Blood Debt

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