Serpents Rising by David A. Poulsen Page A

Small place, wouldn’t house many residents. The sign outside said LET THE SUNSHINE INN . A woman stood just outside, leaning against a red-faded-to-dirty-auburn brick wall.
    She was holding a chipped, orange coffee cup, full of what looked like coffee, or maybe tea, steaming a little. Both hands around the cup. She had short blond-brown hair, gentle contours to her face, early thirties, not tall, not short, tired looking, like the building she was leaning against and like most of the people around here. Except she was better dressed than most. I stopped in front of her.
    â€œLet the Sunshine Inn. That the name of the place or does somebody really like the song?”
    She straightened only slightly. “Maybe both.”
    â€œDo you work in the Goodwill store?”
    She regarded me with what I took to be mistrust. “Volunteer.”
    I nodded. “Been doing that long?”
    â€œIf that’s a pickup line, it’s one of the worst ever.” A smile softened the words.
    I returned the smile. “You should hear my others, they’re even worse.” I held out my hand. “I’m Adam Cullen. I’m looking for someone, a kid I was hoping you might know or at least may have seen around here. His name is Jay Blevins.”
    She sipped the drink, her eyes on me over the top of the cup. “Police?”
    I shook my head. “Actually I’m a writer. A journalist.” Again the mistrust in eyes that looked like they’d seen some of the downside of life. “But this doesn’t have anything to do with a story. A friend of mine and I are doing a favour for the young man’s father. He’s worried about Jay.”
    â€œAren’t they all?”
    I shrugged. “Maybe.”
    She didn’t answer.
    â€œThis one’s different,” I said. “This is a dad who’s not just worried about the kid doing drugs. Jay could be in some danger, real danger, and it’s important that we find him as soon as possible.”
    â€œGood Samaritans, you and your friend.” Her voice was slightly husky, like she’d just woken up. I always liked that kind of voice.
    â€œActually, no, we’re not. I guess it’s not really a favour in the strictest sense. My friend is a private detective. Jay’s father hired him to try to protect the kid from a potentially serious threat.” I sketched in general terms what had happened on Raleigh and the possible link to Jay.
    â€œAnd you’re helping because…?”
    â€œYeah, I don’t really qualify as a good Samaritan either. I lied when I said it wasn’t about a story. I mean, I’d like to find the kid and help him, we both would. But I’m a journalist. I’m always on the lookout for a story.”
    She sipped her drink, thought about it. I stared at the cup, tried not to shiver. When she spoke again, her voice had changed; it was still husky but softer now.
    â€œJay’s a good kid. Messed up on crack, but a good kid. You wish … I mean you wish all of them could get off the shit but there’s some, like Jay, you really —” She stopped, took a last sip of the coffee, tossed the last few drops in the direction of a street garbage container that looked like it was largely ignored by most people. The sidewalk around it made it evident that this wasn’t a noted recycling area. “Come on inside. I have to get back. I’m working the food bank tonight.” She turned and headed inside.
    I followed her and immediately understood why someone would want to take their coffee break outside, even on a cold night. The air in the place was a cross between exhaust fumes and stale milk. There was another smell mixed in there too that I couldn’t quite place — wet dog maybe. The total effect was a smell that I’d have thought would put food bank shoppers off their game.
    As I closed the door behind us she turned to me. “Jill. Jill Sawley. You