Serpents Rising (24 page)

We waited until the pickup was out of sight down the road. Cobb pulled back out into traffic and drove for a block or so with the lights out, finally turned them back on as we rolled through the traffic lights at 12th Street. The pickup was visible ahead of us but Cobb, unlike the “amateur,” stayed well back with two vehicles between us and the Dodge.

I said, “To repeat, what now?”

“Not sure yet. We play it by ear.”

Up ahead, the pickup turned right at 8th Street opposite the historic Deane House. Cobb moved into the right lane, slowly eased around the corner. The pickup was nowhere in sight. We drove north one block and turned right again. Cobb and I spotted the truck at the same time; it was pulled into a driveway at a two-storey red brick house on the opposite side of the street. Someone, it might have been the driver, was walking away from the truck and the house. He was walking quickly. Cobb pulled over and we parked alongside a park, neither of us taking our eyes off the guy walking, almost running now.

“Let's go,” Cobb said and we both jumped out of the Jeep. “You check the pickup. I got the guy on the street.”

We were running now and so was the guy ahead of us. I figured my stop at the pickup was a waste of time — it seemed pretty clear the guy on foot was the same man who'd been at the wheel of the truck.

I did what I was told and ran to where the pickup was parked. I slowed as I got there, and ducked down next to a fence, thinking for just a second about all the things that could go wrong if I just ran up to the driver's side door without thinking.

Unless someone else is hunkered down in there out of sight.

I waited, listening hard, and peered through the darkness at the truck, trying to get a look inside. Not seeing anyone in the truck from my vantage point next to the fence, I slid slowly up alongside until I was even with the back door. Still no one inside that I could see. I yanked the driver's door open and went into a crouch, mostly because that's what I'd seen law enforcement people on TV do. Of course most of those people were pointing guns at whoever was in the vehicle at the time but, as I didn't have that option I hoped the crouch would suffice on its own.

It did but only because there was no one in the truck. I peered around the interior, saw nothing much of value. A couple of screwdrivers, a flashlight, some empty candy bar wrappers and a coffee travel mug lay spread over the middle and passenger seats. And a box of Trojans, open, a couple gone.

I leaned in, flipped the glove box down, and pulled out a small plastic carrying case that housed the vehicle's registration and insurance. The truck belonged to Roland Nill. I didn't take the time to try to learn more in case Cobb needed my help in the pursuit of Mr. Nill or whoever had been at the wheel of the pickup moments before.

I closed the door of the pickup and started off down the street in the direction Cobb and the guy on foot had taken. I went at a steady, medium-fast jog thinking it could be a long run and that I better conserve some energy for later if I needed it.

I'd gone about two blocks, my head moving from side to side the whole time, hoping to spot either Cobb, his quarry, or both.

I heard them before I saw them. Loud, high-pitched swearing from one voice, Cobb's base growl interrupting it from time to time to state, “Shut the hell up.”

They were standing next to an older sandstone building that had been converted to a set of offices. A sign announced that the building housed Jackson MacArthur Enterprises, an accounting firm.

Cobb had hold of someone who was struggling and swearing, neither of which seemed to be having much impact on Cobb, who looked at me as I arrived and said, “Adam, say hello to Jay Blevins.”

J
ay Blevins's face hadn't been washed in a very long time. That was the first thing I took note of as I looked at the kid we'd been trying to find all this time and who, instead, had found us.

Cobb had a firm grip on the twisting mass that was Jay Blevins but didn't look like he was hurting the kid at all. It also didn't look like keeping him under control, except for his mouth, was much of a job. The kid was as tall as I was, but there was nothing to him.

Jay bore the malnourished, emaciated look I'd seen on the faces and bodies of countless addicts I'd encountered before. Sadly, wasted was the perfect descriptor for what I was seeing.

Owen Harkness all over again.

And like Owen, Jay's mouth was the one part of him that seemed to work just fine.

“Listen, Dipshit, you've got ten seconds to get out of my face, then I call the cops and nail both your asses for assault.”

Cobb moved his face to maybe two centimetres from Jay's and said again, slightly modified this time, “Shut the fuck up.” Less a directive and more of a threat.

Thankfully it worked. Jay fell silent.

Wrestling with Cobb, if that's what you could call the kid's feeble attempts at resistance, quickly took its toll and he stopped moving except for the heaving of his pathetically small chest. No longer the athlete. Once a football player, now Ichabod Crane.

Cobb released him, straightened the worn jean jacket Jay was wearing, a jacket that was far too light to be even remotely effective in fending off the cold of this night. He wasn't wearing gloves but did have a toque that, like the jean jacket, had seen better, and cleaner, days.

Jay stood up a little straighter, brushed imaginary snow from the shoulder of the jacket, and glared at Cobb, with the occasional unpleasant glance in my direction.

Cobb said, “Okay, Jay, let's start with question number one. Why were you following us?”

Jay shook his head. “Oh no, uh-uh, that's not the question. The question is why have
you
been following
me
?”

Despite the dishevelled, unhealthy look to Jay Blevins, there was something about him that differentiated him from the majority of crackheads, cokeheads, and other addicts I'd encountered over the years. It was the eyes.

This wasn't the wide-eyed, wildly out of control look I had become all too familiar with over the years.

“How long you been clean, Jay?” I asked.

“What's that to you? And who the fuck are you anyway?”

Cobb shook him a little, sort of a show-some-respect shake.

“My name's Cobb. This is Adam Cullen. We've been looking for you. We knew your dad.” Cobb said it gently, especially the last part.

I watched Jay contort his face, straighten his shoulders. Trying for tough. “Yeah, well … what's that got to do with me?”

“How about we go someplace a little warmer, maybe get some coffee, and we'll tell you exactly what it has to do with you.”

“I don't have to go with you.”

“No, you don't. You can stay out here and freeze your ass off. Or we can call the cops — who are also looking for you — or we can go have a cup of coffee and talk a little bit.”

A few seconds passed while he thought about it. I hoped he'd make up his mind soon because that “freeze your ass off” thing Cobb had mentioned applied to more than just the kid.

“Where?”

“How about someplace that has some food. Maybe we can get a bite to eat to go with the coffee?”

I said, “There's a place down 9th Avenue a few blocks. Harriet's. Should still be open.”

“We talk for a while, then we drop you off wherever you want to go. Fair enough?”

Jay looked at Cobb, assessing the possibility that there was any truth in what he was hearing. I hated to imagine the lies the kid had heard during his time on the street.

Jay shrugged and said, “Okay.”

Harriet's wasn't fancy but given the state of our guest, it would do nicely. Better yet, we were the only ones in the place. Cobb parked behind Harriet's next to a Dumpster, which meant the Jeep wouldn't be seen by anyone driving by.

Once inside, Cobb selected a table near the back, again well out of view from the street. This time he sat facing the front door.

Two restaurants in an hour. With interesting people for company in both cases.

To his credit, Jay suggested maybe he should wash. Cobb went with him to the john and stood outside the door to ensure that Jay didn't try to escape out the back. I couldn't imagine why he'd want to take off and miss out on a free meal but I wasn't sure, even if he
was
clean, how lucid the kid's thought processes might be.

He was in the bathroom long enough to have me wondering if he'd decided to vacate via a window, and I could see from his body language that Cobb was having similar thoughts. He looked about ready to kick down the door when it opened and Jay stepped out.

He hadn't been able to effect a miraculous change, but I could see that he'd tried. The hands and face were cleaner and he'd stashed the toque in a pocket and tried to get most of his hair going in roughly the same direction.

I got out of the booth and let Jay slide in first. Cobb sat opposite us. A girl, not much older than Jay, came to the table snapping gum and looking like customers were the worst part of her day.

“What can I get you?” She was looking at Jay with something less than cordiality. In fairness to her, one of the things that the enclosed quarters of the restaurant revealed was that Jay had been less successful eliminating the smell he was emitting than he had been in scraping off some of the surface dirt.

The waitress actually took a step back.

Cobb said, “Jay?”

Jay shrugged. “I don't know.”

Cobb looked back at the waitress. “What's your soup, Miss?”

“My name's not Miss.”

“What is your name?'

“Virginia.”

“My mistake, Virginia.” Cobb smiled pleasantly. “What's your soup?”

“Mushroom.”

“Great. Bring us three bowls of soup, three coffees, and some sandwiches.”

“What kind of sandwiches?”

“Surprise me.”

“We've got ham and that's it.”

“You just spoiled the surprise, Virginia.” Cobb was working at looking pleasant. “Bring us a plate of ham sandwiches as well.”

“How many?”

“Surprise me.”

She started to answer, changed her mind, and turned away.

“Thank you, Virginia,” Cobb said.

She didn't acknowledge his thanks.

“Well, Jay.” Cobb smiled. “It's nice to finally meet up with you. We've been looking for you a long time.”

“Yeah. And why is that?”

Cobb set his big hands on the table, looked over them at Jay.

“I'm a private detective. Your dad hired me to try to protect you after he killed those two men at the crack house.”

Jay's shook his head hard from side to side. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

“Maybe. But I think he was desperate to do something to get you out of the crack scene and he'd run out of ideas. Besides, he didn't really plan to kill anybody. He went in there to try to scare them off — so they wouldn't sell to you anymore. Things got out of control; he lost it and started shooting.”

“What the hell was he thinking?”

“I don't know what he was thinking, but I just told you what he was thinking
about
— that was you.”

“And this was supposed to help me how?”

“I've encountered desperate parents before, Jay. They'll do anything to try to get back the kid they used to have. I suspect that was the place your old man was at.”

Bubble Gum Girl returned with the soup and the sandwiches. She set the tray down and said, “I'll go get your coffees.”

I busied myself distributing the food. I was glad now I hadn't got very far with the chili earlier.

Jay looked at the food as he spoke. “So I don't get where you come in. The old man had already killed those guys. What do I need protecting from?”

Cobb took the bowl of soup I offered and set it down in front of Jay. “Do you have any idea who ran the house you were buying your drugs from, Jay? Who Stick and the other guys were working for?”

“I heard some biker dudes. But I didn't really know. Didn't really care.”

Cobb looked at Jay for a long time, like he was trying to figure out how anybody could be that stupid. “Ever hear of the MFs, Jay?”

Jay took a bite of sandwich, chewed for a while, then nodded. “Heard of 'em. Don't know much about them, I guess.”

Virginia came back with the coffee. Again I did some passing and all three of us were busy for a few seconds, doctoring our coffee. Jay dumped enough sugar into his to turn it into syrup. He took a drink and looked up at Cobb.

“What an asshole.”

“Who?”

“My old man.”

Cobb said, “How about we take a few minutes to eat some soup? That'll give you time to get some food into you and it'll give me time to fight off the urge to reach across the table and choke the shit out of you.”

Jay gave Cobb a what's-got-your-ass look but didn't say anything, which was probably for the best. For the next few minutes we ate soup and ham sandwiches.

It was real obvious, real fast that it had been a while since Jay had eaten much. He wolfed down the soup and two of the sandwiches. Which was a bit of an indicator that maybe he had been clean, at least long enough to develop an appetite.

I ate a little soup, drank some of the coffee, watched Jay take on fuel and looked at Cobb a couple of times. It was hard to know what he was thinking.

As the pace of the food frenzy slowed, Jay looked over at me, stared for a long minute.

“You a private detective too?”

I shook my head. “Freelance writer. I've been helping Cobb try to track you down.”

“Guess you both failed, huh?”

“Guess so,” I said.

Cobb set his coffee cup down. “Where'd you get the pickup?”

“What?”

“The truck you were driving. Where'd you get it?”

“I borrowed it.”

“The owner know you borrowed it?”

“Roland Nill,” I said.

“What?”

“Roland Nill, that's who owns the truck.”

“Oh … yeah.”

Cobb said, “Mr. Nill, he know you borrowed his truck?”

Jay shrugged. “Maybe not.”

“So you stole it.”

“That's harsh, man,” Jay said.

“Yeah, why don't you tell us about it.”

“I got the word that a couple of dudes had been asking about me. Two guys driving a black Jeep. I was keeping my eye out for you. I saw you park in front of that biker restaurant. I wasn't sure you were the right guys but I figured I'd hang around, get a look at you at least. Then this guy comes along in the pickup, and he's got this really young chick with him — like a teenager. They park and get out of the truck, head off down the street, probably to a bar or a restaurant. Foreplay.” Jay grinned and took a bite out of a third sandwich. “I guess the guy's so horny he leaves the key in the ignition. So I get in and start it just to warm up for a while — I figured I could run for it when the guy came back. Then you came out of the restaurant and I figured what the hey, let's go for a spin and see what happens.”

“Which brings us to here and now.”

Jay glanced at me. “So you gonna write a book about this? One of those behind-the-scenes real life things?”

“I hadn't planned on it, no.”

“Whatever.” He looked at Cobb. “My ex-girlfriend, Zoe, I heard she's gone from the place she was living at. You know anything about that?”

Cobb shook his head. “How would it be if I asked the questions?”

“Ex-girlfriend?” I repeated.

“Well … yeah, we sort of … broke up.”

“When was that, Jay?”

He glared at me, sat up straighter. “What's it to you anyway?”

“It wasn't that long ago, your
ex-girlfriend
was spending her nights in a below freezing dump hoping you might show up. Didn't seem to know anything about how you two had broken up. Maybe you failed to mention that to her.”

“What the fuck's it to you?”

I turned, grabbed him by the collar, and jerked him up and toward me. He felt like he weighed maybe ninety pounds. “Listen you little piece of shit —”

Cobb reached across the table, put a big hand on my shoulder. “Easy, Adam. Easy.”

He said it in a low, soft voice but it was enough. I pushed Jay Blevins back to where he'd been sitting, my knuckles grazing his chin as I did. Not all that accidentally. Jay busied himself spinning the uneaten crust from one of his sandwiches around on his plate. Sulking.

“Jay,” Cobb said, “you know about Owen Harkness?”

He looked up. “What about Owen?”

Cobb looked at him for several seconds. “You don't know?”

“What is this, a little kid game? What
about
Owen?”

“He's dead.”

I watched Jay take it in. And for a minute I thought he was going to pass out or throw up. Or both. What he did instead was start to cry. Not loud and not tears streaming down his face but he was crying. And if I was a betting man, I'd have bet it was sincere. It was the first time I felt anything like sympathy for him.

“What … what happened? OD?

“No, Owen didn't overdose,” Cobb said. “Somebody took him out with a knife.”

Jay took in air. Looked at Cobb, then me, then the ceiling.

“Shit, who would do that?”

“We think it's the guys that are looking for you.”

“The MFs.”

“Yeah.”

“Goddamn it, man, Owen was all right. He never hurt anybody, you know … he … where did it happen?”