The Angel Maker - 2 by Ridley Pearson Page B

one human life is sacrificed to save many, then what harm is done? If not one, but four, five, six lives are saved, does this not balance the scales?"

    Maybeck answered, "I just mean in terms of what we gotta do. We go zooming someone, this had better be big money."
    Reading the file in the limited light, Tegg spoke without looking up, "Check the database for an AB-NEGATIVE. She'll have to be small: a hundred pounds tops. All you do is bring me the donor. You'll be rich after this. Fifty thousand for your part.
    That's what you want, isn't it?"
    Through the cavity in the hayloft came the chorus of barking dogs. Among them, Tegg could hear Felix as clearly as if he alone were barking. Felix's superiority in the ring confirmed Tegg's brilliance. There would be more tests, of course; there always were. Life, it seemed, was one long test. Victory came not from a single win but from a series of accomplishments.
    He stopped to take one last look at Donnie Maybeck, who still hadn't moved. Mention of that number had numbed him. just right.
    As Tegg descended the stairs, he felt exhilarated. This was his chance to erase the slate, to prove something to himself, to give something back, He intended to make the most of it.
    juggling his household chores and his role as Mr. Mom, Boldt visited two area blood banks Friday morning with his son Miles in tow. It was not until the second interview that he learned that the donation of whole blood was strictly voluntary. He had neglected to raise this question at the first location. Plasma centers paid, not blood banks.
    Bloodlines Incorporated, Seattle's only plasma center, occupied the back half of the ground floor of a former First Avenue warehouse which had, years before, been converted into retail space, then a dry cleaner/laundromat. Boldt remembered them both. A uniform rental shop now occupied the half that fronted First Avenue. Mannequins dressed as nurses and security guards stood at inanimate mock attention in the display windows. The entrance to the plasma center was from the side street, up four cement steps, through a set of glass doors stenciled in blue with the name Bloodlines as well as a parent corporation, Lifeways Inc.-which in finer print turned out to be a subsidiary of The Atlanta Charter and Group Health Foundation.
    Boxes inside boxes, a reminder of Liz's banking world.
    Reception held two orange-vinyl padded benches, each fronted by an oak-veneer coffee table stained with white rings and littered with thumb- worn, outdated copies of People Magazine.
    A pair of dusty-leafed silk ficus trees stood forlorn in opposing corners. The dirt bucket that held the closest one had been used as an ashtray. A large sign thanked you for not smoking. A Coke machine, its light burned out, hummed from across the expanse of institutional gray carpet. There were several doors leading from this room. The one most often used, Boldt saw-noticing the accumulated dirt around the doorknob-was to the left of reception, a high counter attended by a matronly woman wearing a nurse's uniform that had probably been rented from next door. Behind her were shelves filled with files, marked with colorful alphabetized index tabs. Her name tag read, Mildred Hatch. She looked tired, suspicious and unhappy.

    A couple of Gary Larson cartoons were taped up for everyone to see. "You been with us before?" she asked. She was apparently used to a regular clientele. Boldt's face didn't jog her memory. "I'd like to speak to someone in administration, if I may." Miles nearly got his hand on one of the cartoons. Boldt arranged himself to prevent another attempt. "Concerning?"
    "One of your donors."
    "Not possible. That's strictly confidential information. Can't help you.- She pointed out a paragraph on a photocopied flyer, a stack of which waited to the right of a computer terminal.
    Boldt explained, "I'm not trying to find out who the person is.
    I already know that. I just need a few questions answered.
    Someone in