I was just wondering how you keep those other people from talking.”

“Why?”

Shrugging as deeply as the restraints allowed, he gave her his best
let's charm the truth out of this witnesss
smile. “I haven't much else to do.”

“True enough.” The corners of her mouth might have curved upward a fraction, but Celluci couldn't be certain. “The other people involved know only what they must to perform their specific function, so even if they did talk, there'd be a limited amount they could say. However, as they are obviously breaking the law themselves, the odds of them talking fall within a reasonable risk. And you'd be amazed at how little it takes to convince some people to break the law.”

Celluci snorted. “No, I wouldn't. But murder . . .”

“Who said anything about murder? They only know what they need to. Now, try to get some sleep. You're going to have a busy day tomorrow.”

Tomorrow. The word lingered in the room long after the doctor had left.

“Check the IV in about an hour and give him a bowl of broth.”

“Ball game'll be on in an hour,” Sullivan protested, looking sulky.

Somewhat surprised at the way she'd opened up to the detective, Dr. Mui ignored him. Her world had been built from certainties, and if she hadn't believed that Sullivan would obey her implicitly, she'd have left him where she found him.

Lips pulled back off her teeth, her fingers closed around the carved handle with enough force to crack the wood, Vicki yanked open the door and stepped into the clinic.

Michael Celluci's life no longer added its familiar beat to the muted roar.

“Shit god-fucking-damn!”

“Very expressive.” Entering on her heels, Henry managed to slide by without actually making physical contact. Keeping her under careful surveillance in case her anger should widen its focus, he added, “And given that the detective has apparently left the building, what exactly does it mean?”

Vicki jerked her head toward the nurse's station. “It means it's a different shift and there's a different nurse on. She's not going to know squat.”

“Not that the last one was particularly helpful,” Henry observed quietly to himself, allowing a prudent distance before he followed Vicki across the lounge. With her attention so fixated on rescuing Celluci, the ride to the clinic had involved nothing worse than an extended snarling match—unpleasant but survivable and no worse than he'd seen Celluci live through on a daily basis. He wasn't sure whether this meant their relationship had progressed or deteriorated, but if she'd growled “old woman” at him one more time, he'd have been sorely tempted to have defined it by tossing her into traffic.

Unaware that death stood behind her, the nurse turned from the drug cabinet and found herself falling into the dark light of silver eyes. The brown glass bottle she held slipped from suddenly nerveless fingers.

Henry caught it before it hit the floor. “We were here later last night,” he said as he straightened. “I can feel healthy lives mixed in with the sick. I doubt all the visitors have left yet. Do what you have to do quickly and don't attract any attention.” It was the voice he'd used while teaching her to Hunt; with any luck she'd listen to it. Setting the bottle carefully on the edge of the desk, he moved to stand in the doorway.