Blood Debt

everything.
    "You're a friend of Mr. Fitzroy's!"
    By the time Celluci realized what that meant, Mrs. Munro was gone
    —which was just as well because his reaction was succinct and profane.

    Breakfast had been pretty good for hospital food. There hadn't been enough of it, but at least it hadn't come out of a dumpster. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, he smoked a cigarette and wished they'd bring him back his clothes. Or just his boots. He'd had to panhandle tourists for almost a week last summer to get them, and if he didn't get them back, the shit was going to hit the fan, big time. Sure he had enough money now to buy anything he wanted, but that wasn't the point. Those boots were his.
    He ground the butt into a pitted metal ashtray and lit another. It was kind of weird they let him keep his cigs but since they weren't using his lungs he guessed it didn't matter.
    When the door opened, he blew a cloud of smoke toward it, just to show he didn't care; that he wasn't freaked by what he'd agreed to do.
    Her lips pressed into a thin line, Dr. Mui stopped short of entering the thin, gray fog and stared at him with distaste. "It's time for your shot."
    He couldn't help it, he giggled. It was too much like something out of a bad horror movie. "Eet's time for your shot," he repeated in a thick, German accent. "And then you steal my brain and stick it in some robot, right?"
    "No." The single syllable left no room for a differing opinion.
    "Fuck, man, chill. It was a joke." Shaking his head, he went to pinch out the cigarette, but the doctor raised her hand.
    "You may finish."
    "Thanks, I'm sure." But he couldn't, not with her watching. He took two long drags and pinched the end, tucking the still warm butt back into the pack for later. "Okay." His chin lifted and he gave her his best I don't give a fuck about anything glare. "Do it."
    "Lie down."
    He snorted but did as he was told, muttering, "Man, I hope you've got a better bedside manner with the paying customers."
    Her fingers were cool against his skin as she pushed up the sleeve of his pajama top, and he watched the ceiling as she swabbed his elbow with alcohol.
    "Hey? You gonna take more blood?"
    "No."
    Something in her voice dropped his gaze from the ceiling to her face, but her eyes were locked on the liquid rising in the syringe.
    When she was satisfied, she pulled it from the small brown bottle cradled in her left hand, put the bottle back in her lab coat pocket, and looked down at him.
    The hair lifted off the back of his neck. All at once, he didn't want that shot.

    "I've changed my mind."
    "You weren't given that choice."
    "Tough shit." As he spoke, he shot out of the bed and as far away from her as he could get and still be in the room; his back was pressed hard against the outside wall, fists held waist-high.
    Dr. Mui looked pointedly at the gym bag tucked up behind the pillow. "You took the money," she reminded him. "Do I take it back?"
    "No!" He stepped forward, stopped, and stared at the gym bag.
    Money enough to get out. He didn't know where to, but he was intimately familiar with where from and he never wanted to go back.
    After a moment, he said "No" again, more quietly. What the hell was he afraid of anyway? They weren't going to do anything to him. They needed him healthy. The floor was cold under his bare feet as he walked back to the bed. He shivered and slid under the covers.
    "Is this it?" he asked, refusing to flinch as the needle pierced his skin.
    "Yes." With one efficient motion, she depressed the plunger. "This is it."
    She left the room while the sedative did its work.
    "We don't want a repeat of what happened the last time," she said to the orderly waiting in the hall, her tone intimating that what she did or did not want was all he should be concerned with. His expression suggested he agreed. "I don't care how he dies, but he is to be properly disposed of. Do you understand?"
    "Yes, Doctor."
    "Good." She stepped away from the door. "Go ahead."
    He moved forward like a dog let off his leash.

    Suppressing the urge to remain in the apartment in case Mrs.
    Munro returned while he was gone, Celluci locked up and headed for the elevator. The sooner they solved this thing, the sooner they could go home and get on with their lives.
    Their theory about those responsible for Henry's ghost had been off base. Unfortunately, now that they knew organized crime wasn't involved, that left only a couple million potential suspects. Maybe a few less if the