It was nighttime in Carrollton, and Dustin was driving a rented Honda Accord around and around and around the whole town, high on the methamphetamine he’d been smoking, every waking minute of every day, ever since he’d moved in with Michael Speck.
It had been a few weeks now since Mr. John had driven out to talk to him about bailing his mom out of jail. The money that Mr. John left behind totaled $24,000. And the first thing that Dustin had done was go out and buy himself the biggest bag of methamphetamine anyone in Ben Wheeler had ever seen. He’d smoked a lot of that crank himself, and shared freely with friends and neighbors.
After a few sleepless nights, he’d taken to posting selfies on Facebook—stacks of hundred-dollar bills all around.
A few nights after that, when eight thousand dollars blew off the hood of his car, he didn’t even bother to scoop the money back up.
Then, with the money all gone, Dustin had called Mr. John and done what he’d seen Billie do countless times. Just like that, he asked for more money. And, just like that, Mr. John had agreed. The convention in Gaylord was still a few weeks away. But Dustin was more than willing to drive up to Carrollton.
“Okay,” Mr. John had told him. “I’ll hide some cash for you up here. You can drive up and pick it up. But you know what you’ll have to do here to earn it.”
The streets in Carrollton didn’t make any sense to Dustin. The houses all looked like the same great big house, and he couldn’t make heads or tails of the neighborhoods.
“Frankford Estates,” he mumbled to himself in the front seat. “Parkside Estates. What’s up with this town anyway?”
There was a can of gasoline in the trunk and a box of bullets in Dustin’s lap. But the box had spilled over, and now there were bullets all over his lap, on the seat under him, and on the floor, rolling this way and that in the Honda. There was also a map, which Dustin had given up on, and a slip of paper, on which he’d written the address that Mr. John had given him. Dustin must have been high when he’d written it down—he could not make sense of it at all. And so he drove, around and around for hours in circles, in squares, and in zigzags, without getting closer to where it was that he needed to be.
It was as if he were driving underwater.
Exasperated, he pulled the car over. There, in the driver’s seat, he’d gripped the wheel with both hands, closed his eyes tightly, and breathed, in and out, until the white noise in his head died down to a whisper. He checked the address once again—this time, he could almost make out words and numbers. He took out the gun he’d brought—a silver .380 that Speck had lent him—and checked it too.
Having centered himself, he put the car key back in the ignition, turned the engine on, pulled out into the night—and promptly got lost. He turned the rental car around, and then around again. He made one wrong turn, then made another. Then, giving up on the whole enterprise, he made one final U-turn.
As he did so, the Honda’s headlights swept across a driveway. And there, standing outside, he saw Nancy Howard.