Tomlinson had the gas mask and was fitting it over his nose and mouth. “Only a liter? I don’t mean to be critical, but a liter of sevoflurane is barely recreational. Two liters? Happy hour at Cypress House, Key West, is a better buzz. But urethral surgery? Jesus Christ, next time just gag me with rum, and give me a bullet to bite.”
He’d shrugged off the assistant, then the nurse, and was inhaling deeply through the mask as his bony fingers opened the valve wide. Voice muffled, he said something indistinguishable.
Dr. Shepherd said, “What?,” thinking she should humor him until
… what? Call security? Give him a chance to anesthetize himself, sucking on that gas? “I didn’t understand what you said.”
Tomlinson removed the mask. She was surprised to see that his eyes weren’t crazed, as she expected. He was frightened, urgent, but focused.
Does sevoflurane cause violent hallucinations?-the doctor was scanning among rational explanations for why this was happening. She was also picturing the man’s face-Marion Ford-interested because he’d had an unusual physical presence. Attractive in an unconventional way. She’d even pulled the schoolgirl stunt of pumping his son for information. Unheard of.
The woman felt a chill when Tomlinson said it again, “My friend died. Just a few seconds ago. Shit.” He took several more deep whiffs of gas, inhaling rhythmically-he might have been smoking a joint-the entire medical team standing and watching, immobilized by the bizarre circumstances, and the man’s self-assurance.
It was impossible, but he seemed to know exactly what he was doing.
“Personally, I’m not ready for a world without Doc Ford. There’s already too much chaos and darkness.” Tomlinson held the mask to his face, filled his lungs, then inhaled again. “Fortunately, I’m in the business of seeking light. I still have some pull in high places. A rendezvous-it’s worth a shot. Dr. Shepherd?”
The physician had settled into humor-him mode. “Give us the gas mask, Mr. Tomlinson. Then lay down on the table. As a personal favor, okay?”
Deep breath. “Are you done with the surgery?”
“Just finishing up.”
“Did the fish make it?” Deeper breath.
“I had to remove the parasite in sections. I’ll let you have a look-if you cooperate.”
“Damn, I was hoping to put it in an aquarium, watch it grow. Every year, my story would get better.” A huge gulp, chest inflating.
“Sorry. Mr. Tomlinson, please-no more gas.”
Three deep breaths in succession. “Put the pieces in a freezer. I live aboard a boat at a marina. I’ll either have it mounted, or give it to the guides for bait.”
As the anesthesiologist took a step toward him, saying, “You’re going to kill yourself if you take much more-” Tomlinson held up a warning palm. “That’s what I was about to tell you. For the next two or three minutes, ignore the heart monitor, the blood pressure gauge. Do not-repeat, do not-overreact and try anything crazy like open-chest heart massage. I have enough scars. Autopsy? Put the nix on that one, too. The electric paddles-save those for later. A little R and R, sure, good for a few yuks when we have some time. Otherwise, ignore all life support monitors.”
Dr. Shepherd was exchanging looks with the three other physicians.
Sure we will.
“Anyhing you want, Mr. Tomlinson. Lay back, give us the mask. Please.”
The room relaxed when the man settled himself on the table, hands folded over his abdomen, eyes closed, face showing a soft, sad smile as his lips moved, whispering something over and over. Garbled syllables that sounded like “Omni Padi Hum-m-m-m,” but then changed to something else.
Words formed but unheard, repeated as a mantra:
Come back, Doc.
Come back, Doc.
Come back, Doc.
… I fell toward the car’s open trunk, and into a dream. I was in a vast black sleep, afloat in a chilled and enormous space. A gathering of molecules, of watery salt, a loose cohesion of cells, my nucleus dissipating…
Fragments of thoughts flared briefly, sparks of electrical discharge.
Wind. Rock. Black morning sea.
Physics: sun-heavy liquid, gas constrained by stars, gravity below, nothing between. A man’s voice booming from waves: “Come back, Doc… Come back… Come back…”
Driftwood fire. A mangrove shore.
Smoke, lichens, scent of an autumn-shaded voice, a woman.
“I knew we’d arrive again on the same small island. My dear love. Finally, you are coming back to me…”
Black waves booming: “Come back, Doc. Come back. Doc, come back, Doc…”
Moon-haired girl, my beloved in a golden locket. Lighted portions of chin and cheek, strong nose creating shadow, perceptive heart indifferent to her own beauty. Small precise breasts, eyes not scarred by uncertainty.
The face of Dewey Nye appeared… faded.
Was not the face of my girl.
Heard Dewey’s long-ago voice saying, “It took me forever to admit but I’m in love with a woman. Always have been; always will…”
Dewey, with her deer stride, aside a dark-haired Romanian, their backs to me, walking among spring corn, tassel-haired child between.
Tropic rain. Banana leaves fauceting water. Village fire, a dog’s howls sparking starward.
Faces of men transected by a rifle’s crosshairs. Faces of men vaporized, a misting of red. Buoyancy of midnight water; words of a valued friend: “The only safe haven for guys like us, the only home we’ll ever know, is in the dead of night.”
Pencil on rice paper: In any conflict, the boundaries of behavior are defined by the party that values morality least…
Heredity. Blood. Tribe.
… All primate units struggle for ascendance, the weaknesses of many sheltered by the strength of a few…
Rolling waves. Black water, white-cresting: “… coming back to me. Come back… Come back… Doc, come back to me…”
I felt the urge to linger, to take the soft hand extended, to float away with dissipating molecules and vanish into delicious nonexistence.
Then I was aware of a woman’s touch. Warm lips on a numb vacancy. Warm wind funneling into a sealed space.
My lungs inflating, deflating.
BOOM-BOOM-BOOM. Pounding on a door, someone demanding entrance through my chest.
A kiss: Inflate… deflate.
Another: Inflate… deflate.
The woman’s warm breath becoming cold, fueling slow light in a dark place. Dying embers flared by a breeze.
Male voice. A guttural raging. Then a woman.
“Idiot, speak English. You know my rules when Mr. Earl’s around.”
“I said this guy, he’s so goddamn heavy, Broz should be here to help.”
“To hell with Broz, we’re leaving without him.”
“Even if the man’s breathing, his brain’s dead by now. Why bother? And I’m getting very tired of your orders!”
“Get him in the plane. Behind the cargo curtain. And don’t drop the oxygen cylinder, you idiot!”
Sound of a woman walking away. Silence. Footfall of a man approaching. Stink of lavender, a burning cigarette.
“Stay cool, Aleski. Keep it together until we get to the islands. They’re expecting us. I just got off the phone.”
“She makes me so mad. I hate her.”
“Just be cool. We’ve got business to discuss, you and me. I suddenly don’t like that bitch as much as I thought.”
“She treats this guy like treasure, but treats me like shit-and he almost killed us one night with a boat.”
I felt a withering spinal compression, simultaneously a hollow melon thud.
“Don’t kick him. If you want, give him another shot before she comes back-that way, no surprises during the flight. If he tells us something useful, afterward, you can do whatever you want.”
Bee-sting burning in my arm.
“I’d like that. And what about Dasha? Can I…?”
�
��Whatever you want. You’re the new head of security. You make the rules.”
“Me? Really?”
“Really. I just got real bad news about Dr. Stokes. The medic says our boss has a problem. Parasites. We probably all do. Me, I’m such a genius. I put the bitch in charge of our water supply.”
Engines synching, torque of propellers, a robotic turn. G-force stomach of Earth falling away.
Vibration. Cargo plane hydraulics. Familiar.
Thermal pockets in darkness; straining for altitude… then a deeper, cozier darkness. Air becoming sea. I was on my pretty new surfboard, slow lifting waves, riding deeper, deeper into a drug-gauzy sleep.
Dreaming again…
Warm air flooding a sealed space. Inflate, deflate, chest rising.
A kiss: Inhale. Exhale.
Another: Inhale. Exhale.
A woman’s eyes, shampoo scent of hair, whispered words above propeller rumble.
“Nice, your lips. I found a photo of you. I’ve wanted to try this.”
A kiss. Another. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.
“Do you like? There was a fairy tale when I was a girl. Awakening a prince with a kiss. You’re probably the closest I’ll ever come. You almost killed me-you bad, bad boy.”
Lips joined, two bodies breathing. Touch of fingertips on chest, unbuttoning, moving downward, skin touching skin, fingers spreading, flexing. Cat paws searching.
“This isn’t right… the drug shouldn’t… unless that idiot gave you another shot. Can you hear me? I straightened your glasses. Open your eyes. Try. I’m here.”
Fuzzy image of a woman’s face, short blond hair, Slavic cheeks, sharp chin. Attractive, in a feral way. Familiar… a memory just beyond reach.
“Doctor Ford. Marion. Wake up. We don’t have much time.”
Kissing again, breathing as one, the woman suddenly naked, pushing her pear-curved breasts to my lips, hips seeking. The sound of a zipper, fingers slowing, touching experimentally as they find me. Tracing, lifting, positioning.
“Hello, my yieldak. Yes. Keep me company while your large friend sleeps.”
Pleasure dream; unreality becoming reality…
“I have something here. You might feel a little sting. Nothing serious. It’s not dangerous.”
Blurry image of the naked woman standing over me, something in her hand, legs wide as she squatted. “For now, though, you’re doing just what Dasha needs you to do…”
32
I awoke in a yellow shard of sunlight, eyes squinting, head pounding, groaning in pain. My chest and throat felt as if I’d swallowed glass. For a confused few seconds, I thought I had the all-time worst hangover. A taste in my mouth. Metallic, disgusting.
Then a jumble of dreams came tumbling back. My sluggish brain struggled to separate what was real, what wasn’t.
Hospital parking lot, Tomlinson hurt. Big hands grabbing me from behind, a stabbing stiletto pain. The irksome realization that I’d stepped into a trap, that the fatal error was mine, no one else to blame.
The only friend you don’t take care of is yourself-the only friend I think you’re capable of hurting.
Tomlinson’s warning words.
I touched my neck. Swollen, crusted with blood.
There was the memory of drowning panic, of suffocating, a chemical dispersal-dying.
Bad judgment-a variety of suicide?
Then… what? I was on a plane.
Yes.
Flown where?
I tried to roll to my feet; collapsed. Had to lean against the wall to keep from falling, I was so dizzy. I was in a small room made of coral rock, morning sunlight streaming through the only window. Bars on the window. Two metal doors. Box-sized cages stacked floor to ceiling, a scamper-tittering from within. Stink of urine and dust.
My eyes were open but not focusing. I realized my glasses were tied around my neck with fishing line, as usual. Fitted them over my ears. One lens was shattered, yet the world sharpened. I saw that cages were filled with rats, white mice, grain and turds scattered across the floor.
There was a spiderweb in the corner, a skeleton of a bird suspended within above a sprinkling of feathers.
I checked myself-saw that I was naked. Filthy. Grass and sand in coated chest hair; arms bruised, backs of my heels raw.
I’d been dragged.
I stumbled to the window, looked out.
A rain forest mountainside. Silver beach, turquoise bay. Scent of frangipani and diesel. Low cliffs on the opposite shore, roofs of buildings showing red tile through foliage. A narrow cut, quarter mile wide, where current boiled in gelatinous whirlpools, waves breaking outside the reef.
Beyond, water darkened where it deepened. A crowded boat was outward bound: stacks of furniture, strawhats and bright umbrellas, brown faces suspended above the deep.
People fleeing.
I was in the tropics, possibly the Caribbean. An island. In a room made of rock slabs with bars-something from pirate days.
There were sheds nearby, tin, rock, and wood. A portion of open field that might have been part of a landing strip, a small harbor where a barge was also churning water, struggling against heavy current, its high bow pointed seaward. There was something hidden beneath camouflaged netting on the vessel’s cargo deck.
I saw four distinct rotors. Wedges of red metal above aircraft tires.
Helicopters…?
Four helicopters, drone-sized, incongruous in this Third World setting. One man in the elevated wheelhouse, two deckhands coiling lines astern.
Who? Why?
The vessel was headed north, morning sun to starboard.
“I’ve been waiting for you to wake up.”
I jumped, surprised by a woman’s voice behind me.
“You’re in the Bahamas, only thirty miles from Cuba. We’ve got to get out of here. They’re coming to kill us both.”
I turned to see a long-legged blond woman curled in the corner. She was dressed in a khaki-colored blouse and shorts, pressed and pleated. A uniform. It looked as if she’d been dozing. It had to be uncomfortable with her hands tied behind her back, ankles bound with duct tape.
Not tied-handcuffed. I saw the cuffs when she rolled to her side, tried to stretch.
“Even if you tell them everything, they’re going to kill you. They’ll make you tell them. No matter how tough you think you are. Soon as they find out you’re alive, they’ll go to work. We’ve got to move now.”
Russian accent, a face linked to a specific memory. A dream? Possibly. But also something real. It took a moment.
The woman who was torturing Jobe Applebee.
I tried to speak. Gagged with pain. Tried again. Coughed and grabbed my neck.
“An animal named Aleski stabbed you in the throat with a needle. He drugged you, but I saved your life. Did CPR for an hour. Hurry-get this tape off my ankles.”
CPR? I’d had a strange, unsettling dream. Mouth-to-mouth. Erotic images… Could that explain it?
“You helped me?”
“Only because there’s a chance you can help me. Now I’m glad I did.”
“Where… are…?”
“Your clothes are in the corner. What they left you. Over there.”
Canvas shorts, that was all-shirt, shoes, wallet, cell phone, and keys missing. I pulled them on. Turned my back before zipping, a pointless modesty.
“I managed to hide your shoes. Under that crate. They didn’t want you to have shoes.”
My running shoes. I knelt to tie them as my tongue found moisture. Swallowed, swallowed again, words beginning to form. Started to speak, but was interrupted by a strange, distant wailing. The sound had a primal resonance, a shriek of terror, the scream of nightmares.
Perhaps a monkey suffering out there in the rain forest, dying. A primate being devoured.
A question exited my mouth as a constricted whisper. “What is that?”
The woman had begun to crawl toward me, inching over tile like a caterpillar. “A crazy man nam
ed Dr. Stokes. He’s infected with a parasite. African worms. Every man on the island will have parasites, but Stokes has a phobia. The fear, I guess, it’s driven him crazy. Last night, I was trying to help him when his brain finally snapped. Nothing I could do. They locked him in a room, hoping he’ll-”
She stopped. That terrible sound again: a falsetto howl rising, then falling, a werewolf’s scream. I turned my head slightly, attempting to decipher something human at its source. An anguish of torn vocal cords, a creature dangling above flames. Torment.
In South America, there’s a giant cockroach that screams when thrown into a fire. Similar.
No. Not human.
The woman finished, “They locked him in a room, hoping Stokes will kill himself. The way Bahamian law’s set up, a person who commits suicide abandons all possessions. Laws of marine salvage-a ship that hits a reef. It’s like that. Strangers can take what they want.”
“Who locked him in a room?”
“Men who are stealing what he has.” Her impatient tone asked, Who else? She used her chin to indicate what lay beyond the window. “They want these islands, housing. His money, everything. Not all rats are caged here. Everyone’s running except the men coming to kill us.”
The woman continued to crawl toward me. I realized I was backing away. I’d once seen a different expression on her face: the pleasure of inflicting pain.
“Why are you handcuffed?”
“Because of them. Stokes and his partners.”
“Desmond Stokes? The environmentalist.”
“Him?” The woman’s chuckle had an acid edge. “Stokes is an environmentalist the same way a pedophile is a priest. I worked for him. I found out he’s been breaking laws, smuggling. That’s why they locked me here. They figured out a way to spread the parasites by air and get rich-I can explain later. Hurry! Get this tape off my legs-” She stopped abruptly; strained to listen. “A boat. Was that a boat? Shit. They’re coming!”
Her eyes scanned the cages, rats watching us from inside. “Maybe it’s feeding time.”
I asked, “For what?” preoccupied. Returned to the window, listening to her say, “Snakes, monkeys. Research animals, but also garbage they’ve been smuggling into the States.”
Dead of Night df-12 Page 28
