"You know who this is," Dr. Blackstone said. "No details. I'm on the cell. Answer me this. What can I expect tonight?"
Dr. Blackstone stroked his narrow black goatee as he listened. He rubbed his hands together back and forth as if anticipating a delicious meal.
"When can I expect your delivery?" he asked.
He had started to pace the white-tiled floor as he continued to
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listen when the sound of the exterior door opening behind him stole his attention. He'd been anticipating them. They knew the entrance code and were punctual.
"I've got company." He listened, then added, "Yes, our friends from abroad. Tonight, then. One hour." He abruptly terminated the call and turned to his visitors.
"Illya . . . Zhenya . . . Welcome."
Dr. Blackstone extended his hand to greet the Russians, first to Illya Kravchuk, the brains of the duo, then to Zhenya—whose last name was unknown to him—the brawn, although both men were pure steel. As he moved close to shake hands, his mind flashed back to a prior visit. He had taken them to Rally's gym for a workout and had never forgotten the experience; he witnessed their raw strength as they tossed the free weights around like two gladiators playing with plastic toys.
Neither man broke a sweat.
He recalled how afterward, in the locker room, Zhenya stood naked in front of the sink to shave his head. From the base of his neck down to his ankles, virtually every inch of Zhenya's muscular frame was wallpapered with tattoos: snakes, dragons, daggers, and females in various stages of undress.
When Illya stepped out of the shower. Dr. Blackstone noticed he, too, sported a similar collection of body art with two notable additions: the image of Saint Vladimir and a black widow spider.
But tonight, Dr. Blackstone observed, both men wore expensive black suits, charcoal gray shirts with gold cuff links, and shiny black shoes. Zhenya carried an unscuffed black leather case. No crosses. No body piercing. No facial hair. The only imperfection would be their broken English.
They shook hands, eye to eye.
Illya spoke. "Comrade Blackstone. How nice to see of you. You look well."
"As do you, Illya," Dr. Blackstone said politely although he thought
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he detected a tension boiling beneath Illya's cold exterior. "Something to drink, gentlemen? A shot of vodka and a pickle? I have an unopened bottle of Stolichnaya ..."
"Perhaps another time, Julius." Illya waved him off.
"Smoke?" Zhenya offered Dr. Blackstone one of his nonfiltered cigarettes.
"No thank you. But feel free," he said, knowing full well Zhenya would do whatever he pleased.
"Allow me to find point quickly," Illya said. "We are, how you say, without pleasure at situation."
Zhenya leaned toward his boss and said, "Ti razacharoval menya."
Illya nodded. He locked eyes with Dr. Blackstone, unflinching. "You disappoint us. Doctor."
Dr. Blackstone glanced from Illya to Zhenya, who at six-foot-one stood several inches taller, then back to Illya.
"What am I missing here? Everything is on schedule."
A long minute passed between them. Dr. Blackstone knew waiting was part of the game. In the stillness, he could hear the end of Zhenya's cigarette sizzle each time Zhenya took a deep, unhurried drag.
Illya broke the silence. "How important are your fingers to your work, Dr. Julius Blackstone?" Illya pulled a nutcracker from his right front pocket and cracked open a walnut. Pieces of the shell fell to the ground. He made no effort to pick them up.
"What are you saying?" Dr. Blackstone wiped the side of his chin with the back of his hand.
"What do you think?" Illya said, closing the nutcracker with a click.
Whatever Illya was driving at, Dr. Blackstone didn't have time to mince words. Preparations had to be made. Timing was everything and he had a tight schedule to keep. "You'll get your usual package— in the morning—as promised. Our agreement was cash money paid each time upon delivery. With all due respect, Mr. Kravchuk, I'm a busy man, not a bank. Do you have the money?"
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A nod. "Zhenya, show good doctor bag of goodies."
Dr. Blackstone watched as Zhenya lifted the briefcase and held it in a horizontal position. Zhenya opened the lid. Inside he saw five rows of neatly stacked hundred-dollar bills. A wicked smile crossed his lips.
"Fifty-five thousand American dollars. If you like, count to be happy. There's much more where from that came, but alas. Dr. Blackstone, this is, um, the meat of the heart."
The heart of the matter —Dr. Blackstone was tempted to correct the metaphor, but caught himself
Illya cracked open another walnut. The fallen pieces crunched beneath the heel of his shoe. "You said usual' package," Illya continued. "There is something about lousiness as usual' that is, how you say, a snore? I much to prefer idea of business going up. Mi poneali drook droogar
It took a moment for Dr. Blackstone's limited Russian to make the translation: Do we understand each other? Sure, he understood, and said so. "Poneal."
No one spoke for a long minute. Zhenya took a final drag from his cigarette. He exhaled, blowing the fumes in the direction of Dr. Blackstone's face, and then dropped the butt to the floor.
Illya approached Dr. Blackstone and then reached around the base of Dr. Blackstone's neck with a powerful, viselike grip and squeezed. Illya lowered his voice a notch: "Do not disappoint no more."
They stared at each other—neither flinching.
"Nasha hesyeda zakonchilsya." This conversation is over.
Illya turned and headed to the door. "Come, Zhenya."
Dr. Blackstone leered at the back of Illya's bald head.
Chapter 5 ^ Friday, 11:31 p.m
Jodi swallowed hard. Her heart pounded against her chest with the force of a sledgehammer. Panicked, she had difficulty breathing. The more she struggled, the more the grip held fast, like superglue. Why couldn t she break free? What did this stranger want with her? Where was he taking her? Jodi felt his face nuzzle against her neck. She bristled.
"Don't fight it, babe." He spoke the words directly into her left ear, but the voice sounded muffled, even slurred.
Where is Bruce? she wondered. Doesn't he hear me? What if he doesn't come in time?
She screamed with everything she had.
"Brr-uuu-ce!"
Without warning, Jodi felt the arms around her go slack. She almost dropped to the floor. With some effort, she managed to stagger around and face her attacker. Her breath came in heaves. She wanted to run but felt compelled to see who the creep was.
As she stared, the darkness between them was intermittently pierced by blasts of laser light. A large, muscular guy wearing a Philadelphia Eagles jersey and blue jeans looked back at her. Something about him seemed vaguely familiar. But his face was covered by a blue surgical mask.
An instant later Bruce appeared by her side. "Jodi, you look like youVe seen a ghost."
Jodi pointed at the guy with the jersey and shouted, "He attacked me—"
The boy hastily lowered his mask. "Hey, chill out. It's me—Stan Taylor."
Jodi's eyes widened in disbelief. "Well I..." She took a deep breath and crossed her arms. "That wasn't funny, Stan. How was I supposed to know it was you?" She glared at him. "I don't appreciate your—"
"You're way too uptight, kiddo," Stan said. "I'm just having a little fun here." Stan started to do a Snoopy dance in place. "Lighten up. You'll live longer."
Jodi's face felt flushed. She knew Stan "da Man" from school. Who didn't? As the star defensive lineman for the school's football team, which remained undefeated in the last season, Stan charmed his way into the hearts of students and teachers alike—especially the female students. Jodi had gotten to know him on the houseboat for the practical joker that he was.
She tried to say something witty, but she was too upset to think of a zinger. To her relief, Bruce changed the subject.
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"Hey, what's with the mask?"
Jodi shouted, "He thinks he's Zorro."
"That's really funny, Jodi." Stan smirked.
"I'm serious; what's up with that?" Bruce reached out and touched the front of the mask that hung around his neck. 'And what's that slimy stuff?" He leaned forward to take a whiff. "That's that VapoRub stuff. You sick?"
"Me, sick? No way. A little Vicks makes everything, you know, smooth," Stan said with a grin. "Like they say Try it, you'll like it."
Jodi put one hand on her hip. "Tell me you're not rolling or whatever, Stan," she said.
"Hey, it's just one tab of E and a little Vicks. You know, sometimes you just gotta row with the flow."
Jodi wasn't sure if he was serious. "That's so not happening."
"Why are you jumping my case?" Stan said.
"I guess I didn't know you were a druggie." Jodi stared, both eyebrows raised.
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Stan shrugged. "It's not like I do this all the time. Just sorta groovin' with the flow, Joe." He danced in place.
Bruce shouted, "You see any of the others?"
"Yeah. Heather's around here. Boy, can that girlie dance, know what I'm saying? Got that bootie shake happening big time." Stan elbowed Bruce with a wink. His eyes drifted over Jodi's shoulder. "Speak of the devil, she's over there." He pointed behind them, toward center stage, in the middle of the swarm of dancers.
Jodi turned around and was stunned to see Heather dancing hip to hip, then crotch to crotch with a bizarre-looking stranger. Heather wore a tight, white tube top and equally tight, hipster white jeans. Her clothes glowed with a purplish tint under the ultraviolet black light. Jodi's face flushed as Heather worked her body with an animalistic frenzy
This was the same girlfriend who gave her heart to Christ at Windy Gap, a Young Life camp in Maryland, several years ago; the same friend who had just finished studying Romans 12 with Jodi last Sunday at church. Whatever happened to "Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, "Jodi wondered. She looked away sadly.
"She's got more moves than Britney Spears," Stan said to Bruce.
"Waa-ka Waa-ka," Bruce added, his head bobbing to the music.
'Are you guys done drooling?" Jodi asked. "I'd sure like to find Kat, you know?" She checked her watch: 11:37 p.m. They were running out of time before they would have to head home.
Stan put his mask on, inhaled, then asked, "You try upstairs?"
Jodi and Bruce exchanged glances.
Stan pointed to a doorway. He lowered his mask. "Take the steps up to the chill room. I thought I saw her there."
"The what?" Jodi shouted as the DJ ramped up the volume.
"Chill room . . . She's probably hangin' low, you know, just trip-pin' out—"
Alarmed at the thought that Kat might be doing drugs, Jodi grabbed Bruce by the arm. "Bruce, let's go—"
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Stan blurted out, "Hey, what gives? You her baby-sitter now? Come on, I say let's party . . . she's a big girl."
Jodi threw Stan a disgusted look.
Stan said, "Why do you always have to rescue Kat, Jodi?"
"We'll talk about this later, okay?" Jodi's voice rose a notch. "Bruce, you coming?"
A fresh wave of urgency washed over her as she considered the situation. She hoped Kat wasn't so stupid as to take such a risk. Certainly not now—not after all they had gone through to save Kat's life just two months ago on the houseboat. The memories came flooding back as she and Bruce worked their way through the crowd to the stairway.
Kat had an accident, lost both kidneys, and would have died— except that Jodi, who had the same blood type, gave Kat one of her kidneys. That act saved Kat's life and left Jodi with one less vital organ. Donations like that weren't as casual as tossing coins in a Salvation Army bucket at Christmastime. This had been a major decision on Jodi's part—and a major sacrifice.
Jodi had been convinced that the temptation to party at the rave might be too great for Kat to pass up. As it was, Kat had to take special medication so that her body wouldn't reject the kidney. Jodi knew if Kat was so foolish as to take any substance—legal or otherwise, unless prescribed by the doctor—her body would probably go into a seizure. That's why Jodi had been so opposed to the whole rave idea from the beginning.
It was also why she was now running, pushing people who blocked her path out of the way She had a sinking feeling that Kat was in serious trouble. Maybe that's why I felt God wanted me to come tonight, she thought.
A minute later they started to climb the well-worn wooden staircase. A kerosene lantern hung from a rusty nail. In its meager light, Jodi saw that the steps were covered with a layer of dried bird droppings. Pigeons, she guessed. Although tonight the music
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probably drove them away from their overhead perches, by the looks of it this place was home to a whole flock of the annoying little creatures.
She pressed on, hoping not to find Kat upstairs.
As she climbed the steep steps, Jodi thought she felt a spider web brushing against her face. The last thing she wanted to do was to accidentally step into their dusty mesh. She hated spiders—thanks to Mr. MacQueen, her tenth-grade biology teacher who made the class dissect an assortment of arachnids for two weeks straight. Her skin started to crawl.
Like a blind man with a cane, she swatted at the air in front of her, hoping to avoid contact with any cobwebs. Halfway up several teens were slouched against the side wall, sharing a smoke. A strong whifF of a distinctive odor—marijuana, of that she was sure—filled the air. She coughed as she stepped around them.
At the top of the stairs, Jodi entered the room. Bruce was several steps behind her. Her eyes had to adjust to the virtual darkness as only one temporarily rigged lantern cast a flickering yellowish glow against the bare red-brick walls.
Jodi squinted as she scanned the room for Kat. She guessed there were almost a hundred teens inside. Most sat on the floor. Some leaned against the wall. Some had Glo-Rings around their necks. Several passed around small, porcelain hashish pipes.
Jodi hugged herself. The chamber felt clammy; it smelled of must, urine, and burning plastic. She figured it was about ten times the size of the two-car garage at home.
"I've smelled better armpits," Bruce said, catching up to her. "At least it's not so loud up here."
He was right; the music wasn't as unbearable. Still, the floor vibrated as the bass-heavy thumping below hammered away at the floor joists with the intensity of a battering ram.
'Any ideas?" Jodi asked. "We really don't have much time."
"Who did Kat say she was going as?"
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Jodi thought for a second. 'Tinker Bell. Yeah, from that Disney movie—"
Bruce interrupted, "Dumbo."
"Hey—I didn't deserve that." Jodi punched him in the shoulder.
"No, that's the name of the movie— Dumho —isn't it?"
"Try Peter Pan. Anyway, she said she was gonna wear, like, pink pants and ... oh yeah, she painted her white sneakers with glow-in-the-dark pink dots or something."
"Got it. So we look for a 120-pound fairy," Bruce said. "I say we head toward the far wall and work our way back."
"Go for it."
Jodi followed Bruce, stepping over several teens and around others, as they searched for Kat. They reached the outside wall where a little additional light from the street lamps below crept through the busted-out windowpanes. Jodi felt pieces of broken glass crunch under her shoes as they searched.
Still no sign of Kat.
Bruce turned to his right and snaked his way through the bodies. Jodi started to sweat; the room was as poorly ventilated as it was poorly lit. This is insane, she thought. The entire crazy setup: kids popping pills like candy while others dealt drugs in plain view No adults anywhere. No police. No medical help. What gives, not even a haihroomf
For the first time Jodi was starting to seriously r
ethink her decision to come. Maybe God hadn't prompted her to go after all. Maybe she'd just imagined the whole thing. Maybe it was just her own curiosity. A wild-goose chase, she thought. That's all this is. She decided they should just call it quits.
Still ahead of her, Bruce turned to yell over his shoulder.
"Jodi—over here!"
Chapter 6 ^ Saturday, 12:D2 a.m
Reverend Bud hadn't taken a shower in a week. Not that he was a once-a-day shower type, but under usual circumstances he'd manage a shower at least three times in seven days. But tonight, with its hot and unseasonably humid conditions, as he drove the sixteen-foot Ryder truck through Huntingdon Valley, his T-shirt clung to his thin rib cage, his shoulder-length hair remained clumped and knotted, and his scraggly beard itched.
It didn't help matters that the air conditioning was busted. But as long as he had his music he remained cool. Presently, Farley Funk's "Jack Your Body" filled the truck's cab. His homemade collection of house music from the mideighties was still his favorite tape. With his arm resting on the driver's door, the window down, he tapped the steering wheel in time to the irregular drum beat. He sang along with the track: ' j-j-j jack your body."
He came to a stop at the traffic light on the corner of Philmont Avenue and Huntingdon Valley Pike. He took one last slow toke on the joint pinched between his thumb and forefinger, and then pitched the remaining stub out the window. He held his breath for a long moment, then exhaled.
He sat back, waiting for the light to change, but noticed the inside of the windshield had become lined with a greasy film from smoking. He wiped it with the side of his hand, which only served to smear the hazy substance in circles. The light still red, he tapped his horn once, and then rolled through the intersection.
A green duffel bag rested on the black vinyl seat next to him. He glanced over at it and sang, "j-j-j jack your body" again. He focused
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back on the road in time to see a police car approaching in the oncoming lane. After it had passed, he glanced in his side mirror and watched the cop disappear into the dark.
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