Blood Debt - By Tanya Huff Page 0,40

one of the teenagers across the street held out his hand to the other. It was such an unusual gesture that it caught his attention and he stopped for a moment to watch. They shook hands formally, uncomfortably, then moved apart. As one of them turned to face the store, the ivory skull smiled.

Tony rubbed at his eyes with his free hand and looked again. It was a T-shirt, old and faded and noth?ing more.

Of course the skull was smiling, you idiot. Skulls always smile. Tony Foster, you have been hanging around with vampires too long. But a line of sweat dribbled icy cold down the center of his back, and the hand that set the video boxes on the shelves was shaking.

"You got my money?"

The driver's smile was so nonthreatening it was al?most inane. "It's in the bag."

The bag had been printed with a cheap rip-off of the Vancouver Grizzlies logo. There were at least a million of them around the city. After a brief struggle with a zipper that seemed intent on snagging, it opened to show several packets of worn tens and twenties.

"All right!" Considering how many dreams it held, the bag weighed next to nothing as it lifted off the floor. "Hey? What the fuck are you grinning about?"

The driver's smile broadened as he guided the dark sedan onto the Lion's Gate Bridge heading for North Vancouver. "I'm just happy when someone gets off the streets."

Thin arms tightened around the bag. "Yeah, like you're a real fucking Good Samaritan." He scowled at the dashboard. "Hey, weren't you in a gray car before?"

"You don't think I'm using my own car for this, do you?" The tone was mocking, superior.

"No. Guess not."

They drove in silence along the North Shore, the only sound the quiet hum of the air-conditioner fan. When the car turned off Mt. Seymour Parkway onto Mt. Seymour Road, the teenager in the passenger seat shifted nervously. "Shouldn't I be like blindfolded or something?"

"Why?"

"So I can't, you know, tell anyone about this."

"Tell who?" the driver asked quietly.

"No one, man. Fuck... " Contrary to romantic belief, those who lived on the street actually learned very little about life. The one and only lesson the sur?vivors learned was how to survive. If they failed to learn it, then by definition they were just another sad statistic. The boy in the car figured himself for a survi?vor. He knew a threat when he heard one. There was suddenly more to the gorilla behind the wheel than those big, friendly, doggy eyes.

Palms leaving damp prints on the cheap nylon bag, he stared unfocused through the tinted windshield and built a pleasant fantasy of beating the driver's smug, self-satisfied face in. His eyes widened a little as they passed a security gate and turned onto a private road. They widened further as the clinic came into view.

"This don't look like no hospital."

"That's right." A sign by the edge of the drive read Staff Only. "Our clients don't like to think they're in a hospital, and they pay big bucks to maintain the illusion they aren't."

"Fuck, what kind of clients you got?"

The driver smiled. "Rich ones."

Rich ones. His right hand patted the rectangular bulges stretching the side of the bag. Rich ones like him.

Standard police procedure maintained that a per?sonal visit elicited more information than a phone call. Not only were facial expressions harder to fake, but the minutiae of surrounding environmental clues were often invaluable. As Mike Celluci pushed open the door leading to the offices of the British Columbia Transplant Society, he recognized that no aspect of this "case" resembled standard police procedure, but when it came right down to it, he didn't have anything else to do.

"Can I help you?" The woman behind the reception desk at the BC Transplant Society fixed him with the steely-eyed, no-nonsense gaze of the professional vol?unteer. Celluci felt as though he were being assessed for potential usefulness and could almost hear her thinking: How nice, muscle. I'm sure we have some?thing around that needs moving.

"Is Ronald Swanson in?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Is this about that dreadful woman?"

"If you mean the cable interview... ?"

"Look, you're the fourteenth person who's asked about it since I came in-although the other thirteen were satisfied with a phone call." Two spots of color blazed through the powder on her cheeks. "I'll tell you the same thing I told them; there is absolutely no truth to anything Patricia Chou said, and she should be prosecuted for spreading such a