Ferocity Summer (7 page)

JuNE

P
riscilla!” Mr. Hawaiian Shirt yelled out his open window.

I knew I should get the hell away.
Run!
my instincts told me, but I didn't budge. I couldn't. Paralyzed, I stood there while the man clambered out of his car. I realized now how extremely goofy-looking he was. He was tall, over six feet, with arms and legs that seemed a tad too long to maneuver smoothly. He had a baby face. If it weren't for the ridiculous clothes, he might have passed for younger, twenties maybe, but his haircut was middle-aged. Nothing about him fit. He'd probably spent his whole life sticking out like a sore thumb, not having been born with the physical traits necessary for camouflage. It made him endearing in a way, which tempered the scared-shitless feeling I had.

I knew this was the man I'd spent the last two months looking for. This was my tail, my spy, the one Killdaire had warned me about. My mother had called it back in April. I was sunk.

“I just want to talk to you,” he said. I noticed an enormous stain on his shirt, stretching to his pants. He had on yellow pants today. Maybe he was colorblind. He saw me eyeing the stain.

“Coffee. Don't drink and drive.” He laughed at his own joke. Was he a complete asshole or just your garden-variety idiot?

“How long?” I asked.

“What?”

“How long have you been following me?”

For the second time in less than ten minutes, I heard tires squeal. Davies Pauliny blasted out of someone's car stereo, the bass cranked up. A horn blared out on the highway. Joe Bullock and the airheads had left the premises.

“Oh, not long. Not long at all. I'm sorry, I didn't mean—”

“You know, listen. I really don't give a shit, okay? I don't know what you know, and I don't care either. What's done is done, no matter what kind of person I am, and the truth is, I'm not a very good one. Okay? So, there you have it from the horse's mouth. So you can bring that back to your employers, all right? Besides, I'm pretty thoroughly fucked because I just quit my job and my mother is definitely going to kill me. So I'd kind of like to spend my last waking moments in peace.”

“I could give you a ride home.”

“I don't think so.”

I began to walk across the back lot toward the road. My tail followed.

“It's okay,” he said. “I'm a cop.” He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a badge. I didn't get a good look at it, but I knew it was legitimate. Only a true cop would think a sentence like “it's okay, I'm a cop” makes the least bit of sense.

“Christian Calambeaux,” he said, then he held his hand out for me to shake. I did so with no enthusiasm. “I only wanted a few minutes of your time. I'm sorry I've caught you at a bad time, but I just wanted to have a few words with you about Randy.”

I froze. “About Randy? What the hell does Randy have to do with anything? He was passed out.”

“I'm not sure I follow you,” Christian said.

“Well, this is an inquiry into my character, right? I mean, of the four of us, Randy is the one with the cleanest hands.”

“The four of us? You mean you, Randy, Danielle, and Brandon?”

“Who the hell are Danielle and Brandon?”

“I'm not sure how much you know, Priscilla. It's possible Randy has not been entirely forthcoming about things.”

Well, there was an understatement for you.

“Who the hell are you?” I asked. He looked confused. I saw him fumbling for the badge again. “I mean, who are you working for?”

“I'm part of a special drug trafficking task force the FBI created. We've been monitoring Randy for months.”

“So this isn't about the trial?”

“What trial?”

“I should probably get going,” I said.

“Please, let me give you a ride,” he said.

I agreed, but only because I wanted to know more about Randy, not to mention Danielle and Brandon, whoever the hell they were.

Like every movie psychopath, Christian promptly drove me in the opposite direction from my house. I, however, had begun to feel sorry for him and could no longer muster up any fear of a man who wore yellow pants. He drove to the DQ down the road.

“Ice cream?” he asked.

“Sure, whatever.”

We sat at one of those picnic tables with a crooked umbrella on top. I hoped I didn't see anyone I knew.

“The thing is, if we could have your cooperation, it would help matters tremendously.”

“What matters?”

“Well, I think it would be mutually beneficial to all. I mean, I understand that narcing out your boyfriend might seem like this really crummy thing to do, but—”

“He's not my boyfriend.”

“You broke up?”

“We weren't ever together. I mean, it's not like that. It's not that formal.”

“Oh, okay. But you two are still close, right?”

I thought of Randy's marijuana stash. I thought of Danielle and Brandon. Close? I didn't know the first thing about him.

“Just what exactly do you want from me?”

“I need your help.”

“Why should I help you?”

“Because it's the right thing to do. Because it'll give you a clear conscience.” I stood up. “No, wait,” he said quickly. “You just quit your job, so maybe there's a way we can pay you for your efforts.”

“What about the clear-conscience thing?” I asked, still standing.

“Well, yeah. I mean, you could rest easy because what you'd be doing, would be, you know, good.”

“You're telling me you're going to expunge my sins?” I looked hard at him and could tell he didn't know anything about the trial. “Do your homework.”

I walked away. He tried to stand up but got his legs caught under the picnic table.

When I got to the front parking lot, someone called my name. I turned and found Andrea sitting in the passenger seat of a beat-up Toyota as if she was waiting for me. It was the first good thing that had happened to me all day. I decided to take it as a sign that fate was trying to bring me and Andrea closer together.

“Hey,” she said. “How's it going? Who's that guy you were with?”

“Oh, he's just some friend of the family.”

“He's cute, but he dresses kind of weird, doesn't he?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Do you think I could get a ride?”

“Oh, I'm sure Tony won't mind.”

Tony, a leering sort of college boy, had no problem driving me home. He simply adjusted the rear-view mirror so he could steal glimpses of me for the duration of the five-minute ride. Where the hell did Andrea find these guys, anyway?

“What are you doing home?” my mother asked.

“I quit my job. What's your excuse?”

“I'm covering the night shift,” she said. “And exactly what do you plan on doing with your life if you can't stick with one lousy job?”

“Maybe I don't plan on spending my life behind a cash register.”

“Well, you better figure out some way to bring in some money.”

“I've got another opportunity I'm looking into.”

I went to my room and slammed the door so I wouldn't have to listen to her bitch.

Two seconds later, she pounded on the door. “You had a phone call, before. I took a message.”

I opened the door, and accepted the scrap of paper. All it said was “Bill,” with a phone number. I didn't know anyone named Bill. I thought it might be Joe Bullock crank-calling me, but the number had an out-of-town exchange.

I picked up the phone and dialed.

“Who is this?” the voice on the other end demanded. I hesitated. I considered hanging up, but decided I didn't have all that much to lose.

“This is Scilla Davis. Are you Bill?”

“Yeah. Listen, I need to talk to you about Randy Jenkins, but not over the phone. Do you think we could arrange to meet?”

What the hell was going on? Since when had Randy Jenkins become the big shit of the universe? It was unnerving and strange. I found myself more intrigued by Randy than I had ever been before.

“Who do you work for?” I asked.

“No one. That is, I have a personal interest in the matter.”

“How'd you get my number?”

“I found it in some of Randy's things. Please, I'd rather not discuss anything further over a telephone line.”

“Okay,” I said. “I'll meet you.”

Somewhere in the distant past, a tired and bedraggled Army of the Potomac was exacting fiery revenge on the rebel South. A West Point–educated general who'd always wanted to make something of his life was coming face-to-face with his destiny. Back here in the real world, I was assembling my own ragtag army. In a few months I'd be fighting for my life, and I began to see a glimmer of hope. Maybe, just maybe, there was a chance I might taste victory. How far would I go for that chance at victory? What would I do? Anything it took.

The Next Day

G
od,” Andrea said when I got into her car. “This is so cool.” I hadn't given her all the specifics, only that I was supposed to meet this guy and needed a ride. Any mention of the opposite sex and Andrea was instantly intrigued. “Is this like one of those online dating things? I've always wanted to try one of those, but I never have. I mean, it's so hard to meet guys nowadays.”

She couldn't possibly be serious, could she? I looked over at her but she didn't even crack a smile.

“He's a friend of a friend,” I said, which wasn't entirely a lie.

“Oh, well, that's good then. At least you know he's not some sort of psychopath.” Actually, I knew no such thing. That's what made the fact that Bill wanted to meet at his house so disturbing. The fact that he knew Randy only made him less appealing to me.

Bill's argument against meeting in a public place was that we might be watched. Although this seemed like a paranoid statement, I knew for a fact that at least one member of law enforcement was keeping a close eye on me. Bill assured me that his place was clean on account of the fact that he checked for bugs on a daily basis, and I'm pretty sure he wasn't talking about stink bugs. Okay, so the guy possessed more than a healthy amount of paranoia.

A year ago—or hell, a month ago—I wouldn't have hesitated to call Willow if I needed a ride somewhere. So it had felt sort of strange to call up Andrea, even though she'd said to call her. I told myself that the reason I hadn't called Willow was because Bill knew Randy and it might be better to keep Willow out of this until I knew more. The truth was, Willow had been so difficult to be around lately. Bumming a ride from her might mean spending half the afternoon at Pointless Pursuits Tattoo Emporium.

We found Bill's house, a powder blue bi-level on a road of similarly stereotypically suburban homes. It wasn't the sort of place you expected the FBI to have under surveillance. Perhaps Bill was a genius at keeping a low profile.

“Do you mind waiting in the car?” I asked Andrea.

“Not at all.”

“If I'm not out in twenty minutes, alert the authorities.”

An osteoporosis-addled woman answered the door. I thought for sure I had the address wrong, but when I asked for Bill, she showed me to the basement stairs.

“He's downstairs playing with his science stuff, sweetie,” the old woman said.

“Grandma,” shouted a voice from below, “I've told you what I am working on is highly serious.”

The old woman shrugged and shuffled off. I descended the stairs.

An old Ping-Pong table was covered with scraps of aluminum, wires, and pieces of paper. An overweight, sweaty young man stood before one jumble with a fat pile of dog-eared papers clutched in his pudgy hand.

“Bill?” I asked. He nodded and thrust his hand in my direction. I shook it and was greeted by clammy flesh. His face was marred by acne, and behind a pair of fingerprint-clouded glasses sat a pair of innocent-looking blue eyes. Bill could have passed for a big thirteen-year-old, but I got the impression he was older than me.

“So, you're a friend of Randy's?” I asked.

“Hardly. I was stuck being his freshman roommate.”

“Kind of weird to be spending your summer slaving away over some project or whatever,” I said. There was some sort of diagram on the top sheet of papers in Bill's pile. It looked vaguely like the jumble in front of him. Neither looked like anything I'd seen before.

“It was either spend my summer in another dead-end job that doesn't pay enough or build a bomb in my basement and act to overthrow the government we ridiculously refer to as a Democracy.”

“You're building a bomb?” I asked.

“More or less.”

Now I knew I shouldn't have come. I glanced back at the basement stairs. I could leave. Bill would understand. I'm sure he was used to rejection.

“I thought you should know the truth about Randy Jenkins,” Bill said. “He's a total slimebag, you know. A loser,
an idiot. The worst sort of scum the human race can produce.”

I thought this tirade was unjust. Randy was slimy, but not that slimy. “He's my boyfriend,” I lied with feigned indignation.

Bill turned away from his bomb-in-progress to size me up from head to toe with those innocent eyes of his.

“You can do better,” he said.

“Look, he's not really my boyfriend. He's just a guy I know. Know well. And because I know him so well, there's an FBI agent following me around, giving me the creeps.”

“You're sleeping with Randy Jenkins and a cop gives you the creeps? You are one fucked-up girl. May I recommend counseling?”

“Thank you for the diagnosis, but unless you have anything truly revelational to tell me about Randy, I think I'll be on my way.”

Bill silently fiddled with his bomb. So I turned around and started back up the stairs.

“Did you know the government created Ferocity?”

I stopped on the fourth step and turned around to look at Bill. His attention remained fixed on his instruction sheet and his more-or-less bomb.

“What the hell does that have to do with anything?” I asked.

“Randy Jenkins is a drug dealer,” he said.

“I
know
that
.”

“Earth to Miss Observant. Randy Jenkins sells Ferocity.”

“There's no way. That stuff's not around here.”

“Right. You see it on the TV news, so it must be someone else's problem. Davies Pauliny sing songs about it and they're from Chicago so there's no way it could be out here. I mean, what, we only live an hour away from the biggest city on the Eastern Seaboard. Wake up. Ferocity is here and it's not going away.”

“So there's a cop following me around because Randy sold some drugs.”

“Not some drugs. Ferocity. You don't know shit about Ferocity.”

“It's the latest fad,” I said. “The latest way for everyone to look down on the youth for being a bunch of drug-addicted slackers.”

“No one gets addicted to Ferocity.” Bill shuffled his pile of papers and glanced over at me. “They never get a chance. One hit and that's it. You're salad fodder.”

“That's only if you overdose,” I said.

“There is no ‘overdosing' with Ferocity. Either your brain can handle the drug or it crashes. Most people crash. It's so new even the media hasn't caught on to what a nightmare it is.”

“If it's so new, how can it be spread across the country?”

Bill moved his arm to wipe the sweat off his forehead and his elbow grazed his pile of papers, sending them to the ground. The whole disorganized mess tumbled around his feet. He gave up on it and turned to face me.

“It starts on the college campuses. Students go home over the summer and bring it with them. Very interesting distribution model—the government knows what it's doing.”

“But the FBI is after Randy because he sold Ferocity?”

“No one gives a shit about Randy Jenkins. They want to know who's supplying him, and who's supplying his supplier. They want the big, big fish.”

“Okay, but if the government is behind this whole plot, as you say, then wouldn't they already know who the big fish is?”

“The FBI is a mere government agency. They are not in the know.”

“So I'm on intimate terms with a cog in the machine.”

“We're all cogs in the machine, but you should probably disassociate yourself from that particular cog. He's no good.”

“This from a guy who's building a bomb in his basement.”

Bill shrugged, then began to retrieve the mess of papers from the ground.

“Thanks,” I said. “Bye.”

“Keep your chin up.”

My head was spinning. I didn't know how much of what Bill told me was true. He was obviously insane, but I felt that there had to be at least a few grains of truth in there. For all I knew it was Bill who was the sane one and the rest of us that were crazy.

It wasn't until I got back to the car that I realized I'd completely forgotten to ask Bill if he knew who Danielle and Brandon were. I thought about going back inside, but I wasn't sure if I really wanted to find out.