All the Rave

by Bob DeMoss

“Bruce!”

  Bruce must have seen the panic written on her face. He pulled her to his side. “Hey, back off, pal,” he said firmly.

  The smiley-face kid staggered backward as if hit with a gust of wind. “Dude, what’s with the negative energy . . . where’s the love?” He waved them off in disgust, and then went to his friend for a prolonged kiss.

  Jodi winced. She turned away and faced Bruce. “Guess anything goes around here,” she said, cupping her hand to his ear. “Thanks for stepping in.”

  “Sure thing. You know, I thought we could split up to look for the others, but after that encounter with Mr. Lip Lock”—Bruce nodded in the direction of the boys behind her—“that’s a lousy idea.”

  “I’m with you,” Jodi said, relieved.

  “I’ve got it,” Bruce said. “Let’s cut through the middle of the room to find the others. I’ll look left, you look right. But let’s stay together.”

  Jodi gave him a thumbs-up. Bruce turned and started to make his way through the mass of bobbing bodies. Jodi reached forward to rest her hand lightly on Bruce’s back as he led the way.

  They had gone twenty steps when a guy without a shirt, his bottom lip pierced with what appeared to be a fishhook, stopped Bruce and shouted something in his ear. Bruce shook his head no, then said something in return.

  When the guy turned to another raver, Jodi tapped Bruce on the shoulder. “What’d he want?”

  “He asked if I wanted some Special K. I told him we already had breakfast,” Bruce said with a smile.

  “What’s Special K?”

  “Beats me. Probably some kinda drug.” He turned to go.

  Jodi took several steps to follow when a pair of strong, slightly rough hands reached around her. One hand covered her eyes, the other wrapped around her waist. Together, the hands yanked her backward and didn’t let go.

  She couldn’t see. Stunned, she tossed and squirmed, and bucked like a trapped animal. Even with her best effort, she found she couldn’t break free. Who was this guy? What did he want with her? Was this some kind of joke? Her legs kicked as he dragged her away. She struggled to resist the arms that held her captive.

  As she wrestled to get free, she had a flashback to the time she was ten, when her older cousin Thomas dunked her in the pool. His strong arms held her underwater until she thought her lungs would explode—just like now.

  She gasped for air, and then shrieked—“BRUCE!”

  Jodi hoped he heard her over the pandemonium in the room.

  4

  Friday 11:55 PM

  Dr. Julius Blackstone stood perfectly still.

  His steel-gray eyes peered into a specially designed, glass terrarium, home to his collection of prized tarantulas. He was completely focused on the drama unfolding before him. A dim, incandescent black lamp emitted just enough light for him to study their movements in the darkness.

  When he drafted the plans for this terrarium, a tank measuring three feet wide, six feet long, and three feet tall, he envisioned a space to house three different varieties of tarantulas: his Usumbara Orange Baboon, an extremely aggressive, bright orange spider from eastern Africa that would strike if agitated in the slightest way; his King Baboon, an eight-inch African tarantula that, when peeved, reared up on its back legs to hiss; and, his personal favorite, the Goliath Bird Eater—the largest spider in the world, complete with an eleven-inch leg span.

  This somewhat hairy, orange king-size spider weighed, as he liked to tell children, “more than a McDonald’s quarter pounder with cheese.” Unlike the others in his collection, Goliath came from South America. When provoked, it would attack with its inch-long fangs.

  He liked that.

  He wondered how long Goliath would tolerate the little white mouse who scrounged around the feet of the spider, displaying no signs of fear. An instant later, Goliath was having supper.

  Satisfied, he checked his watch. Midnight.

  He closed and locked the door to his personal office, walked down a narrow hallway and then followed the back staircase down to the basement. He punched in the alarm code for this restricted area, opened the door and stepped into the lower-level operation suite. The only other access to this space came from an exterior door that, when opened, led to the back parking lot.

  Dr. Blackstone graduated from Harvard with a master’s degree in medicine. After Harvard, he pursued further education and training in the field of veterinary medicine. Now, fifteen years later, his Pet Vet Wellness Center, located in the heart of Huntingdon Valley, enjoyed a stellar reputation.

  This two-story, state-of-the art facility sat on a gentle hillside surrounded by tall, mature pine trees. A level parking lot for clients, edged with colorful flower beds, was situated in front. To the right of the glass-and-stone structure, the driveway sloped downward as it wrapped around the building to provide employee parking and basement access.

  Inside, five associates, three receptionists, and several interns processed the daily batch of pet owners who kept his waiting room constantly full.

  None had any idea what took place after hours in the basement.

  Dr. Blackstone stuffed the small, padded earpiece of his cellphone back into his left ear. The body of the phone was clipped to his belt. A three-inch microphone followed his jawbone, extending from the earpiece to his mouth. He spoke two words: Reverend Bud. The voice-actuated cellphone dialed the number. It was answered on the second ring.

  “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 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. He definitely provided 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 Planet Fitness 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 unmarked 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 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 unfiltered 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?”

  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 ‘business as usual’ that is, how you say, a snore? I much to prefer idea of business going up. Mi poneali drook drooga?”

  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 besyeda 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.

  5

  Friday 11:31 PM

  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 you’ve 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.

  “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 Vapo-Rub 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.

  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 be conformed to this world,” Jodi wondered. She looked away sadly.

  “She’s got more moves than Michael Jackson,” 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: 11:23 P.M. They were running out of time before they would have to head home.

&nbs
p; 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 trippin’ out—”

  Alarmed at the thought that Kat might be doing drugs, Jodi grabbed Bruce by the arm. “Bruce, let’s go—”

  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.