Fever Dreams

by Laura Resnick

  “I can pay you,” Madeleine said desperately.

  Sister Margaret shook her head. “Donations are always needed, but I can't allow you to buy your way past other people who also need medicine and bandages, Madeleine.”

  Abandoning all pride, Madeleine seized the old woman's arm and begged, “Please, help me! Please. I love him.”

  Sister Margaret stopped moving and focused all her attention on Madeleine for a moment. Her pale gray eyes looked sad for a brief, unguarded instant. “Yes, I can see that you do.” She sighed. “But look around you. Life is cheap here. Before your husband dies, many other women will lose their men. And worse—their children.” Her voice roughened for a moment as she added, “I've made it my life's work to change that. And I can't.”

  “But—”

  “We must pray,” Sister Margaret said, managing to make this sound like a practical suggestion. “And not for a miracle, either. Just that fresh supplies can get through to us.”

  “Does anyone even know you need supplies?” Madeleine demanded.

  “No.” The nun's voice was flat, but Madeleine recognized how scared she was. “Communications were cut before I could tell anyone.”

  * * * *

  Ransom was allotted a space in the corner of a small, airy classroom. Madeleine realized wryly that it was the nicest place they'd been in since leaving Montedora City. The walls were covered with cheerful pictures painted by the children, and big windows let in air and light, while heavy awnings shielded the room from direct sunlight. She pulled the poncho off Ransom and tried her best to make it into a little bed for him.

  Although she was on a waiting list for antibiotics she'd probably never receive and painkillers which had already run out, Madeleine did at least have access to water. And although bandages were at a premium, someone did find a few rags she could use. A child who should have been too young for such responsibilities offered to stay with Ransom while Madeleine went outside to boil her rags in a communal pot. She returned a half hour later with clean rags, boiled water, and drinking water.

  She hung two of her rags up to dry, planning to use them as bandages in the morning. Then she wrestled Ransom's pants off his lean body, relieved that he wasn't awake for this process, as it clearly caused him pain even in his unconscious state. The wound looked even worse tonight, and his thigh had swollen more. It was a good thing she'd never been squeamish, she thought, and started cleaning the wound.

  When she was done, she gave him a sponge bath. While she was bending over him, she heard Sister Margaret's voice from behind her.

  “What's that beneath your shirt? That lump?”

  Madeleine felt the weight of the Browning in the small of her back. She reached under her shirt and touched it self-consciously, then looked over her shoulder at the nun. “A gun.”

  Sister Margaret held out her hand. “You'd better give it to me.”

  Madeleine glanced at Ransom. “He wouldn't like that.”

  The Sister glanced at him, too. “He won't be needing it for a while, and I will not have a gun around all these children.”

  “I wouldn't let any of them—”

  “What if one of them takes it away while you're sleeping? What if he gets delirious and tries to take it from you?”

  It was harder to give up the gun than Madeleine would have expected. She was still afraid, having been subjected to so much violence recently. But, realizing that Sister Margaret was right, she handed it over.

  Sister Margaret unloaded it with practiced ease, as if she took guns away from people every day, then bent over to have a look at Ransom. She touched the skin around the wound. A dark, strong-boned hand suddenly grabbed her wrist, surprising her.

  “Ransom!” Madeleine cried. His eyes were open!

  “What the fuck is going on?” he demanded blearily. Then he noticed Sister Margaret's costume. Madeleine had seldom seen him look so stunned. “I mean, um...” He looked back at Madeleine.

  “This is Sister Margaret,” Madeleine said helpfully.

  “How do you do?” the Sister said blandly, examining the wound again.

  “Hi, I...” Ransom looked down and drew in a deep breath. “Christ, I'm practically naked, Maddie! And who are all these people?”

  She'd left his briefs on for decency's sake, but he clearly didn't feel that was enough to be wearing in front of a nun and all the other adults and children currently residing in the schoolroom.

  Sister Margaret, however, had no time for this uncharacteristic display of modesty. She pulled a small bundle of dried leaves out of her pocket, handed them to Madeleine, and briskly explained, “Boil these for about twenty minutes, then wrap them in a cloth and apply it to the wound.”

  “A poultice?” Madeleine guessed.

  Sister Margaret nodded. “It will help draw out the infection. I'm sorry. It's the best I can offer you right now. But it can be quite effective.” She briefly gave Madeleine additional instructions about keeping the wound clean and warned that delirium might set in if they couldn't bring his fever down.

  The rest had apparently done him some good, however. After Sister Margaret strode off to investigate some other problem, with the Browning tucked firmly into the pocket of her habit, Ransom asked Madeleine where they were. She briefly recounted finding the road, the journey to San Remo, and the problems they now faced.

  “At least no one will shoot us here,” she concluded.

  “Unless the army extends their battle to this area. They won't attack the mission, but they won't take pains to avoid destroying it, either,” he muttered. “God, I'm thirsty!”

  She opened a small bottle of water she had gotten earlier. “I'm told that this has been treated,” she said, helping him drink. “Are you hungry?”

  “No. Does anyone around here have a cigarette?”

  “I'll ask,” she promised dryly.

  Just the effort of talking and drinking seemed to have exhausted him. He fell back into a restless slumber within a few minutes. Madeleine asked another child to watch him, and then she went into San Remo in search of food. They were rationing food at the mission and would run out if they didn't get more soon. Madeleine decided not to help deplete their supplies, since she had enough money to buy her own food.

  A sleepy town like San Remo would normally be closed down by this time of night, but nothing was normal now, and the streets and stores were as busy as if it was Saturday morning. Supplies were dwindling fast, and Madeleine was glad she hadn't waited until morning to go shopping. Since Ransom was in no shape for solid food, Madeleine bought canned broth, bouillon cubes, tea, honey, and the last bottle of fruit juice she could find. She investigated the local pharmacy for anything that might help Ransom. Not much was left, but she came away with some aspirin and a bottle of Listerine, which was a good all-purpose disinfectant. Her own cuts and scrapes stung, and she knew she shouldn't neglect them.

  Suddenly feeling hungry enough to eat a boiled shoe, she bought some solid food for herself and sat down right in the middle of the street to eat it. She doubted that anyone at home would recognize her if they could see her now.

  The thought brought a sudden wave of homesickness upon her. She thought of her family, her apartment, her office, her favorite restaurants, Central Park, Chateau Camille. She thought of Caroline and Charlotte, and she didn't want that silly argument she'd had with them before leaving New York to be the last thing they remembered about her. She had so much to tell them. She wanted them to know how much she loved them, how hard she had tried to be the best sister she could, and how she had consistently failed them without even realizing it. From now on, she wanted to be someone they could really talk to, not just look up to.

  She knew her father would be stricken with guilt right now, desperate for news about her. And that her mother would freely inflict more guilt on him, frantically running from her own fear for Madeleine, finding it too painful to endure.

  If she got home, Madeleine decided, there were a lot of things she would
start doing differently. She had seen and experienced too much in Montedora to simply fall back into old habits.

  And what about Ransom? Assuming they eventually got back home, what would he want from her? Great sex in the midst of their busy schedules? A brief affair? A long affair? She didn't think he would simply forget about her once they were back in New York; he hadn't forgotten last time, after all. She might not even worry about what he wanted, except for one problem; she had fallen in love with him, and she was starting to realize that she wanted a whole hell of a lot from him. And if she had worried because he had known about her shameful secret six months ago, it was nothing compared to the vulnerability she felt now that he held her fragile heart in his hands. He could break it so easily, she knew; but she wouldn't take it back from him, even if she could. She wouldn't run away from legitimate pain anymore, or keep people she cared about at a convenient distance.

  She returned to the mission as soon as she was done eating, conscious that Ransom needed her. Sister's Margaret's help would, of necessity, be limited to advice and occasional visits. Other than that, Ransom was completely dependent upon Madeleine's care. She felt inadequate and desperately wished she knew more about medicine.

  Despite being cut off from the outside world, Madeleine harbored a hope that someone would send supplies soon, before Ransom got any worse. With all the refugees streaming into this area, surely someone—the Red Cross, the UN, someone—would learn what was happening in San Remo before long.

  But how would the supplies get here? She understood logistics and operations far better than physiology, and she pondered the question as she returned to Ransom's side. He was resting fitfully, his skin flushed and hotter than ever. She decided it was time to make that poultice and went back outside.

  A young girl saw her looking for a small pot in the kitchen yard and offered to help her. Madeleine accepted gratefully and watched in silence as the girl went about preparing the poultice with apparently experienced hands.

  It would be hard to bring supplies overland, Madeleine reflected, yet the enormous quantity of food and medicine and other supplies needed here, as well as the lack of a local airstrip, would probably make overland delivery necessary. If they came across the nearest border—Argentina—they'd still take a full day to get here after entering the country. Maybe longer, considering the condition of the roads, the cumbersome weight of the trucks, and the unpredictable outbreaks of violence throughout Montedora now. Add on the time it would take to mount such an operation, as well as the time it would take various organizations to even realize the scope of the assistance needed in San Remo ... Madeleine felt panic stirring in her stomach again, threatening to bring up the food she had recently consumed. Could Ransom hold on that long?

  Sternly suppressing her fear, she accepted the young girl's offer to apply the poultice for her, led her back to Ransom, and watched everything she did, trying to learn. Ransom woke up long enough to tell her what a terrible idea he thought this was.

  “Would you like me to pour some Listerine on your wound instead?” she suggested.

  He glared at her. With his growing beard, cuts and bruises, and glittering eyes, he looked terribly fierce. The girl glanced doubtfully at Madeleine.

  “You're scaring her,” Madeleine chided.

  His gaze slid to the girl. He said something in Spanish that made her giggle. When Madeleine suspiciously asked what he had said, he told her, “I said you were a shrew and a witch.”

  “Here, drink this,” she ordered, ignoring the girl's giggles.

  “What is it?”

  “Juice.”

  “I don't want—”

  “Your body needs help. Drink it.”

  He was too weak to lift his head without help. She forced half a pint of juice down his throat, bit by bit, before he quit.

  When the little girl left them, Ransom wearily groped for Madeleine's hand, then said, “I'm sorry, Maddie. Hell of a thing for you to wind up waiting hand and foot on me, cleaning up all my blood and—”

  “I don't mind,” she interrupted, seeing how his weakness shamed and frustrated him. “I just want you to get better.”

  “I'll be fine, now that we're not on the run.”

  He was lying, and they both knew it, but she didn't bother to contradict him.

  * * * *

  He was much worse by morning. He was sweating heavily again, but the fever wouldn't break. Madeleine sponged him down again and again, to no avail. He started shaking with chills, and by mid-morning, delirium had set in. Shivering and twitching and sometimes struggling violently, he moaned and muttered unintelligibly, restless and tormented. Sometimes he shouted. Madeleine understood a word here and there, but none of it seemed connected or made any sense.

  The fighting was closer today. She could hear shelling in the distance. Some of the refugees packed up and moved on, even as new ones streamed into San Remo in a constant flow.

  “Maddie...” Ransom moaned.

  “I'm here,” she said, as she said every time he called her name. “I'm right here.”

  His eyes were open this time. He seemed to be looking at her. “You've got.. get away...”

  “Shhh...” She bathed his hot forehead with a cool cloth.

  “Please ... safe...”

  “We're safe,” she lied, hoping he was too delirious to hear the shelling. “We're safe.”

  When he fell asleep again, she finally gave in to tears.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Like everyone else that evening, Madeleine heard the helicopter as it approached San Remo. For a moment, she was afraid they were going to be bombed. But then she realized it was only one helicopter, and she let herself hope.

  Ransom was so ill by now, she was afraid to leave his side for more than a minute or two, so she waited for the children to bring her news. After a half hour, one of the boys came running back into the schoolroom.

  Journalists, the child cried. Foreign journalists! They had flown in from across the border. There was a camera, the boy told her, and he had waved at it. He might be on television!

  “Trust journalists to be on the scene like vultures,” Madeleine murmured, having no particular fondness for the media. However, she felt a glimmer of hope. Now that someone was reporting the chaos at San Remo...

  She gasped as the realization struck her. Of course! She didn't have to wait for help to reach Ransom; she could take him to where the help was.

  “Where are the journalists now?” she asked the child.

  “Somewhere outside with Sister Margaret.”

  “Stay with the senor. Watch him, okay?”

  “Si, senora.”

  “I'll be back. Don't leave his side.”

  “No, senora.”

  She went running off to find Sister Margaret, and to make the journalists an offer they couldn't refuse.

  * * * *

  The journalists wouldn't help her. The helicopter was already carrying the heaviest load safety permitted, they told her, and couldn't take on two extra passengers, or even one. However, with so much at stake, Madeleine wasn't about to give up. She used years of experience, the influence of the Barrington name and millions, and her own considerable powers of persuasion to convince them. But although they were interested to find a Barrington—and a pretty one, at that—in this godforsaken spot, the journalists couldn't be convinced.

  But Madeleine studied the quietest of the journalists, a newcomer named Lyle Higgins, and recognized the eager light of ambition in his eyes. He was young and hesitant, and he wanted to be daring. He was shocked by the scene at San Remo, and he wanted to be shrewd and world-weary. He was obscure, and he wanted to be notorious. So Madeleine offered him an opportunity he had never dreamed of, pointing out that a civil war in this forgotten backwater to which he had been assigned was his big chance to make a name for himself in his brutally competitive profession. And he could cover it first-hand, starting right now. All he had to do was save a hero.

  “Ransom is
the man who saved dozens of people from a terrorist bombing at a cafe in the capital just a few days ago,” Madeleine explained, getting Higgins away from his colleagues so she could talk to him.

  “The bombing that LPM claimed credit for?”

  “LPM?” she repeated. “Really? We never knew—”

  “He's the guy? Everyone was looking for—”

  “He saved Martinez's life, and Veracruz personally commended him the next day. He's also a personal enemy of Escalante, and was arrested without charge within hours of Escalante's seizing power.”

  Higgins whistled, furiously scribbling notes in his notebook. “But how—”

  “He's a former Secret Service agent: an American hero, ready to give up his life for the President.” She moved in for the kill. “And what a story it would make, Higgins, if you saved his life.”

  He blinked. “What?”

  “Change places with him.”

  “What?”

  “He'll die if he doesn't get treatment. He's very ill, and supplies can't reach us in time.”

  “A lot of people in Montedora are dying,” he pointed out, trying to sound tough.

  “I know. I've seen them,” she said stonily. “This is the one I can save.”

  “I don't think—”

  “You'll put him on the helicopter in your place, and your colleagues will take him back across the border with them. You save his life, and you stay here for a first-hand account of the misery and deprivation that pervades San Remo until the arrival of the relief trucks.”

  “There may not be any relief trucks if that fighting keeps getting closer,” he pointed out as another shell went off in the distance.

  “Well, if you're afraid—”

  “Damn right, I'm afraid! Any sensible person would be!” But his pride was clearly stung. “And you can't—”

  “I thought you wanted to be a war correspondent.”