“Thanks.”
“You going over there? You need backup?”
“No.” At least, he hoped he didn’t. “It’s not a police issue. I’m just—I’m looking for snakes.”
“Right,” Garron drawled. “Good luck with that.”
So Jericho hauled himself off the couch and headed out to his old Mustang. It was a nice night, with no clouds and a warm summer breeze, and it would have made more sense to go find a park and look up at the stars. Instead, he was chasing down a snake lead, half hoping it was also something else.
He pulled up in front of a modest, ragged bungalow. The town had lost population since the mine closed, and it was cheaper to rent houses than apartments most of the time. But there wasn’t a lot of money spent on maintaining the near-worthless rental houses, that was for sure.
He noted the battered pickup in the driveway, and headed for the front door. All the windows of the house were closed, and he peered around the side, trying to spot an air conditioning unit. Didn’t see one. So the closed windows were suspicious. But maybe the house was just naturally cool. And it wasn’t like the night was that hot.
All the neighbors had their windows open, though. Jericho approached the front door with a little extra caution. He knocked. Gentle, polite, just a member of the community making a somewhat strange inquiry about snakes. His Glock was reassuringly solid in his waistband holster, and the fact that he’d worn it, the fact that he was thinking about it—his subconscious was telling him something, and he’d better listen to it.
Another knock, this one more forceful, and he heard movement inside the house. Someone stumbled over something, banged into the door. “Who is it?”
“My name’s Jay,” Jericho said.Ask about the snakes, get away from here, go home.But he couldn’t do it. “I heard maybe you could help me out.”Okay, that was still vague. You don’t have to go through with this.
Then the door opened a crack, and a whiff of stale air escaped. Stale, chemical-laden air. Jericho wished he didn’t recognize that smell, but he did. Jesus Christ, this asshole was cooking meth in a residential neighborhood, four doors down from the elementary school. What would the blast radius be if the place went up—just how much damage would be done? It would depend on the time of day. If they got lucky, the explosion would only take out this house and probably one on either side. But if the timing was wrong, and kids were walking by on their way to school—
“Who told you to come here?” the man inside demanded. It was hard to see him clearly, but he looked like he was in his midtwenties, too damn thin, and too damn jumpy. He kept wiping his nose with the back of his hand, and Jericho could see raw spots on both the hand and the nose.
“Guy down at the bar—shit, I forget his name.” Jericho had never worked narcotics, but even he knew this was not a great cover story. Somehow, though, he thought it might work on what was clearly an amateur setup and a clown who was obviously tweaking. “Midsize guy, kinda skinny, with brown hair? He said you could hook me up.” Jericho reached for his wallet. “What can you give me for eighty bucks?”
A moment of indecision, then greed took over. “A gram for ninety.”
“Ninety? That’s steep.”
“That’s the fucking price,” the guy snarled, rubbing at his nose harder.
Jericho pretended to be indecisive. “Fine,” he finally said, and opened his wallet. He held it carefully to be sure his police ID didn’t show.
And that was when his phone rang. He ignored it, and held the bills out toward the tweaker, then snatched them back before they could be taken. “Where’s the crank?”
“You don’t trust me?”
“Let me see it.”
Jericho’s phone had stopped ringing, but then it started again, and it was obviously setting off the tweaker’s nerves. “Aren’t you going to answer that?”
“No. It’s probably the bitch I’m buying this for. She’s getting kinda . . . impatient.”
That was when there was a loud thud behind him. He stepped to the side, trying to keep his eyes on the tweaker at the same time as he checked out the new disturbance. There were no streetlights, but Jericho could see a man by his car—had he just bashed his fist into the roof of Jericho’s Mustang? “Hey,” Jericho called. “You got a problem?”
“Yeah,” came the response. “You’re my fucking problem.”
Jericho recognized the voice.Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
“You want this or not?” the tweaker demanded, holding a baggie out in Jericho’s direction.
Jericho needed to change tack. “Who’s that guy?” Jericho asked. “The guy by my car. What the hell’s going on?”
“What? Fuck, I don’t know him! He sounds like he knows you!”
“Fuck off!” Jericho called toward the street.
“Make me!”
