John Lutz - Night kills

And she did return to get what was hers, before anyone else had a chance to move in.

In a rush, already shaking because she'd waited too long, she snagged the plastic Baggie on a nail and ripped it open as she withdrew it from behind the plywood panel.

Shit!

At least half the high-quality cocaine spilled from the bag. Some of it she managed to scoop up, but the rest was a loss. It had sifted down in the cracks between the floorboards.

Like my crappy life.

Gonna be lots of wired cockroaches.

A giggle burst from her at the thought. Then the image intruded and she decided it wasn't funny. Wasn't funny at all.

She replaced the panel and got out of there fast, certain that no one had noticed her, and returned to her new apartment.

The cocaine had carried Maria for a while, and then it was gone and the waiting had begun. She'd seen it enough times with other cokeheads and knew how it was going to feel.

It started sooner than she'd expected, and it worsened fast.

She sat with her legs drawn up in a corner of the threadbare sofa. She'd been trembling, and now she was hot. Perspiring. The temperature was always off one way or another in this goddamned rat hole. This wasn't the kind of environment she was used to. Palmer Stone had promised to move her yet again, into an apartment where the water didn't run brown. It couldn't happen too soon for Maria.

She stood up and began to pace, had to move, had to keep moving. Something she'd read somewhere returned to her:

"All the trouble in the world is caused by people who can't sit still when they find themselves alone in a room."

Wasn't that the truth? And most of the trouble they caused was for themselves.

The part of her stash Maria had saved had gone so fast it had surprised her. And disturbed her. She hadn't realized how much stuff she was using, and with increasing frequency, increasing need. She hadn't suspected how deep into the trick bag she'd fallen.

Stone had warned her to be cautious, especially for the first six months. Six months! He had no idea what he was asking. She was going absolutely, undeniably insane.

She began to scratch her arms, her neck, leaving tracks from her gnawed fingernails. Maria knew she'd soon become a quaking mess if she didn't make a connection and get a fix. She'd seen people like that, users colliding with reality. How pathetic she'd thought they were. How weak and contemptible. Maria wasn't sure she'd changed her opinion of them now that she was one of them. She felt weak and contemptible.

She had to take the chance soon, or it would be too late. Once the nausea began-and it soon would-she'd be such a wreck nobody would trust her enough to sell to her. It would be impossible to score any kind of drug, and if she did happen to connect with a dealer, her desperation would be so obvious she'd be robbed of everything she had. The pathetic thing was that she knew she'd turn it over willingly, even eagerly, for the smallest sample of whatever would help her. She couldn't let it reach that point, where she'd do anything for salvation for an hour.

Maria decided the smart thing, the cautious thing, would be to act before it became too late. If she explained it to Palmer Stone, she was sure he'd understand. If only he'd take the time to listen and think about it.

She sat back down, got back up, paced some more.

Without recalling how she got there, she found herself in the kitchen. She opened the freezer door of the refrigerator and got out the bottle of vodka she kept there. It was only half empty. It wasn't what she needed, but it would help. For a while, anyway.

She removed the cap from the bottle and let some of the cold vodka slide down her throat. The alcohol content kept the vodka from quite freezing, increasing its viscosity without lessening its effect. It would help her to stave off the need and agony.

Buying time. That's what she was doing, buying time and passing time and going mad.

The time she was buying was worth less by the minute.

She picked up the remote and switched on the TV. The news was on, some hick sheriff's deputy or something from someplace down South being interviewed by a woman in a tight sweater and bad hairdo. The volume was too low to hear, but the crawl across the bottom of the screen said the alleged Torso Killer, Tom Coulter, had been spotted and almost caught in Louisiana.

Maria laughed. It sounded slightly maniacal even to her. She switched off the TV and tossed the remote over on the couch.

Crazy world! Crazy!

She walked from room to room, carrying the bottle, tracking the same path of her despair along worn carpet and sagging wood floor.

Maybe Stone wouldn't understand. Or care. He was a lot of talk, Palmer Stone. A lot of bullshit.

She knew Stone's type all too well. She couldn't count on him, and she didn't have to. The only person she could count on in this insane and unfair world was herself. She had to make a connection somehow, and soon.

Soon, God, soon!

She wanted to sit down but couldn't. Something in her wouldn't allow it.

All the trouble in the world…

They were in the office on West Seventy-ninth Street. The window air conditioner was noisy and fickle, being ornery. Right now it was too warm in the office. Pearl, in an uncharacteristic burst of domesticity, had gotten them all coffee and delivered the cups to the desks on round cork coasters she'd found somewhere. The coasters featured ads for some kind of ale Quinn had never heard of. In the warmth created by the malfunctioning air conditioner, neither Quinn nor Fedderman really wanted the steaming coffee, but they took sips from time to time so Pearl wouldn't get mad.

"The new Madeline must have E-Bliss spooked," Quinn said. "They had the initial problem when the real Madeline Scott somehow escaped when they tried to kill her. Then the new Madeline must have picked up on something from when Pearl spotted her in the elevator, so they moved her out of the building. Thanks to Pearl-" he glanced toward where she was perched on the front edge of her desk-"we know where she's living now."

"And we know she needs coke," Fedderman said.

"We'll keep a watch on her," Quinn said. "Except for Pearl, whom she's already seen. When the time comes, the new Madeline will make a hell of a witness for the prosecution."

"We've got leverage on her," Fedderman said. "Major drug rap. She'll cut a deal and cooperate."

"If they don't kill her," Pearl said.

She understood why she wouldn't be included in the watch on the new Madeline. Not only would she be a familiar face, but she'd be too busy elsewhere playing Jewel and looking after Jill Clark. And she could still feel Greeve following her, even though there was no sign of him. He wasn't nicknamed "The Ghost" for nothing. If he didn't know about the new Madeline, there was no point in leading him to her.

"We'll watch her partly to protect her," Quinn said, "and partly to see where she goes. Apparently she's still in contact with E-Bliss from time to time."

"We looking at her as bait?" Pearl asked. She knew it would be a coup to nail Tony Lake, or Vlad, or whatever name he was using, or maybe even Palmer Stone, in the act of trying to kill the new Madeline. And they might feel she had to be killed if they found out she was into drugs and vulnerable. She had to be a danger to them.

"We'll play this close," Quinn said. "Renz will give us some undercover help we can trust not to leak anything. And I'll bring in Nancy Weaver to fill in for Pearl. We've used Weaver before. She's good, and we can trust her, especially if there's a possibility of promotion in it for her. Between us, we'll keep a close tail on the new Madeline."

"Starting when?" Fedderman asked.

"Renz has already got an undercover outside her apartment. One of us will relieve him this evening. Word is, she stays cooped up, keeps the blinds closed."