Faces in the Fire (20 page)

“I feel like I could just wear it now,” Candy said. “Doesn't really hurt at all—nothing like my other tats, to tell you the truth.”

“That's good,” Grace said, feeling a bit of regret as she had to cover the tattoo with the bandage once more.

Candy dropped her shirt, finally seeming comfortable, and sat next to her on the couch. “You want a drink or something?” she asked, obviously warming to the idea of company.

“Sure. Whatever you have.”

“Diet Mountain Dew and . . . um, Diet Mountain Dew. Sorry. Lots of caffeine; jump-starts the metabolism.”

A high metabolism. Sounded like an eating disorder talking, Grace had to admit. But she didn't have any evidence, any
real
evidence, yet. Just a flushing toilet and Mountain Dew, innocuous things she'd find in the apartments of many young girls.

“Sounds good.” She paused. “Can I, uh—” She pointed toward the bathroom door. “Can I use your bathroom?”

She saw a flash of panic in Candy's eyes—just a brief flash as she glanced toward the bathroom—and then Candy nodded her head a little too vigorously.

“Yeah. Sure.”

Inside the bathroom, Grace pressed the button in the middle of the knob to lock the door, but she was pretty sure it didn't truly lock; the door scraped a bit against the frame and didn't seem to fully latch. Most doors in her life, it seemed, never fully closed. Or never fully opened.

She went to the toilet and sat on its lid for a few moments. This was why she was here, wasn't it? To see . . . whatever it was she had to see.

She glanced in the garbage can. Several wads of tissue, an empty tube of toothpaste. Nothing too interesting. She stood, lifted the lid of the toilet, peered into the bowl. As if that would tell her anything. At least Candy seemed to keep it well scrubbed.

Grace moved to her right, stood in front of the medicine cabinet mirror, stared at her reflection for a few seconds. Was she going to do this? Was she going to thrust herself into the midst of this situation that didn't involve her, try to change the world?

She thought briefly, again, of Russian Guy's heart attack so many years ago, and realized her one tenuous thread in all of this—the napkin with the number written on it—was also tied to this current predicament.

A thread, indeed, stitching together her poor decisions.

It would be easier, so much easier, to just walk out of this bathroom, walk out of Candy's apartment, walk out of Candy's life, and head home to the comfort of her pipe and her white smoke. Chase the dragon, and let it chase her. A perfect, symbiotic relationship. This thing here, inside Candy's bathroom, was an entirely different kind of dragon.

She stepped back to the toilet, pushed the handle to flush it, counted to five, and turned on the faucet. With a last look in the mirror, she drew in a breath, held it, and opened the medicine cabinet door, swinging it slowly.

Inside, she saw things you might see in the medicine cabinet of any house. A bottle of ibuprofen, cotton swabs, a bottle of perfume, some bandages. These items lined the top three shelves of the cabinet.

But the bottom shelf held four bright-blue bottles she recognized instantly. Milk of magnesia. A laxative. Next to the blue bottles were half a dozen small brown vials of some kind. Carefully, the sound of the water in the faucet masking any sounds she might be making, she retrieved one of the vials.
Ipecac Syrup USP
, the plain white label said. She stared for a few seconds before replacing the vial. She recognized the name instantly, because she'd kept a bottle of ipecac syrup in her own medicine cabinet when she was a mother.

Ipecac syrup was used for poisoning emergencies.

It induced vomiting.

Grace closed the medicine cabinet and turned off the faucet. Yes, she was chasing the wrong kind of dragon. She unlocked the door, opened it, went back into the living room, wearing a well-practiced smile. She sat on the worn couch beside Candy, took the glass of green liquid over ice, sipped at it.

“Everything okay?” Candy asked. “You look a little . . . I don't know . . . pale or something.”

“Just need a little caffeine, I think. Long day. So this really hits the spot. Thanks.”

She took another drink, a long draw, lingering on the sensation of carbonation burning her throat. The same sensation ipecac syrup might create, for example. She set the glass down on the makeshift coffee table, pulled around her purse.

“Listen,” she said. “I know I'm being a bit over-the-top with all this, but I want you to see a doctor about that tattoo.” She pulled out a pen and wrote a name and number on the back of one of her business cards.

Candy took the card and looked at it. “Dr. Foss?” she said. “But . . . the tattoo doesn't even hurt. It's fine.”

“I know, I know. But Dr. Foss is a good guy; I know him from . . . a few years back. He owes me. And, you know, like I said, I just want to be extra careful with this—using that Black Tar for the first time. I'll pick up the bill for it.” She tried a smile. “That's what you get for being the guinea pig. I'll call him and schedule something for tomorrow.”

Candy seemed unsure for a few seconds, but then shrugged. “Okay,” she said.

Grace stood. “Thanks for the drink; I'd better get going. Just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Candy stood with her, uncomfortable, awkward, thin; and abruptly, without meaning to, Grace hugged her.

“Okay,” Candy said, following her to the front door. “Thanks for dropping by. And thanks for the tat. I love it.”

“I'm glad,” Grace said, opening the front door and stepping through. She stopped, turned back to Candy. “Take care of yourself.”

Candy smiled. “No prob,” she said, and closed the door gently.

Grace turned and walked quickly away, getting totally out of the building before she felt the tears running down her cheeks. She
did
know Dr. Foss well; that much was true. He'd treated her at the clinic after she'd got hold of some poorly cut smack and kept in touch with her since, calling every couple of months and asking if she'd thought about his offer to get her into rehab. She'd call him, explain Candy's situation, and he'd know what to do. Bulimia was treatable.

Just like heroin addiction.

As she walked down the street in the dusk, thinking about Dr. Foss, an odd thought struck her. Here it was, early evening, and her blood wasn't itching. Usually, by this time, her veins were thirsty for more Harry Jones.

But tonight, the hunger stayed quiet.

29.

Late that night, in her bed, Grace awoke from a nightmare she couldn't remember. Something that floated just on the edge of her consciousness, teasing her with its proximity before jetting away each time she seemed about to grasp it.

The blood itch was there, inside, and it was bad.

Except.

Except, it wasn't in her arms.

It was in her whole upper chest.

Okay, so this was the start of the withdrawals she'd been expecting. She hadn't hit the pipe since this morning, just before heading to the shop. Since her session with Candy, nothing.

Soon—maybe in a few minutes, maybe in a few hours—she'd start tremoring, and then her stomach would kick into reverse, and then she would get the chills as the shakes increased. That's what happened when you tried to stop.

Best to just head it off now. Go light up, take off the edge. Help her get over the nightmare.

Still lying in bed, she scratched at the itch in her chest and felt a peculiar wetness there.

Whoa. She was bleeding.

She threw back the covers and made her way to the bathroom, flicking on the overhead light. She stared at herself in the mirror a few moments, took a breath, and pulled the collar of her sleeping shirt down so she could see her chest.

It was ink. Black ink. (Black tar)

Just to the left of her sternum, right above her heart.

She touched the ink, feeling the wetness before drawing away her finger again. No residue on the finger. The ink felt wet to the touch, but it was, like any other tattoo ink, beneath the skin.

Still, when she touched it she felt a mild electrical charge inside her bones, unlike anything she'd ever felt before.

No, that wasn't quite true. She'd felt something very much like it when she touched that man's hand in Russian Guy's hotel room years ago. She'd never forgotten the sensation, and now it had returned to her.

Was that bad? Was that good?

She didn't know.

It was just the start of a tattoo, this mark on her chest. She could tell that. An upside-down U, with a couple lines dropping from it like harp strings.

She touched the ink again, felt the charge, realized this wasn't withdrawal. Quite the opposite. At this moment the thought of heroin—smoked or smacked—made her feel sick to her stomach. All she wanted to do was touch the beginning of this tattoo, be comforted by the low electrical hum.

Was that bad? Was that good?

She didn't know.

She returned to her bed, lay flat on her back, feeling the beginning of the tattoo beneath her fingers. Had she done it to herself in the stupor of this morning? Finished Candy's tattoo, then started on her own chest? Impossible, really.

Frightening, as well. At least, her mind kept trying to convince her of this. There was something wrong, very wrong, with a tattoo suddenly beginning to appear, electric and liquid, on your chest. It meant . . . well, maybe it meant all those years of shooting smack had taken their toll, damaged her brain in ways that couldn't be repaired. She'd always known at some point that could happen. In fact, after everything, she had counted on it happening.

And yet, something about the electric liquid . . .

(Black Tar)

. . . on her chest felt comforting, warm. And so she drifted back to sleep, hands folded across her chest as if she were an Egyptian queen just placed into her sarcophagus, the skin of her arms and hands tingling with hypnotic energy wherever it touched the beginnings of the tattoo.

Was that bad? Was that good?

She didn't know.

30.

Grace went in late the next morning, knowing she had no appointments scheduled. Vaughn nodded at her as she walked through the door.

“More cowbell,” he said, grinning.

“The only cure,” she answered, letting the door shut behind her.

She'd made it through the entire evening without lighting up. Dangerous, she knew; she'd been through withdrawals before—vomiting that was much worse than anything ipecac syrup might induce—but so far nothing had happened. She was curious to see how long it lasted, how long she could go without the tremors. So far, so good. A bit more tired than usual, but nothing major. Yet.

“Hey,” Vaughn said as she walked past him on the way to her Dark Room, “you know anything about this Black Tar?”

She spun, looked at him. “Black Tar?”

“Yeah, a new ink. Had a phone call this morning, and a walk-in, both asking about it.”

“Where'd they hear about it?”

He narrowed his eyes for a few seconds. “Well, they said a friend got a tat from you, using it. They both saw it and loved it.”

She swallowed, hard. “Candy. You know her.”

He nodded. “Sure.”

“She was just in yesterday morning,” Grace said, trying to sound nonchalant. “Not sure why they think the tat would look great—probably still swollen and puffy. And she should have it bandaged.” But inside, even as Grace said it, she knew it wasn't true. Candy's tattoo was somehow hypnotic—dangerous and attractive at the same time, like . . .

Well, like heroin.

Also see: the tattoo on her chest.

Vaughn shrugged again. “Well, guess you're going to have to start paying Candy for marketing. She already got two people to drop by. One made an appointment for this afternoon.” He looked at the clock on the wall. “Just a couple hours from now.”

32.

“I'm Ryder,” the young man said, extending his hand to Grace.

Grace smiled, took his hand. “Grace,” she said.

“Love the place here,” he said, looking at the art, the snapshots of past tattoos hung on the walls.

“Yeah, thanks. We do pretty well.”

“That's why I'm here,” he said, rocking a bit on his feet. “I called this morning, talked to—”

“Vaughn, yeah. He said you're a friend of Candy's.”

“Texted me a photo of her new art last night,” he said. “Just a snap from her cell phone, but wow . . .” He paused. “So here I am.”

She nodded. “Well, Ryder, I usually do a consult up front—”

“That's cool.”

“—and then I just let people think about it, you know.

Take a day or two to make sure they know what they want.”

“Oh, I know what I want,” he said, his eyes sparkling.

“Really?”

“Been thinking about it for quite a while now,” he said. “Barbed wire, right around the bicep here.” He held up his arm, traced a circle around the upper part of his right arm with the other hand. “With the Black Tar.”

She paused, felt a familiar itch starting in her veins at the mention of the name. Except . . . this itch wasn't for the heroin variant she'd become so up close and personal with over the past couple years. It was for the ink. Just like this kid.

“Well, I just got that in yesterday,” she said. “Candy was kind of a test case, you might say. I'd like to make sure she's doing okay.”

“Yeah, she said you were pushing her to some doctor,” he said. “But she said she feels great, said it didn't even hurt. Works for me.”

Grace tried another smile, but she wasn't sure it came across as much more than a grimace.

“I'll pay double for the Black Tar,” he said.

“It's not about the money. It's about the safety.”

He shook his head. “So I'll sign a waiver or something. I don't think you need to worry.”