The Fallen (Amos Decker #4)(85)

“Why was that ironic?” asked Decker.

“Because opioids actually are pretty ineffectual with chronic lower back pain. Last year doctors wrote nearly a quarter billion prescriptions for painkillers. It’s a miracle we’re not all hooked. And the numbers we see now, bad as they are, are just the tip of the iceberg. It’s beyond a national crisis and no one is doing a damn thing about it. Because of our position on crack cocaine in the eighties, we built a lot of prisons but not many treatment centers or addiction protocols. So now this crisis is filling hospitals, prisons, and”—she waved her hand in front of her—“cemeteries all across the country. And to top it off, last year about twenty-five thousand babies were born with what’s called neonatal abstinence syndrome because their moms were opioid users while pregnant. What kind of life will they have, do you think?”

Decker stared at the coffin being carried to a gravesite by what looked to be a group of pallbearers who were still in high school. Then he looked at the line of cars parked along the road and was surprised to see some brand-new luxury vehicles along with ancient heaps.

Suddenly they heard a horn begin to blare.

Kemper said, “Where’s that coming from?”

“There,” said Decker, pointing to a pickup truck parked in the middle of the line of cars.

They jumped out of the SUV and ran across the road. By the time they got to the pickup truck, several people had crowded around it.

In the driver’s seat was a young man slumped against the steering wheel. His shoulder was pressed against the horn.

Decker reached through the open window and pushed him back against the seat and the sound stopped.

His breath was coming in gasps.

Decker opened the young man’s eyelids. The pupils were pinpricks.

“He’s overdosed,” said Kemper, who had also seen this.

“Yeah, he has,” said a thin man in a threadbare coat. “Third time this week.”

Decker spotted the half-empty syringe on the truck seat. Inside it was a clear sand-colored liquid.

“It looks to be pure heroin,” Decker said.

Kemper nodded, punched in 911 on her phone, and requested an ambulance.

Decker said, “Does anybody have any Narcan?”

“I got some,” said a woman standing next to the man.

“Give it to me,” said Decker as the young man in the truck gasped again.

“He coulda at least waited till after the funeral to pull this crap,” said the thin man.

“Give it to me,” Decker exclaimed as the young man started to gurgle. “He’s going to stop breathing any second.”

The woman rummaged in her bag.

The man said again, “Coulda waited. Dumbass.”

“Give me the Narcan!” shouted Decker, as the young man slumped against the door, his lips turning blue.

The woman handed Decker a bottle from her purse.

Decker stuck the end in the young man’s nose and squeezed.

He waited for a few seconds, but nothing happened.

Kemper looked at the syringe and said, “There must be some fentanyl mixed in with what he took. It’s more tightly bound to the brain receptor than morphine.”

“That’s heroin, not morphine, lady,” said the thin man. “Don’t you know nothin’?”

Kemper whirled on him and flashed her badge. “I know a lot more than you do. When the body breaks down heroin the instant by-product is morphine!” She turned back to Decker. “Hit him again with the Narcan. We have to move the drug off the brain receptor.”

Decker squirted in another dose.

A few moments passed and then the young man exhaled a long breath, sat up straight, blinked, and looked around, his expression foggy.

“Great,” said the man sarcastically. “You brought him back. ’Til the next time.”

Decker looked at him. “Who are you?”

“I’m his uncle. And the bastard didn’t have the decency to wait till his sister was buried before pulling this shit. Talk about showing no damn respect.”

“His sister?” said Kemper. “How’d she die?”

“Damn heroin overdose,” said the uncle. “Didn’t get her the Narcan in time.” He pointed to the young man. “That asshole coulda saved her, but he was in the bathroom doing lines of coke.”

A moment later the young man leaned out the window and threw up.

They all jumped back to avoid the vomit.

The young man looked angrily at Decker until he saw the bottle in his hand.

“You almost bit the bullet for good, buddy,” said Decker.

“Thanks, man,” he said groggily, wiping his mouth.

Decker looked at Kemper and then back at the young man.

He tossed the bottle of Narcan to the woman, walked back to the SUV, and got in.

Kemper turned to the aunt and uncle. “An ambulance will be here shortly. He’ll need to go to the hospital.”

“Right,” said the uncle. “Whatever.”

As Kemper walked off, he slapped his nephew on the back of the head. “Dumbass!”

Kemper hurried after Decker and climbed into the truck.

“You okay?” she said once she’d settled in.

Decker didn’t say anything for a long moment. “I’m just wondering whether we’re ever going to dig ourselves out of this hole.”