By now, the pounding in my skull had graduated to stabbing pain. "Which friend?" I asked, though I knew the answer.
But I was talking to dead air. I clicked disconnect and threw the phone down on the sofa.
Like a zombie, I stumbled toward the bathroom, where I kept an emergency stash of Oxy buried deep behind the toilet paper, shampoo, conditioner, and other toiletries stored under the sink. I grasped the pill bottle and almost ripped the top off in my haste to ease the unceasing pain.
Something stopped me from swallowing multiple tablets in one gulp. I'd been clean for so long. If I fell off the wagon now, where would it lead? If I OD-ed, what would happen to Terry? Then again, whoever had threatened me would be rid of me at that point. The horrid notion that Terry and I were better off dead passed through my mind.
I shook my head, like a dog shaking off water. Buck up, Marine. If my time in the armed services had been good for anything, it taught me that I had to stay strong, show no weakness, and quash any hint of self-pity.
I screwed the cap back on as if I was on autopilot. My thoughts turned to Nick, and I considered calling him for a pep talk. But I was plagued with worries about Terry and suspected there was little Nick could do to help with that.
After snapping out of my daze, I stowed the Oxy back under the sink, hoisted myself upright, and took two Tylenol.
Then I went for a walk around the block. Then another. By the end of the third go-round, I'd decided what to do.
I had no choice but to return to Baltimore and find out what Weis was doing with those artifacts—fake or otherwise. I had a sinking feeling that Terry's disappearance and the shooting were connected with them.
Before I left, I retrieved the slim file of information I'd managed to gather before Stuart Blaine dismissed me from his case. Again, I checked the diagram for any clues that I had missed earlier. Nothing stood up and waved at me.
When I got in the car, I checked the time. It was 1643 hours (4:43 p.m., in civvy-speak). Late in the day on a Friday. God knew what Weis would do, or where and with whom he'd do it. Melissa had been missing for a week or three, depending on whom you believed. And I'd been hired and fired in the span of five days. The situation was ridiculous. But I had to do something to help Terry. There had to be a connection between his disappearance and Blaine's case. Since it was my fault that he was in trouble, I needed to set things right.
ϕϕϕ
I drove up I-95 to Baltimore and found my favorite "Brian Weis surveillance spot" unoccupied. After easing my car into the space, I noticed Weis' SUV parked in the same place as before. I gazed at the vehicle, willing myself not to force my way into Weis' residence and beat the information out of him. That man was into something that smelled to high heaven. So who cared if I went a bit Dirty Harry on him? What would he do, call the cops?
I was fast reaching the point of not giving a damn what I did or to whom. I had been fired by a client I didn't trust, I had been used for target practice, and my friend was missing, maybe kidnapped or killed by Russian mobsters. The more I thought about all of this, the more my rage kicked in.
Rather than sit there with my thumb up my ass, I decided to go straight for Weis and damn the consequences. I got out of the car, slammed the door, and marched straight toward Weis' front door. After I pressed the bell, I waited, then pounded my fist on the door three times for good measure. To my surprise, Weis opened up. He leaned against the doorway, crossed his arms, and smirked at me.
"Last time we met," he said. "You ran away. Now you're back?"
"That's right, Brian," I spat. I held up my phone with the artifacts photo displayed. "Care to explain what these are?"
"I don't, actually." While I pocketed my phone, Weis began to close the door. I threw my weight full force against the door and it flew open so fast, it knocked Brian over backwards. He collapsed to the floor and smacked his head against it.
As he lay there in a daze, I walked inside and stood over him. My lower spine yapped at me once. I ignored it and powered on through . . . such is life with back injuries. I refuse to sit in a corner and sulk over them.
When Weis tried to move, I slammed him back down and pinned him by the shoulders. I straddled Weis' legs and moved one forearm across his throat. At that point, he lay very still.
"Now, if you're finished with the fun and games," I said. "Let's talk about those photos."
I could sense Weis' arm muscles tighten, as if to make a move. I drew back and slapped him hard, grabbed both his arms, and tucked his hands under my knees. Then I put my hands back on his shoulders.
My face hovered inches from his, as I barked like a drill sergeant. "Would you like me to snap your neck? That what you want, you little shit?"
I had no intention of murdering that worm, but he didn't need to know that.
Weis opened his mouth, licked his lips, but said nothing. I leaned over him and gripped his throat. He shook his head. "No," he croaked.
"Then what's the story with that stuff in the back of your SUV?"
"I'm just a courier," he said.
"What the hell does that mean? A courier for who?"
He shook his head again. I tightened my grip.
"Please." He blurted the word. "I don't want her to get into trouble."
"Who? Who are you protecting?"
"He's talking about me." A woman's soft voice piped up from within the house. I looked up and saw a backlit figure approach. From what I could see, her hair appeared to be brown, streaked with blonde, but I couldn't make out her facial features.
Could it be? Keeping a tight hold on Weis, I asked, "Are you Melissa Blaine?"
She shook her head. "My name is Jen Gardiner."