The Donors Read Free Page A

painfully dry. “Steven J. Prescott.” His voice cracked. The man with the notebook scribbled in it with a short little stub of a pencil.
    â€œMr. Prescott, what is your full address?”
    â€œ2717 West Brandy Court, apartment 210. I’m telling you, I already told the other cops all of this shit, if you would just ask them. Jesus!” The short man scribbled and the tall man again paused for what seemed like minutes.
    â€œMr. Prescott, do you have any health problems?”
    â€œHealth problems? No, nothing. What the hell do you need to know that for?” His voice sounded more like a bark. God his throat hurt.
    So fuckin’ dry.
    â€œCan I have something to drink? A soda or something?”
    â€œWhat is your blood type, Mr. Prescott?” The man’s voice had yet to change pitch.
    â€œHell if I know man. You looking for a donation? You from the fucking blood mobile or something?” Steve tried to laugh but instead choked out a raspy cough.
    â€œAny allergies?”
    â€œNo,” Steve replied. He felt suddenly too exhausted to be a smartass.
    â€œThank you, Mr. Prescott. We are through.” The man spun on one heel, opened the door and left. His partner finished scribbling, then turned and left also. Before he closed the door he spoke, his voice a deep whisper.
    â€œYou may go, Mr. Prescott. We’ll be in touch.” The shorter man tilted his head back and for a second, beneath the brim of the hat, the light illuminated his face. Coal-black eyes, haloed by a shimmer of orange, stared at him, but looked hollow and unseeing. They were set in skin as white as snow with a single, angry red scar that ran from the temple, up in an arc and then down again, stopping just beside the nose. The man turned and closed the door. Steve sat alone and frightened.
    What in the holy fuck was that? It was a trick. Funny light or something. No one could have eyes like that.
    â€œThey got me acting like a scared little girl,” he choked out to nobody, his throat burning.
    It’s like a thousand fucking degrees in here.
    Steve sat for a moment and fidgeted, wondering what to do next. Then he rose and crossed to the door on wobbly legs. “Fuck this noise,” he said. They had said he was done, hadn’t they? Those two were freaking him out.
    Just trying to scare me. Bullshit, they ain’t cops!
    He opened the door and walked out into a long hallway; the two men in trench coats were gone. Where could they have gone? A horrible smell wafted through the air, like someone had shit themselves, and Steve wrinkled up his nose. He saw no one in either direction. Steve shook his head and headed quickly for the electric doors at the end of the long hallway. He passed a desk where a nurse impatiently asked questions of an old man who breathed way too loudly. Steve kept his focus on the floor.
    Sherry and the brat can find their own friggin’ ride.
    He went out through the electric door, past a parked ambulance, and headed to his pick-up truck in the lot across from the ER.
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    The tall man watched Steve from the shadows at the corner of the building, hands clasped in front of him. As Steve drove off in his truck, the tall man turned his head to his partner and their dark eyes met in the shadows. Then he nodded slightly, turned and walked down the dark street away from the hospital. Several paces later he stopped, and after a pause, he spoke without turning around. “Tonight.” His voice sounded hungry. Then he resumed his way down the street. The night air inhaled him as its own.
    The man with the scar pulled out his notebook and scribbled in it again with his stub of a pencil. Then he put both in the pocket of his long trench coat, turned in the opposite direction from his boss and disappeared into the night.
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    Jason Gelman felt exhausted. He had arrived at the point where he started to feel like he had the