Chapter 32

 

After they made love, while Cat was washing up, Steve decided to go ahead and call his brother. He didn’t know how Tim would respond and didn’t care. This crazy-ass night had driven home a new sense of urgency in Steve. Almost but not quite wasn’t going to cut it anymore.

He flipped open his cell and saw messages waiting. There was a new one from Greggers, and the ones from Jessie, which he still hadn’t played. He lay there, staring at his phone, focusing on those two names, Greggers and Jessie, and that’s when everything clicked.

Greggers’s voice entered his head: I think she might be caught up in some kind of terrorism.

Greenwar.

Green…

That was it.

Steve felt so stupid for not putting it together earlier. Greggers’s concern, Jessie’s situation, her calls, he’d just written it off as more of Jessie’s Bullshit. He’d blown off calling her, blown off listening to her messages, and then he’d met Cat; and from that point, he’d spent his time getting baked, getting to know Cat, and dealing with the ever-present inconvenience of fucknut cannibals.

But now it was clear. Jessie and her little militant eco-club had tampered with something—Steve knew it had something to do with alcohol, and he was pretty sure it was Cougar beer—and they’d managed to turn College Heights into a slaughterhouse.

He played her first message. Standard fare, Jessie trying to sound cool, concerned but together, asking him to give her a call. Said she could use some help. Nothing big, nothing specific.

The second call, she’d placed later, around ten. In this one, she sounded a lot less cool. Two more came along rapid-fire, each less together than the last. She mentioned Green, some guy Garrett, and how they’d done something stupid, and now she was worried, and could he please give her a call as soon as he got this?

The fifth message, placed at 11:20, was nothing short of hysterical. Noise raged in the background. Lots of it. "Please, Steve," Jessie’s voice begged. "Please call me. I’m in big trouble. Garrett hired this super-genius chemist to make something, and we put it in the beer, but that guy Herbert must have fucked up or something because everybody’s crazy, and I think we did this, Steve. Look, I’m sorry if I pissed you off or something, but please just call, okay? Please call."

Cat came back to the room, toweling off.

Drawing her to him, Steve said, "It was the beer."

"The beer? How do you know?"

He pulled her close and replayed the message.

"It’s terrorism," he said.

"Like Al Qaeda?"

"No, homegrown. Ever hear of Green? I hadn’t, either." He explained most of what he knew, holding the biggest news for last. "The chemist she mentioned, I know the guy. Herbert. He’s my chemist, my connection for acid, fuse, X. The guy can make anything."

"No shit?"

"No shit." Steve ran a hand through his hair. It was all dawning on him now, all coming together. "You know, I don’t think this ‘glitch’ was an accident. Herbert’s one weird motherfucker. He lives in this little white house out on University Way, near the sewer treatment plant. I stopped by a few times on business but never went inside. The guy is Creep City. I mean, he just gives you a vibe, like he might have a bunch of prostitutes buried in the basement. And his laugh is fucking crazy. Makes your hair stand up." He took her by the shoulders. "Cat, he did this. He did it, and he meant to do it, and I think he’s sitting somewhere watching the world go up in flames, laughing about the whole thing."

He pulled his little notebook from his back pocket and flipped through till he found it. He poked the page, accidentally smudging the name with a red fingerprint. "Herbert Weston. That’s the guy. Jessie just said ‘Herbert,’ but I guaran-fucking-tee it’s him. He’s a complete genius, he’s got a lab in his house, and he’s the strangest guy I’ve ever met. Shit, he did this."

"So what do we do now?"

"I don’t know. Little late to intervene."

"This is big, Steve. You’re sure about this? "

"I am."

"Then we have to tell the cops. Maybe they’ll be able to track him down or something."

"Would it do any good now?"

"Maybe he has an antidote. Maybe it’s something simple. Catching him might save lives. Lots. And besides, the asshole has to pay."

Steve smiled and kissed her. "You’re one tough chick."

"I am." She leaned back, beautiful but definitely, no-doubt-about-it tough as hell. Steve saw it in her eyes, her face, her taut muscles. It occurred to him that he’d hate to have her pissed off at him.

He tried 911. It was tied up. No surprise there. "Let me try Jessie. Shit, I hope she’s okay."

He let it ring until it went to voice mail but hung up without leaving a message. She’d see his missed call. He hoped.

"I hate to say it," Cat said, "but we have to keep moving. We have to find some cops."

Steve nodded. "I could use a pot or two of coffee."

"Me, too. And a shotgun."

"Yeah. My anti-gun stance isn’t quite what it used to be. I might take one myself now." He laughed. "And probably shoot myself in the foot."

She laughed and assured him he’d be fine if they were ever so lucky as to come into some guns.

Steve said, "Speaking of shooting myself in the foot, I have an idea." From his pocket he pulled one of the baggies he’d been holding for Joel.

Cat stared with wide eyes. "The fuck, Steve? Is that coke? You’re going to get high now? Now?"

"Chill. I don’t even touch the stuff, normally. But look: I’m beat to shit, and I’m hurting, and I think we’re in a world of trouble here. I say we smoke just a bit of this. If we don’t do something, we’re going to die."

She shook her head. "Fuck that. No coke. You start snorting that shit, the next thing you know, you’re stripping in a converted house half a mile off the turnpike, giving five-dollar handjobs."

"And Lord knows I don’t want to be giving five-dollar handjobs," Steve said. This got a grin out of her. "I’m not trying to push the shit on you, Cat. I just…I’m fucked up. My gut’s killing me, truly, and I’m tired as shit. I feel like curling up in the tub and going to sleep."

"Not an option."

"No."

"What’s it like?"

Steve shrugged. "Heaven and hell, I’m told. That’s if you actually do lines, which I have no intention of doing." He pulled out his weed and packed a light bowl. Then he sprinkled a pinch of coke over the green. "I did this once, years ago. I’m out on this balcony, this guy Derrin, he’s kind of a shady asshole, a friend of a friend, and it’s me and him and one of his buddies. We’re out there on that balcony and Darrin pulls out this joint, and we start passing it back and forth. I catch it a few times around, then we’re standing there, bullshitting, and I start feeling a little weird, you know? Like I was lifting up? You know how when you drink a pot of coffee you feel sharpened up and kind of light?"

"And like taking a piss?"

"That’s it. Only I didn’t have to take a piss. I just had to move. I asked this guy what the fuck kind of weed that was. He and his buddy, they start laughing, all apologetic. ‘Oh shit,’ he says, ‘we threw a little coke in the blunt.’ Twenty minutes later, I’m all alone out on Laymon Lane, doing sprints. Back and forth, back and forth."

Cat laughed. "But you didn’t run back in there demanding the rest of the bag?"

"Nope."

"Didn’t score a bag the next day?"

"Nope. It scared me. You smoke weed day in and day out, year after year, you end up a little burned out, you maybe get bronchitis easier, and you’re left with the motivation of a drunken sloth. So be it. But coke is different. It’s too good, too intense. I knew if I started doing lines, I’d end up dead or in prison, neither one of which is my style."

Cat nodded. "Light up, then." She laid a hand on his shoulder. "But do me a favor and don’t smoke enough to go around the bend, Steve. All right? I can’t be alone now."

"Got it," he said, and sparked the bowl.