machine.
“Leave a message,” was the only greeting, followed by a loud beep. He didn’t. Instead he pulled a small black knapsack off the floor of the Jeep and walked across the street, straining to make out the numbers on the houses in the waning light. When he got to 619 he turned and walked into the narrow passageway between it and the house next door. The crackedcement under his feet was under two inches of sudsy water. It smelled like laundry detergent.
The passageway eventually opened into a small backyard separated into two parcels by a short chain-link fence. Hobart entered the gate on the left. He looked around to confirm that no one was watching from the windows of the surrounding houses, and pulled out a large screwdriver. It turned out to be unnecessary. The door swung open when he grabbed the knob. Smiling, he entered the kitchen.
Dishes were stacked everywhere, and judging from the smell, they’d been there for some time. Hobart’s gaze fell on a small pile of bones lying on the floor and he froze. He stood perfectly still for almost a minute listening for any sign of a dog. Hearing nothing, he padded quietly into the living room. No self-respecting canine could have missed his less-than-silent entrance.
He made a quick walk through of the house, confirming that no one was home. The other rooms were in a condition similar to the kitchen. Plaster was falling from the ceiling in places and half the lights seemed to be burned out. The furniture—what little there was of it—looked like it had been retrieved from city dumpsters. The single bedroom didn’t actually have a bed, only a foul-smelling mattress lying on the floor.
He moved quickly, placing listening devices in the phone, the living room, and bedroom. He was thankful for the surgical gloves covering his hands—he wasn’t anxious to touch anything with his bare skin. No telling what you could catch.
When he was finished, he situated himself in a wornout La-Z-Boy next to the front door. It wasn’t particularly comfortable. It didn’t recline and it looked like most of the foam had rotted and fallen out onto the carpet. Other than that, the chair was ideal. He couldn’t be immediately seen from the door, and it was more sanitary than sitting on the floor—though only marginally.
Next to him was a large shelf overflowing with books. He leaned over and scanned the titles. No novels or fiction, just textbooks on subjects like physics and chemistry. Archaeology also had a place, but the thick dust on the covers suggested that the subject had fallen from grace. He was glad to see that his old friend was keeping his mind sharp.
The friend he was waiting for was one Peter Manion. Hobart had flipped through a bootleg file on his ex-informant the day Blake had given him the go-ahead. He hadn’t seen Manion for years—not since his DEA days.
Manion had been born on the east side of Baltimore to a working-class family in 1957. He’d shown an early aptitude for math and science and was encouraged by his mother, a particularly strong woman whose interest in education belied her lack of one. His father hadn’t shared her convictions and had constantly belittled his son for his shy, quiet demeanor. In the end his mother prevailed, and Manion won a full scholarship to Johns Hopkins. It was there that he became interested in the darker side of chemistry.
One evening in the last half of his sophomore year, Manion had been befriended by a pretty psychology student. After a few weeks, his new friend brought up thepossibility of Manion cooking up a batch of LSD. He’d resisted at first, but the promise of quick and easy money finally seduced him. When he finished that first batch, curiosity had overwhelmed him and he tested his handiwork.
That had been the beginning of a drug problem that engulfed his life and ended in his addiction to heroin. He left JHU in 1978, the middle of his junior year, and had been in a drug-induced fog ever since.
They had
“Leave a message,” was the only greeting, followed by a loud beep. He didn’t. Instead he pulled a small black knapsack off the floor of the Jeep and walked across the street, straining to make out the numbers on the houses in the waning light. When he got to 619 he turned and walked into the narrow passageway between it and the house next door. The crackedcement under his feet was under two inches of sudsy water. It smelled like laundry detergent.
The passageway eventually opened into a small backyard separated into two parcels by a short chain-link fence. Hobart entered the gate on the left. He looked around to confirm that no one was watching from the windows of the surrounding houses, and pulled out a large screwdriver. It turned out to be unnecessary. The door swung open when he grabbed the knob. Smiling, he entered the kitchen.
Dishes were stacked everywhere, and judging from the smell, they’d been there for some time. Hobart’s gaze fell on a small pile of bones lying on the floor and he froze. He stood perfectly still for almost a minute listening for any sign of a dog. Hearing nothing, he padded quietly into the living room. No self-respecting canine could have missed his less-than-silent entrance.
He made a quick walk through of the house, confirming that no one was home. The other rooms were in a condition similar to the kitchen. Plaster was falling from the ceiling in places and half the lights seemed to be burned out. The furniture—what little there was of it—looked like it had been retrieved from city dumpsters. The single bedroom didn’t actually have a bed, only a foul-smelling mattress lying on the floor.
He moved quickly, placing listening devices in the phone, the living room, and bedroom. He was thankful for the surgical gloves covering his hands—he wasn’t anxious to touch anything with his bare skin. No telling what you could catch.
When he was finished, he situated himself in a wornout La-Z-Boy next to the front door. It wasn’t particularly comfortable. It didn’t recline and it looked like most of the foam had rotted and fallen out onto the carpet. Other than that, the chair was ideal. He couldn’t be immediately seen from the door, and it was more sanitary than sitting on the floor—though only marginally.
Next to him was a large shelf overflowing with books. He leaned over and scanned the titles. No novels or fiction, just textbooks on subjects like physics and chemistry. Archaeology also had a place, but the thick dust on the covers suggested that the subject had fallen from grace. He was glad to see that his old friend was keeping his mind sharp.
The friend he was waiting for was one Peter Manion. Hobart had flipped through a bootleg file on his ex-informant the day Blake had given him the go-ahead. He hadn’t seen Manion for years—not since his DEA days.
Manion had been born on the east side of Baltimore to a working-class family in 1957. He’d shown an early aptitude for math and science and was encouraged by his mother, a particularly strong woman whose interest in education belied her lack of one. His father hadn’t shared her convictions and had constantly belittled his son for his shy, quiet demeanor. In the end his mother prevailed, and Manion won a full scholarship to Johns Hopkins. It was there that he became interested in the darker side of chemistry.
One evening in the last half of his sophomore year, Manion had been befriended by a pretty psychology student. After a few weeks, his new friend brought up thepossibility of Manion cooking up a batch of LSD. He’d resisted at first, but the promise of quick and easy money finally seduced him. When he finished that first batch, curiosity had overwhelmed him and he tested his handiwork.
That had been the beginning of a drug problem that engulfed his life and ended in his addiction to heroin. He left JHU in 1978, the middle of his junior year, and had been in a drug-induced fog ever since.
They had
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