Dead Asleep

by Jamie Freveletti

  “Where is she now?”

  “Mangrove,” he said. He started to lean forward. Emma saw that his back was curving. She’d seen the phenomenon before, but only in endurance races. After twenty-four hours in a race, many competitors’ torsos lean to the side from a combination of exhaustion and muscle weakness. She assumed the man was experiencing both, but she didn’t know why.

  “Please hurry. Soon I’ll sleep again. I’m afraid of the sleep.” Emma put the pedal down lower and the Jeep shot forward.

  “I can’t go much faster. The roads are too slick,” she said. He didn’t respond. She drove around the mountain, headed to the Acute Care Center. She turned right at an intersection and wound through the swaying trees. Leaves blew across the road and the occasional tree branch as well. She kept her eyes on the road but couldn’t help notice that the man was bending forward even deeper at the waist. She fought down her concern and did her best to focus only on the road ahead of her.

  She turned another corner and was relieved to see the center ahead. The lights were on but the adjacent parking lot was empty. A neon sign with a red first aid cross symbol glowed through the rain. She pulled into the spot closest to the door and killed the headlights. The man was drooping, his eyes at half-mast.

  “We’re here. Can you walk?” He didn’t respond. Emma pushed open her door, squinting against the driving rain that hit her face and ran down her collar. She ran around to the passenger side and pulled the door open. The man fell sideways and she caught him. His eyes were almost closed. “You need to walk,” she said. “I can’t carry you.”

  He stepped onto the tarmac but his back was bowed. She held him around the shoulders and moved him to the clinic doors. She hauled the right glass panel open and helped him inside.

  The interior smelled of lavender, which was as welcome as it was unexpected. A curved reception counter in white Formica was unattended, and Emma directed the man to a beige couch set against the wall. He sat down and immediately fell to his side. He lay there with his eyes closed. She went through a door to the left of the counter that led into a hallway with numbered treatment rooms. The quiet inside unnerved her. The only sounds were the hammering of the rain on the roof and the muted howling of the wind. She opened each door and found no one. No Carrow, Oz, or Kemmer.

  “Is anyone here?” she called down the hall. There was no response. She returned to the reception area. The man was sleeping. There was a throw on the back of the sofa and she arranged it over him. She hated to leave him but she needed to find Carrow. Not that she had any way of contacting him, because due to the privacy concerns of many of the residents the island didn’t maintain a telephone book. She’d have to drive to the West Hill. She picked up the phone and once again dialed Johnson. The phone rang several times before rolling into voice mail. She dimmed the lights in the reception area and headed into the pouring rain.

  Chapter 38

  Emma fought the wind and rain to the Jeep. The canvas top was a poor defense against the deluge. Water dripped from the right upper corner of the windshield and splashed onto the dashboard. She decided to head first to her own villa to take stock. She didn’t like that Johnson wasn’t answering. The wipers whipped from side to side but made little progress in clearing the glass. She drove with great caution. The last thing she wanted was to slide off the curving road, but what the Jeep lacked in coverage it made up for in traction. Its wheels grabbed the road, and when she encountered some fallen branches it crawled over them with ease.

  She turned into the Blue Heron’s drive and was heartened to see that the lights were on. The villa’s location at the top of the hill meant that the wind whipped around the vehicle with even greater force than it had at the base. She stopped short of the garage. Her table with the lab tests was inside, and she didn’t want to open the door and allow the wind to whip through while she parked. She decided to keep the car outside.

  She ran along the path to the house and entered through the same French door that the man had chased her to just a couple of days ago. Stepping into the kitchen, she saw Johnson on the floor on her back. The cook held a wooden spoon in one hand, and the remains of what looked like a half-prepared loaf of bread sat in a bowl on the table. Emma knelt down to take her pulse. She was alive.

  “Latisha, can you hear me? It’s me, Emma. Can you sit up?”

  Johnson’s chest expanded as she took a deep breath. Her waist stayed down and she arched her back and slowly rose to a sitting position. Her eyes remained closed. “You’ve caught the sleeping sickness. I’m going to walk you to the spare room. If you understand, move your right hand.” Johnson’s right hand moved. “Good. Stand up and walk with me.”

  Emma pulled Johnson’s arm across her shoulder and rose with her until they were standing. She walked with her down the hall and into the spare room, throwing aside the covers and lowering her onto the mattress. Johnson kept her eyes closed through it all. When she was in bed and comfortable, Emma covered her with the duvet.

  “I’m going to find the island doctor. See if he’s here and can help. If you understand, please lift your right hand.” Emma watched as Johnson’s right hand made a slow rise off the mattress and stayed there. After a moment it became clear that Johnson was unable to lower it. “Thank you. You can lower it to the bed again,” Emma said. Johnson’s hand lowered. Watching the previously competent Johnson lose control of her ability to move knocked the wind out of Emma. For the first time she realized that all the assumptions she’d had about the disease were wrong. She’d assumed it was confined to the prodigious drug use of Carrow’s crowd, but Johnson was not part of that and now she was as incapacitated as the band members had been. Emma felt a mixture of sorrow and alarm constrict in her throat. She put a hand over Johnson’s.

  “I’m going to find out what is causing this. I’ll be back to take care of you.” She watched Johnson’s face but there was no sign that the woman heard her. Emma rose and dimmed the light on the nightstand. She glanced over at Johnson one more time and saw a tear rolling down from her temple into her hair. Emma put her cheek against Johnson’s and felt as though she wanted to cry along with the woman. “Oh Latisha, I’m coming back. Please hang in there.”

  Emma raced to the villa’s home office, where a computer sat on a far desk. The storm was intensifying but she still had Internet access. She blew out a breath of relief and typed in a search for the terms “sleep” and “disease.” The first sickness was a rare disease attacking young people that caused them to sleep twenty hours a day for two weeks or more at a time. Called Kleine-Levin syndrome, it appeared to resolve in older adults and bore no relation to the symptoms she was seeing. The second was a sleeping sickness caused by the bite of an infected tsetse fly and ran rampant in various African countries. While this disease could have been spread by a human carrier, Emma doubted that it accounted for the strange symptoms of those on Terra Cay. She kept scrolling, adding words to the search, and the results showed a travel warning issued by Terra Cay regarding a suspected outbreak of Encephalitis Lethargica.

  The notice emphasized that there was no cure.

  She sat and stared at the words next to the blinking cursor. There is no cure. She wanted to jump up, call an ambulance, get Johnson to the tarmac and fly her to a hospital. The idea that the vibrant, efficient woman who handled the caretaking duties of the villa with such efficiency and good cheer could end up frozen in a nursing home until she died was unbearable.

  “It can’t be this disease.” Emma said the words out loud. The wind lashed at the windows and the rain poured down the panes. She jumped when the villa’s doorbell rang. Leaving the Web page open, she headed to the front door and peered through the peephole.

  Sumner stood on the stoop. She swung the door open and he hurried inside, bringing a shower of cold rain with him. He wore a dark black oiled trench coat that reached below his knees and his head was bare. He held a gun in one hand and gripped the neck of a bottle in the other. His soaking hair was plaste
red against his skull, dark circles rimmed his eyes, and his lips were chapped despite the island’s humidity.

  Emma thought he was one of the best sights she’d seen in ages. The relief she felt at his mere presence was so strong that she wondered how she’d managed to survive the stress of the last few days without him. He smiled at her, and even in the dim hallway light she could see how his eyes lit up as he did.

  “I’m ridiculously happy to see you,” she said. He leaned over, bending at the waist to stay far enough away to keep the coat from dripping on her, and gave her a kiss on the lips. She felt his rough skin and its warmth, and the storm and uncertainty faded from her consciousness as she kissed him back. For a moment the world receded, but just for a moment, because Sumner had only kissed her a few times before, when the universe had been preparing to explode around them. He moved back and held up the gun and the bottle.

  “I bring you artillery, alcohol, and bad news. In that order.”

  So here comes the explosion, Emma thought. She noticed that the alcohol was the Laphroaig that Carrow had brought the first time she met him.

  “That’s Richard Carrow’s. Is he with you?”

  “No. I understood that he was accompanying you to the blue holes.”

  “He did, but the last time I saw him he and Oz were headed to the Acute Care Center.”

  “Oz? Oswald Kroger? He’s here?” Sumner knew Oz from a run in with him during Oz’s drifter era. The men had met briefly.

  “He came to run some audio for Carrow. Is the scotch for you or me?”

  “I only intended to bring the gun, but Carrow’s girlfriend suggested that I bring the whiskey along in case Carrow was with you.” He shrugged. “Seems as though Carrow isn’t often seen without it.”

  “He’s not. What’s the bad news?”

  “It’s a long tale. Let me get out of this jacket.” Sumner shrugged out of one sleeve and Emma helped him take the entire coat off. She placed it on a hanger in the nearby closet.

  “Come into the living room. I’ll pour the scotch.”

  He nodded. She noticed that all traces of humor had left his face. She led him to the living area. Sheets of water poured down the tall French doors that lined the wall facing the ocean. They rattled occasionally when gusts of wind buffeted them. Emma switched on two table lamps and sank into the long low couch. Sumner sat next to her and she settled in to face him. He took a sip of the drink and closed his eyes.

  “That good?” she said.

  “I needed a bracer. It’s been a long twenty-four hours,” he said. Emma frowned. Sumner’s news must be more than just bad. She took a sip as well and welcomed the burn as it slid down her throat.

  “The island’s under quarantine,” Sumner said.

  Emma groaned. “Since when?”

  “Since yesterday evening. The rumor that it was going to happen started earlier in the day, and the owners along with the locals rushed to leave. By the time the boom was lowered there were only one hundred people left on Terra Cay, and of those, sixty are asleep.”

  “Sixty-one,” Emma said. “When I arrived here I found the cook on the kitchen floor.”

  “Sixty-one.” He took another drink.

  “What’s the disease?”

  Sumner shook his head. “The officials don’t know. They’re running tests on the first victims—the Rex Rain band members—but they’ve not been able to determine anything. Whatever it is, though, it’s got the potential to be a pandemic. The authorities are alarmed by the rapid dissemination. They’re trying to find the source.”

  “Where’s Randiger? He’s from Island Security. Have you met him?”

  “He flew off the island to meet with government officials to discuss the outbreak. The quarantine was issued shortly after he left and he’s not allowed back. They’re holding him in a sterile location until they can determine if he brought it with him, and they’re trying to contact everyone who visited the island over Christmas.”

  “And us?”

  “We’re going nowhere. Everyone else has to stay put as well. The airport and dock are closed.”

  “Who’s asleep at Carrow’s?”

  “Everyone except Ian Porter and Britanni Warner. Belinda Rory is weaving in and out of consciousness. I expect her to be asleep next. All the staff is gone. They either fled before the quarantine or disappeared to their homes.”

  “Marwell is asleep. We found him when we docked.” Emma gave Sumner a shortened version of the events on the ocean.

  “An assassin?”

  “Definitely. A pro, too. Kemmer said he brought his own weapon. Do you know Kemmer?”

  “I do. He’s a hash dealer, pimp, and arms merchant. The first two he does legally in Amsterdam, but the last one is definitely not.”

  “My biggest concern is that this guy was headed to Terra Cay after he successfully eliminated us. If he was able to wrench his boat out of whatever had a grip on it, then he likely came straight here. There’s a rickety dock on the mangrove side that he may use.”

  Sumner picked up the gun that he’d laid on the cocktail table in front of the sofa.

  “That is where this comes in handy.”

  The windows rattled as a strong burst of wind hit them. Emma could smell the wet loam and leaves that blew along with the breeze. The idea that Joseph was out there somewhere waiting to kill her was the final touch that made the moment seem surreal. She thought about the voodoo priestess.

  “There was a woman claiming that she was a bokor priestess.”

  Sumner grimaced and slumped against the back of the couch with his legs spread. He held the glass on his stomach.

  “Unfortunately that one is still awake. She’s running around claiming that the sickness is a curse that some voodoo god has placed on the island. She is, of course, selling fake potions and amulets that she says will protect those who use them. She’s a real prize.”

  Emma had to agree. “Has she threatened you yet?” He nodded.

  “Twice. Once in the middle of a séance that Rory was conducting. I told her to take off and she got a bit angry. She kept trying to rattle me with her talk of the devil and curses.” He gave Emma a wry look and took another sip.

  Emma knew, better than anyone perhaps, that it took a lot to rattle Sumner. He faced challenges with a grim determination that would be appropriate in a seasoned soldier but were highly unusual in such a young man. She thought he could be described as an “old soul.” He was not lighthearted by any means, but she welcomed his intensity. What Sumner lost in affability he gained in dependability. If he had your back, your odds of surviving went up exponentially. Emma had relied on that survival bump in the past, and something told her she’d be relying on it again.

  “We need to find Oz and Carrow,” she said. “They have Kemmer with them and he’s in need of a doctor.”

  “The doctor’s asleep,” Sumner said.

  “Not good,” Emma said.

  “Not good at all. Have you looked into this? Warner said that you administered some mandrake to Nalen and word is he not only stopped having seizures but also woke up a few days later.”

  “That was a bit of dumb luck, I’m afraid. The only disease I’ve found is incurable,” Emma said. She told him about the travel notice’s mention of Encephalitis Lethargica.

  Sumner frowned. “Incurable? I hate the sound of that.”

  “Then you’ll hate the nicknames for the disease as well.”

  He took another sip of the whiskey, swallowed and said, “Hit me with ’em.”

  “There are two. The first is called the ‘Aurora syndrome.’ Aurora was Sleeping Beauty’s name in the fairy tale. Some doctors think that the legend came from an actual case during the Middle Ages.”

  Sumner snorted. “Another scary as hell story that kids end up reading for pleasure. Like that song.”

  “Song?”

  “Ring around the rosy. Don’t some think it’s a song about the Black Death? And there we all were, in the playground holding h
ands running in circles and singing it.” He drank again. “You said there were two. What’s the other one?”

  “Sleeping Beauty Death,” Emma said.

  Chapter 39

  Stromeyer drove to the deserted dock in a black BMW M5 with a turbo 560 horsepower V8 engine, shaded windows, and a special glove box with a built-in pistol case. It wasn’t armored by Stromeyer’s specific request. Armoring slowed down the vehicle’s response time, and she wanted speed rather than safety. She was back in St. Martin, taking a risk, she knew, but willing to do so to get some more information. Rain had just started to fall and the windshield wipers slid from side to side in a delayed pattern. The radio console glowed with the numbers of the marine station that she’d turned to in order to keep abreast of the oncoming tropical storm. The feeder bands were just beginning to lash at the island. She figured she had thirty minutes to complete her transaction before the storm began in earnest.

  She pulled into the dock next to the long black limousine that idled at the farthest parking spot and flashed her brights once. The car flashed back. She heard the notification for an incoming text on her phone, and the words Come inside the limo appeared on her phone screen.

  “Squeeze play,” Stromeyer muttered. She’d expected as much, but to crawl inside another’s car meant losing all control over both the situation and environment. The cramped interior would leave no room to maneuver should the seller wish to simply slide a knife in her ribs and take off.

  She opened the glove box, removed the pistol along with a black balaclava to cover her face. Before she left the car she also grabbed a small leather rectangular clutch that contained over thirty thousand dollars, give or take, depending on the exchange rate, balanced equally between American currency and euros. The seller wanted to cover all financial possibilities and to bury his cash in various countries.