Weed had very little awareness as he struggled and tripped after Smoke through dark woods and ended up at the adult bookstore, hiding behind cars until the coast was clear, then jumping inside the Escort and speeding away. Weed was beginning to think that things weren't too bad when Smoke stopped on a dark street corner in Westover Hills. He reached in back and pulled out two dark blue pillowcases. One was empty, the other filled with things that clanked and clacked together.
'Get out and keep your fucking mouth shut,' Smoke said. 'Don't make a fucking sound.'
Weed barely breathed as he followed Smoke along Clarence Street to a simple white frame house surrounded by a picket fence that leaned this way and that and had uneven spaces between the boards. The redwood deck listed as if sailing into a stiff wind, and the big add-on garage was out of proportion to the rest of the house. An old Chevy Cavalier wagon was in the drive, lights were on in several rooms of the house and a dog was baying in its pen.
'Do exactly what I do,' Smoke whispered.
'What about the dog?' Weed said.
'Shut up.'
Smoke scanned the empty street, bent close to the ground and darted across the yard, ducking behind trees and finally crouching around the corner from the shut garage door. Weed was right behind him, his heart hammering as Smoke reached inside the pillowcase and pulled out a handful of remote controls. He tried one after another.
'Fuck,' he whispered as nothing happened.
On the eighth try, he got his reward. The Sears home-installed garage door cranked up slowly and sounded ill. No other lights went on inside, the dog barking and barking. Weed thought of running and Smoke seemed to know it because he grabbed him by the collar.
'Don't fuck with me," he snarled in Weed's ear.
Smoke slid a small Mag-Lite out of a pocket. He looked around. The same windows in the house were lit up. There was no sign of motion.
'Follow me,' Smoke whispered.
Weed's brain was sliding around inside his skull like an egg yolk. His vision was blurred. He grabbed Smoke's shirttail and crept along behind him, catching his toe on concrete, lurching inside the garage. Smoke stopped. He scanned, breathing hard, listening. He turned on the flashlight and the bright finger probed hundreds of shiny saws, drills, hammers and other tools Weed didn't recognize.
Tucking unbelievable,' Smoke whispered. 'The asshole can't even hammer a nail straight and look at all this shit.'
He shone the light on a tall cabinet with a padlock that promised treasure inside. He didn't bother with the bolt cutters in the pillowcase because there was a better pair hanging on the peg rack. Smoke lifted it off the hooks and opened and closed the cruel steel beaks. He seemed pleased. He snapped through the lock as if it were soft lead and it pinged into the darkness, clanking against the floor.
Smoke quietly opened the doors. He ran the light over shelves of camouflage, targets, boxes of ammunition, revolvers, pistols, rifles and shotguns. His hands flew as he stuffed everything he could into the pillowcases Weed held open for him. Smoke filled the pockets of his relaxed-leg jeans, tucked handguns into his waistband. He snapped open a black plastic thirty-gallon bag and stuffed it and handed it to Weed. Smoke slung the bulging pillowcases over his shoulder like Santa Claus making the rounds for the NRA.
'Run!' Smoke whispered to Weed.
They clanked and banged across the yard and along the street, not going anywhere fast. They were sweating and miserable. They were slowing down when Smoke spotted a thick boxwood hedge and stashed the bags out of sight. Light of foot, they ran back to the Escort.
They jumped in and drove back to Clarence Street and parked by the hedge. The loot was where they'd left it. Smoke emptied his pockets and shut everything he had stolen inside the trunk. Not a single car passed. Nothing stirred. Bubba's dog barked the way it always did.
Smoke started laughing hysterically as he drove off. Weed had no idea where they were going. He had never broken the law in his life except for the time he drew a disrespectful picture of a teacher he didn't like and was sent to in-school suspension for two days.
'I just held the bag, so I didn't really steal anything, did I, Smoke?' Weed asked. 'I mean, I'm not keeping any of it, either. It's all yours, right?'
Smoke laughed harder.
'Where we going?' Weed dared to ask.
Smoke started digging through CDs.
'Can I go home now?' Weed asked.
'Sure,' Smoke said.
He started rapping to Master P.
'It don't look like we're going the right way.' Weed raised his voice.
Smoke told him to shut up. Somehow they ended up on West Cary Street, which was nowhere near Weed's neighborhood. Smoke stopped the car in the middle of the road.
'Get out,' he said.
'What for?' Weed protested. 'I can't get out here!'
'You're walking for a while. To make sure you're wide awake when we pick you up later.'
Weed didn't know a thing about later. He didn't dare ask. Smoke's meanness was coiling and about to strike.
'Get out, retard,' Smoke warned.
'I don't know where I am.'
'Keep walking that way and you'll get to your street in a couple miles.'
Weed didn't move as he stared wide-eyed into the night, his head pounding. Smoke was checking his mirrors.
'Meet you two blocks from your house at three A.M. At Schaaf and Broadmoor,' Smoke said.
Weed didn't understand. His stomach was pushing everything the wrong way again.
'Bring your paints, retard. Whatever will work on a life-size metal statue in a graveyard.'
Weed opened his door and spat up bile on the pavement. He got out and almost fell again.
'Remember what happened last time when you were late,' Smoke reminded him. 'And anybody finds out what you're doing, I'm going to hurt you real bad.'
Weed stumbled to the side of the road and grabbed a speed-limit sign to steady himself. He watched Smoke's taillights vanish down the dark road. Weed sat down hard and begged God to help him. He got up and couldn't remember which way to go or where he was. He ducked behind walls and trees whenever headlights appeared, sometimes lying flat on his face and playing dead.
Niles was playing dead, too. He had given up trying. To hint that he had been sitting right on top of his owner's desk the instant the fish appeared on the computer screen, which had been at exactly 12:47 this afternoon.
Niles had done nothing to cause this unusual event, and frankly had assumed his owner had loaded a new screen saver for Niles's benefit, since he was very fond of fish and his owner was always looking for ways to please him and occupy his attention so he'd stay out of trouble.
Hammer moved her feet again under the table. Niles held on, paws snugly around her ankles, claws tucked in so he didn't run her hose.
'What about using fish to body-pack cocaine,' West said.
'Virginia, that's brilliant,' Hammer said, shaking her feet again.
'Drugs could get in undetected from Maine, Miami, from almost anywhere,' West went on.
'I want narcotics on it right away,' Hammer said. 'And Andy, call NIJ's Crime Mapping Center first thing in the morning and see what they can tell us. We'll hope the fish problem's not pervasive, not an indication of a virus.'
'With an address like that,' Brazil was frank, Tm worried about how many sites on the network might have been affected.'
'Tell NIJ our situation is urgent, that we're locked out of COMSTAT until we can resolve this,' Hammer said. 'I've really got to head on and let Popeye out. Virginia, please get your cat so I can move.'
'Niles, enough!'
Niles draped over Brazil's shoe. Brazil leaned over and played Niles's ribs like piano keys. Niles purred. Niles was very fond of Brazil and had nicknamed him Piano Man when all of them lived in Charlotte and Piano Man and Niles's owner used to get along and play tennis and go shooting and watch movies and talk about Piano Man's eventually leaving the Charlotte Observer and becoming a cop so he could write stories about crime that would change the way people thought.