Page 60 of Fearless

Abandoning his task, Fisher yelped and made a leap toward the back door.

Mercy caught him by the back of his wifebeater and slammed him with one fast yank, dropping him onto his back on the scuzzy linoleum, knocking all the breath from him. Mercy put a boot in the middle of his bony chest, pinning him in place.

Collier went to the sink and lifted the half-full baggie, rattling the tablets inside. “How’d you know we were here about these?” he asked Fisher. The sun caught the sergeant-at-arms patch on his chest in a rather poetic way.

Fisher wet his lips and twitched like a trapped bug.

“And the truth would be great,” Collier said. “We already caught you with them – what good does lying do you now?”

“I dunno,” Mercy said, putting a little more pressure on the frail sternum beneath his boot sole. “Too many people tell the truth, and I’ll be out of a job. If he lies” – a wide smile for Fisher’s benefit – “then I get to go to work.”

“Jesus,” Fisher breathed. “No. No, man, I won’t lie.”

Collier folded his arms expectantly. “What are these?”

Fisher gathered a series of shallow breaths. He was high as shit, and having trouble putting all the answers together, though the sweat on his brow proved he was trying like mad. “It’s – it’s a designer drug. The kids call it Wild Bill. It’s like a fucking rodeo in your bloodstream.”

Collier pulled one of the tablets out, a bright pink one, and showed Mercy the sugar stamp on its surface: the silhouette of a bucking bronc and cowboy. “Your design?” he asked.

“No. No way, man. I don’t mess with that kinda shit. I just stick to the recipe. Cook what you know, right?”

“Then where’d you get it?”

“Dude, I can’t breathe.”

Mercy pressed harder. “The story, Joe.”

He took a wheezing breath. “I got a phone call,” he said through his teeth. “ ‘Bout two weeks ago. Guy said he had something new that was selling like crazy; said he’d split the profits with me fifty-fifty if I’d move it for him.

“Clearly, you did.”

“I haven’t even sold a quarter of it! I stopped, man. I sold a few bags, and then I let my buddy try it – Tate, remember him?”

“All too vividly,” Collier said.

“He took one, just one, and put it on his tongue like you’re supposed to do. And he died! He puked and passed out and shook all over. It was awful.” Tears flooded his eyes. “My best friend, and he died right over there on the floor.”

“I share your grief,” Collier deadpanned. “What’d you do with old Tate? Roll his corpse under the Ford in the yard?”

“I gave him a proper funeral!” Anger reddened his face. “I drove him up the hill and buried him under that tree he always liked.”

Collier sighed. “You’re just lucky we don’t feel like reporting unsanctioned burials today.” He tossed the baggie on the floor beside Fisher’s head and gave Mercy a little nod.

Mercy withdrew his foot and Fisher sat up, gasping, clutching at his chest. Mercy’s boot had left mud on the front of his wifebeater.

“You heard about the Stephens kid, then?” Collier asked.

“Yeah.” Fisher drew his knees up and hugged them. “I went by the school last week – I’m probably on the fucking security cameras – and went up to him at lunch, told him I needed the stuff back, that it wasn’t safe. He threw fifty bucks at me and said not to bother him at school. He called me ‘fucking hillbilly trash,’ ” he said, indignant.

“What is it?” Mercy asked. “Your source didn’t tell you?”

“He said it was like E. A party drug. A new one. I just thought it would, you know, make everything all pretty and shiny. I had no idea…”

“Drug dealer with a heart of gold,” Mercy said. “It moves me, really it does.”

Fisher glared up at him. “I never meant for anybody to die.”

“Right. ‘Cause meth never killed anybody.”

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