I listen to her interaction with the two morons and deduce that she’s an addict who’s gotten on the Preacher’s bad side. Still, she might have clues as to where we are.
“Who are you?” I ask once I’m certain that Beavis and Butthead are gone.
Judging from her gasp when she first sees me, I must look a mess. I know my eye is a sight. My hand itches to feel the stubble on my head and gauge the pathetic amount of hair it’s capable of producing, but the rope burns on my wrists remind me I can’t.
She purses her lips, like she doesn’t want to answer. Her face is striking. It’s round and pale, framed by a curtain of long, black hair. Her eyes are light, most likely blue. There’s a red bandana on the floor behind her. Probably came off when the hood was pulled from her head.
“No sense in lying,” I say, trying to put her at ease. “What am I gonna do, find out where you live and come kidnap you?”
She almost smiles at the joke, then clears her throat, as if remembering where she is. “My name is Marissa. Johnson. And who are you?”
I ignore the question. “Why are you here?”
“No idea,” she says quite bitterly. “You?”
She seems to be in that sweet spot where she doesn’t look high out of her mind, but isn’t in withdrawal yet. Give it time.
“Beavis and Butthead think I blew up a meth lab.”
She raises her eyebrows, stunned. This is fun.
“What day is it?”
“It’s New Year’s Eve,” she replies, looking at the skylight with unconcealed longing. “Who are these people?”
“Small-time drug dealers who earn extra cash by running errands, such as kidnapping, for bigger fish,” I explain.
She considers this information briefly. “What’s your name?”
“Hawk.”
“Is that so?” she asks sarcastically. I like that better than the longing.
I shrug. “Do you really not know who the Preacher is?”
“I really don’t.”
She appears truthful. It’s hard to analyze a person’s body language with maximum accuracy if all they can move is their face. I mean, I could, but I’d need two functioning eyes and better light.
“He’s a drug lord, but likes to think of himself as a businessman. He’s in charge of most of the coke and heroin coming into Arizona, and the facilities where they cut and package the shit.”
Marissa Johnson seems disturbed at the idea that such a man might want something from her, and then she frowns at me. “How come you know so much about this stuff? Do you work with these people?”
The balls on this junkie. I’m offended. “We work against them. In a way.”
Why am I explaining myself to her?
“Who’s we?”
“You got a kid?” I ask in order to throw her off.
“Yeah,” she says in a hoarse voice. “His name is DJ, and he’s seven months old.”
She looks absolutely devastated, and I hate myself for it. I don’t want her to be sad, because I need information from her. No other reason.
“What does DJ stand for?”
“Dylan Junior. I wanted to name him Alexander or Sebastian, but his father thought those names were too pretentious,” she says quietly, as if to herself.
