The Relict (Book 1): Drawing Blood (17 page)

NON FICTION BOOKS

The 20 Basic Rules of Professional Screenwriting

The 19 Techniques of Professional Screenwriting

16 Secrets Revealed by Professional Screenwriters

The Chimes Before Midnight

(Wisdom for a Challenging World)

APPENDIX

I

Believe your existence matters in this world.

But never live like you are the center of the universe.

II

Our life on this planet is relatively short.

Some we love will have an even shorter life.

III

Beware of predators amongst us who kill or maim.

Sometimes with no discernible reason.

Someone we trust, even love may be one of the predators.

IV

The greatest challenge we face as individuals…

(and as a Species)

…is to continue to EVOLVE.

V

There will come a time when the opportunity to…

Solve a Problem, will no longer be an option.

VI

When you are younger pursue a dream.

If you don’t end up achieving it…

You will still discover yourself in the process.

And you will put aside any future thoughts…

… of what might have been.

VII

Live your life with honesty and integrity.

At all times.

VIII

Discover who you truly are…

Beyond the expectations of family, friends, loved ones…

… and those you have just met.

It will mean working to overcome your fears.

The fears that come from within…

… and those created by family, friends, loved ones…

… and those you have just met.

IX

We need others to thrive and reach success.

Your future depends on those across the street…

… as well as the person you’ve never met…

… who lives across the world.

X

You need to love and be loved.

You will not reach your fullest potential without both.

Everything else is forgotten over time.

Those you loved, and those who loved you…

… will be your legacy on this planet.

XI

There will be those who are dependent on us to survive.

We must not neglect their needs.

A climb to the mountain top is worth celebrating.

Unless the goal could have been achieved…

… while carrying another on your back.

XII

As you age, never live without another worthy goal.

But don’t allow the love of life…

… to be corrupted by the fear of death.

IT IS MIDNIGHT

There might be someone beside you.

Or no one to bear witness.

Regardless of the circumstances…

ALL of us face death… ALONE.

You are not the center of the universe.

After taking your final breath…

Every living creature on this planet…

… will take another.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Franklin Guerrero

Thanks to my mom and dad for always encouraging my artistic endeavors.

Richard Finney

Much appreciation for everyone at Lono Publishing and their support. Also thanks to Luke Vitale who would not let this story die.

Cover Photograph designed by ©Vittmay

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Richard Finney
is an amazon.com bestselling novelist, a screenwriter, and an award winning filmmaker.

He lives in Los Angeles, because this is where his three dogs have decided they want to live.

Visit his website -- richardfinney.blogspot.com

Franklin Guerrero
is an award winning filmmaker with a deep appreciation for the world of horror and SF. The films he has written and directed include
The 8th Plague
and the cult classic,
Carver
. He lives in Southern California.
Drawing Blood
is his first novel.

EXCERPT FROM THE BOOK

“I’m sorry, I’m not following you,” Dr. Fincher said. He and George Wyatt stood in the lobby of Fincher’s apartment building. Fincher looked genuinely confused.

“You did receive a heart transplant about four months ago, correct?” George asked.

“I... why, yes, of course I did. Are you saying it was your wife who donated the heart?”

“Yes, my wife, Carri. She died in a car accident.”

Over the last two decades, Dr. Fincher had conducted hundreds of group therapy sessions and had counseled hundreds of patients using talk therapy; he had also been a guest speaker and panelist at several conventions. He had become such a smooth talker he had forgotten how awkward speechlessness could be.

He had the urge to shake George’s hand, but believed it would be interpreted as a completely underwhelming gesture. So he hugged the man.

George returned the embrace, and for a few short seconds he felt the subtle beat of Carri’s heart.

The doctor released him, but kept a hand on George’s shoulder. “Would you like to come upstairs for a few minutes to talk?”

“Yes,” George said. “I would like that very much.”

And so they went.

****

Dr. Fincher’s apartment looked like something from a catalog rather than real life, minimally decorated with modern furniture and Asian art, paintings of koi fish and waves.

“You’ll have to excuse the mess,” Fincher said as he hung up his coat in an entryway closet.

George had nothing to excuse. The doctor kept the apartment immaculately clean, except for one corner of the room, where two stacks of moving boxes leaned against the wall.

“I wish I could say I just moved here from New York,” Fincher said, “but the truth is, I’ve been here for over two months and still haven’t completely unpacked.”

“New York,” George said. “Yes, that’s where I was told you lived when you received the transplant. I hope you don’t mind, I had to make some phone calls to track you down.”

“No, of course not. I’m glad you did. Can I get you something to drink?”

“Have you unpacked the liquor?”

Fincher smiled. “That might be the first thing I unpacked. What would you like?”

“Anything with vodka would be great.”

“Coming right up.”

A floor-to-ceiling window looked out on the starlight of Bethesda. Next to the window the architecture integrated a wet bar with two leather-backed stools.

Behind the bar, Dr. Fincher opened the glass door to a wall cabinet and reached for two glasses, but then hesitated and only grabbed one. As he put some ice in the glass, he asked, “How about some vodka and cranberry juice?”

George took a seat on one of the stools at the bar. “That sounds great. But aren’t you going to join me?”

“Perhaps another time,” said Fincher, pouring the vodka and cranberry juice into a shaker.

“See, this is what I was afraid of. You probably have a cocktail at the end of the day, but because I’m here you’ve decided not to.”

Fincher stared at the shaker. “The reality is, your wife has given me a gift. The last thing I want to give you is the impression that I take her gift lightly.”

“Well, first of all,” George said, “I’ve come to meet you, not judge you. And second of all, my wife and I used to have at least one glass of wine every night. I bet if her heart could speak to you, it would be asking for that drink.”

Dr. Fincher grinned. He got himself a glass and added more vodka and cranberry juice to the shaker. He mixed it up and then poured their drinks.

“To your wife,” Fincher said.

“To Carri.”

They touched glasses, with a clink and the shifting of ice. Then they each sipped their cocktail and savored the tart burn.

“Looking for the scar?” Fincher asked.

George’s attention had drifted down to the doctor’s blue dress shirt, to his chest; he hadn’t realized how obvious he had been. “I’m sorry, I guess it did cross my mind.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Fincher said, setting down his drink. “I’ll show you my scar if you show me a picture of your wife.”

George smiled. “It’s a deal.”

Fincher unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it open. A thick ten-inch scar ran from his sternum to the top of his stomach, like a zipper on a costume.

George could see the beat of his wife’s heart caught behind the doctor’s ribcage, could see the pulse of her physically move him.

Fincher said, “I guess I died during the operation.”

George locked eyes with him. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“Before or after the transplant?”

Fincher hesitated, wondering why it mattered. He shrugged and said, “I’m sorry, I’m not sure.”

“What happened when you died?”

“Nothing. I mean, nothing I remember. They put me pretty deep under. But I guess there was a four-alarm fire in the operating room to revive me.” Fincher started buttoning up his shirt. “Anyway... let’s see a picture of this beautiful woman who saved my life.”

George nodded and retrieved a picture of Carri from his wallet. Before he handed it to the doctor, he said, “It’s a few years old. My wife, she was a photographer and pretty particular about the way light hit her in photographs. Especially in the ones I took of her.”

Fincher chuckled.

George handed the picture to him, and the doctor stared at it without saying a word.

In the photo, Carri sat on a bicycle they had rented to ride around the Hamptons during a summer visit. They had been riding around all day, so a vital glow bloomed in her cheeks. Sun and shadow highlighted her muscles and curves.

George managed to finish off his cocktail before the doctor finally said, “I’m not worthy of your wife’s gift.” He handed the picture back to George. “You must miss her terribly.”

“Yes, I do,” George said. “She was an angel of light.” He had waited to say it until the doctor was sipping his drink. Fincher didn’t choke or accidentally spit up his cocktail, or even clear his throat. But he did stop for a microsecond as he registered the words.

George turned his eyes back to the photograph.

He wasn’t sure if he had always felt this way, but now, as he stared down her subtle, knowing smile, her beauty seemed to flow from the revelation of some great mystery, one that he felt he might never know.

Suddenly, blood covered Carri’s face.

“Your nose,” Dr. Fincher said. “It’s bleeding.” He offered a cocktail napkin, and as George reached for it across the bar, he dripped on the granite countertop.

Dr. Fincher stared at the blood for several moments, at the three bright drops marring the otherwise flawless stone. “I’ll be right back,” he said, and he moved from behind the bar toward his kitchen. “I’ll get a washcloth.”

“Thanks,” George said, holding the cocktail napkin up to his nose.

In the kitchen, Dr. Fincher wetted a hand towel beneath the faucet. He folded the warm, damp cloth neatly. By the time he got back to the bar, George was no longer there.

“Mr. Wyatt?” Fincher called, glancing down the hall to the bedrooms and bathroom. He didn’t receive an answer. And all of the doors down the hall stood open, rooms dark.

Fincher turned and realized that the front door to the apartment hung ajar. He looked out into the hallway and saw the elevator doors closing.

Dr. Fincher frowned and returned to his bar to clean up the blood. Along with the red drops, George had left the photograph of his wife on the granite countertop.

Angel of Light
, he had called her.

Fincher picked up his drink and took a sip, contemplating the mess George Wyatt had left behind.

***

George rode the elevator down, alone except for his reflection in the mirrored paneling. His nose had stopped bleeding. His hands had begun to shake.

As the elevator opened onto the lobby, George stuffed the bloody cocktail napkin in his pocket and stepped out.

He had told Dr. Fincher that he had come solely to meet him, not judge him. George had lied. And now he felt absolutely certain the man he had just shared a drink with was somehow involved in the train accident and the attempts on Jenna’s life.

George nodded to the security guard as he left the building, glad to be out of there. If he had stayed, he would have succumbed to his wife’s voice in his head, which was still shouting, “Kill him, George—kill him!”