by Bob DeMoss
“I couldn’t find a pulse. I think he’s . . . well, as far as I can tell, he’s dead.”
Jodi hooked her hair around her right ear, “Sounds like you said dead. Dead tired, right? He’s just passed out?”
“I’m saying the guy has no vital signs. And he’s pretty cold to the touch. Come on, give me a hand with Kat.”
Jodi froze. This couldn’t be happening. What kind of bizarre dream had she stepped into? Her pulse, already zooming, kicked into hyperdrive. Her mind raced. They needed to get the boy help, too. But how? Or, worse, was it too late for him? Could the stranger, lying just three feet from her, really be dead? If so, they were in the middle of a crime scene.
So now what? She felt dizzy, disoriented. The music seemed to pound the floor beneath them with an angry intensity. The walls of the dimly lit room started to close in on her. She felt suddenly lost in a dark cave.
“What are you waiting for?” Bruce snapped.
“Hold on a second,” Jodi said. “I’ve . . . I’ve got to do one thing.”
On instinct, maybe from watching an occasional episode of MONK reruns on Netflix, she took her disposable camera, thankful it had a flash, and snapped several quick photos of the boy. His face. His torso. His full profile. Why? She wasn’t sure.
It just seemed the right thing to do.
8
Saturday 12:21 AM
Jodi sat on the ground outside the warehouse cradling Kat as if cuddling a wounded bird. Kat’s body shook like a leaf in the wind. Jodi felt powerless to do more than pray and repeat, “Hang in there, Kat . . . you’ll be fine . . . I promise you’re gonna make it . . .”
She wasn’t sure if Kat understood her. Ever since she and Bruce had dragged Kat out of the building, Kat had done little more than moan—a deep groan as if the pain flowed from the core of her being.
“I’m right here, Kat,” she said, gently rocking her.
She wished Bruce would hurry. She checked her watch—again. She calculated that twelve minutes had passed since he ran to get the car. What’s taking him so long? she wondered. Maybe he forgot where he parked it. Maybe the car wouldn’t start. What then?
Inside, the music had stopped while a new DJ prepared to take over the turntables. Jodi, thankful for a break from the constant noise, heard him shout something into the microphone about being the “Vinyl Messiah” ready to lead the dancers into the Promised Land. The seemingly insatiable crowd squealed with delight at his self-proclaimed godlike status.
She looked up and scanned the parking lot for any sign of Bruce. Instead, she caught a glimpse of Carlos Martinez, at least she thought it was him. She first met Carlos a couple of months ago during the week-long spring break trip orchestrated by their social studies teacher, Rosie Meyer, as a way to earn extra credit. She and Carlos were in different periods so he was more of a recent acquaintance. As he stepped into the light by the ticket booth, just twenty steps away, she studied his face. It was him.
Just then a boy holding a Kermit the Frog stuffed animal approached Carlos. She watched as Carlos slipped him a small packet with white powder. The boy in turn handed Carlos some cash, which he promptly added to a large wad of money. Carlos tucked the money roll into a black leather fanny pack that hovered in front of his belt buckle. The boy, holding his frog and what she was convinced were drugs, went inside.
Jodi cupped her hands around her mouth and called his name.
Carlos turned, looked at her and then walked in her direction. As he approached she could tell by his expression that he didn’t recognize her. He stopped and stood three feet away. His head leaned slightly to one side. His thin, all-purpose smile revealed a gold tooth cap, which complemented his gold bracelet, two gold chains around his neck, and four gold nugget rings, two on each hand.
“It’s me, Jodi Adams . . . from the houseboat trip.”
“Oh yeah, sure. Hi. Pretty awesome party, huh?” Carlos said to Jodi. He glanced at Kat.
Jodi decided not to mince words. “You dealing these days?”
His right eyebrow shot up. “Whatcha need? E? Supernovas? Special K? I gotcha covered. I just didn’t take you to be, well, the type, you know?”
“I’m not . . . and that makes two of us who are surprised, Carlos.” Her tone took him off guard. “Since when did you become a dealer?”
“Hold on a minute.” He held up his hands palm out as if surrendering. “There’s way too much baggage with that term. I’m a facilitator of good times,” he said with a cheesy smile. “I much prefer the term ‘Vibesman.’”
“You’re so clueless, Carlos.” Jodi stared at him until he looked at his feet. Although she didn’t know Carlos very well, she previously had pegged him as being sensitive to other people’s pain. Now she wasn’t so sure. Didn’t he see the condition Kat was in? Was he so full of himself that he failed to notice her suffering? Or worse, perhaps he didn’t care. “Hel-l-o-o . . . ,” she said. “Maybe you should take oh, I don’t know, maybe a good look at Kat.”
He took a step closer, leaned in and gave her a quick assessment. “Yeah, she’s definitely spaced out. Hey, don’t blame me. I don’t remember selling her anything. And, what if I did?” He swallowed hard. “I just give people what they want, you know—the good vibes and all that. Escape . . . happiness . . . whatever they want to feel . . . I make their desires come true. It’s up to them to be responsible, that’s all I’m saying.”
Jodi wanted to sock him in the stomach. “So that’s what you’d say to Kat and to the dead kid upstairs in that . . . that chill room or whatever.”
“What are you talking about?”
“When Bruce and I found Kat, the boy next to her was dead.”
He rolled his eyes.
“Don’t believe me? Go see for yourself.”
He shook his head slowly from side to side. “Come on, Jodi, maybe you’re overreacting here.”
“Give me a healthy break, Carlos. I’m telling you, he was dead. D-E-A-D.”
“Well, I highly doubt that. Maybe he was just passed out, you know. Happens all the time. He probably just needed an extended nap or something.”
Jodi waved him off. “Wrong-o. This guy needs a hearse. Bruce even felt for a pulse and couldn’t find one.”
Carlos shrugged. His eyes started to scan the line of partygoers entering the building.
Jodi reached up and grabbed his arm. “Like I said, who’s in charge of this freak zone? Can’t you see we’ve got to get Kat some help?”
Still distracted, Carlos said to Jodi, “Can’t say exactly. All I know is I report to Reverend Bud . . .”
“A pastor? You’re telling me—”
He looked back at Jodi. “No, he’s not really a pastor. It’s just a nickname someone gave him. He’s way into the whole PLUR message, always talks about it. He picks the venues and books the DJs and stuff. Come to think of it, he’s sort of an evangelist of ecstasy, too. He’s always passing out free samples of E. I started working for him a few months back. Nice guy, really.”
The music inside started up again. Jodi yelled, “What’s he look like? Where do we find him?”
“Ah, well, he’s like pretty tall, kinda thin, he’s got long stringy hair down to here . . .” Carlos pointed to his armpit.
“Color?” Jodi shouted.
“I’d say dark brownish. And he’s got a big smile most of the time. Oh, yeah, he likes to wear white T-shirts. I think tonight he was wearing his ‘Got E?’ shirt. At least that’s what I see him in most of the time.”
“So where is he?” Jodi pressed him again.
“Hard to say. He’s here and there, depending.”
“Depending on what?” Jodi blew out a breath, ticked at Carlos’s lack of directness. She had the distinct impression he was hiding something. Who or what was he afraid of? As she waited for a response, she checked the time. Bruce had left twenty minutes ago. Where was he?
“Carlos . . . depending on what?”
“I have no idea. He just rushed out of her
e about an hour ago in a big Ryder truck. Said he’d be back sometime tonight. Maybe he’s getting more glow sticks and tee-shirts to sell at the merchandise table. Or he could be picking up munchies for the DJs. I really don’t know.” Carlos had a faraway look in his eyes as he spoke.
“Well . . . Gee . . . Let’s see. Maybe you should tell him about the dead kid when he gets back,” Jodi said.
He blinked and then locked eyes with Jodi. His tone turned suddenly grave. “Personally, I’d suggest you don’t go around spreading rumors about dead kids and stuff. Let it go, you know?”
“Come on, Carlos. What’s really going on here?”
He jammed his hands into his front pants pockets, looked over his shoulder and shuffled his feet.
“You know something that you’re not telling me. Why not?” Jodi asked.
His face was tight as a drum. His eyes darted back and forth, like a squirrel scrambling to get out of the road. “Look, I . . . I’ve gotta go. People are waiting on me . . . I’ve got customers waiting to buy. And, like I said,” he glanced at the second floor warehouse window, “if you know what’s best for you, don’t mess with this dead kid nonsense, okay?”
Carlos didn’t wait for her answer. He turned around and disappeared into the building.
9
Saturday 12:29 AM
Reverend Bud maneuvered the Ryder truck into the stream of traffic on Roosevelt Boulevard with the finesse of Godzilla. He didn’t use his turn signal and he didn’t wait for the flow of oncoming cars to clear before pulling into the right lane. Once in place he didn’t accelerate, choosing instead to take his time. He was in no hurry to return to the warehouse, contrary to what Dr. Blackstone might have wanted.
Behind him an angry horn exploded with a rapid-fire series of blasts. In his rearview mirror he witnessed a man in a red pickup truck swerving to avoid a collision. Several seconds later the man pulled alongside the truck’s door, shouting a stream of obscenities supplemented by a few choice hand gestures.
Without looking at him, Reverend Bud flashed a peace sign with his left hand. Instead, his focus alternated between the road ahead and the joint in his right hand. His cellphone chirped on the seat beside him, momentarily drawing his attention. He took another slow, unhurried drag from the joint and then rested it on the edge of the dashboard. He reached for the phone.
“Whassup?”
The noise on the other end of the phone made hearing difficult. He lowered his music. “Speak up, dude.”
“Reverend Bud, it’s Carlos.”
“What’s happening, my main man?”
“We may have a small problem—”
“Problem? With Jeee-sus, there are no problems. Only opportunities,” said Reverend Bud with mock conviction.
As he spoke the words his mind drifted backward in time. He pictured his dad preaching at the Quakertown Community Church. His father was, in his opinion, a dedicated man of faith, quite unlike the phony TV preachers he saw peddling prosperity and healing. He admired his dad’s ability to touch people’s lives, and he had been convinced at a young age that one day he, too, would become a preacher.
Ever since he was a child, Stephen Daniel Mason—his real name, a nice biblical name at that, although his dad called him “Buddy”—wanted to believe in a God of love. Yet he resented that this God required his dad to be away from home most nights. As far as he could recall, his dad was never able to take him fishing, to a ball game, or to the park.
By the time he was a teenager he had emotionally withdrawn from his family. He lived inside his headphones. Music became his best friend. Two weeks after his seventeenth birthday, he ran away and ended up in a row house in Philadelphia with other dropouts. On several occasions he considered going back but wasn’t sure how his dad would receive him. Wow. That was ten years ago. What a trip, he thought.
With time, Buddy discovered the rave scene and came to embrace the Peace, Love, Unity, Respect anthem as his personal creed. The drugs and mind expansion would come later. Ironically, he spread the PLUR message with a gospel-like fervor and adopted the title of “Reverend.” Now, as “Reverend Bud,” he preached PLUR. He lived PLUR. He introduced others to the PLUR message with an evangelistic passion.
When he decided to promote his first rave, a modest success with local DJs, he found that he was a natural leader. Teens gravitated to his easygoing, welcoming nature. The crowds grew with time, although his events never attracted more than five or six hundred participants.
Until he met Dr. Blackstone and everything changed.
The larger crowds.
The DJs from the national circuit performing.
The underground drug market.
The Russians . . .
His thoughts were interrupted as Carlos squawked into the phone, “Hello? You still there?”
“Sorry, dude, must be a bad cell trip. Hit me again.”
“Well, it’s probably nothing but, this girl says her friend flipped on some bad drugs. Her buddy looked smashed. And she’s all panicked. She insists there’s a . . . um, a . . .”
Reverend Bud sensed the hesitation. “Yo, I get the picture. So who’s this chick? She cool?” He took another hit from the joint.
“A friend from school, sort of. I mean I don’t really know her that well or anything. Seen her around. Anyway, she’s pretty persistent . . . asking who’s in charge and stuff.”
“For real? She got a name?” He tugged at his beard as he listened.
“Yeah, it’s Jodi Adams. She’s not gonna hang around. Gotta get her friend to the hospital. But she may come back. Said something about going to the police, too. Just thought you should know.”
“I dig.” He switched the phone to his other ear. “That’s one heavy trip. You know what to do, right?”
“About the—”
“Yeah . . .”
“Sure thing. Oh, and guess what else, Boss?”
“Wow, more good news?” Reverend Bud said with a smirk.
“You’ll never believe who I saw a minute ago.”
Reverend Bud exhaled a cloud of bluish smoke. “Let me guess. Old Saint Nicholas his baa-ad self . . . red jumpsuit, jingle freakin’ bells, and happy glitter.”
“No sir. Looked to me like your Russian buddies.”
“Really?” He took a final drag, then flicked the butt out the window. “Major bummer. I’m tellin’ ya, you don’t want to share a lifeboat with those dudes.”
“I hear you.”
“Okay, like, hang loose. Keep your nose clean and take care of the situation upstairs. I’ll hit the scene in . . .” He tried to see his watch but couldn’t focus on the dial. “Be there soon. Asta pasta, baby.” With that Reverend Bud hung up. He set the phone on the seat and fidgeted some more with his beard. A minute passed.
He picked up the phone and dialed *01. It rang twice.
“Dr. B., so, like, why are Russians crashing my party, dude?”
10
Saturday 12:33 AM
Jodi was relieved to see Bruce zooming toward her. She had to raise her voice over the music, which, like a geyser, splashed outside the building. “What took you so long?” She started to stand, supporting Kat as she rose.
“I’ll tell you on the way,” said Bruce, gasping for air. “Left my car engine running. It’s parked just around the corner. Let me give you a hand.” Bruce helped her bring Kat to her feet. “How’s she doing?”
“Awful. I’m really worried. She’s messed up.” That was an understatement. Several times Jodi thought Kat had stopped breathing, although she couldn’t be sure. Jodi’s palms were moist with sweat and her shirt damp with perspiration.
“Gosh, I see what you mean,” Bruce said, feeling Kat’s forehead. “We can make Abington Hospital in twenty minutes.”
Jodi and Bruce walked as fast as the trio could go considering Kat, hanging like a dead weight between them, wasn’t able to do her part. They stepped through the fence and then crossed the distance to the curb where Bruce had left h
is Mustang.
“Better climb in back. I’ll put her in front,” Bruce said, opening the passenger door. Jodi did as instructed. She squeezed into the pint-size rear seat. A quick minute later Bruce had Kat situated, her body on the floor with her head resting on the seat cushion. He hopped behind the wheel. As he peeled away from the sidewalk, Jodi was thankful to be leaving the warehouse in the dust. If she never came back that would be too soon.
“So, like, what’s the deal? What took so long?” she said.
“Car wouldn’t start. Had a dead battery. Must be a short somewhere in the electrical system.”
“Oh, that’s great . . .”
“Hey—we’re fine now, as long as I don’t shut off the engine.”
Jodi gripped the seat in front of her as Bruce took a turn a little too fast. “So how’d you get it started?”
“It’s a stick shift so I popped the clutch.”
“You lost me.” She felt the power as the car lurched forward. Since it was after midnight, the roadway was fairly clear and Bruce was taking advantage of the open road.
“My dad taught me an old trick. You depress the clutch while the car is in first gear. As it rolls downhill, you let up on the clutch while turning the ignition. The combination jump starts the engine.”
“But we didn’t park on a hill.”
“Exactly. That’s what took so long. I had to ask some guys walking by to give me a push while I worked the clutch. Took several tries, but we got it going.”
While Jodi listened, she leaned forward to check on Kat. “Oh, I almost forgot to tell you. I saw Carlos. He’s pathetic.”
“Really? Like how do you mean?”
“You’re not going to believe this—he was dealing drugs.”
“Carlos?”
“Yeah. Must be making some serious cash, too. He had gold hanging off of him everywhere.”
“That’s nuts.”
“Exactly what I said. Oh, and he was so uncaring about Kat.” The memory made her blood boil. “And get this”—Jodi sat forward in her seat—“I told him about that kid we found upstairs and he totally blew me off. Said I was imagining things. He didn’t even offer to check it out.”
