“Sure,” I say, not sure at all. Wrinkling my nose, I pick up the cup and blow at the vile liquid a few times, to cool it a little more. Steam still rises from it, but I’m tired of waiting. I take a sip, almost gag as the hot, noxious liquid burns its way down my throat.
“Does it taste as bad as your expression, old man?” Derek says.
I nod. “Like drinking hot, liquid garbage,” I say, forcing myself to take another sip. A shudder runs through me and I close my eyes and gulp the rest of the drink down as quickly as I can.
Heat burns through me. My stomach rumbles and churns. My mind fogs and my balance seems to escape me for a moment. The now empty cup drops from my hand and shatters on the floor. I give it no thought. Just staying erect concerns me more. I waver on my feet and strong hands clamp on my arms.
“Peter! Are you alright?” Chloe says.
Opening my eyes, I find her in front of me, staring into my face, and Derek and Claudia flanking me, holding me up by my arms. My stomach convulses again. My entire midsection cramps. I groan and shake my head.
I start to heave and Chloe puts her hand over my mouth. “No! Don’t, Peter,” she says. “If you throw it up, you’ll just have to drink another cup. You have to give it time.”
Somehow I control the reflex, the taste of bile now competing with the bitter aftertaste of the tea. “Outside,” I manage to say, “under the gumbo limbo.”
The three of them walk me down the spiral staircase and out onto the veranda. After the stifling heat of the great room, the warm, mid-afternoon breeze cools me. I take a breath of fresh air and sigh. As soon as we get to the shade of the gumbo limbo tree, I let my legs collapse and I sit with my back against the tree.
“Are you better now?” Chloe says.
I look up at all three of their concerned faces. “Better, but not good,” I say.
Frowning, Chloe says, “What can we do?”
My stomach cramps again. I resist doubling over. If I must wait for my body’s reaction to the tea to pass, I don’t want to do it while others stare at me and worry. “Just leave me alone for a while. Let me sit here.”
The cramps come irregularly. Sweats follow them, soaking me so that I shiver in the slightest breeze. My body burns after that—until the next cramp comes. I sit and endure it all, waiting for the cramps to lessen, for the sweat dampening my body to dry.
Time means little to me. I stare at the harbor or out to the bay, my mind on only my discomfort. Sometime during the day, a pod of dolphin passes by the end of my channel, swimming north. Another cramp hits me, and when I look again they’re gone.
A particularly long pause occurs between cramps and I close my eyes and concentrate on the rustling of the tree leaves above me and the lapping of the water in the harbor. Something splashes. I ignore it until a second splash, a louder one follows. Opening my eyes, I find only two concentric rings of ripples expanding across the water, nothing else. Probably a manatee visit, I think. Yet another cramp strikes me and I give the splashes no more thought.
By the time the sun threatens to descend behind the mainland, the cramps have finally diminished. No sweats follow them, no chills. Only a general queasiness remains, along with a new sensation—a mild burning in my midriff where Lorrel had stabbed me.
I rub my hand over the spot and stand, using the tree for support, my legs trembling so much that I don’t trust them. The burning intensifies enough to make me grimace. “Chloe!” I mindspeak.
“Yes, Peter?”
“I don’t think the tea worked. I think I need to drink my antidote.”
“Now? But you’re not due to drink it until tomorrow evening.” Chloe mindspeaks.
“Is it possible the mangrove tea did something with the poison? Could it have counteracted the antidote?”
“It’s possible, I guess. I don’t think it’s very likely.”
“Well, you should tell that to my body. It feels like I have a red-hot piece of metal inside me.”
Chloe rushes down with the bottle of antidote, Claudia and Derek right behind her. As soon as she puts the bottle to my lips, I drain it. The burning disappears within seconds. I suck in a deep breath of air and smile.
“It’s good to see you smile again, boss,” Claudia says.
I nod, leaning on the tree, swaying a little. “It’s good to be able to,” I say. “But if I’m going to be up for tomorrow night, I think I’m going to need to rest now.”
Chloe insists on helping me back to the house by herself. She holds my right arm, supporting me whenever I waver. “Peter, that was your last full bottle of antidote. We have only a half of a bottle left for you—unless Derek offers to give up part of his share.”
“I don’t think that’s likely.” I smile.
“At least we have four and a half more days to figure out what we can do,” she says.
“I’m not so sure about that.”
Chloe stops and pulls me to a halt. “Wait. What are you saying?”
I blow out a breath, suck another in. “I think something changed when I drank that tea. It’s like the poison morphed. I needed to drink that antidote a full day early. There’s no telling how soon I’ll need to drink more of it again.”
“Oh, this is so unfair for both of us!” Chloe stomps her right foot down. She shakes her head and says, “Unfair,” again.
“It is,’ I say, and she hugs me. I wrap my arms around her too.
We stand pressed together, saying nothing more until the day turns dark around us. Chloe sighs and helps me the rest of the way to the house. I sigh too when she chooses to lead me to Henri’s room, not to ours.
38
Sleep comes easy and stays long. Chloe wakes me after ten, bringing me a near-raw, twenty-ounce porterhouse to eat in bed. The aroma of blood and meat fills my nostrils and brings saliva to my mouth. I wolf the steak down, but it does little to diminish my hunger. “Could I have another one?” I say.
Chloe laughs. “Derek will be jealous. I told him one is all he gets.” But she leaves to get me another.
I consider lying down again, but shake my head. I still have things to do, to prepare for the evening. Picking up the phone on Henri’s nightstand, I dial LaMar Associates. Sarah answers in her official voice. I grin when she stammers a little after hearing mine.
“I hope you’re calling to tell me you’ve changed your mind about this whole jail thing,” Ian says when he picks up the phone.
“Not at all,” I say. “That’s why I’m calling. I want to surrender tonight. I’ll be at your office at seven. I want you to make arrangements for my surrender at the jail at eight thirty. I want you to make sure I get the whole treatment, the handcuffs and fingerprinting and the perp walk. And I want you to make sure that our friends in the media cover it. I want them to give it live coverage.”
“For God’s sake, why?”
“I told you. I want to look persecuted. You can arrange to bail me out in the morning.”
“Trust me, Peter. You won’t like jail one bit.”
Grinning, I say, “Don’t worry, Ian. I think I’ll handle it fine.”
I have him transfer my call back to Sarah and ask for Arturo. “Hi, Peter,” he says. “Are you okay? Claudia told me that whole arbolillo thing didn’t work out.”
“It didn’t, but I’m fine right now.”
“My wife’s cousin’s the one we should talk to. Raoul’s the Spanish scholar in the family. He’s been out of town, but he’s due in tonight.”
“Good,” I say. “We’ll see how he translates the word. Maybe he’ll give us something new to work on—but that’s not why I called.”
Chloe walks back into the room while I’m in the midst of giving him instructions on what media coverage I expect to see given if an incident happens during the evening concerning Jordan Davidson. “No problem, Peter. They’ll do what I ask,” he says, and I hang up and turn my attention to consuming another, larger steak.
After I get up and dress, I go over the Uzis and the sh
otguns with Chloe, teaching her how to load, cock and shoot them. I take her outside and walk with her to each cannon and rail gun, pointing out the torches and the Zippo lighters. Then I take her down to the dock and show her the switches to the two fuel pumps.
“Do you think all of this is necessary? You said we’re much larger than they are. Can’t we just fight them? There are three of us you know.”
“Only if your brother stays and fights,” I say. “Derek hasn’t always shown any great willingness to risk death. Even if he does stay, we still have the problem of facing too many Pelk. If we could just fight one-on-one or even two of them to one of us, I’d agree with you. But there will be more of them than that—and they use weapons. Tridents. I told you about them. They can slice right through our scales.”
“Don’t worry, Peter. I’ll fight them any way you want. We’ll win. I’m sure. Even if Derek wimps out on us.”
I smile at her, wish I felt as confident as she sounds.
Claudia comes out at noon, docking her blue speedboat by herself, joining Chloe and me on the veranda. “Ready for tonight?” I say.
“Sure, boss.”
“And Toba understands exactly what I want?”
“Yeah. She and Pepe will leave Black Point at nine thirty. They’ll be through the Featherbed Channel and heading east by ten at the latest. I’ve gone over everything with her. “She’s not too happy that Pepe has to be hurt. . . .”
“She does understand that I’m not out to hurt him? We just have to make things look right.”
“Don’t worry boss, she’s great. She just hopes nothing screws up. She’ll do everything just like she’s told.”
Leaving Claudia with Chloe, I go searching for Derek. When I can’t find him anywhere outdoors or up in the great room, I walk down to the second floor, open Lizzie’s door and grin at Derek’s sleeping form on my daughter’s bed. I shake him awake.
“Why? What? Is it time already?”
“No. It’s early. We’re not leaving until after six,” I say. “I just wanted to go over everything with you again.”
“For Christ’s sake, Peter. How stupid do you think I am? It’s nothing. Really.”
“Are you sure you can still do it?”
“You should know you don’t forget that sort of thing, old man,” Derek says.
“Show me.”
“Bloody hell,” he says, but he stands and shifts shape while I watch.
I walk around him, examining his new form, nodding. “Good,” I say. “You can change back now. It should work fine.”
“Don’t know any reason why you doubted it. It worked damned well the last time I used it in Miami,” he grumbles.
Derek stays in his room after I leave. Chloe and Claudia go up to the great room, Claudia to read through my father’s log books again and Chloe to review her mother’s book of potions. “Maybe between the two of us, we’ll come up with a way to handle the poison,” Chloe says.
I find I can’t sit and watch them. Nor can I read or watch TV. My mind keeps going to seven o’clock and the events that should unfold after that. I go downstairs and out on the veranda, Max tagging along with me, glad to pace and wander aimlessly along with me.
Together, we wander out on the sand dunes on the ocean side of the island. The rest of the dog pack rushes up to us, surrounds us, their tails wagging furiously, their bodies bumping into us as they vie for our attention. But when I pet them only a few times, and when they realize I’ve brought no food, they drift away into the underbrush.
Going down to the beach, I pick up a piece of driftwood and fling it into the water. Some days the waves will rush it right back to the shore. But today, the few waves that lap up to the sand have hardly enough size or speed to carry anything along. I grin at the calm water and the weak breeze and hope little changes after dark. Rough water will only make everything more difficult.
Dorsal fins show again, far offshore this time, many more than the last time I spotted them. Holding my breath, I count each dolphin as it passes, before they all disappear from sight. Twelve in the pod, not too abnormal a size for the local waters. I let my breath out. When the Pelk come, it should be far more than that.
The pain returns shortly after three. As soon as I feel the first mild pangs of its heat, I go back inside and rush to the great room. I find both women reading at the table. They look up as soon as I enter the room. “It started again,” I say.
“Shit!” Claudia says, slamming her log book closed.
“So soon?” Chloe says. “Is it as bad as yesterday?”
I shake my head. “Not yet . . . but it will be. I need to drink my share of the antidote.”
Chloe stares at the bottles standing on the counter. “There are two bottles left. There’s no reason you shouldn’t drink one of them. . . .”
“No,” I say. “Half of that bottle belongs to Derek.”
“Peter, yesterday you took three days’ worth and that lasted only one day. Half of a bottle might not take you until morning.”
I shrug. “If it takes me through the night, at least we’ll see part of my plan finished.” I look at Claudia. “You’ll have to help Chloe go tomorrow. If I’m not here, she’ll have to leave for Jamaica.”
Confused, Claudia looks from me to Chloe.
Chloe shakes her head. “I’m not going anywhere yet!”
She walks to the counter and picks up a bottle of antidote. “Derek!” she mindspeaks. “Wake up, you lazy bugger! Peter needs to drink more antidote, and I’m going to give him your half bottle’s worth!”
Derek bellows loud enough for us to hear him from the second floor. “Are you daft, woman? That’s mine. Didn’t your mate tell you that?” he mindspeaks.
“Yes, he did. He told me he wouldn’t drink your half. But if you don’t give it to him and he dies before you because of that, I promise I’ll turn my back on you. You will die in pain without any help or any comfort coming from me.”
“Look at what your bloody help has done for him.”
“There’s still a chance we might find the antidote. But if you let my husband die, there will be no help for you, you fool!”
“You were always a strange child. Strange ways. Strange moods. I should have smothered you in your bed then. Give him the whole bloody damned bottle! Just bugger off now and leave me be.”
Chloe turns, grinning, holding the bottle up as if she had won it as an award. She walks over to me, pulling the cork with her teeth, and hands it to me. I take it and gulp down its contents, my wife watching, her hands on her hips, until I finish the last drop.
Claudia, who’s stared at us the whole time, says, “Okay, per usual, I have no idea what just happened.”
“Nor will you ever,” I say, smiling as the antidote quenches the heat inside me, erasing every vestige of pain.
“You know,” I say, looking at Chloe. “We probably didn’t gain that much more time. You still may have to go to Jamaica.”
She returns my gaze, and I sigh at the sadness I see in her eyes. “Stop talking about Jamaica. For now, I prefer to concentrate on finding a way for you to survive.”
39
Derek comes upstairs and joins us for an early meal before we leave for the mainland. But before he sits at the table he goes to the kitchen counter, picks up the last remaining bottle of antidote and pulls the cork.
“What are you doing?” I say. “You don’t need to take that until tomorrow night.”
“True enough, old man,” he says. “But the way things are going, I don’t know that I can count on it being here. Mind you, I trust you.” He tilts his head toward Chloe. “It’s my loving sister I worry about.”
Putting the bottle to his lips, Derek drains it with two gulps. “Now,” he says, “at least I can count on having three more days.”
Dinner goes too quickly. I help clear the table, wash the dishes and put everything away. By six I can’t find anything else to do. I consider going downstairs and walking around the island again, but I
shake my head. I’ve spent too many days, too many hours waiting to take action. I need to do something, anything that feels as if it has purpose. “Let’s get ready to go,” I say.
Claudia checks her watch. “It’s early. Are you sure you don’t want to wait?”
I nod. “Let’s at least get on the water,” I say. “No one says we have to rush.”
Ordinarily Claudia races across the bay as quickly as her boat can go. Even in bad weather, the trip takes less than half an hour. Today, the bay offers no more resistance than a light chop and a few small swells, and the wind barely blows at all. We cruise toward the mainland at half speed, the sun riding low in the west, throwing its heat at us and making us squint with its glare.
Chloe sits on the front bench next to Claudia, the two women talking. Derek lounges at the stern. I wander from one side of the cockpit to the other, staring back toward Caya DelaSangre for a few moments, turning toward the mainland, staring at the water to the south, looking north toward the Rickenbacker Causeway and the wall of high-rise condos lining Bayshore Drive just past it.
“Why don’t you sit and relax, Peter?” Chloe says.
I shake my head. If anything, I’d prefer to take the throttle and wheel and tear across the water. I want it to be dark already. I want to be at Jordan Davidson’s house. I sigh, concentrate instead on spotting what patrol boats are out.
Locating the first two just south of my island, I count another one north of Soldier Key and two more cruising south toward Boca Chita. Five altogether. Smiling, I nod. As I suspected, all the boats are positioned on the ocean side of the bay—where all the attacks took place.
Even taking our time, we arrive at the marina at Monty’s fifteen minutes before seven. Claudia pulls her boat into our slip, and Derek jumps off without a word to any of us. We back out of the slip and turn back toward the bay.
The Seadragon's Daughter Page 26
