by Greg Weisman
There, Hura-hupia encountered the Hupia. He was just out of sight of the entrance, sucking the juice from a guava of his own while waiting for a more substantial meal: another Pale Tourist (or some such). Thinking he had found his prey, the Hupia moved to attack Julia, but she shook her head with contempt, and in that instant, the Hupia recognized his old acquaintance, though she looked nothing at all like the woman he remembered. It was the contempt itself that was so familiar. It radiated off her in unmistakable waves.
She made her way into the dark depths of the cave. Curious, he followed. (Neither creature required light to see.) She paused beside a small saltwater pool, only three feet in diameter but deep enough to reach the ocean. She scanned the surrounding area—the same area that had been searched rather ineffectively by the two deputy constables earlier that day. But Hura-hupia soon found the item she had sought: a sealed gourd jar that had fallen to the ground and rolled behind a medium-sized stalagmite. As she picked it up and studied the ring of nine carved bats that decorated its circumference, the Hupia retreated a yard or two. Then she dropped the gourd into the pool, where it sank away. This pleased her companion, who drew closer.
Then, in a language I barely recall, Julia told the Hupia to guard the second zemi. He seemed disinterested at first, until she pointed out how his own survival might depend upon it.
Two A.M.
On the other side of the island, the Bootstrap was anchored just offshore, and another, equally nefarious conversation was taking place between Callahan and his employer, Mr. Setebos.
Callahan, on yet another burner cell phone, listened to Setebos, who had called to ask if the still unidentified Pale Tourist was connected to Callahan and their enterprise in any way.
The question set Callahan’s teeth on edge. This was due in part to Setebos’ crisp English accent, which bothered the big Aussie just on general principle. But he also wasn’t fond of admitting errors, either in judgment or execution. So very begrudgingly, Callahan admitted, “Yeah, I subcontracted the search. But don’t lose any sleep, mate. The man knows not to talk.”
“He’s not talking. He’s dead.”
This raised Callahan’s spirits a bit. Now he really wouldn’t have to pay Cash. “No worries, then.”
“You’re not even curious how he died?”
“Is it relevant?”
“How could it not be relevant?” Setebos sounded a trifle exasperated.
“Fair enough. How’d he die?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Right. Let me know when you find out.”
“Me? Don’t you think finding out is your job?”
“You’re paying me to find zemis. Not to play Sherlock Holmes.”
“But he was your man.”
“There’s nothing to connect us. Nothing to lead the cops to me, let alone you.” Then a new thought occurred. “I get it. You’re worried we have competition. You’re thinking that’s who took him out.”
“Actually, that hadn’t occurred to me. But if that’s true, and if he lost the zemi—”
The cold fury in Setebos’ voice was evident, and Callahan could almost see his next fifty-thousand-dollar payment flying out a porthole. He backpedaled quickly. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, chief. I’m personally taking over the search tonight. Give me a few days—a week—before we start panicking.”
“I’ll give you two weeks,” Setebos said. “After that, I’m going to have to seriously consider other options. And other operatives.”
Callahan was about to protest, but Setebos had rung off. It was just as well. Never sound needy. Nothing makes you lose the money’s respect faster than sounding needy. It was one of his axioms.
Three A.M.
Constable Thibideaux headed into Dr. Strauss’ cramped coroner’s office beside the morgue in the basement of San Próspero Island Hospital.
Strauss was stirring heavy cream into his coffee with a chicory stick. He offered Thibideaux a cup, but the constable declined. “It’s too late for me. I drink that, and I’ll never get to sleep.”
“So you’re sleeping now?” Strauss asked, glancing at the clock over the door.
Jean-Marc shrugged. “I don’t need more reasons not to, Josef. Like wondering what caused the death of our Tourist.”
Strauss tapped at his keyboard and maneuvered his mouse, bringing up his preliminary report on this year’s Jean Doe #2, a.k.a. the Pale Tourist, a.k.a. (to Callahan) Cash. He printed out the document, though he glanced at neither screen nor hard copy, as he spoke: “I don’t have much for you yet. They’re backed up in Miami, and we won’t get final labs until Monday. Next Monday.”
“You must be able to tell me something.”
“What I told you this morning. No visible wounds, despite massive blood loss, except on his neck. I did test a few samples here.” He flipped his thumb toward the double doors to the morgue and the small lab beyond it, which both men knew to be inadequate. “His system was pumped full of anticoagulants, which would explain how and why his blood drained so quickly.”
“But not where it went.”
“No. Not where it went.”
“Please don’t tell me we’re back to vampires.”
“I think clearly we are. Though not in the way you mean.” Strauss raised an eyebrow, hoping for a response. Since Thibideaux refused to cooperate, Strauss simply continued. “That much anticoagulant in the bloodstream is not a natural phenomenon. It probably explains the rash all over his body. An allergic reaction.”
“So you think someone…”
“Someone incapacitated this man, shot him up with anticoagulants and drained his blood.”
“The marks on his neck?”
“The microscope confirmed they’re not the result of a single clean ‘bite.’ Too messy. But they could be multiple hypodermic needle punctures. Either to inject the anticoagulant or draw the blood…”
“Or both.”
“Or both.”
“And why do that in the same place over and over again, unless you want people thinking Count Dracula?”
Strauss nodded.
“Wonderful.” Thibideaux sighed, thinking it was anything but. That was all he needed. Someone trying to create a vampire scare on the Ghosts.
Four A.M.
Isaac Naborías also had vampires on the brain. Vampires and vampire bats. Of course, Isaac had lived on the Ghosts for all of his sixty-two years, and he knew there were no vampire bats on the Keys. He also knew there was no such thing as vampires. Yet there was as much trepidation as determination involved when he forced himself to finally enter the cave before twilight. His flashlight soon found the guava husk, lying in the dirt. It appeared to be sucked dry and had definitely not been there this afternoon. Naborías knew bats ate guava. He also knew the old stories of his people. The dead favor guava too. He shuddered and backed out of the cave. I’m too old to be this superstitious, he thought. But he couldn’t help it. In the legends, bats are tricksters. And the dead are tricksters, too. Without trying, his mind summoned up the voices of his childhood, his uncles and aunties, telling him the Myth of First Bat.
Five A.M.
In her bed, Rain Cacique—who had never heard such stories from uncles, aunties or anyone—dreamed the Myth of First Bat in excruciating detail …
In the First Days, the First Bat was the most hideous creature in the world. All the other birds, brilliant and beautiful in their feathers, made sport of him.
This so crushed Bat’s spirits that he asked First God for feathers to hide his shameful appearance. God saw how the birds had been unkind and ordered each to give Bat one feather.
Every bird complied, some graciously, some not. First Parrot gave a green feather. First Dove gave white. First Flamingo, pink; First Cardinal, red; First Kingfisher, blue. And so on …
Bat was made gorgeous by this new coat of feathers. He took to the sky, and First Rainbow was created in echo of his flight.
And all the birds admired him, even arro
gant First Toucan, who had been so begrudging when delivering his feather up to Bat.
But Bat was not gracious in his new splendor. Perhaps from Toucan, he had received more than a feather, for now it was Bat’s arrogance that could not be checked. He taunted and scattered all the birds, which seemed doubly wrong as it was their own feathers he used to torment them.
The birds gathered and resolved to send First Hummingbird to report to God.
Tiny Hummingbird buzzed around God’s ears. She made no accusations. She simply pleaded with God to observe First Bat.
And this God did. Displeased, he sent Hummingbird to warn Bat against further transgression. With some reluctance, Hummingbird followed God’s command. But Bat would not hear her. He lunged at Hummingbird and chased her away, taunting her cruelly as she fled. And First God saw it all.
The next day, when Bat took flight, his feathers fell away like rain. He was left naked again, stripped of every single one of his luxuriant feathers, all their colors, all their softness, all their splendor, beauty and brilliance.
But this did not make Bat sorry. This made Bat bitter. And bitter. And bitter still. In the First Days, without feathers, First Bat had never truly been hideous. Not inside. Now he was blinded by his ugliness, his shame, his arrogance, vanity and anger. Blind as he was, Bat shunned the First Light.
Bat became Light’s First Enemy, hiding in caves during the day and emerging only at night, still seeking his revenge on those more beautiful than he …
Such was the dream Rain dreamt in the twilight hours. But dreams—even true dreams—do not have to be helpful.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
DAYS GONE BYE
TUESDAY, WEDNESDAY AND THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 9–11
A digest of the days’ more significant events …
Rain woke up chilled and found her comforter had largely slipped from her bed. Glancing at her digital alarm clock, she saw she still had a few more minutes before she needed to rise. She tugged the comforter up around her and covered her face to keep the sunshine out of her eyes.
The sunshine! ’Bastian! The sun had risen, and he wasn’t back!
In a flash, she was out of bed and throwing open her door. The snake charm was on the floor right in front of it. Fast as she could, she picked it up and put it on. Okay, we didn’t quite think this through. He could get back in the Nitaino with the zemi, but not back in my room! We definitely need a new plan.
Rain and Charlie were at their lockers before first bell. Charlie tapped Rain on the shoulder and gestured with his head. Rain turned to see Miranda approaching with Renée. They were laughing and smiling together. Like girls.
Charlie spoke cautiously. “You two have fun yesterday?”
“We did,” Miranda said pointedly and with some audible defiance.
“That’s … great,” Charlie said.
Renée smiled. “Isn’t it, though … Sugar?”
Charlie flinched involuntarily; Rain stifled a growl.
During eighth period, Rain returned to the Cache, which still offered no new insights. She did get her homework done.
Late that afternoon, on Naborías’ recommendation, the exterminators were summoned back to Sycorax to lay more poison traps for the bats in the cave. Isaac even came to work early to supervise. He wanted to be rid of those nasty pests once and for all.
After dinner, ’Bastian watched Rain toss her stuff haphazardly into three cardboard boxes and a couple of duffel bags in preparation for tomorrow’s move upstairs. He was sincerely trying to see if she had some kind of arcane system for what she put where but ultimately concluded there was none. During this endeavor they discussed options for ’Bastian’s return from his night wanderings. She gave him the armband, and he practiced levitating with it. For tonight, he would leave and enter via her balcony window. They’d come up with a new plan after the move.
’Bastian walked up the back alley behind the Orleans Theatre and waited for someone to exit through the rear doors. It took a couple tries, but he maneuvered his way inside the dark, half-empty movie palace. He settled into a seat and found he had more success maintaining his, well, altitude if he tried not to think about it too much. The film was an old print of David Copperfield. He’d never seen it before, yet the Micawber character seemed somehow familiar. ’Bastian would have loved some buttered popcorn, but one can’t have everything.
Callahan was careful to avoid the Sycorax guards. Not that he was afraid of them, but if he had to take one out, it would simply add to the mess and make his job all the harder. So he kept out of sight when the old guy made his rounds. Callahan appreciated, at least, that the geezer was punctual.
Isaac shone his flashlight into the cave. He saw no bats and no new guava husks and smiled in self-satisfaction. He headed back toward the cannery, turning the corner.
Instantly, Callahan melted out of the darkness. He returned to the dig site to continue his search for the second zemi.
All through the night, the Hupia stayed but a short distance from the zemi, ready to strike should anyone come too close. No one did, however, and the Hupia began to wish someone would. The meal he had made of the Pale Tourist was now a distant memory, and the Hupia was again feeling … peckish.
At dawn, the dolphin pod ended their search off Key Largo, Florida. Together, in a tight formation, the pod commenced their journey back to the Ghosts with their companion.
Rebecca Sawyer checked out of the Nitaino. Rain was sorry to see the kind old woman go—and even sorrier when she gave Rain a twenty-dollar tip! Rain silently wished Rebecca would stay another week and double the money, but Mrs. Sawyer departed, laughing at Timo Craw’s horrible jokes.
Now the only guests left were Judith Vendaval and the Kims. Normally, the Tall Woman slept through Rain’s morning shift, but today, she was out of the Inn before dawn to go snorkeling, and Iris asked Rain to make up Ms. Vendaval’s room. Rain pretended annoyance out of habit, but truthfully, it beat serving breakfast to the Kim kids, who had already—in only two short days—begun to fray Rain’s nerves. The idea that she’d have to spend Saturday on the boat babysitting them gave her waking nightmares.
Rain entered Room Three. Judith’s bed was a mess. It seemed Ms. Vendaval tossed and turned quite a bit in her sleep—either that or she hadn’t slept alone last night. The room was otherwise fairly neat, and even the bathroom was relatively clean. Rain took her sweet time tidying up. After all, she smiled, Mom always says anything worth doing is worth doing right.
Nevertheless, she still arrived downstairs in the middle of a dry-cereal food fight between Wendy and John Kim, with little Michael absolutely wailing over being hit in the nose by a flying Cheerio.
During sixth-period science, the topic was echolocation and the diverse animals that made use of it. It seemed to fascinate Mr. Brinque that this unique evolutionary trait was common, for example, to both dolphins and bats.
“This is why,” he was saying, “bats avoid rain—”
“Yeah, I avoid Rain, too!” Juan shouted, thinking fast.
Rain rolled her eyes, though nearly everyone else laughed, including Charlie.
Seeing Miranda look concerned for Rain, Renée turned around to glare at Juan for his lack of manners—though she stopped short of calling him “Sugar.” (Perhaps she already had enough sugar on her plate.) Even so, Juan withered under Renée’s gaze. Miranda noticed the entire silent exchange, more convinced than ever that Charlie had been wrong about Renée.
Mr. Brinque raised his voice just enough to be heard over the laughter. “Bats avoid rain because it interferes with their echolocation.”
Lacey said, “I hear bats killed a guy over on Sycorax.”
Miranda quickly said, “That’s not what happened.”
Renée backed her up. “Someone died, but it was allergies or something.”
“No, it’s true,” Wilma Vanetti said. “Some tourist was drained of blood by a vampire bat.”
Carlos was like, “Does that mean he’ll rise i
n three nights and kill someone else?”
The classroom laughed again, though perhaps a little more nervously.
Brinque said, “Vampire bats are not indigenous to the Ghosts.”
“Just vampires,” laughed Juan, having regained what amounted to his form.
“Vampires are a myth based on vampire bats,” Wilma announced definitively. “That’s how vampires got the name.”
Brinque shook his head. “Wilma, that’s almost exactly wrong. The name ‘vampire bat’ was inspired by vampire folklore. Not the other way around.”
Wilma shook her head. “No, I don’t think that’s right.”
Brinque sighed heavily.
Through this entire lively discussion, Rain was focused on one thing: A man had died under mysterious circumstances on Sycorax Island—and this was the first the Searcher was hearing about it.
After dinner, ’Bastian watched Rain remove her stuff haphazardly from the three cardboard boxes and two duffel bags as she unpacked in his old room. He corrected himself: in her new room. Given the chaotic nature of her packing job, he was sincerely stunned by her lack of hesitation when putting things away. She seemed to have envisioned exactly where every single item she possessed would go.
Of course, it helped that there was no lack of space. The lone room on the Inn’s third floor, accessible only via the back stairs, was nearly four times the size of Rain’s previous quarters. She now had a king-sized bed (with brand-new sheets, pillowcases, and comforter—all purchased voluntarily by the usually thrifty Iris), a large dresser, a walk-in closet, and a full bathroom with shower and tub.
