The Heart of the Jungle, стр. 9

This was all too much. Anxiety and emotion were spiraling out of his control. Wild eyes sought out and found the entrance to the bathroom.

He needed Kingsley to leave. Why had he answered the door? If he'd just ignored it, by now he'd be swallowing pills and well on his way to release from the unending nightmare his life had become.

Kingsley said, "People are sick. Trust me. I've seen it all."

"But why them? What did they do to deserve this?"

Kingsley's brows drew together, and he tilted his head to one side.

"You've got to be kidding me. You have no idea who Michael Blake really was, do you?"

Chris stiffened. "What kind of question is that? We lived together for five years. I think if anyone knew him, it would be me."

"No, I mean, I assumed you knew. I had no idea you didn't know."

There was a look of bewilderment on the stranger's face.

"Didn't know what?"

"No wonder you're so messed up."

Chris's confusion was growing by the second. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Chris, Michael was slime. He was into some heavy stuff."

Kingsley made a slashing gesture with his hand across his forehead. "Up to his eyebrows."

"What?" It came out as squeak.

"Drugs," he said. "I can't believe you didn't know."

Chris gasped. His head reeled as the picture slowly came into focus.

The strange inconsistencies he'd discovered during the police investigation leapt out at him. The bank accounts had been nearly empty.

Of course, the police had tried to pin that on him as a motive for the murders, but there were records of Michael's multiple withdrawals so that tactic had failed. And there were the mood swings---Michael had always been a little moody, but in the months leading up to the murders, it seemed like he was set off more easily than usual. He worked later than he ever had in the past, and the frequency of his business trips had increased.

He'd told all of these things to the police during the investigation, but George had an explanation. He confirmed that Michael's caseload had been unusually heavy and even supported the extra time and frequent trips with expense reports and billable hours statements.

Could George have been lying? Could he have fabricated all of the evidence he'd given to the police? No, Chris thought, that was impossible. He refused to believe it. If Michael did have a drug problem and George knew about it, he would have said something. Surely he would have said something.

As Chris mulled over the implications of what he'd just learned, he began to tremble. His stomach lurched. This had to be some kind of a cruel joke. He eyed Kingsley with suspicion.

Kingsley said, "I'm really sorry. I never would have guessed that you didn't know. I mean, someone must have said something. MacQuery should have told you, at least."

"He would have." Chris was surprised to hear doubt in his own voice. "If he knew, he would have told me. He would have told the police."

"But... but MacQuery did know. I'm the one who told him. I owed him a favor. If Michael's problems ever got out, think of what it would have done to his firm's reputation."

"He would have told me," Chris responded. His voice was raised, and a stubborn set to his jaw broadcast his refusal to believe that he had been hoodwinked by the two people he trusted most in the world.

"I'm telling you, all of this is true."

Chris shook his head. "George could never lie to me. I'd have known if he was."

Kingsley grunted in exasperation. "Why don't you just pay him a visit and ask him?"

This was too much, too fast. He couldn't imagine George withholding this kind of information from him, from the police. Still, Michael's behavior, the unexplained changes in his routines, the inconsistencies uncovered during the investigation---these all seemed to be answered by the disturbing revelation that he had secretly become addicted to drugs.

Chris couldn't process it fast enough. He needed time and space to think.

"Your five minutes are up. Leave," he said quite forcefully, shocked at the strength of the barked command.

Kingsley's mouth compressed into a tight line. He stood abruptly and walked toward the front door. Before he left, he turned back and focused on Chris. His eyes were hard. "You know what I think? I think you're afraid of the truth. You don't really want answers. You just want to hold onto the lie because it's safe."

Chris came to his feet and gestured toward the door. "I told you to get out."

"You're a coward."

These words bit deeply---perhaps because he knew them to be true.

The stinging barb staggered him back a step. His mouth clamped tightly closed. Through gritted teeth, he said, "And you're an insufferable jerk."

Emboldened by anger, he took a determined step in Kingsley's direction.

"You come in here flashing your pretty smile and making eyes at me, start spouting garbage about my dead partner, and expect me to swoon and fall at your feet. Maybe that works on some people, Jason Kingsley, but not me. I don't know why you decided to come over here and start rubbing salt in my wounds, but I've had enough." He pointed toward the door again. "Get the hell out of my house, and don't ever come back."

His hands were balled into fists, and his whole body was shaking.

Adrenaline surged through his veins. He fought an urge to both scream and cry at the same time. This was too much, too much.

Kingsley stared at him for one moment longer and then stormed out the door.

For a long time after Kingsley left, Chris just stood there, fuming.

His heart was pounding, his ears were ringing, and he was sure he was going to throw up. He was too livid, too confused to do anything but smolder.

Finally, as the anger drained away, it was replaced by a torrent of emotion that had been building since his collapse in the police station. It ripped through the crack