Chapter One—New Guy on the Block
It was like any other day before it happened. He was going to a drug bust on Cedar Street. These people sure were idiots thinking that they could get things whole thing going and not have the police notice. They were right behind the station for crying out loud.
He'd gone in, with backup, everything was going fine. It was late at night, sure, and all the neighbors looked confused. It was a drugs bust. What did they want, an encore?
Yeah, he'd given 'em an encore, but not right now. He was too tired. He'd stayed up too late. It was a good thing he didn't have a girlfriend (he didn't have any private and/or social life at all, it seemed, and he was gonna die alone), otherwise she'd be pissed. He had a cat, but Tape was bad enough as it was. Yes, he has a cat named Tape.
He sneezed, some of the powder scratching at his nose.
"Maybe you should go, Sparks," his supervisor, Rick Wilder, told him. "You don't look so hot."
Jason scratched his head. "Yeah, that might be a good idea, sir. I spent all 'a last night digging up information about what ingredients went into meth and heroin, and what people had enough dough in this neighborhood to get some. It took a while."
"Oh?" Wilder frowned. "What's in meth?"
"That's easy," Sparks answered. "Pseudoephedrine."
"What about heroin?"
"Morphine and Acetic Anhydride," he answered without thinking. His supervisor smiled.
"All right. I guess you do know what you're talking about." He clapped the man on the back. "Now get some rest."
As soon as Wilder passed by him, Sparks felt something enter into him, making him shake like he was getting electrocuted, but not very much. The feeling didn't last very long. The night suddenly felt chillier than it had earlier, and he shivered.
What was that all about?
He shook his head, shaking off the feeling. It was just the wind, he told himself. Get a hold of yourself, Sparky.
There was a crowd gathering at the edge of the police tape, and a voice called up to him. "Jason! Jason!"
It was a woman, a girl with dark hair, like his own. Was it who he thought it was?
When he got down there, she was jumping up and down, trying to get his attention.
"What?" he asked, suddenly a little onry.
She raised her hands. "Whoa, there, cowboy. Didn't want ya snapping at me. Sorry for the maintenance call..."
He shook his head. "Sorry about snapping at you. What did you want?"
She looked around nervously. "Um..."
"What? Do you want to talk somewhere else about it?"
She shook her head yes.
He sighed. "All right. Where?"
"Parking lot?"
He rolled his eyes. "All right. I gotta put my stuff away, and cart the monsters back to the station. Meet you there?"
She nodded again.
"'Kay. See you in a few."
"'Kay."
He pulled back to the police car where the pots' were chained up—there were only three, but they had to be carted separately, and he was talking a teenager—a nineteen-year-old kid, almost an adult, blah, blah, who cares? He has two more years. He can wait to do drugs and drink and do pot in prison. Possession of stolen property, grand theft, plus a bunch of minor B-'n-Es? Minor because he had been drunk and disorderly (from running away from the cops) and had gotten the idea after entering the victim's house. The victim now being the deceased, whom the oldest guy had killed. Bludgeoned to death.
The things people do for pleasure, he spat in his head.
The kid in the back seat was asleep and drooling. Great, kid. That seat was expensive to fix, the last time someone had killed it. They'd had a seizure and then thrown up and pissed all over, no control over their bladder.
I'm the luckiest guy in the world, aren't I? He muttered internally.
Something in his chest felt unexpectedly cold, and he gasped. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, and something in his head demanded that he turn directly into traffic.
No, he said, demanding the chill on his heart to go away. Something in his stomach turned, and goose bumps swept up his arms.
Do it now, someone in his head commanded.
Sparks jerked the wheel away from oncoming traffic and slammed into a tree, awakening the drowsy boy. "Drowsy driving, eh, Professor?"
Professor? Where was this kid, college? Head hurting like what he thought hell would, he got out of the car, limping a little, walked back in, and radioed for help.
He sat back in the seat, moaning. "No, kid. School got out a while ago."
The kid smiled, one that looked both genuine and unaware of its surroundings. "Prof, you're a cool guy."
Sparks moaned. "The name is Sparks, not 'Prof,' now cool it with the drunken...ness..."
The kid smiled. "Can't think either, eh, boss?"
Jason frowned. "Kid, I am neither your boss, nor your professor, I am a detective charged with getting you back to the precinct."
"Sure, Prof. You gotta a wife?"
"Kid!" he yelped, hitting himself on the roof. What made him do that?
"What?" he laughed, giving that stupid "happy-drunk" smile. "'She a looker or what?"
"Kid, I don't have a wife." Just shut him up already. You shut up, whoever you are.
He looked confused when Sparks looked at him in the rear-view mirror. "What do you mean you don't have a wife? Why did you freak out at me?"
"I don't know, kid, the shock?"
He frowned. "All right, I can understand that. But you don't have a wife? How old are you? Early twenties?"
"Late twenties."
The boy made a little "o" with his mouth. "Twenty-eight?" He laughed. "You're twenty-freaking-eight, and you don't have a wife?" He laughed again, the information somehow entertaining. "You are a sucker for the ladies..." he whispered softly.
Sparks glared at the kid. "What are you talking about? Is this post-drug psychobabble or something?"
The kid smiled that weird drunken smile again. "You could call it that, I guess..."
Sparks rolled his eyes and waited for the police to come get him. He wasn't getting anywhere in this car. Wilder was gonna kill him.
What made you go off and crash into a tree like that, Sparks? You've never acted like this before, what's wrong? Not enough sleep? We shouldn't have put you on this case. You always get too into it and something bad always happens.
Maybe not always, but usually. Usually because of him.
When the flashing lights got there, the kid was smiling and spitting out blood-he had smacked his mouth on the driver's seat in front of him-, looking like some creepy vampire, and Jason Sparks was half conscious.
Tomorrow, I'm gonna feel like a brick that hit the pavement five stories up.
One question lingered in his mind.
Who had I been talking to?