Read Online She Felt No Pain by Lou Allin - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lou Allin
Tags: Suspense, FIC 022000
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picked up the plastic bag. “Hardly anything left. His last fix. Poor sod went out with a bang...or a whimper. Dropped dead on the spot. Just enough time for an uh-oh. Give the immediate area a sweep in case he’s tossed sharps into the bushes. Kids come here, I imagine. Ride their bikes up the creek trail.”
“Yes, and now there are caches in the area.” She explained the concept.
He was looking inside the pencil case. “Extra syringe. Cotton pads.” He opened a tiny bottle and sniffed. “Bleach. Primitive sterilization but better than nothing.”
“That pencil case looks ancient.” When someone’s possessions were boiled down to whatever they could carry, the items provided an often poignant flash of humanity. Had he been holding fast to this item from childhood? Bought it at a second-hand store? Innocence mixed with the most sordid of experience. “Any ID?”
“Getting to that, missy. Hold your horses. Don’t act like you have something better to do here in Lotusland North.” He slipped a thin leather wallet from a pocket and opened it, pooching out his large lower lip. “Driver’s license. Ontario. How about that?” He cocked his head. “Looks like our man is Joel Hall. Whoa. Here’s a CT credit card in the name of Phillip Blunt. Twenty bucks. A lottery ticket for last week. Super Seven. Not enough numbers circled to win.”
“Wouldn’t that make a great story? Guy’s found dead with a million-dollar ticket?”
Snorting, he fingered his way under an interior flap. “My oh my. A hundred dollar bill? And another?” He flicked one with his nail. “Brand new, too. If he was selling, it wouldn’t be for this much at one crack. Maybe it came from Phil’s wallet.”
“I doubt he was a dealer. Usually they have a place to sleep, not to mention wheels.”
“Unless the dealer turned doper. Shot up the profits.” He held up a picture. “Who’s this angel? Too young to be his mother. An old girlfriend? Or a wife?”
“Or a sister. Let me see.” She held the small black-and-white photograph by its edges. High-school graduation package size. Judging from the hair style, it was definitely Seventies. She’d seen her mother’s yearbook from university. Bouncy hair, fluffed up, “teased” had been Bonnie’s word. Pouffy angora sweater. Ring on a chain. The woman was attractive, and her smile was full of youthful hope. Something was vaguely familiar about her. On the back was written in teenage script with a little heart over the i: Love and kisses always, Judy. “If only there were a last name on this. Judy’s probably married now, too. And anyone can get a driver’s license. It’s out of date, too. With no picture like the new ones in this province.”
“Another lost soul, I’d say. Doesn’t look like he’s had much of a life. Just an accident waiting to happen. But someone meant something to him once. Maybe she’s still thinking about him. And that cash has me scratching my head.” As Holly got up, he took her seat with a groan. “Knee’s screaming blue murder. I oughta get a replacement, ’cept I’d have to wait six months.”
“I’ll check the backpack.”
He put a warning hand on her arm. “Go slow. You don’t know what might be in there.”
She carefully looked through the pouches and zipped pockets: Soap, a ratty towel, a disposable razor, and a couple of t-shirts that had seen better days. Nothing was outstanding. Two pop tarts were crumbling in their packets. The flotsam and jetsam of the bottom rung of society. “Nothing to speak of. Not even a secret hiding place.”
She gave the area a once-over. Needles were everywhere these days, even collection boxes in the ferry bathrooms, and the exchanges for addicts were attacked as “enabling” despite the fact that they minimized the HIV infection rate. Recently the fixed exchange location in downtown Victoria had drawn so much criticism that in its place, a mobile van cruised the streets. With the apparent
“Yes, and now there are caches in the area.” She explained the concept.
He was looking inside the pencil case. “Extra syringe. Cotton pads.” He opened a tiny bottle and sniffed. “Bleach. Primitive sterilization but better than nothing.”
“That pencil case looks ancient.” When someone’s possessions were boiled down to whatever they could carry, the items provided an often poignant flash of humanity. Had he been holding fast to this item from childhood? Bought it at a second-hand store? Innocence mixed with the most sordid of experience. “Any ID?”
“Getting to that, missy. Hold your horses. Don’t act like you have something better to do here in Lotusland North.” He slipped a thin leather wallet from a pocket and opened it, pooching out his large lower lip. “Driver’s license. Ontario. How about that?” He cocked his head. “Looks like our man is Joel Hall. Whoa. Here’s a CT credit card in the name of Phillip Blunt. Twenty bucks. A lottery ticket for last week. Super Seven. Not enough numbers circled to win.”
“Wouldn’t that make a great story? Guy’s found dead with a million-dollar ticket?”
Snorting, he fingered his way under an interior flap. “My oh my. A hundred dollar bill? And another?” He flicked one with his nail. “Brand new, too. If he was selling, it wouldn’t be for this much at one crack. Maybe it came from Phil’s wallet.”
“I doubt he was a dealer. Usually they have a place to sleep, not to mention wheels.”
“Unless the dealer turned doper. Shot up the profits.” He held up a picture. “Who’s this angel? Too young to be his mother. An old girlfriend? Or a wife?”
“Or a sister. Let me see.” She held the small black-and-white photograph by its edges. High-school graduation package size. Judging from the hair style, it was definitely Seventies. She’d seen her mother’s yearbook from university. Bouncy hair, fluffed up, “teased” had been Bonnie’s word. Pouffy angora sweater. Ring on a chain. The woman was attractive, and her smile was full of youthful hope. Something was vaguely familiar about her. On the back was written in teenage script with a little heart over the i: Love and kisses always, Judy. “If only there were a last name on this. Judy’s probably married now, too. And anyone can get a driver’s license. It’s out of date, too. With no picture like the new ones in this province.”
“Another lost soul, I’d say. Doesn’t look like he’s had much of a life. Just an accident waiting to happen. But someone meant something to him once. Maybe she’s still thinking about him. And that cash has me scratching my head.” As Holly got up, he took her seat with a groan. “Knee’s screaming blue murder. I oughta get a replacement, ’cept I’d have to wait six months.”
“I’ll check the backpack.”
He put a warning hand on her arm. “Go slow. You don’t know what might be in there.”
She carefully looked through the pouches and zipped pockets: Soap, a ratty towel, a disposable razor, and a couple of t-shirts that had seen better days. Nothing was outstanding. Two pop tarts were crumbling in their packets. The flotsam and jetsam of the bottom rung of society. “Nothing to speak of. Not even a secret hiding place.”
She gave the area a once-over. Needles were everywhere these days, even collection boxes in the ferry bathrooms, and the exchanges for addicts were attacked as “enabling” despite the fact that they minimized the HIV infection rate. Recently the fixed exchange location in downtown Victoria had drawn so much criticism that in its place, a mobile van cruised the streets. With the apparent
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