Richard awoke with a heart-hammering start as his flight was called in the business lounge. Sweat slicked his face. He could smell his own cold fear and looked around quickly to see if anyone had noticed. Clearly no one had. The click of computers and the low voices of last-minute calls to the office or home hummed through the air. The normal humans surrounding him had no time to spare from their own private crises for a solitary traveler having a restless nap in his chair.
He moved hurriedly out of the patch of sunlight that had crept up on him unawares. His body was geared for sleeping late into the day, so giving in to the needs of interrupted rest was understandable, but the dream . . . Whatever was waiting for him in Texas had him thoroughly alarmed—or maybe it was just the prospect of another hated flight. He'd see it through, of course, to get to Stephanie, but that didn't mean he had to like it.
Still shaky, he picked up his carry-ons and made his way to a rest room. The face that glared apprehensively back at him from the mirror was even paler than usual. He splashed water on the sweat, and washed his hands carefully, illogically checking his cuffs for stains. Damn, but he could still almost smell the blood.
A dream, my lad, and nothing more, he told himself. He did not possess Sabra's Gift of Sight, and was therefore mercifully spared glimpses of the future—or futures—but oftimes hideous dreams did plague him. Anxieties welling up from his subconscious, Freud had once told him. Richard took them seriously as warnings. He'd seen too much not to, but how frustrating it could be when unable to carry out immediate action against them. That was yet hours away when the sun was gone.
He dried off with a paper towel that felt like fine emery paper, snagged his bags, and left for the long nervous walk through that awful tunnel to the waiting plane.
He approached the yawning door of the winged beast, and a pretty attendant checked his boarding pass. She must have assumed from his demeanor that he'd never flown before, and also could not read, for she slowly enunciated the information that he was two rows down on the left.
Richard gave her a wan smile and moved to his seat. He stowed his meager baggage in the overhead bin, and slumped wearily next to the window. If anything could be considered fortunate in his situation it was the seating, since it gave him some control over the light coming in. When allowed to do so, he would pull the plastic shade down. In the meantime, he settled back to try, yet again, to relax and let these highly trained people do what they were so highly trained to do.
The plane, filled with happy, stressed, sleepy, and/or oblivious travelers, taxied to its allotted takeoff point, and Richard found himself gripped by the too-familiar heart-racing panic. His rational mind could understand its source, after all; the horrors of that decades-old air disaster he'd survived were still with him. Should it happen again he knew he would probably not be killed, no matter what might happen to the rest of his poor flightmates, yet the terror remained, threatening to overwhelm him. He pushed the memory away, breathing deeply, and reminded himself that the pilot didn't want to crash any more than the rest of them.
As if to gainsay his thoughts, a surge of accelerating power pushed him back in his seat and, obedient to his fear, Richard counted quietly up to sixty. It was an excruciating mantra, but seemed to help. Once past that magic number all would be well for him—or as close as he could get to well given the circumstances.
How he hated, truly hated flying.
A sudden loss of height wrenched his guts, waking Richard from an unexpected second sleep. He swallowed back his unease and grimaced. He'd been like a soldier in a foxhole, napping while under fire. The plane was at last on the descent to the Dallas/Fort Worth Metroplex and near the end of this particular piece of torture. This time he'd been spared further bad dreams—or at least from remembering them—but he still felt like a crumpled newspaper ready for the dustbin.
The pretty attendant marched along the center aisle, stopped opposite Richard, leaned across with a smile, and lifted the window shade. He flinched visibly as the southern sun crashed into his part of the cabin. She noticed his discomfort, and apologetically explained.
"FAA regulations."
Richard nodded grimly and shifted to the vacant aisle seat next to him, out of the sun's direct glare. Then the plane banked steeply for its final approach. Far too steeply, he thought, gripping the armrests. Soon it would all be over, and he'd be safe in the confines of the arrivals area, picking up his rental car and driving to his place at New Karnak.
The plane tires squealed as their stillness was rudely disrupted by the rushing tarmac, and reverse thrust pushed Richard forward. The plane slowed quickly and taxied to its terminal slot. He glanced at his watch and saw they were slightly ahead of schedule; it was a quarter before ten in the morning in this time zone. He stayed in his seat, deliberately not joining the crush of tourists and native Texans streaming off the plane. Those not in business suits were in the practical local uniform of light cotton shirts and shorts. He wrapped up in an unseasonable full-length drover's coat, with gloves and a broad-brimmed Stetson. It was one of the many things that he liked about Texas. Even in midsummer such an outfit raised not an eyebrow.
As he stepped into the bright space of the terminal, the first pangs of hunger inconveniently hit him. Damn it, but he'd not fed since before yesterday. In the rush of the morning, and his worry about Stephanie and the trip, such a mundane thing had slipped his mind. Now that the tension of the flight was over, his body demanded replenishment for all that expended energy. A pity he couldn't have brought a plastic packet of blood with him, but it made passing through customs more complicated than necessary, despite hypnotic help.
He'd just have to endure until he could arrange things with his usual local supplier. The insistent, gnawing feeling was yet only the thin end of the wedge, merely a gentle warning of more distress to come if he delayed too long. Out of habit, he cast about for a likely prospect to feed from. There were dozens of them strolling past, but privacy was at a premium at such a busy airport. Better to keep moving toward a surety than take a risk. He could last until then. Probably.
Phoning from the plane, he'd arranged to rent a large luxury sedan, specifying tinted windows and efficient air conditioning. Apparently such conveniences were beyond the resources of the hire firm. What he got was a cramped compact, with crystal-clear windows and a questionable cooling system. The air was rather lukewarm at first and smelled of stale cigars and mildew. After a few moments the flow got colder, but he sensed a subtle internal struggle going on in the unit's mechanical innards.
As he took the northbound exit from the airport, his tongue absently explored his teeth. He could feel the insistent budding of his canines and tried to push them back. The famished beast within him would take no rest until fed. He swung into an open lane and pressed down on the gas pedal. A speeding ticket would again be no problem; unsatisfied hunger would. He'd have to get to his supply stop soon.
When the blast of air coming from the dashboard vents was equal in temperature to that outside, Richard gave up and opened all four windows. It was going to be one of those interminable, hot Texas days when the sun tried its hardest never to set, and an all-pervading tropical humidity drenched wearer and clothes alike. He would achieve no artificial respite from it and vowed to strike the rental firm's name from his electronic travel planner and to hell with their air miles bonus.
The hot wind booming through his open windows died as the morning rush traffic thickened, slowing his pace. Sweat trickled from under his hat, and ran down his cheek and neck, turning the once crisp collar of his shirt into an uncomfortable damp noose.
Welcome to Texas, he thought glumly. And his empty belly gave a sharp twist that made him hunch over, gasping. Damn, he had less of a margin than anticipated, maybe half an hour before the cramp became a constant agony. Perhaps not even that much as the heat steadily sucked moisture from his body. Not for the first time did he regret he couldn't drink water for replenishment the same as everyone else.
The brilliant, shadowless light wasn't helping either.
He was facing east with the new sun streaming in full force, savagely pricking his skin even through the fresh layer of sun block. This particular road was notorious for delays, and he fretted that he didn't know enough about local geography to risk taking an off-ramp to a less traveled corridor toward his goal. He was stuck sitting in the linear parking lot that locals jokingly called a freeway, his patience wearing dangerously thin.
The start-stop-start pattern was slow enough for him to study a one-page area map that had come with his rental packet. He determined the Luna Road exit would get him to Belt Line which would lead him eventually into Addison. There would be lots of signal lights on that route, but he preferred them over his present stagnation. If he stayed on past Stemmons he'd be mired in the worst of it for God knows how long.
The Luna exit was sensibly wide and almost clear. He shot away from the rest of the herd and cut north across the overpass. The roads were still crowded, but at least he was moving. Not good enough for his beast, though. It stirred and rumbled with increasing impatience.
The last few miles stretched long until he hit Addison's restaurant row. He was in familiar territory now. The corporate offices of Arhyn-Hill Oil (which he owned) were very close, located in the infamous New Karnak complex. He could just see the distinctive top of its ten-story structure gleaming bright under the heat-bleached sky.
New Karnak sounded far better than it actually was. It began as the dream of a young entrepreneur in the heady days of the development-happy eighties. He wanted a haven in the big city, an oasis of refinement and quiet only minutes north of the hurly-burly rush of central Dallas. Not being an actual resident of the area, he was rather innocent of the realities of local sensibilities and traffic patterns.
It had gone downhill from there. The entrepreneur in question had a surplus of inherited money and an ill-researched fascination with ancient Egypt, which explained the oddness of the structure that he managed to build. The whole glass-and-steel edifice was shaped like a pyramid, the interior replete with thick stone columns, larger-than-life-size statues of non-existent pharaohs, and gobbledygook hieroglyphics he'd designed himself adorning the inward-slanting walls. There was a formal garden in a cavernous four-story courtyard, dedicated to and occupied by the household gods of old, and finally, brightly painted friezes depicting Cleopatra and Tutankhamen frolicking together in gay abandon. Historical accuracy played a very small role in the decor. It was as tacky as Texas could get.
Richard loved it at first sight.
On a business trip to the area in search of a good location for Arhyn-Hill Oil to open a Dallas branch, the monstrosity was pointed out to him as a joke. Its pink-tinted sides gleamed pathetic in the setting sun, the ugly duckling of the city's northern skyline. Alas, the underground parking garage was empty of cars, the windows dark and deserted, for the money had run out long before the lower floor offices and luxury flats were rented. Those who could afford to live there generally had better taste and a desire for the prestige of private homes or condos since high-rise living was something of a foreign intrusion into the mind-set of the space-loving natives. That, and a minute miscalculation in the hastily excavated foundation had given New Karnak a decidedly slanted view on life. The courtyard swimming pool was a foot deeper at one end than the indicated number painted on the surrounding tile walls.
After some discreet investigation, Richard discovered he'd found the makings of a bargain. A white elephant perhaps, but with some coaxing, it could be made to work. He saw to it that the thing was brought up to safety code, added a few architectural refinements for his own convenience, then Arhyn-Hill Oil took up residence on the lower business floors.
Instead of downplaying the bad taste, he purposely exploited it, appealing to a younger, more adventurous crowd of tenants. The word "eclectic" was often used in brochures and advertising. Those with artistic pretensions, real or imagined, were morbidly delighted, and if the decor inspired groans instead of gasps it mattered not to Richard so long as the rents were timely paid.
The vast apartment he kept for his occasional visits was at the peak of the pyramid, described as the Pharaoh Suite in the selling literature. Not a single outer wall was straight or quite true to angle, but he had a view through the slanted glass of the downtown core that was to die for. And most important, with the security of a private keyed elevator leading straight from garage to penthouse, it was quiet and secluded. No one ever asked anyone's business, especially his. In fact, in all the years that he had owned this unique pied-à-terre, the only person he'd ever spoken to in the residence part of the building was the night security guard, who dozed most of the time in the main lobby. But New Karnak had another distinct advantage for Richard, one not immediately obvious to the regular human observer, yet highly necessary to him. It was very close to his blood supply.
Restaurant row indeed.
His stomach gave another awful twisting. He clutched the steering wheel and fought the cramp, nearly running the compact up on the curb. Behind him an annoyed commuter struck a warning beep on his horn. Panting, Richard snarled an ugly reply and only just managed to center himself back in the lane.
Not long now, he promised his beast, trying not to sound desperate. Just a little more time.
Damn, but that last one felt like a knife. He could take more of the same since he had no choice in the matter, but preferred to shorten the torture. He hit the gas, sighting the line that marked Midway Road, his exit. If once he made that . . . but he drew up hard on the bumper of the car ahead and was forced to slam on the brakes yet again.
His head felt swollen and blood pounded sluggishly behind his eyes. Next would come the tunnel vision, and he'd have to work to concentrate on accomplishing simple things, like walking and opening doors. The point where he lost all self-control and could be in danger of attacking some innocent was yet hours off. He hoped. He'd done exactly that not so very long ago, and though his victim hadn't been at all innocent, Richard never wanted to repeat the experience. The problem plaguing him then had been dealt with, but he did not want to push things.
The light ahead changed, and one by one the lines moved forward. The car in front, coughing a cloud of stinking exhaust, reluctantly crawled for a few yards, then stopped. Exactly across the exit lane.
One foot. If the other car just went forward one more foot Richard would have enough clearance to squeeze past and onto Midway.
He touched his horn and got only another thick puff of blue exhaust. He raised his hand to hit a longer blast, then had to double over as the knife dug into his guts with a vengeance. A thin cry tried to trickle out from his clenched teeth. He refused to give his beast the satisfaction. His sight blurred, and he made himself focus on something outside himself in a futile effort at distraction.
The vehicle blocking his exit was of a seventies vintage, and from its size clearly guzzled gas at a rate well beyond the national average. Richard could see the back of the driver's head through the rear window, and it occurred to him that the driver too probably guzzled well beyond the national average. His head was a large round ball which connected, seemingly without the benefit of a neck, to massive sloping shoulders. Richard could only assume the rest. He fumbled with a shaking hand to sound his horn, and without turning, the driver of the offending vehicle raised his left arm out of his window, middle finger well extended.
In any other circumstance, the whole thing would have been funny, but not now. Richard felt the pressing need for blood mounting by the second, and the intransigence of this worthy product of steak and potatoes simply enraged him. He was swimming in his own sweat, feeling the acid bite of the sun, and once more his corner teeth budded uncontrollably. They would not retreat.
Cramp. His beast biting him from the inside out.
Desperate, he pressed the horn again, but the driver was unmoved by the sound, and sat a good dozen feet back from the vehicle in front, clearly in no mood to move and let Richard pass.
Then Richard was out of his car, pain replaced by a scalding wrath that was well beyond the limits of reason and safety. A warning against the danger sounded loud within, but he furiously ignored it. He knew what he looked like striding the few short paces between his car and that of the man ahead. He knew that his eyes were red, that his teeth were fully extended, as surely as he knew that the fat man in the car was going to satiate his agonizing hunger, and to hell with the consequences.
As though through a red mist he saw his hand stretching out to take the door handle, to rip it from its hinges.
Then the car was not there.
Richard blinked against the mist, trying to draw breath in the thick, hot air. Where had . . . ?
Without a backward glance the car and the man in it had simply moved forward as the traffic had moved. He was gone, unaware of his close brush with death.
Richard stood befuddled for a searing moment in the hot Texas sun, slowly becoming aware of other car horns, now directed at him. He trembled from the rush of unused adrenaline and careless action. God, what had he been thinking? He hadn't—that was the problem. He was closer to losing it than he'd estimated.
He walked hastily back to the fragile shelter of his own car and got in. Even the warm breeze from the ineffective air conditioning was a blessed relief. He was back again, in control of himself. His teeth were normal, and his eyes sparked blue in the morning light. But for how long? He turned quickly off the main highway, discovered that the traffic here was mercifully thin, and sped onward toward his sanctuary.
Less than five minutes after his encounter with unreasoning Middle America, Richard stepped from the hire car into the welcoming darkness of New Karnak's underground parking garage. He grabbed up his briefcase and overnight bag from the passenger seat. Half walking and half running, he crossed the patched concrete to the elevator. Inside, he inserted his private security card in the required slot in the control panel, punched "P" for penthouse, and lurched suddenly, sickeningly upward. Were this a normal visit he would have stopped at the lobby to chat with the day security team and announce his presence to the company, but just now he had no time to spare. The hunger that had momentarily retreated was back with a vengeance. He needed blood, and he needed it now.
The elevator doors opened directly onto his living room. Richard stepped out, and almost immediately they hissed shut behind him. The whole apartment was dark and sweetly cool. It had cost him quite a penny to install the automatic metal blinds and the special high efficiency air conditioning unit, and at this moment, he would willingly have paid double. Such soothing relief was truly beyond price.
Without pausing to savor the sensations, he stripped hat, gloves, and overcoat as he crossed to the kitchen, leaving them where they fell. He was sure he had some blood safe in the fridge, but couldn't for the life of him remember how much. He opened the door, squinting against the tiny interior light. There was a single bag left. It would do. He tore the top open and sluiced the contents down his aching and parched throat. It was way past its expire date. The taste was stale, nearly dead, but sufficient to ease his angry beast for a couple of hours. Ample time to arrange a fresh supply.
He leaned against a counter in the clean white kitchen and let the stuff flood through him. The pounding ache finally cleared from his head and with a frown he considered the incident that had almost occurred with the stubborn driver. Was that what they were now calling "road rage"? More like road disaster. Certainly the heat and stress had taken its physical toll on his reserves, but they couldn't account for such a hideous lapse in control.
He'd not been like this since that incident a few months back when his beast had seized charge of him—with fatal results to a would-be killer. Richard still shied away from thinking about it. Perhaps the healing he'd later gone through had restored his command over his beast, but the margin for error was much more narrow than before. He could no longer rely on past experience to measure his present limits. More caution was clearly required.
And more blood.
After squeezing the last barely drinkable drop from the bag, he called his supplier, ordering what would be needed for the next few days. It would be ready when he arrived, the doctor told him. There. One less thing to worry about.
Face washed and with a fresh layer of sun block in place, he dressed again in his protective western garments and strode toward the elevator. He punched the button for the parking garage, the doors sighed shut, and down he went like a damned soul to hell.
The Med-Mission Clinic sat happily and busily in a block of decrepit single-story, cream-colored brick constructions. The building, indeed the whole area, was well past its brief 1950s heyday. What had been built as an example of the best of post-war business, full of hope against an atomic future, had fallen far in its relatively short life. The aging process had been quick, and no one with the patience or money had tried to alleviate it. The end result was rotting wood, graffiti-covered brickwork, windows that would never open again, and hopelessness, a deep unending hopelessness that was echoed in the people of the area, people who had been left behind the times along with their neighborhood.
Those not in the thrall of drugs and crime were certainly good people and proud, but were all crushed by the heavy hand of poverty and need. The trickle-down effect, so popular with economists and distant politicians alike, had certainly not trickled down to this urban war zone. Here, the wealth of the few had absolutely no effect on the many.
And here, in a valiant one-man battle against the forces of ignorance, fought Dr. Samuel Ross George: Samuel for the diarist whom his mother had studied at University, and Ross because she had read Macbeth during the later stages of her pregnancy and had fallen in love with the name. To his friends—and he considered all and any of the people who walked through the door of the Med-Mission Clinic as his friends—he was just Dr. Sam.
Richard Dun met him quite by accident—though Sam later insisted that there was no such thing as accident or coincidence—one dangerously chill winter evening some ten years ago.
A cold night in Texas sounded strange to anyone except the natives who took a perverse pride in their weather extremes. Richard had been in Dallas leading a corporate seminar for the newly installed Arhyn-Hill Oil called "Personal Security in the Workplace (The Ongoing Threat)"—whoever made up these names?—and was out late searching for food. The area was exactly the sort he'd just advised the attendees to avoid whenever possible, but it had seemed perfect for the type of young woman who served him well in these instances.
The midnight hunting had not been at all good, for anyone he might have found of interest had long made their money earlier and left to escape the sub-zero wind. The few sad souls left still plying their trade were addicts or drunks, whom Richard strove to avoid. They had enough problems in life without having someone draining away their weak, tainted blood.
Richard was ready to give up and try the more risky prey that frequented the numerous bars. He preferred to avoid the entanglements inherent in such places. A newcomer was always subject to study by the regulars, and since he was often better dressed, it made him a tempting target for mugging. Countless times before, he'd encountered the very old game of the woman sent to distract him while her male accomplice(s) tried to sneak up behind, weapon(s) at ready. He'd grown bored with it centuries ago.
As he turned back toward his car, an altercation across the otherwise deserted street caught his attention. A lumpy collection of old clothes, barely identifiable as an ancient wino, was huddled in the recess of a doorway. Another, much younger black man spoke earnestly to him, his hand out. The gist of the conversation that came to Richard's keen ears was that the night was too bitter and the wino should come along to a shelter. He was either too drunk or uncaring to respond much beyond a muffled grunt.
The young Samaritan was involved trying to persuade the wino from his folly and did not notice the approach of a decrepit van. It stopped short, headlights beating suddenly on the hapless pair. The doors opened as a number of even younger men emerged. They weren't nearly as drunk as the wino and spoiling for a good time if one could judge anything by their predatory laughter.
Richard knew better than to wait for the gangers to make the first move. The speed of his action took them all by surprise. He was across the street in an instant, screaming a truly bloodcurdling war cry he'd once learned from the Sioux. It had the same effect on the teenagers that it had had on the 7th Cavalry. Some froze with wide-eyed shock, others tried to fight.
Tried.
Of the latter, two were left bleeding and unconscious, and the rest wisely accepted that discretion was indeed the better part of valor and departed the scene as speedily as they could manage. Their van nearly toppled over in the driver's haste to achieve the next corner. Lest the cursing, frustrated brigands return with help, Richard scooped both wino and the astonished young man up and, resisting the temptation to sup on the freely flowing red stuff of the vanquished, left the battlefield.
As Richard followed directions and drove them all to a charity shelter to drop off the still oblivious wino, the rescued Samaritan stumbled out with his thanks and introduced himself. Richard was prepared to dismiss the incident and resume his hunt, but during the course of the conversation learned that Samuel Ross George was a doctor.
Ever on the alert for a practical opportunity, Richard simply smiled, murmured encouragement, and listened as Dr. Sam poured out his story.
To the despair of his middle-class family, he'd eschewed the profits of a more mundane practice and labored long with the unfashionable poor. He had an idealistic desire to help those whom he called his fellow pilgrims, but lacked the means to do anything on a large scale. His tiny practice with its third-hand equipment was barely enough to keep up his insurance payments, much less pay off his medical school loans.
To his delight, Richard found the good doctor was deeply susceptible to hypnotic suggestion, and arranging a supply of whole blood for a very special patient was no problem. Subtly made aware of Richard's special needs, Dr. Sam became a provider of precious nourishment, beginning that night. More than that, he became a trusted friend.
Aware that genuine saints were a rare occurrence and often needed conservancy, Richard soon made true the doctor's dream of a free clinic, generously funding it through Arhyn-Hill. In the decade to follow it grew and flourished. Everyone in the area benefited, and when visiting, Richard was spared from making time-consuming, post-midnight jaunts in search of food.
Richard parked the rental outside the Med-Mission and stepped out. Though it was painfully bathed in broad daylight, the street did not inspire confidence. Several young men, who apparently had nothing better to do, were already checking out the car.
Quickly scanning the neighborhood, Richard saw exactly the fellow he needed no more than ten feet away, lounging against an alley dumpster, taking the brutal sun, seemingly oblivious to the rest of the world, hard eyes missing nothing behind his pale tinted Ray Bans. There were other youths in the area also on the watch, but this one's attitude marked him as their leader.
"Nice wheels, man."
This somewhat ominous comment greeted Richard as he neared the studiously relaxed teenager. He was anywhere between fifteen and twenty, with the life experience of a veteran mercenary. He moved not at all. Only the ragged antics of a toothpick held loosely between his teeth gave any sign of life within. The young man had obviously spent much time perfecting his toothpick repertoire as the slim piece of wood danced from side to side in his mouth. It reminded Richard uncomfortably of a miniature wooden stake. In fact, he'd once seen one packaged as a portable vampire slaying kit. Someone had thought it amusing. Strange humor, that.
"I need a favor," said Richard.
"I'm all out of favors. Cowboy."
What an observant young fellow to have noticed the clothes. "Then I need a service."
The kid merely stared, the unquestioned ruler of his turf, beholden to none, awaiting the next move of this presumptuous intruder.
Such games always irritated Richard, but he knew if he didn't play it exact and to the rules, there would be little left of his car when he came out of Dr. Sam's. He wanted to avoid further irritation.
"I'm willing to pay you," he added.
By some wonderful contraction of face muscles, the sunglasses lowered themselves, and a wary eye peered at Richard over their tops.
"What you want?" Such disdainful suspicion in so few words.
"They are nice wheels," he said agreeably, nodding in the general direction of his transport. "I want them to stay that way. I want the whole car to stay that way. You're the man here, so I come to you."
The teeth snapped the toothpick clean, and the boy spat it out to join a scattering of similarly broken fellows on the sidewalk. He straightened, stretching catlike, right hand resting on the pocket of his baggy jeans. The pocket sagged with the weight of something heavy. Perhaps a knife, but more likely a gun. With a gesture he'd most certainly seen in the movies, he slowly removed his sunglasses, the better to fix his adversary with an intimidating glare.
It was all too easy. One look and immediately Richard had him in his power.
"Watch the car," he told the youth in a mild tone after a moment of stare-down. "Your life depends on it."
Mesmerized, the boy repeated the instructions and the warning. The rental would be safer now than in a police garage. Hell, Richard could have the kid wash and wax the thing if he ordered it. But there was no time for such satisfying frivolities. The sunlight was prickling, burning hot against his body even shrouded as he was, and he needed fresh blood. Damn, he really did.
As he pushed through the clinic doors, all conversation in the waiting room stopped and every eye, young and old alike, took him in. It was absurdly like an old cowboy movie. A stranger was in town, and the locals could smell it. Certainly he was dressed for the part.
The receptionist, pretty and starched, was alerted by the silence and looked up from her glass-shielded alcove. Moving toward her through the parting waves of suffering humanity, Richard smiled, all warmth, and swept off his Stetson. Being inside was a relief, even in the crowded confines of Dr. Sam's waiting room. The air conditioning was very efficient.
"Hello, Helen."
Remembering her name was easy. There it was on the badge pinned to her very attractive bosom: Helen Mesquita. For a moment, puzzlement showed in her face, but was soon replaced by happy recognition. She'd been there long enough to understand that Richard was some sort of special patron of the clinic. She touched a few spikes of the short, dark hair that kissed the top of one ear, an unconscious primping gesture.
"Mr. Dun. How lovely to see you. It's been so long. Dr. Sam said you'd called." Helen, along with a bright team of nurses and other assistants, kept the unworldly Dr. Sam's endeavor running smoothly amid the chaos of the street and demands of bureaucracy.
She stood, absently brushing the front of her uniform, and hit the door buzzer release, allowing Richard access to the inner areas of the clinic. He'd made sure about installing a good security system since the pharmaceuticals on the premises were a constant temptation to thieves and addicts.
He followed her, appreciative of the view as she led him down the narrow white hall to Sam's office. She didn't have to, he knew the way but chose not to object. Once more he felt the stirring that he always got whenever he saw an attractive young woman like Helen Mesquita, and once more pushed his desires (and hunger) to the back of his mind. However delectable the staff might be, they were strictly off limits. He wanted to keep things simple, which did not include impromptu feeding trysts in the examination rooms.
Nothing wrong with looking, though, he thought.
Helen opened the office door and held it for him. He had to turn sideways to get past, and even then brushed against her gently. A familiar fragrance wafted to him from the pulse point on her throat, and he paused in the doorway, still in light contact with her.
"Freesia," he said, amiably gazing down into her enormous brown eyes.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Your perfume. It's Freesia. One of my favorites. Natural and . . . pure."
Did she actually flutter those lovely eyelashes? Certainly his lingering attention had her heart beating hard and fast. "Why, thank you. It probably is. I never look at what I put on. I'm lucky I don't just smell of ether and rubbing alcohol."
She smiled up at him, backing free in the narrow space, but sliding against his body—deliberately, Richard knew—to return the way she came. Richard's gaze followed her hungrily.
No complications, old lad, he firmly told himself. Not without a degree of regret. She looked to be very tasty, indeed.
"Richard, good to see you!"
Dr. Sam emerged from one of the examining rooms farther along the hall, a delighted grin on his dark face and arms outstretched in greeting. He was slight in build, but wiry in strength. He gripped Richard's hand for a solid shake then a brief, back-slapping embrace.
"How are you?" he demanded. "This isn't the time of year for your usual visit. What's going on?" He ushered Richard into his office and shut the door.
"Nothing special, just some business that needs looking into."
"Not this place, I hope."
"Of course not, I trust your accountant." After all, Richard had picked her himself. "I'm in need of supplies, no more than that."
"Got you covered. This should do for you." Sam went to a small refrigerator and opened it wide to display the contents.
Richard eyed the pile of flat plastic bags filled with precious life within. His mouth was suddenly dry and his speech came out as a whisper. "It will, indeed. If you don't mind very much I'd like to . . ."
Sam instantly understood and handed over one of the pint bags. All other aspects of the doctor's life and work were his own, but where Richard was concerned, he'd been carefully primed and programmed to accept and ignore certain things. Watching his patron drinking down a pint of human blood and thinking it to be perfectly normal was one of them. For all the reaction he displayed Richard might have been imbibing a can of soda.
He drained it away in a mere few seconds, hardly regarding the taste. It was better than what he'd had earlier, fresher, more nourishing. Though it could never satisfy as fully as taking directly from a vein it would keep him alive and safe to be around. He allowed himself one small ecstatic shudder as his starved beast finally rolled over and went to sleep.
Until the next time.
"You're looking well, as ever," said Dr. Sam, dropping into a worn chair behind his cluttered desk. Richard took a chair before it. Sated for now, and with the rest of the day to wait, he could indulge himself in a brief visit.
"You, too." Though Richard noticed a few curls of gray making a beachhead in the hair around Sam's temples. They stood out against the deep chocolate color of his skin. How old was he anyway? Richard always thought of him as a very young man. "How are things going?"
"Busy. I'm trying to entice a few more doctors into helping out with the load, but they don't care for the pay. Helen's looking into finding some community support—"
"I'm not here to talk about the money. Arhyn-Hill will give you whatever funds you need to hire whomever you wish, you know that. I want to know how things are going for you."
Sam shrugged as though thinking about himself was not an especially important activity to him. In his case it was likely to be true. "I'm all right. I take my vitamins and wrap up in the winter."
Still no wedding ring on his finger. Richard harbored a hope that Sam would marry an equally nice girl and make lots of little Sams and Samanthas to spread some of his goodness and cheer in the world. "Are you happy?"
Sam blinked, evidently surprised, but did not say anything right away. The nature of the query and their friendship required something more than a casual answer.
"Are you?" asked Richard after a moment to give the man time to think.
In reply Sam gestured at the office. Its walls were decorated with laminated anatomy charts and grim public service posters bearing warnings against drug abuse, sexually transmitted diseases, and domestic violence. "I'm trying to keep people alive who have to sleep on the floor because some neighborhood bozos think they're hell on wheels with their guns. I've got an eleven-year-old girl whose uncle got her pregnant with twins, and her mother says it's a righteous judgment from God if the delivery kills her. One of my patients died last week from the heat because she was afraid of not affording her electric bill if she ran her fan, and three others came in to find out their test for HIV was positive. I'm operating an improbability in the midst of insanity, Richard, and the sad fact of it is that, yes, I am happy."
This time Richard could not bring himself to speak for a while. Nothing would have been appropriate. He finally rolled up the empty blood bag and dropped it in a waste basket. "How is that possible?"
"Because I know what this place would be like if I wasn't here, doing what I'm doing." Anyone else would have sounded to be in love with his own ego, but not Sam. He simply stated facts.
"It would be worse," said Richard.
"Yes. A hellhole with no ladder out. I've made some things better, thanks to you, and I'd like to cure all of it, but I know that will never happen. There's just too much of the bad stuff and not enough of me. But what I can do is try to ease one disaster at a time and hope it goes out from there."
"You sound like you've had some successes."
"A few. At least I got that little girl out of her abusive environment and had the uncle arrested. The rest of the family's trying to talk sense into the mother. It's not much, but that's what keeps me going."
"You know if you need anything, you've only to call. Collect."
Sam flashed a single, short grin. "Well, since the subject has come up . . ."
In less than five minutes, Richard agreed to the purchase of a quantity of new medical equipment, an upgrading of the clinic's computer system, and some special filters designed to trap a particularly virulent bacteria that had been found in the Dallas water system. Its chief prey were AIDS victims and anyone else with an impaired immune system. Dr. Sam wanted the filters installed in the homes of his high-risk patients.
"As many as you want," said Richard. "Have Helen fax it in and get things started. You can have the first shipment by the end of the week."
"You're a saint," said Dr. Sam.
"I don't think so." And Richard refrained from telling the doctor to look in a mirror. It wasn't that the man simply did good works, he really was good in himself, and Richard liked to bask in the glow surrounding him. He'd have to ask Sabra to come down from her near-hermitage in Vancouver and meet the man sometime. She'd like him.
Richard left the clinic slightly humbled as always whenever he had contact with Sam. He freed his untouched, utterly scratch-free rental from the tender concern of the young hoodlum, told him to forget their encounter, then drove back to New Karnak. Very easy. On the passenger seat lay a heavy opaque plastic bag that held a disposable ice pack and three pints of pure sustenance. He'd have to get them refrigerated quickly before the damned heat coagulated the lot to undrinkability.
He swung onto the Dallas tollway and headed for home as fast as the afternoon traffic allowed. The sun now shone nearly directly overhead. His face itched and reddened, yet still that blazing sign of passing time gladdened him. It would soon be night, and he'd be able to leave to see Stephanie. With the easing of his desperate hunger, the worry for her reasserted itself and now took a turn at twisting his guts.
What had happened with her today? And what was she doing now?