by Bob DeMoss
A minute later they started to climb the well-worn wooden staircase. A kerosene lantern hung from a rusty nail. In its meager light, Jodi saw that the steps were covered with a layer of dried bird droppings. Pigeons, she guessed. Although tonight the music probably drove them away from their overhead perches, by the looks of it this place was home to a whole flock of the annoying little creatures.
She pressed on, hoping not to find Kat upstairs.
As she climbed the steep steps, Jodi thought she felt a spider web brushing against her face. The last thing she wanted to do was to accidentally step into their dusty mesh. She hated spiders—thanks to Mr. MacQueen, her tenth-grade biology teacher who made the class dissect an assortment of arachnids for two weeks straight. Her skin started to crawl.
Like a blind man with a cane, she swatted at the air in front of her, hoping to avoid contact with any cobwebs. Halfway up several teens were slouched against the side wall, sharing a smoke. A strong whiff of a distinctive odor—marijuana, of that she was sure—filled the air. She coughed as she stepped around them.
At the top of the stairs, Jodi entered the room. Bruce was several steps behind her. Her eyes had to adjust to the virtual darkness as only one temporarily rigged lantern cast a flickering yellowish glow against the bare red-brick walls.
Jodi squinted as she scanned the room for Kat. She guessed there were almost a hundred teens inside. Most sat on the floor. Some leaned against the wall. Some had Glo-Rings around their necks. Several passed around small, porcelain hashish pipes.
Jodi hugged herself. The chamber felt clammy; it smelled of must, urine, and burning plastic. She figured it was about ten times the size of the two-car garage at home.
“I’ve smelled better armpits,” Bruce said, catching up to her. “At least it’s not so loud up here.”
He was right, the music wasn’t as unbearable. Still, the floor vibrated as the bass-heavy thumping below hammered away at the floor joists with the intensity of a battering ram.
“Any ideas?” Jodi asked. “We really don’t have much time.”
“Who did Kat say she was going as?”
Jodi thought for a second. “Tinker Bell. Yeah, from that Disney movie—”
Bruce interrupted, “Dumbo.”
“Hey—I didn’t deserve that.” Jodi punched him in the shoulder.
“No, that’s the name of the movie—Dumbo—isn’t it?”
“Try Peter Pan. Anyway, she said she was gonna wear like pink pants and . . . oh yeah, she painted her white sneakers with glow-in-the-dark pink dots or something.”
“Got it. So we look for a 120-pound fairy,” Bruce said. “I say we head toward the far wall and work our way back.”
“Go for it.”
Jodi followed Bruce, stepping over several teens and around others, as they searched for Kat. They reached the outside wall where a little additional light from the street lamps below crept through the busted-out windowpanes. Jodi felt pieces of broken glass crunch under her shoes as they searched.
Still no sign of Kat.
Bruce turned to his right and snaked his way through the bodies. Jodi started to sweat; the room was as poorly ventilated as it was poorly lit. This is insane, she thought. The entire crazy setup: kids popping pills like candy while others dealt drugs in plain view. No adults anywhere. No police. No medical help. What gives, not even a bathroom?
For the first time Jodi was starting to seriously rethink her decision to come. Maybe God hadn’t prompted her to go after all. Maybe she’d just imagined the whole thing. Maybe it was just her own curiosity. A wild-goose chase, she thought. That’s all this is. She decided they should just call it quits.
Still ahead of her, Bruce turned to yell over his shoulder.
“Jodi—over here!”
6
Saturday 12:02 AM
Reverend Bud hadn’t taken a shower in a week. Not that he was a once-a-day shower type, but under usual circumstances he’d manage a shower at least three times in seven days. But tonight, with its hot and unseasonably humid conditions, as he drove the sixteen-foot Ryder truck through Huntingdon Valley, his T-shirt clung to his thin rib cage, his shoulder-length hair remained clumped and knotted, and his scraggly beard itched.
It didn’t help matters that the air conditioning was busted. But as long as he had his music he remained cool. Presently, Farley Funk’s “Jack Your Body” filled the truck’s cab. His homemade collection of house music from the mid-eighties was still his favorite tape. With his arm resting on the driver’s door, the window down, he tapped the steering wheel in time to the irregular drum beat. He sang along with the track: “j-j-j jack your body.”
He came to a stop at the traffic light on the corner of Philmont Avenue and Huntingdon Valley Pike. He took one last slow toke on the joint pinched between his thumb and forefinger and then, with a glance around to ensure the police weren’t in sight, pitched the remaining stub out the window. He held his breath for a long moment, then exhaled.
He sat back, waiting for the light to change, but noticed the inside of the windshield had become lined with a greasy film from smoking. He wiped it with the side of his hand, which only served to smear the hazy substance in circles. With the light still red, he tapped his horn once, and then rolled through the intersection.
A green duffel bag rested on the black vinyl seat next to him. He glanced over at it and sang, “j-j-j jack your body” again. He focused back on the road in time to see a police car approaching in the oncoming lane. After it had passed, he glanced in his side mirror and watched the cop disappear into the dark. “Da Fuzz is on da move,” he said to no one in particular.
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 precision, 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 cellphone 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 squinted out of 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 . . .”
“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. Wouldn’t wanna forget the stash.” Reverend Bud reached for the duffel bag. He handed the bag of cash 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 between five and six-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 a bug on the windshield or maybe road kill. Either way, you’re dead meat.”
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 main 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—”
“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. Barely had the ‘bread’ as you say to keep the lights on and the bank away from foreclosing on your tiny shack of a house. Am I right?”
“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 hippie retread like you would understand. I don’t care a rat’s butt about PLUR. We’ve got to deliver the goods, 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 no later than 6:00 A.M., got it?”
Reverend Bud took a deep breath. He dropped his head back against the headrest. “Yeah, baby. I’m on it.”
Dr. Blackstone’s jaw remained clenched. ”Now get going—before I kick your hippie behind.”
7
Saturday 12:03 AM
“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 roll 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 and 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 at a crime scene, 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 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 sort of glazed over.”
“Is she alert?”
Jodi waved h
er 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 ABC’s.”
“Her what?”
“The basics: airwave—breathing—circulation. First we’ve got to make sure her airway isn’t blocked,” he said while removing the pacifier from her mouth. Using his penlight, he examined 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 egg.”
“Come on, Bruce, we’ve got to call 911. Here. Take my cell.” Jodi 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 from 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.