All the rave

by LaHaye, Tim F

  Jodi folded her hands in her lap. In this unguarded moment, Jodi thought Kat looked bad. Real bad. The IV drip bag hung in midair, suspended by a cold, stainless-steel pole. The supply line was taped in place on Kat's arm where it entered a vein.

  "Kat, I want you to know that, um, I love you . . . like the sister I never had. Hard to believe, huh? I mean, we're, like, as different as they come. That doesn't matter to me. You've got to make it... you just have to."

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  Jodi wiped the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand.

  "I know you can hear me, Kat."

  She crossed her arms, looked out the window, then back at her friend.

  "You know what else? This is so, like, unfair to me ... to us. What gave you the right to give up on life? I've made a pretty serious investment in you, Kat. I believe in you. You know why? Because—surprise—God gave me a love for you, girlfriend. I would never have thought that was possible."

  Jodi tilted her head to one side as a fresh memory surfaced. "Do you remember what you said the day we first met? Til never forget it. You said, 'Hey, it's me and the Christian . . . your God must have a sense of humor.'"

  She sat back in her chair. A lone tear rolled down her cheek at the recollection. She took a deep, slow breath, trying to regain her composure. For several minutes, her gaze remained fixed on Kat's pale white face.

  Kat's eyes fluttered open. Jodi had to blink to make sure she wasn't imagining it. Kat managed to roll her head in Jodi's direction.

  "Hey there, sleeping beauty," Jodi said, offering a warm smile. "You're doing just great, girl." She thought Kat was about to say something. Jodi placed her forefinger to her lips. "Shh. You don't have to say anything. Save your strength, Kat. Whatever it is, it can wait."

  Kat's head flopped slowly side to side.

  "I didn't. . . do . . . it. . ."

  Jodi weighed her next few words before speaking. "Let me say that I think I know what you mean and, um, I believe you—you didn't have anything to do with that boy dying. Honest, 1 believe you weren't involved."

  Kat's face tightened. She lifted her neck and head off the pillow for a weak second before plopping back down. "No ... I, I didn't ..." She closed her eyes, evidently too tired to finish her sentence.

  "Wait a second," Jodi said. She picked up the Styrofoam cup filled

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  with crushed ice and a plastic spoon from the roll-around table. "Here, try to suck on a little of this ice, okay? The nurse said it will help your throat feel better."

  Jodi raised a spoonful to Kat's dry lips. Kat managed to ingest a few meager ice shavings.

  "Are you saying you didn't take the drugs? Is that what you mean?"

  Kat reopened her eyes. Jodi detected an affirmative nod, although still weak. "Yes."

  "Listen, Kat. I want to believe you. Really I do." Jodi set the cup and spoon to the side after supplying another serving. "I don't know how to say this. But, like, I saw the needle you used and, well, it was empty."

  Kat licked her lips as she shook her head in disagreement.

  Holding Kat's hand as she spoke, Jodi offered a helpless shrug and said, "What you're saying, I mean, it just doesn't make sense. And guess what? I'm going to give the doctor the needle so they can figure out what's causing all this freaky stuff with your body."

  Kat closed her eyes and slipped back into an unconscious state. Jodi felt her hand go limp.

  She lowered her voice. "I'm leaving now, but I'll be back real soon. See, I've got to, like, find out who sold this junk that almost killed you . . . and killed that boy. And I have a strong hunch where to start looking."

  * * *

  Jodi paid the fee for parking in the hospital's multilevel garage and then headed north onto Old York Road. She was driving her family's Mazda 626. Her dad called it the "Plain Jane" mobile, because the little white sedan certainly wouldn't turn any heads or set any speed records, but the four-door, four-cylinder was super-reliable basic transportation. Best of all, her dad paid the insurance.

  At the first red light, she remembered to turn her cell phone back on. She had been required to switch it off while inside the hospital.

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  Traffic was sparse, and she figured she could make the InstyFoto Mart over in Huntingdon Valley in ten minutes; twelve if she hit the forever red at Old York and Old Welsh Roads.

  As she drove, her thoughts drifted back to something she had read in Ephesians 5 during her personal devotions the night before. And while she had read the entire chapter, verse 11 came to mind: Have nothing to do with the fruitless deeds of darkness, hut rather expose them.

  Given her current situation, those words struck her as being more than mere coincidence. God was speaking to her through the Scriptures; she felt compelled to learn the truth about the dead boy and Kat.

  After the fiasco with Officer Dexter, she was tempted to let it go, just as Bruce had suggested in the first place. Kat was in the hospital getting the care she needed. Wasn't that all that mattered? Why should she care about the boy, a complete stranger she never knew? Why should she spend a beautiful Saturday afternoon trying to make sense out of last night's hellhole?

  Her phone jumped to life on the seat next to her with a simple series of beeps. As someone who enjoyed classical music, she detested the gimmicky melody settings. She thought it ironic that the only "classical" music most Americans would ever hear was the annoying, electronic renditions of Bach and Beethoven popularized by cell phones.

  She snatched it up after one ring.

  "Hello?"

  "Jodi. It's Bruce."

  "Hey, how's it going? Get any sleep?"

  "Me? Not much. Where are you?"

  "I'm on Old York . . . just passing McDonald's. Just finished seeing Kat. Oh, and she, like, woke up for a minute. That's a good sign, I guess."

  "Sure is. Hey, I've got just a minute—"

  "Yeah, I forgot you're a big-time vet." She laughed.

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  "Nice. Anyway, remember how last night I said I thought that syringe looked kinda familiar? Like it might be one of ours?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "It matched."

  "Really? Wow. Did you talk to your boss about it?"

  'Actually, yes. He was real concerned, too, you know, worried that someone might have been hurt by the misuse of it."

  "So you told him about the boy and Kat?"

  There was a moment of silence.

  "Bruce?"

  "I'm here. You know, I forgot to mention Kat. But I did tell him about the corpse—"

  "You have such a way with words."

  'Anyway listen. He'd like to talk to you—"

  "Me? Why me?"

  "Only because I mentioned that we both were there and we both, like, saw the same thing. He just wants to ask you a few questions before he files a report with the police, or whatever. Should take fifteen minutes, max."

  "So, like, when should I see him?"

  "Can you come now?"

  Jodi thought for a moment. "Yeah, I guess. I was going to stop and pick up my film, but that can wait until afterward."

  "Cool, ril tell him you're on the way. I'll be working all day so give me a shout when you stop by"

  "Wait a minute. Do I have to admit I know you?" Jodi said.

  "As long as I don't have to admit I know you, either," he said with a laugh.

  Chapter 1 6 ^ Saturday, 11:16 a.m

  Carlos Martinez checked his rearview mirror. The black, hopped-up Suburban was still behind him. At first he dismissed its presence as a fluke. But five turns later, with the beastly looking SUV still dogging his tail, his thoughts raced over the possibilities.

  He didn't know anybody who owned a vehicle like it; the Huntingdon Valley police didn't use such transportation; he doubted it was the FBI; and this wasn't a case of road rage, of that he was sure. He hadn't cut anybody off. Quite the contrary. He had been driving slower, thanks to a
crushed, heavily bandaged finger.

  Carlos tried to ignore whoever it was. He had bigger problems at the moment, thank you very much. Like, where to find $7,000 to pay back the Russians. He had spent every last dollar on jewelry, clothes, and stereo equipment. There was no way he could scrape that much cash together. Certainly not by the noon deadline, which loomed on the horizon less than forty-five minutes away.

  His busted finger throbbed at the thought.

  Instead, Carlos was headed for the Pet Vet Wellness Center to see Reverend Bud. He had arranged the meeting figuring it was better to come clean with what he had done than to deal with two Russian barbarians. He was fairly certain Reverend Bud would cut him some slack. Even call off the Russian dogs. Or at least maybe loan him the money to keep Illya and Zhenya out of his hair.

  Carlos had plenty of time as he drove to rehearse his story. Satisfied, he figured it would push all the right buttons: His sister,

  BD

  ALL THE RAVE t^ B1

  a lesbian, had contracted AIDS and couldn't afford the medication. Without it, she'd die. Her health insurance, a giant HMO provider, wouldn't cover the cost of her prescriptions. His parents had disowned her for her sexual choice. He was her only chance. How could he let down his sister?

  He skimmed the drug money to help her out. Who wouldn't?

  At least that was his story.

  There was one problem. It was a complete fabrication. All, except the part about his lesbian sister. That much was true. As for the rest of the story, he'd do his best to sound convincing.

  Carlos slowed to a stop at a light on Old Welsh Road, a two-lane, windy strip of asphalt divided by a double yellow line. The Suburban, at least the last few times he stopped at a light, had hung back from him. This time, however, it pulled up on his tail; the bumper-mounted winch, so enormous it could double as a cattle prod on the front of a train, towered above the back of his little two-door hatchback.

  His heart zoomed within his chest. He was tempted to turn around to face this clown, but he didn't want to appear anxious. He settled for a prolonged look in his side mirror. He noticed the windows were tinted with a dark, reflective material that prevented him from seeing inside. Even the windshield was tinted. As Carlos knew all too well, having considered doing the same himself, tinting the windshield was illegal in Pennsylvania.

  The light turned green.

  Carlos stepped on the accelerator but got an added boost from the Suburban. The joker had actually bumped into his car. A blast of adrenaline raced through his nervous system. He swore and then stomped on the gas; not that his four-cylinder was capable of outrunning the Suburban. At least the Suburban was physically off his tail—for the moment.

  Now what? He'd call 911, but his cell phone had been knocked onto the floor and slipped under the passenger seat from the impact.

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  He leaned over and, trying to keep his eyes on the road, frantically felt around for it with his hand. But the phone, his lifeline, remained out of reach. He sat upright, both hands on the steering wheel.

  He glanced at his rearview mirror and swore again. Those morons are gonna ram me, he thought. He braced himself and mentally urged the car to go faster, even though it was already pushed to the max. The palms of his hands sweated as he gripped the wheel.

  Just before impact, the Suburban swerved instead and pulled alongside him, traveling in the lane of oncoming traffic. A block ahead, Carlos was fast approaching another red light. He slammed on the brakes to avoid running through a busy intersection. His nearly bald tires screeched for dear life. The Suburban slowed, too, and remained on his left.

  Carlos stole another look and saw that it was equipped with a complete off-road package. Oversize nubby tires. Tubular running boards. Chrome mud flaps. Thick leap springs. Even as the diesel engine idled next to him, it snorted like a provoked rhinoceros waiting to stampede.

  The tinted passenger side window lowered.

  Zhenya, the Russian, stared at him through dark sunglasses.

  "Pull over, punk." Zhenya spit the words, and then flicked a cigarette butt in Carlos's direction.

  No way, Carlos thought. And lose another finger?

  A rush of fear overwhelmed him. The hair on the back of his neck bristled. Why were they chasing him? It wasn't noon yet. Were they afraid he might skip town? Right, and go where? His chest tightened; his heart felt as if it might suddenly implode. He'd never make it to the vet clinic.

  He had to buy some time, but nobody was selling.

  Then an unexpected idea struck him. He knew these roads; they probably didn't. Up ahead, using the topography to his advantage, he'd try to shake them. A long shot, true. But as a drowning man he wasn't about to reject the only option in sight.

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  "Look . . . IVe got, um, the cash," he said, his voice shaking. "For real. . . Just, like, follow me, okay? Til. . . Til take you to it."

  Zhenya turned to confer with Illya, who sat behind the wheel of the beast. Zhenya looked back at Carlos, this time over the top of his sunglasses. "No tricks." He jabbed at the air, signaling Carlos to pull ahead.

  Carlos hesitated long enough for the light to turn green, then lurched forward. His eyes darted between the road ahead and the Suburban behind. He took a rapid series of short breaths to clear his head. He had one chance to make his move.

  One last card to play.

  If it didn't work—well, it just had to.

  He knew in a few minutes Old Welsh Road would bend sharply to the left, followed by a series of tight S-curves, like that of a corkscrew. He was also counting on the heavily tree-lined road that obstructed the view of Paper Mill Road intersecting from the left. At the last possible second, he planned to dart off" Old Welsh Road onto the rarely traveled Paper Mill Road. If all went as planned, he'd make the turn and the Russians wouldn't have time to react. After that he'd have to wing it.

  Once on Paper Mill Road he might have sixty seconds, maybe ninety, to lose them.

  Another look in the mirror. lUya and Zhenya were an ideal distance behind, Carlos thought. Not that he'd ever been in a situation such as this to know for certain. It was just a gut feeling.

  On his right, he whipped past a minimart, a gas station, a school, and then a church. Ironically, the thought to pray crossed his mind, but he dismissed it. He figured he didn't believe in prayer, so why start now? Besides, he'd always thought it was stupid the way people in trouble would try to bargain with God, like, "God, if you get me out of this ... I'll do anything." No, he wasn't about to go soft.

  Twenty seconds more and they'd engage the bend. Rather than slow, he accelerated. As he entered the curve, his car leaned hard to

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  the right as he banked to the left. His tires squealed at the abuse. He yanked the wheel in the opposite direction, momentarily crossing the center yellow line, and then reversed the move to navigate the S-curves.

  Behind him he watched as the Suburban hardly broke a sweat at the rapid shifts in the road.

  It was now or never. He knew the Paper Mill cutoff was just around the next cluster of trees. He raced his engine for all it was worth, briefly widening the distance between himself and the Russians. They, in turn, hustled to catch up like a charging bull, black diesel soot pouring out of their side exhaust pipes.

  At the last second, Carlos slammed on his brakes and jerked the wheel to the left with all his might, then immediately punched the gas pedal, cramming it to the floorboard. The car almost rolled.

  Carlos made the turn. Within seconds he hit 59 miles per hour, although his heart was speeding along faster than that. The posted limit was 20.

  He was almost too numb to see if Illya made the turn. But he had to know if the killers were still on his tail. He twisted around and, at the top of his lungs, shouted, "Woo-hoo! Take that, you Russian scumbags!" as his car rocketed across the bumpy country road.

  They were nowhere in sight.

  C
arlos guessed they'd back up and pursue him. But at least he'd bought a little extra time—maybe enough to lose them.

  He spun back around to focus on the path ahead of him a split second too late. A deer and her fawn were crossing the road dead ahead. Without thinking, he forced the wheel hard and to the left. The bald tires, having outlived their usefulness, sent the car into a spin. He struggled without success to maintain control.

  Although Carlos missed the deer, his car careened over the side of an ivy-covered, steep embankment as if pulled downward by an unstoppable magnetic force. His stomach jumped up into his throat.

  He pounced on the brake pedal with both feet.

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  Nothing. The brake lines must have been severed when he went over the edge. Bounding down the hillside, his car rocked back and forth like a little metal ball in the hands of a pinball wizard. Each jolt knocked out what little breath he managed to gulp.

  "No-o-o-o!"

  Carlos plowed helplessly through the tall grass and into a three-rail wooden fence. The windshield instantly shattered into a thousand pieces just as Carlos, on reflex, released the wheel and raised both hands to prevent the shards of glass from spraying him in the face.

  "Oh God, oh God, oh GodU"

  The car continued to pitch down the hill with the speed of a runaway train. It didn't stop until it slammed into the base of a walnut tree. The hood crumpled like an accordion; the front end pulverized beyond repair.

  Carlos blacked out on impact.

  Chapter 1 V ^ Saturday, 1 1 :22 a.m

  Hi, rm here to see Dr. Blackstone." Jodi stood at the receptionist's window, hands at her side. Her purse hung neatly over her right shoulder. She read the woman's nametag: Tina Linda.

  "Do you have an appointment?" Tina asked, consulting her appointment book with a frown.

  "Yes, sort of. I believe he's expecting me."

  "And whom may I say is here?"

  "Jodi Adams. I'm a friend of Bruce Arnold," Jodi offered, as if his name would help.

  "Oh, you know Bruce? Nice guy. In fact, you just missed him."