The Living Blood

by Tananarive Due

  Dawit had lived in Dade County for years, and he knew its streets well, but even using the best shortcuts, he’d found the same clogged, useless streets at every turn. A drive that was only forty minutes under normal circumstances had taken him two hours, and he counted himself lucky that he’d been able to find his way to the bridge leading to Miami Beach that quickly. He was driving against the traffic stream; no one wanted to drive to Miami Beach, so occasionally his lanes fell absolutely clear. But the other lanes—the lanes with cars driving away from Miami Beach—were bloated with doomed automobiles.

  “Why must the buildings be so tall?” Teferi mused, gazing back toward the skyscrapers that made up downtown Miami’s financial district. “When they rebuild this city, I think they should follow a more Mediterranean model. That would suit it so much better, with such lovely water all around.”

  The water visible from where they were driving was far from lovely. Biscayne Bay’s waters had turned black, and the whipping winds had speckled it with churning crests of foam. Already, Dawit could see pleasure boats that had been loosed from their moorings bobbing precariously in the bay like children’s toys left in a bathtub. Dawit tightened his grip on the steering wheel as a gust of wind tried to wrest control of the car from him. He drove past blown-over barriers that had been erected to block passage onto the MacArthur bridge toward Star Island and Miami Beach, ignoring the two men in army raincoats trying to wave him down.

  “What do you think, Dawit?” Teferi said. “What architectural style would be best?”

  Dawit ground his teeth together. “I think it wouldn’t matter to me if they lived in caves. What’s uppermost in my mind, Teferi, is the stupidity of what you’ve done. That stupidity may have caused my wife and child great pain. And because of that stupidity, I have been forced to throw myself at the mercy of a hurricane. For your sake, you’d better hope we’re not swept out to sea, because if we are, you’d be well advised to spend the rest of your days in hiding.”

  That, at least, silenced Teferi’s inane rambling. The thought of it! To allow a man to live after such a heinous theft, such an indignity. Son or not, Teferi should have inspected the charred remains of that mortal’s house until he found the corpse and retrieved the blood. Or had Teferi forgotten that their blood did not burn?

  The bridge to Star Island, which intersected the causeway, came into sight, but Dawit realized he had made a navigational error: He could not hope to cross the bridge’s opposite traffic lanes to drive north as he needed to; the lanes were too crowded, and courtesy was extinct among the frantic, panicked drivers. Instead, he and Teferi would have to walk the rest of the way, in front of the inching cars, until they reached the empty bridge. After turning off the car’s engine, Dawit checked his watch. Less than an hour before the hurricane’s expected arrival! Well, they would have to make the attempt, at least. The walk across the bridge would be difficult, but not impossible. And Fana had said something to Jessica about a guardhouse . . .

  “All right, Teferi, let’s go. Our time is short.”

  Dawit was glad he had brought Mahmoud’s revolver from the colony. On closer inspection, he’d realized it was not a mortal weapon as he’d believed. Although it had been built to resemble a mortal technology, it had been modified by the House of Science; rather than shooting bullets, this model liquefied the air itself into lethal frozen pellets that could be fired the same distance as any bullet. The gun required little marksmanship because the gun’s sight was drawn to heartbeats, he recalled. Teferi should have it, then. For himself, Dawit strapped on the Glock and holster Jessica’s stepfather, of all people, had offered him just as he was about to drive off in the rain.

  I’m not usually one to eavesdrop, but I knew something was wrong, and I listened outside my office to hear what you two were saying. It sounds like you’ll need this, the sturdily built, old black man had told Dawit at the car window. Bea hates guns in the house, so I’ve never even told her I have it. I always felt bad about that, but if it’ll help you bring Bea’s daughter back, then I’m glad I kept it all this time.

  From his face, Dawit had guessed that the man wished he were younger, that he could accompany them on their attempted rescue with the same indifference to danger. The man’s unanticipated gesture had moved Dawit. At one time, Dawit had believed that Jessica could be his only true ally among mortals, but now he knew better. There were others. And the mortal’s weapon would certainly be helpful, at least. “Thank you again, old man,” Dawit muttered to himself, and he opened his car door to walk into the storm.

  49

  Star Island

  3:15 P.M.

  Justin hadn’t wanted this job. With everyone scurrying around the mansion trying to secure windows and move supplies upstairs, he’d been left with the decidedly unpleasant assignment of rousing Dr. Shepard, restraining him, and taking him to a room where he could be handcuffed on the third floor. Justin hated the prison-guard aspect of this work almost as much as he hated conducting interrogations, and he’d put off his return to the basement as long as he could.

  But now, there was no getting around it. His father was upstairs with Mr. O’Neal, the mercenaries were with Alexis, the security desk was unmanned, and he was the only one with nothing else to do. With his gun loaded and ready in his hand, feeling like a miscast extra in a gangster movie, Justin unlocked the basement door, flipped on the light, and began walking down the stairs.

  He’d only made it down the first three steps when he heard a chunk sound, and he realized from the star burst that appeared before his eyes that someone behind him had hit him across the back of his head. His knees went so watery that he lost his balance. Even in a dizzy, bewildered state, Justin prayed he wouldn’t roll down the stairs and break his neck. He was thankful when he slumped against the wall and stumbled down the remaining eight steps like a drunkard, landing in a graceless heap on the hard concrete floor. His chin scraped the floor when he fell, and his teeth clicked so loudly that he was afraid he must have dislodged some of them. Once he landed, he felt the throbbing pain in back of his head, as if it were being crushed beneath an anvil. “D-don’t hurt me,” he blurted from instinct. “Please. I’m a father!”

  Justin’s hands searched for his gun, but it was gone. He’d dropped it somewhere. Fuck.

  As soon as he dared and was able, Justin gingerly rolled himself over on his side to try to see. He had to blink hard to clear the explosions of bright light from his vision. Christ, did he have a concussion? Vaguely, Justin could make out the form of the scientist standing over him in a strange leaning stance, with Justin’s missing gun aimed straight at his head. Until now, Justin had barely noticed how tall this guy was. He felt like an insect beneath him.

  “You w-win, Okay? Don’t shoot. They’ll hear the gunshot.”

  Before he could see Dr. Shepard clearly, Justin heard the man’s ragged breathing. “Please, oh, please, don’t shoot,” the scientist mocked him in a grating, husky voice that sounded nothing like Justin remembered it. “Why is it that some folks’ begging matters and other folks’ doesn’t?”

  Fuck me, Justin thought. He closed his eyes, bracing to be shot. “You’re right!” Justin said, feeling his brain trying to toss him words that might save his life. “I’m j-just a lawyer. I didn’t want to be here, sir, I swear to God. I’ve never used a gun in m-my life. I asked them to let you go—”

  “Oh, I’ll just bet you did,” that awful, stripped voice said again. “Get up.”

  That was easier said than done. When Justin raised his head, the room seemed to careen around him, and he had to fight to orient himself. He thought he might vomit, but he forced himself to stave off the nausea. He had to do what the man said. Groaning, Justin raised himself to a crouch, then unsteadily lurched to his feet. Standing felt like a glorious feat.

  “Don’t fuck with me, boy,” the scientist said. “I’ll shoot you like a wild pig. I just want to get the hell out of here, and either you’re going to help me or I kill you
now. You hear?”

  “Yes!” Justin said as if that had been his plan all along. His knees were virtually knocking together, they were so unsteady. “I’ll help you. Whatever, Dr. Shepard.”

  Now, for the first time, Justin’s vision had cleared enough for him to see Dr. Shepard in the room’s dim light, and as soon as he did, he understood how he had freed himself. He had mangled his left hand, like an animal gnawing his way out of a trap. The bloodied, disfigured hand hung limply at his side, swollen, and the scientist was listing over slightly almost as if to separate his left arm from the rest of his body. His clothes were spotted with blood. Pain had distorted the man’s voice, Justin realized. Pain was making him breathe so erratically. The man must be half-crazy from pain.

  I did this to him, Justin thought, disbelieving.

  “Is there someone else outside that door?” the scientist gasped.

  “N-not when I came down. There’s a storm coming, so—”

  “A what?”

  “A hurricane, a big one. Everybody’s running around, getting ready for that. I was about to take you upstairs, where you’d be clear of the water if it floods us. They’re saying it might be twenty feet high. You’re not gonna want to go outside, sir. It’s already a mess out there.”

  The scientist’s pallid, tear-streaked face registered pure shock at first, then rage. “That’s bullshit.” He raised the gun toward Justin’s head again.

  Justin ducked, covering his face, which made him nearly lose his balance. His injured jaw was shaking uncontrollably. “It’s the tr-truth. You’ll see when we go up. It’s—”

  “Just shut up,” the scientist snapped. “Take me to a phone. And don’t make me kill you. You hear me?”

  “Yessir!” By now, tears of shame and fright had come to Justin’s eyes. What had he done? How had he brought himself to this? He had Holly and two beautiful daughters at home, and instead of waiting out the storm with his family, he was here about to get himself killed. “Oh, God,” he said, unable to control himself, suddenly sorrowed by his own actions. “Hail Mary, full of—”

  “It’s too late for all that. Just move.”

  Justin opened the basement door cautiously, feeling the muzzle of the gun planted firmly at his temple as he peeked out into the hallway. The basement was on the far east side of the house, sharing a narrow corridor with the laundry room. All Justin saw before him was the glistening white floor tiles and the unmanned security desk ten yards ahead. In what looked like an impossible distance beyond that, he could see the living room. But it was only twenty yards. After that, they just had to turn the corner.

  “It’s clear,” Justin said.

  “Where are we going?”

  “There’s an . . . office built on this side of the living room. There’s a phone in there. And we c-can close the door.”

  “Go on, then.”

  Justin was about to walk into the corridor when he heard loud voices echoing against the living room walls ahead of them. “W-wait,” he whispered, ducking back. Peeking out, he saw Nash and the black guy hurrying down the spiral staircase, then the two men walked in the direction of the garage, toward the other side of the house. “We have to hurry. Come on,” Justin said.

  They half-walked, half-ran past the empty security desk, where only a walkie-talkie was left behind, popping and squealing. There, Justin signaled that they should pause. “If those guys come back, put your hands behind your back as if you’re handcuffed. I’ll just pretend I’m taking you upstairs. Okay?” he said, breathing harder now himself.

  The scientist looked even more wild-eyed under brighter light. Justin glanced down at the mauled hand and saw that it was bruised purple at the thumb, which was bleeding and badly out of joint. An awful, open tear was across the skin. The scientist nodded absently, but he seemed barely aware that Justin was standing beside him. Justin realized he could probably surprise the injured man by crashing into his bad hand, knocking him over the desk. Then he could run for it, maybe—

  Hell, no, he decided. He was going to follow orders. That was the only smart thing to do.

  • • •

  Don’t go into shock, Lucas kept telling himself, fighting a mental battle against his stampeding heartbeat. No reason for shock. Not enough blood loss. It’s just your hand, so forget about it. You’re out. You’re almost free. Take deep, even breaths. You can do it.

  “So do you want to go to the office?” asked the whiny bastard with him, repeating himself. Lucas had never experienced the raw animal rage he’d felt as he watched this man fall down the stairs. He’d never wanted to kill a man so badly. Only logic, not mercy, had prevented Lucas from pulling the trigger when he’d had a chance; there was no need to bring attention to himself, not when he was so close to getting away. And he might be able to use this man somehow. But still, the rage was there.

  “Take me,” Lucas managed to say.

  He’d always been blindfolded when he was outside of the basement, and the beauty of this place struck Lucas as an impossible affront. The white floors were so shiny they were nearly blinding, the walls were neatly decorated with oil paintings and antique crests, and the furnishings were genteel, gentlemanly. Lucas felt dizzy under the height of the soaring ceiling, and the living room’s wall-length picture windows offered a lovely view of the rainy night sky outside. He walked as quickly as he could behind his captive, although each step found a way to bring a new cascade of pain up and down his left arm, no matter how careful he was with his hand. He gritted his teeth hard.

  There was the sound of a clicking door from somewhere, voices.

  “Hurry,” the man said, disappearing into an office around the corner, in an enclave adjacent to the oversize living room. So, Lucas hurried, bearing the pain. Once they were inside the office, the man quietly pushed the door closed, looking relieved himself.

  This room with a black tile floor and a desk and computer was small, nearly claustrophobic. In here, Lucas noticed, the window was shuttered from the outside.

  “What time of night is it?”

  The man stared at Lucas, then he shook his head. “No, sir, you don’t get it. It isn’t night. It’s the middle of the afternoon. It just looks so dark because of the hurricane.” Corroborating his claim, Lucas felt a rumble of thunder that seemed to make the walls tremble. The man winced at the noise, gazing upward as if he thought the ceiling might fall. “See? I told you.”

  Lucas wanted to pause and think, but he didn’t have the luxury. He had to stay focused, because his screaming hand was always threatening to overwhelm him. His eyes found the office desk, the phone. “Show me this building’s address. Find something to prove it.”

  “Right. Yessir.” The man ran to the desk, fumbling with a few papers and envelopes on top. With shaking fingers, he held up an unopened envelope for Lucas to see. “Here. It’s Twelve Coral Boulevard. See? This is a bill.”

  So it was. Twelve Coral Boulevard. Star Island, Florida. A bill to Clarion Health. Slowly, Lucas began to understand. Of course the blood would be valuable to a health conglomerate! The thought was sickening to him, but painfully logical, as if he should have guessed.

  “Pick up the phone. Call 911. Do it now,” Lucas said. The man hesitated, but he picked up the telephone. Lucas watched him dial the numbers. “Bring it to me. Then step away.”

  Lucas cradled the phone to his ear against his shoulder, walking back as far as the cord would allow to keep distance between him and his prisoner. He heard the busy signal even before the receiver touched his earlobe. His insides slowly withered, going cold. He raised the gun toward the man’s head. “You SOB. Dial the right number. Stop fucking with me.”

  The terror tactics worked. The man’s hand was wavering as he touched the switch hook to hang up the phone, then dialed again. “S-sir, I swear . . . listen to me . . . this phone is a direct line. I’ve m-made a million calls from this phone. But there’s a hurricane coming. Do you understand? The phone lines are b-busy. And even if you get throug
h, the police won’t be able to come. Your best bet is to hide, sir. Somewhere on the second floor, maybe. I’ll take you.”

  Again, Lucas heard the busy signal. Feeling the claws of panic for the first time since the handcuff chain had refused to break, Lucas forced the man to dial again and again, using different dialing combinations. Call O, he instructed. Call 411. Dial 9 first. Nothing worked. The lines were always busy. The man looked more frightened with each attempt, as if he expected Lucas to suddenly turn around and vent his frustration on him.

  “Sir, please believe me, the police are swamped. It’s all over the news. They won’t come.”

  Suddenly, like sunlight breaking through a bank of fog, Lucas had an idea: He gave the man another number to dial, this one with a 904 area code. Just as he had felt during his questioning, Lucas had to struggle to remember how to make his lungs function as he waited for the call to complete. There was a click, then a seemingly endless pause. Finally, the line rang.

  Was it actually ringing? My God, yes. Once. Twice. Three times.

  “Wheeler Memorial Cancer Center,” a woman answered.

  “Room 604,” Lucas said, halfway believing he’d only imagined the voice. “Jared Shepard.”

  “One moment,” the woman’s officious voice said. Oh, dear God, did that mean Jared was still there? Wouldn’t she have mentioned it if the patient had died? As the phone began to ring again, Lucas’s heart tried to invade his throat. He had forgotten his pain.