Death Drones

by Christopher Fox

  “Hey stranger,” she replied. The comment not lost on Miguel. “When are you coming home?”

  “Soon Sweetheart. I am on the boat now but had to pull into Marina Papagayo to fuel up and stay the night. If I get an early start, it should take me about eight hours to get to Puerto del Quepos. It will take an hour to organize things at the marina, then three hours to get home. Expect me about sevenish.”

  “OK, Sweetie. We will have your favourite steak tomorrow night, with a nice bottle of Montepulciano d'Abruzzo I just bought. It's Italian.”

  “No shit,” Miguel commented.

  “But don’t drink too much and go to sleep on me,” she scolded.

  Miguel had to admit that red wine made him drowsy, causing him to nod off after drinking several glasses.

  “But you know I only nod off until about 2 a.m., so just be ready for me then,” he joked.

  “If you want to do it at 2 a.m., do it without me,” she countered .

  They indulged in a little more small talk, but Miguel was losing the signal, so they said their goodbyes.

  * * * *

  Miguel awoke early as the morning sun’s rays filtered through the venetian blinds and cast horizontal lines on the bulkhead. He and Jimmy had breakfast at the restaurant after which Jimmy went to his car and Miguel back to the boat. He pulled out of the slip and set a heading for Puerto del Quepos. Jimmy would meet him there so he would have a ride back to San José. It would be a boring eight hours with the seas rougher than they were the previous day. With a westerly breeze of 15 mph and gusting to 25, it caused 4 - 6' swells. The sprays of foam cast aside when the Annabelle plowed into the crests of the waves blew back over the flybridge when hit by the wind. He thought about easing the throttles back, but didn't want to extend his trip length—he wanted to get home to Anna. He eased it into the wind, set it on auto-pilot, installed the side curtains of the canvas, returned to his heading and literally plowed ahead.

  It was a little after three when he was pulling into his marina; Jimmy and Carlos were waiting on the dock when he arrived. Carlos was a young deckhand that often helped Miguel on charters.

  “Buenos Días,” Carlos greeted as the boat kissed the dock. “Did you have a good trip?”

  “Long and uneventful, but good.”

  “Good to see you again,” said Jimmy.

  “Any charters coming up?” Carlos asked.

  “I’ve cancelled or rescheduled charters now. I have something else going on.”

  Carlos was visibly disappointed. He would miss the earnings and especially the tips. He crewed for others in the marina, but liked to work with Miguel. Miguel, with Carlos’ and Jimmy’s help, emptied the boat and stored the gear. After enclosing all the canvases and checking the lines, he and Jimmy set off for the parking lot.

  Jimmy headed on HWY 225 to the Pacific Coast Highway that would take them to HWY 27 and into San José. It was 7:15 p.m. when Jimmy dropped Miguel off at his home.

  “See you soon,” Jimmy said as he pulled away .

  Anna was at the door when Miguel walked up the pathway with his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Neither could help smiling as he dropped the duffel and swept her up in his arms. They had only been apart two days, but the homecoming was always sweet.

  “Hi papa,” Enrique called from the open doorway.

  “Hi big guy,” he said as he released himself from Anna’s embrace and gave his son a hug. He called him ‘big guy’ because at 12 years old he was already taller than Anna, who stood 5' 3". Miguel had grown to love Enrique and the feelings were mutual. Enrique was glad now to have a dad and experience many of the ‘guy’ things, like fishing and sports. They would often go to baseball games, although baseball is not a popular sport in Costa Rica. Oddly enough, the Rawlings Factory, located about 50 mi. east of the capital, produces almost all the baseballs for the US MLB teams. Miguel had set up a basketball hoop in the driveway where they would often shoot baskets, and Enrique was on his high school’s basketball team.

  Miguel started the BBQ while Anna prepared the rest of the meal; roasted red potatoes and fresh green beans. They sat down when Miguel’s expert opinion determined that the steaks were medium rare, and he whisked them off the grill and set them on heated plates. Anna and Miguel enjoyed the Italian wine while Enrique drank a Coca Cola. Sure enough, at around ten p.m., an hour after they finished the meal, Miguel fell asleep on the sofa while half-way through a movie. This partly through exhaustion and partly due to the tannins in the wine. Anna did not disturb him and covered him up with a blanket when she retired to bed. Miguel woke just after 2 a.m. and as silently as he could, crept into bed beside the sleeping Anna. After a few moments, Anna rolled on top of him …

  Four

  It started out as just another day in a big city. But then people started to die from no discernible cause.

  Carrie opened the door to her apartment and turned on the light. She removed her wet raincoat and slipped out of her shoes, hanging the coat in the closet over the mat put there to catch the drips. It was April in Detroit and there seemed to be an abundance of ‘April Showers’, so much so that it rained for the last three days without any let-up. ‘Cuddles’, her five-year-old tabby cat, swirled around her legs with her tail straight up.

  “Bet you’re hungry too,” she said to the cat. It had been a very busy day at the office pounding out article after article to meet the deadline. Carrie worked as a copy editor at one of the major newspapers and rarely got home before seven o’clock on any weekday—and sometimes her weekends were busy. Cuddles meowed incessantly, so she walked to the kitchen and reached in the cupboard for a can of ‘Whiskers’ cat food and pulled the tab. Cuddles went ballistic and meowed constantly until Carrie deposited the can’s ingredients in a bowl and placed on the floor. Carrie opened the freezer and took out a frozen pizza, unwrapped it, put it on a plate and placed it into the microwave oven. Normally, she hated dough products heated in the microwave, but didn’t want to wait for it to thaw and cook it in the regular oven. Usually, she would select something before she left for work, but this morning she had slept in and raced out of the house.

  The microwave beeped and Carrie removed the soggy-looking pizza and put it on the kitchen table. After getting a bottle of water from the ‘fridge, she selected a knife and fork from the utensils drawer, grabbed a napkin and sat down to devour her supper. As she picked at the food, she pondered her life. At 36 years old she had had a very rough upbringing—losing her father and mother in a car accident when only 16. Because no family members were able (or willing) to take her in, she was placed in a foster home. Of course, her rebellious childhood no doubt had something to do with it. She would hang around with all the ‘neat’ guys—ones that would constantly push the envelope and invariably end up in group homes or prison. Although Carrie had never been charged with anything, she had been brought up before the court on several occasions, always seeming to talk her way out of any charges and get off with a warning. Most of her friends from school were drop-outs, many taking a path of crime, but Carrie listened to her foster-parents and worked at getting into college. She graduated from a program in journalism from Wayne State University and landed her first job for the Detroit Free Press as a junior reporter. However, she was never able to sever her ties to her past, always longing for the excitement and exhilaration she got from criminal activity.

  Carrie would be considered by ‘traditional’ people as Gothic. Much of the available cash she didn’t spend on drugs, she used to add another tattoo or piercing. She sported a full-arm tattoo with similar ones on both legs below the knee. Across her back, she selected a colourful ‘dream catcher’ tattoo that she considered appropriate after tracing her roots and discovering she was 40% Native American. Rings draped from her earlobes and one in each nostril. When she disrobed, she exposed her nipple rings and a navel ring, and few saw the one that pierced the hood of her clitoris.

  Carrie had a drug problem. A big drug problem. As a teen, she would sm
oke pot and enjoy the euphoric high it gave her. But, like many addicts, it just wasn’t enough, and she looked for ever more highs, graduating to sniffing cocaine and finally, heroin. She loved the high that heroin gave her and spent much of her disposable income on fixes. But she didn’t care because she could never even consider the mundane life without her fix. Like the cocaine and other drugs, her body adapted to the drug, and the highs were increasingly shorter and the withdrawal symptoms increasing worse. It had started early in the day—that craving and pains in her stomach, along with the nausea. She found it very difficult to concentrate on her work and at one time, had to go to the bathroom to throw up. She needed her fix and fast!

  Drug addicts know about security and how to hide their stash—it was a required skill-set because of the constant fear of being raided and going to jail for possession or worse, being submitted to a trumped-up charge for dealing. Drug enforcement agencies, however, knew all the usual hiding places, and some not so usual. It was a lot easier to hide a small package of cocaine or powdered heroin, but then there was the needle and rubber tubing. Carrie was more concerned about any friends or the apartment superintendent knowing about her drug issues rather than narcotics police, so she made sure that it was not easily discoverable. She removed the grill from the bedroom's A/C unit, and retrieved the Ziploc bag from the ductwork, placing the contents on her bedside table. After removing her sweater—she always had to wear either a sweater in the winter or a long-sleeved top in the summer to hide the puncture marks in the crook of her arm—she laid down on the bed. Cuddles jumped up next to her and breathed her fish-breath in her face.

  “Go away,” she said. “Mom's busy now.”

  Cuddles reluctantly retreated to the bottom of the bed, curled herself up and looked dejectedly at Carrie.

  “Don't look at me with those sad eyes,” she said as she wrapped the rubber tubing around her bicep and knotted it tightly. The vein in the crook of her arm started to bulge blue as she smacked it with her fingers. She placed the ‘black tar heroin' into a spoon, she heated it with her butane lighter until it liquefied, then mixed it with water and dipped the syringe needle into the liquid. She withdrew the plunger and excitedly watched as the pleasure-forming substance was sucked into the chamber. Holding the syringe upright, she tapped it to ensure that any air bubbles would rise to the top, then depressed the plunger until a small amount of the liquid gushed from the needle. She lay back on the bed and inserted the needle into the bulging vein, then depressed the plunger. When the plunger could go no further, she withdrew the needle, set the syringe on the bedside table and waited the eight to ten seconds for the drug to enter the bloodstream.

  Similar to other types of heroin, when black tar heroin enters the brain, it gets converted back into morphine and attaches to opioid receptors involved in the perceptions of pain and reward. Heroin also attaches to opioid receptors in the brain stem, which control functions critical to life, such as blood pressure, breathing, and staying awake and alert.

  Carrie sensed the first waves of the euphoria hit as she closed her eyes and welcomed the intense sensations, usually lasting approximately 60 seconds, which would be followed by a feeling of warmth travelling through her body and extremities—but something was wrong. Somehow, something wasn’t quite the same, and instead of a warmth, she sensed a deadening of her extremities. She tried to move, but couldn’t; she started to panic, but the drug had taken ahold of her senses. The warmth finally came, but she still couldn't move her arms and legs—she felt paralysed. What was going on? This doesn’t feel right. After a while she experienced difficulty breathing. It seemed like her whole body was shutting down. She started to cry, but no tears came. She wanted to scream, but her body would not respond. Cuddles seemed to suspect that something wrong and got up and stood over Carrie, meowing and nudging her face with her paw. Carrie could see everything going on, but could do absolutely nothing. Somehow, she knew this was the end for her and reflected on her life. Never before had she truly considered the danger in the drugs, and when she read about people dying from drug abuse, she just thought it would never happen to her. She read also about the various symptoms of overdose, but her reactions now did not match what she read. She bought her drugs from the same supplier for years and never trusted other ‘vendors’, even when approached with hard-to-believe deals—it just wasn't worth it. So what was happening now?

  Carrie's breathing became shallower. As her lungs failed to process enough oxygen for her body to function, she started to lose consciousness. Her last thoughts were of Andrew, her ‘friend with benefits', and her drug supplier. With those thoughts running through her mind, she eventually lost consciousness. Within a few minutes, her heart stopped.

  Carrie was dead.

  Five

  Andrew tried again to get Carrie on the phone, but he got her voice-mail once more. He had called her at work and was told that she hadn't been in yet, which was very unusual for her seeing as it was almost ten o’clock. Of all his female ‘customers’, he liked Carrie the most. Often, they met for social functions like dinner and shows, with the occasional Tigers or Red Wings games. But Carrie was dynamite in bed, and he looked forward to seeing her for sex on occasion. Although she wasn’t the only woman he slept with, sexually, she was the best. It was four days ago that they had romped in the hay, and he was getting horny again. He had play-off tickets for the Red Wings and was trying to get ahold of her to see if she wanted to go, thinking more about the ‘benefits’ part of their relationship after the game than the ‘friends’ part.

  Andrew had been dealing drugs for years now and had a very good customer base. Most of his clients bought the Colombian-produced black tar heroin because it was a lot cheaper than the more refined Afghanistan-produced white, or pure heroin. His preference was for the white heroin, but he could certainly afford it. He had set up a legitimate business as a front to account for his opulent lifestyle although the restaurant actually ran at a loss without the cash injected into it from drug sales. Although he regretted paying the taxes on falsified profits, it allowed him to enjoy his wealth openly.

  Born of wealthy parents and graduating from Harvard with a degree in law, he had the background and assistance financially from his parents to make a good living legally. However, when he articled at one of the local law firms, he met Antonio Belushi, a drug lord being held for drug-related charges. The partner in charge of Antonio’s case had taken Andrew under his wing, but it was Andrew who eventually found the loop-hole in the law and mounted a good defence; Antonio got off scot free. Less than a week later, Antonio approached Andrew and offered him a very good position in his organization, mostly to provide advice on legal matters, but also giving him an established ‘book’ of users. Antonio did not pay any salary to Andrew, and all his revenue came from the drug sales, which is why he bought the restaurant to launder some of the money.

  Andrew decided to pay Carrie a visit even though he was reticent to go to her place—they would usually meet in his penthouse suite. She lived on the fourth floor of the 10-storey apartment building, not situated in one of the better parts of town. Before going there, he dressed down in an old pair of jeans and sweatshirt in an attempt to blend in—his normal Armani attire with Gucci shoes would probably get him mugged! To avoid the lobby camera, he decided to use the stairs. When he got to the floor, her apartment, number 406, sat two doors down on his right as he entered the corridor. He tapped on the door and waited, but no answer came then he put his ear to the door and heard a cat meowing, but no other noises. He rapped harder and called out her name.

  “Carrie?”

  No answer again. He did not like this—it was unlike her not to be at work and not answer her door. Not wishing to pay any more attention to himself he decided to call 911 from his burner phone as he retreated back down the stairs.

  “9-1-1.” The female operator said. “What is the nature of your emergency?”

  “I just heard a gunshot coming from apartment 406 at 1
456 Stevenson Road. Maybe someone should check it out.”

  “May I have your name and location sir?”

  By that time, Andrew had hung up the phone and had exited the building onto the street. He decided to wait until the emergency vehicles arrived, and before long, sirens wailed. A black-and-white screeched to a halt in front of the building, followed shortly after by two more. The police gathered in the street and determined how to approach the scene. If there was in fact a gunshot and a perp. was still in the building, they had to follow protocol. Two officers proceeded to the back of the building while the other four entered the lobby. Andrew waited and watched. After about 10 minutes, more sirens sounded and a paramedic van pulled up to the building. This was not good , he thought to himself. A further siren sounded and this time it was the coroner’s van. This is definitely not good. A crowd had gathered outside the building by this time, so Andrew had no problem mixing with the gawkers. Another unmarked police car arrived with lights flashing shortly after, and the crowd started to grow. The occupants of the last car to arrive came out of the building about 15 minutes later and left the scene. Several other plain-clothes and uniformed people emerged and left the scene, but the ambulance stayed. Eventually, the gurney was carried out of the building and taken to the Coroner’s van—its occupant completely covered with a white sheet.