Once Bitten

by Reinke, Sara

  He also knew the sounds of footsteps against his deck, and that was why he stood now, the computer forgotten, his eyes pinned on the darkness beyond the berth’s threshold.

  From the companionway hatch, he heard scritch-scritch-scratch, and the downy hairs along the nape of his neck stirred uneasily.

  Scritch-scritch-scritch. More insistently this time. Someone or something was up on the main deck scratching at the hatch, wanting to get inside.

  It all started with this scratching sound, Lucy had written, and now John shivered as the hair along his forearms also stood upright at anxious attention.

  He kept a thirty-two-inch, thirty-pound Model C271 Louisville Slugger baseball bat on board. It was the same kind major league left fielder Ken Griffey, Junior played with, and while John probably wouldn’t be winning any home-run derbies with it any time soon, he could still knock a prowler into the middle of next Tuesday with the business end.

  Bat in hand, John crossed the galley and stood slightly crouched beneath the hatch. There was a security light outside on the marina gangplank and it cut a thin seam of pale, dim glow at the door’s edge. When whatever was out there dragged something against the opposite side of the hatch overhead, the sound was immediate and loud: scriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitch.

  What is that? John thought, his eyes enormous, pinned on the door. Lucy Weston’s words kept reverberating in his mind: It all started with this scratching sound.

  And then he realized not only what the sound was, but how big an idiot he was, to boot.

  When John had roused in the V-berth compartment, he’d heard Nutsy barking loudly but now, outside, everything was silent. Although the dog normally kept with Ethel aboard the Cookie’s Cutter, it was nimble enough to hop from boat to gangplank if the urge ever struck it. Many a fine morning, John had stepped off the Quagmire only to discover Nutsy had come to visit during the night, leaving behind a fresh pile of shit John would invariably step in it.

  “You little hairy bastard,” John muttered with a frown, reaching up and unfastening the deadbolt lock on the hatch door. In his mind, he could see it clearly, Nutsy taking that bold, extra step from the dock onto the Quagmire, circling about a couple of times the way dogs do when they’re about to take a crap, then squatting, its tail hiked, to leave John another steaming present.

  Not this time. John shoved open the hatch door and stomping up the stairs, Slugger poised and at the ready to plant up the dog’s ass.

  Only there was no dog.

  There was nothing at all on the stern deck, only a whitewash of illumination from the nearby security light and John’s own shadow splayed long and erratically across the deck floor.

  Puzzled, he cut a glance toward the Cutter and saw all of the interior lights were out. Ethel was in bed. Beyond her boat, he could see the streamlined silhouette of His Girl Friday dominating the far end of the wharf.

  Beneath him, the Quagmire bobbed gently, a slow undulation beneath his feet. He heard the shushed gurgle as water cut a broad swatch around the boat’s hull and keel and otherwise there was nothing, not even the sound of his own breath, because he’d been inadvertently holding it.

  Climbing up onto the deck, he checked his rigging. The mainsheet lines and his lazy jack were secure, as were the staysail and genoa lines. His reef lines hadn’t come loose and flapped down onto the deck to scrape against the hatch, and his mooring lines were drawn taut around the deck cleats. Nothing he could see looked out of place.

  “So then what was that scratching?” he remarked. And more importantly, his mind added, why am I standing here talking to myself about it?

  He forked his fingers through his hair, turned and ducked back below deck. “I’m probably delirious,” he muttered, slamming the hatch shut behind him, locking it back in place. Rabies or something from where Lucy bit me yesterday. It’s probably gangrened. I’m hallucinating, that’s all.

  ***

  “Hey, you’re back,” Sandy exclaimed the next morning as he tromped through the office door.

  John muttered something in reply as he walked past her desk. It had not been a good morning, the perfect kicker to a lousy night. He’d slept terribly, waking up over and over from restless dreams, at the uncanny and unshakable sensation that someone kept whispering in his ear, soft, inarticulate but persistent sounds. Upon rousing for work, he’d found the glare of the bright morning sun unbearable. He’d promptly closed all of the curtains inside the Quagmire’s cabin area, and had gotten dressed, showered and shaved while wearing his sunglasses.

  “You forgot your coffee.” Sandy trailed behind him, standing in his office doorway, and watched as he began to pull all of the blinds closed, engulfing the room in shadows.

  “No, thanks,” he said without looking at her, because he could smell it. She was holding the paper Venti cup in her hand, and the aroma of the coffee, ordinarily quite appealing, instead made his stomach do a queasy little flip-flop. Even though she remained at the threshold, the smell seemed to fill the room in a sudden flood, threatening to gag him.

  He glanced at her over his shoulder as he drew the last panel of blinds closed. “Would you get that out of here, please?” And because he could see in her eyes that he’d just hurt her feelings, he added, “My stomach’s a little upset this morning. The smell’s getting to me.”

  “Oh.” This seemed to appease her. That momentary hurt faded, and she disappeared long enough to return the cup to her desk. When she came back, she leaned against the doorframe and folded her arms. “What are you doing?”

  “What?” he asked, then realized she was studying the blinds now, visibly puzzled. “Oh. The glare. It’s too bright in here, don’t you think?” In fact, the light streaming in through the front bay windows, spilling across the reception area and making its way into his office was enough to make him squint. “You mind to close that door?”

  “Sure.” Sandy stepped into his office. “Are you okay? You’re acting weird.”

  “I’m fine,” he said. Her gaze was drawn to the bandage on his neck. She could see it despite his best attempts to tug his shirt collar up in camouflage, and he ducked into the bathroom to escape. “Just tired.”

  “How’s the case going?” she called after him. “Anything I can do to help?”

  “Not right now,” he called back, keeping the lights off in the bathroom to spare his eyes the fluorescents. “It’s going okay, although I don’t think Ruth Weston’s going to like what I’m coming up with.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He turned the sink taps on to disguise the fact he wasn’t doing anything in the bathroom but trying vainly to dodge her. “I mean I found out Lucy Weston hasn’t been waiting tables at the Show Me! bar after all. She’s been dancing there.”

  “You mean a stripper? Wow,” Sandy said. “You know, I tried that once.”

  John blinked, then poked his head out of the bathroom. “You did?”

  Sandy nodded. “I didn’t last a week. I fell off the stage and broke my ankle.”

  She admitted this so matter-of-factly, so unashamedly, that he simply stood there, speechless, trying to imagine her in a sparkling G-string and spiked heels.

  “It was very traumatizing,” Sandy said. “I’m still affected by it. You’ll notice you never see me in stilettos. That’s why. Pasties, either. Of course, it could have been the song, Tom Petty’s ‘Free-Falling.’ I’ve never been lucky with Tom Petty. I lost out on a spot in the Miss Nevada Pageant seven years ago thanks to him.”

  “Tom Petty was a judge in the Miss Nevada Pageant?”

  “No. I performed ‘Refugee’ for my talent.”

  “Singing?” John asked.

  “No.” Sandy looked at him like he was nuts. “On the violin.”

  He blinked at her for another moment. “I didn’t know you played the violin.”

  She dropped him a wink. “I have all kinds of hidden talents.” She flapped her hand in beckon. “Speaking of which, come out here and lay down. I’ll rub yo
ur shoulders. Your back’s a wreck again. I can tell by the way you’re walking.”

  He limped out of the bathroom, realizing it was futile to try to keep hiding in there. Besides, a massage sounded really good to him. His entire body felt aching and sore, like he’d slept crammed inside a sock drawer, jockeying for space with a rhinoceros.

  “It’s all that driving you did,” Sandy said. “That jalopy of yours doesn’t have any lumbar support. I keep telling you that.”

  “It’s not a jalopy,” he growled. “I keep telling you that. My car is a classic piece of American automotive engineering know-how.” John uttered a low grunt as he lowered himself to his knees, then lay down on his stomach.

  “That’s called an oxymoron.” Sandy settled herself comfortably on his ass, hiking up her skirt almost to her waist so she could spread her legs and straddle him. “Right up there with almost everything, virtual reality and jumbo shrimp. Did you know oxymoron itself is a performative contradiction? Oxy means sharp while moros means dull, from the ancient Greek. Dull and sharp, American and automotive engineering know-how. Both are contradictio in terminis with definite sideroxylonic qualities.”

  He expected her to start on his lower back, and when her hands fell against his shoulders instead, sending bright, searing pain through his wounded neck, he jerked, knocking her off of him as he cried out. His hand darted to his nape and he rolled reflexively onto his side.

  “John,” Sandy exclaimed, scrambling onto her knees.

  “I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I’m sorry, Sandy, I didn’t mean…”

  “Are you alright?” She put her arm around him, then he felt her fingertips slip beneath the edge of his collar, drawing it back. Before he could shrug loose, she saw the bandage. “What happened?”

  “Nothing,” he said, pulling away from her. “It’s nothing.”

  “Nothing, hell. You screamed like I burned you.”

  “I didn’t scream.” He spared her a glower.

  “Yes, you did. Come here. Let me see.”

  “Women scream,” he said as she hooked his collar and leaned closer. “Men yell.”

  “Take your shirt off. Come on, get up. Sit on the couch over here.”

  He begrudgingly did as he was told, limping to his feet and letting her lead to the couch. She pushed him down against it, then squatted on the floor in front of him. “What have you done to yourself?” she murmured, unbuttoning the front of his shirt.

  “I didn’t do anything,” he replied. “She bit me.”

  Sandy glanced up, met his gaze. “Who?”

  “Lucy Weston. I went to her apartment and she attacked me. She was crazed, on drugs, I’m pretty sure. Probably methamphetamines.”

  “You sure it was her?” Sandy asked, pulling his shirt tails out from beneath his waistband. When he nodded, she said, “Where is she now?”

  “I don’t know. She took off. But it looked like she’d been holing up at the apartment for awhile.”

  He told her about the makeshift nest in Lucy’s closet, the garbage bags she’d taped up to cover the windows.

  “I think she’s been there the whole time, or at least for most of it,” he said, sucking in a soft, hurting breath as Sandy eased the tape back from his bandage and pulled away the gauze square.

  “Lucy Weston did this to you?” Sandy whispered, her fingertips trailing lightly against the outermost edge of the swollen perimeter. Even this delicate friction was enough to make him jerk.

  “She had something in her mouth.” John flapped his hand at his face. “Fake teeth, I think. Like Halloween vampire teeth.”

  “She got you good,” Sandy said, her blue eyes round with worry.

  “My arm, too,” he said, holding out the wounded appendage, limp-wristed, like a dog with a lame paw.

  She rolled back his shirt cuff to reveal the bandages there, too. “What did the doctor say?” When he didn’t answer, her frown deepened. “You didn’t go to a doctor, did you?” And without giving him the chance to respond, she added, “Jonathan Harker, do you have any idea how many germs live in a person’s mouth? Over one hundred million. You can catch hepatitis that way, or syphilis, actinomycosis, tetanus.”

  “I don’t even know what actinomy-what’s-it is, never mind if I…”

  “Actinomycosis,” she corrected. “It’s a potentially chronic infection caused by filamentous, gram-positive bacteria.”

  He blinked at her stupidly.

  “I was a medical transcriptionist for awhile,” Sandy said, and now she crossed her arms, pushing her breasts up beneath her blouse to a jaunty level. “It was on my resume.” She stood, catching him by the hands and pulling him to his feet. “Come on.”

  “What?” He tried to shrug his way loose of her. “Where are we going?”

  “To the emergency room,” Sandy replied, hauling him in tow.

  ***

  John assumed it was a bad sign when your attending emergency room physician remarked, “Jesus Christ in a chicken basket,” while examining your wound.

  He and Sandy had sat in the waiting room of the Little Sister Island Medical Center urgent treatment center for more than two hours, followed by another thirty minutes at least behind the closed draperies of an E.R. bay.

  The doctor, a young resident who didn’t look a day over the age of thirteen, had instructed John to lay back on the examination table. He’d used iodine and saline solution to clean the bite wounds on John’s neck and arm, then had proceed to poke and prod at the edges of the holes with his gloved fingertips and a variety of tools and instruments. Debriding the wounds, he’d called this, along with collecting a wound culture to assess for infection.

  Inflicting torture is what John called it.

  “You’ve got some necrotic tissue I’m going to excise here,” the doctor explained as he worked on John’s neck. “That will help when it’s time to close the wounds, too. Elongated wounds stitch up more neatly than round ones. Then I’ll to pack them with iodoform to prevent further infection and redress them. I want you to come back in three days so we can suture.”

  “They debride then delay closure because bite wounds run a high risk of infection,” Sandy stage-whispered, leaning over John so he could peek down her blouse. It was a nice distraction, until the doctor poked him again.

  “I’m going to give you a couple of shots, too,” the doctor said.

  “Terrific,” John muttered.

  “A tetanus booster and a TIG—tetanus immune globulin,” the doctor continued.

  “Probably in your butt,” Sandy supplied.

  “Terrific,” John muttered again.

  “I’m going to go ahead and put you on an ampicillin-sulbactam drip while you’re here.”

  “That’s a kind of antibiotic,” Sandy said. “It’s used for—”

  John flapped her away irritably. “I know what an antibiotic’s for.”

  “Then I’ll write you out a prescription for erythromycin to take with you, plus another one for high-dose ibuprofen. I should have a better idea of what we’re dealing with here in the next week or so, when your wound culture comes back. But in the meantime, those should take down the inflammation, help with the soreness, too.”

  “Thanks,” John said, unenthused as he rolled onto his side and pulled his pants down so the kid could jam a pair of syringes that each felt the size of the Space Needle into the meat of his buttocks.

  “Cute,” Sandy remarked when the doctor had left. She stood behind John, watching as he wriggled his pants back up. “He gave you Sponge Bob band-aids.” She slapped him playfully in the ass. “One on each cheek.”

  “Ow,” John grumbled, momentarily lightheaded as he got to his feet.

  “You alright?” she asked.

  “Oh, sure.” He zipped his fly back up. “Terrific.”

  In all likelihood, he’d just racked up at least two grand in medical expenses. And that was without the intravenous antibiotic he was supposed to receive shortly. This would probably raise the total amount
of his visit to around thirty-five hundred bucks, or roughly all of the operating capital he had left out of Ruth Weston’s retainer.

  Terrific, he thought.

  “Give me your keys.” Sandy held out her hand expectantly. “I’ll run by the marina while you’re having your IV treatment, put a bag together for you.”

  “What?” He turned, puzzled.

  “You know, shirt, shoes, pants, toothbrush, floss.”

  John shook his head, blinking stupidly. “What?”

  “Floss,” she said again. “Little spool of wax-coated thread. Helps reduce your risk of periodontal disease. Sometimes comes in mint flavor.”

  He shook his head again, realizing it hadn’t been the act of standing that had made him feel dizzy. “I meant why are you going to pack a bag for me? Where am I going?”

  “My house,” Sandy replied brightly.

  “What?” Now he poked his fingertip in his ear, wiggling it. “Why?”

  “Because you’re hurt. You need my help.” She walked past him, slapping him on the belly with the back of her hand before ducking through the curtains. “And if I don’t keep an eye on you, you won’t come back for your sutures. It’s my God-given duty.”

  “You’re an atheist.”

  “An optimistic agnostic,” she corrected cheerfully. “Which means I believe in God more than I do mankind.” With a flip of the curtain, she walked away. “Which means you’re coming with me.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “I didn’t know you lived with your mom.”

  John was unaccustomed to being a passenger in his own car, but he forgot to be irritable with Sandy for her insistence that he wasn’t fit to drive as they approached the Pink Palace.

  “I don’t,” Sandy replied, as she leaned out of the driver’s side window and punched a number into a security keypad. Obligingly, an enormous pair of wrought iron gates began to swing inward, part of a sprawling fence that marked the outermost perimeter of Gracie Dodd’s property. “I live in the guest house behind the Pink Palace.”