Chapter 7: New York

"I want two adjoining rooms for a week," Owen announced.

"We rent by the hour," the night manager informed him.

Owen placed a thousand dollars on the counter. "A week," he insisted, picking up the keys and hastening outside. He led Abby from the car. She entered her room quickly and closed the door in Owen's face. Owen knew she couldn't last much longer. He slung his duffle over his head and went foraging for blood.

He found a junkie two blocks away. Owen offered him $50 for a pint. The man motioned to an alley. When they got there the addict thrust out his arm. Owen produced the necessary equipment and got to work.

Owen had studied a phlebotomy book during the drive to New York, but he had never inserted a real hypodermic into a real vein. He was terrified of sticking himself and getting hepatitis, or worse yet, the new disease called AIDS. Fortunately Owen's customer knew how to handle a needle. Blood started flowing through a plastic tube into the attached bag.

Another junkie appeared. Owen made him the same offer, which was promptly accepted. A third man joined them, and a fourth. Within a couple of minutes Owen was being mobbed. Everyone started clamoring for his money.

Owen realized these men weren't going to wait on the donation process. They were simply going to overwhelm him by force and take what he had. He considered the weapons hidden in his duffle, but what good did they really do him? Dispersing this crowd with gunfire would attract police attention. And the whole purpose in coming to New York was to disappear. Owen plucked some twenties from his pocket, threw them into the air, and ran.

He hurried to the hotel. He had just lost $500, and didn't have a single pint to show for it. He considered doing business from his car. Perhaps if he was in a vehicle he could control the number of people he was dealing with. It would be risky, though. The stolen Lincoln's North Carolina plates would stand out. And how many white thirteen-year-olds cruised around the hood at midnight?

As Owen approached the parking lot he discovered two nearly-naked women standing on the corner. He went up to them and got straight to the point. "I'll pay you each fifty dollars for a pint of blood."

"Say what?" one of the women replied.

"Make it a hundred," Owen pressed.

She put a hand on her hip and gave Owen a skeptical examination. "What you up to, child?"

Owen pulled two hundred dollars from his duffle and showed it off. "I've got money, and I want to spend it."

The lady shrugged. "Talk to the manager," she said, pointing to a Cadillac idling behind the hotel.

Owen walked over to the car, cash in hand. Two men got out: the black driver, enormous like a football player, and a skinny pimp dressed in the most ridiculous clothes Owen had ever seen.

"I need twelve pints of blood," Owen said. "I'll pay one hundred dollars per pint. I hope you've got twelve girls, because I've got twelve hundred dollars." Owen squatted on the pavement, withdrew more twenties from his duffle, displayed the currency. Then he started pulling out guns and arranging them on the ground.

The men took a step back when they saw the weaponry. "Since this is our first time doing business," Owen continued, "I'll throw in a piece for free. Except this one," he added, picking up the sawed-off shotgun and slinging it over his shoulder. "This one's mine."

"You crazy, boy?" the pimp asked.

"Yes," Owen said.

"You want the cops on you? Put that sh- away."

"Not until you take one," Owen insisted.

The pimp reached down and plucked a .45 from the macadam. He popped the clip, reinserted it, and loaded a round into the chamber.

"Guns, guns, guns," Owen said with a smile. He passed the man six hundred dollars. "I'm in room 114. Send the girls at fifteen-minute intervals, three or four at a time. When I have twelve pints you get the balance."

"What you gonna do with all that blood, boy?" the pimp asked.

"Does it matter?" Owen replied.

He packed the remaining weapons, hustled to his room, and set up shop. Within a few minutes the driver was at his door with the two prostitutes who'd been waiting on the street. Owen sat them on the bed and started rooting for veins. He felt awful about the pain he must be causing, but the women didn't seem to mind. Once he got flow started, Owen let the blood drip into three 2-liter bottles he had washed out in advance.

Donors rotated through. Several knew how to find a blood vessel, which helped a lot. Owen had raided four doctors' offices in Charlotte, so he had a variety of collection systems to work with. He started experimenting with different-sized needles.

The final group of women included one who couldn't be older than twelve or thirteen. Her similarity to Abby struck Owen at once. Not her overall appearance – she was well-developed, with dark brown hair and too much makeup. What reminded him of Abby was the look on the girl's face: gloomy, empty, haunted. The expression confused Owen. Abby looked this way because she had killed people. Had this prostitute killed people, too?

Owen tried to start a conversation: "Your…manager. What's his name?"

"Toast," the girl replied, not bothering to look Owen's way.

"And the big guy?"

"That's Slim."

"I'm Chase," Owen offered.

Now the girl did look at him. "Lisa," she said after a moment's pause.

Owen couldn't help himself. "Why are you here?" he asked.

"Why are you here?" she responded, her voice weary.

Owen considered this for a minute. "I killed a boy in juvie," he answered. "I had to run."

"Yeah, right."

Someone knocked on the door. Owen got up and looked through the peephole, saw Slim waiting. Owen let the man in. He was alone.

"That's only ten," Owen protested.

"Can't get any more," Slim said.

Owen handed over four hundred dollars. "One hundred dollars per pint," he reminded the driver. "That was the deal." Slim counted the money and led the prostitutes out of the room. Owen locked the deadbolt.

As best Owen could tell, Abby normally ate full-grown men. His phlebotomy book said an adult male contained twelve pints of blood. Owen had ten. He had made Abby wait for so long. He really wanted to make sure she got what she needed. He opened a fresh needle and tapped his left arm, adding his own blood until the bottles were full.

Owen felt dizzy, but he couldn't stop now. He knocked on the door joining his room to Abby's. "Are you ready?" he whispered. A crack appeared. Owen slid the bottles through. The door slammed shut. Owen crawled into bed and passed out.

He awoke before noon with a terrible headache. He drank four cups of water, then stumbled to the car and brought in their stuff. He ate a pound of candy, but it didn't help. Owen walked to McDonalds, devoured six cheeseburgers. He returned to his room and went back to sleep.

When he arose again he found Abby sitting on his bed. The transformation in her mood was remarkable: beaming, bouncing, mouth-watering. She had showered and put on fresh clothes. Owen became aware of his body odor. He hadn't bathed since Santa Fe. He disappeared into the bathroom, drank what had to be a gallon of water, and emerged a half-hour later clean and eager to explore. "Let's have some fun," he said.

They strolled to dinner, a giant ferris wheel looming just a few blocks away. On the way they stopped at a hair salon. Abby disappeared inside, leaving Owen on the sidewalk to get his first real look at Coney Island.

Owen had heard of the ghetto, the slum, the hood. This was his first time standing in one. What struck him as most unusual was the swarm of people, some going quickly about their business, others hanging out with no apparent purpose. So many were black! There had been black boys in juvie, of course, but not like this. Boom boxes and passing cars blared street music. Bars protected most of the first-floor windows, although a number of structures seemed abandoned. Trash lay in piles everywhere. The smells were unfamiliar and rank.

Abby finally emerged from the salon, her hair done right. They walked to Nathan's, got seated in a booth, ordered food. Owen asked Abby if she'd ever been to New York.

"General Washington escaped Long Island," she said. "The British took the city."

Owen wasn't sure he had heard this right. "You mean George Washington?" he asked.

"Things were…easy then. People expected the wounded to die."

Owen did the math. Independence Day was July 4, 1776. Today was September 14, 1983. "You're more than two hundred years old," he concluded.

Abby stared at the table. "It's all in pieces," she explained. "I can picture uniforms, weapons, officers. Events are jumbled. There's the Continental Army. There's the Army of Northern Virginia. I can't keep them straight."

"You're not the only one," Owen said. "Did you ever meet George Washington?"

"I don't think so. He fought the Indians. I remember that better than the other stuff he did."

The hot dogs and French fries arrived. Owen ate his. Then he ate Abby's. He drank both sodas, too. Abby watched him patiently, hands pressed against her cheeks. How perfect it was to see her smile!

The Cyclone roller coaster cost $1.50. Abby reached for the sky and screamed as loud as everyone else, although Owen figured she wasn't really scared. They waited in line for the Wonder Wheel, had their turn getting stuck at its maximum height. Some other time the view of the Atlantic Ocean might have impressed Owen. Right now he didn't care. He turned toward Abby and started caressing her face. She responded by wrapping her arms around his neck.

They made out on top of the world.

*****

The next night Owen and Abby took the bus to downtown Brooklyn, where they watched Return of the Jedi. During the ride back Owen lamented how the Star Wars series had concluded.

"I hate those stupid Ewoks," he declared. "I'm going to hunt George Lucas and kill him. I hope you'll help."

"I thought they were cute," Abby said.

"Ugh!" They exited the bus just a block from the Wonder Wheel. "Hey," Owen said, "want to go for a walk on the beach?"

Abby's demeanor changed. "No, thank you," she said softly.

"Oh, come on," Owen insisted. "It'll be fun." He tried to take Abby's hand, but she wouldn't budge. "What's the matter?" he asked.

Abby glanced in the ocean's direction. "There's no cover," she said.

"Huh?"

"It's an open field of fire," she clarified.

"I see," Owen replied. He had no idea what she was talking about. "Why are you afraid of things?" he eventually asked. "Don't you basically live forever?"

Abby waited a while before responding. "I think sunlight could kill me," she suggested. "I know it burns me. I avoid it no matter what. Maybe I could starve to death, or bleed to death. I have strong…survival instincts. Does that mean I can die?"

"I hope not. You've lived for so long. I think it's great."

This seemed to upset Abby. She refused to discuss the matter further. But she did want to see the eleven o'clock news. They hastened to her room and turned on the TV Owen had bought that afternoon. While Abby watched her program, he set up a folding table and poured out a thousand piece puzzle. He plugged in his new boom box and tuned quietly through the New York stations, finding the ones that sounded promising.

By the time the news was over Abby's mood had improved. She and Owen sat side-by-side and began building the puzzle's edges. Owen identified artists as their songs played on the radio: Styx, Foreigner, Blondie, Tom Petty, The Cars. Abby seemed unimpressed. She threatened to change the channel.

"You just have to give rock a chance," Owen insisted.

"I saw Buddy Holly in concert, thank you very much."

"Who's Buddy Holly?"

They settled on a compromise. Even hours, Abby got to pick the music; odd hours, Owen. By three o'clock they were snuggling on the bed, Abby tucked up inside Owen's arms. She called it the "spoon position." She even said, "Let's spoon." She seemed to like spooning a lot.

Owen woke up about noon. He sensed Abby in the next room, wondered what time she had gone to sleep. She hadn't written him a note, but there was no need. He knew not to disturb her.

He took a shower and fiddled with The Fellowship of the Ring. He had liked The Hobbit. This book was boring. He put the novel down and peaked out his window. Toast's girls were starting to gather in the parking lot.

Owen went outside and found Lisa. She looked like she had slept in an alley. Owen figured she probably had. "Hey," he said. "Wanna grab some lunch?"

A voice interrupted: "Beat it, kid." Owen turned around to discover a large woman hovering over him.

"I'd like to spend some time with Lisa," Owen informed her.

"She's on the clock," the woman replied.

Owen handed over two hundred dollars. "I want her till five," he said.

The woman put the money in her purse and crossed the street. "You better have her back on time," she yelled.

Owen headed to McDonald's, Lisa trailing along. "Who was that?" Owen asked.

"Rosie?" Lisa replied. "She's bottom girl. She helps Toast run the business."

In the restaurant Owen bought ten cheeseburgers, then watched in amazement as Lisa ate seven of them. He had never seen a girl consume so much in a single meal. Except for Abby, of course.

"Toast and his boys are in the Crazy Homicides," Lisa explained. "That is one gang you do not want to screw with. Things are tense with the Russians trying to move on Coney. They say that bag of yours is packed with heat. I'd keep it close, if I were you."

Owen considered the duffle resting on his lap. It contained his shotgun, a box of 00 shells, three thousand dollars, a spare baseball cap, and two oversized beach towels. The handguns were stashed in Abby's bathroom.

He waited until lunch was finished, then made his proposal. "I need a bottom girl," he announced. "Someone who can help me run my business."

Lisa stared at him, saying nothing. Owen could tell she thought he was full of crap.

"I'm in Brooklyn to obtain blood," Owen continued. "I need a minimum of twelve pints every two weeks. The Red Cross makes people wait eight weeks between donations. If I follow their pattern, that's two months before I can get more blood from your friends. So I'll have to establish relationships with other pimps. At least four, I think.

"I need someone to go around town and make contacts, help me set up my network. And I need a place to unload my car. I need a place to buy another car with a legal registration. I need info on what pawn shops are best for fencing jewelry. I need fake ID's."

"Toast would never let me do all that," Lisa objected.

"I will pay him for your time," Owen replied. "And I will pay you extra on the side."

"Why can't you do it yourself?"

"The more people I meet, the more dangerous things will get for us. I'm trying to hide. But I have to have blood." Owen pulled out three hundred dollars and placed it on the table. "This is for you," he said, "to let you know I'm serious. I really need a helper. I'd like it to be you."

*****

Eight days later Toast pulled up just as Owen and Abby were getting into their new Chevy. "Hey, Chase, where to?" the pimp asked.

"Gonna rob some houses in Stuart Manor," Owen answered.

"No sh-."

Owen laid on the back seat and covered himself with a sleeping bag. Abby put the Chevy in gear and headed out of Brooklyn.

Nothing frightened Owen more than driving. The problem, of course, was that there was simply no way he or Abby could ever pass for sixteen. They possessed a car that wasn't stolen. They carried fake driver's licenses that displayed their pictures. They wore sweatshirts bearing the names of local high schools. But no matter how good their disguises, a cop who saw either of them behind the wheel would start asking questions. Abby would have to kill him.

Because of the danger involved in driving, Owen couldn't case his targets in advance. He soon realized it didn't matter. Abby granted him access to second floor windows, she could sense if dogs or people were present, she kept watch from above, she guaranteed clean getaways. Owen would enter residences carrying a backpack, a flashlight, a can of oven cleaner, and an air horn. Abby kept an air horn, too. After filling his backpack with valuables in one location, Owen would have Abby fly him to their car, where he stuffed the loot into a suitcase. Then they would head back out for more.

As the night wore on Owen started taking greater risks. They struck houses with highly sophisticated alarm systems, ones that included wires on upper level windows and motion detectors in the bedrooms. Owen grabbed the jewelry and got out, confident that Abby's ability to fly would defeat even the fastest police response. By the time they called it quits and started back to Brooklyn, Owen was confident their three suitcases contained at least $100,000 in gold, gems, cash, and firearms.

Owen felt guilty robbing people. It didn't matter how rich his victims were. He was violating their space and stealing their stuff. At the same time, Owen found crime to be thrilling. Breaking into dark, unknown dwellings was such a rush. He wished they could hit more houses, just so he could keep feeling that surge of excitement.

They made it to their hotel about two hours before sunrise. Owen helped Abby carry the suitcases from the car, then returned to the parking lot. He found Rosie, paid her some money, and led Lisa to the hotel room he had rented for her. Once inside, Owen pulled out his phlebotomy text and a box of blood-drawing supplies.

"Veins in the arms are simplest," Owen explained, pointing to illustrations in the book. "It helps if some of them shoot up. They can show you how to do it. Remember, you don't have to do the punctures yourself. You just have to watch them happen. From the time the first drop falls into a bottle until the time you deliver it to my door, no more than an hour can pass. That's the key idea you always have to keep in mind: fresh blood. It has to be fresh. Old blood does no good. I'll just have to throw it away."

Owen picked up a two-liter bottle. "A pint is about five hundred milliliters. That means four pints will fill this bottle. You should fill bottle number one completely, then two, then three. That way we'll know which blood is oldest and which is freshest."

He displayed a hard plastic container for the disposal of medical waste. "Some of the blood will have diseases. Wearing gloves will help, but it's not enough. A needle will be most dangerous after you withdraw it from a donor. If you stick yourself with it you can get whatever diseases they have. Treat it like a live bomb. Get it into the sharps box and never touch it again."

Slim arrived at the door with two girls who had not donated the previous week. Owen let Lisa draw their blood, watching to make sure she followed the written procedures. Then he took the fruit of Lisa's labors and headed down the hall.

He entered his room. Abby greeted him with a smile. "I know you must be hungry," Owen began, pulling the present from his bag. "I brought you a snack to hold you over."

When Abby saw what Owen was carrying, her smile vanished. She changed to her vampiric form, snatched the container from Owen's hands, and drained the liter of blood in seconds. "More," she demanded in a husky voice, stomping her foot. "More!"

Owen had seen Abby like this once before. He was terrified she was going to bolt from the room and attack someone. If Abby ate a random hooker in the parking lot, Alvirez would track them down. They'd have to flee New York.

He grabbed a blood kit as quickly as he could, broke the seal, and opened a vein in his arm. "No," the monster begged, but then she took the plastic tube in her mouth and started sucking. Owen settled onto the floor and leaned his head on the bed. The room began to spin.

At some point Abby stopped. Owen withdrew the needle and threw it aside. Abby buried her face in her hands and began sobbing. She shook her head violently. Owen reached out a hand to comfort her, but she jerked away. She hugged herself and rocked back and forth, utterly inconsolable.

Her crying grew into wailing. She fled to her room. Owen wanted to go after her. He wanted to tell her that everything was OK. He stayed where he was and blacked out.

Owen spent the next day in bed, shaking uncontrollably. He imagined the cracks in the ceiling were dancing. He drooled into both sides of his pillow. He had never felt so awful.

When Abby woke up she made Owen drink Coke until he had to go the bathroom. She brought food and fed it to him. She obtained extra blankets. She moved the TV. She cried on his chest.

By the following afternoon Owen had started to improve. Lisa arrived, and he gave her what she needed: bottles, needles, two thousand dollars. When his "bottom girl" returned at 2:30AM, Owen made Abby leave. Lisa produced nine units of blood: two bottles completely full, another containing a single pint. It would have to do. Owen pushed Abby's dinner into her room and shut the door.

*****

"What do you mean you've never been to the beach?" Owen asked. "It's only five blocks away."

Lisa shrugged. "A lot of girls never make it there."

"Today's your day," Owen insisted. They turned right at the next intersection. Owen led Lisa over the boardwalk and onto the sand. The sun was still warm. He took off his shoes and socks and splashed in the waves. Lisa watched him, but she didn't go in.

Owen bought two plates of funnel cakes. They munched on the food while strolling east toward Brighton, hot grease burning their fingers. The Wonder Wheel receded slowly behind them.

"I have a girlfriend," Owen announced.

"I saw you with her the other night," Lisa said.

"You did?"

Lisa nodded. "She's pretty. What's her name?"

Owen lifted a sleeve and showed off his tattoo. "I did it in juvie. That was five months we were apart. It was really hard."

"I've never had a boyfriend," Lisa confessed.

They walked in silence until a sign declared they were entering Brighton Beach. They turned around and headed back to Coney.

"We go to the movies a lot," Owen continued. "We saw Risky Business last night. She likes old musicals, though, so sometimes I have to see those."

"Like what?"

"The King and I. My Fair Lady. Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. There's more I can't remember. I can tell she's seen them a bunch of times. But she really likes seeing them again."

Lisa started singing:

I'm singing in the rain

Just singing in the rain

What a glorious feeling

I'm happy again

"Yeah, that was one," Owen said. "She wanted me to jump on a lamppost."

"Did you?"

"Yes," Owen admitted.

"Good," Lisa asserted. "When your girlfriend wants you to jump on a lamppost, you should jump on a lamppost."

"She's sick," Owen whispered. He came to a halt, wet sand squishing between his toes. "That's why she can't come out during the day. That's why she needs blood. I'm trying to make her better."

"Blood makes her better?"

"No, it's not that. I mean I'm trying to make her happier."

"Then why'd you bring her here? Everyone in Brooklyn is miserable."

"We have to be here. We can only buy blood from…" His voice trailed off.

"From hookers. Swell. You ever think about going to a hospital?"

"It's not like that," Owen said. "Doctors can't help her."

"And you can?"

"I think so. I hope so. She's sad all the time. I mean even when she's happy she's sad." And sometimes she looks as bad as you do, Owen added to himself. But he didn't say it out loud.

"I gave her a present last week," Owen continued. "It made her really upset. She cried for so long. But she wouldn't talk about it. She won't talk about it. I don't understand her."

"Have you ever had a girlfriend before?"

"No."

"Do you have any sisters?"

"No."

"Women are complicated. They have emotions that men don't have. Or at least it seems that way. Women think differently. They feel differently. I like women. I don't like men. Present company excepted, of course."

Owen looked down at Lisa's feet. "Why did you choose this?"

"Why did you choose to be a burglar?"

"Because of Abby."

"Because of Abby," Lisa repeated, her tone sarcastic. "You love her, Chase? Is that it? You do it all for love?"

"I would die for her," Owen insisted.

"What's so special about that?" Lisa challenged. "Everyone dies."

Owen returned to his room just before Abby woke up. She knocked on their adjoining door. "Can I come in?" she asked.

"You can come in," Owen answered.

Abby entered and started bouncing on Owen's bed. "What movie you wanna see tonight?"

"What did I do wrong?" Owen demanded. "I gave you my blood so you wouldn't freak out. Don't you remember what happened to Virginia?"

Abby grew still. "I'm sorry," she said.

"I need to understand," he pressed. "Why did it make you so upset?"

She approached Owen and touched his face. "I can't hurt you. I can't."

"It hurts me when you don't talk to me. Tell me, please. What did I do wrong?"

Abby went back to the bed and sighed. She wouldn't look Owen in the eye. "It's better not to eat at all than only eat a little," she finally explained.

"So small meals are out? Snacks are out?"

Abby nodded.

"See, that's really helpful. I need to know that. Thank you. What else can you tell me?"

"Owen, can't we talk about something else?"

"Ugh!" Owen blurted. "I'm your boyfriend. I'm trying to help you. But I need you to…talk to me. Even about stuff you don't want to talk about."

The distant look was on Abby's face in full force. She sat there, staring into space, saying nothing.

They never made it to the movies.

*****

"Toast doesn't like how much time I'm spending with you," Lisa informed Owen.

"I'll pay him more," Owen said.

"The hotel manager doesn't like my friends staying here," she added.

"I'll pay him more."

Lisa spread a large map of New York on her bed. She started marking intersections with a red pen. "I've purchased blood in Brighton Beach, East New York, Bushwick, and Williamsburg," she explained. "I've made additional contacts in Bed-Stuy and here in Coney Island. I'm thinking we could also expand into Queens and Lower Manhattan if we have to."

Owen nodded. "I wish you could get twelve pints at a shot."

Lisa raised her hands. "The problem is the freshness requirement. The girls take turns donating. By the time I get to seven or eight pints I have to run."

"So we move to the weekly schedule. Hopefully eight pints once a week will work as well as twelve pints every other week."

"I don't really understand," Lisa admitted. "Sixteen is more than twelve."

"She seems to require a certain minimum amount every time she feeds," Owen said. "I think four pints is the minimum to clear her bloodlust. It takes eight pints to really change her mood. I always make sure she gets at least eight pints."

"What about the times I brought you seven?"

"I added my own to make up the difference."

Lisa pondered this. "Your girlfriend's got issues," she concluded.

Owen couldn't argue with that. He hated guessing at what Abby needed. She had told him she could only consume fresh blood. But what did that mean? Warm? Clean? Tasty? And how much, exactly, did she require? Eight pints every week ought to satisfy her. Owen didn't really know, though. Maybe she preferred to glut herself. Maybe she needed to glut herself.

Lisa switched to a blue marker and began circling neighborhoods. "You've hit houses in Stuart Manor, Munsey Park, and Old Field. I'm thinking you should change your pattern, try something other than Long Island."

"We need to stay close," Owen said. "Driving is the biggest risk we take."

"Well. Since we're on the topic of risk management, a gun you stole got used in a robbery last week."

"So?" Owen asked.

"So guns have serial numbers. They're easy to trace. You shouldn't have me passing them out to every person I meet."

"It's a good way to get someone's attention."

"It's a good way to get arrested. Stick to jewelry. Leave the guns where you find them."

Owen pursed his lips, but said nothing. Lisa was right. He didn't need to take the guns. Actually, he didn't need to take anything. Over a quarter of a million dollars now lined Abby's bathtub. It was a nuisance to carry all that cash when they went out together, but there was no getting around the money-hoard's significance: they didn't have to keep tripping into the suburbs.

He wondered if he was getting too used to danger. There had been close calls. He broke into a supposedly unoccupied home, only to hear someone stumbling about the kitchen. A pawn shop he frequented got raided by the police. Seven of Toast's girls got arrested in a vice sweep. Perhaps he and Abby were staying too long in Brooklyn. It might make sense to move to another city – Boston, perhaps, or Philadelphia.

But Coney Island wielded a huge advantage: amusement parks. White teenagers were always on the streets. Owen and Abby blended in. Plus Owen had built his network. He looked at the map, considered all the hard work he and Lisa had done over the last eight weeks. If they switched locations, the network-building process would have to be repeated from scratch.

"Hey, Chase, still with me?"

"Right," Owen said, trying to focus. "How's Carlos working out?"

"He knows the streets," Lisa said. "Next time I'm going to have him draw the blood."

"Is it true what they're saying about Gina?"

Lisa's voice turned angry. "Just 'cause she turned up dead doesn't mean she OD'd. Over a hundred working girls have been killed in New York this year."

"Is that why I'm able to get away with it? So many girls are getting murdered the police don't care about them selling their blood?"

"They don't care about us at all," Lisa replied.

Owen shook his head. He had said hi to Gina just three days ago. Brooklyn might possess what he needed, but that didn't make him hate it any less. So much poverty and dirt and desperation. And Owen wasn't helping things any. He especially hated how he was taking advantage of the girls. He was using their bodies, just like any other paying John. The uncleanness of it drained him.

But Abby had now gone two months without killing anyone. That was the core definition of success in this venture. Owen had given her a new life. A life without murder. A life without death. If he kept at it, Abby's spirits were sure to improve. He just had to persevere.

Owen rubbed his eyes, wishing for some coffee. Abby would be awake soon, and she would want to go out. All Owen wanted to do was go to bed. It had become a problem recently, the constant fatigue. He didn't even read anymore. He just zoned out in bed. The extra rest didn't seem to help, though.

"What's your real name?"

"Huh?" Owen said. He had faded out again.

"Your real name," she repeated.

"Owen," he told her. "What's yours?"

"Would you go back if you could?" Lisa asked.

"New Mexico doesn't really want me."

"But if you could. Imagine waking up in your own room. Going to school. Doing homework. Playing volleyball. Imagine it, Owen. Imagine going back."

Owen shrugged. He didn't want to go back. But did he want to stay? Did he want to live the rest of his life in this slum, stealing and hiding and scrounging for blood? He excused himself and went to the bathroom.

When Owen returned he found Lisa sitting on the bed, her knees tucked beneath her chin. She had wrapped her arms around her legs. She did not seem aware that Owen was in the room. The look in her eyes was horrible: vacant, abject despair.

Owen realized he was seeing Lisa alone, or at least when she thought she was alone. He had never seen Abby like this, in a moment when she thought no one else was present. Is this what Abby looked like when I was in juvie? Is this what Abby looks like after I fall asleep?

Owen crept from Lisa's room with fresh resolve. He would try harder. He would do more. He would watch Abby's movies. He would listen to Madonna. He would spoon for three hours every night. He would make sure his girlfriend never, ever caused the death of another human being. Whatever it takes, however long it takes, I will heal Abby's soul.

*****

Owen emerged from the pawn shop with fifteen thousand dollars in his bag. Lisa had been keeping watch outside. The two of them hooked up and walked to the bus stop.

"We've cleared over two hundred thousand from Thanksgiving weekend," Owen informed her. "Guess I'll have to give you a bonus."

"Don't get carried away," Lisa warned. "How much you putting out each week? It's gotta be a lot."

"Let's see," Owen said. "3K to Toast. 2K to the hotel. A thousand to you. Another to Carlos and the drivers. Then a thousand for blood, of course. Call it eight thousand per week."

"That's a lot of cash you're burning through."

"It's all about the jewelry," Owen explained. "A single house can yield ten, twenty thousand dollars. Sometimes even more."

"You know, sooner or later burglars always get caught."

"They don't have Abby."

The bus took them to Coney. They got off and headed for the hotel.

"I've haven't heard you mention the movies lately," Lisa commented.

"I keep falling asleep," Owen confessed. "It's kind of embarrassing. It's all I ever do."

"You're like an old married couple."

Owen winced. "We had another fight," he said. "Something stupid. It just annoys me that she sleeps so much. It annoys me she doesn't mind being in this place. I mean look at it. It's awful. But she doesn't even notice where she is."

"Maybe she's in love," Lisa suggested.

"I don't know," Owen continued. "I keep expecting something. Some change. Some difference. Nothing I do seems to matter. I don't even know if she appreciates me."

Lisa stopped. "Do you love her, Owen?"

"Yes. Of course I do."

"Do you tell her you love her?"

Owen considered this. He couldn't remember if he had ever actually spoken the words.

"Promise me," Lisa urged. "Promise me you'll tell her you love her."

Two teenagers appeared in front of them. "Hey, boy," one of them said, pointing at Owen's bag. "What you got?"

Owen had long since upgraded from his old Remington. He whipped out a PGS-10 tactical shotgun and aimed it at the speaker's center of mass. "I got buckshot, bitch," he said. "What you got?" The two would-be attackers ran off. "Yeah, that's right," Owen yelled after them. "Sissies!"

Lisa grabbed Owen's hand and led him down an alley. "Put that thing away," she demanded. "What do you think you're doing?"

Owen shrugged. After killing a man with his bare teeth, chasing off a couple of street punks didn't seem like that big a deal. The next instant Owen's legs gave out beneath him. Lisa caught him as he fell. "You wear too much perfume," he said. Then he fainted.

Owen woke up to find himself lying on an examination table. An IV fed blood into his right arm. Lisa stood up from a chair and went to the door. "He's awake," she announced. He panicked at the thought of being in a hospital. But Lisa would never do something that stupid. Owen studied the room. It looked like a doctor's office.

A man in a white coat entered, carrying a file. "Hello, Chase," he said, "I'm Doctor Rowse. Do you know why you're here?"

"We were on the street," Owen recalled. "That's the last thing I remember."

"You had an episode of syncope," the doctor informed him. "That means you fainted." He examined Owen's eyes, face, and hands. "Is your skin normally this color?"

"Huh?"

"There's a pallor to your skin. It's not healthy. Have you been sick? Do you have any other symptoms?"

"I don't know. I don't think so."

Lisa interrupted. "He's tired all the time," she said.

"Do you have hemophilia?" the doctor asked.

"No," Owen answered.

Doctor Rowse opened his chart. "Your tests say you're anemic. Do you know what that means?"

"No."

"Have you had a recent injury in which you lost a lot of blood?"

Owen glanced at his left arm. He wondered if the doctor could notice the puncture marks.

"They say there's someone on the street paying cash for blood," the doctor said. "If you've been doing that it would explain your scores. Your red blood cell count is way down. You're receiving a unit now, but that's all I can give you. You need to be in a hospital. You need a transfusion."

"The body replaces blood in a day," Owen argued.

"Your body replaces blood volume in a day," Doctor Rowse clarified. "But it's red blood cells that actually carry oxygen to your tissues. After you lose a pint of blood it takes your body at least four to six weeks to replace the red blood cells. And that's your problem. You don't have enough. You need to go to the hospital."

"We can't do that," Lisa said.

"Alright," the doctor said. "Then at least get as much rest as you can. Eat food high in iron. Red meat, especially, but also green leafy vegetables. Start taking a multivitamin with iron. Get extra iron pills, too. Take them three times a day. And for God's sake, whatever you do don't lose any more blood."

The doctor blathered on, trading information and advice with Lisa. Hemoglobin, hematocrit, mean corpuscular volume – none of it made sense. But in the midst of all the medical jargon, Owen managed to figure out one thing quite clearly: he was killing himself.

*****

Owen spent the next two weeks in bed. Lisa nursed him during the day. Abby nursed him at night. He didn't tell Abby what was wrong with him, and Abby didn't ask. She fed Owen, and snuggled with him, and made him take his vitamins.

Lisa purchased some medical textbooks. She read to Owen each afternoon, and he slowly came to understand the depth of his folly. The word "volume" meant how much total space a fluid took up. Just because he had enough blood volume didn't mean he had enough blood. Or enough of what he needed in his blood, anyway.

Blood was a complex substance. There were different types, apparently, and you couldn't give one type to a person who had another type. Except O-negative. That was called universal donor. Red cells were blood's most important component. They were suspended in a fluid called plasma. After a person donated blood, the body quickly replaced the plasma. But red cells were produced in the bone marrow, and this process took time. Owen wondered what part of the blood Abby actually digested. Was it the red cells, the plasma, or both?

Owen decided that on donation nights he should contract with two different pimps at the same time. That way if each produced even as little as four or five pints, the total would still be enough for that evening. He informed Lisa of his new plan. She agreed it was a good idea, although they would have to hire a second bottom girl to make it work.

Owen woke up on Christmas day to find that he was alone. He swallowed some vitamins and ate a bag of beef jerky. Then he went in search of Lisa. She didn't answer her door, so Owen used his key and entered.

Lisa lay motionless on her bed. The air reeked of blood. It took Owen a moment to realize what he was seeing. Then he was on top of Lisa, slapping her face and shaking her shoulders. Her flesh was cold. Colder than Abby's. "No," he shouted. "No, no, no!"

He realized Lisa's wrists had been cut. Her blood had saturated the mattress, and now it soaked up into Owen's jeans. He got off the bed and started throwing things.

At some point he discovered an envelope with the name "Owen" written on the outside. He pulled out a letter and read. He had never touched Lisa before, but now he couldn't stop. He kept stroking her face and her arm, trying to wake her up.

He collapsed on the floor. For a long time he sat there, staring at Lisa's dead body, crumpling and rereading the note she had left him. Eventually he roused himself. He returned to his room, got cleaned up, and loaded the car.

He let Abby in a little after sunset. "Where is everything?" she asked.

"Have you ever eaten without killing?" Owen demanded. Abby took a step back, looking like she had just been punched. "In all your time alive, have you ever gotten blood this way? In a way that doesn't result in the death of other people?"

Abby took another step back and shook her head.

"Why isn't it helping?" Owen shouted.

"I don't want this," Abby said.

Owen was at a loss. Alvirez' words came to him: Does Abby want to kill people? Does Abby like to kill people? Abby despised what she did. She despised herself. That's why she wouldn't talk to Owen. She was ashamed.

"You're changing," Abby added.

"I'm doing this for you," Owen shot back. "Don't you care?" But that was the problem: Abby didn't care.

It's not working, Owen realized. He wanted to make Abby better. What did that even mean? Was he going to make her happy? Healthy? Whole? Could you heal a vampire? Could you make a vampire whole? What was he really trying to accomplish?

Owen packed up their remaining stuff and drove them to a hotel in Brighton Beach. He checked Abby in, then walked fifteen blocks to a pay phone. He dialed 911.

"There's a dead girl at the Salty Breeze Hotel in Coney Island," he informed the dispatcher. "Room 122. Her street name's Lisa. Her real name is Caroline Tanner. She's from the Bronx." Owen hung up.

Owen took a detour on his way back to the hotel. He stepped over winos, over needles and trash and human waste. He broke down in tears, grief crushing him into the alley's filth. The sound of his crying echoed off the walls.

The ghetto didn't care.

*****

On New Year's Day Owen waited in his room for Carlos. Owen had a package prepared: needles and cash to be used in the evening's collection. It was already four o'clock in the afternoon. The man was late. And Abby was hungry. They had been laying low since Lisa's death, but they couldn't wait any longer. Abby needed to eat.

A knock came at the door. Owen glanced through the peephole, saw that it was Carlos. When he opened the door three large men rushed inside. Owen backed up quickly, blocking the entrance to Abby's room. He wished he could go for his shotgun, but his duffle was sitting too far away.

The men spread out. They wore nice suits. They had broad chests and blue eyes. The one in the middle pulled a piece of paper from his jacket and took several steps toward Owen. He stared at him for a long time. Then he handed the paper over.

It was a wanted poster. Owen's picture was printed on the top. A $100,000 reward was being offered for his arrest. Beneath him there was a sketch of Abby, labeled with the number $1,000,000. Owen counted the zeros to make sure he had it right. A million dollars. They were offering a million dollars for Abby.

"She's in there, isn't she?" the man asked, his voice slurred by a foreign accent. "The vampire girl."

Owen didn't know what to do. He assumed these strangers were armed, but that didn't really concern him. What he was afraid of was that they would bust in on Abby. She would tear them to pieces. Everything Owen had slaved for would be ruined.

"I want you out," the man informed Owen. "Out of Brooklyn. Out of New York."

"I have money," Owen said. "I'll pay you."

"I don't want your money. I want you gone."

"Why?"

"Because you're trouble. Because I don't like you. Because I said so."

Owen felt the door against his back. "She can't go in the sun," Owen protested. The man closed on him.

"I'll leave now," Owen agreed. "We'll leave. But you've got to back off. And I mean out of the building, out of the parking lot. If she wakes up sensing danger, she will kill you."

The man laughed. "Just so we're clear," he elaborated. "I've put the word on the street about you two. People are going to kick you to the curb. Understood?"

Owen nodded.

"You've got ten minutes."

The men departed. Owen figured he was about to become Abby's next meal, but he had no choice. He went into her bathroom and pulled the blankets off her face. "Abby," he implored. "Abby, you have to wake up." She didn't stir, but Owen wasn't about to touch her. He kept calling her name until her eyes opened. Then he retreated fast.

"I'm sorry, Abby. Something's happened. We have to go now. I'm sorry." He starting packing, stuffing their three suitcases with money, clothes, and whatever else would fit. He hauled the luggage outside and threw it into the Chevy's trunk.

When he got back inside he found Abby sitting against the wall, her chin on her chest. The monster had not surfaced, but Owen could tell it was close. He put shoes on Abby's feet and thick gloves on her hands. He pulled a ski mask over her face, then wrapped her head and neck in a scarf. He draped a trench coat over her shoulders. He grabbed his duffel and an umbrella and dragged Abby to the hotel's lobby.

Owen guessed it was about 4:30 PM. The sun was low but still bright. He opened the umbrella to provide Abby with extra shade and guided her quickly to the car's backseat, where he buried her under sleeping bags. He got behind the wheel and took off.

Abby had gone twelve days without eating. Normally that would mean she could last a little longer. But she had been awakened in a state of danger and forced to walk through sunshine. Owen knew she was about to vamp. The sun would go down and someone would die.

He drove to Methodist Hospital in downtown Brooklyn. The emergency room parking lot was well-shaded. Owen found a spot and told Abby to stay where she was. He picked up his bag and rushed into the building.

He hurried down a flight of stairs, sprinted through a corridor. He burst into the blood bank, surprising two techs in lab coats. Owen displayed a stack of cash.

"I need to steal twelve pints of blood," he announced. "I'll pay you ten thousand dollars to look the other way." The men gazed at Owen, speechless. He produced additional currency. "Twenty thousand." The techs exchanged looks. "The next thing coming out is a gun," Owen exclaimed. "Give me what I want."

One of the techs opened a refrigerator and lifted out a bin labeled "A-Positive." Owen snatched a dozen units. He left the money on the counter and ran.

By the time he made it to the car the sun had nearly set. He got in the backseat with Abby, forced her to slide over. He cut open a bag of blood and handed it to her.

Abby's face changed to an ugly, mottled hue. Her eyes glowed yellow. She seized the blood and drank it. She motioned for more, put her head between her legs, and vomited.

Owen cut open another bag, pressed it to Abby's lips. She tasted the blood and spit it out.

Owen was desperate. Now that Abby had tried to feed she would be completely out of control. The next person who walked past their car would die. Owen knew what he had to do. He withdrew a needle assembly from his bag and punctured a vein in his arm.

"Don't," the monster growled. "Please, please don't." Then she bit the tube and started feeding.

Owen settled against the seat, his hands clutching two bags of A-Positive. He hated Brooklyn. He hated grimy streets and boarded windows and loud black music. He hated the slum-stench that the ocean breeze never scrubbed away. Such a merciless city. It consumed human beings, transforming the living into a swarm of undead. Merciless, and mocking: Owen was about to bleed to death in Brooklyn with ten units of blood sitting in his lap.

As he lost consciousness a jumble of thoughts swirled through his mind. He should have saved Lisa. He should have said I love you. He should have stayed away from Brighton. He should have studied medicine instead of law, figured out his blood type, and learned to do a transfusion. He should have stolen O-Negative.