Read The Furies for Free Online Page B

time living anywhere else.
    He slowed down and scanned the street in front of his house. The sidewalk was empty except for a crumpled Budweiser can and a heap of broken glass that reflected the streetlights. But he didn’t park in his usual spot by the corner. Instead he drove another three blocks and made a right on Hancock Street. He was going to see Gabriel Rodriguez, who’d also grown up in the neighborhood. Gabe was a thief and a junkie, but there was a chance he could do something for Ariel.
    Gabe’s house stood alone in the middle of the block. It was a brick row house whose neighbors had been demolished, leaving vacant lots on either side. For extra security, Gabe had put up a chain-link fence around the house and topped it with coils of concertina wire. Gabe’s pit bulls, Maurice and Malaga, started barking when John parked by the curb. He stepped out of the Kia, opened its back door, and scooped up Ariel, who squirmed and grimaced but didn’t open her eyes. Then he carried her to the gate at the center of the fence. The dogs hurled themselves against the other side of the chain link, snarling and growling. They usually calmed down once they recognized John, but the smell of blood must’ve disturbed them.
    â€œGabe!” John yelled. “Get your ass out here!”
    A light came on inside the house, and a few seconds later Gabe appeared at the front door, wearing boxer shorts and a tattered bathrobe. Like most junkies, he looked like a scarecrow, a really pathetic scarecrow with greasy black hair. His face was so emaciated you could see the shape of his skull underneath his blotchy skin. He stared at John with sunken, red-rimmed eyes. “What’s going on? Is that a girl?”
    â€œOpen the gate, goddamn it!”
    Gabe stepped forward and removed a set of keys from the pocket of his bathrobe. The pit bulls slunk backward as he approached the gate. “I don’t get it,” he said, squinting at the wounds on Ariel’s legs. “Why don’t you take her to the emergency—”
    â€œShe’s not a bystander. She’s wanted.”
    â€œWhat? The crews are using girls now? Who—”
    â€œJesus Christ, hurry up!”
    Gabe unlocked the gate and pushed it open. While he shushed the dogs, John carried Ariel into the house and down the steps to the basement. Gabe used this part of the house as his operating room. There was a padded table in the center of the room and bright fluorescent lights on the ceiling. Along the walls were various pieces of medical equipment that Gabe had stolen from Temple University Hospital before he was booted off the hospital’s staff: a ventilator, a couple of defibrillators, a whole refrigerator full of antibiotics. Although the state of Pennsylvania had taken away Gabriel’s medical license, he had a lucrative practice catering to the gangs of Kensington. He treated their injured soldiers, extracting the bullets from their bodies and stitching up their wounds, but unlike the doctors in the city’s emergency rooms he didn’t report the gun violence and stabbings to the police. In return for his services, the gang bosses paid him in dime bags of heroin.
    John carefully placed Ariel on the padded table. As he let go of her he noticed that her skin was clammy. He pressed his fingers against the side of her neck, checking her pulse. It was there, but very faint and thready. “She’s in shock,” he said, turning to Gabe. “I can barely feel a pulse.”
    â€œRelax, Johnny boy.” Gabe went to a stainless-steel sink in the corner of the room and washed his hands and emaciated arms. Then he ripped open a plastic bag containing an intravenous kit. “So you’re telling me this redhead’s a gangster?”
    â€œJust get to work, okay?”
    Holding a syringe and the intravenous tubing, Gabe approached the table and scrutinized Ariel. He grabbed her limp right arm and began