But this called for careful steering. He had the money—Red Bear’s entrepreneurial skills had definitely put cash in his bank account. But first, he had to get through the next few days. He had to make sure he had enough smack to get him safely through the next few nights and then down to Toronto.
Kevin’s personal reserve of heroin had run out. So had Leon’s, he happened to know. And yet, despite the dearth of competition in the area, he had managed to score himself a few crumbs downtown, just enough to see him through the afternoon, the effects of which had long worn off. He was still in good shape—actual withdrawal symptoms were a good twelve hours away—but it was definitely time to get proactive.
He had turned his light out an hour ago, and had been watching out the window ever since. There was nothing going on at the camp. Activity reached a peak when a soggy raccoon waddled past the leaning volleyball posts. Leon’s light had gone out over half an hour ago, and Red Bear’s cabin had gone dark soon after. Kevin put his Adidas on and opened the cabin door.
The rain showed no sign of letting up any time soon. Just as well, really. It would keep the blackflies away. Now came the easy part. He dashed round to Leon’s cabin, making a circle around back of the camp in about twenty seconds. The bush was thick here, but full of trails. A puddle disgorged its contents into his running shoe.
Now came Leon’s door. He moved silently round to the front of the cabin, and here Kevin was in luck, because he had been the one assigned to putting locks on the cabins, and he had had the foresight to have extra keys made. The only ones he didn’t have keys for were the motherlode and the stinking cabin out back where Red Bear killed his goats and chickens and what have you. Red Bear had had Leon take care of those locks, and then he’d put Leon in charge of the dope. Not that they kept all of it at the camp. The main stash was hidden somewhere Kevin didn’t know about. “For your own protection,” Red Bear had assured him, “it’s better you don’t know.” All they kept on hand were a few ounces, for medium-sized transactions between big shipments.
Kevin knew exactly what he had to do next, knew exactly where he had to go. There’s no one more observant than a junkie scoping out his supply. He knew where Leon kept the key. It was on a chain strung from a belt loop near the right front pocket of his jeans, along with all his other keys. He also knew where Leon kept his jeans at night. He always hung them over the back of a chair, and half the time the keys were dangling right out in full view.
Kevin stood for a few minutes, listening. His heart was pounding, and suddenly he very much needed to pee. There was no sound from inside. The rain had already soaked through the hood and shoulders of his sweatshirt. He had thought about wearing his leather, but he was afraid it would make too much noise. Craft, craft, saves the day.
“Your poetic ancestors, it has been suggested, are Coleridge and Baudelaire.” Martin Amis was back, his handsome, sarcastic face hovering among the pines. “How often do you suppose those literary giants found themselves pilfering narcotics from their sleeping associates?”
Not now, Martin, not now.
“True, Coleridge owned to a taste for laudanum—he even gave it the credit for ‘Kubla Khan.’ But one can’t quite see him sneaking around the woods of northern Ontario in a desperate search for smack, as you call it.”
Well, of course not. Laudanum was perfectly legal.
“Nor can one imagine him associating with known murderers. Can you spell out for your readers exactly how this is necessary for your art?”
Beat it, Martin. Maybe I’m not a poet, okay? Maybe I’m just a stone junkie.
Amis and his sardonic smile faded into the rain and pine.
Kevin prayed that Leon’s door would be unlocked. He turned the knob ever so gently, an eighth of an inch every second or so, until it would turn no further. Locked.
Kevin had the key with him. It went into the slot without a sound. Really, there was nothing to worry about if you didn’t turn it quite the whole way: far enough that it would clear the door frame, but not so far that it would spring open with a clack. He leaned against the door, and it opened half an inch. So far, so good.
He stepped inside and closed the door behind him without latching it. He pressed his back against the wall. If Leon woke now, Kevin was a dead man. Every muscle in his body tensed as he listened for Leon’s breathing. It was hard to hear over the pulse beating in his own ears, but it was there, slow and rhythmic. He could see Leon’s outline: curled up, facing the wall.
Leon’s jeans were hung, as usual, on the back of a chair, but Kevin had to cross the room to get there. He knew a couple of the floorboards creaked, the one with the large knothole and the one that was directly in line with the bottom corner of the window—but there might be others. That Red Bear would kill him, he had no doubt. The only question was whether he would do it himself or ask Leon to do it for him. See, this is exactly why I’m quitting dope. It gets me into untenable positions.
A floorboard creaked. Leon stirred but didn’t roll over. Kevin was one yard from the chair. He wouldn’t risk any more floorboards. Instead, he bent from the waist and reached out. It was a painful position, but he could just touch Leon’s pocket. Straining to stretch even further, Kevin was now balanced on his toes. Then he had the chain in his hand and tugged it upward to extract the keys from the pocket.
He wasn’t even halfway home. He had to silently separate the keys from the chain, get over to the supply cabin, remove some dope and then—even when he had successfully completed all that business—he would have to return the keys to Leon’s pocket without waking him up.
Using the chain, Kevin managed to pull the jeans close enough that he could unclip it. Then, he pivoted on one foot and took a giant step toward the door. No creak. Leon’s breathing remained slow and steady. One more giant step. No creak. He was at the door and out in a flash. He pressed it closed silently, but didn’t lock it.
He jumped down from the stoop and darted around the back of the cabin.
Now, I just have to get myself enough smack to see me through until Monday, and then I’m clean and sober. For the rest of my life. None of this one-day-at-a-time crap. I’m done. I’m through. My mind is so all over this I can feel I’m already recovering.
Where Kevin actually was, a moment later, was on the porch of the supply cabin, inserting Leon’s key into the lock. He glanced over at Red Bear’s place. Still dark. He had a sudden image of Red Bear leaping out of his front door, carving knife in hand, chanting the way he had done that night of the pig.
The motherlode cabin smelled different from the other cabins. It was constructed of concrete and smelled like a basement. Even the windows had been filled in with concrete blocks. They kept it looking like a tool shed. There was a rake, a lawn mower, a bucket and pail. And over in the far corner there was an open bag of cement. Nothing to excite the interest of the casual break-and-enter artist.
Kevin went straight for the cement bag and reached inside. There was more dope than he had expected. Red Bear must have added to the product without mentioning it, because there were three one-ounce bags of smack—and there was no way Kevin could have forgotten that. It was a golden opportunity. Suppose I take all three bags? Just light out of here now and sell the stuff down in Toronto? Make a little extra, shoot a little extra, get me through the transition period.
Don’t go crazy, he told himself. Just cover the weekend. He opened all three bags and took a spoonful from each. Oh, hell, he took one more just for good luck. Then he opened the little container of cornstarch he had brought with him, and added a spoonful to each bag. He resealed the bags, shook them to mix the powders and put them back in the cement bag.