"WHAT is going on here?"
The question cut through the argument at the nurse's station, leaving silence in its wake. The two police constables and the night nurse turned toward the voice, three very different faces wearing identical expressions of relief that said as clearly as if they spoke aloud, Thank God, here's someone who knows what to do.
The night nurse took a step forward. "Dr. Mui, these two police officers want to have a look around. Apparently someone reported seeing a body carried in through the back door late this afternoon."
"Really." Dr. Mui slowly swept a peremptory gaze from the nurse over to the police. "As there was no one admitted to the hospice this afternoon, I'm afraid your informant was mistaken."
"This body wasn't on a stretcher, it was allegedly flung over the shoulder of a large man in a red Tshirt. I doubt that's the way your patients usually arrive, Doctor... ?"
"Mui." Ebony brows rose into a finely drawn arc. "And you are?"
"Police Constable Potter, ma'am." She nodded at her partner. "This is Police Constable Kessin. Do you usually come in at this hour, Doctor? It's barely five; a little early to start your day."
"I am often in at odd hours." Not that it's any of your business, her tone added. "You can ask Nurse Damone if you don't believe me. As it happens, I have a patient who has just moved to status four- he'll be dead within the week unless a match is found. I came in to check on him. You have both signed organ donor cards, I assume?"
She so pointedly awaited an answer, it would have been impossible not to give her one.
After a ragged duet of "Yes, ma'am," Dr. Mui nod?ded. "Good. As you'll be dead, you'll certainly have no use for otherwise healthy organs. Hundreds of peo?ple die every year for no other reason than the lack of those signatures. Now then, about this, as you say, alleged body. If you intend to search the premises, I assume you have a warrant?"
PC Potter blinked, taken slightly aback by the lec?ture and the sudden change of subject. "Warrant, Doctor?"
"Warrant, Constable."
Fighting the feeling that she was back in Catholic School-it helped only a little that none of the nuns had been Asian-Potter cleared her throat and glanced down at her occurrence book for support. "We had hoped we could have a look around without having to get a warrant."
"Had you. I see."
"We can get one if we need one." PC Kessin wished he'd kept his mouth shut as the doctor's level gaze moved over to him. He couldn't help the sudden sus?picion she was measuring him and finding him want?ing. We'll take none of his organs. He's an idiot.
"Of course you can." Her inflection suggested the exact opposite but before either constable could de?cide to be insulted, she continued. "Fortunately, since I've arrived, that won't be necessary." When it ap?peared that PC Potter was about to speak, she added with some exasperation, "We have a dozen very sick people in this building, Officers. I'm sure you didn't expect Nurse Damone to allow you to wander about on your own or to leave her station and accompany you. Since I'm here, that's no longer a problem. What would you like to see first?"
Just In from the back door, the hall jogs to the left. You'll find a door marked electrical room. Behind it is a short corridor. Off that corridor is a hospital room ..."
"I think we can start at the back door, Doctor."
"Fine. Nurse... "
Hope rose in the breasts of both constables that Nurse Damone would be going with them while the doctor watched her station.
"... I won't be long."
Hope crashed and burned.
"There's no alarm on this door?"
"As I mentioned before, Constable Potter, we have a dozen very sick people in this building. Should any?one need to exit the building, an unnecessary alarm could easily cause enough excitement to kill one or two of them."
"They're that sick?"
"They come here when their only options remaining are death or transplant-yes, they're that sick."
PC Kessin frowned at the heavy steel door. "But suppose someone came in from outside the building?"
"This door doesn't open from the outside."
"There are always people who can get a door open, Doctor."
Dr. Mui smiled tightly. "And what good would an alarm do against those kind of people?"
"Do you always keep the door to the electrical room locked?"
"Two points, Constable." Dr. Mui pulled out her keys and slid one into the lock. "First of all, this is not the door to the electrical room. It leads to a short access hall. Secondly, no, we don't always keep it locked."
"Then why is it locked now?"
"I don't know."
"The room you're searching for looks like any other hospital room except that the walls are painted cinder blocks and there's a high, inaccessible window. There'll be a man on the bed ..."
PC Potter stopped just over the threshold and had to be pushed gently ahead by her partner. For some strange reason, she felt as though she were stepping up out of a deep, dark well. It must have been the lights-the room was all hard, high-gloss surfaces with nothing to soften the intensity.
Blinking and grumbling in the sudden glare, the large man on the bed sat up and rubbed at his eyes.
"A hidden room, a man who is obviously not a patient; do you have an explanation for this, Dr. Mui?"
"This room was originally supposed to be the laun?dry, but we found it much more cost effective to send the laundry out. Since the plumbing was already in?stalled, it took little effort to turn it into a temporary residence room. As for the man on the bed... " Her tone changed from weary lecture to distinct pique. "... his name is Richard Sullivan, he's one of our orderlies, and he is not supposed to be in here-which explains why that last door was locked."
"Orderly," Kessin repeated. "That explains the uni?form." He took half a step back as the doctor shot him another less than complimentary look.
Sullivan, standing now, stared down at the mattress and muttered an inaudible protest.
"Again, Richard. Louder."
"The cot's uncomfortable."
"Are you the orderly the nurse told us was asleep in the staff room?" Potter asked, wondering why it felt as though she'd changed channels in mid-program.
"Obviously not. He's the orderly who was supposed to be asleep in the staff room." Dr. Mui indicated the door with a sharp jerk of her head. "Go to my office, Richard. I'll speak with you later."
"Just a minute, Mr. Sullivan." As he turned toward her, Potter saw that he had the longest eyelashes she'd ever seen on a man-long and thick and fringing deep brown eyes so mild they completely mitigated any threat his size might suggest. Her cheeks warmed as she realized he was waiting patiently for her to speak.
"... ask him how he came to be in that room."
Except they already knew that.
"Do you, uh, own a red T-shirt?"
He nodded.
"Did you wear it to work today?"
He nodded again. "I never wear my uniform to work, it gets sweaty. I bring a clean uniform in a bag."
"A bag."
Huge hands sketched a rectangle in the air. "Like a garment bag."
"A garment bag." Potter looked at her partner and saw he was leaping to the same conclusion. From the highway it was entirely possible that a man in a red T-shirt carrying a garment bag could look like a man in a red T-shirt carrying a body. Especially when there was no body.
"Once you've found the room, and the man, and found out what he's doing there, I have every faith in your ability to deal with the situation."
She frowned. What situation?
"Hope we didn't get that guy in too much trouble." PC Kessin turned back onto Mt. Seymour Road head?ing toward North Vancouver. "That doctor wasn't someone I'd want to cross. Man, I hate that 'I'm the next best thing to God Almighty' most doctors put on. Make you wait forty-five minutes in their waiting rooms like you've got no life of your own, but just hear them howl if we're more than three seconds get?ting to a call." Scratching at his mustache, he shot a glance into the passenger seat. "What's bugging you?" Potter, who'd been silent since radioing in the false alarm, shrugged. "I was just thinking; we never actu?ally saw that garment bag."
"... and you're followed to the disposal site by a police officer from a city half the country away. To?night, two visitors drop in, leave their captured friend where they find him, and send the local police out to have a look around on no better pretense than they supposedly saw you carry a body in here this after?noon while they were passing." Dr. Mui steepled her fingers and peered over them at Sullivan. "Now, what does that say to you?"
He sighed. She never asked him a question she didn't already know the answer to. "That we're busted?"
"No. Detective Celluci's friends don't want to be?come involved with the police."
"Not very good friends, leaving him tied to a bed."
"They expected the police to find him, and then we would have been, as you so crudely put it, busted."
"You told me to lie down on the bed... "
"To cover the obvious fact that someone had been lying there. And I told you to put him in the back of your vehicle," she added caustically, "because we didn't have time to put him anywhere else."
He knew that. "So what now? Do I bring him back in?"
"No. His friends, whoever or whatever they are... " She frowned, hating ambiguity. "... found him here once, and if they find him again, they won't leave him. You'll have to take him to one of the guest cottages." Reaching into her drawer, she pulled out a single key on a leather fob and tossed it across the office. "Use the one farthest from the house."
Sullivan deftly caught the key and shoved it in his pocket. "Mr. Swanson won't like it."
"I'll deal with Mr. Swanson."
The soft brown eyes looked no less mild as he sug?gested, "I could kill him."
"The detective? Don't be ridiculous, Richard. He has two perfectly healthy, very large kidneys-a per?fect match for one of Mr. Swanson's buyers that I'd considered to be unmatchable given his size and that our usual source tends toward the undernourished. Alive, he can do some good."
"Should I stay with him?"
"Yes, you'd better. Be sure you park your car where it can't be seen from the house. I'll go over and ex?plain things to Mr. Swanson in a couple of hours, as soon as I've finished here."
Pushing upward through layer after layer of sticky cotton batting, fighting to keep it away from his face, forcing himself to keep moving toward a distant light, Celluci managed to get his eyes open just long enough to catch a brief glimpse of trees and cedar siding be?fore darkness descended again. Vaguely aware of movement, he remembered he'd been captured, knew he should struggle but couldn't seem to make his body obey.
A mattress compacted underneath him, releasing a faint scent of honeysuckle as he flopped back against a pile of pillows.
Obviously, he was no longer in the hospital.
As rough hands secured him to the bed, he re?viewed his options and realized he didn't have any. Reluctantly surrendering to the sedatives, he felt al?most sorry for the people who'd moved him.
Man, Vicki's going to be pissed.
"Dr. Mui, this is a surprise." His expression polite but not exactly welcoming, Ronald Swanson stepped back from the door to allow the doctor to enter his front hall.
"I realize this is certainly an unexpected visit," Dr. Mui acknowledged, stepping by him, "but what I have to tell you needed to be said in person. Since your neighbors are aware of your connection to Project Hope, they should assume the obvious."
"Very likely, although my neighbors are far enough away I doubt they even noticed you arrive." His atten?tion caught by the white convertible gleaming in the early morning light, he added, "New car?" as he closed the door.
"I bought it last week."
"Can you afford such an expensive car right now, Doctor? I'd have thought the condominium you bought recently had taken all your available re?sources."
"You assured me a condo in Yaletown was a secure investment, Mr. Swanson." She followed him to the kitchen. "And as for the car, I've heard you say you get what you pay for. German engineering is built to last. Besides, you pay me very well."
"And I get what I pay for." He smiled a little ner?vously and waved a hand toward the table. "I'm just finishing breakfast. Would you care to join me?" He hadn't had an informal visitor since before Rebecca had died, and he couldn't remember her ever enter-taining in the kitchen. Still, abandoning his breakfast now would mean wasting a perfectly good bagel and there was no sense in that.
"Thank you, no."
"Do you mind if I continue?"
"Not at all." She took the offered seat and waited for him to circle the table and sit facing her. 'We have another match."
His eyes narrowed, and he carefully set the bagel back on his plate. "Already? That's two in little more than a week. Three in two months. Don't you think we're likely to start attracting attention? The more regularly something happens the more likely people are to notice it."
"True. However, given the size of the organ, this particular match was too good to pass up. The donor is about six feet four, two hundred and sixty pounds. Late thirties and in perfect health for our purposes." Which was really all her patron either wanted or needed to know. Dr. Mui waited patiently for Swanson to make the connection.
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 pro?test, "I'll merely point out that if we don't take advan?tage 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 at?tracting 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 particu?lar 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 mouth?ful 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 cus?tomer 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 investi-gation, there should've been something about a Met?ropolitan 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, defi?antly 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 con?sidered, 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 cot?tages were used by recovering buyers, the ruffles, and comforters, and pillows covered a hospital bed. Sulli?van had installed the standard restraints. "I had a lab run a blood sample last night, and although your cho?lesterol 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 man?aged 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 vam?pire, 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 occa?sions, 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 identi?fied. 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 ex-changed 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 compli?cated, 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 re?straints yet again, the door opened. Tensed muscles relaxed slightly as he saw it was nothing more danger?ous 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 glit?tered. 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, broad?ened. "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 wall. "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 neces?sity for people to sign their organ donor cards so that places like this don't need to exist." She smiled, look?ing remarkably sharklike. "Or perhaps you'd like to use the time explaining rewarded gifting-a disingenu-ous 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?"
"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 fol?low?" 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 bal?ance. 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 hear?ing, 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 ex?change with the reporter had clearly unsettled him. "Knows what?" she asked as though there were, in?deed, 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 invari?ably 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 talk?ing about an uncomplicated operation with broad pa?rameters for a match, and still people die. What is wrong with our legislators that they can't see pre-sumed 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 unde?tected, 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 infec-tions, 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 be?neath 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 mo?ment 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.''