Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Ah. Political. Well now it all made sense. The feds were involved because the government was afraid this might come back to bite them in the ass and raise questions about certain policies they preferred not to have questioned. And so they’d sent Ambrose Mars to keep them informed.
She thought about the conversation with Clyde regarding hallucinogens being a mental experience more than a physical one. “From what I know, hallucinogens typically bring about euphoria, not violent tendencies.”
“But in the right combo, and with the right triggers, maybe it’s more likely to bring out violent tendencies than other mixes of drugs,” he said.
She cocked her head to the side. “True, I guess. I’ve heard of people having bad trips. Maybe it caused one of those. You know, the people given that drug thought the other person was a giant spider or something, and attacked accordingly? I’m halfway tempted to volunteer to take it just so we know what we’re dealing with.”
He gave her an uneasy look.
“I’m kidding,” she said. “I didn’t even smoke weed in college.”
“I’ve never heard of such a unicorn.”
“That’s me. Unicorn extraordinaire, at your service.”
He gave her a boyish smile that somehow seemed completely out of place in this gritty landscape. She had this strange instinct to tell him to put that away, as though the vestiges of innocence behind that expression might suddenly and violently become corrupted on this filthy street. What? Did she imagine the stale air itself was toxic to sweetness?
And is that the impression you get of Agent Ambrose Mars? Sweetness? Sort of, though of a different kind than she’d ever been acquainted with before. And perhaps that was the oddity that had set her off balance upon first meeting him. He was this distractingly attractive man who’d likely seen more wickedness than most based on his job, and yet there was something almost . . . guileless about him. Unusual.
They walked in silence for a few minutes, Lennon taking in the graffiti that was splashed over every available surface of the empty stores and old buildings that served as a backdrop to the line of tents where the homeless lived. She brought her hand to her nose, inhaling the fragrance of her hand lotion in a vain attempt to block out the intense smell of urine and feces.
“God, that makes my eyes sting,” he said, his voice muffled by his own hand.
“It’s not a natural way to live.”
“These people are ill,” he said. “Twisted by drugs and who knows what else.”
He wasn’t wrong. It was terrible. And truthfully? Even though it was her job to help society, to wade through the ache and the ugliness, to show up anywhere—anywhere—there was a victim, she wanted to turn away from this. She wanted to leave, get in her car, and drive anywhere other than here. She wanted to pretend it didn’t exist, because even she felt helpless to help these people. And God but that was a depressing feeling.
She stepped over and around the trash that littered the sidewalk, glancing into the gutters that were filled with needle after needle, some capped, most not.
Lennon’s head swam. It wasn’t just the stench of piss and vomit that filled the air. It was something else, something deeper and more cloying, a hormonal fear sweat that seemed to hang suspended underneath the more identifiable odors of human waste. A noise she couldn’t even identify came from one of the tents, and she picked up her pace, not wanting to know what was going on in that small nylon capsule that smelled like death.
This type of scene always struck her with a singular thought: My God. These are humans living like this. And how had this city—or any city, for that matter—ended up in a place where this was even halfway normal?
They turned onto the street where the Gilbert House stood. An old woman was cackling to herself on the corner as she walked in circles, flailing her arms. Others, obviously strung out, shuffled past the woman, paying her little mind, one man’s pants hanging so far down his hips it was a wonder they weren’t falling off. There was a man curled up near the wall of a building, his mouth hanging open, the pipe that had put him in that state still perched on his bottom lip.
They walked on, passing two liquor stores, one at each end of a block, a strip club featuring a performer called “Lil’ Baby Girl,” a vape shop, and other businesses that had metal roll-down, garage-type doors signaling they were currently closed.
“Hey, mama, what’s a fine thing like you doin’ down here?” a man said, stepping out from a doorway, blocking their path and causing Lennon to startle and take a quick step to the side. He came closer, and she smelled his scent—weed and human stink. His eyes were bloodshot, and he had open sores on his cheeks.