Gina scans the pages, noticing she has been demoted from a few of her consecutive first place standings. She snaps the book closed tossing it onto Dr. Godfrey’s desk. “You ready?”
“Almost,” Dr. Godfrey answers interpreting the competition in her tone.
Tony smiles, fully pushing himself to continue moving up in the ranks. “What’s it say?” he pauses, catching his breath before finishing, “about O-blood type personality?”
Dr. Godfrey smiles, knowing the wily Detective is fishing. “They are agreeable, sociable and optimistic. Those are the positives,” he clarifies, holding up his index finger. “Vanity, arrogance and jealousy make up the other side of the coin.”
“Heads or tails, DeLuca?” Tony huffs, probing her jealous bone.
“You’re one to talk.” She eyes his perfectly landscaped chest (a notably vain practice), her gaze wandering a little too long for her own comfort, taking note of the chiseled swell not even the myriad sticky electrodes can hide. She grabs the remote, standing in front of the treadmill and Tony.
“Proceed,” Dr. Godfrey directs, his clipboard in hand, his eyes fixed on the monitor.
Gina preps herself, calling on her body for her transformation.
“Uh-uh,” Tony rebukes, too short on breath to form words.
“It’s alright, Gronkowski,” Gina reassures, knowing he’s apprehensive about another episode like the one at Manny Briggs’ house when he pummeled her.
He argues with his eyes, taking note of her wrists, black and blue from his hands.
“We just need to see what your body is capable of when you transcend.” Her irises begin to sparkle with little flecks of emerald green. “I’m not engaging you. You’ll be fine. I’ll be fine,” she clarifies.
Dr. Godfrey watches excitedly as the monitor speeds up, beeping and flashing, Tony’s vitals surging on the rise with his metamorphosis. Tony battles the change, attempting Dr. Godfrey’s mind over matter approach.
“Stop fighting me,” Gina warns, exerting more force with her eyes, her finger mashed against the remote control, maxing out the incline and the speed of the treadmill.
Tony’s hazel eyes jet a force of reflective emerald green, catapulting Gina back against the wall as his body fully delivers his Vigilare pedigree. He growls with the jolt to his system, his arms moving swiftly from front to back propelling his legs to thrust and climb, fully dominating the challenge.
Dr. Godfrey watches in awe at the ease with which Tony functions. Gina maintains her post in front of him, torn between wanting him to succeed yet not surpass her in his effort. Tick-tock, tick-tock. The clock’s second hand makes its full third lap around.
“Hercules,” Dr. Godfrey expels, searching through the stack of paperwork on his desk.
“Hercules?” Gina scoffs.
“Greek mythology. Hercules captured Cerberus.”
“We’re not back to this are we? Hell hounds.” Gina shakes her head.
“Hercules, the son of the god Zeus and mortal woman Alcmene. Half-man, half-immortal.” He pulls from his research, reading over his notes, “The Twelve Labors of Hercules. Number twelve...the capture of Cerberus.” Dr. Godfrey slaps his hand down on his desk, a triumphant smile forming.
“So, you’re saying you believe Gronkowski is the key in capturing Manny Briggs...Hell Hound,” Gina reluctantly uses the moniker.
“‘Hercules overpowered Cerberus, slinging the beast over his back and dragging it out of the underworld,’” Dr. Godfrey quotes. “Look at the man!” he flings his arms uncontrollably in Tony’s direction, whose pace does not falter.
Gina eyes him, his skin bronzed and glistening, reminiscent of the Greek demigod. She shrugs, actually considering the notion.
Dr. Godfrey shuffles through his paperwork. “We need more information on Hell Hound. Greek mythology would lead us to believe he is three-headed.” His index finger on the rise. “Although some reports and photos depict the hound of the underworld as having only two heads.”
“Don’t you think you’re taking this a little too far. I mean, come on, Vigilare pedigree is slightly supernatural, not divine, and certainly not mythical. We’re grounded in reality, aren’t we?” she asks looking for validation.
“You’re taking me too literally, dear. I don’t propose Hell Hound actually has three heads. But what if he has the ability to morph.” Dr. Godfrey pulls the files from Manny Briggs’ safe. Opening the file on Lon, he points. “That could explain why you thought you were in the presence of your deceased husband.”
Gina paces, keeping an eye on Tony’s performance. “If that’s the case, then we’re missing one. Who’s the third?”
Dr. Godfrey points to the file of Maxim Kiesel, the young man’s photo reminiscent of a young Lon Castille.
“Have you heard from Emily?” Gina asks, her gut feeling uneasy.
Dr. Godfrey shakes his head.
The swift movement of Tony’s feet recalls Gina’s attention. “Might as well shut him down.” She slows the treadmill, countering his metamorphosis. “Something tells me he could do this all day,” she grumbles.
Dr. Godfrey chuckles at his competitive marvel, dutifully recording the last set of vitals as Tony returns to himself.
The treadmill whines, its belt slowing to a stop. “What’s wrong? Why are we stopping? How’d I do?” Tony begins twenty questions.
“Come on, Hercules,” Gina pipes. “Let’s see what you’re really made of.” She walks from the lab out into the spacious underground dwelling, taking up residence in the center of the room where she prepares for eminent battle.
“Hercules?” Tony inquires, catching his breath, a towel in hand wiping the perspiration from his body. “Did I do that well?” He grins.
Dr. Godfrey’s round face beaming with pearly whites, he gives Tony the universal thumbs-up, coaxing him in Gina’s direction.
“Here. Put these on.” She throws a black martial arts gi in Tony’s direction, her knuckles protected with half-gloves as she bounces from one foot to another on the tips of her toes on the large, square padded floor mat.
He dons the clothes fully disgruntled, disapproving a sparring match with her. Pulling his gloves on over his palms, he secures them to his wrist, his fingers nimble and free. Dr. Godfrey stands on the sideline, his brow furrowed with concern, his eyes luminous with excitement. He grabs a pen from the pocket protector of his white lab coat, his shoulders rounded, hovering over his ever trusty clipboard. He nods to Gina, who immediately approaches Tony tapping her padded hands off of his signifying commencement of their first round. Tony half-heartedly holds his hands in position standing flat-footed, maintaining his discontent in engaging in any sort of physical contact with her. Gina quickly goes on the offensive taking sly advantage of his lack of try, her arm clotheslining his neck while her leg simultaneously locks around his inside ankle, sweeping his from beneath him. She follows him to the floor, astraddle his waist. Dr. Godfrey makes note of the point, documenting it in Gina’s favor.
“It was your idea to be all in.” She pushes up off of him, standing. “If you want out, there’s the door,” she says, pointing in its direction.
His pride wounded and anger surfacing, he flips himself into a backbend, springing upright swiftly onto his feet, now engaged and floating like a butterfly in preparation to sting like a bee.
Gina smiles coaxing him on with her hands. They engage with a series of strikes, blocks and kicks at a furious speed, causing Dr. Godfrey to shuffle from side to side, living vicariously through their action. Testing Tony’s validity, Gina purposely leaves herself open while moving in on him. He hesitates, ultimately taking the shot, his foot connecting with her right in the breadbasket. “Umph,” she exhales slightly stooped over, attempting to catch her wind. Her guard maintained, she continues to engage.
“Sorry,” Tony huffs, his guard drawn but retreating.
“Quit saying that,” she grunts, still fighting to recoup air. As Gina wills her leg above shoulder level, Tony catches her ankle in the middle of her crescent kick aimed at his head. She spins her torso, dropping to her hands in wheelbarrow position on the mat, the momentum swinging her other leg around in perfect position for a mule kick. She releases, connecting with his chest, knocking him backward and forcing him to release her ankle. Finally realizing if he stays he has no other option but to fully engage. Tony commits, catching her around her mid-section as she returns to her feet, the force causing her to fall to the mat. They go end-over-end, grappling, exchanging dominant positions, their bodies taut and aggressive, neither willing to submit.
“Now, we’ve got a match!” Dr. Godfrey exclaims, busily glancing from them to his clipboard attempting to keep pace.
CHAPTER 13
Emily grips Max’s waist, her thighs held tightly to his as he effortlessly navigates the twisting terrain of the road running parallel to the Louisiana bayou, a half-hour from New Orleans. His primary mode of transportation, a powder black Suzuki Hayabusa motorcycle, whines, echoing off the tree-laden landscape.
“You okay?” he yells through the face mask of his helmet, his neck turned to the side.
“Hell yeah...I’m okay,” she shouts back, leaning her helmet-covered head over his shoulder, fully enjoying the ride. “You can go faster if you want.”
“What?” he inquires, the combination of the wind and the bike disrupting his hearing.
She clenches her hands tighter to his waist. “Faster!” she urges.
Max smiles, dropping the clutch and cranking on the handlebar accelerator, causing them to propel forward with aggressive speed.
“Woo-hoo!” Emily eggs him on, her fisted hand held high, reveling in the resistance the wind offers her arm. Her eyes growing as big as saucers at the upcoming bend in the road, she returns her appendage snugly wrapping it around his waist, locking her hand onto her alternate wrist. Max leans to the outside curve in the road, guiding his handlebars toward the inside. Emily, a quick study, follows his body with her own, the two young hearts exult in making straightaways out of every bend in a road less traveled.
Nearing a low, flat, sandy stretch, Max slows, veering the exotic machine down into the pine flatwoods. Coming to a stop, he holds the bike upright allowing Emily to dismount before propping it up against a pine tree far removed from the narrow backwoods highway. Emily hangs her helmet off the opposing handlebar to Max’s, her senses quickly filled with all things foreign. Her eyes fixate on widely separated, tall, towering pines, reminding her how grand nature truly is and how small humans are in the backdrop. The scent of the stagnant marsh makes its way to her, accompanied by heavy air, quickly drawing the same reaction from her breathing mechanism as she inhales deeply against the weight. The sounds from the wetlands fill her ears as she zones in on the rustling amongst the wiregrass and a far-off ga-gulp followed by a splash.
“What was that?” she spins in its direction, her body crouched and alarmed.
“Bullfrog.” Max smiles, pleased at her awareness.
She looks down to her feet, her boots settling into the moist sand, a sticky, clay-like substance surfacing at the ends of her toes and heels. “This isn’t going to swallow me up, is it?” She grinds her black militant footwear further into the soil testing its give.
“Not if we move fast enough,” Max jests, reaching for her hand.
She ardently places her palm inside his thinking nothing of its familiar cool contact. Urging him along, they begin a fast stealthy trek. “I think I’ve seen this before,” she says apprehensively, her head swiveling from side to side as if Swamp Thing might be hiding, camouflaged in the sprawling brown and green landscape. “On A&E...The Discovery Channel...Croc People? Where shirtless men wearing denim bib-overalls ‘aim to catch ’em a big one,’” she reverts to a poorly executed Cajun accent making Max laugh heartily.
“I believe Swamp People is what you’re referring to. It’s on History Channel.” He shakes his head.
“Hope you have a big knife and an Australian accent,” she jokes, half serious, referencing Crocodile Dundee.
“We don’t see many crocs in this bayou. Just gators, mainly.”
“Oh, well, then I feel much better,” she sputters, slapping her hand loudly and rhythmically against her thigh.
“What are you doing?” Max continues to drag her along at a speedy pace.
“Making noise. Letting them know we’re here. Animals attack when startled, right?”
He raises his eyebrows, chuckling. “This is your story. You tell it.”
Chacha chacha chacha, the rattling sound engages her spine, causing her to shiver momentarily. “What was that?” she whispers, lunging nearly upon his back, her free hand gripping his forearm.
“It could be a Cicada.” He pauses. “Or an Eastern Diamondback.” Pleased with her reaction, he revels in her closeness and uncharacteristic dependency in unfamiliar surroundings.
“You better hope a gator gets us,” she continues to whisper leaning over his shoulder, wound so tight against his frame not even a pin would fit between. “Otherwise, I’m going to strangle you for bringing me out here.”
“I thought you would enjoy the adventure, tough girl,” he jibes, muffling his quiet laughter.
“The city is jungle enough for me, thank you very much. Besides I think I have too many teeth to be traipsing around out here. Isn’t that some sort of prerequisite to life on the bayou?” she exaggerates the unfamiliar term. “Anything more than ten functional teeth residing in one’s mouth is an instant disqualifier.”
“You sure would bring a pretty penny,” he eggs her on, ignoring her insults as they break the clearing into the marsh.
“Whoa.” She balks against Max, staring out at the vast murky body of water. “Where’s this boat you speak of?”
“Right there.” He points to a row of humble airboats docked for local transport. Dragging her onto one of the flat-bottomed, free-sided vessels, he cranks the engine engaging the propeller, creating a gust of wind and a loud ruckus.
“Are you sure we aren’t better off swimming?” she raises her voice over the propeller, never having experienced such a boat.
“You tell me.” He points to a gator resting atop a bundle of spike rush off in the middle of the marsh.
With hands defiantly resting on her hips, she gazes in the direction of his index finger. The gator slithers off into the murky wetland, causing neighboring lily pads to disperse and shift atop the water. She gasps, clutching his shoulders thrusting herself up into the elevated seat at the back of the boat desperately attempting to keep track of the gator and its course. Max rocks the boat easing it from the solid embankment down into the dark, dingy abyss, allowing it to pick up speed before he hoists himself into the remaining elevated seat at Emily’s side. The gusting propeller behind them hungrily sucking wind through its fan causes Emily’s hair to dance in the breeze. She gathers it together in her palms securing it against itself at the back of her neck, disturbed at its fullness and wispy ends as the heavy air counteracts her purposely straightened sleek locks. She grabs Max’s leg, pulling herself back to equilibrium, with the surge of the boat catching its efficient wind. He places his free hand over hers giving it a reassuring squeeze.
“It’s only a few miles across the water,” he consoles, their final destination his grandfather’s house.
She nods, removing her hand from under his, clenching it and its mate against her seat bottom. Looking to the riverbank at the other unattended airboats, she questions, “People just leave them here?”
“Integrity still means something in the bayou,” he answers. “If it’s not yours, leave it alone. But if you need it, you’re welcome to it.”
&nbs
p; “Hmm,” she huffs, impressed, eyeing the silver metal contraption. “Is this what your grandfather uses to fish?”
“Yep. Now that he’s retired. Says it’s all he needs.” Max shrugs. “He used to captain the big boats. He was a commercial fisherman. Knows Bayou La Batre like the back of his hand.”
“Bayou La Batre,” she repeats. “This is Bayou La Batre?” she further indulges, enjoying the French flair of the name rolling off her tongue.
Max shakes his head, his hand lightly maneuvering the steering stick through the middle of the marsh, aiming for the embankment on the other side. “La Batre’s in Alabama. Pee-Paw worked away for weeks at a time. Lots of folks around here do that. Gotta follow the money train.”
Pee-Paw, she internalizes the foreign moniker drawing her own conclusions. “What about Mee-Maw?” she inquires, wondering if her deducing skills are up to par.
“Very good.” He extends her a smile. “Mee-Maw passed a few years back.”
“Was she a fisherman, too?”
“No. She was a quilter.” Taking note of the furrow across her brow, he explains, “She made quilts...blankets...like the one on my bed.”
“Oh.” The colorful patchwork design floods Emily’s memory as she tries to wrap her mind around the uncanny occupation.
“She was nearly full-blooded Choctaw. Quilting was a revered skill in Native American culture. Especially Mee-Maw’s quilts.” He smiles, growing antsy to arrive at his grandfather’s, sure Emily will find him intriguing.
Emily scans him, his high cheek bones and squared jaw now fully making sense, given his lineage. “How’d you get those baby blues?” she asks, clearing her throat, the ingenuous question escaping unchecked. “I mean, most Native Americans and Spaniards have dark eyes, don’t they?” she follows up as if the inquiry is simply the result of her scientific curiosity for genealogy.
2 Brooklyn James Page 12
