Free Sinister Heights by Loren D. Estleman

for such things. I didn’t expect to find them.
    What I was looking for I found in a plastic bottle in the cabinet: small round pills coated brown so you wouldn’t mix them up with aspirins. Caffeine tablets. No self-respecting trucker would be caught dead on the interstate at 3:00 A.M. without them. I shook three into my hand, started to put the bottle back, then uncapped it and milked out two more. I went back down to the living room, where Glendowning was still making the John Deere mating call, crossed into the kitchen, and filled a debatably clean glass with water from the tap. Back in the living room I shoved over a bottle to make room for the glass on the end table, straightened, and took aim with the first of the pills. Glendowning’s head was tipped all the way back with his eyeteeth showing, the better to increase the decibel level. I flipped the pill square into the hole and picked up the next from my other palm. I scored five for five. One of them caught sideways in his throat, choking him in mid-snore. When he shot forward, coughing, I was there with the water. I pounded him on the back and pressed the glass into his hand.
    He must have thought it was a beer, because he closed both paws around it and dumped the contents down his throat. That brought on a new fit. His face turned red and he sprayed snot. One of the pills shot out of his mouth and landed on the arm of the sofa. I’d expected at least one to go wild, which was why I’d fed him five.
    This time I didn’t do anything to help. I stood back with my hands in my pockets and watched him excavate his lungs for oxygen. He found a good wheeze, then another, and very slowly his color went from magenta back to red and finally the grayish pink of the serious drunk. “Jesus Christ.” His voice was a raspy bass, like a Muppet monster’s. He glared down at the clear liquid in his glass, then as if he’d seen my reflection his eyes climbed out of it and shook themselves off and focused on my face. “What the fuck you looking at?”
    â€œI’m not sure. It might not be classified yet.”
    â€œWhat’s that supposed to mean? And who the fuck are you?”
    â€œWalker’s the name. I told you I was an investigator. I still am. You weren’t out that long. But man, you were out.”
    A sluggish tongue found its way around his teeth, tasting caffeine. Just then he seemed to understand what I was saying. A hand went to his chin. “Jesus. What’d you hit me with? And how many of you did it take to lift it?”
    â€œYou helped. You were moving forward. And it wouldn’t have put you down so deep if you didn’t have half of Milwaukee swimming through your veins. How’s the head?”
    He reached up both hands to knuckle his temples. The glass was still in one and he spilled water on his shirt, but he didn’t seem to notice. “I might of went on forgetting about it if you didn’t ask. Jesus.”
    â€œThe caffeine should help. It opens up the arteries.”
    He tasted again. “I thought that’s what it was. Any left in the bottle?”
    â€œPlenty, but forget it. As things stand, when the alcohol burns off you’ll jump like a flea. Give them a few minutes to work.”
    â€œJesus. I’ll be dead in a few minutes.”
    I went back into the kitchen, took a deep breath and held it, and opened the refrigerator again. There were two unopened bottles of beer left in the cardboard six-pack inside, an omen. I took them both out and twisted off the caps and returned to the living room and stuck one under his nose. He couldn’t get rid of the water fast enough. What was left in the glass slopped onto his jeans as he set it down and grabbed for the bottle. He tipped it straight up and left it there like a quart of oil. It gurgled four times before he brought it back down. That left less than half.
    The slug I took was dainty by comparison. I flicked