Blood Debt

him around the clinic. I got busy and he left."
    You had lunch together ? "You don't know where he went?"
    "No."
    You had lunch together ! "Are you sure?"
    "I didn't actually see him leave. I had patients come in."
    Okay, so they had lunch together. Big deal. The man has to eat.
    Vicki stared at a poster of an ulcerated stomach, knowing that if she looked at the doctor she'd rip the answers from her by force. "You don't happen to remember what you and the detective discussed over lunch, do you?"
    "Nothing much. Mostly we made small talk."
    Small talk? Celluci had never managed to keep small talk from becoming an interogation in his life. Or for as long as she'd known him, which was all of his life that mattered.
    "You know, comparing Toronto and Vancouver." The extended silence had made the doctor nervous. "He never said that he was working on a case; I assumed he was on vacation."
    "Technically, he is. He's just helping me out."
    "You've known him for a long time?"

    Whatever else had gone on between them, the tone of that question made it clear that Dr. Seto was not responsible for Celluci's disappearance. If she was going to knock him out and toss him in the cellar, it wouldn't be because she wanted his kidneys. Vicki turned around—she couldn't help herself—caught and held the doctor's gaze.
    "Yes. A very long time."
    Dr. Seto blinked, swayed, and put a hand on the desk to steady herself. For a moment, she'd felt as though she were falling into silvered darkness, buffeted about by waves of raw energy barely under control. I've got to get more sleep. "I'm afraid I can't help you find him," she murmured, straightening. "I just don't know where he went after he left the clinic."
    Logically, he'd have gone to the other clinics— but which ones in which order? The trail was hours cold. Vicki shoved aside a numbing sense of futility and rummaged in the depths of her purse for one of Henry's cards. "Thanks for your time. If you remember anything else, could you call the cell phone number?"
    "There really isn't anything else to remember, Ms. Nelson."
    " If, Doctor."
    "Very well. If."

    "I thought Victory was waiting back at the condo for Celluci to call."
    "Maybe he called."
    Tony snorted. "Maybe she got tired of waiting."
    "I wouldn't doubt it." Head cocked toward the window, Henry sifted through the lingering scents of the Eastside and the equally pungent although infinitely more pleasurable scents of Chinatown, trying not to react to the certain knowledge that another stalked his territory. "It's strongest here." Teeth clenched, he eased the car over the curb.
    Tony stared past him at the dark windows of the East Hastings Clinic. "You think she went there?"
    "I think that's her at the corner."
    Even squinting, Tony could make out only a vague shape. "Hey, why're you getting out of the car?"
    Henry smiled darkly. "Maneuvering room."
    Although she'd known that the only way Celluci would still be at the East Hastings Clinic was as a prisoner, Vicki found herself infuriated by his absence. A prisoner she could've freed! "When I catch up to him, he'd better be in manacles, or I'm going to stuff the nearest pay phone up his…"
    She whirled to face the breeze, hands out from her sides, weight forward on the balls of her feet.
    "Did he call?"
    "No."
    Henry nodded slowly. It was, after all, the answer he'd expected.
    "You got tired of waiting."
    "I found notes he'd left that indicated he might be here, at this clinic."
    "And was he?"
    "No." She spat the word out onto the street between them, her anger switching from Celluci to Henry, just because he was there. In another moment, she'd be diving for his throat; she could feel herself tensing, preparing for the attack.
    He braced himself, control made easier because the one who maintained control would win. "That isn't helping, Vicki."
    "You think I don't know that?" she snarled. "And you have no idea how much it pisses me off that I can't get angry with you without attempting to kill you." A raised hand cut off his reply. She stood motionless, forcing the memory of how it had been after the slaughter to re-evoke calm. To her surprise, it worked. Mostly. "So," she stepped forward, heading for the car, "any luck finding Tony's witness?"
    "In a manner of speaking." Henry fell into step beside her, a prudent arm's length away. "The ghost's name was Doug. We had a little chat with his pimp."
    "Who you killed." It wasn't a question; she could hear death in his voice. The part of