The Angel Maker - 2 by Ridley Pearson

complete strangers.
    There were things she had done that now, a few years later, she could hardly believe possible. She had not blocked them out, for she had no desire to forget her past; it was memories of her past that inspired her present work, that enabled her to so easily relate to the women who found their way to The Shelter.
    In an odd way, she was even proud of her past. But the characters she had encountered during that time were behind her now. She felt terrified. Was it true that your past always catches up with you?
    She stepped back and admitted them. She knew what this was about. It was about dirty needles. About sex. About a different life, a different Sharon Shaffer. These two were about to ruin her new life. She felt faint. She waved them toward the dining table, for the place was small and there were only two stuffed chairs over by the television, and she wanted them all to sit.
    She had to sit no matter what.
    The bearded man said, "Bloodlines Incorporated maintains an active database of all of its donors, past and present." James Dean patted the laptop and set it down. The bearded man explained, "The donated blood is tested prior to distribution for disease."
    There was the word she had dreaded. Fear turned her palms icy.
    Her eyes threatened tears. As hard as the streets had made her, as welcome as death would have been back then, she felt weak and terrified now by this one word. "What has happened," the man continued, "is that the state's department of health, in a routine audit, discovered a glitch in the software that drives the Bloodlines' database. With that glitch removed, certain donors appear in an at-risk category, as concerns certain diseases."
    "HIV," Sharon said. It was no guess. They didn't come to your door on a Saturday morning over measles. "Yes, but we needn't jump to conclusions."
    "AIDS," she whispered softly.
    "What we need," the man continued professionally, "is a fresh blood sample. There's no need to jump to any conclusions until the results of those tests are in. No need at all," he emphasized. "The computer has been wrong once. It could certainly be wrong a second time."
    "i/in shown as positive," she stated. "It's only a computer. We need to run the tests again. I'm a doctor. We can take your blood now, or you can come downtown later in the week. It's entirely up to you." The doctor added, "it won't take us five minutes, if you'd care to get it over with now."
    "Are you expecting anyone?" James Dean asked.
    She shook her head. She found it difficult to speak.
    The doctor said encouragingly, "One thing in favor of doing this now is that you will get the results much sooner."
    "Let's do it now," she said. "How long until I know?"
    "A few days. Four or five working days, usually."
    "Oh, God. That'll seem like forever."
    The doctor addressed his assistant, "I've left my case in the van. Go and get it for me." It was an order, not a request, and it struck her that there was no love lost between these two.
    James Dean stood and left through the back door, leaving the laptop computer standing on the carpet. "Our apologies for coming to your back door," the doctor said. "We've found most people would just as soon not explain anything to the neighbors. We try to park in the back and keep a low profile."
    Again, she couldn't find any words. She nodded, just barely holding on. A lifetime lost? "It's probably nothing more than a computer error. Really."
    "That's what your voice says, but that's not what your eyes say," she wanted to tell him. He knew something, all right. He was as nervous as she was.
    His lips tensed and his eyes hardened, and for the second time she felt a nauseating fear. She put her hands into her lap so he wouldn't see them shaking. "I wouldn't worry," he said.
    "Yes, you would. If you were me, you would." She stared at him.
    "You frighten me," she said without meaning to. "It's the possibility of the matter that frightens you, not me," he explained in that harsh,