Free Thirst No. 5 by Christopher Pike Page B

place is a mess, it has been ransacked: the sofa cushions gutted with a sharp blade, all the drawers thrown open, even the backs of the wall paintings torn off.
    Whoever came was looking for something.
    The home is a two-story but already we know there is no one upstairs. The gasping breaths come from a hallway near the back door, the sounds of two dying men. Matt gives me aquestioning look and I nod. He turns on the living room light and we go to see what has become of Mr. Goodwin.
    I recognize him from Shanti’s photograph.
    But who is the other man?
    Mr. Goodwin lies on his back in a pool of blood, his head propped up by the screen door. His face is battered, swollen around the eyes and mouth, and the stab wounds to his gut are deep. The one on the right side will be fatal. It goes through the liver and it is still leaking. His features would be black from the bruising if he weren’t so white from blood loss. Matt feels the man’s pulse and shakes his head.
    “I don’t know if we can revive him,” he says.
    “We have to try.” I pause. “I don’t hear or smell Sarah in the area.”
    “She’s not here. They must have taken her.” Matt gestures to the other man, who has a single massive bruise on his left temple but no other apparent injuries. He is thirty, dark-haired, extremely handsome, and has on gray slacks and a smartly tailored black sports coat that speaks of money. Matt leans over him and checks his vitals. He even goes so far as to remove the man’s right shoe and pinch his Achilles tendon.
    “He’s out cold,” Matt says, gently feeling the guy’s head. “He has a skull fracture. Any idea who he is?”
    “No,” I say. “But let me concentrate on Mr. Goodwin. He’s not going to last much longer.”
    Matt pulls out his cell. “Should I call for an ambulance?”
    I shake my head. “It’s too late for doctors. But I might be able to reach him.”
    Placing my left hand on his forehead and my right over his fading heart, I lean forward and whisper in the man’s ear, putting all the power of my voice into my words. Yet I don’t try to overwhelm his will with blunt persuasion. There’s a pleading tone in my voice and in my own heart.
    “Mr. Goodwin,” I say. “My name is Sita. You don’t know me but I’m an old friend of your family. I’m here to help. I know you’re out, you can’t hear me, not consciously, but you can feel me. My hand is on your head, my fingers are next to your heart. Let my energy flow from my body into your body. Feel my heartbeat. Feel my breath.”
    I lean over farther and breathe through his closed lips.
    His chest rises and falls.
    A sigh escapes his swollen mouth and his eyes open.
    He blinks. “Sita,” he whispers.
    I nod. “You’ve heard my name before.”
    He coughs weakly. “Long ago. How . . .” He doesn’t finish and his eyes close. I shake him gently.
    “Mr. Goodwin, tell me your first name.”
    His eyes reopen. “Roger.”
    “Roger. Try to stay awake. We need your help to find your wife.”
    Pain fills his face. “Sarah. They took her.”
    “Who took her? Describe them.”
    “A man and a woman. Cruel. They beat us. They wouldn’t stop.”
    “Did they question you?” He doesn’t respond. I shake him harder. “Did they come for the veil?”
    Roger Goodwin’s eyes suddenly come into focus, and it’s like he’s seeing me for the first time. “Who are you?” he demands, blood spilling over his lips. He’s bleeding internally, of course, he’s been stabbed a half dozen times. Nevertheless, Matt gestures to his cell phone, silently insisting he should call for an ambulance. I shake my head.
    “I told you, my name is Sita,” I say.
    A note of suspicion enters his voice. “You’re blond, blue-eyed. Are you German?”
    He’s really asking if I’m Aryan and in fact I am. I’m an original, a product of the race that conquered India thousands of years ago. I look like a poster child for Hitler’s perfect race—one of the reason