Blood Debt

anticipation had returned. "I think that takes care of your Mr.
    Swanson's objections."
    "And what about Mr. Swanson himself?"
    "Why is Mr. Swanson chopping off the hands?"
    "I hate it when you answer a question with a question," Celluci growled.
    "I know. There're two reasons I can think of for the killer to remove the hands. One, the prints are on record, and dumping the hands will hide the identity— a belief which shows an appalling lack of knowledge of modern police forensics. If that body had a record, he'd have been identified by now. Or, two, the prints aren't on record and are useful because of that. Which brings us back to the gangs. We can have this sucker solved by morning."
    "How?"
    "I find out who's running the top gangs in this fair city." Her teeth showed, too long and too white. "And I ask them a few questions. The boss men always know what the other gangs are up to—that's how they stay the boss."
    Celluci had a sudden vision of a great deal of blood spilled over very expensive suits. "How are you going to find out who the top men are?"
    "I'll ask a few questions farther down the ladder."
    There were certain aspects of Vicki's new nature he found so difficult to understand that he didn't ever bother making the attempt.
    This wasn't one of them. "You're looking forward to this, aren't you?"
    "And why shouldn't I be?" Her tone was as much defensive as challenging. "You have no idea of how hard it is to always hold back.
    To be less than you're capable of being!"
    "What? Less violent?" He leaned toward her, forearms flat on the table, biceps straining against the fabric of his golf shirt. "I hate to burst your bubble, Vicki, but we've all got to live with that. It's the price we pay for civilization."
    "Give it up, Celluci." She leaned forward as well. "You can stop being so god-damned holier than fucking thou! You can't possibly feel sorry for the type of lowlife I'm going to be…" As his eyes narrowed, she paused for a heartbeat. "… dealing with. What's that?" She stared suspiciously at the list he held out to her.
    "It's an easier way. I had Dave pull the names and addresses of the people you want off the computer."
    "Oh." The paper drooped between thumb and forefinger.
    If he'd been willing to risk pandering to her desire for mayhem, he'd have reminded her that she still had to get to those people through what would no doubt be tight security. As he neither wanted to remind her of her potential for violence nor himself of her potential danger, he said neutrally. "There're a lot of names for one night. Why don't you split them with Henry?"
    "Henry?" Her eyes silvered. "No. No Henry. This is my hunt!
    Mine!"
    "As much as I hate to say this, he's not totally incompetent. He's even done this kind of stuff for you before."
    "Before," Vicki reminded him, the last syllable more growl than spoken word.
    Celluci stared at her for a few seconds then sat back, shaking his head. "So he was right."
    "About what?"
    "About your childish inability to work with him." In spite of her sometimes tenuous control of what she'd become, Celluci'd always believed that Vicki would never hurt him. He'd wondered occasionally, as he prodded at the limits of her new nature, if he deliberately put that belief to the test. He wondered it now as she slowly stood. She seemed taller than he knew she was. The hair on his arms lifted, and he felt his chin begin to rise, an instinctive surrender bypassing his conscious control. He forced it back down.
    Eyes blazing, Vicki stepped forward, closed her hands around the chair she had been sitting in, and ripped it into kindling, one handful of wood at a time. A moment later, breathing heavily—not from the destruction but from the effort of regaining control—she snarled, "See what you made me do!"
    "I made you do?" His heart beat so loudly even he could hear it.
    Considering how well attuned she was to that sort of sound, he was a little surprised she could hear his voice over it. "I don't think so."
    "No." Her eyes were almost gray again. The silver remaining could have been a trick of the light. "I guess not." She reached across the table and brushed the curl of hair back off his face. "But you've got no right accusing me of living dangerously."
    "No. I guess not." Capturing her hand, he laid his lips against the cool skin of her inner wrist, a mirror image of a position they'd held a hundred times. "Now what?"
    "Now, I'm going to call Henry."

    "Call?"
    "Yeah. On the telephone."