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I had my phone in hand as I pounded my fist on the door after testing the locked knob. I shoved out thewhooshof blood pounding in my ears as I pushed my face into the cold glass of the small window at the top of the door. Distantly, I heard the repeated ringing of his cellphone, an arpeggiated tone that went up and down, up and down, up and down…
As I had been listening, my eyes were only casually looking inside. But they sure as hell sharpened when I realized I had been looking at a pair of legs sticking out from behind the ottoman. I screamed Bennett’s name and pounded on the door again. No movement.
I stepped back and anchored my weight on my left foot as I readied to drive my right foot below the doorknob. Took in breath, visualized the action, and…
Spare key!I realized as I looked at the light fixture to the side of the door. Bennett had swung it to the side the night he drank too much. I dashed forward and rotated the plate to reveal a shining bronze key in a shallow cavity. I snatched the key and slid the metal into the lock, turned, and shoved my way inside. I burst the door inward so hard that it bounced off the wall and slammed shut. I was already in the living room by the time it closed.
I cried out at the sight of Bennett lying on the ground, his back turned to me. He was still in the gym shorts from this morning. A collection of drug paraphernalia littered the top of the ottoman; foils, spoons, a baggie of something brown. I sank to my knees beside Bennett and rotated his body toward me. I gasped.
A needle dangled from his left forearm, bobbing loosely at the sudden movement of his body. His bicep had a blue elastic tourniquet tied around it. A massive welt covered the right portion of his face, the skin cracked and bleeding below his eye. Had he fallen and hit himself? No, it looked like something cameathim. There—I saw the shattered remains of a lavender candle, thick shards of glass and chunks of purple wax scattered about the carpet.
His eyes,I realized. They were rolled back. I could only see the whites.
A voice of the divine commanded my next movement. Years of conditioning should have seen me dial 911. Instead, with the speed of fear, I observed all available data and came to one very simple solution: Narcan.
I blurred into the kitchen, pushed the lazy Suzan open, and grabbed three of the four boxes. I rushed back over to Bennett and rotated him so he was on his back. Pulled out the needle, undid the tourniquet. I remembered playing an EMT once and mimed rubbing the breastbone of a patient to receive a response. I did it in earnest now with Bennett, digging my knuckles hard into his sternum. Nothing. He lay still with no response to the stimuli. His breathing was so slow; erratic when he did take in a breath. His mouth bobbed open.
I had never used Narcan before but the device itself was a clear instruction. A nasal spray. Looked like only a single dose. I held the prong with my two fingers and kept my thumb at the bottom of the plunger. With my free hand, I tilted Bennett’s head back, then inserted the nasal portion of the device into his nose. Hit the plunger, all the way.
Then, nothing. Was it supposed to be an immediate reaction? I had no idea what to expect.
Now, you idiot. Now is when you call.
Right. I pulled out my phone. My hand had been shaking so badly I could barely use my thumb. When I hit the nine, I heard a noise coming from down the hallway. I spun.
A man stood there holding a gun at me. He was about six feet, narrow face, thinning blond hair, and wore dark-rimmed glasses.
“Put the phone down,” the man said. He had a light tenor voice.
I froze.
“Put. The phone.Down.”
I dropped it to the carpet and held up my hands, eyes darting between him and Bennett. Who the fuck was this guy?
Jersey, I realized. It had to have been.
My eyes bounced from the drug paraphernalia on the ottoman, to Bennett, to Jersey. Cycled through again. I knew with absolute certainty that Bennett was not a user. He probably never even tried weed. Just like the others…
“Is this how you killed Johnny Parker and Ryan Rivera?” I demanded. “Overdosing them?”
Jersey flinched. “Shut up,” he said. “Sit on the fucking couch.”
“Or you’ll what,shootme?” I could barely see anything but Jersey and the barrel of that gun. Where the bravado came from, I had no idea. Maybe it was instinct to protect Bennett, or it was anger at my own ineptitude for not seeing that this was coming. “I don’t care. Go ahead and shoot me, I’m not leaving his side.”
Bennett mumbled something incoherent as his arms started to move, his head swinging back and forth. I had never seen someone come out of a high like that and had no idea if these were good signs. There were still two more boxes of Narcan I could use. Maybe I could administer one more while Jersey shot me to death.
“Fuckingshit,” Jersey said. “Where did you get Narcan?”
“He’s acop,you dipshit. Is that why his face is cracked open? You had to take him by surprise and hit him with something?”
Jersey’s face brightened with fury. He extended the arm holding the gun, as if the movement would make the bullet go faster. My life lay in danger with only a simple finger tug as the catalyst. I should have been seeing all the greatest moments of my thirtysomething years. That, or shitting my pants. Instead, I stared down that barrel, into the blackened hollow that held my demise—and Ididn’t care. Bennett’s safety was my only priority, everything else be damned.
“Now I have to clean uptwo—”
“That is enough, Holt.” A new voice from down the hallway.
My jaw dropped open as Harry Deacon came into view. Tall, tan Mediterranean skin, short black hair. Scruffy beard. He wore a black leather jacket that accented his impressive frame. Like me, he had his hands raised. Jersey—Deacon had called him Holt—stepped deeper into the house toward the front door and swung his gun to point at Deacon. The man came to a stop and Holt alternated between pointing his weapon at Deacon and then me kneeling beside Bennett.
