by Bob DeMoss
“What’s wrong, Jodi? You sound pretty shook up? Is it Kat?”
“I am kind of a mess, and no. Kat’s okay—or was this morning when I left.” Was it really this morning when she had sat across from Kat in the hospital? Seemed like an eternity.
“You had lunch yet?”
“No.” Jodi studied her rearview mirror.
“How about we meet in ten minutes at the Dairy Queen on Philmont.”
“Perfect. That’s right near where I’ve got to pick up my film. See you then.”
Jodi hung up and then tucked the phone under her left leg. She drove in silence for several blocks. Bruce must think I’m a basket case, she thought. Maybe I am.
Then again, who wouldn’t be? She had a friend in the hospital on life support; she’d stumbled onto a dead boy who, in turn, disappeared without a trace; she’d met two policemen who were either incompetent or on the take; and, to top it off, she’d just costarred in her own private horror movie with a giant spider.
Maybe Bruce was right. Maybe she should just drop the whole thing. Kat was safe and that’s what mattered, right? If some kid died at the event, why should that concern her? If Dr. Blackstone wanted to manufacture illegal drugs, why should she care? Live and let live. Look out for Number One, right? Wasn’t that the message her teacher Mrs. Meyer preached at school?
Jodi pulled her car into the parking lot of the mini strip mall, a nondescript collection of stores where the InstyFoto Mart was located. Perfect timing, she thought as a Ryder truck was just starting to pull out of a spot in front of the store.
She slowed to a stop, allowing the truck to pass. As it approached, she thought the driver looked vaguely familiar. She shielded her eyes from the brilliant sun. The truck passed her. Boy, that guy sure looked like Reverend Bud, she thought.
What was he doing here? Then again, maybe it was her imagination. She pulled into the vacant spot, turned off the engine and, for the first time, felt as if she could breathe without the aid of a respirator. She exhaled a long, cleansing breath.
Jodi gathered up her purse, cellphone, and keys. Grabbing the door handle, she paused. If Dr. Blackstone knew about her encounter with the police, then Officer Dexter and Sergeant Schmidt were probably linked to him. If so, then their relationship with Dr. Blackstone was a little too cozy for comfort. Was there money somehow involved?
What’s more, Carlos had said he worked for Reverend Bud. So, if the cops—who, for the sake of argument, probably knew Dr. Blackstone—were looking the other way on the drug dealing at the rave, it would be reasonable to infer that Dr. Blackstone and Reverend Bud might be working together somehow. But how?
Her eyebrows remained tightly knit into a knot.
And how did the syringes fit in? According to Bruce, they were an exact match to those used by the clinic. Plus, didn’t Bruce say they were filling batches of syringes with that keta-stuff for other clinics? Now she wasn’t so sure. What if they were never intended to be sold to other animal hospitals and instead were sold to kids at the rave? She’d run her theory past Bruce.
Jodi stepped out of the car, locked the door and then ducked into the InstyFoto Mart. At the counter, she looked through her purse but couldn’t find her film stub.
“How can I help you?” the clerk asked.
Jodi didn’t answer. Piece by piece, she emptied the contents on the glass counter. “It’s got to be here,” she said under her breath.
“Are you picking up or dropping off?”
Jodi looked up and then examined his nametag: Mike.
“Look, Mike, I seem to have misplaced my claim check,” Jodi said, shaking her head in disbelief. The syringe was also missing. That’s really weird, she thought. She knew she hadn’t left either item at home. Maybe they fell out in the car. She continued to fumble through her things.
“That’s not a problem,” Mike said. “What’s the last name?”
“Adams. Jodi Adams. I . . . I dropped off a disposable camera this morning.”
Mike smiled. “Oh, well, you don’t have anything to worry about.”
“I don’t?” Jodi stopped her search. Their eyes met.
“Actually, your brother already picked up the film,” Mike said. His smile was pleasant. “A super nice guy. In fact, you just missed him.”
Jodi bristled. “I don’t have a brother.”
20
Saturday 12:19 PM
“I’m late, aren’t I?” Jodi said, out of breath as she slipped into the seat across from Bruce. She ran her fingers through her hair.
“No prob. I just ordered a hamburger—”
Jodi interrupted. “You’ll never believe what happened, like, a minute ago—”
“Time out,” Bruce said, making a T-sign with this hands. “You better order something. You look seriously pale.”
“Do I really look that bad?” Jodi looked at her face in the stainless-steel napkin holder.
“Let’s just say if you’re anything like the typical female, I highly doubt you’d go to the mall in this condition—no offense,” Bruce said.
“Well, if you’d been through what I’ve just gone through—” Jodi said, touching her face.
The waitress served Bruce his burgers and fries and then turned to Jodi. “Can I get something for ya, hon?”
Jodi leaned her head to one side. “Okay. I’ll splurge. I’d like one of your strawberry shakes . . . please. Thanks.”
The server scribbled a note. “It’ll be just a minute.” She turned and left.
“So what’s the big news?” Bruce gulped his soda.
Jodi looked around the restaurant and then leaned forward. “Okay, but first you’ve got to promise not to tell a soul.”
“You know me,” Bruce said, holding up three middle fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
“Let me tell you something, Bruce. This isn’t a joke. These guys are serious—”
“Whoa. Slow down. What guys? Serious about what?”
“Okay . . . okay.” Jodi placed both hands palms down on the table. “Remember how I took photos last night?”
“Mm-hmm.” Bruce’s mouth was full.
“I went to pick them up, like, five minutes ago and guess who I saw?” Jodi said.
“Elvis?”
“Knock it off, Bruce, I mean it.” Jodi stared at him.
“All right already. I’ll behave,” Bruce said, smearing extra mustard on his burger. “You were saying . . .”
Jodi lowered her voice just above a whisper. “I saw Reverend Bud. He was there!”
Bruce shrugged. “Who?”
“Reverend Bud. The longhaired guy in charge of the rave.” Jodi searched his eyes.
“Hey, I never met him, remember? I was at the hospital with Kat.”
Jodi thought about that for half a second. “Well, anyway, he swiped my photos. I’d sure like to know why he’d do that. And how did he know about them?”
“Are we playing twenty questions?”
“Sometimes you can be so unbelievably moronic.” Jodi looked away.
Bruce put his hamburger down and wiped his hands on his pants. “Listen, Jodi, I’m sorry. I . . . I just got carried away. So what else is bothering you?”
Jodi wasn’t sure whether to tell Bruce about her experience with Dr. Blackstone. He’d probably just make a joke of it and she was in no mood to kid around. Couldn’t he see what she was driving at?
“Come on, try me.” Bruce reached across the table and tapped her on the hand.
“Well, the skinny is, um, I went to see Dr. Blackstone, just like you told me to do.” Jodi tested the water before jumping in.
“Uh-huh.”
“By the way,” Jodi said, “you weren’t there. What gives?”
Bruce raised his hands defensively. “Dr. Blackstone told me there must have been a scheduling mix-up and I wasn’t scheduled to work. He told me to go home.”
“Whatever,” Jodi said. “He took me to his office and asked me a bunch of questions about what happened last ni
ght . . . about the syringe and the dead boy.”
Bruce nodded. “He did the same thing with me.” He popped a fry in his mouth.
“Yeah, but did he spike your drink and strap you to a table?”
Bruce leaned his head to one side. “You’re telling me he—”
“And that’s not all,” Jodi said. “When I woke up, I was strapped to the table—like I said, and he proceeded to scare the life out of me with his giant orange spider . . . he let it crawl right over my face.”
Bruce’s face looked pained. “You’ve got to stop making stuff up, Jodi.”
“So you don’t believe me?” She sat on her hands. “I bet you don’t know he has pet tarantulas . . .”
“Sure I do, but you have to admit,” Bruce said, “it’s kinda far out that he’d do all that to you. Maybe you suffer from arachnophobia or something.” Bruce started to pour half a bottle of catsup over his fries, but stopped and put the bottle down.
A stiff moment passed between them.
“Look, Jodi. You’ve got to cut me some slack here. Before you sat down I thought this was all about stolen drugs. Then, out of the blue, you’re saying that my boss is a psycho. Okay, so let’s say I buy what you’re saying,” Bruce said. “Why would Dr. Blackstone do something so stupid, you know, that could get him sued?”
“Honestly? I still think it has something to do with those syringes you guys have been stocking . . .”
“Which are just like the ones we found at the rave—”
“Exactly,” Jodi said. “Which means I think somehow your boss and that Reverend Bud guy are working together or something.”
“And, if what you’re thinking is true,” he added, “then they might be both implicated in the death of that kid . . . Hmm.” Bruce scratched his head.
“Bingo.” Jodi thought they were finally getting somewhere.
“Here you go, honey,” the waitress said, placing a tall strawberry shake with whipped cream and a cherry on top in front of Jodi. “You let me know if you need anything else,” she said, withdrawing a straw from the black apron around her waist.
“Thanks,” Jodi said and then plucked the cherry off the top and placed it on her napkin. “Those will kill you.”
He reached over and picked up the cherry by the stem. “I’ll take my chances,” he said with a laugh. “Wait a minute,” he said. His hand froze midair. “Do you still have your syringe?”
“Nope,” Jodi said with a half frown. “I think your boss must have stolen it from my purse when I was drugged. Come to think of it, I bet he took the claim check for my film then, too. How about you? Still have yours?”
“Syringe? No. I gave it to Dr. Blackstone for analysis . . . I mean, how was I to know?” Bruce ate the cherry.
“You didn’t.” Jodi stuck the straw into her shake. “So we’re left with no evidence, right?”
“We?”
“Hey, you’re not gonna just walk away—not now, are you?”
Bruce scrunched his nose. “Remind me, why we can’t let it go? I mean, this is all just a guess on our part . . . I’ve got a good job that pays decent cash. What if we’re wrong?”
Jodi took a long slurp from her shake. “What if we’re right?”
“Hey, I don’t stand a chance here,” Bruce said, raising his hands as if surrendering. “You’re only the debate champ for, what, the whole state? So, I’m not trying to win an argument. Really. I’m just curious why this is such an issue for you.”
“I can sum it up in two words: It stinks.”
“Sure does—”
“You can say that again,” Jodi said. “What if that dead boy was your brother? I mean, he has a real name. He’s got somebody somewhere wondering where he is—probably at this very moment, you know? They may never find out the truth unless we piece things together.”
“Unless we?” Bruce said, raising an eyebrow. “Since when did you and I become Batman and Robin?”
“Bruce, we’re talking about a lack of justice here,” Jodi said. “Anyway, I’ve done a little Bible study of my own . . . on justice. There’s a verse in Psalms. You know what it says? ‘Blessed are they who maintain justice, who constantly do what is right.’”
“So this is what you meant last night when you said it was a ‘God thing.’” Bruce pushed his dish to the side.
“Yeah, sort of,” Jodi said with a nod. “Sorry if I sounded preachy—”
“No, that’s all good.”
“Well, for me,” Jodi said, bringing a hand to her chest, “I happen to believe in stuff like justice . . . and in right and wrong, because those things are real important to God, you know? Let’s just say that’s why I won’t give up.”
“But aren’t you just a little scared?” Bruce asked.
Jodi grinned. “Yeah, like, only out of my mind!”
21
Saturday 1:02 PM
Reverend Bud sat in the Ryder truck. The rear bumper rested against the loading dock of the Pet Vet Wellness Center. His eyes were closed and his head leaned back. His left arm rested on the door. The workers had finished unloading the back of the truck. How he wished he could unload what was on his mind.
An oriole perched in a nearby pine sang a soothing melody that drifted into the cab while the smoke from a freshly lit joint floated out. A bead of sweat formed a line across Reverend Bud’s creased forehead. He knew today he’d have to face the music.
Dr. Blackstone appeared at his window. “This is no time for a nap.”
Reverend Bud blew a steady stream of gray smoke out of his nose. “A good afternoon to you, too, Dr. B.” His eyes remained closed.
“Listen to me,” said Dr. Blackstone. “Better yet, look at me when I’m talking to you. I’ve got just a minute. Illya and Zhenya will be back in a couple of hours and I’ve got to prepare their shipment. Thanks to your work last night, it will be sizable.”
Reverend Bud’s head swiveled to the left. His eyes rolled halfway open. A drop of sweat fell from his brow and landed in the thicket of his beard.
Dr. Blackstone brought a cigar to his mouth. He withdrew a gold lighter from the pocket of his black khakis and, with a metallic click, flicked open the top. A flame danced in place. “I’m thinking it’s time to plan another Mystery Rave—next month when the schools let out for the summer.” He waved the lighter around as he spoke. “Kids will be bored and ready to party. We’ve done the beach and the mountains. This time how about the quarry? There’s an abandoned quarry—”
“Not that. Definitely not that.”
“The possibilities are endless,” Dr. Blackstone said, lighting the premium cigar. He puffed several times. “Even for an idealist like you.”
“Dude, I’ve been thinking . . .”
“That’s always dangerous,” Dr. Blackstone said with a laugh. He blew a thick cloud in the direction of Reverend Bud.
“For real. See, I keep telling myself this isn’t the way things are supposed to be . . . I mean, I was minding my own business, doing raves, spreading the good vibes. Plenty of peace, love, unity, and respect to go around. Then we meet—”
“And look at you now,” Dr. Blackstone said between puffs. ”Your raves are huge successes.”
“Sure, things got ramped up. More people and all. But, well, to be honest, I’m tired of playing taxi driver for the Grim Reaper, you dig?” He brushed his long hair away from his face.
“What are you saying?”
“Things are way too crazy now and I . . . I want out . . . I’m done with this money grab.”
“You know what your problem is?” Dr. Blackstone shook his head, disgusted. He pointed with the end of his cigar at Reverend Bud. “You’re afraid of money.”
“You’re way wrong, man.” Reverend Bud took another drag from his joint. He held his breath for a moment before exhaling.
“Enlighten me.” Dr. Blackstone raised an eyebrow.
“Dude, don’t you fear God? Doesn’t what we’re doing bother you in the least?”
Dr. B
lackstone savored a long draw from the cigar, leaving it in his mouth as he spoke. “What are you driving at?”
Reverend Bud shut his eyes, deep in thought. A picture of his father behind the pulpit surfaced through the fog in his mind. “‘What good will it be for a man if he gains the whole world, yet forfeits his soul?’”
“Excuse me?”
“That’s from the Bible, Dr. B.” His eyes shot open as if he had witnessed a ghost. “I’ve seen the light and we’ve sold our souls, man. For what? The Almighty Dollar? A nice house? Plenty of chicks? Well, I say, forget that, you know? Chuck it all,” he said with a wave of his hand. “Keep my share from last night. I don’t really care ’cause I’m, like, outta here.”
Dr. Blackstone, his cigar pinched between his thumb and forefinger, spit on the ground. “Save your platitudes for someone who cares. You’re not going anywhere.”
“Watch me.”
Their eyes locked.
“If I were you,” Dr. Blackstone said slowly, “I’d be very careful not to rock the boat, and especially not with the Russians.”
Reverend Bud looked straight ahead and shouted with the flair of a prophet, “‘The Lord says, “Do not be afraid of those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. Rather, be afraid of the One who can destroy both soul and body in hell.”’”
“Oh, shut up!” Dr. Blackstone glared. “Nobody knows what we’re doing. Nobody needs to know. Now, if you’re done with this religious mumbo jumbo—”
Reverend Bud ignored him. “The Good Book says, ’For God will bring every deed into judgment, including every hidden thing, whether it is good or evil.’”
“Stop it . . . stop it, I say!” Dr. Blackstone pounded his hand against the side of the truck.
Reverend Bud was on a roll. Somehow the release felt good. “‘But I tell you that it will be more bearable for Sodom on the day of judgment than for you.’”
Dr. Blackstone bared his teeth like a dog with rabies. Smoke from his cigar curled up around his nose. “All I can say is, you’re a fool.”
Reverend Bud laughed. “‘But God said to him, “You fool! This very night your life will be demanded from you.”’”
