Blood Debt

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 survivors 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 survivor. 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 personal 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 volunteer. 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 something 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 horrible, horrible story. Donated organs go to the most needy person on the list. They are not ever sold to the highest bidder. Ever."
    Somewhat taken aback, Celluci spread his hands and arranged his features into his best information eliciting expression. "Not within the system, no, but if someone were to circumvent…"
    "That doesn't happen."

    "But it could."
    "I believe Mr. Swanson made it perfectly clear that such a horrific concept is impossible."
    "No, ma'am. He merely said it would be difficult and expensive.
    Which is why I wanted to speak with him." He'd been half tempted to wander into one of the rougher sections of the city and see if he could find some gang action, but upon reflection decided he'd rather live a little longer. While he had no doubt he'd survive the gangs, Vicki'd kill him for taking the risk.
    Her nostrils pinched shut, the receptionist laid both hands on the desk and leaned forward. "We are extremely fortunate that a man of Mr. Swanson's wealth and social standing is willing to do so much work for the society, but given the demands on his time, he does not spend his days