All the Rave

by Bob DeMoss

  Dr. Blackstone’s face reddened. He grabbed Reverend Bud’s arm and squeezed it like a vise. “I don’t know what’s come over you. Maybe you’re tired. You’re definitely high. But you’ll be a dead man if you walk.”

  Reverend Bud swallowed. “Dude, tell me, why are you so afraid of a little soul-searching? Huh?”

  Dr. Blackstone, flushed with anger, looked up at the sky and then toward the clinic. “You’re making a giant mistake.”

  “I don’t think so, man. Now if it’s all the same to you”—Reverend Bud turned the key in the ignition—“I’m gonna skedaddle, dig?”

  “Sure. Go right ahead. It’s your funeral.”

  Dr. Blackstone rammed the cigar back between his teeth.

  22

  Saturday 1:15 PM

  Jodi collapsed behind the wheel of her car, discouraged. Bruce had given her such a hard time over lunch. If he, of all people, had his doubts, who else would believe her? To make matters worse, her film was stolen and the needle had been swiped.

  She was confident Dr. Blackstone had something to do with the missing syringe, but there was no point in making an accusation. It would come down to her word against his. Besides, the only way she’d ever set foot in that clinic again would be if three men armed with stun guns and a straitjacket dragged her there.

  She took a deep breath and then started the car. “Jesus,” she said softly, her hand on the gearshift, “if you don’t want me to drop this, I’m going to need a minor breakthrough here. Please give me at least something to go on. Amen.”

  She looked over her shoulder and then backed up the car. She shifted into DRIVE and pulled out of the parking lot onto Philmont Avenue. Jodi was headed back to Abington hospital. At least she could see if Kat’s condition had stabilized. And maybe, if Kat was more alert, Jodi could find out what the boy’s name was, or at least where he went to school. If Kat knew at least that much, Jodi thought, she could find his picture in an old yearbook and confirm his identity. And then what? Jodi wondered.

  Traffic was light, especially for a holiday weekend. She’d make the hospital in ten or fifteen minutes. She switched on the radio to pass the time, and the car instantly filled with sound. She could tell without looking at the digital readout that the dial was set to 1060 AM, home of KYW News Radio. It was her dad’s favorite station.

  Jodi’s finger was about to hit the scan button when something the announcer said caught her ear midsentence:

  . . . has learned the popular club drug ecstasy, a so-called feel good drug, mixed with ketamine, an animal tranquilizer, may have played a part in the disappearance of Todd Rice, a seventeen-year-old, Abington High School junior. Sources say Todd Rice attended an illegally sponsored rave in an abandoned warehouse on Christopher Columbus Boulevard last night.

  Jodi’s fingers raced to turn up the volume. Her eyes were on the road, but scenes from the rave filled her mind.

  Todd’s parents, Keith and Allison Rice, were first alerted to his disappearance by several friends who had carpooled with him to the rave. His friend Holly, who didn’t want her last name used, told KYW: “Everybody was all partying hard. I was doing some E and stuff when Todd said he wanted to try a little Special K, just for fun. That’s the last time I saw him.”

  Jodi slowed the car and pulled over to the side of the road. She didn’t want to miss a single word. The announcer continued with his report.

  Susie Sawer, another friend of the missing teenager, told KYW: “Yeah, we were all freaking out. We were standing around for an hour trying to find him. I mean, Todd was our ride and we were supposed to leave at seven this morning. When we couldn’t find him, we didn’t know what to do. So we called his home and he wasn’t there, either.”

  Todd’s mother, Allison, phoned authorities at ten o’clock when he failed to come home: “Todd’s always been a good kid . . . He’s never done drugs . . . at least none that we knew about. We thought, well, we assumed Todd went dancing, you know, at a local club. We were so shocked when . . . when his friends called this morning. We had no idea he’d been involved in . . . anyway, now he’s missing and we’re so worried.”

  The tears in Allison’s voice poured out of the radio. Jodi felt a tightness in her chest, knowing that if Todd was the same kid she and Bruce saw last night, then he wasn’t just missing, he was dead. Jodi rested her head against the window as she listened, although she probably knew more than the reporter—like her contact with Reverend Bud, Dr. Blackstone, the brain-dead police—and that, coupled with this news, was far more than she could digest at the moment.

  Special K is the street name for ketamine. When mixed with ecstasy, users call that cocktailing. In humans, while ketamine can have a hallucinogenic effect, it can also lead to death. Both substances are illegal for sale or use by the public.

  No wonder Dr. Blackstone wanted us stopped, Jodi thought. A memory of the spider’s hairy legs crawling all over her face crept into her mind. She swatted at the mental picture.

  His parents say Todd left the house last night wearing jeans, sneakers, and a white T-shirt with the Disney character Tweety Bird. Any person with information should call our KYW Tip-line. This has been a Special KYW News Bulletin. Updates as they happen, when they happen. For a look at traffic and weather together—

  Jodi switched off the radio. Her heart was in hyperspace; thoughts whirled inside her head. Since going to the police was out of the question, now what? Should she call KYW? Should she contact Todd’s parents? They were probably on FaceBook or maybe their info was searchable online. But what would she tell them if she found them?

  Somehow none of the options felt right. How would anyone believe her without concrete proof? She needed those photos, and there was only one way to get them back.

  Jodi reached across the front seat for her purse, her fingers moist with sweat. She picked up the purse and then flipped open the clasp. Like a detective rummaging around for a key piece of evidence, she dug through the contents.

  A moment later Jodi said, “Yes!” She held up the business card Reverend Bud had handed her last night. Sure enough, just as she remembered, it listed his address and phone number. She reread the inscription: Peace, Love, Unity, Respect, and that bizarre offer for a free tablet of ecstasy.

  If what was printed was to be believed, he lived or had an office on Rawle Street in northeast Philly. She knew the general area. A collection of modest but older row homes about twenty minutes away. She decided to try what always worked in her debate situations: confront the opponent head-on.

  She snatched up her phone as her pulse quickened. Just as she was about to dial his number, her cellphone rang. She jumped at the sound, sending her purse, which had been balanced on her lap, to the floor. The contents spilled in every direction. She composed herself and took a close look at the number provided by her caller I.D., but didn’t recognize it. Probably a telemarketer.

  “Hello?”

  Silence. She waited a second. “Hello?”

  “Um, is this Jodi?”

  “Yes.” She pressed the phone against her ear. The voice sounded hollow and distant.

  “Cool. Um, we need to meet.”

  “I’m sorry, do I know you?” Her tone was tentative.

  “Oh, right. It’s Reverend Bud. We met last night—”

  Her skin jumped like a cat on a hot tin roof. “How did you get this number?”

  “Chill, babe. Like . . . oh . . . yeah, remember your photo order? The envelope had your info on the wrapper.”

  The sudden feeling of being violated darted through her veins. So it was Reverend Bud at the InstyFoto Mart, she thought. “What gave you the right to steal my pictures?”

  “See, I . . . I did you a favor—”

  “Really? How so? This ought to be good.”

  “I don’t have much time left, and, wow, we need to hook up. Like now. You dig?”

  “You didn’t answer my question. How was swiping my stuff doing me a favor?” Jodi fixed her eyes on a tube of lips
tick that had rolled beneath the brake pedal.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll”—he coughed—“tell you all that jive when we connect. You still got my card?”

  His business card in her hand suddenly felt like a time bomb. “Yes. I . . . gee, I don’t know about meeting.” It was one thing for her to take the lead, but this felt like an ambush.

  “Look,” Reverend Bud said, “what I’m trying to say . . . see, the same people who are . . .” He stopped midsentence.

  Jodi examined the phone to make sure they weren’t cut off. She brought it back to her ear. “You still there? The same people who are what?”

  “. . . watching you are after me. See, I know about the body and, let’s just say, way more than that, you dig?”

  That caught her off guard. I’m being watched? she thought. “How can I know you’re telling the truth. I mean, we’ve only met once.” Jodi switched the phone to her left ear. He sounded sincere enough, but one never knew about these things.

  “I don’t know . . . you’ll just have to trust me, babe. But hurry, there isn’t much time before I’m . . . gone.” The connection went dead.

  Jodi’s heart hammered away. Was he weaving his own web of lies, trying to draw her in? For what? To scare her like Dr. Blackstone? Yet she was fairly certain she had detected some emotion in his voice. What was it? Fear? Sadness? A heavy heart? Although she couldn’t put her finger on it, she sensed Reverend Bud wanted to come clean. She had to go. What other option did she have?

  Jodi had to remember to breathe. She rested the phone on the dash and then picked up the spilled contents of her purse from the floor. She checked her rearview mirror and then dialed a number before pulling back into traffic.

  “Yo.”

  “Hey Bruce, you busy? It’s Jodi.”

  “Not really. I’m at a pet store. Thought I’d start collecting a few spiders . . .”

  “Very funny. Listen. KYW just did a story on the missing boy.”

  “The stiff?”

  “Come on, Bruce, this is important.”

  “Since when did you become a news junkie?”

  “I’m not—and never mind that.” Jodi shook her head. “I’ve got the boy’s name. It’s Todd Rice. He didn’t come home last night.”

  “How can you be sure he’s the same guy?”

  “His mom gave a description of what Todd was wearing. Remember the Tweedy Bird shirt?”

  “Sure, but why are you telling me this?”

  “Hold on. There’s one more thing. You’ll never believe who just called me.”

  “Elvis?”

  “No, you dork. Reverend Bud. He’s that longhaired guy—”

  “I remember. So what’s his deal?”

  Jodi paused to frame her thoughts. “He admitted he took my photos and he wants to meet me. He said he knows all about the body and a whole bunch more. I . . . well, I thought I’d see if you’d go with me. Will you?”

  Bruce didn’t hesitate. “That idea sounds about as attractive as earwax.”

  “You sure?” Jodi stopped at a red light.

  “Without a doubt . . . 100 percent positively no way. See, in the grand scheme of things, I’m not the one on the mission from God, here.”

  Jodi stared out the windshield at the cars passing by, uncertain of what to say. The light changed to green.

  “I mean,” Bruce added, “I think it’s great that you—”

  “Never mind, Bruce.” Jodi closed her eyes as she focused on the fact she was going to face Reverend Bud alone. “Listen, I’ve got to go. We’ll talk later.” She hung up.

  At least Jodi hoped there would be a later.

  23

  Saturday 1:38 PM

  In the twenty-three minutes it took Jodi to make her way across town, her heart had skipped a beat at least once a minute. Now, within several blocks of Reverend Bud’s house, it tapped away with the intensity of a Mexican hat dance.

  Jodi made the turn off East Roosevelt Boulevard onto Longshore Avenue. She glanced in her rearview mirror. Was she really being watched? Reverend Bud had said as much. But could he be trusted to tell the truth? She had checked her mirrors a dozen times since leaving Huntingdon Valley. It didn’t seem anybody was tailing her. Then again, if she had been shadowed, he’d be a pro. She was just a kid in the minor leagues—and she knew it.

  Jodi slowed her car to double-check the address on Reverend Bud’s business card: 73 Rawle Street.

  She turned right on Sackett and studied the numbers. She was headed in the right direction when suddenly Jodi realized she would much rather have her tonsils removed—or bungee jump off the Betsy Ross Bridge—than face Reverend Bud alone. She didn’t have so much as a Bic lighter for the purposes of self-defense. Where was her new Navy Seal friend, Phil Meyer, when she needed him?

  It wasn’t that she felt Reverend Bud would actually attack her. He might, like Dr. Blackstone, just try to scare her off. If Dr. Blackstone was into spiders, then perhaps Reverend Bud was into snakes. One thing was certain, she wouldn’t drink anything offered to her this time.

  She made a left onto Rawle.

  As she passed the row homes that lined both sides of the street, she took some comfort knowing there were plenty of neighbors who might come to her rescue—if they could hear her through the thick plaster and lath walls.

  Jodi’s history teacher, who lived around the corner, had once told her that these row homes had been built in the late 1930s during a time when neighbors actually enjoyed each other’s company; when closeness and community were preferred over sprawling lawns and tall fences. Where social media was being social with those on your street.

  Jodi remembered attending an old-fashioned block party with her teacher and her history classmates. While the disc jockey spun the tunes, the neighbors, mostly Irish Catholics and Italians, consumed plates piled high with kielbasa, bratwurst, sausage and peppers, and homemade potato salad. Kids danced in the street, at least those who weren’t throwing water balloons. Togetherness was part of the fabric of community life.

  But today, while she was an invited guest, this was no party.

  She checked the house and street number again: 77 Rawle.

  The closer she got to her destination, the more she felt as if she were entering a restricted biohazard site where the potential for personal harm ranked up there with the odds of paying taxes. Yet each time she entertained the thought of heading in the opposite direction as fast as possible, she was encouraged by something she had read in the Psalms that morning. She whispered the words aloud, “I will go in the strength of the Lord.”

  For Jodi, to repeat the words of the psalmist wasn’t like rubbing a good luck charm, or an exercise in positive thinking, or repeating a mantra to invoke a magic spell. Jodi viewed her “mission from God,” as Bruce had said, as exactly that. Since God had placed on her heart a burden for justice for someone who couldn’t speak for himself, namely, Todd Rice, she’d fulfill the mission in His strength.

  Jodi slowed the Altima to a crawl. She spotted the correct address and parked across the street behind a yellow Ryder truck. A tall, street-level tree partially obscured her view of Reverend Bud’s row home. From what she could see, it appeared to be a clone of all the others on the block.

  His was a flat roofed, two-story brick home sandwiched between similar-looking units. Red and green curved Italian lap tiles covered the eaves. The grass in his front yard, which, she guessed, would barely have enough room to hold a picnic table and grill, was uncut. She eyed a rusted air-conditioning unit that dangled from a window on the second floor. The window blinds were closed.

  She took a deep breath, placed her purse under the front seat, grabbed her phone and keys and got out of the car. She locked the doors and crossed the street. As she approached Reverend Bud’s house, a dog began to bark in the house next door. This is really stupid. What am I doing here?

  At the top of the four concrete steps leading to the front door, she stood and reached over to ring the doorbell. She quick
ly discovered it was missing. The hole it had once occupied was as empty as the feeling in her stomach. She knocked on the door instead. The door drifted inward as she tapped on its faded white surface.

  “Hello? Anybody home?” As she stood on the threshold, a stale, thick odor, resembling burnt oregano mixed with fried plastic, was the only greeting she received. She clutched her phone against her chest.

  When Reverend Bud didn’t answer, she gently pushed open the door and stepped inside. The bare floorboards, which covered a landing about three feet square, creaked in protest. Her eyes took a few seconds to adjust to the darkness inside. This is crazy, she thought as her heart, like a Geiger counter, pegged the meter. All she wanted were those photos. She’d grab them and get going.

  “Hello? Reverend Bud? It’s Jodi.”

  Still no answer. Her eyes narrowed as she scanned the room for any signs of life. A tired-looking sofa sat under the front windows. The black curtains were drawn shut behind it. The coffee table was littered with old pizza boxes and beer cans.

  She noticed that the television set, perched on a board suspended between two upside-down milk crates, was turned off. To the right of the TV was a garbage can overflowing with discarded beer cans. It looked as if someone had been playing basketball with the empties but missed the trash half the time.

  Jodi took several more steps into the den. She called, “Hello, Reverend Bud? Hello?” as she moved to the center of the room. The pale blue, threadbare carpet did little to cushion her steps. The room wasn’t really threatening, she decided; it just needed a woman’s touch. That didn’t prevent her heart from leaping each time her foot stepped on a noisy section of flooring.

  On the other side of the den, thanks to what little light snuck around the edges of the curtains, she noticed a sparsely furnished dining room with a staircase leading up to the second floor. She walked over to and then stood at the bottom of the stairs. Looking up, she called out, “Reverend Bud . . . hello . . . it’s Jodi.” Her hand rested on the railing as she decided whether or not to climb the steps. Without air conditioning, the house was warm and she began to perspire.