The cocaine high was beginning to wear off as the Avenger reached the outskirts of Birmingham. He pulled into a rest stop and went into the bathroom. Three days’ fatigue threatened to crash in on him with agonizing urgency, but he couldn’t let that happen. He didn’t have any come-down drugs like Xanax with him to ease his crash.
Besides, he still had too much to do today. His genius superplan was only partially fulfilled. There was so much more havoc to be wreaked.
He lumbered back to his car, his limbs as heavy as lead. Not good. Time to use again. Thankfully, he had an ample supply, because he’d gotten access to his mother’s bank account. He’d cleaned it out and spent it all on things that mattered.
He poured out another line of coke, snorted it, and waited for it to revive his body. He had to hurry. He had to get to Cassandra before Carter got off work. The timing was essential.
He snorted a second line, then licked his fingers, unwilling to lose one grain of the fine powder.
Power and strength returned to his brain with a jolt.
Cassandra. He wished he’d gotten to know her the few times he’d seen her on visiting day at Haven House. Then she would trust him and let him in. As it stood, he’d have to do some finagling to get into her house. But he could do it.
He flew down I-20 to the exit. Music revved him on, pumping him with purpose. He found Carter’s neighborhood, as run-down and sad as his own.
As he’d hoped, Cassandra’s car sat in the double carport. She was home. Perfect.
He parked his car half a block down, in front of a house that looked like no one was home, stuffed his gun in the waistband of his jeans, and strode to her house.
Plan A was to ring the bell and see if she answered. When she opened the door to a .44 Magnum, he would have no trouble getting in. Once inside the house, he would crank up her stereo to maximum volume and muffle the gun with a pillow. If anyone heard the gunshot, the confusion of guitars and drumbeats might make them question what they’d heard.
At her door, he heard the sound of a television inside. He studied the doorknob. He could easily get in with a credit card if she didn’t open it. And the door looked warped and hollow, easy to kick through if it came to that.
Showtime. He pulled his gun but kept it behind him in case she peeked out. He rang the bell.
“Who is it?” she called through the door.
“UPS,” he said.
She opened the door then, peering out cautiously. He raised the gun and shoved the door open with his shoulder. She stumbled back, and he slammed the door behind him.
“You!” she said.
“Good to see you again, Cassandra. Sorry I can’t stay long.”