Up ahead his destination came into view. Without the use of his turn signal he veered left into the sweeping driveway and followed the parking lot around behind the building. With surprising care, he backed the truck into the loading dock. He shut off the engine, but left the tape playing as the gospel-sounding "Love Can t Turn Around," another classic tune, bounced out of the speakers.
Reverend Bud picked up his cell phone from the bench seat, pushed *01, and listened. It rang once. He said, "Dude, I'm here. Got the package just like you wanted, but I've been thinking—" He listened again, then said, "Cool, I'll sit tight." He pushed the end button, rested the phone on his left leg. He tugged at his matted beard as he waited.
A minute later, he heard the sharp cracking sound of the double doors opening behind him on the loading dock. He then felt the truck pitch back as an unseen worker stood on the back bumper to open the rear cargo door. He knew they'd take just a fistful of minutes to finish, and he'd be on his way.
He settled back against the headrest and closed his eyes. His body was relaxed, mellowed from the constant flow of stimulants he used during his daily routine. Yet the drugs did little to settle his spirit. He heard footsteps approaching his truck door.
"Please kill that music." Dr. Blackstone spoke the words evenly. "You know I can't stand it."
Reverend Bud didn't immediately open his eyes. He reached forward, eyes still closed, and lowered the volume.
"Dude, what, like no 'hello' ... no 'How are you?'" Reverend Bud sat upright and looked out the window at Dr. Blackstone.
"How's the crowd?"
"Okay, you know something. Dr. B.? With you it's all business. I guess I forgot. The crowd? Yeah, we're styling. Biggest gig ever. Nice vibe. Lots of love. Lots of . . ."
34 ^ LaHaye and DeMoss
"A number would be more to the point."
"Right. I'd say we're talking seven thousand smiley, happy people."
A devilish smile crossed Dr. Blackstone's face. "Let's have the cash. I've got work to do." He extended his right hand; his fingers beckoned Reverend Bud to hurry.
"Oh, yeah. The cash." Reverend Bud reached for the duffel bag. He handed it through the window. "Here's your bread, Dr. B."
Dr. Blackstone unzipped the bag and scrutinized the contents. He appeared to take a long whiff of the money, the aroma of which brought another smile.
Reverend Bud put his hand to his ear. "So like, I'm thinking there must be a 'thank you' somewhere in there?"
Dr. Blackstone zipped up the bag, ignoring the question. "When can I expect your main delivery tonight?"
Reverend Bud ran his fingers through his hair. "You're so welcome. Probably by three-ish." He leaned out the truck window. "But hey, I've been thinking, man. You know, I'm not real sure about all that anymore—"
"You better not say what I think you're going to say."
"Awe, come on, Dr. B. I'm just finding it a little over the top to . . . you know ... I mean, we didn't start out this way. Dude, ever since those crazy Russians showed up—"
"Let me break it down for you." Dr. Blackstone waved him off. "I aspire to greatness. To success. To amassing wealth. In my view, you either drive the truck down the highway of life—or settle for becoming roadkill."
Reverend Bud bobbed his head as if he had heard the speech a thousand times before. "Yeah, but what I'm trying to say—"
"May I continue?"
Reverend Bud shrugged. "Please do, my man . . . whatever."
"When I found you, you were nothing more than a strung-out, small-time operator. A real punk. And your dad was a two-bit country preacher out in Clackertown—"
ALL THE RAVE ^ 3 5
"Dude, it's Quakertown . . . and leave my old man out of it."
"—and he didn't have time for you, did he? Too busy saving souls, wasn't he? Had a hard time feeding your family, too, as I recall."
"Wow, what you're doing is so uncool, man." Reverend Bud looked straight ahead, shaking his head. "You've got some really bad karma happening."
"Look at me," Dr. Blackstone barked. "If you're so tight with your old man, why were you in such a hurry to run away? Listen. I'm the best thing you've got. I showed you the ropes, made you big money—lots of it. And there's more than you can imagine within your reach. If I were you, son, I'd lay off the ecstasy and find some 'smart pills' real fast."
Dr. Blackstone let the words hang in the air for a long moment. He added, "We've got a good thing going here. Plenty of other twenty-seven-year-olds would die to be in your shoes. So don't screw it up with your platitudes ... or that tofu spinal cord." Dr. Blackstone sneered as he spit out the words.
Reverend Bud swallowed hard. "I hear you, I hear you loud and clear. But answer me this, man. When did you chuck your commitment to PLUR? Huh? Like, when did you sell out?"
Dr Blackstone shook his head. "Don't you get it? No, I don't suppose a seventies retread like you would understand. I don't care a rat's butt about PLUR. We've got to deliver, on time, as promised. Got it?"
Reverend Bud's eyes widened. "So it's the Russians, isn't it? I knew it, man. You haven't been the same since—"
"Don't you worry about the Russians. I'm perfectly capable of handling them," Dr. Blackstone said, his jaw tight. "You stick to your end of the arrangement . . . and nobody will get hurt. I'll expect your next delivery by 6:00 a.m."
Reverend Bud took a deep breath. He dropped his head back against the headrest.
Dr. Blackstone's jaw remained clenched. "Now get going— before I kick your hippie behind."
Chapter V ^ Saturday, 12:D3 a.m.
What is it, Bruce?" Jodi raced to his side and gripped his arm. He was standing six feet from a corner of the room where the outside and inside walls intersected. The lighting was especially sparse. His attention was fixed on several bodies slumped together on the ground.
"I think that's Kat," he said, pointing. "See her shoes? Her legs are kinda pinned under that guy there."
Jodi peered in the darkness. Her heart jumped. "Oh, dear Jesus— you're right! Look at her . . . she's a mess. What—what do we—" Before Jodi could finish her question, Bruce, who hoped to become a paramedic one day and used much of his free time reading up on emergency medical procedures, firmly nudged the boy whose body, lying facedown, was draped over Kat's legs.
"Excuse me ... we need to get to my friend," Bruce said.
No response.
Bruce shook him again, this time more forcefully "Hey . . . you mind moving over, pal? My friend needs help."
Nothing.
"He must be totally stoned," Jodi said. "Just roU him out of the way!"
'All right . . . you take his feet. I'll take his arms. Lift on three, okay?" Bruce counted to three; they lifted the boy off of Kat, turned him over, and laid him on the ground. He felt cold to the touch. Face up, Jodi noticed the boy was wearing a white T-shirt with a large, yellow Tweety Bird in the center. She also detected a used hypodermic needle on the floor where the boy had been lying.
"Bruce ..."
"I see it." Bruce picked up the needle and studied it for a quick second. He placed it in one of the numerous external pockets of his green army fatigues.
"Why'd you take that?" Jodi asked as she rushed to kneel beside Kat.
"I'll have Dr. Blackstone take a look at it."
"Who?" The smell of vomit mixed with blood assaulted Jodi's nose. She had to fight the urge to gag.
"My boss. I don't know, maybe he can tell me what this kid was shooting."
Jodi placed her hand on Kat's sweaty forehead. It felt hot to the touch. Too hot, she thought. Not good. No way was this reaction from exhaustion. They needed to get her to a hospital, and fast. What she wouldn't give for a washcloth and some cool water to reduce Kat's temperature in the meantime.
She slipped her arm around Kat and propped her up against the wall. As she did, a syringe rolled into view. Jodi picked it up. Just what she was afraid of Kat must have fooled around with drugs. Jodi closed her eyes briefly an
d shook her head. How could you do something so incredibly stupid, Kat? she thought.
Torn between compassion and the desire to wake up from the nightmare, Jodi shouted at Kat, "Look what you've done. Face it. You screwed up, big time. What are you on?" She held out the hypodermic needle as if it were the smoking gun of a crime, and then put it in her purse. She'd give it to the doctor at the hospital—if they made it in time.
Kat's lips started to move.
Jodi leaned forward, her ear close to Kat's mouth. She strained to understand Kat's slurred mumbling but nothing made sense. Jodi shook her head in disbelief
So why am I wasting my time again? Jodi thought. If Kat makes it through this, she'll probably just go out and get trashed all over again. Jodi
3B ^ LaHaye and DeMdss
was mad enough to just walk away. Maybe Stan was right—she wasn't Kat's baby-sitter.
As Jodi wiped Kat's matted hair away from her face, a new thought surfaced. How many times had Jodi disappointed God? Did he ever give up on her? And what about the good Samaritan? Was she no better than the religious elite who avoided helping someone they felt didn't deserve to be helped? She bit the inside of her lip as she considered the implications.
"Bruce! Give me a hand with Kat. What do we do?" As she cradled Kat, she saw Bruce pull a penlight from his pocket and use it to study the boy, a kid of probably seventeen, she guessed. With his right hand, Bruce felt the side of his neck, then his wrist. He looked up at her.
"Use her A.A.O. to determine her L.O.C.," Bruce shouted back.
"English, Bruce. I'm no doctor."
"Right. Is she awake?"
Jodi searched Kat's face in the ill-lit room. "Kinda. Her eyes are open but sorta glazed over."
"Is she alert?"
Jodi waved her hand in front of Kat's eyes. "Not really."
"Okay, then she won't be oriented, either." Bruce lowered the boy to the floor, and then moved alongside Jodi. "Here, let me check her ABCs."
"Her what?"
"The basics: airway—^breathing—circulation. First we've got to make sure her airway isn't blocked," he said, using his penlight to examine her throat and nose. "She's all clear. And she's breathing on her own. It isn't steady, but she's getting air. No external wounds or external bleeding."
"But she's so, like, hot when I touch her."
Bruce nodded. He felt Kat's forehead with the palm of his hand. "Not good. Her head's hot enough to fry an tgg."
"Come on, Bruce, we've got to call 911. Here. Take my cell." Jodi
ALL THE RAVE ^ 39
fished it out of her pocket and held it out to him. "Take it. You'll know what to say ..."
"Forget about it."
"Bruce, you crazy? Make the call."
'And give them what address? The fourth abandoned warehouse with all the busted windows on the left? In case you didn't notice, this place doesn't even have a name. And how would they find us in this crowd?"
"But we've got to at least try."
Bruce took the phone ft"om Jodi's extended hand. Punching in the three digits, he cleared his throat and thought of how best to describe what was going on here. But there was nothing—no connection, no 911 operator asking what his emergency was.
Shaking his head, Bruce said, "I don't know why, but it's not going through."
Jodi's eyes widened. "What are we going to do?"
"We drive. We take my car. It's the fastest way. Here, let's lift her up. Put her left arm over your shoulder. I'll take the right."
"But what about him?" Jodi pointed to the guy in the Tweety Bird T-shirt.
"I couldn't find a pulse. I think he's . . . well, as far as I can tell, he's dead."
Jodi hooked her hair around her right ear. "Sounds like you said dead. Dead tired, right? He's just passed out?"
"I'm saying the guy has no vital signs. And he's pretty cold to the touch. Come on, give me a hand with Kat."
Jodi ft-oze. This couldn't be happening. What kind of bizarre dream had she stepped into? Her pulse, already zooming, kicked into hyperdrive. Her mind raced. They needed to get the boy help, too. But how? Or, worse, was it too late for him? Could he, lying just three feet from her, really be dead? If so, they were in the middle of a crime scene.
So now what? She felt dizzy, disoriented. The music seemed to
4D ^ LaHaye and DeMdss
pound the floor beneath them with an angry intensity. The walls of the dimly lit room started to close in on her. She felt suddenly lost in a dark cave.
"What are you waiting for?" Bruce snapped.
"Hold on a second," Jodi said. "I've . . . IVe got to do one thing."
On instinct, maybe from watching an occasional episode of COPS, she took her disposable camera, thankful it had a flash, and snapped several quick photos of the boy His face. His torso. His full profile. Why? She wasn t sure.
It just seemed the right thing to do.
Chapter B * Saturday, 12:21 a.m.
Jodi sat on the ground outside the warehouse cradling Kat as if cuddling a wounded bird. Kat's body shook like a leaf in the wind. Jodi felt powerless to do more than pray and repeat, "Hang in there, Kat . . . you'll be fine ... I promise you're gonna make it. . ."
She wasn't sure if Kat understood her. Ever since she and Bruce had dragged Kat out of the building, Kat had done little more than moan—a deep groan as if the pain flowed from the core of her being.
"I'm right here, Kat," she said, gently rocking her.
She wished Bruce would hurry. She checked her watch—again. She calculated that twelve minutes had passed since he ran to get the car. What's taking him so long? she wondered. Maybe he forgot where he parked it. Maybe the car wouldn't start. What then?
Inside, the music had stopped while a new DJ prepared to take over the turntables. Jodi, thankful for a break from the constant noise, heard him shout something into the microphone about being the "vinyl messiah" ready to lead the dancers into the promised land. The seemingly insatiable crowd squealed with delight at his self-proclaimed godlike status.
She looked up and scanned the parking lot for any sign of Bruce. Instead, she caught a glimpse of Carlos Martinez, at least she thought it was him. As he stepped into the light by the ticket booth, just twenty steps away, she studied his face. It was him.
Just then a boy holding a Kermit the Frog stuffed animal
-42 ^ LaHaye and DeMdss
approached Carlos. She watched as Carlos slipped him a small packet with white powder. The boy in turn handed Carlos some cash, which he promptly added to a large wad of money. Carlos tucked the money roll into a black leather fanny pack that hovered in front of his belt buckle. The boy, holding his frog and what she was convinced were drugs, went inside.
Jodi cupped her hands around her mouth and called his name.
Carlos turned, looked at her, and then walked in her direction. She could tell by his expression as he approached that he didn't recognize her. He stopped and stood three feet away. His head leaned slightly to one side. His thin, all-purpose smile revealed a gold tooth cap, which complemented his gold bracelet, two gold chains around his neck, and four gold nugget rings, two on each hand.
"It's me, Jodi Adams . . ."
"Oh yeah, sure. Hi. Pretty awesome party, huh?" Carlos said to Jodi. He glanced at Kat.
Jodi was in no mood for small talk. "You dealing these days?"
His right eyebrow shot up. "Whatcha need? E? Calvin Kleins? Supernovas? Special K? I gotcha covered. I just didn't take you to be, well, the type, you know?"
"I'm not . . . and that makes two of us, Carlos." Her tone took him by surprise. "Since when did you become a drug dealer?"
"Hold on a minute." He held up his hands palm out as if surrendering. "There's way too much baggage with that term. I'm a facilitator of good times," he said with a cheesy smile. "I much prefer the term Vibesman.'"
"You're so clueless, Carlos." Jodi stared at him until he looked at his feet. Although she didn't know Carlos very well, she pegged him a
s being sensitive to other people's pain. Now she wasn't so sure. Didn't he see the condition Kat was in? Was he so full of himself that he didn't notice her suffering? Or worse, perhaps he didn't care. "H-el-1-o-o ... ," she said. "Maybe you should take, like, a good look at Kat."
ALL THE RAVE ^ 4 3
He Stole a quick look. "Hey, don t blame me. I don't remember selling her anything. And, what if I did?" He swallowed hard. "I just give people what they want, you know—the good vibes and all that. Escape . . . happiness . . . whatever they want to feel... I make their desires come true. It's up to them to be responsible—"
Jodi wanted to sock him in the stomach. "So that's what you'd say to Kat and to the dead kid upstairs in that. . . that chill room or whatever."
"What are you talking about?"
"When Bruce and I found Kat, the boy next to her was dead."
He rolled his eyes.
"Don't believe me? Go see for yourself."
He shook his head slowly from side to side. "Come on, Jodi, maybe you're overreacting here."
"Give me a healthy break, Carlos. I'm telling you, he was dead. D-E-A-D."
"Well, I highly doubt that. Maybe he was just passed out, you know. Happens all the time. He probably just needed a nap."
Jodi waved him off. "Wrong-o. This guy needs a hearse. Bruce even felt for a pulse and couldn't find one."
Carlos shrugged. His eyes started to scan the line of partygoers entering the building.
Jodi reached up and grabbed his arm. "Like I said, who's in charge of this freak zone? Can't you see we've got to get Kat some help?"
Still distracted, Carlos said to Jodi, "Can't say exactly. All I know is I report to Reverend Bud ..."
'A pastor? You're telling me—"
He looked back at Jodi. "No, he's not really a pastor. It's just a nickname someone gave him. He's like way into the whole PLUR message, always talks about it. He books the DJs and stuff. Come to think of it, he's sort of an evangelist of ecstasy, too. He's always passing out free samples of E. I started working for him a few months back. Nice guy, really."
All the rave Page 4