He chortled at the irony.
I knew where that haunted grin was coming from. No better friend, no worse enemy was the motto of the Marine division Pennebaker and Walker served with in Iraq.
“Anything to dull the pain,” he resumed with a slow shake of his head. “But it just makes the problem worse. Covers up what’s broken so you don’t have to face it. So we get them off the drug and then we try to deal with why they’re on it in the first place. It’s a long road, and there’s no quick solution.”
“And now that the Eagles have been wiped out you can never go back. Even if you want to.”
“It was only a matter of time. That’s why I turned my back on them when I got out.”
“I can see the why. Just can’t see the how. Matthew Frye is watertight. How did you manage that?”
“When I got out of prison, I needed a fresh start. Wanted to leave the past behind. A new name will do that for you. Someone owed me a favor is all. He even arranged to get me vouched for. Hired someone to play the part of Frye’s sister. Frye’s sister—the real one—is a crack whore. She doesn’t even know what day it is, let alone whether her brother’s alive or dead. If I could force her here, I would, but she doesn’t want to get clean. That’s the killer. You have to want to get clean, even if you don’t think you’ll make it. Some of our patients go back, but most of them make it. Eight out of ten, in fact. Better than any government program.”
“Looks like you’re winning your own little war on drugs, huh?” This time Munro made no attempt to hide his sarcasm.
Pennebaker cocked his head. He could do sarcasm, too.
“Walker and me, we were part of a total bullshit war. And this War on Drugs is no less bullshit than the war for oil. Criminalization and incarceration don’t work, but no one has the guts to change anything. A quarter of our prison population is doing time for minor drug offenses, but no one gives a damn, do they?”
I’d heard all these arguments before, but I didn’t have an answer for him. It was the kind of moral conundrum that could really make your head hurt. All I knew, all I was convinced of more and more each year, was that the system we had in place wasn’t working and that the so-called War on Drugs was unwinnable. There was way too much demand and too many people making easy money by supplying the stuff, and no matter how many of them we put away, there were always going to be plenty of others ready to step into their shoes. It was an undefeatable, omnipotent beast. I knew this as someone who’d been a foot soldier in that war. It was as if we didn’t learn any lessons from Prohibition. More money than ever was being spent on fighting this war, and yet the production, distribution, and consumption of drugs like coke, heroin, and particularly meth were increasing every year. I knew the statistics—the real ones—and the sad irony was that the global War on Drugs—God, I hated that expression—was now causing more harm than drug abuse. All we’d done was create a massive international black market, empowered armies of organized criminals, stimulated violence at home, wrecked a few foreign countries, and destroyed countless harmless users’ lives. Which isn’t to say that I wanted everyone to be out there shooting up and ruining their lives with crack and meth. Then again, I didn’t much like the pain and suffering that alcohol or oxycodone were causing either. Someone needed to step up and acknowledge that this prohibition wasn’t working. Someone needed to break that taboo and put it firmly on the table and lead an open-minded, clear-headed, unprejudiced discussion about alternative approaches. But I wasn’t holding my breath on that one. History didn’t look kindly on those who acknowledged losing a war, even when it was already long lost.
Pennebaker scoffed and threw up his hands in resignation.
“We had a woman in here who spent six years in prison for selling thirty bucks worth of weed. Her kids were taken away from her and she fell into crank as soon as she got out. Her way to drop out. Chalk one up for the system, right? Even the UN’s Global Commission on Drug Policy is now admitting the ban has been a failure and calling for legalization. That’s the same UN that sent us out to the Gulf. You think anyone in Washington’s got the balls to listen? The only way to deal with it is to confront why we do it and educate people about their options. Then maybe they can make better choices. I’m happy with my choices now. First time ever I can say that.”
I figured now was a good time to prompt Pennebaker to tell us what we’d come here to learn.
“Help us with one thing and we’ll leave you in peace. We know you and the boys ran security for some Mexican narco back in the day. Who was it?”
Pennebaker’s expression clouded. “Why?”
“Might be the same person that hired the Eagles to do the grabs—then burned them.”
Pennebaker grimaced. As though this memory was somehow worse than all the others put together.
“Guy was a real whackjob. You could see it in his eyes. I know that look. He always hired ex-soldiers. American and Mexican. Thought it gave him an edge. And I guess it did. We did what he asked and he paid us well. Our government may be deluded, confused, incompetent, badly advised, and sometimes just plain stupid, but this guy was just pure evil.”
“What was his name?”
“Navarro. Raoul Navarro.”
41
They were back in Balboa Park—Tess, Alex, and Jules, wandering across the plaza, hordes of people all around them, out making the most of another gorgeous Californian scorcher and taking in the wealth of attractions the park had to offer.
Tess hadn’t found any psychologists in the area called Dean. So she’d given up and decided Alex could use another excursion, this time to the Air and Space Museum.
They left Jules’s Ford Explorer in the lot behind the Starlight Theatre, and as they walked alongside a bank of colorful flowers that bordered the walkway, Tess’s mind drifted back to her chat with Alex’s teacher and the flower that kills. Her first thought when she’d heard it was that it had to come out of some cartoon Alex watched, maybe something some dastardly alien with a Dr. Evil laugh was trying to unleash on an unsuspecting world, only to be thwarted right in the nick of time by Ben and his wondrous Omnitrix. But here she was, still thinking about it and wondering why her earlier easy dismissal of it wasn’t staying down for the count.
“Alex, do you remember that flower you drew for your teacher, in the park? The white one?”
He nodded, not really interested. “Uh-huh.”
“Where did you see it? Was it in the park?”
“No.”
“Where then?”
He slid her a curious sideways glance. “I don’t know . . . I just . . . I know it.”
“But you said something about it. Do you remember?”
He nodded.
She stopped and crouched down so her face was level with his, and put her arm softly on his shoulder. “Tell me why it’s special.”
He stared at her like he was sussing her out, then said, “It can fix people. But it kills them. So it’s not good.” He paused, then he added, “I told them that.”
“Who, Alex? Who’d you tell that to?”
“People. Brooks, and the others. But they didn’t like it.” Tess felt completely lost by his words—then something behind her seemed to catch his eye and his face lit up like a bank of stadium floodlights. “Look!”
Tess followed the direction his little finger was pointing in. Up ahead was the Air and Space Museum, with two sleek fighter planes flanking its entrance. Alex slipped out of Tess’s grasp and scampered off.
She couldn’t compete with that.
She glanced at Jules, shrugged, and they both trotted off behind him.