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 in 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?

Chapter Four

The sun hung blood red just above the horizon for a impossibly long age, as if time itself had stopped to admire its breathtaking beauty. Then slowly, hesitantly, as if trying the water of a bath that she knew would be just a little too hot, the vast orb slid behind the edge of the earth, winked one last good-bye, and was gone.