bottle. He shifted in the chair and concentrated on making himself relax. He had said what he had to say; his best course of action now was to avoid further antagonising the grey-haired man.
It was just starting to grow lighter outside when he finally dozed off.
He woke from an unpleasant dream of many hands grabbing at him to find the big man unstrapping the chair while the grey-haired man poked his shoulder, telling him over and over to wake up. Exhaustion overwhelmed him, weighed him down so that just getting his eyes open was a major effort and when he finally did, they wouldn’t stay open for longer than half a second. Then he was wheeled onto the lift and the humid heat that had not yet permeated the van’s still-cool interior hit him in the face and seemed to suck all the air from his lungs.
Groggy, almost gasping, he noticed the van was now green and brown, bearing the logo of a large national rental company. More unsettling was seeing that they were in a parking garage. The grey-haired man leaned over him, looking pastier and more impassive than ever. “This will be less unpleasant if we don’t have to force you. Not that it’s a party. But if I have to short your circuits, it’ll only be more of an ordeal.”
Cody wasn’t sure how to respond or even if he should.
“Good,” the man said and made a let’s-go gesture at the guy pushing his wheelchair.
The escort surrounding him blocked his view of everything that wasn’t straight ahead but he saw enough to know it was definitely underground and it was mostly empty. Which didn’t mean anything, he told himself. The country was lousy with underground parking garages, it was just a coincidence he’d seen that item on the news. LaDene had been right, he’d just been scaring himself. He wasn’t a mobster, he was a courier, just a goddam courier. People didn’t go around killing couriers. Nobody wanted that kind of trouble, the couriers’ union was too well-connected and too powerful.
A car engine started suddenly and the sound made him jump. The grey-haired man didn’t even glance at him but the others moved in a little closer, hiding him from view. They stayed close, even after he heard the car pass, until they reached a bank of elevators. One was roped off with a sign that said it was out of service. The grey- haired man pressed the call button and twisted; it popped open on a hinge and he inserted a plain metal key.
The elevator doors opened and Cody caught a strong whiff of antiseptic mixed with something flowery. His stomach turned over as they rolled him into the car, facing the back so he couldn’t see what floor they were going to. There was no voice announcement or even a chime but he could make out a series of faint, airy thumps— possibly just the motor running after a long period of disuse but Cody counted them anyway, noting when the air quality changed from rain forest to refrigerated, and estimated they stopped on the fourteenth or fifteenth floor.
The place looked like a fancy clinic, right down to the immaculate receptionist at the immaculate, shiny white desk. The grey-haired man gave her a brisk wave as he strode past, walking very quickly now as he led the way through a maze of corridors to a room with a gurney and the machine they were going to use on him.
“Take your robe off and get comfortable,” the grey-haired man said, jerking a thumb at the gurney.
Cody obeyed, a bit surprised at how quickly everyone else had vanished, leaving him alone with the man. He held onto the robe, turning it sideways to use like a blanket. “You mind? I’m kinda cold.”
“Already?” The man was doing something with the machine; he gave a small, humourless laugh. “Maybe we should get you some mitts and booties.”
“You could turn down the air conditioning,” Cody said.
No answer. Three people in white uniforms came in with a cart. Cody settled down with a sigh of resignation and closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see the cannulas going in.
Setting up seemed to take forever, although as far as he could tell, the hardware was up-to-date and they were all competent enough. Whoever had put the cannulas in his arm and leg was genuinely talented; it had been almost painless. The blood-pressure cuff on his other arm was actually more uncomfortable. He didn’t know why they needed that anyway, when the hospital gown would tell them whatever they needed to know about his vitals. But he supposed under the circumstances they wanted both a belt and suspenders. They even made a business of verifying his blood type and his DNA before they finally began the process of filtering his blood.
Once they got going, he felt a little light-headed, as always, and colder than usual. He curled up as much as he could, huddling under the robe. There was very little conversation, all too low for him to make out; no one spoke to him. Eventually, he dozed off, mostly from boredom, and woke to find a pair of woolly socks on his feet. He didn’t really feel any warmer but he was touched by the gesture all the same.
Just for something to do, he tried to guess who had done it, watching them surreptitiously as they moved around, checking readouts from him, from the machine, from his blood. The black woman with shoulder-length braids looked like she could have been someone’s mother; if so, it was someone very young. Parents of young children were usually good for a kind deed. Or it might have been the Chinese guy who, like Cody, seemed to be in his late thirties.
He couldn’t decide about the older black woman. She checked his vitals more often than anyone else but that didn’t necessarily mean she was more concerned about his welfare. For all he knew, the socks had come from old Grey Ponytail himself. Hadn’t he mentioned something about booties before they’d even started? Or it was one of the other people he’d barely glimpsed, busily working with his blood somewhere behind him. Maybe between separating blood cells from plasma and pumping it back into him, someone had paused to think he might be cold.
It went on for hours. Cody dozed, woke, dozed again. His stomach growled and subsided as hunger pangs threatened to turn into queasiness. How much longer, he wondered, irritable with boredom and lack of food. If they didn’t call a halt soon, he was going to have some kind of major blood-sugar episode.
Almost as if he’d caught something of Cody’s thoughts, the grey-haired man tapped him on the shoulder. “Are you supposed to eat something? Something in particular,” he added, a bit impatiently.
“Food,” Cody said, not caring how petulant he sounded.
“Not bread or sugar?”
“Just food. I don’t suppose you’ll give me any.”
“What if we tried insulin instead?” There was an edge in the man’s voice. In his peripheral vision, Cody saw the younger woman and the Chinese guy look up from a tablet they’d been studying together, obviously startled.
“Risky,” Cody said. “I’m not diabetic. But you knew that.”
The man gazed at him for some unmeasured period of time. He was worn out, tried and frustrated, Cody realised with a surge of spiteful joy; they all were but him most of all, because he was on the hook for whatever went wrong.
Abruptly, he blew out an exasperated breath and turned away. “We can’t keep him any longer. Shut it down, give him lunch, and let’s get him out of here.”
Lunch turned out to be a can of nutrient with a straw; Cody was too hungry to feel more than a vague, momentary disappointment. The grey-haired man sat and glared at him. Hoping Cody would give up the goods somehow at the last minute? Or just being a sore loser?
“How old are you?” the man asked suddenly.
Cody paused and wiped his mouth. Considering how long they’d run his blood, he must have known, and a lot more besides. “Thirty-seven. Why?”
“Don’t you think that’s a little old to be a decoy?”
“I’m a courier.” He went back to the drink.
“You’re a decoy. A zero. A nothing. Less than nothing.”
Cody had no response for that; he kept drinking
“The one that sold you out, she was probably the
“Who?” But even as he asked, he knew. Her name was on the tip of his tongue but he managed not to say it aloud.
“I’m right, aren’t I? You’re just—what? A day labourer who doesn’t mind needles and won’t faint at the sight of blood?
Cody pressed his lips together briefly. Whether the guy was telling the truth or fishing for a keyword, it wouldn’t hurt not to give it to him. “Roughly ten percent of the population faints at the sight of blood,” he said
