by Rachel Lee
"She's going to make it," Markie said. "She'll be fine. You'll have to bottle-feed the other pups, though. I doubt she'll keep lactating. Not enough to nurse."
Dawn shook her head slowly. "So much death. For what? For gold."
"What gold?" Dec asked.
"Annie Black's gold. That's what Tim was after. I found his papers, in his office, after I overheard him on the phone. They're looking for Annie Black's gold."
"Who?" Markie asked.
"Tim. Gary Morgan. I think Steve Chase is involved, too. They…they think…"
Markie leaned forward.
"They think it's buried in your yard. That's why I called you, to warn you. He must have been listening on the garage extension. And then he…"
Her face sank, shame and loss filling her eyes.
"You did what you had to do," Markie insisted.
Dawn's face firmed with something like resolve. "There's more. They're…they think they're working with Annie Black's ghost. Tim had some incantation written down and some stuff about finding her dust. He apparently got the idea from some diary in the library."
Markie felt a shiver trickle down her spine. "Working with her?"
Dawn shook her head. "Markie, I don't know. The stuff was sketchy. But there was mention of the Shippeys and Alice Wheatley and their deaths, and then some kind rambling about what if they couldn't control her. It was like stream of consciousness, and it didn't make much sense. I didn't get much out of it. Except that…except that Tim felt she was taking him over sometimes, and he liked it."
She pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes. "I think…I think it wasn't really Tim who strangled my pup." She dropped her hands and looked at the two of them.
"What if that woman's ghost takes over someone's body permanently?"
Dec stood up.
"And now I have to do what I have to do."
Markie looked up at him. "Dec…"
He put a finger to her lips. "I'm the only one who can. You take Kato. He knows what to do. And, I think, so do I."
"Be careful," she said. It sounded lame, even to her. Yet she could think of nothing else to say.
"I'll come back to you, Markie. I promise."
With that, he strode out the door. And Markie turned to Dawn, grief and fear comforting grief and fear. Markie mouthed a silent prayer.
Please, not him, too.
* * *
For Dec, the first stop was the hospital library and its online links to medical resources. It was not a random search. He knew exactly what he was looking for. The only question was whether the information was there to be had.
The most dangerous inhabitants of the Caribbean Sea were not pirates or drug runners or sharks. Instead, they were the family of fish known as Tetraodontidae, the fugu, blowfish or puffer fish. While relatively small, those carnivores contained one of the most deadly poisons on earth: tetradotoxin.
Dec had first tripped over that information while he was in medical school, taking a break from serious study by idly thumbing through his anthropology-major roommate's books. He'd found a work by Harvard ethnobiologist Wade Davis, based on field research on the phenomenon of zombies in Haiti. Davis advanced the theory that tetradotoxin was the prime active ingredient in a poison used by voodoo sorcerers to induce a deathlike state. The effects, Davis argued, were so convincing that even trained medical doctors would declare a patient dead. The grieving family would bury the person, not knowing he was alive and aware. The sorcerer would dig up the grave, revive the victim and claim the new member of the walking dead—the zombie—for slave labor.
Since moving to Santz Martina, where every so often someone would step on a spiny pufferfish, Dec had learned more about the effects of tetradotoxin. Now he needed to know more. A lot more. And he needed it fast.
His fingers danced over the keys as he flashed through article after article, narrowing his search
If even a small amount could kill, how much would he have to reduce the poison to induce a deathlike coma?
The idea had clicked when he'd heard Dawn describe how she'd felt when she'd attacked Tim. Not herself. And her comments about how Tim seemed to be possessed. Coupled with Loleen's vague warning that Annie was looking to claim a soul, the pieces had fallen into place. Annie Black was not satisfied with the horrors she could wreak in a ghostly existence. She wanted a physical form. A body to inhabit. Another chance at life.
Dec had a pretty good idea whose body that would be. Someone gather her all up an' blow, Loleen had said. Yes, he had a good idea where Annie would go. And the only way to stop her from claiming that body was to make her think Wendy Chase was already dead.
He closed the search, convinced that he had found as much information as he was likely to get. The rest would be up to him, his training as a doctor, his understanding of the human body and how it worked.
The next stop was the hospital pharmacy, where he gathered the necessary chemicals to create the poison artificially, and then to the lab. The potentially lethal injection would have to be precise. And he was working with grossly imprecise information. He also needed to make an antidote based on sketchy, anecdotal evidence of how voodoo priests reawakened their victims.
He made the sign of the cross and whispered a silent prayer, then went to work with an eerily calm confidence. He would do the best he could do and trust God for the rest.
Satisfied, he poured the blends into two small, marked glass bottles, then crimped on rubber-topped metal caps. Grabbing a handful of empty hypodermic syringes, he headed for the door…and ran almost headlong into Joe Gardner.
"Hey!" they exclaimed in stereophonic surprise.
"Sorry," Dec said. "My fault. I wasn't looking."
"No problem," Joe said. "By the way, you did one hell of a job on that stabbing victim. The paramedics are still down there talking about it. Looks like the guy's going to make it. That was some gutsy work, Doctor."
Dec didn't have time for conversation, nor even to savor the satisfaction. He shrugged. "I didn't have time to think, Joe. If I had, I probably wouldn't have done it. I just…reacted."
"Well, if I'm ever hurt," Joe said, a genuine smile on his face, "I want you around to…react."
"Thanks," Dec answered. "Look, I have to run."
* * *
Markie had shown Dawn to the cot in the clinic and set up a recovery kennel nearby. Together, straining, they had hefted the huge mastiff into the kennel.
"She's going to be groggy when she wakes up," Markie said. "Just talk to her. I'll be back as soon as I can."
Dawn offered a weak smile. "Thank you."
Markie took out a business card, wrote on the back and handed it to Dawn. "That's my cell phone number. If there's a problem, call me. I'll be here in ten minutes."
"She'll be okay," Dawn said. "I can feel it."
"Yes," Markie agreed. "She will."
Dawn took a moment to gather a deep breath. "Go. Do what you have to do. I'll take care of her. She's all I have left."
Markie and Kato ran the two blocks to her home. She didn't even pause to go inside but instead led Kato around to the back. She knelt on the grass and looked into his golden eyes. Her heart was hammering so hard, it felt as if it would burst from her chest.
"I need you to find it, Kato. You know what I mean, don't you?"
The wolf's eyes were unblinking. Yes.
"Good. Find it, boy. I'll grab a shovel."
26
The wind whipped Dec's hair as he sped along the coast road, the motorcycle's throaty roar shattering the night's silence. He'd gone home and traded his car for the bike, which was faster and more maneuverable on the winding road.
Time, he knew, was not his ally. Minutes stretched like hours as he whipped past the black ocean to his right, circling the volcano to his left. High overhead, almost directly in front of him, the North Star shimmered as a beacon to mariners and navigators throughout the ages.
Dec had no need to navigate by the stars. He had a road a
nd an address and an urgency that left him all but blind to the pinpoints of light in the velvety black sky overhead, the diamondlike shimmer of moonlight on the water or the mountain's dark mass. There would be other nights to revel in the beauty of this place. Tonight, he had to confront its ugliness.
He almost missed the spur that cut off to the left, up the mountain to the higher villas. He saw it at the last moment, and sand sprayed from beneath his tires as he leaned hard over, almost rolling the bike, until rubber found traction on asphalt. He tucked his knee in and twisted the throttle at the same moment. The motorcycle's engine surged with power, and he hurtled up the spur road.
Minutes later, he slewed to a stop on the coral driveway. Kicking the stand down, he jumped off the bike and ran to the door, pounding insistently until the porch light came on and a disembodied voice emerged from the security intercom mounted in the wall.
"Who is it?"
"Declan Quinn. I need to talk to you, Mr. Morgan."
"It's late," the voice said.
"I don't have much time," Dec said. "It's about…your wife. I think she's in danger."
The door opened a crack, and he saw Gary Morgan's owlish face. "What kind of danger?"
Declan met his eyes. "I think you already know."
* * *
Yes, it thought. A body. But first…first, the weak one. After all, secrecy was important. And people who would reveal its secrets were unnecessary problems.
It had found his house days ago. Hovered in the distance, listening to his spineless self-doubts, his endless paralysis of analysis. Now it moved within with cold, hard surety. He was half drunk, sitting in front of that picture box that seemed to fascinate so many of these beings. Well, half drunk or not, he would feel it.
It struck with a suddenness that left the man gasping for air. It could feel his thoughts, the ragged screaming of nerve endings. Ohhhh, the joy of it.
It had known others' suffering before, back when it had been alive, but then it could only watch. It could only see from the outside, see the wide-eyed looks of terror as hot oil or molten lead was poured into ears or mouths, or joints were crushed in hard iron vises. It could only listen to the inhumanly high-pitched screeches. It could only smell the rising odors of urine and feces as bodies lost control. It had experienced all these things. But only from the outside.
Now its thoughts directly tied to the man's; it could experience it from the inside, completely. It could know his fear, feel his agony, as it slowly twisted apart cell from cell, slowly crushed bone, wrenched a kidney into a pulpy mush, always leaving the nerves themselves alone. It wanted the nerves intact until the last possible instant, to carry the agony to the brain, so the man would feel every rip, every explosion from within himself, feel it all and know that his last thoughts would be consumed with the excruciatingly exquisite manner of his death.
Oh…it was wonderful to share. Better than the time it had boiled that baby in the soup. Better even than the satisfying, wet thwuck as the cleaver had sliced into its father's neck.
For it, Steve Chase's death was…orgasmic.
* * *
"I think she's after you," Dec explained.
Wendy sat on the chair, wearing a black satin robe over what looked to be a lace negligee. In another time, in another setting, on another woman, the sight would have sent a delicious tremor through his body. Tonight, here, with this woman, it simply made him feel like an intruder.
"I don't think so," Wendy said softly. "In fact, she may be…afraid of me. She's not omnipotent. She has weaknesses. And she knows I can see them."
"What weaknesses?" Dec asked.
Now Gary spoke. "She was killed, you know. Horribly. She probably deserved worse than she got. But they were…it was as bad as they could make it. Fire. By the time they were done, she was nothing but ash and a few fragments of bone."
"I only dare look into her when I have one of these," Wendy said, holding up a cigarette. "She doesn't seem to want to get too close. Fire and ash. I think that's what she fears."
"She wants a body," Dec said. "I'm certain of it."
Wendy seemed to study him for a moment, then slowly nodded. "Yes, I imagine she does. She wants…"
"What?" Dec asked.
"She wants to fuck again," Wendy said. "Sex and death. Those were her addictions. She can have death now. But she can't have the other. She craves it."
Something was wrong, Dec thought. He'd had all the pieces arranged. Annie would come here. She would want Wendy, the parapsychologist who could touch her mind. It made perfect sense. And yet…Wendy seemed to know Annie wouldn't choose her. Much as his theory had seemed airtight, he had to listen. As Loleen had said, he had to listen with his heart.
"Who, then?" he asked.
"I don't know," Wendy said. "It's not like I'm always…attached to her. I had to make it happen. I don't want to go there again."
"What if I said I needed you to?" Dec asked. "What if I told you it might be the only way to stop her?"
Wendy took a drag on her cigarette, then looked down. "I don't know if I can do that again. You have no idea what she's like."
The pain and fear in her eyes were real. Dec knew he shouldn't press her. He had no right. And yet, so many had died. It had to stop somewhere.
"I don't think we have a choice," he said softly.
Wendy looked up at Gary. His eyes were gentle, but his face was firm. "You have to do it."
Her eyes moistened. "I will. For you."
* * *
Kato sniffed at the earth, trying to block out the familiar smells of his own markings, of Markie's footsteps, of times he'd rolled in the grass, groaning in the sheer ecstasy of playing with her. Trying to block out the night scents, the salty breeze from the ocean, the lingering remnants of meals cooked in nearby houses, the damp, warm tendrils of herons curled up in sleep. Most nights, when Markie gave him his last nighttime walk, he took his time, drew in the last, rich breaths of his comfortable world. Tonight, he ignored them all.
He was not certain exactly what scent he was looking for. Markie's thoughts had given him only the vaguest idea. Obviously she wasn't sure, either. A box or a sack, it seemed, with shiny metal inside. But he had only the dimmest notion of who might have handled it, what scents it might have gathered over years spent buried in the dirt. All he could do was look for the one scent he knew of. The black, rotting scent of her.
He circled the lawn, then circled it again and again, varying his route, drawing in quick tastes of air, huffing them out, then starting anew. Markie had found a shovel and was leaning on it, watching him, waiting. Unlike most humans, she understood patience. She understood that her world was not the whole world. And that the rest of the world sometimes yielded its secrets and needs reluctantly, a little at a time. He could sense her frustration but, at the same time, her willingness to wait. She was, simply, remarkable. He hoped the man-mate knew that, would see it and appreciate it.
Thoughts of a future with her and the man-mate simmered in the back of his consciousness as he labored on. The man-mate was special, too. He had not touched the man's thoughts yet, not truly, but he saw in the man an openness that hinted at possibilities. And he knew what they had shared that morning, the scent of her pleasure filling the air. They would be a good pack, the three of them. He would protect them, and they would protect each other and him. It could be a happy life, full of warmth and love and genuine connectedness of the sort that humans seemed to find so rarely. Soul-sharing. Yes, it could be a happy life.
He first picked up the scent near the corner of the cement porch on which Markie so often used to sit in the evenings. The faintest whiff. Then again. And more.
His paws went to work with inherited skill, shredding blades of grass, then tufts of sod, and finally reaching cool, damp earth. He sniffed again. Yes.
He looked up at Markie. Here.
* * *
"I've only done it…ummmm…"
Wendy's voice trailed off, but Gary picked u
p her meaning. "She'll need some privacy for this."
"Of course," Dec said.
If he had figured out what she meant, he was kind enough not to let it show. Instead, he simply excused himself and stepped out of the room.
"You'll be fine," Gary said, soothingly. "I'm right here, darling."
She looked up at him as she shed her robe and negligee, then lit a cigarette. He wished he could follow her into this place where she went. Instead, he could only watch as the woman of his dreams, the woman whose love had rekindled a glow he'd thought long lost, stepped into a netherworld to do battle.
She had brought out a kind of strength he had never imagined he could have. Annie might have been the first to tap into it, but it was Wendy who had welcomed it, savored it, made him feel safe in asserting it. With that newfound power, he knew, came responsibility. Responsibility to protect her, physically, emotionally, spiritually, as they explored this new way of sharing their lives. And he could not do that now. He could only watch, wait and hope.
Her eyes grew distant, unfocused, as she sank into the trance. Then her body let out a fleeting jerk, almost too tiny to notice. She had made contact, momentary, but contact all the same. It was as if she were searching, probing around in inky blackness, following a spiritual scent by some means he could only barely imagine.
Her breasts rose and fell with each breath, her nipples hardening in the cool, air-conditioned room. She was such a beautiful woman. Her skin was smooth, even where it dimpled at her thighs with the unavoidable legacy of the passing years. Her hair shone in the dim light. Her sex, now shaved smooth for him, a dusky pink flower against which the most beautiful rose paled. She was all he would ever want. All he could ever imagine wanting. And, he had come to learn, so much more.
His brow furrowed as she jerked again, then reached for her pencils and sketchbook. This time her body did not relax. She had found her prey, and she was not letting go. He could only hope that the hunter did not become the hunted. He could never lose her. To lose her would be to lose everything that made life worth living. Annie Black must not take her away.
