Chapter 47

CHAPTER 47

STOMACH ROILING, HOLMES walked to Columbus Circle and hopped on a subway line heading downtown. He stared out a clouded-over window and tapped his feet impatiently as the subway car rattled under midtown on its way to lower Manhattan.

The fifteen-minute journey felt like hours. Holmes exited at Canal Street and walked as quickly as possible up the filthy staircase to the street, holding his nose against the stench of greasy fast-food wrappers and stale urine.

He moved at a brisk pace, trying not to think about where he was headed. His rational brain knew it was the last place on Earth he should be going. But his rational brain was no longer in charge. His reward circuit was running the show, and it was desperately seeking stimulation.

He was close now, and the pull was strong.

A light rain started to fall, misty and chilly. Tourists pulled out umbrellas or ducked under awnings. Dusk was falling, and colored store lights reflected off the newly slick pavement. Holmes made a turn down Baxter Street and then hooked into an alley between a bar and a bail bond shop. At the far end, set deep into the building wall, was an entrance he hadn’t visited in months. Two months and sixteen days, to be precise.

As Holmes reached the shadowy alcove, he bent his head against the rain. His heart was racing. He could almost see his dealer’s twisted lip, feel the small packet of heroin in his hand, the sensation in his nostrils, and the gentle flood of euphoria through his body. He looked up and stopped. His dealer’s door was boarded up. A bright pink notice was taped at eye level.

CONDEMNED BY THE CITY OF NEW YORK.

Holmes slumped back against the wall as rain dripped down his face. He was itching for a hit— aching for a hit. But he didn’t have the energy to track down his old source or ferret out a new one, not when the risk of getting dosed with fentanyl would be dangerously high.

His head was spinning. He’d already taken his buprenorphine for the day. Should he stick another tablet under his tongue? He mentally called up the list of questions from his discharge instructions. Feeling anxious? Affirmative. Sweating? Yes, even in the rain. Eyes watering? Ditto. His mind skipped down to the last question on the list, the one that determined definitively if extra medication was indicated.

Do you feel like using right now?

More than anything!

Holmes pulled out the pill case that held his travel supply—two extra pills of bupe. He turned the case over in his hand. He placed his thumb on the plastic clasp. The morphinan alkaloid molecules were supposedly arranged in a way that would quell his craving for heroin and keep him on an even keel. Instead, he was convinced the pills were messing with his mind.

Holmes needed a fully functioning brain. He’d made a commitment to his partners and he couldn’t let them down, especially Margaret. And to prevent that, he needed his head to be clear. Unclouded. Back to its natural state. Whatever the hell that was.

Holmes flicked the pill case open, then walked to a storm drain and dropped the pills one by one through the grate. He turned up his collar and headed for the train to Brooklyn.

Brendan Holmes, licensed private investigator and chronic substance abuser, was officially off his meds.