Chuckie says, “What’re you, a skin-popper?”
Skin-popping’s a method addicts use to inject heroin into their fatty tissue after they’ve given up trying to find usable veins. Most inject themselves directly through their clothing.
“Will it still work if I don’t mainline?” Bobby says.
“Oh, hell yeah! And it’s safer. Trust me, you’re gonna love this shit!”
I doubt Bobby will love it for long.
Speedballing is the deadliest route to a high. It combines two highly addictive drugs that potentiate each other, meaning they’re stronger together than on their own. But they have opposite effects. Cocaine raises the heart rate, heroin slows it down. It’s the lethal mix that killed John Belushi and River Phoenix, among others.
And worse, who knows what sort of crap Chuckie’s cocaine providers used to cut the drug? I mean, I’ve still got Willow’s cocaine and nutmeg in my pocket, but even if I didn’t have morphine in my medical bag I wouldn’t snort the coke. Not that I could do so with a broken nose in the first place. My point, our lab guys have isolated insecticides, anti-itch powder, and even pet tranquilizers in street cocaine samples that were sold as “100 % pure.”
When Bobby and Chuckie become engrossed in a discussion about Black Toad Powder, I work my bag out of the compartment, retrieve my penlight, and load a syringe with a dose of morphine. I take another deep breath and let it out slowly before injecting the drug. Afterward, I raise my body and ease the bag back in the compartment and wait for the drug to take effect.
Chuckie’s still trying to sell Bobby what he calls Black Toad, which I know to be Black Stone powder, a substance made from toad poison.
He says, “When you rub this shit on your dick you’ll get a raging hard-on! You’ll be able to knock a grown man to the ground with your pecker!”
“No shit?”
“I swear!”
Chuckie’s full of shit. Black Stone powder may or may not make Bobby’s dick hard, depending on what else is mixed in it. But Black Stone is made from toad venom or secretions, both of which contain cardioactive steroids. The main ingredient is bufotenin, a psychedelic that can cause reactions from severe diarrhea to death, if ingested. If applied to Bobby’s skin, it could cause serious penis pain, possible chest pain, and anaphylactic shock, if he happens to be allergic to the ingredients.
Suddenly the trunk opens.
I’m blinded, so I can’t see the woman who just let out a blood-curdling scream, but I think it was Cameron. Then she or someone else tosses bedding and pillows on top of me before slamming the trunk shut again.
I’m groggy, but lucid enough to hear Willow and Bobby’s voices. Then Cameron’s.
Obviously some time has passed since Chuckie and Bobby were talking about Black Stone powder.
Willow and Cameron have discovered my name from the rental agreement, and think I’m dead. Bobby knows better. His slurred speech and maniacal laughter tells me he’s flying high. No telling what might happen when he crashes.
My guess? He’ll shoot another speedball.
There’s some sort of fight taking place regarding a vacuum cleaner. Or maybe the morphine has got me confused. A lot of yelling and door slamming, and finally the car begins moving, presumably heading to a party at Bobby’s grandmother’s farm.
Or maybe not.
I could be hallucinating.
It’s cramped in here, and I don’t want my legs to form blood clots, so I reposition myself before closing my eyes. I don’t know if I’m sleeping or dreaming, but I think I hear my cell phone ringing. If I remember correctly, it’s in my luggage in the back seat.
It’s not a dream.
Bobby shouts, “Don’t answer it! Throw it out the window!”
There goes my chance to call Security Joe to come save me. But right now I’m so damn comfortable I couldn’t care less. I’ll get some rest and see what happens when we get to Maggie’s Farm.
17
Carlos and Charlie.
Present Time.
Carlos and Charlie are confused.
They parked their white panel van a block away and cut through the tree line to the back of Chris Fowler’s house just as they’d been told. They looked through the back window of the garage and saw Kathy Fowler’s Lexus, which meant she was home. The spare key was where it was supposed to be, under the flower pot on the deck behind the den. Carlos and Charlie had come at the precise time they were told, during the half hour window when both neighboring moms would be fetching their kids from separate schools.
But when they opened the back door and crept quietly through the den, Charlie tripped on Carlos’s foot, knocking a lamp to the floor, and Kathy didn’t shout. If you were alone in your home and something crashed loudly in the den, wouldn’t you shout something like, “Hello? Is anyone there?” Or yell, “Go away! I’ve got a gun!”
Wouldn’t you?
Kathy Fowler did none of these things, so Carlos and Charlie are confused.
“Clumsy oaf!” Carlos whispers. “Get your gun out. Pray she doesn’t shoot us first.”
“Your fault,” Charlie whispers back. “You stopped short.”
“You’ve always been clumsy.”
“I’m light on my feet,” Charlie says. “Everyone says so.”
“What they say is you’re light in the loafers.”
“Same thing.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Give it a rest, okay? Now turn so I can cover the bedroom door.”
Carlos whispers, “What if she comes from the kitchen?”
“Then she’ll have a knife, not a gun. If you see her, give a shout, and we’ll turn that way. I’ll have time to shoot her.”
“If she comes from the kitchen, just pass me the gun, dick breath.”
“ You? Are you kidding me? You’re the worst shooter on earth! You couldn’t hit her if her tit was stuck in your gun barrel!”
“Fine. If she comes from the kitchen, we’ll spin clockwise.”
“I’m faster counter-clockwise.”
“You’re also clumsier. Note the lamp on the floor.”
See? This is the problem with being Siamese twin killers for hire. Carlos and Charlie are conjoined at the hip, shoulder, and neck, possessing two heads, two arms, and four legs between them.
“Where’s Kathy?” Charlie says. “She must’ve heard the noise.”
“Maybe she’s in the shower.”
“Maybe she called 911.”
“Shit!” Carlos says. “You’re right. She’s probably hiding somewhere, while remaining on the line.”
“Remaining?”
“That’s what the 911 operators tell you to do. ‘Remain on the line.’”
“You didn’t cut the phone line?”
Due to the way their heads are positioned, Carlos’s neck lacks the range of motion needed to see his brother’s face. But if he could see Charlie’s face right now, he’d give him a withering look.
“Yeah,” Carlos says. “I cut the phone cord while you were knocking over the lamp. Then I humped Kathy in the bedroom while you played show tunes on the piano.”
“You don’t have to be a smart ass.”
“I started life as a dumb ass but people kept calling me Charlie.”
“Hilarious. Is there a phone on your side?”
Carlos looks around. “Yeah. End table, by the sofa.”
“Lead the way, please.”
They shuffle to the phone. Carlos picks it up, listens.
“Well?” Charlie says.
“Dial tone.”
“Good. Let’s check the shower.”
“I want first look,” Carlos says.
“What if she’s hiding in there with Chris’s gun?”
“Good point. You lead. But if she’s in the shower, I want to see.”
“Pervert!”
“At least I’m straight!”
“At least I’m not!”
They shuffle quietly to the hallway, work their way to the master bath. Charlie sees Kathy on her knees with her rear end facing him, her torso leaning over the edge of the tub.
Charlie cocks his gun, says, “Kathy? Sweetie? Don’t move a muscle, okay?”
She doesn’t. Not a muscle.
“What’s happening?” Carlos says.