Free The Best American Mystery Stories 2015 by James Patterson, Otto Penzler

over a dead bird. He tried to control the shaking in his hands. The door swung open even before he raised his hand to knock. A white guy in a pair of cutoff jeans and a T-shirt. The guy was thin; he had red hair and an unruly beard. Could have been thirty-five, but probably was twenty-five and just worn the hell out. His shirt said
Misfits
on it in green letters; Jack wondered if that was some kind of rock band. The guy had one hand behind his back. A skinny Mexican kid who couldn’t have been eighteen stood behind him, wearing jeans and no shirt. His ribs stood out like slats on a fence.
    “What the hell you want, cowboy?” the redheaded guy asked.
    Jack tried to keep his voice confident but reverential. “Sorry to just show up like this, man, but I need some crystal.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the man said without hesitating.
    “Stu Kicking Bird told me this was the place to come. He’s dry, and I can’t wait.”
    Misfit looked at him for a moment.
    “Come on. Let’s talk inside.”
    Jack fought the urge to turn and look down the street toward David.
     
    When the door was shut, the one with the
Misfits
shirt pulled his hand out from behind his back. He didn’t point the gun at Jack but just showed him that it was there. It was a .357 Magnum with a sandalwood grip, like something a gun collector might have, not a drug dealer. Jack pretended it didn’t bother him.
    They were in a small foyer, closed in by a second thick oak door that looked a heck of a lot more secure than the one in front. Jack hadn’t expected this. He’d wanted to get in, find an opportunity, shoot one or two guys real quick, grab a gun, then head out the door, shooting as he went. A second door was an obstacle. Not a big one, but anything was trouble when he didn’t have much room for mistakes anyway.
    “Arms up,” Misfit said.
    Jack raised his arms, and the Mexican came in to pat him down. If they checked his hat, he’d have to make a move for Misfit’s gun, but he probably wouldn’t be able to get it. The Mexican was thorough, even checking Jack’s boots, but he ignored the hat.
    “I know y’all are a distributor and you wouldn’t normally deal with a guy like me,” Jack said. “But Stu was dry and I ain’t got time to keep looking.”
    “Why the hurry?” Misfit said.
    “I’m just driving through from L.A.,” Jack said, wanting to get the story out quickly. “My sister was down there using and I’m trying to get her back home to Wyoming where I can get her some help. But I’m a realistic man and I know she can’t just quit. I’m just trying to get enough to get home so I can get her some help.”
    Both men stared at him suspiciously.
    “I ain’t a user but I ain’t judging y’all. I just want to get my sister through this. I been out looking all night and all I found was Stu. All I want is to get some stuff an y’all won’t never see me no more.”
    “Where’s your sister at?” Misfit asked.
    “She’s at a motel, sicker’n a dog.”
    “Well,” Misfit said, “you’re going to have to talk to Gabe. He makes the decisions.”
    Gabe—the name he and David had heard over and over again. That’s the guy, Jack thought. No matter what happens afterward, I’ll get him at least.
    The Mexican pounded against the second door; there wasn’t a handle on this side.
    “Open up!”
    A white guy with a nose ring and a shaved head opened it. As Jack stepped inside the house, the smell of the cooking meth hit him. It stank like chemical cleaners. He was instantly light-headed, like he’d stood too fast. He tried to walk straight, to pretend it wasn’t bothering him. The others didn’t seem to notice.
    Misfit led him into the kitchen. A group of people were sitting at a table working. Jack tried to get his bearings, tried to count the people and determine what kind of situation he was in. But his wooziness wasn’t going away—it was getting worse. He felt nauseous, dizzy. Not all that