Chapter 9

Special Agent Jack Stone

Idrive like a bat out of hell, or out of rehab as it were, all the way back to the corner I saw the catastrophe unfolding.

The towering pines cast long shadows in the late afternoon sun and the distant peaks of the Rockies sit etched against a clear blue sky.

Main Street drags on with the townspeople and tourists running briskly into the businesses tucked along each side of the street.

I don't see him.

A wave of relief hits me.

Maybe it was a look-alike, an apparition—hell, I'd take an alien at this point.

The bank on the corner is where I last saw him and it's as empty as his checking account, and just about mine, too. I scour the area once more and my heart sinks.

That's when I spot him, my brother, the jarring blot on the picturesque landscape.

Crap. I park the truck and jump out.

There he is. I shake my head in disbelief. Heck, I believe it.

His hair is mussed, his skin looks pale, and his lips are thin as paper, dry and cracked. His clothes are filthy but just as familiar to me as he is. His jeans are caked with dirt and probably vomit. His shoes are split open on one side, and I'm silently counting the cost of repairing him to meet with societal standards. Lord knows rehab didn't work out yet again.

Jet lies sprawled near the shrubbery, and you may as well draw a chalk outline around him at this point. A part of me is tempted.

"What the hell, Jet," I bark, grabbing him by the shirt and giving him a shake, but he's struggling to open his eyes.

A discarded bottle lies next to him along with the remnants of fast food bags that I'm guessing he mined from the trash.

A car slows to my left and I glance up to see an older couple looking worried at the two of us. I quickly glance around and spot a group of teenagers gawking this way. The last thing I need is for one of them to whip out their phones.

"Come on, Jet," I say, giving him a swift kick in the leg before hoisting him to an upright position. "You're coming with me. Let's get some coffee in you." I wrap one of his arms around my shoulders and stagger to my truck before tossing him in the back seat. Walking with a corpse would have been easier.

I jump in and speed all the way back to Whispering Woods.

It's another fun chore getting him from the truck to the cabin, but by this point, his buzz is wearing off and he knows he stepped in the deep end of it this time.

"What the hell," I thunder as I shut the door behind us and shove him toward the couch.

The cat jumps from the shoulder of the adjacent sofa and gives a sharp yowl as she runs for cover. Wish I could do the same.

Jet sprawls onto the cushions and moans, his eyes slotted open just enough for me to see them glowing like stoplights.

"What happened at Clearwater?"

Clearwater Recovery Center is where I dropped his ass off six weeks ago. I'll admit, I haven't been checking in on him as much as I wanted, but life got in the way. I've got cases. And to be honest, I liked the peace for once.

His stay was for three months. I knew that good time would be ending far too soon and I needed some space of my own. A Jet-free world where I didn't have to lock up my wallet at night or check underneath his bed for a cache of liquor bottles.

He's had more jobs than I have fingers, lost them all in record time, too. He has no disposable income and yet always manages to mooch a bottle of poison from just about anyone. Heck, Jet would have no problem getting the Pope to give him a bottle if he was in town. Although no one is giving him liquor, they're giving him cash. Same difference as it turns out.

"Hated it," he moans, wiping his face down with his hand as he struggles to sit upright. "They're a bunch of uptight pencil pushers who think they're better than everyone else."

"You're not better than any of them. You were eating out of the freaking trash." I kick the coffee table and it explodes in two pieces, each flying in a different direction like shrapnel. "How many times do I need to tell you that we do not freaking do that," I shout so loud the windows vibrate. I wanted to tag it with anymore, but not a single part of my brain wants to relive that nightmare.

Jet sits straight up and it's about as startling as watching a corpse reanimate.

"Well, look at you. An uptight pencil pusher who thinks he's better than me." A dull laugh strums through him. "I've got news for you, dude. I'm your reflection. You're no better than me. You are me. You'll be sucking back booze in no time. You're just pretending to be sober. How about you get some whiskey for us, the good stuff. And throw in a couple of six-packs. Give me some cash and I'll score some coke so we can celebrate. I'll have a bunch of fat lines ready and waiting when you get back. Then maybe we could head to Middle Street. I bet Gary and his girls are still?—"

"Would you shut the hell up?" I riot. "Say those words one more time and see if I don't shove my gun down your throat and give you something to suck on." The walls boom as I thunder the words. My throat rubs raw, but the booming continues.

Jet glances to the door and it takes a second to register that someone is knocking.

Just great.

I head over and swing it open, fully expecting to see a concerned neighbor, an irate neighbor, or even some poor delivery guy holding a package.

But it's none of the above.

It's Fallon.