Free Hope to Die by James Patterson Page B

was there again.
    “Wasn’t in that alley more than a minute, tops,” the skinhead said. “You better have that extra we talked about.”
    “I’ve got it,” Sunday said, unzipping the gym bag, opening it so Harrow could see the stacks of banded hundred-dollar bills, and setting it on the table. Then he dug in his pocket and came up with a packet that he tossed on the mirror. “Brought you a present too, for a job well done.”
    Harrow seemed instantly more interested in the packet than the money. “That blue crystal from AZ?”
    Sunday nodded. “The real
Breakin’ Bad
stuff, like before.”
    “Oh Lordy,” Harrow whispered, eagerly opening the packet to reveal blue crystals that he spilled onto the mirror in a small mound. “Oh Lordy, Lordy, Lordy.”
    The skinhead took up a razor, began tapping the crystals, and cut himself two big arcing lines of it. Then he reached in the gym bag, tugged out a hundred-dollar bill, and was rolling it up when somewhere outside the shack the Rottweiler yelped and started to whine.
    “Fuck,” Harrow said. “Fuckin’ stupid bastard.”
    “What’s the matter?” Sunday asked.
    “Oh, I told you before, only thing causes Casper to make any noise ’cept that low growl is when he’s gotten into a porcupine or a skunk,” Harrow said. “Fuck.”
    The dog yelped again, and for a second, Sunday thought the skinhead was going to get up. But instead, Harrow looked back to the mirror, brought the rolled bill to his nose, leaned over, and snorted both lines, one in each nostril.
    Harrow’s head jerked back. His eyes stretched wide as a series of shivers worked through his body before this strange trembling smile came to his lips; it made that wormlike scar on his cheek look like it was alive and squirming.
    “Ahhh,” Harrow said, highly pleased. “Little different than the last batch, but after the night I had, it just about makes things right.”
    “Glad you like it,” Sunday said.
    “Like it? I love it, man,” Harrow said, cutting another line and snorting it. Then he got up, blinking, and started toward the door, saying, “You can bring old Harrow the
Breakin’ Bad
blue anytime you—”
    The skinhead stopped in midstride, and his hand shot out for the counter. He caught it and steadied himself.
    “You all right?” Sunday asked with concern.
    “Yeah, just … diz …”
    Harrow weaved on his feet and then toppled backward onto the floor. His mouth went slack, his tongue lolled, and his eyes turned glassy and roaming.

CHAPTER
25
     
    SUNDAY GOT UP, ZIPPED the gym bag shut. He went to the door and opened it, saw the Rottweiler lying on his side, slobber dribbling from his lips. There were two small darts hanging from the dog’s left side. Cochran was walking toward the shack carrying a dart gun.
    “Took two to drop that sonofabitch,” Cochran said in awe. “That’s a bear dose, dude.”
    “Get the darts, and then come in here and help me find the money I gave him yesterday,” Sunday said as he reached down and picked up the chain saw and the gas can, which was nearly full.
    He carried both inside. Harrow was still on the rough plank floor, rolling his head slowly and trying unsuccessfully to speak. Sunday stepped over him and set down the chain saw and gas can.
    Cochran entered the shack, shut the door, and looked around at the squalor. “Not exactly a skinhead Suzy Homemaker, is he?”
    “Start with the bedroom,” Sunday said, grabbing Harrow under the armpits and dragging him six feet closer to the woodstove.
    “I should have brought the gas mask,” Cochran said before pushing aside a blanket that hung in a doorway and disappearing behind it.
    Sunday got one of the butcher knives from the washtub on the floor and used it to cut two long narrow strips of fabric from the busted couch. Setting those aside, he picked up the can and poured gas on the floor and splashed it on the chest and legs of the skinhead.
    Harrow’s eyes widened. He managed to say,