Blood Debt (30 page)

“The police? No, I, uh . . .” He took a deep breath, clearly audible, and his voice steadied a little. “I found
it
and came back to the cottage and called you.”

Then the situation wasn't an irretrievable disaster. She began to pull coherent thought out past her immediate reaction. Either the detective had greater reserves than had appeared or the friends who'd left him at the clinic had managed the impossible and tracked him down. It didn't really matter which. Sullivan was dead, the detective was gone. But the detective's friends were proven unwilling to go to the police and so, apparently, was the detective, or the police would be at the scene already.

“Dr. Mui? Are you still there?”

Rolling her eyes, she wondered where he thought she might have gone. “I suggest, Mr. Swanson, that we cut our losses.”

“You suggest we what?” He was beginning to sound as though he were reaching the end of his resources. That was good; a man with no resources was much easier to manipulate. “But the police . . .”

“If you'd intended to call the police, you'd have already called them. As you called me, I suggest you take my advice. Go back to the body and bury it.”

“And what?”

“Bury it. Sullivan had neither family nor friends. If he disappears, no one will notice but the staff at the clinic and I can handle them.”

“I can't just bury him!”

“Neither can you bring him back to life. Since he's dead and we don't want the police or the public discovering what we've been doing, I suggest you find a shovel.”

“I can't bury him here! Not here.”

She counted to three before replying. “Then put him in your car and take him out into the mountains. People disappear in the mountains all the time.”

“Where in the mountains?” He was almost whimpering on the other end of the line. “You've got to come here. You've got to help me.”

“Mr. Swanson, Richard Sullivan was over six feet tall. I'm barely five foot two. I don't see how I can be much help.”

“But I can't . . .”

“Then call the police.”

There was a long pause. “I can't.”

Dr. Mui leaned back against her pillows. She'd known that, or she'd never have suggested it. “Then listen carefully and I'll give you what help I can.” The more dependent Ronald Swanson was on her, the better. “There's an old logging road just inside Mt. Seymour Park . . .”

They'd moved out into the living room. With only one exit from the bedroom and Henry standing in it, Vicki had begun to grow agitated.

“So what you're saying is, Ronald Swanson is about to go bury Richard Sullivan out where Mike thinks the
rest
of the bodies are buried.”

Henry nodded. “That's what I'm saying.”

“Then let's go.” Vicki began to stand, but Celluci pulled her back down beside him on the couch. “What?” she demanded, turning to glare at him.

“Look at the time,” he said wearily.

“Mike, we've got over an hour.”

“To do what?”

She stared at him for a long moment, then threw herself back against the sofa cushions. “I know, don't tell me, you want Henry to go find a patrol car and make up another story.”

“No. With the amount of rain they have around here, it'd take a damned good forensics team to get all the evidence they need out of that clearing. I want this whole thing blown wide open with no chance of putting the genie back in the bottle.”

“You want?” Vicki exchanged a
listen-to-him
glance with Henry; the haunting had begun as his problem and her case, but they'd both lost control. Any other time, Vicki would've stomped all over that, but with Mike safely back beside her, just exactly who was in charge didn't seem to matter—although honesty forced her to admit that was unlikely to be a permanent state of mind. “And how do you intend to accomplish what you want?”

Wincing as abused muscles protested the movement, Celluci reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. Out of the wallet, he pulled a business card. “I'm going to wake up Patricia Chou. After all, I promised her the story.”

“And what makes you think she's going to believe you when you tell her to climb a mountain at three in the morning in search of tabloid enlightenment?”

He shrugged and regretted it. “She really wants Swanson.”

“Yeah? And how much of a part in her story is she going to expect you to play?”

“None.”

“None?” Vicki repeated, lip curling. “Yeah. Right.”

“Apparently, she's been willing to risk jail in the past to protect a source.”

Vicki snarled softly but passed him the phone. “Well, you'd better hope she's
apparently
willing to risk it this time, too.”

His hands white-knuckled around the steering wheel, Swanson turned onto the logging road. In spite of the hour, there'd been lights behind him all along Mt. Seymour Drive and he'd very nearly panicked as they followed him into the park. If they followed him again . . .

But they didn't.

He was watching the mirror so closely, he almost lost control of the car in the deep ruts. Trying to ignore the sound of the rear shocks compacting under a bouncing weight, he fought the expensive sedan back onto the road.

There was a sport utility vehicle parked behind the cottage, but it had to be Sullivan's, and he couldn't bring himself to drive it. He was upset enough without the added stress of driving a dead man's car as well as the dead man. He wished he had more of the doctor's detachment. His thoughts revolved around and around in a chaotic whirlwind, replaying over and over the finding of Sullivan's body, the phone call, the feel of the corpse as he lifted it up into the trunk. He knew he wasn't thinking clearly, but that was as far as awareness extended.

The road ended in a clear cut just as Dr. Mui had described. He drove the car as close as he could to the rotting stump of a Douglas fir and turned off both the engine and the headlights. The surrounding darkness looked like one of the upper circles of hell.

Dr. Mui had said it had to be done in the dark. Headlights in the woods at night would attract unwelcome attention.
And what would be welcome attention;
he wondered.

After a moment, he dried his palms on his trousers, got out of the car, and opened the trunk.

Sullivan stared up at him over one broad shoulder, the bouncing having twisted his head around at an impossible angle. His eyes bulged like the eyes of an animal in a slaughterhouse.

Unable to look away, Swanson stepped back and swallowed bile. What am I doing here? Am I out of
my mind? I should've called the police.
He passed a trembling hand over a damp forehead.
No. If I called the police, everything would come out. I'd be ruined. I'd go to jail. Dr. Mui's right. I bury the body, and no one has to know anything.
Over the course of a long career, he'd never hesitated to do what had to be done, and he wasn't about to start now.

Teeth clenched, he pulled the body out of the trunk. He tried to ignore the way it hit the ground, tried not to think of it as something that had once been alive. He dragged it about twenty feet, went back for the shovel, then began to dig.

“This is nuts. This is absolutely fucking nuts.”

“Watch your language, Brent. And shut up, he'll hear you.”

“Who?”

Patricia Chou grabbed her cameraman's arm and steadied him as he stumbled over a rut, the weight of the camera and light together throwing him off balance. “Ronald Swanson, that's who.”

“You don't know he was in that car we were following.”

“I do.”

“Based on a phone call at three in the morning?”

“That's right.”

“That's it?”

“That and finely honed instincts for a story. Now,
shut up
!”

They moved as quietly as possible as they approached the clearing. Eyes having grown accustomed to the dark during the walk up the logging road, neither had any trouble separating the parked car from the surrounding shadows.

Head cocked at the rhythmic sounds from up ahead, the reporter raised a hand and, breathing a little heavily, Brent obediently stopped.

Digging?
she mouthed silently.

He shrugged and lifted the camera up onto his shoulder.

She guided him around the car and pointed him toward the man-shaped shadow.
This is it
! she told herself as she stepped forward and gave the signal.

Ronald Swanson, already knee-deep in the soft earth, stared up at her like an animal caught on the road—disaster bearing down and unable to get out of the way. The body stretched out on the ground beside him, the unmistakably dead body, was more than she could have hoped for. Her own eyes squinted nearly shut from the brilliant beam of light from the top of Brent's camera, Patricia Chou thumbed her microphone on and thrust it forward. “Anything to say to our viewers, Mr. Swanson?”

His mouth opened, closed, then opened again, but no sound came out. His eyes widened, pupils contracted to invisibility. He dropped the shovel, clutched at his chest, and collapsed forward onto his face in the dirt, just missing the corpse.

“Mr. Swanson?” The microphone still on, she knelt beside him and reached under his ear for a pulse. He was alive, but it didn't feel good. Scowling, she reached into her belt pouch for her cell phone. “That goddamned son of a bitch has had a heart attack or something before I got a quote.”

“Do I keep shooting?” Brent's voice came out of the darkness on the other side of the light.

“No. Save the batteries.” Grinning triumphantly, she called 911. “We'll likely get some good stuff when the police arrive.”

Fourteen

TONY snatched up the phone on the first ring. “Henry?”

“You were waiting?”

“Yeah, well, I set my alarm for half an hour before sunrise, so if you called, I could answer right away.” He yawned and sat up against the pillow. “Did you find Celluci?”

“Detective Celluci is back, safe and sound under Vicki's protection, and she's insisted he spend the day in bed recovering.”

“Recovering from what?”

“Loss of blood for the most part.”

“Say what?”

“Apparently he made a few involuntary donations.”

Tony winced. “Man, I bet Victory's pissed.”

“No bet. What's more, we have Swanson.”

“All right! So, no more ghosts?”

“God willing. Uh, Tony . . .”

The embarrassment in Henry's voice gave Tony a pretty good idea of what was coming. For all that the bastard son of Henry VIII had embraced the twentieth century, there were some things he just couldn't get the hang of.

“. . . I was wondering if you might drop by and set the VCR to record the day's news broadcasts.”

“I've shown you how to do it a hundred times.”

“I know.”

Biting back another yawn, Tony wished he'd thought to provide himself with a thermos of coffee. “Jeez, Henry, what're you going to do when I'm gone?” Gone. That last word seemed to echo in the silence that followed. Gone. This wasn't how he'd meant to say it.
Oh, man, it's just too damned early in the morning for my brain to be working.
He closed his eyes. “Henry?”

“Shall I fight to keep you?” The words held the seductive danger of dark water although it almost seemed like he asked the question of himself.

“Henry, don't . . .” Don't what? Tony didn't know so he let the protest trail off.

“When you are gone,” Henry said after a moment, the voice neither Prince of Men nor Prince of Darkness, but just Henry, alone. “I will miss you. And I will insist, as Vicki does, that distance is no reason for friendship to end. If she and I can find a way to be together, you and I can find a way to be apart.”

Groping beside the sofa bed for something to wipe his nose on, Tony managed a shaky laugh. “Hey, didn't I always say our Victory was one smart vampire.”

“You said she was one scary vampire.”

“Same thing. I'll, uh, see you again before I go.”

“Yes.”

He shivered at the promise in the word.

Stopped at the edge of her building's drive, waiting for traffic to clear, Dr. Mui was astounded by a rapping on her window.

Patricia Chou pressed the contact microphone against the glass. “Dr. Mui, Ronald Swanson was found this morning with the corpse of Richard Sullivan, an orderly who worked with you at Project Hope.” Not even German engineering could keep her voice from penetrating. “Would you like to make a statement?”

Shaking her head in disbelief, Dr. Mui lowered the window a scant inch and, avoiding eye contact with the lens pushed over the reporter's shoulder, snapped, “You are a sick young woman!” She rather hoped she ran over a few toes as she drove away.

There were more reporters waiting at the end of the clinic drive, but she turned in without slowing and passed without incident. Few reporters had Patricia Chou's disregard for personal safety.

Inside the clinic, a pair of plainclothes police officers waited by the nurse's station.

“What is this about?” she demanded, striding across the lounge. Later, she'd feel the effects of a sustained adrenaline buzz, but right now, she felt remarkably calm. It was all a matter of maintaining control.

The detectives introduced themselves and suggested they move into her office.

She stared at them for a moment, frowning, then said, “Don't tell me that parasite actually knew what she was talking about?”

The younger man looked at his partner, then at the doctor. “Parasite?”

“Patricia Chou tried to shove her way into my car this morning with the preposterous story of Ronald Swanson being found with the body of Richard Sullivan, an orderly at this clinic.”

“Patricia Chou,” sighed the first detective.

“Why am I not surprised,” sighed the second.

Having seen their colleagues on the receiving end of a Patricia Chou interview, they thawed considerably and were almost solicitous when Dr. Mui suggested, in a distracted sort of way, that perhaps they'd all better go to her office so that the rest of the staff could get some work done.

“Doctor, when was the last time you spoke to Ronald Swanson?”

“Just after three this morning,” she replied promptly, aware that the call could easily be traced.

“Do you remember what he said?”

“I have no idea of what he said. He woke me out of a deep sleep, babbled hysterically at length, and hung up before I could figure out what he was talking about.”

“You're sure of the time?”

“Detective, when someone wakes me in the middle of the night, I look at my clock. Don't you?”

They both admitted that they did.

She had no idea why Richard Sullivan would be staying in Ronald Swanson's guest cottage although when the restraints were mentioned, she raised a speculative brow.

“Didn't you work with Richard Sullivan in Stony Mountain Federal Penitentiary?” the older detective asked, his tone making it clear that he already knew the answer.

“That's correct; he was an inmate orderly in the prison hospital. I got him this job when he was released, and I see to it that he makes his parole appointments. Other than that,” she added with distaste, “I am not responsible for his life.”

“May we ask why you requested that the board hire him, Doctor?”

“Orderlies are required to perform a number of unpleasant tasks. Mr. Sullivan did them without complaining and that, gentlemen, was worth giving him a second chance.” She frowned, catching the younger officer's gaze and holding it. “It occurs to me that you haven't told me what he died of.”

“Uh, no ma'am.” The phrase basilisk stare came suddenly to mind. “We're, uh, not at liberty to divulge that information, ma'am.” He shot a hopeful glance at his partner. “I think we have everything we need?”

Before the detectives left, they suggested she talk to the gathered reporters if she ever wanted them out of the driveway. Although she didn't believe it would do any good, the doctor prepared a brief statement and read it. To her surprise, they asked a few questions then packed up cameras and microphones and returned to the city. Apparently, she wasn't big enough news.

Yet.

Having never left the clinic early during her time in charge, she remained in the building until 4:15, moving out and about, concentrating on the patients in case she was under surveillance. Finally, after buttressing her position as much as possible, she packed a few files into her briefcase and went out to her car.

Eventually, even if Ronald Swanson never regained consciousness, the police would pay her a return visit. She'd left as little evidence in her wake as she could but wasn't arrogant enough to assume that they'd never find it. A less-confident woman might have headed straight for the airport. Dr. Mui, who had no intention of leaving any of her investments behind, drove straight home and spent the evening making plans.

Henry had no need to open his eyes to know that this sunset was no different than the half dozen before it. The dead still stood at the end of his bed, waiting for justice.

“Do you know that Ronald Swanson has been stopped?”

Apparently, they did.

Apparently, it didn't matter.

Which brought them back to that evisceral vengeance.

“Multimillionaire real estate tycoon, Ronald Swanson, remains in a coma in Lion's Gate Hospital. The police are withholding the identity—and cause of death—of the body found with him pending notification of next of kin. So far, police appear baffled by the circumstances surrounding the case although Detective Post assures us the investigation is proceeding.”

The detective, an attractive man in his mid-thirties, played to the camera like a professional. “Unfortunately, we have very few hard facts at this moment. Ronald Swanson was found early this morning just past the boundary of Mt. Seymour Park in the company of a corpse and a shovel. Upon being discovered, Mr. Swanson had what doctors are describing as a massive coronary. Everything else, I'm afraid, is speculation.” He smiled reassuringly at the news audience. “We will, of course, learn more when Mr. Swanson regains consciousness and we can ask him a few questions.”

Henry fast forwarded through the rest of the CBC News at Noon; when the News at Six came on, he slowed the tape to normal speed.

“In our top story today, multimillionaire philanthropist, Ronald Swanson, remains in a coma in Lion's Gate Hospital. Early this morning . . .”

If the police had discovered anything new between noon and six, they weren't telling the media.

“Why the hell don't they just dig up the rest of the goddamned clearing?” Celluci growled, shifting uncomfortably on the sofa. Furniture designed for little old ladies always felt too small for his butt. He supposed he should be thankful that Fitzroy'd brought the tape over, but he couldn't muster the energy.

Vicki reached over and tucked his left arm back into the sling. “No reason why they should dig it up. As far as the police know, they have an isolated incident. A moment of violence. A lover's quarrel that got out of hand. They haven't even pressed charges yet.” She frowned, and looked absently toward the images flickering by on the television. “If Swanson in a coma in police custody isn't enough for Henry's ghosts, I wonder how much more they want.”

“Not how much,” Celluci declared suddenly, jerking toward the TV. “Who. Fitzroy! Wind it back and play that bit with the woman talking.”

“. . . am, of course, dismayed by what has happened. Richard Sullivan was a hardworking member of our staff who'd managed to rebuild his life after an unfortunate past.”

“Prison,” Celluci explained shortly. “And that's her. That's the doctor who . . .”

“Took your blood.” The statement had edges that flayed. “Dr. Mui. Now we know for sure.” Vicki stood. And stopped. Slowly, very slowly, she turned her head and looked down at Michael Celluci.

He reached out and took her hand. “I want her, too,” he said grimly. “But not like that. You can't kill her.”

Vicki shuddered, once, the movement traveling through her body like a wave. “You're getting awfully goddamned pushy lately,” she muttered when it was over. Then, still holding his hand like an anchor, she sat back down.

“I'm impressed by your control.”

“Don't fucking patronize me, Henry.” Her chin rose, but she managed to hold onto her anger even though every instinct told her to throw something at him and then throw him out the window. “Now, what do we do?”

“I'm an idiot!”

Eyes silvering just enough to keep Henry from commenting, Vicki patted Celluci's denim-clad knee with her free hand. “Don't be so hard on yourself,” she suggested, “and tell me what you're talking about.”

“Ronald Swanson was not the man responsible for those deaths. That's why Henry's ghosts are still around.”

“Maybe he didn't do the actual killing, but he provided the resources.”

Celluci shook his head. “He provided the resources to buy kidneys from the poor and sell them to the rich—but the poor can function fine with only one kidney. This sort of thing goes on in a number of third world countries.”

“Your point?”

“Dr. Mui, already making good money doing the illegal transplants, saw a way to make a little more. The donor doesn't survive, and she pockets the purchase price. Simple.”

“Yeah, but . . .”

“If she didn't have to hide the deaths from Swan-son, why wait until they healed? And we know she waited because of the body they found in the harbor.” He glanced from Vicki to Henry and answered his own question. “She had to keep the donors around until close to the time they'd normally be discharged or Swanson would be suspicious.”

“So he didn't know she was killing them?”

“She told me herself that she believed in only letting people know what they needed to to do their jobs. Uh, Vicki? I can't feel my fingers anymore.” When she released his hand, he started to work the blood back into the whitened fingertips. “Swanson's job was to provide the money and the buyers.”

“All right . . .” It wasn't agreement. It wasn't even conceding he had a point. “. . . what about the missing hands on the first ghost?”

“Sullivan disposed of the bodies—he found out this guy had no record, and he thought of a way to make an extra buck. He probably made plenty of gang contacts in prison.”

Vicki shook her head. “Completely circumstantial.”

“And completely unimportant. The loss of the hands distracted us at the beginning, sending us out after the gangs, and I don't want that to happen again.” Henry moved to stand by the windows. He always thought better looking out at the city. His city—in spite of the unfamiliar pattern of lights below. His condo overlooked False Creek, Lisa Evans' overlooked the parking lot between the buildings. “I believe Mike's right about Dr. Mui being in charge. Last night, Swanson went to pieces when he found that body.”

“Well, sure,” Vicki snorted, even less willing to cut Henry any slack, “he was afraid that the operation, so to speak, had been discovered.”

“I don't think so.” He could feel Vicki bristling behind him, so he continued studying the traffic on Pacific Boulevard. “The first thing Dr. Mui asked Swanson was, did he call the police. If Swanson knew about the other deaths, that's not something he'd even consider, and the doctor would know it. When she found out he hadn't called anyone but her, she began planning the cover-up.”