The Donors

 

 

 

 

 

The

Donors

 

 

 

 

By

Jeffrey Wilson

 

 

 

 

 

 

JournalStone

San Francisco

 

 

 

 

Copyright © 2012 by Jeffrey Wilson

 

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

 

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel either are the products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously.

 

JournalStone books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

 

JournalStone

199 State Street

San Mateo, CA 94401

www.journalstone.com

 

The views expressed in this work are solely those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

 

ISBN: 978-1-936564-46-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-936564-48-4 (ebook)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012937961

 

Printed in the United States of America

JournalStone rev. date: June 29, 2012

 

Cover Design: Denise Daniel

Cover Art: 
Mike Bohatch

Edited By: Elizabeth Reuter

 

 

 

 

Endorsements

 

“With its tight muscular prose and sharp dialogue,
The Donors
will keep you hooked from the opening page. Wilson has written a novel packed with surprises and suspense, and drawn characters whose every pang the reader feels. This is a novel full of visceral, intense moments. It will keep you holding on until the brilliant end.”

~
Richard Godwin, author of
Mr. Glamour
and
Apostle Rising
.

 

“Jeffrey Wilson can spin a chilling scene with the best of them, but it's his characters that make his writing so horrifying. These are real people and real families, and Wilson forces us to walk with them on a terrifying journey into the blackest shadows where creatures of primordial evil feed on their darkest fears.”

~Brett J. Talley, 2011 Bram Stoker Finalist and author of
That Which Should Not Be
and
The Void

 

 

 

 

Dedication

 

For Wendy—as always

 

 

 

 

 

Additional titles from JournalStone:

 

 

Shaman's Blood

Anne C. Petty

 

The Traiteur's Ring

Jeffrey Wilson

 

Jokers Club

Gregory Bastianelli

 

Ghosts of Coronado Bay

J.G. Faherty

 

Contrition

Robert E. Hirsch

 

That Which Should Not Be

Brett J. Talley

 

The Void

Brett J. Talley

 

Available through your local and online bookseller or at www.journalstone.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

He stayed to the shadows. It wasn't fear that kept him in the dark, wet alley beside the emergency room. Not even remotely. He preferred the shadows, felt comfortable there. They were home.

The people that milled about the entrance to the emergency room held no threat.

Opportunity—yes.

He pulled the collar of his trench coat up around his thin, pale neck and watched. So many years spent watching and waiting, enjoying the scent of powerful emotions. He didn't miss those years. How had he ever tolerated it? To smell the meal, but never taste it? He had evolved for something bigger.

A soft glow appeared beside him and he spoke without turning.

“Is there a space that meets our needs?” he asked.

“Yes,” the wet, slithering voice answered.

“We will go to the key people beginning tonight. We mustn't be hasty.”

“Of course,” the voice replied. It sounded irritated.

Just hungry, perhaps.

“Patience,” he said.

The form beside him nodded and then he felt the rustling of wind. A strong odor filled the air. He watched an ambulance pull up to the entrance of the ER. Paramedics dragged a stretcher out of the back and he drank in the delicious wail of a hysterical woman. Leaning out of the alley for a better look, he tugged the brim of his hat lower over his pale face, nearly covering his glowing yellow eyes.

“Omigod… omigod. Please help him. God, please help!”

The screams of the woman made him smile. He felt even more aroused by the fear that emanated from the motionless figure on the stretcher, a bloody sheet pulled to the bare chest. He breathed in deeply.

“God, please. Oh, please!” the woman cried again.

His smile widened.

“God's not here,” he hissed and licked a deep, red tongue over his long teeth.

Back into the shadows, he readied for his own journey.

Lots of work to do.

 

*  *  *

 

Nearly two thirty and the lying bitch still ain't home yet.

Steve shifted on the couch and looked at his watch, his face flushed with anger. He hated watching the little brat, although now that he had shown the kid who was in charge, it was a lot easier. When he told the kid to do something nowadays, the brat sure as hell did it. Pleased, the man tipped his Bud longneck to his mouth, draining the last swallow. He looked again at his watch.

Shit.

The game had been over for half an hour so Steve flipped mindlessly through the channels, bored. Down at the Kozy Korner, the guys would be on their second pitcher, without him. Maybe he could find Toby and they might get an hour of fishing in at the pier.

If she would hurry the hell up!

Goddamnit, Sundays were
his
days, the only days he didn't work his ass off. She had fifteen more minutes and then he would leave whether she got home or not. The brat could fend for himself.

Not even my damn kid.

He dragged himself up off the couch and clomped into the kitchen for another brew. Where the hell was that kid anyway? Steve hadn't heard a peep from him since telling him to shut up over an hour ago. Well, the brat better not be fucking with any of his fishing stuff or he'd get a beating to remember. Steve set his empty can on the table and pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen. What he saw did not make him happy.

“What the fuck are you doing, kid?”

 

*  *  *

 

Nathan stood on an overturned bucket beside the gas stove and froze in fear at the man's cursing. His right hand clutched an opened can of Chef Boyardee Spaghetti-O's. He managed not to spill any on the counter, but his throat tightened as he now saw two tomato-spattered “O's” on the floor beside him. He had tried to be as quiet as possible, tried not to bother Steve, because Mommy said if he kept making Steve mad he would go away and there would be no one to help them. Nathan didn't want Mommy to be sad anymore, and anyway, Steve scared him. It had taken a long time to quietly get out the pan to cook his Spaghetti-O's.

Nathan wanted to wait for Mommy to get home, but his tummy growled and felt so empty it kind of hurt. Dinner seemed an awfully long time ago and Mommy promised Steve would make him Spaghetti-O's for lunch. But he definitely couldn't ask. The last time Steve got mad at him, his back had hurt for so long he couldn't close his hand for a long time. Sometimes it
still
hurt. So he decided, when his stomach started to
ache
for food, that he could do it himself. Mommy said he was her little man.

I'm almost six—more than the fingers on one hand!

The sound of Steve hollering made his stomach hurt in a different way and his hand, the one that sometimes ached from the last time, trembled until he thought he might drop the can.

“Jesus Christ, Nathan! Look at this goddamn mess! What the hell do you think you're doing, you goddamn little shit!?” Steve's face looked red like before.

Nathan scrambled off the bucket, stumbled, and fell to his knees. He crawled quickly to the corner of the kitchen and pressed himself into the wall, trying to disappear.

Please come home now, Mommy! Please come home RIGHT NOW!

Steve pounded his fists together on the counter.

“A little kid ain't supposed to be fuckin' around in the kitchen! You tryin' to burn down the fuckin' house
?
Don't you know what a stove does, you little idiot!?”

Steve smacked the empty can of Spaghetti-O's off the counter. It flew through the air and landed at Nathan's feet, little splashes of sauce dotting the floor and his Winnie-the-Pooh tennis shoes, the ones from Christmas. He started to cry and tried to stop, tried really, really hard.

Hurry, Mommy.

He squeezed his eyes tight and tried to make her walk through the door.

Come home, come home, come home—

Nathan's eyes sprang open at the sound of Steve's heavy boots on the floor. The man's fists were balled up and he hovered over him, his face still red.

“You better fucking answer me, you little queer! Do… you… KNOW… WHAT… A…
FUCKING… STOVE… DOES?”

Nathan tried to talk, to answer Steve, because you're supposed to always answer grown-ups, but he couldn't. He didn't want to be wrong and make Steve even madder. And his voice just wouldn't work. When he opened his mouth his throat just made a noise like a kitty cat. The sound made Steve's face turn a worse color.

“Well fine! I guess I'll just have to show you.” Steve stomped toward him and Nathan shook, tears spilled onto his cheeks. “
COME HERE!”

Nathan remained still. He couldn't move, almost couldn't breathe. He felt his pants getting warm and wet; he sobbed.

Mommy will be sad if she finds out I wet my pants. I'm supposed to be her little man.

The man grabbed Nathan's right arm so hard he thought the pain would make him pass out. There was a crunching noise and he made a loud moan, then bit his lip, trying hard not to cry.

I'm Mommy's little man. I won't cry! I won't cry!

Tears spilled over his cheeks, but he struggled to stay quiet as Steve dragged him to the stove. He pretended to be somewhere else, pictured himself in a swing at the park, his mommy behind him, pushing and laughing. He couldn't remember where that park had been or if he had ever really gone there.

“I'm gonna show you what a stove does so you'll
NEVER FORGET!”
the man raged, clutching his arm so tight that Nathan felt the little bees buzzing in his fingers like when it fell asleep sometimes. With his free hand the man spun the dial on the stove and the front burner hissed to life. A blue flame ignited. “
THIS IS WHAT A GODDAMN STOVE DOES NATHAN!”

Nathan gasped as he felt himself lifted into the air by his hurt arm and a new pain shot through his shoulder and back. Then his tingly hand was brought back to life as Steve thrust it into the flames.

“
THE STOVE IS HOT, YOU LITTLE IDIOT! SEE HOW HOT IT IS? DON'T…TOUCH…THE….STOVE!”

The skin on his fingers turned red, then white. He screamed briefly and squeezed his eyes shut.

But he didn't cry.

Nathan fell to the ground where the man dropped him and curled up in a ball, his burned flesh clutched to his chest. He started to rock back and forth and whimpered softly.

I didn't cry, Mommy. I'm Mommy's little man. I didn't cry, so Mommy won't have to be alone.

 

*  *  *

 

The loud chaos of the ER, mixed with the strong smell of antiseptic and body odor, made Sherry clutch her little boy tightly as he lay in her lap. Nathan's head lay against her chest and his arms wrapped around her. Her son's right hand was wrapped in bulky white gauze which secured a plaster splint halfway around his arm, from his hand to just above his bent elbow. As she rocked, she heard Nathan whimper softly in rhythm. Then his eyes, glazed with morphine, flickered open and he looked quickly up at her, momentarily panicked. When he saw her face he gave a crooked smile and closed his eyes again, squeezing her tight.

“I didn't cry, Mommy.”

The woman's eyes filled with tears and she held her boy tighter. Her voice cracked. “I know, baby. You're Mommy's little man. Mommy loves you.” Tears dripped off her chin into her son's curly blond hair. She smoothed it back on his head and kissed his cheek. “Nothing will ever hurt you again, baby. Mommy loves you soooo much.” She squeezed her eyes shut.

The curtain opened and a tired young doctor came in, his face rough with a two-day growth of beard, his eyes dark and heavy from the never-ending sad stories. Beside him stood a uniformed police officer, a woman, who looked both mortified and angry.

“Ms. Doren, I'm Dr. Gelman.” The young man spoke softly.

“I remember,” the woman said. She held her boy tightly, afraid they would make her let him go.

The young man's eyes looked kind, despite being bloodshot and underscored with the dark shadows of a long sleepless night.

“Ms. Doren, Nathan has a broken bone in his arm just above his wrist. It's a stable fracture and the splint will let it heal fine. I spoke to the pediatric orthopedist and he doesn't feel it will need surgery, just a better cast.” He paused and put his hands into his faded lab coat. Sherry didn't speak and held his eyes as bravely as she could. Her cheeks felt hot and wet and she pulled her now-sleeping boy more tightly to her chest.

The doctor sighed heavily and rubbed his face with both hands. Then he sat down in the plastic chair beside her. He stroked Nathan's hair as she held him and a sad, almost-smile appeared on his face. Then he looked at her again. She felt more comfortable. She decided she liked this doctor.

“Ms. Doren, your son's hand is more serious. The burns are what we call ‘full thickness.' What that means is the skin and soft tissues were burned badly and have died. The plastic surgeons feel he will need to have the dead skin removed and then a skin graft placed.”

Sherry closed her eyes tightly. She felt a deep vacuous agony grow inside. She thought she might be sick.

“An operation?” she whispered and then opened her eyes to study the young doctor's face.

The doctor looked dejected—or maybe angry? She wondered if he blamed her, thought she was a terrible mother.

Maybe I am, or was, but never again.

“Yes, Sherry. An operation. They'll have to take skin from Nathan's thigh and graft it over his hand so it will heal properly. Hopefully, that will let it regain normal function.”

“Will it hurt him?” She choked back tears. She didn't want to see the look on the doctor's face anymore.

“We'll give him medicine for the pain, Sherry.” She felt a hand squeeze her shoulder and she looked up, almost pleadingly, with red, burning eyes. “Kids are tough. He'll do fine.” She began to sob. The doctor stood again, and there was a long, awkward silence.

“Sherry, this police officer needs to talk to you. They want to make sure your boyfriend never hurts Nathan or anyone else again, okay?” He squeezed her shoulder, gently.

“Okay,” she whispered. She felt a strength surge through her at the mention of Steve—and hatred. “He's not my boyfriend anymore.” As the police officer stepped forward, she squeezed her boy.

“I have a few questions, Ms. Doren.”

Sherry straightened herself up, trying not to wake Nathan as she did. She wanted to wipe the tears from her face, but didn't want to disturb her sleeping little man so she let them dry uncomfortably on her cheeks. The officer did not look as soft or kind as Dr. Gelman, who left the room now and pulled the curtain closed behind him.

“Sherry, I need to ask you a lot of personal questions about Steve Prescott and your relationship with him, okay?” Sherry nodded. “I know it's hard.”

“Will he pay for what he did to my son?” Sherry asked. Her voice cracked, new tears spilled out into the drying tracks on her cheeks as she thought of her tortured son.
He might not have normal function in his hand? Is that what Dr. Gelman had said? What did that mean?
She felt a rage inside her that began to beat the fear into submission. “Can you make him pay?”

The policewoman tensed her jaw, as if unsure what to say.

“I don't know, Sherry,” she answered honestly. “We'll do our best to build a case, but he has no record, except a few juvenile misdemeanors. There are no witnesses except your boy, and his attorney will have his testimony excluded. All we really have is his story and what you tell us.”

“And my little boy's broken arm and burned hand,” Sherry said and felt her lip tremble.

“Yeah,” the woman responded, softening a little. “Yeah, we have that.” She flipped open a notebook and started to ask Sherry about Steve.