His fathernodded and settled back, reclining his head against the seat back. The youngman pulled the red jalopy over to the side of the road, parking beneath theshade of a tree.
He peered at thetownhouse, then glanced back at his phone, which he had placed on the passengerseat while driving. He reached over, sliding it from where it had lodgedbeneath the toolbox, then held the phone up, scanning the contents and movingover to the message he’d received from the man he had hired.
“32. Recentlyarrived. Blood type unknown. Michelle Lee.”
The young manread the message again. He frowned for moment. “Which unit?” he mutteredbeneath his breath. He glanced up again, peering toward the old white and bluesiding of the two-story structure. There were three garages he could seecurling around the side of the townhouse. A private driveway with an electricgate blocked any passage. This would be trickier than the others. But no lessdoable. There truly were kind people in this world. The driver’s faith inhumanity had been restored.
He paused for amoment and frowned. He reached down, rubbing at his side, wincing. He felt aflash of a chill across his spine, and he shifted uncomfortably. He glanced inthe back seat and stared. His father’s eyes stared back at him. For thefaintest moment, memories surged in his mind.
Memories of hisfather in the bathtub. Memories of his own surgical scalpel in his hand.Memories of excruciating pain. He’d been certain he could do it. Certain hecould. They had to have been a match. Father and son.
Memories ofapproaching his friends, asking for help. Memories of their refusal. Memoriesof rejection after rejection. Memories of despair, then desperation. Then camethe memories of cutting his own abdomen. Memories of anesthesia appliedlocally. Memories of the pain. Just so much pain.
The young man’swhistling faltered for moment, his humming ceased, replaced by the urge toscream. Why—why scream? They were here to meet a nice lady. A volunteer.Someone who wanted to help his dad.
He could feelsweat beading on his upper lip as the memories continued to flood in.
Memories of thecold tile of the bathroom floor. He had managed to extract it for the mostpart. But the pain had been too much. He’d fallen—he’d hit his head, slipped onhis own blood.
He woke. Foundhis father in the bathtub. Palliative care be damned—he could cure this! Hisfather trusted him!
The young manshook his head. Trying to focus, trying to calm himself. He smiled; what a strangememory. Just make-believe.
He looked backat his father. For the vaguest, faintest moment, he saw faded eyes, milky; hesmelled the scent of decay; beneath his hand, which was still gripping hisfather’s soft fingers, he felt something clammy, cold, like a dead fish.Something hideous was sitting in his back seat. But just as quickly, the youngman began to whistle again. Humming softly to himself.
The fear faded.The memories—because they couldn’t have been memories, they weren’t memories atall—also disappeared.
The young man’ssmile returned, and he reached out, patting his father once more on the hand.
“I’ll be rightback,” he said, softly. The kind-eyed old man stared back and nodded once.
The driverexited the red jalopy. The windows were tinted. His father had been bothered bythe sunlight as the worst of the disease had come on. He’d had the windowstinted. It had cost €300. Most of what he hadsaved up for rent that month. Money was the main reason he’d been forced toquit medical school and come back to live with his father.
But the youngman didn’t care. It wasn’t a sacrifice. His father had sacrificed far more.
He took histoolbox as he exited the car and adjusted the hat he grabbed from beneath thefront seat. Still whistling, he moved up the street, toward the townhouse.
He wouldn’tenter today. Today was time to get to know the place. Like a surgeonfamiliarizing himself with a patient’s body, going over the operation in theirmind, rehearsing.
The young mannodded, his eyes crinkling in the corners. It was a good thing to rehearse.Soon, though, soon he would meet the volunteer in person. Very soon. And theneverything would turn out just fine.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Adele watched asJohn reached up, growling, as he wiped spit from his cheek. He glared down atthe Serbian, his fist clenching at his side.
Adele’s own handshot out, snaking forward and grabbing John by the wrist. “Don’t,” she saidquickly. “It’s not worth it.
She glanceduncomfortably at Foucault. The executive stood in the interrogation room withthem. After the shootings in the warehouse, Foucault had wanted to keep acloser eye on the interrogation. They’d already spent nearly three hoursbriefing what seemed like everyone in a suit in the office.
Adele swallowedand looked away from the French executive.
They stillneeded information, but the Serbian had yet to provide any. This was the secondtime he’d spat on John.
“I don’t thinkthis is working,” she said, quietly, moving John away from the suspect towardthe corner of the room. Foucault stood against the mirror, glaring between thetwo of them. The Serbian smirked in Adele’s direction, and John growled, makingtoward him, but Adele caught his arm again.
“Hang on,” shesaid, quietly. “Don’t. Just hang on.”
John cursed theSerbian with a series of obscene remarks. The man replied in kind, and added afew words in his own language. “Kucka?” John parroted. “What did youcall me?” he shouted, spittle flying. He jabbed a finger over Adele’s shoulder,beneath the glare of Foucault. “You’re kucka,” he shouted! Hearme?”
At last hesettled, and seemed to hear Adele. “What?” he demanded, rounding on her.
She kept hervoice low, trying not to make eyes to where Foucault still leaned against themirror, watching everything.
“What does kuckamean?” John demanded.
“I don’t speakSerbian,” she said tight-lipped with as much patience as she could muster.
“You don’t?”John snorted. “You speak everything.”
“No, I don’t.Look,” Adele said, turning her shoulder to shield her mouth and dropping hervoice to a bare murmur. The Serbian continued to watch them with a contemptuousglower from where he was handcuffed to the interrogation table. “It’s notworking,” Adele whispered. “He’s clearly organized crime. He’s not going totell us anything.”
John made noeffort to whisper. He stared over Adele’s head, returning the Serbian’s glower.“Just give me a few minutes alone
