Read Online Afterparty by Daryl Gregory - Free Book Online

at Hootan, then back to me. A tilt of the head that said he didn’t know what was going on but was willing to play along. I saw another tattoo on his neck: the number “13” in Gothic script. He said, “You must have a lot of questions.”
    Oh did I. What was going on in the pastor’s head right now? Was he taking his own juice, or only passing it on? It was impossible to tell. He seemed as laid back as a Buddhist monk, but that could have been an act, or his natural chemistry. Behind him, Dr. G drifted along the perimeter of the room, taking in the mini-shrines. I got an impression of Aztec gods, clouds of cotton swabs, black-and-white photo collages. It was an Anti-Science Fair.
    Pastor Rudy said, “Do you come from a Christian background, or…” He nodded to Hootan. “Muslim, maybe?”
    Hootan said, “We’re here for the drug you gave Luke.” Across the room, Dr. G laughed. So much for playing along. Perhaps Hootan was incapable of ironic banter.
    Pastor Rudy frowned in confusion, or at least an impersonation of it. “I’m not sure what he told you, but—”
    “I told them, there’s no drug.” Luke said.
    Dr. Gloria had reached the doorway at the back of the room. She glanced in, then nodded to me.
    “You mind if I look around?” I asked.
    Pastor Rudy glanced at Hootan. The kid kept his hand in his front pocket, calling attention to a Bulge of Significance. “I can give you a tour,” the pastor said.
    “Nah, that’s okay,” I said. “Why don’t you just take a seat out here? That okay with you, Hootan?”
    I didn’t wait for an answer and walked toward the back doorway that Rudy had stepped out from. Dr. Gloria waited there, wings half-unfurled. The doorway opened to a large space that used to be the store’s warehouse. Heavy steel shelving units sat empty except for a few cardboard boxes, a selection of power tools, and building materials: plywood, paint cans, stacks of drywall. Two big doors at the back of the space looked like they led to a loading dock. There were two other smaller doors along a side wall.
    “Where do you want to start searching?” Dr. G asked.
    “We could split up,” I said.
    “Very funny.” She flipped an imaginary gold coin and caught it in her palm. “Heads, that’s the warehouse.”
    “I’m checking the side rooms,” I said.
    Dr. G sighed. “You don’t have to keep proving you have free will.”
    One of the small doors opened to an office. The room was empty except for a metal desk and filing cabinet, a futon covered by a bedsheet, a couple folding chairs like those in the front room. Bars guarded the single window. No other exits.
    On the walls hung three brightly colored posters under Plexiglas. They looked like extreme close-ups of plants, or machinery: gleaming tubes that could have been roots; wet silvery blobs like mercurial seed pods; broad swathes of orange and red and yellow that suggested the skin of tropical flowers. Where was the “Footprints in the Sand” poster? Hell, even a crucifix?
    The only liturgical supplies were crowded together on top of the filing cabinet: a pair of wooden offering plates; a box of white communion wafers; a two-liter bottle of chianti, half gone; and a sleeve of plastic shot cups. I opened the wafer box, crushed one of the squares, and sniffed. Nothing. I popped another of the wafers into my mouth.
    “You don’t know what’s in that,” Dr. G said.
    “The body of Christ,” I said. “As dry as ever.” I didn’t detect a psychotropic hit. I unscrewed the wine bottle and inhaled. It smelled like … cheap wine. I thought about taking a swig, but I knew where that would lead, and did I really want to end my sobriety (and it would end, it always ended) on Costco Kool-Aid?
    On the desk lay a ten-inch tablet and a separate keyboard. I swiped the tablet’s screen, and it opened to a music player, the cursor paused a couple minutes into something called “Gary Gygax Attax.”
    “Smell that?” Dr. G asked.
    I