Page 38 of The Family Cross

“Show me the way!” he cried. “Show, show, show me the way!”

35

JOHN SAMPSON’S RIGHT HAND went to his service weapon at the small of his back. Mine did the same as we walked toward Hawk.

He seemed not to notice, lost between despair and delight, crying a little, giggling a lot.

Nearby, I saw what was the probable cause of his odd behavior: an open plastic bag of dried mushrooms sitting on the flap of his pack.

Sampson coughed, hand still on his weapon. “Mr. Rodriguez?”

The former Special Forces operator kept on whirling slowly as if oblivious to us. But his laughing and crying ebbed. He finally stopped spinning, lowered his arms, opened his bloodshot eyes, and tried to focus on us.

“Bummer,” he said.

“Not what you expected in your microdose visions?” Sampson said.

Hawk threw back his head and roared with laughter. He held his sides and chortled. He leaned over, whimpering and gurgling like a happy, happy baby.

This went on for almost thirty seconds before he stopped and stood up again. He was still a little wobbly, but his gaze on us was more even.

Holding up his hands, he grinned sheepishly. “I admit I might have slightly exceeded the recommended dose today.”

“Why don’t we hold on to these for you while you wind down,” Sampson said, crouching and taking the bag.

“Man,” he moaned. “Don’t do that. Those fungi are decriminalized and are the only things keeping me going while I sort out all the crazy shit that’s happened to me.”

“By tripping and spinning in circles?” I asked.

“Beats boozing and holing up in a dark room,” he snapped. “That’ll kill you. Shrooms are healers, man. Read up on it.”

“You should be taking those under a professional’s care,” I said.

“There are a lot of psychological pros around the bridge here,” he said, and chortled again.

Sampson said, “We have some follow-up questions.”

Hawk’s eyebrows rose. “And I’m here to answer them, Detectives, especially if you look the other way on the shrooms. C’mon. I’m up here. I don’t hurt anyone. I talk to the mushroom gods. They do me good.”

I avoided giving him an answer about the hallucinogens and walked toward him, holding up my phone. “Do you know this girl? We heard she comes here to see you.”

Rodriguez frowned and took a few steps to meet me. He focused on the picture, and his eyes widened.

“Corey,” he said.

“Corey McGovern?”

He nodded.

“And does she come here to see you?”

“Sometimes. Why? What of it?”

Sampson said, “She’s, like, fifteen.”

Hawk snorted. “More like twenty-two. I’ve seen her ID.”

“It’s a fake.”