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Chapter One The house was old and creaky and was badly in need of painting, as was every other house in the almost abandoned neighborhood. The once verdant lawn was overgrown with weeds and bushes and the swimming pool, located in what was once a well-tended back yard, was covered with a green scum. The place had been easy to rent. Several years ago an oily, toxic mess had begun bubbling up from underground, residue from an abandoned industrial disposal site which the development had unknowingly been built upon. Most of the homes were now in receivership, tangled up in a mess of legal maneuvering. Destitute squatters and a few unlucky families who had nowhere else to go occupied those few which weren't. It was an ideal location for the manufacture of illegal drugs, which was what the two men inside were occupied with.
The older of the two men, Benjamin Worthington, was clearly in charge.
He sat at a worn card table, rubbing his bald forehead while splitting his attention between a chemistry text open before him and a tangle of glass tubing, retorts and mixing vats against the opposite wall. A half-full bottle of cheap whiskey and a glass occupied a spot on the table by his left elbow. An overflowing ashtray by his right, containing a forgotten cigarette, smoldered and threatened to ignite the pile of butts. He watched as an oily yellow liquid swirled through one section of the tubing and dripped into a shakily assembled retort holding another liquid substance, this one murky with suspended particles. He didn't like the look of the way the reaction was going. The oily liquid had a faint off-color tinge, different from the appearance of previous batches andthe reaction in the retort seemed to be proceeding slower than it should have--and the suspended particles weren't precipitating; they were going into solution.
"It doesn't look right to me," the other man said, for the second time.
The words were spit out with the jerky quickness of a person on an amphetamine high. A nervous tic twitched below his left eye and he constantly fingered his thin mustache, as if urging it to grow.
"I know it damn it," Worthington said, trying to read the chemistry text and pay attention to the reaction at the same time.
"It's leaking, too," Worthington's subordinate said, pointing at a joint in the tubing above the retort where a thin, almost inaudible hissing had begun.
Bubbles of a clear liquid were forming and breaking along the joint, disappearing into an almost colorless vapor immediately afterward.
"It will hold," Worthington said. "The reaction is almost over."
"No it won't," the other man said. He paced frenetically around the leaking joint then leaned down to sniff the escaping concoction.
"Goddamnit, I said it's okay."
"No it's not. It's fucked up."
Worthington watched him sniff again, like the idiot he was, good only for distribution once the product was ready. He was irritated, knowing his dealer was right; the reaction had gone wrong somewhere, but carping at him wasn't going to solve the problem. He looked up from his text, feeling anger bubble up inside him. Pushers shouldn't use their own product. He stared balefully at the man then said, "Listen, why don't you go jump in that fucking swimming pool out there and drown your fucking self? I don't need your fucking comments."
He went back to reading his text, trying to figure out what had gone wrong, then cursed. There! Sonofabitch! Reading from the water-spotted pages of the old textbook, he had misplaced a decimal point. No wonder! He looked back up. The second man had disappeared. Good. He read back over the pertinent section of the text, taking his time. This whole batch would have to be discarded, leaving only enough reagents for one more run--and money was getting low. Only after he closed the text did he become aware that he had heard splashing noises in the background, long minutes ago.
The renegade chemist wondered what was going on, then got up to go look.
He unlatched the back door and went out through the weeds to the edge of the abandoned swimming pool. The body of his dealer floated lifelessly, splayed-face down in the green scum, supported by the heavy growth just enough to keep it from sinking.
"Goddamn," Worthington breathed to himself. "I will be goddamned."
Excitement raced through his body like a jolt of electricity. His brilliant mind made the connection immediately. There was nothing wrong with his brain; he had once been a first-class chemist at the University of Houston until a series of sexual escapades, compounded with clandestine manufacturing of illegal substances in order to pay off his ex-wife to avoid having her press child-molesting charges against him, had lost him his tenure. His life had gone downhill ever since. But now-- Now. What would customers pay for a substance so hypnotic that a simple suggestion could induce suicide? And what else could he use it for? A series of sexual fantasies raced through his mind like a speeded up pornographic film. He smiled gloatingly to himself, went back inside and began dismantling the chemistry apparatus. There was just enough money to rent another place. Then another thought occurred to him: soon, he wouldn't need money, nor anything else, not if the drug worked as well on other people as it had on his subordinate--and he knew just who had an excess of cash and would like to try it.
"But why not?" Gene Wilson asked, having to raise his voice over that of the lead singer, who was belting out a jazzed up rendition of The Tennessee Waltz. Gene didn't care much for it; he preferred the original. It had been one of his favorite songs ever since hearing it played as a child, on the old stereo his parents still kept even though it no longer worked. They used it as a wall table now, next to the big easy chair where the answer phone lived.
Francis Stafford didn't answer for a moment, trying to phrase a reply in her mind that wouldn't offend Gene. She hated having to do that but it was becoming more and more of a habit the longer she lived with him. In the three months since she had moved in with Gene it had become apparent that he was a controller, always wanting his own way. And he was jealous, inordinately so. A little jealousy was flattering, Francis thought, but he carried it to extremes.
Copyright © 2006 Darrell Bain.
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