All the Rave

by Bob DeMoss

  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’s massive eight-cylinder engine. At least the Suburban was physically off his tail—for the moment.

  Now what? He’d call 911, but his cellphone had been knocked onto the floor and slipped under the passenger seat from the impact. 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 gripping the life out of 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 Duramax ® 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.

  “Look . . . I’ve got the cash,” he said, his voice shaking. “For real . . . Just, like, follow me, okay? I’ll . . . I’ll 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 veer to the left and make the turn before the Russians had 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. Illya 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. Too late to suddenly get religion.

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

  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 God!!”

  T
he 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.

  17

  Saturday 11:22 AM

  “Hi, I’m 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.”

  “Really? I thought he was working today.”

  “Yeah—was. Boss gave him the rest of the day off. Lucky guy, especially with the weather being so nice and all. Excuse me while I see if Dr. Blackstone is available. Feel free to have a seat.” Tina motioned to the lobby waiting area and then picked up the phone.

  That was odd, Jodi thought as she sat on the edge of a chair by the fish tank. I just spoke with Bruce minutes ago. He didn’t say anything about cutting out early. What’s up with that? So, I’m gonna have this meeting . . . alone? Lost in thought, her eyes followed an orange swordfish. It darted into a hole in the side of a sunken ship. The ship, surrounded by wispy-looking brown kelp, rested on the pebbled bottom of the fish tank.

  “Miss Adams?”

  Jodi looked up. Her eyes narrowed briefly. Dr. Blackstone, she assumed. He held the door to the inner hallway open as he examined the waiting area.

  “Yes, I’m Jodi Adams,” she said. She ran her fingers through her hair and then rose from her chair.

  “If you’ll follow me.”

  She offered a tentative smile. “Sure thing.”

  Dr. Blackstone walked briskly down the hall, his white lab coat flowing in his wake. On both her left and right was a row of doors. Some closed, some open. She could hear dogs barking and birds squawking behind those that were closed.

  As she passed Room 5, she glanced inside. It had a stainless-steel examination table, a small sink, a medicine cabinet, and a chair. Pretty much what she’d expected.

  At the end of the hall, she turned left and followed Dr. Blackstone to a room marked “Restricted Area—Authorized Personnel Only.” She watched him enter a code on the electronic, wall-mounted keypad.

  “I appreciate your coming, and on such short notice,” he said over his shoulder. “Things are rather crazy in this wing. We can talk more comfortably in here.” With a sharp click, the door lock released.

  Inside, she noted, was an impressive surgical suite, as nice as the one she had experienced at Abington Hospital’s state-of-the-art facility. She was drawn to a bank of large windows that overlooked a berm of tall pine trees.

  “I designed the facility to maximize the view,” Dr. Blackstone said, his arms folded. “When you spend hours cutting animals open, as I do, the picturesque scenery renews the mind.” He spoke the words in a detached, clinical tone.

  He continued. “What you don’t see, Jodi, is the extensive soundproofing. Nothing that happens in this room can be heard outside these walls. If you’d like to test it out, be my guest and yell.”

  That was an odd way to start the conversation, Jodi thought. She turned from the view toward Dr. Blackstone, clutching her purse to her side. She felt chilled. Why would he say something like that? She definitely didn’t like the feeling of isolation that swept over her, or the way Dr. Blackstone studied her. She couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t trustworthy.

  He forced a smile. “Naturally, the soundproofing is for the benefit of my clients in the other parts of the building. It prevents them from unnecessary discomfort when we’re in surgery.” He stroked his goatee. “You know, the sounds from drilling or sawing can be unsettling for some visitors.”

  “Thanks for the tour.” Jodi was ready to get this over with as fast as possible. “So, Bruce said you wanted to see me . . . about last night or something.”

  “Indeed. I understand that you both had quite the adventure at that rave.”

  Jodi nodded. “That’s an understatement, I guess.” They had met less than a handful of minutes ago and yet she sensed there was something dark about him. But what? The shifting in his eyes? The stiffness of his movements? Then again, maybe she was just overreacting from lack of a good night’s sleep.

  “As you can imagine, I have a few questions. Bruce thought you might be able to shed some light on things. Let’s have a seat in my office. I promise I’ll only keep you long enough to finish our business.” He pointed to a door to her right.

  Jodi walked to the opening, peered through the doorway, stepped in and took a seat at his direction. She couldn’t help but see the terrarium with its assortment of spiders. She held herself and shuddered as she watched their movements.

  “Is it too cool in here?” Dr. Blackstone asked.

  She shook her head. “No. I just hate spiders—they give me the creeps. Sorry, no offense.”

  “That’s a completely understandable reaction,” Dr. Blackstone said with a taut smile. Still standing, he added, “Forgive my manners. May I provide you something to drink? A Coke? Fruit juice? Water?”

  “Water would be fine, thank you.” She relaxed a little, appreciating his offer of hospitality. Maybe he wasn’t such a cold fish after all.

  Dr. Blackstone pulled two paper cups from the dispenser attached to the five-gallon water cooler, filled each, and stepped momentarily out of the office. A second later, he returned with the drink cups and two paper napkins.

  “Here you go.” He handed her a cup and a napkin.

  “Thank you.” Jodi took the cup and sipped it. She was more thirsty than she realized. She drank some more. Finished, she dabbed her mouth with the napkin and then balanced the cup on the edge of the armrest.

  “I’ll get to the point. Bruce gave me this,” Dr. Blackstone said. He leaned against the edge of his desk and withdrew the syringe from his lab jacket. “Do you recognize it?”

  She identified it immediately. “Sure thing. Bruce and I found that right beside him.”

  “Who?”

  “Actually, I can’t say for sure. That’s something I’m working to figure out.” Jodi bit her lip. She hadn’t planned to reveal that piece of information. “I mean, he was seventeen or so. We think he died from an overdose of whatever was in there.”

  “So you’re saying this person died?”

  “Well, that’s what we think—see, Bruce felt for a pulse but couldn’t find one.“ Jodi fought an overwhelming urge to yawn. She covered her mouth.

  He leaned forward. “Did you alert the police?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did.” Jodi noticed his right eye twitch at that bit of information.

  “What happened next? Did you and Bruce file a report?”

  “Yes and no. See, the deal was, Bruce was taking our friend to the hospital, so he dropped me off at the police station.” Jodi fidgeted with an earring. A small voice inside warned, Don’t say too much. “They—the police—didn’t seem to be too concerned about the drugs. They said they didn’t have enough manpower or whatever.” Jodi crossed her legs and was tempted to lean her head back against the wall behind her and close her eyes.

  “When I told them about that body . . . they . . . they, I mean, that got their attention.” She felt so tired, so incredibly woozy. What was happening? “I’m sorry, where was I?”

  “The police report—”

  “Oh, yeah.” Jodi worked to recall the events. “So I took them to . . . to the rave and, gee, the body was gone. No body, no crime, right?” Another deep yawn.

  Dr. Blackstone folded his hands. “And what about this friend—”

  “Kat Kauffman.”

 
“Was she somehow mixed up in all of this?”

  “I guess you could say so. That’s how everything started, you know? We went to find her and when we did, we found the dead boy, and . . . oh, yeah . . . and she had a needle, too.”

  “Is that so? Do you have it with you? May I see it, Jodi?” His tongue licked the bottom of his top lip like a hungry man waiting to be served dinner. She thought he was about to drool.

  “Well, actually, yes, but . . . I’d like to keep it. You see, Kat’s in the hospital . . . I found her with it at the rave, like I said. Anyway, I was supposed to give it to . . . the doctor for some tests.” Then, under her breath, she said, “Gee, I can’t believe I forgot to do that.”

  She looked back at Dr. Blackstone and said, “Besides, it looks just like the one you’re holding.” She smiled. Seconds later, she felt her forehead with the back of her hand. “Excuse me. I . . . I’m feeling a little lightheaded.” Her eyelids, heavy with sleep, closed. With a jolt, she jerked awake in time to hear Dr. Blackstone speak.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. His face remained stoic, impervious to her condition. “Just a few more questions.”

  Right now, all she needed was a pillow. Her eyes closed again.

  This time they didn’t reopen.

  Dr. Blackstone carried Jodi’s limp body to the operating table. He strapped her legs and arms in place. He returned to his office, picked up her purse and sat at his desk. He opened it and found the syringe almost immediately. His eyes widened in delight; one less piece of incriminating evidence. He removed the syringe and placed it in his center desk drawer.

  With anticipation, like that of a thirsty man in the desert dying for a drink, he dumped the rest of the contents on his desk. A compact. Car keys. Assorted receipts. A few dollars. Several business cards. Driver’s license. And the winning ticket to his personal lottery: a numbered claim check from the InstyFoto Mart.