The Dollmaker(The Forgotten Files #2)
Mary Burton
PROLOGUE
Sunday, October 2, 11:05 p.m.
The instructions were clear: Don’t look inside the red trash bag. Meet the buyer, collect the money, and give him the goods. For God’s sake, don’t talk. Just leave. No one gets hurt. Everyone comes out a winner.
Simple. A moron could do it.
But Terrance Dillon was eighteen. And he was too curious, too fearless, and too naive for his own good.
Two hours ago, Terrance had been at the Quick Mart counting out the last of his rumpled bills and scattered coins to buy an energy drink and a bag of beef jerky. Terrance’s thoughts had been centered on his girlfriend, who had spent the last couple of hours snuggling close to him and talking about the homecoming dance. As he’d dumped the last of his change on the counter, he worried about finding the money to pay for the big winter dance date and wondered how he’d tell his grandmother that he and Stephanie were dating again.
As Terrance had left the store and crossed the parking lot, his father pulled up in a new white Lexus, sporting a big grin. Fresh out of his latest stint in prison, Jimmy got out of the car and hugged his son, wishing him a happy birthday. The guy had been gone the last decade, and though they’d traded a few letters and phone calls, they weren’t exactly what anyone would call close.
Still, Terrance had been stunned and kind of pleased by the in-person visit. He was flattered when Jimmy asked him if he wanted to go for a spin in the car and maybe help him tackle a big-paying job. Jimmy needed an extra hand for a couple of hours. Grab and go. Simple. Easy money.
Terrance found Jimmy’s infectious laugh and smooth voice compelling. His old man made the plan sound foolproof. And despite all the shit between the two of them, he wanted his father’s approval.
Now as Terrance stood in the alley, the half-moon glistening in a cloudless sky and shadows cloaking hidden nooks and corners, doubts whispered. The deeper the cold night air cut through his high school letterman jacket, the further his thoughts wandered from his father’s guarantees of success to the contents of the bag gripped in his right hand.
Don’t look in the bag. Better you don’t know. Grab and go. Simple. Easy money.
He hadn’t seen Jimmy in an hour, and his gut was telling him to bail on his old man. His grandmother had said Jimmy’s get-rich-quick ideas always ended in disaster. She’d warned Terrance to stay away from the guy. Terrance wanted to love his old man, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew Jimmy had gone to jail for selling drugs.
But Jimmy had seemed different at the Quick Mart. The ex-con acted like he really wanted to help his only son.
A freight train rumbled above on the triple trestle in Richmond’s Shockoe Bottom district. The night chill oozed deeper, fueling his impatience and nerves. A small animal scurried in the dead end of the alley. A cat howled. Terrance shivered.
His phone chirped with a text. Hoping it was Jimmy, he fished out the two phones from his pocket, glancing at both displays. The message was on his personal phone, not the burner Jimmy had given him. The text was from Stephanie.
You home yet?
Terrance smiled, glad she was thinking about him. Jimmy had told him not to use his personal phone, but to communicate with the burner. Using the new phone, he texted back.
Terrance here. Almost done. Waiting on my ride.
You okay? Where is your phone?
An unseen creature scratched in a darkened corner. He didn’t enjoy lying to Stephanie, but she wouldn’t like any of this.
I’m fine. My battery is dead. I’ll call in the morning.
Text me when your ride arrives.
Okay.
He shifted his feet and dropped the phones back in his pocket. He hated lying. This was bullshit. He was cold. Tired. Ready to go home.
He held the bag up to the moonlight, but thick plastic guarded its secrets. He shook the sack gently and heard the clink of glass. What the hell was in the bag? Jimmy had said it wasn’t drugs, but why was it worth so much money? How much could one peek hurt? Just one.
Don’t look inside.
He shooed away Jimmy’s warnings and in the stillness unknotted the bag and looked inside. Moonlight shimmered off ten vials of drugs. The labels read “propofol.”
Jimmy had lied. Terrance should have seen it coming. He should dump the bag. Run. But if he ran, there’d be no money. No “get rich quick.”
He’d heard about the drug in the news. It was the kind rock stars took when they couldn’t sleep. This kind of shit had killed some of those same stars. What the hell was someone going to do with this? His thoughts raced with unexpected excitement. Could it be for a famous singer? Someone he might know? It would be unbelievable to meet a pop star right here in the alley. Crazy. Maybe.
A slash of headlights approached and swiped across Terrance’s face as a vehicle turned into the narrow lane. He quickly knotted the bag as a white van approached, slow and careful. The van was older. Clean. The kind of vehicle he drove when he worked on the lawn maintenance crew over the summer. The kind people didn’t pay attention to. The kind he wouldn’t drive when he got rich.
Heart pounding, he clutched the bag close to his side, doing his best to look like he knew what he was doing—like this wasn’t his first drug deal. He pictured the way Jimmy stood, easy and relaxed. Always with a big grin.