Acadia handed Sunday another gym bag, said, “You’re sure it’s smart to end this all so soon?”
“We’ve made our point in Cross’s mind,” Sunday said. “Time to take care of loose ends and move on. That’s how this game works, right? We keep moving. We keep everything in motion. That way, Cross stays off balance, can’t focus, can’t even find a target.”
Acadia shrugged. “Your game. Your rules.”
Cochran said, “Fifteen minutes?”
“Make it twenty,” Sunday said, and got out of the car.
As the day brightened, he climbed down the bank, found that overgrown logging trail, and followed it again to the ledge above the clearing and Harrow’s shack. Sunday saw wisps of smoke rolling lazily from the stovepipe and did not pause, continuing down the steep slope until he was at the edge of the yard.
Right on cue, the door opened slightly and the Rottweiler came bounding out. He circled Sunday, who stood stone still and let the dog wind him for a scent that might indicate a weapon. When the dog barked that he was clean, Sunday set off for the door, which opened wider.
He climbed the stoop past the chain saw and the gas can and closed the door quickly behind him, calling to Harrow, “Your dog’s taking a dump.”
“Long as it ain’t in here,” Harrow said, sitting down at the table. “You got the extra hundred K?”
“You get in and out clean?” asked Sunday, sitting down too and noticing the mirror 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 cr
ystals, 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