by Zach Neal
They were still alive, and still together.
There were always going to be setbacks. A bit of sensational publicity couldn’t hurt the book sales, either.
His fellow members, the boys at the Explorer’s Club were just going to eat this right up.
***
They were lucky enough not to have to sleep in the tents, on the riverbank, scrounging for meals and begging for scraps.
With Uncle’s credit quickly established, a stroke of luck there, (in his words), they had installed themselves on the second floor of a relatively clean little place a couple of blocks back from the water. The cat came and went by night, leaping from the balcony into unknown peregrinations. There were plenty of low rooftops and shade trees right across the alley.
After sleeping in the jungle, always waking up before dawn, Jeremy was enjoying a nice lie-in, in that dreamy fog-state that comes just before true consciousness.
…that cat really grew on you…he couldn’t really deny that…snork.
A pounding at the door had his heart racing, and he sat bolt upright in bed as excited voices called out for Doctor Harry.
“Doctor Harry! Doctor Harry!”
Throwing aside the mosquito netting, wearing nothing but his boxer-shorts, he opened the door to see a dozen natives of all shapes, sizes and ages.
“Doctor Harry! Doctor Harry!”
“Just down the hall—”
Of course they didn’t understand.
His uncle’s door was already open and the man himself came striding out, tying the belt on his dressing gown, bare feet incongruously pale compared to the sunburned face and neck, and all veined in blue.
All of them were talking at once.
“Serpiente serpiente,” and gesticulating wildly.
Luckily, at least one of them spoke a little more Spanish than just that. They also knew he had money—
His uncle turned to Jeremy, as Mister Day and Melody O’Dell came out of their rooms in various states of sleeping attire.
“Get dressed. We’re going to see a snake. A really, really big one.”
“Whoa.” What else could you say, really.
The sun wasn’t even up yet.
Act Three
A small procession, natives, Europeans, and a local white man who was said to know the local native language pretty well, went down to the river and boarded a trio of long, out-rigged canoes. They proceeded to paddle up the river, each of them with their own thoughts and their own hopes and fears.
A mile or two upriver, on the left bank, appeared one of the ubiquitous encampments. More naked and half-dressed children clustered on the riverbank. The headman appeared, along with a half a dozen young men, a couple of them armed with rusting old shotguns, and most of them with machetes. A couple of the younger boys had skinny little spears, bent as usual. The spears were meant for poking rather than throwing, was the basic conclusion.
The headman smiled a gap-toothed smile, looking distinctly odd in a set of steel-rimmed glasses. He waved happily, sensing reward possibly, or just some good old-fashioned entertainment. The boats rammed ashore and willing hands steadied them, young men coming into the shallows to assist the lady and the doctor. Uncle Harry strode up the bank, with the interpreter in tow.
“Right. Now, where’s this bloody snake?”
Jabber-jabber-jabber…
“This way, Señor.”
The younger ones were running and the sounds of a crowd came from up ahead.
“Good Lord.”
Bloated with its recent meal, the snake was huge—with a telltale bulge right in the midsection. It was difficult to tell how big it was.
It was a jaw-dropping sight. Someone had had some foresight. They’d grabbed a rope and somehow gotten a loop over its head, tied tightly to the nearest big tree. That must have taken some real guts. Confused, choking, eventually exhausted and unable to escape, the animal had curled up in a mass of angry toils at the base of the tree.
“Oh, that poor thing.” Melody had her hands up over her mouth as Mister Day strode forward, gun-hand extended.
She screamed when he began firing and the rest of the people were going mad. Why they hadn’t already killed it was a good question—
Day fired seven times, how many times he might have hit it was an unknown as the thing began to twist, and thrash, and all of a sudden it was coming at him and he backed up quickly.
Mister Day stood there gaping.
The snake came to the end of its rope and his uncle fired, a careful shot that hit under the chin and spurted blood from the top of the skull but the thing was not easily killed. The children were hustled back by parents and older siblings, away from the thrashing tail, sweeping through great arcs in its rage and its agony.
Jeremy had no doubt that animals could feel pain, and yet he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the unforgettable sight.
This was truly sickening. Surely the snake hadn’t done anything wrong—
“All right. Stand back.” The snake was quieter now, with blood bubbling from its mouth and nostrils.
His uncle fired again, aiming apparently for the point where the head met the first vertebra in the neck.
The dying animal jerked, and quivered and gasped loudly in the stillness of the midday heat.
Harry fired again, and again, and again…click, click.
It was over, finally. There were no more bullets.
“Right. I’m going to need a really big knife.”
Jeremy hardly recognized Uncle Harry in that moment.
He’d been spattered by a fine spray of hot wet blood, but was seemingly oblivious to it. Mister Day as well. For all they knew, that big lump in the animal’s belly might just as well be some anonymous deer, another big snake or a wild pig.
There was only one way to find out.
***
“Here, let me do it. I owe you that much, anyways.” Mister Day extended a hand, and after a look, Uncle Harry gave him the big hunting knife their interpreter had whistled up from the proud papa of a dozen children between zero and twelve years of age…all lined up in a row, watching with eyes wide, half of them sucking their thumbs too.
Not afraid of a little blood, willing hands pulled and tugged, and the dead snake was stretched out straight upon the ground.
“Roll it over.”
The gentleman translated and the people argued amongst themselves and finally agreed on right to left. Someone cut the rope. They rolled it over on its back. The spinal bones would otherwise be in the way, and all he had was one small blade.
Dropping to his knees, his upper legs almost too short to reach the ground while astride the belly of the monster, Mister Day took a deep breath and decided exactly where to put the knife in. The snake had to be thirty feet long, and a good two feet in diameter at the bulge.
Fresh rivers of blood spurted. The snake was clearly dead as there was no reaction to the first cut. People steadied it, as he pulled again.
Sliding back, trying to gauge the thickest section of snake, Mister Day kept pulling. He got about five feet, and then took a little rest. He wiped his forehead with the back of his left hand.
Taking the handle in both hands again, he kept going.
There was nothing more they could do to hurt Mister Syrmes now, and recovering his body if possible was, arguably, the right thing to do no matter what sort of condition he was in.
***
“Well.”
The butt of the rifle stuck out on the one end. That was something…
Looking like nothing more than a big hairball, whatever it was, it had been successfully removed from the belly of the serpent. The natives, delighted with their conquest, for surely they must hate and fear the great animals, were dragging it away. According to the translator they would skin it and then cook it up. People for miles around would be eating snake meat tonight.
Mister Day was looking a bit green. His crotch and legs were dark with blood. His Uncle looked around, finally sett
ling on Jeremy.
“Where’s Mrs. O’Dell?”
“About halfway back to Buena Vista, by this time. She’ll be all right. She’s got a gun in her purse.”
Harry gave a little snort.
“Sir?”
“Yes, Jeremy?”
“We need a good stick or two.” The snake had had a day or two to digest, and there were other things in there too—what was clearly turning into a slimy brown lump below Mister Syrmes, assuming it were really him, and what must have been a big bird, perhaps a heron or pelican, a stork or something above Syrmes.
The snake must have gotten a little peckish—as Day had put it. While they might go a long time between meals, they were opportunistic feeders. They poked around and finally exposed a face, one eyeball staring accusingly out at them. The hydrochloric acid had been at it, and it was a sight.
It was Syrmes, all right.
There was also the hint of a khaki strap under a mess of half-dissolved feathers and hair and one or two other nameless things besides.
Hooking a stout stick under the strap, stomach heaving but mostly under control, Jeremy put his boot down on the soggy mass and began pulling and twisting and working it back and forth.
***
“Goodness gracious.”
It was all there. It was heavy too. The knapsack appeared to be intact, for the most part, and still sealed with its leather straps and brass buckles.
The smell caught at the back of Jeremy’s throat and he had to turn away.
“Is she really gone, then?” Uncle Harry seemed quite put out.
He’d wanted her to see this—
“Here, lad. Take a break.” Mister Day took over the better stick, poking the knife in and pushing and pulling assorted bits, bone, flesh and hair, out of the way.
He dry-retched a couple of times, very contagious that was, too, and then went on.
“Not a very nice way to go, it is?” Mister Mateo had a bit of morbid curiosity in him, that and the fact that he would like to be paid at some point.
This was all terribly fascinating of course, and now he would have a real story to tell.
“No. It isn’t.”
Day cleared his throat.
“He would have quickly lost consciousness. One would hope.” He grunted. “Bastard that he was…”
Mister Day had the knapsack free, for the most part clear of other…things.
“We’ll bury him right here—perhaps we could ask the natives for a shovel.” Uncle Harry proffered coins. “Oh, yes. And a bucket or two of water.”
Señor Mateo spoked in excited tones and a bunch of them ran off.
It didn’t take very long before they were back, some of them with shovels and some of them with nothing more than primitive digging sticks. They opened a hole in the soft ground in pretty short order, and then Jeremy and Mister Day, using borrowed shovels, tipped and rolled what was left of Mister Syrmes into the hole.
Rifle and all.
Some sort of words would seem to be in order, and so they all turned to Uncle Harry.
“Er…well.”
He took off his hat, the horrible-smelling knapsack at his feet.
“Most of us, good or evil, don’t really get what we deserve in this life. However, in this particular case, one William Syrmes, formerly of Shrewsbury, and now a permanent resident of Venezuela, would appear to be an exception. Ah. Er. Argh. God damn your soul to everlasting hellfire, Mister Syrmes.” He raised his head and nodded at their cheerful helpers, fascinated by everything they did. “May you rot in hell, sir.”
Mateo laughed, delighted, translating to an eager crowd.
They shoveled in dirt and Uncle Harry began distributing small coins to anyone that would take them, although one or two still seemed pretty shy.
One could hardly blame them for that.
***
Mrs. O’Dell had somehow persuaded someone to paddle her home, but then a few coins and a white face went a long way in this country.
When they arrived back at Buena Vista, the first place they went was the bank. This time Mister Day and Jeremy went in rather than waiting out front. The manager, Señor Cezar, looked askance at the smelly knapsack, but when ushered into his private office, after a quick look at one or two of the smaller, more accessible pieces, he was utterly convinced.
“Goodness, gracious!”
“Yes, well. For one thing, it needs to be thoroughly cleaned, and properly documented. But for temporary safekeeping, we would like to rent your largest safety-deposit box. I’m assuming you have such a thing?” There was just no way they could ever sleep at the hotel, not with this along.
Their find might be worth a hundred thousand pounds, maybe even more.
Cezar paled when he heard that.
“I can let you have as many smaller boxes as you need. I don’t think we have one that big.”
…Mister Day had his camera hanging around his neck.
“The other thing, sir. Ah. Do you have a staff room? We’d like to separate some of this out and give it a quick rinse.”
“Si. I mean yes. Absolutely.”
Wrinkling his nose in disgust, Señor Cezar, who seemed a pretty easy-going chap, got up and led them down a back hall.
“Ah, and what about Mister O’Dell, Mister Smith…and all that sort of thing, gentlemen?”
“That, I think, is a job for the police. Seriously, there was just no way. We were never going to carry two bodies, not with poor Mrs. O’Dell aboard and a fairly small boat.”
Cezar nodded his comprehension.
“But of course. Anyways, you are welcome to our facilities—and, ah, please, let me know so that we can clean up when you are done.”
***
Their next stop was the hotel.
As soon as she heard them clomping down the hall on their floor, the door to her room popped open.
“Doctor?”
“Yes, Mrs. O’Dell?”
“There’s something we need to talk about…all of us. You too, Mister Day.”
Day didn’t look too pleased at that.
“Are you sure this is necessary, Mrs. O’Dell?”
“Yes, it is, Gerald.”
“Jeremy?”
“I’m just going to check on Ozzie. I’ll be right along, Uncle.”
***
The cat was sleeping on his bed, which was a nice warm feeling, although he had no idea of what the cleaning staff thought of it. Probably not much, he decided.
Hers was a big, comfortable room. Jeremy had brought in a couple of more chairs from his own and the doctor’s rooms.
“So, Melody. What’s this all about.”
“Doctor, do you remember your lecture to the Explorer’s Club meeting last November?”
“Ah, yes, I do.” It was an open meeting, with several notable speakers and the general public in attendance.
“Mister Syrmes was there that night. There was no way you would ever recognize him, because he was heavily bearded. He had different glasses back then and long hair. He saw the potential straight away, of course. Luckily, he had references and you took him on.”
“Melody, please don’t do this—” Day bit off any further comment.
He’d already gone too far, and yet there was nowhere to run.
Uncle Harry was very calm.
He gave a discomfited Gerald Day a long look.
“What are you trying to tell us, Melody.”
“No.”
“Shut up, Mister Day. This is all going to come out, Mister Day. Gerald.” She glared at him. “Think about it, you fool—all that press coverage. Doctor Fawcett is going to be the man of the day. His description of the treasure will no doubt ring many bells. That was before you recovered it, even. Now there will be pictures in the newspapers. Lots and lots of pictures, Gerald. And anyone around him will be subject to great scrutiny.”
“I swear to God, I have no idea of what she’s talking about—” Face flaming, he was getting up to leave.
> “Shut up and sit down, Mister Day.”
From out of nowhere, Melody had a gun on him.
Not quite knowing what was going on, Jeremy also stood. He went to get between Gerald Day and the door.
Day slowly sank back into his seat.
“It was all a set-up, Doctor.”
Day sighed deeply.
“Is this true, Gerald?”
He shrugged, unable to meet the doctor’s eyes. His pistol was empty, there was nowhere to run—
“Oh, to hell with it, Gerald. He would have figured it out soon enough. Did you really think you could stick with the doctor now? All that gold—it’s stuck in your mind and you can’t get it out of there, can you?”
Finally he looked up.
“I’m sorry, Doctor Fawcett. We had no idea of what Mister Syrmes was like. Or what he intended to do.”
Melody ground onwards.
“Let’s just say he double-crossed us—all of us. I suppose you could say some of us deserved it. Some of us maybe should have seen it coming. But it would have inevitably come out, Gerald. Doctor Fawcett. There never was a Peter O’Dell, millionaire, from Newport, Rhode Island. There never was a Melody O’Dell, there never was a William Syrmes—or a Gerald Day. It’s easy enough to see—now, at last, that we were never going to get away with it.”
Jeremy stood, transfixed. His uncle’s face was a study. That was one thing for sure.
“I see.”
There was a long silence, and then Uncle Harry said it again.
“I see.”
Jeremy cleared his throat.
“And—and you were all in it?”
“Mister Smith was genuine. He was also extremely thorough. A very tough young man. That’s probably why Mister Syrmes shot him. I don’t even know the bastard’s real name, he came to us and put the proposal to us. We were, er, working certain clients in London at the time, but this one sounded special. He had to have the…the right kind of people.” Her voice broke, realizing perhaps just what kind of people that meant. “He told us that he needed to get as many people as possible in the party, the sort of people that he could count on…”
