Page 25 of Fish in a Barrel
Jackson sucked in a breath and looked around at the others on the bus, most of whom had already started eating.
Many of whom were already nodding off. Jackson turned toward Cody, who was looking at the food and the coffee with absolute craving in his eyes.
Oh no.
At that moment, Goslar hauled down the steps, and McMurphy took the only seat left in the front of the bus, elbowing the woman next to him. “Get over, bitch. I don’t want to smell you.” She retreated to the corner, whimpering, and Jackson prayed for two minutes alone with this guy. No baton. No gun. Just Jackson and his unadulterated rage.
But the bus gave a jerk and a puff, the squeal of the brakes telling Jackson this must be a city vehicle, because it wasn’t in great condition. He used the noise and the movement to whisper to Cody, who was still staring at his drug-laced dinner.
Jackson could see his hands shaking on the box.
“You hurting, brother?” he asked softly.
“I’ve got a fix in my pocket,” Cody murmured. “But it’s a lot of movement and hassle.” He gave a shudder, something bone-deep that told Jackson he wasn’t going to be able to wait.
“Can you do one bite at a time?” Jackson asked softly. “’Cause I’ve got to tell you, I don’t like where this is going.”
“Yeah,” Cody whispered. “Me neither.”
“How about you take a bite of burger and then listen to some of my story. Can you do that?”
With a slight nod, Cody started to unwrap his burger.
“I’m going to borrow your fries.” Jackson took the little box of them in the bottom of the food box and leaned over toward the old man. “Have some,” he offered quietly, and the old man gave a whimper. “Yeah, I know. You’re worried about Poppy. Don’t worry. I’ve got a friend who will get your dog and make sure he’s safe. I can’t promise I can get him back to you, but I can promise he’ll be safe, okay?”
“Really?” the old man begged, and Jackson could see he was begging for hope more than anything else.
“Really,” Henry said in his ear. “Poor thing—tiny black terrier Chihuahua thing, right?”
“A tiny black dog?” Jackson asked him. “A hairy Chihuahua?”
The old man’s eyes glistened, and he took the fries from Jackson’s hand. “You’ve got him?”
“My friend does. I promise. I don’t know how this will shake out, or if I can find you?”
“Just take care of my dog.” The man wept, taking a bite of fry. “That’s all I ask.” He unleashed a wet cough into the hollow of his elbow and then took another bite of fry, and Jackson could actually hear his breathing start to slow.
God, whatever was in the food, it was potent. Jackson pushed away the memory of being locked in the Dirty/Pretty killer’s lair, an abandoned drug house that the serial killer had opened up to every junkie in the area. There had been dead bodies, lying in their own excrement, urine, and vomit, all over the house. Jackson, stoned from a forced injection, could still remember the face of the dead woman he’d stared at while he’d tried to come down enough from the high to escape.
It was like that, but worse in a way. He’d had a year with Ellery. A year of learning what happiness was. A year learning to value his own life, of learning the good he did didn’t have to hurt him, body and soul.
And now he was back in that airless room, full of people falling into a drugged stupor, knowing that one wrong move, one wrong word, and the cop with the baton and the gun might just take him out.
He took a deep breath and looked again at Cody, who was sighing and leaning his head back, chewing. Panicked, Jackson checked his cardboard dinner box and breathed a sigh of relief. Three quarters of the burger was still there, although Cody washed down the bite with some of the coffee.
“Good?” Jackson asked, mostly to remind him not to go on the full trip.
“Strong,” he said, taking a breath. “God, I hope they didn’t give this to any of the kids.”
Jackson shook his head. “They were targeting the men and the singles. I didn’t see any of the family tents even disturbed.”
“Fuck,” Cody muttered. “Man, that can’t be good. The kids are tracked to some extent. There’s teachers and nurses down in the tents for them sometimes. This… us in these buses, I don’t even know where we’re going.”
Jackson peered outside, watching as the bus took the left lane at the interchange. I-5 North. He’d called it. “Redding,” he muttered, “at a guess. I swear, I thought it was a conspiracy theory.”
“Thanks for that,” Henry muttered in his ear. “I’m a little behind you. I would have freaked out.”
“Definitely going to Redding,” Jackson mumbled, reconfirming. “Poppy?”
