by Bob DeMoss
Bruce offered, “There’s still some solution, or whatever, left in it. I . . . I figured you might be able to analyze what’s inside. Plus, you know how we’ve been making batches of the ketamine-filled syringes for other clinics? I wonder if this is somehow one of them.”
Dr. Blackstone lowered the syringe and placed it in his lab coat pocket. “That’s certainly within the realm of possibility—that is if I can find the time. Speaking of time, I’ve got a tight schedule this morning.” He turned to leave.
“Ah . . . there’s one more thing.” Bruce hesitated to detain him further.
Dr. Blackstone turned halfway around, one hand lingering on the doorjamb. “And that would be?”
“Well, we found it next to the body of a dead boy.”
Dr. Blackstone raised an eyebrow. His forehead wrinkled as if his mind was lost in a deep mystery. The intense look in his eyes made Bruce uncomfortable. Maybe he shouldn’t have said anything. After all, there was probably nothing to it.
“Bruce, you did the right thing . . . bringing this to my attention.” Dr. Blackstone stepped back into the supply room next to Bruce and then nodded toward the hallway. “This is serious, indeed. I’d like to have a word with you in my office.” He placed his hand in the small of Bruce’s back to give him a friendly nudge.
Bruce followed him down the hall and then into the office.
“Please, do sit down.” Dr. Blackstone motioned to a chair facing his desk. He leaned against the edge of the credenza and folded his arms.
“That’s quite a collection of spiders, Dr. Blackstone.” Bruce eyed the terrarium behind his boss. “Funny, I didn’t know they could live together like that, you know, all three in the same cage.”
Dr. Blackstone cleared his throat. “I guess when you know your place, nobody has to get hurt, now do they?” His thick eyebrows narrowed, the right side arching as he spoke.
“You can say that again.” Bruce swallowed.
“Now, as you can imagine, I’m troubled at the news of these missing syringes. Naturally, if someone has stolen ketamine from this or any other clinic, I want to do everything in my power to find the culprit and bring him or her to justice.”
Bruce was relieved. “I thought you’d be concerned—”
“That’s an understatement. Bruce, you’ve been with us, what, three or four months?”
“About that, yes, sir.”
“Then you’d know that when properly administered in the prescribed dosage ketamine disassociates the nervous system from the mind. And that’s what makes it such a tempting choice for drug addicts.”
Bruce scratched his head. “I don’t follow. How would that be interesting to a druggie?”
“In short, ketamine is a powerful substance that produces an out-of-body experience that can last several hours. Mind you, it’s not designed for human consumption. But when a human takes it, usually mixed with valium, they sustain the sensation of floating above their body.”
“Wow. Really?”
“That’s why it’s illegal to sell it over the counter in every state. Only a certified vet may purchase it. But when it hits the streets, my understanding is that kids call it Special K.”
Bruce sat up straight in his chair. Where had he heard that name before? Wasn’t it at the rave?
“You’ll never believe this, Dr. Blackstone, but just last night I was approached by a guy who asked me if I’d like Special K! Gee, I had no idea.”
“Here’s the catch.” Dr. Blackstone pulled his chair away from his desk, sat down and folded his hands as if about to launch into a lecture on the subject. “Ketamine is a seizurogenic drug. True, we use it ten, maybe fifteen times a day in this clinic. But in the hands of an untrained individual, that person is literally playing with death. That’s why we’re required by law to keep all ketamine supplies under lock and key.”
Bruce’s mind drifted to Kat. So that’s what happened to her, he thought. She must have taken the drug and gone into a seizure. Ditto for the boy, only it killed him.
“Tell me, Bruce, where was the location of this dance party?”
“The rave? Oh, it was downtown Philly, on Christopher Columbus Boulevard . . . in an old warehouse. Can’t say exactly. It was late, and dark—”
“Not to worry.” Dr. Blackstone leaned forward, the palms of his hands resting on the surface in front of him. “But I am wondering, Bruce. You’ve said ‘we’ several times. Is there anybody else that can support your claim about the death of the boy . . . from what might have been one of our syringes?”
Bruce was thankful that his boss was taking this seriously. “Yes, actually. My friend Jodi saw him, too.”
“Jodi. And her last name?”
“Adams. Jodi Adams. She goes to my school. She even took a picture of him.”
Dr. Blackstone’s eyes widened. A flash of fear or alarm crossed his face. For an instant, Bruce thought his boss appeared panicked. Who wouldn’t be, especially if something from their lab was involved in a death.
“Listen, Bruce. I’d like to speak with this friend of yours. Could you arrange for her to stop by . . . say, later today?”
“I’ll sure try.”
“You do that—I’m counting on you. This is of utmost importance.” His intercom crackled.
“Doctor?” The voice from the speaker phone filled the room.
“Yes?”
“Your 8:30 surgery is prepped and ready.”
“Thank you, Susan.” Dr. Blackstone punched a button on the phone and then stood to leave. “Naturally, I’d make room in my schedule whenever a meeting with your friend, Miss Jodi Adams, can be arranged. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
15
Saturday 10:07 AM
In retrospect, Jodi wasn’t surprised to be the only person at Kat’s hospital bedside. She knew Kat’s dad was doing time in a New Jersey jail, while her mother, a borderline alcoholic and drug user, was in a jail of her own making. “A free spirit,” was the way Kat had described her mom before the first time Jodi met her. That was an understatement.
Presently, Jodi sat in an uncomfortable, low-back chair. She had pulled it close to Kat’s side, positioning it so that she could occasionally dab Kat’s forehead with a cool, damp washcloth. Kat remained motionless, a white sheet pulled up to her chest, the bed slightly elevated underneath her head. The only sound in the room came from the chorus of beeps and chirps emitted by an assortment of equipment adjacent to the headboard.
It took all the restraint Jodi could muster to keep from running out of the building. She hated hospitals. Always had, ever since the death of her grandfather. The smells nauseated her. She could handle the dentist’s office just fine. But hospitals, with their rows of rooms filled with sickness, suffering, and the constant parade of nameless doctors and nurses armed with clipboards and needles, unsettled her. She yawned, covering her mouth as she did.
Of course, it didn’t help that she was exhausted from the night before. She had arrived an hour earlier, having first stopped by the InstyFoto Mart to drop off the disposable camera for developing. They were one of the last locally owned and operated film processing services who specialized in reprints, enlargements and, given the rebirth of interest old technology among millenials, they even carried Polaroid cameras and film. She’d pick up her prints from the rave later that morning.
Upon Jodi’s arrival, the nurse explained that speaking to Kat in low tones was good therapy, but not to expect a response. Kat was heavily medicated to prevent another seizure. She drifted in and out of consciousness, although she’d been unconscious all morning. Jodi learned that Kat’s blood work was being processed at the lab and they’d know the results in twenty-four hours. Meanwhile, it was a waiting game.
Jodi crossed her legs and then hooked her hair over her right ear. A painful mixture of emotions, like a fountain, sprang up inside her as she watched Kat lying unconscious. Jodi leaned forward and, with a soft squeeze of Kat’s hand, continued to vocalize her feelings.
“Kat, I . .
. I thought you were finally coming to understand God, you know? You asked me all those great questions and you pushed me for real answers. It’s funny how you even made me rethink stuff I’ve always known but had taken for granted. You started to believe life was worth living, remember? And things began to make sense as you learned more about God. You said so yourself.”
Jodi gently dabbed Kat’s forehead again. A thin, clear oxygen tube strapped beneath her nostrils provided a steady, regulated supply of purified air. She was careful not to dislodge it.
“So what happened, Kat? What were you thinking? How could you do such a foolish thing? I mean, to gamble with your life? Maybe it was all me . . . maybe I was too pushy, too anxious to see you invite Jesus into your heart. I don’t know. Did I come on too strong? Or, was I too laid-back? Too afraid to let you know what I was really thinking?”
Jodi folded her hands in her lap. In this unguarded moment, Jodi thought Kat looked bad. Real bad. The IV drip bag hung midair, suspended by a cold, stainless-steel pole. The supply line was held in place on Kat’s arm with white surgical tape where it entered a vein.
“Kat, I want you to know that I care deeply for you. To tell the truth, I love you . . . like the sister I never had. Hard to believe, huh? I mean, we’re as different as they come. I’m North, you’re South. I’m hot, you’re cold. We’re like oil and vinegar. None of that matters to me. You’ve got to make it . . . you just have to.”
Jodi wiped the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand.
“I know you can hear me, Kat.”
She crossed her arms, looked out the window, then back at her friend.
“You know what else? If I’m honest, this is so unfair to me . . . to us. What gave you the right to give up on life? I’ve made a pretty serious investment in you, Kat. I believe in you. You know why? Because—surprise—God gave me a love for you, girlfriend. I would never have thought that was possible.”
Jodi tilted her head to one side as a fresh memory surfaced. “Do you remember what you said the day we first met on the houseboat? I’ll never forget it. You said, ‘Hey, it’s me and the Christian . . . your God must have a sense of humor.’”
She sat back in her chair. A lone tear rolled down her cheek at the recollection. She took a deep, slow breath, trying to regain her composure. For several minutes, her gaze remained fixed on Kat’s pale white face.
Kat’s eyes fluttered open. Jodi had to blink to make sure she wasn’t imagining it. Kat managed to roll her head in Jodi’s direction.
“Hey there, sleeping beauty,” Jodi said, offering a warm smile. “You’re doing just great, girl.” She thought Kat was about to say something. Jodi placed her forefinger to her lips. “Shh. You don’t have to say anything. Save your strength, Kat. Whatever it is, it can wait.”
Kat’s head flopped slowly side to side.
“I didn’t . . . do . . . it . . .”
Jodi weighed her next few words before speaking. “Let me say that I think I know what you mean and hear me when I say I believe you—you didn’t have anything to do with that boy dying. Honest, I believe you weren’t involved.”
Kat’s face tightened. She lifted her neck and head off the pillow for a weak second before plopping back down. “No . . . I, I didn’t . . .” She closed her eyes, evidently too tired to finish her sentence.
“Wait a second,” Jodi said. She picked up the Styrofoam cup filled with crushed ice and a plastic spoon from the roll-around table. “Here, try to suck on a little of this ice, okay? The nurse said it will help your throat feel better.”
Jodi raised a spoonful to Kat’s dry lips. Kat managed to ingest a few meager ice shavings.
“Are you saying you didn’t take the drugs? Is that what you mean?”
Kat reopened her eyes. Jodi detected an affirmative nod, although still weak. “Yes.”
“Listen, Kat. I want to believe you. Really I do.” Jodi set the cup and spoon to the side after supplying another serving. “I don’t know how to say this. But, I know what I saw and I saw the needle you used. And, let’s just say it was empty.”
Kat licked her lips as she slowly shook her head in disagreement.
Holding Kat’s hand as she spoke, Jodi offered a helpless shrug and said, “What you’re saying, I mean, it just doesn’t make sense. And guess what? I’m going to give the doctor the needle so they can figure out what’s causing all this freaky stuff with your body.”
Kat closed her eyes and slipped back into an unconscious state. Jodi felt her hand go limp.
She lowered her voice. “I’m leaving now, but I’ll be back real soon. See, I’ve got to find out who sold this junk that almost killed you . . . and killed that boy. And I have a strong hunch where to start looking.”
Jodi paid the fee for parking in the hospital’s multilevel garage and then headed north onto Old York Road. She was driving her family’s Nissan Altima. Her dad called it the “Plain Jane” mobile, because the little white sedan certainly wouldn’t turn any heads or set any speed records, but the four-door, four-cylinder was super-reliable basic transportation. Best of all, her dad paid the insurance.
At the first red light, she remembered to turn her cell phone back on. She had been required to switch it off while inside the hospital. Traffic was sparse, and she figured she could make the InstyFoto Mart over in Huntingdon Valley in ten minutes; twelve if she hit the forever red at Old York and Old Welch Roads.
As she drove, her thoughts drifted back to something she had read in Ephesians 5 during her personal devotions the night before. And while she had read the entire chapter, verse 11 came to mind: Have nothing to do with the fruitless deeds of darkness, but rather expose them.
Given her current situation, those words struck her as being more than mere coincidence. God was speaking to her through the Bible; she felt compelled to learn the truth about the dead boy and Kat.
After the fiasco with Officer Dexter, she was tempted to let it go, just as Bruce had suggested in the first place. Kat was in the hospital getting the care she needed. Wasn’t that all that mattered? Why should she care about the boy, a complete stranger she never knew? Why should she spend a beautiful Saturday afternoon trying to make sense out of last night’s hellhole?
Her phone jumped to life on the seat next to her with a simple series of beeps. As someone who enjoyed classical music, she detested the gimmicky melody settings. She thought it ironic that the only “classical” music most Americans would ever hear was the annoying, electronic renditions of Bach and Beethoven popularized by cellphones.
She snatched it up after one ring.
“Hello?”
“Jodi. It’s Bruce.”
“Hey, how’s it going? Get any sleep?”
“Me? Not much. Where are you?”
“I’m on Old York . . . just passing McDonald’s. Just finished seeing Kat. Oh, and she actually woke up for a minute. That’s a good sign, I guess.”
“Sure is. Hey, I’ve got just a minute—”
“Yeah, I forgot you’re a big-time vet.” She laughed.
“Nice. Anyway, remember how last night I said I thought that syringe looked kinda familiar? Like it might be one of ours?”
“Uh-huh.”
“It matched.”
“Really? Wow. Did you talk to your boss about it?”
“Actually, yes. He was real concerned, too, you know, worried that someone might have been hurt by the misuse of it.”
“So you told him about the boy and Kat?”
There was a moment of silence.
“Bruce?”
“I’m here. You know, I forgot to mention Kat. But I did tell him about the corpse—”
“You have such a way with words.”
“Anyway, listen. He’d like to talk to you—”
“Me? Why me?”
“Only because I mentioned that we both were there and we both saw the same thing. He just wants to ask you a few questions before he files a report with the police, or whatever. Should t
ake fifteen minutes, max.”
“So, when does he want me to swing by?”
“Can you come now?”
Jodi thought for a moment. “Yeah, I guess. I was going to stop and pick up my film, but that can wait until afterward.”
“Cool. I’ll tell him you’re on the way. I’ll be working all day so give me a shout when you stop in.”
“Wait a minute. Do I have to admit I know you?” Jodi said.
“As long as I don’t have to admit I know you, either,” he said with a laugh.
16
Saturday 11:16 AM
Carlos Martinez checked his rearview mirror. The black, hopped-up Suburban was still behind him. At first he dismissed its presence as a fluke. But five turns later, with the beastly looking SUV still dogging his tail, his thoughts raced over the possibilities.
He didn’t know anybody who owned a vehicle like it; the Huntingdon Valley police didn’t use such transportation; he doubted it was the FBI; and, this wasn’t a case of road rage, of that he was sure. He hadn’t cut anybody off. Quite the contrary. He had been driving slower, thanks to a crushed, heavily bandaged finger.
Carlos tried to ignore whoever it was. He had bigger problems at the moment, thank you very much, starting with where to find $7,000 to pay back the Russians. He had spent every last dollar on jewelry, clothes, a new triple lens iPhone and stereo equipment. There was no way he could scrape that much cash together. Certainly not by the noon deadline, which loomed on the horizon less than forty-five minutes away.
His busted finger throbbed at the thought.
Instead, Carlos was headed for the Pet Vet Wellness Center to see Reverend Bud. He had arranged the meeting figuring it was better to come clean with what he had done than to deal with two Russian barbarians. He was fairly certain Reverend Bud would cut him some slack. Even call off the Russian dogs. Or at least maybe loan him the money to keep Illya and Zhenya out of his hair.
Carlos had plenty of time as he drove to rehearse his story. Satisfied, he figured it would push all the right buttons: His sister, a lesbian, had contracted AIDS and couldn’t afford the medication. Without it, she’d die. Her health insurance, a giant HMO provider, wouldn’t cover the cost of her prescriptions. His parents had disowned her for her sexual choice. He was her only chance. How could he let down his sister?
