My head is playing a solid little ditty by the time I get back home from dropping Silvia off at the mansion. I wish she would pick better times to want to hang out, but it's not like I swing by when I haven't been summoned. Those days ended as soon as Karl made me his pet.
I swap out wallets and, with a resigned sigh, drop into my computer chair. I swivel back and forth as I browse through the case file and acquaint myself with my latest target.
His name is Robert. He's twenty-eight, lives local, and is working on his PhD in archeology. He likes spelunking, scuba diving, and skydiving. I bet he also likes alliterations.
No wife, no girlfriend, no offspring. Volunteers three weeks over the summer at a kids camp for underprivileged youth.
I study his picture and the accompanying description. Brown hair, brown eyes, large front teeth, six-foot-two, one-hundred and eighty pounds.
“Well, gonna need benzos for this one.” I toss the papers onto my desk and head to my on-suite bathroom. I pull open the medicine chest. It's empty.
When the hell did that happen? Who knows. The days kind of blur together sometimes.
I slam the door shut, grab my loaded jacket and the case file, and head out to my car.
Time to replenish my supply.
***
I knock on Jesse's apartment door, unable to tell which sound is my fist and which sound is the bam-bam-bam in my brain. My vision wavers in and out.
Entertaining Silvia has put me behind schedule as it is. Now I have this detour, and I'm already anticipating Jesse wanting to talk about Call of Duty and Warcraft and whatever else he does during his limited time spent conscious.
He finally opens the door. “Dimitri, my man! Come in!”
I step into his living room. Fast food containers are spread across every table. Someone has been sleeping on the couch, and a cat has been using a pile of laundry as a litterbox.
Looks like he cleaned up the place.
He disappears into the kitchen, then returns and hands me a Pepsi. “The usual?”
“Yeah,” I say, but the word barely escape.
My stomach is churning. I have to get going. Stocking up on benzos doesn't count as enough intention, not after this long. I need to start the hunt so I can get some relief.
He exits down the hallway. I stay rooted where I am. If I move, I'll probably fall over.
He returns a few minutes later.
“Cool, now I can get my X-Box out of pawn,” he says, messing with some vials and syringes and why the hell won't he hurry up?
“Jesse … ” I put out my hand, but my arm is twitching.
He doesn't seem to notice, still busy screwing around with the benzos and talking about some game with explosions and a naked lady. I can't follow the conversation.
I growl. “Can you just give them the fuck to me already?”
His head snaps up. I think he looks surprised. That's what I make out through the haze settling over my sight, anyway.
He's quiet, and then says, “Dude, you're fiending hard.”
“No shit,” I say, because I am fiending. Painfully so. Just not for the benzos.
He shakes his head. “I told you, this shit is mixed way too strong.”
For one moment, I think he's going to pull the sale. Like he suddenly had a change of heart, and he's going to become my fuckin' sponsor to get clean.
For that one moment, I know I would kill him.
Then he hands over the vials and syringes. I pay, place the unopened Pepsi on the end table, and leave.
Time to catch me a wabbit.
***
Once I'm on the road, the hum in my head lightens. I have every intention to track this endorsement for humanity and bring him back to Karl. The hum is pleased.
I don't know what Karl does with these people. Sometimes, I wish I cared more but I'm either too busy tracking or too busy forgetting. Besides, caring makes me do stupid things, like convince myself I can do something about this madness. Then I remember who is in control, and it's certainly not me.
This Robert guy is probably a dinglefondler, anyway. I have strong reservations about this “kids camp” past time of his.
At a red light, I shuffle through the case file and find the address. He lives in Surprise. I'm there in twenty-five minutes.
The neighborhood is quiet for a late afternoon. Robert's house is on a corner lot, built in the last five years, cookie cutter style. Phoenix suburban planning is overseen by the Borg. I park to the side on the curb, head up the walk to the front door, and ring the doorbell.
My plan is simple: force him back with the gun, give him a round of benzos on the house, and wait for him to slump over. I'll bring my car into the garage, drag his ass out, and handcuff him. Then we will be on our merry way.
No one answers the door, so I ring again and follow up with a knock.
Nothing.
Maybe he's at the park, pretending to feed the ducks. That's where all the perverts hang out, I imagine.
I turn to my car, then stop. A newspaper is laying in the carport. I jog over and pick it up. The Sunday paper.
I'm fairly certain today is Thursday.
The hum's second cousin, Panic, becomes a squatter in my chest.
I don't have days to wait for his return. My luck, he's on a mission in India or something.