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The music inside started up again. Jodi yelled, "What's he look like? Where do we find him?"
'Ah, well, he's like pretty tall, kinda thin, he's got hair down to here . . ." Carlos pointed to his armpit.
"Color?" Jodi shouted.
"Um, brownish. And he's got a big smile most of the time. Oh, yeah, he likes to wear white T-shirts. I think tonight he was wearing his 'Got E?' shirt. At least that's what I see him in most of the time."
"So where is he?" Jodi pressed him again.
"Um, that's hard to say. He's here and there, depending."
"On what?" Jodi blew out a breath, ticked at Carlos's lack of directness. What was he hiding? Who or what w^as he afraid of? As she waited for a response, she checked the time. Bruce had left twenty minutes ago. Where was hec'
"Carlos . . . depending on what?"
"Um, I have no idea. Like, he just rushed out of here about an hour ago. Said he'd be back sometime tonight. That's all I know." Carlos had a faraway look in his eyes as he spoke.
"Well. . . Gee . . . Let's see. Maybe you should tell him about the dead kid when he gets back," Jodi said.
He blinked and then locked eyes with Jodi. His tone turned suddenly serious. "Personally, I'd suggest you don't go around spreading rumors about dead kids and stuff. Let it go, you know?"
"Come on, Carlos. What's really going on?"
He jammed his hands into his front pants pockets, looked over his shoulder, and shuffled his feet.
"You know something that you're not telling me. Why not?" Jodi asked.
His face was tight as a drum. His eyes darted back and forth, like a squirrel scrambling to get out of the road. "Look, I. . . I've gotta go. People are waiting on me ... and like I said, don't mess with it, okay?"
He didn't wait for her answer. He turned around and disappeared into the building.
Chapter 9 * Saturday, 12:29 a.m.
Reverend Bud maneuvered the Ryder truck into the stream of traffic on Roosevelt Boulevard with the finesse of Godzilla. He didn't use his turn signal and he didn't wait for the flow of oncoming cars to clear before pulling into the right lane. Once in place he didn't accelerate, choosing instead to take his time. He was in no hurry to return to the warehouse, contrary to what Dr. Blackstone might have wanted.
Behind him an angry horn exploded with a rapid-fire series of blasts. In his rearview mirror he witnessed a man in a red pickup truck swerving to avoid a collision. Several seconds later the man pulled alongside the truck's door, shouting a stream of obscenities supplemented by a few choice hand gestures.
Without looking at him, Reverend Bud flashed a peace sign with his left hand. Instead, his focus alternated between the road ahead and the joint in his right hand. His cell phone chirped on the seat beside him, momentarily drawing his attention. He took another slow, unhurried drag from the joint and then rested it on the edge of the dashboard. He reached for the phone.
"Whassup?"
The noise on the other end of the phone made hearing difficult. He lowered his music. "Speak up, dude."
"Reverend Bud, it's Carlos."
"What's happening, my main man?"
"We may have a small problem—"
"Problem? With Jeee-sus, there are no problems. Only opportunities," said Reverend Bud with mock conviction.
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As he spoke the words, his mind drifted backward in time. He pictured his dad preaching at the Quakertown Community Church. His father was, in his opinion, a dedicated man of faith, quite unlike the phony TV preachers he saw peddling prosperity and healing. He admired his dad's ability to touch people's lives, and he had been convinced at a young age that one day he, too, would become a preacher.
Ever since he was a child, Stephen Mason—his real name, a nice biblical name at that, although his dad called him "Buddy"—wanted to believe in a God of love. Yet he resented that this God required his dad to be away from home most nights. As far as he could recall, his dad was never able to take him fishing, to a ball game, or to the park.
By the time he was a teenager, he had emotionally withdrawn from his family. He lived inside his headphones. Music became his best friend. Two weeks after his seventeenth birthday, he ran away and ended up in a row house in Philadelphia with other dropouts. On several occasions he considered going back but wasn't sure how his dad would receive him. Wow. That was ten years ago. What a trip, he thought.
With time. Buddy discovered the rave scene and came to embrace the Peace, Love, Unity, Respect anthem as his personal creed. The drugs and mind expansion would come later. To spread the PLUR message, in an ironic twist, he adopted the role of "Reverend." Now, as the Reverend Bud, he preached PLUR. He lived PLUR. He introduced others to the PLUR message with an evangelistic fervor.
When he decided to promote his first rave, a modest success with local DJs, he found that he was a natural leader. Teens gravitated to his easygoing, welcoming nature. The crowds grew with time, although his events never attracted more than five or six hundred participants.
Until he met Dr. Blackstone and everything changed.
The larger crowds.
The DJs from the national circuit performing.
The underground drug market.
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The Russians . . .
His thoughts were interrupted as Carlos squawked into the phone, "Hello? You still there?"
"Sorry, dude, must be a bad cell trip. Hit me again."
"Well, it's probably nothing but, like, this girl says her friend flipped on some bad drugs. Her buddy looked smashed. And she's all panicked. She insists there's a . . . um, a . . ."
Reverend Bud sensed the hesitation. "Yo, I get the picture. So who's this chick? She cool?" He took another hit from the joint.
"A friend from school, sort of. I mean I don't, like, really know her that well or anything. Seen her around. Anyway, she's pretty persistent. . . asking who's in charge and stuff."
"For real? She got a name?" He tugged at his beard as he listened.
"Yeah, it's Jodi Adams. She's not gonna hang around. Gotta get her friend to the hospital. But she may come back. Said something about going to the police, too. Just thought you should know."
"I dig." He switched the phone to his other ear. "That's one heavy trip. You know what to do, right?"
'About the—"
"Yeah . . ."
"Sure thing. Oh, and guess what else. Boss?"
"Wow, more good news?" Reverend Bud said with a laugh.
"You'll never believe who I saw a minute ago."
Reverend Bud exhaled a cloud of bluish smoke. "Let me guess. Old Saint Nicholas his baa-ad self ... red jumpsuit, jingle freakin' bells, and happy glitter."
"No sir. Looked to me like your Russian buddies."
"Really?" He took a final drag, then flicked the butt out the window. "Major bummer. I'm tellin' ya, you don't want to share a lifeboat with those dudes."
"I hear ya."
"Okay, like, hang loose. Keep your nose clean and take care of things upstairs. I'll hit the scene in"—he tried to see his watch but
4B 7^ LaHaye and DeMoss
couldn't focus on the dial—"soon. Asta pasta." With that Reverend Bud hung up. He set the phone on the seat and fidgeted some more with his beard. A minute passed.
He picked up the phone and dialed *01. It rang twice.
"Dr. B., so, like, why are Russians crashing my party, dude?"
Chapter ID * Saturday, 12:33 a.m.
Jodi was relieved to see Bruce zooming toward her. She had to raise her voice over the music, which, like a geyser, splashed outside the building. "What took you so long?" She started to stand, supporting Kat as she rose.
"I'll tell you on the way," said Bruce, gasping for air. "Left my car engine running. It's parked just around the corner. Let me give you a hand." Bruce helped her bring Kat to her feet. "How's she doing?"
"Awful. I'm really worried. She's messed up." Th
at was an understatement. Several times Jodi thought Kat had stopped breathing, although she couldn't be sure. Jodi's palms were moist with sweat and her shirt damp with perspiration.
"Gosh, I see what you mean," Bruce said, feeling Kat's forehead. "We can make Abington Hospital in twenty minutes."
Jodi and Bruce walked as fast as the trio could go considering Kat, hanging like a dead weight between them, wasn't able to do her part. They stepped through the fence and then crossed the distance to the curb where Bruce had left his Mustang.
"Better climb in back. I'll put her in front," Bruce said, opening the passenger door. Jodi did as instructed. She squeezed into the pint-size rear seat. A quick minute later Bruce had Kat situated, her body on the floor with her head resting on the seat cushion. He hopped behind the wheel. As he peeled away from the sidewalk, Jodi was thankful to be leaving the warehouse in the dust. If she never came back that would be too soon.
"So, like, what's the deal? What took so long?" she said.
so ^1^ LaHaye and DeMoss
"Car wouldn't start. Had a dead battery. Must be a short somewhere in the electrical system."
"Oh, that's great. . ."
"Hey—we're fine now, as long as I don't shut off the engine."
Jodi gripped the seat in front of her as Bruce took a turn a little too fast. "So how'd you get it started?"
"It's a stick shift so I popped the clutch."
"You lost me." She felt the power as the car lurched forward. The roadway was fairly clear and Bruce was taking advantage of the open road.
"My dad taught me an old trick. You depress the clutch while the car is in first gear. As it rolls downhill, you let up on the clutch while turning the ignition. The combination jump-starts the engine."
"But we didn't park on a hill."
"Exactly. That's what took so long. I had to ask some guys walking by to give me a push while I worked the clutch. Took several tries, but we got it going."
While Jodi listened, she leaned forward to check on Kat. "Oh, I almost forgot to tell you. I saw Carlos. He's pathetic."
"Really? Like how do you mean?"
"You're not going to believe this—he was dealing drugs."
"Carlos?"
"Yeah. Must be making some serious cash, too. He had gold hanging off of him everywhere."
"That's nuts."
"Exactly what I said. Oh, and he was so, like, uncaring about Kat." The memory made her blood boil. "And get this"—Jodi sat forward in her seat—"I told him about that kid we found upstairs and he totally blew me off. Said I was imagining things. He didn't even offer to check it out."
She could still picture the teen lying on the floor, cold and unmoving in his Tweety Bird shirt. If only there were a poHce station, or even a passing police car, she'd at least be able to report him to the authorities.
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"Speaking of drugs," Bruce said, pumping on his brakes to slow down for a stoplight, "iVe been thinking about that syringe we found. The one by the stiff."
He looked up in the rearview mirror. Their eyes met.
"That's a crass way to refer to him, Bruce."
"That's what he was. Anyway, remember how I told you we got a zillion new syringes at the pet clinic without the standard black plungers?"
"Yeah . . ."
"You'll never guess what color they were." He paused. "They were red—just like the one the stiff, oops, um, just like the boy had used."
"I can't say that I see your point," said Jodi after a moment. "You think there's a connection?"
"That's what I can't figure out. See, like, right now, for example, we're spending a bunch of time making up batches of ketamine-filled syringes."
"Keta-what?"
"Ketamine. It's an animal tranquilizer. We use it all day long on cats and other, as Dr. Blackstone says, 'subhuman primates.' I'm told it's pretty lethal stuff ff you're not careful. It even has a C-3 drug rating."
"Which means?"
"It's a class three, federally regulated drug," Bruce said. "Only a trained vet can use it as an anesthetic. Say you want to operate on an animal, you plunge the needle into a muscle." He demonstrated by jabbing his forefinger into his thigh. "Release the magic potion and, presto, the beast drifts into outer space."
Jodi watched as Bruce slumped forward, face against the steering wheel pretending to be knocked out—a stunt he could afford to do since traffic had come to a brief stop. He sat upright. "Seems we've carved out a neat little side business supplying other clinics with these syringes."
Jodi was genuinely interested, but was more concerned about Kat. "And the point is?"
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He stepped on the gas again. "Well, you can't just walk into Wal-Mart and buy the stuff. So I'm wondering, like, what if someone broke into the clinic and stole some of our syringes?"
"Let me get this straight." Jodi ran her fingers through her hair. "You think that dead kid was shooting up with keta-whatever, which I don't understand since it's for animals, and you think he or someone, like, stole it from your clinic? All because the plunger was red, right?"
"I don't know. That's why I figure I'll ask Dr. Blackstone in the morning . . . just to be sure. You know, he could test the contents and—"
"You know what I think?" She didn't wait for an answer. "I think it's late and you've watched way too much TV"
He laughed. "You're probably right. Just the other day I saw this really cool special on—"
Jodi cut him off. "Bruce, pull over. Please? Over there by the police station." She pointed to a building two blocks ahead on the right of the car.
Ever since they had left the rave, Jodi was torn between her desire to help Kat and the belief that somebody ought to do at least something to identify the dead boy. If not her, who? She knew that after the rave was over and after everybody left, his parents would never know the truth about what happened to their son. The thought that his final resting place might be the second floor of an abandoned warehouse just didn't sit well with her. She had full confidence that Bruce would be able to get Kat the help she needed; he was, after all, a quasi-paramedic.
"You crazy? We gotta get Kat to the hospital."
"You can take her just fine. Me? I've just got to tell the police about that kid. And listen . . ."
"Yes—whatever you say, Nancy Drew," said Bruce as he pulled the car to a stop.
"Call me on my cell once she's there. I wanna know how she's doing, okay?"
Chapter 1 1 ^ Saturday, 1 2:3B a.m.
Jodi watched the red taillights of Bruce's car disappear in the night. For a fleeting second she had second thoughts. Although Bruce wasn't trying to be mean, his Nancy Drew jab had stung.
She was no detective, nor did she want to be.
Maybe she should just drop the whole thing. Of course, it was a little late for that option—now that it was after midnight and she had no car.
She turned and faced the two-story brick police station. She scanned the structure and decided the place must have been built by the Pilgrims. Thick ivy clung to the right side of the building, covering everything in its path from the ground to the bottom of the second-floor windows. Six weU-worn steps led up to the towering, nine-foot oak door.
Jodi climbed the steps. She gave the door a shove with her shoulder; the hinges creaked a tired melody as it swung open. Inside, the place smeUed of wet newspaper and dust. She took several steps into the room where a policeman sat behind a massive wood desk reading a paperback. His desk sported a phone, a pad of paper, and a pen.
He didn't look up or acknowledge her presence.
"Excuse me, sir."
While she waited for a response, she noticed the waUs were painted a pale blue; peeling in some places, flaking off" in others. Several feet to the left of his desk, a second officer in a folding chair leaned back on its two rear legs against the wall. His eyes were closed, his hands folded across his sizable stomach. Both men wore
54 ^ LaHaye and DeMdss
<
br /> Standard police-issue blue shirts and black ties, although this one's was loosened around the neck.
Jodi turned back to the officer before her and then strained to read his nametag. It read: Sergeant Schmidt.
"Um, sir. I hate to disturb your reading," said Jodi, annoyed by his lack of basic courtesy. "But I need some help here."
He turned a page and read some more before casting a look at her over the top of his thick, brown-framed glasses.
"Whatcha got that can't wait until the end of my break, sweetie?" He stuck a stubby fmger between the pages to reserve his place.
Sweetie? Jodi folded her arms at the insult. "Well, with all due respect, by the looks of this place"—she uncrossed her arms and then placed her hands on her hips—"I guess Tm not surprised that a few thousand kids are stoned out of their minds at that rave around the corner." She pointed with her right thumb over her shoulder. She almost added, while you're reading your hook, but didn't want to be disrespectful.
Sergeant Schmidt turned his head to the left and grunted, "Dexter, you still have your cape?"
"Cape?" Officer Dexter rubbed his face.
"Yeah, the one they gave you when you graduated from Superman Training Academy." Sergeant Schmidt burst into a blast of laughter so hard, he started to cough—a raspy, smoker's cough. He cleared his throat. "Listen, missy . . ."
"Jodi, Jodi Adams."
"Right." His jaw tightened, his face appearing pained at the interruption. Another grunt. "Ms. Adams, if what you allege is true—"
"It is."
"I'm sure you believe that is the case."
She shook her head. "I saw kids dealing drugs right in front of me. I was asked if I wanted ecstasy, like, probably four or five times. I know what I saw." Her hands were outstretched, palms up as she spoke.
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He removed his glasses and massaged his temples. "Dexter ..."
"Sir?"
"We got how many men on duty tonight in this precinct?"
"Let's see. There's me . . . and there's you. Yeah, two as far as I can tell."
Jodi was about to scream. "I don't believe this," she said under her breath. Sergeant Schmidt's hearing was evidently better than his vision.
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