The Seadragon's Daughter (37 page)

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Authors: Alan F. Troop

BOOK: The Seadragon's Daughter
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Claudia rolls her eyes. “Of course, boss.” She hands me a wood case marked ARMY SURPLUS. “Nine millimeter, steel-jacketed, for the Uzis,” she says, picking up a large cardboard carton next. “And solid slugs for the shotguns. Each one has over an ounce of lead in it. Neil, the guy I got them from, says they can take down a charging rhino.”
“Good,” I say, still unsure just what it will take to stop a Pelk. I know it would take more than a few bullets to slow one of my own kind.
At the end, Claudia passes up a small box of Zippo lighters and then holds up a very large stainless steel cooking pot and says, “For the tea.”
“It’s huge,” Chloe says.
“I know. It holds a bunch. I asked my parents about that word,
arbolillo
, like you asked me to. Mom said I should ask her cousin Raoul—he teaches advanced Spanish at the U of M. He wasn’t home so I left a message. But Pops insisted it means sapling. So I figured, if we chopped one up, it would fit in this.”
“Fine,” Chloe says. “But how will it fit on the stove?”
Claudia flashes a smile. “You’re talking to a former Girl Scout here. We’ll heat it in the fireplace.”
“That will take a while to get ready,” Chloe says. She looks at me. “Do you mind if we pick out which mangrove sapling to use?”
I shrug. “Go ahead. Your guess is as good as mine.”
 
Derek and I offload the hose. Attaching a hundred-foot length to the first fuel drum pump, we run it to the far end of the dock and leave its end hanging off over the water, facing the harbor’s entrance. We attach the other two hundred feet to the second drum and run it down the harbor’s shore to the line I scuffed in the sand.
Returning to the dock, we fill all the Zippo lighters and place each one on the deck near a torch. I point to the weapons and the ammo next, and Derek nods and says, “Okay, old man, I understand these and the cannons and the rail guns. But do you really think Mowdar and his men are just going to sit in the water while you pump petrol around them?”
Smiling, I shake my head. “They have a safehold under the island. One exit is over there.” I point to the water by the mangroves. “It’s the only one the guns don’t really cover. Fortunately, if they do attack from there, they can only come out one or two at a time. A fire could slow them down.”
“If you light it on time. Seems a bit dodgy, old man.”
I pick up the three Uzis and nod. “It’s all a bit dodgy,” I say.
It takes us two trips to bring all the Uzis, shotguns and ammunition to Henri’s room. Though I ache to go up to the great room to see how the mangrove tea is coming along, I stay and we load all the weapons first. When we finally do go upstairs, I carry one of the loaded Uzis with me.
 
A hot, swampy smell hits my nostrils as soon as I reach the third-floor landing. Derek wrinkles his nose and says, “Bloody hell, if it tastes as bad as it smells you’ll be upchucking all night!”
The smell gets worse the closer we get to the great room—as does the heat. Inside we find the pot sitting on a metal grate over a pile of burning logs in the fireplace. Flames dance all around the pot, clouds of smoke and water vapor swirling above it and streaming up into the chimney.
Chloe and Claudia give us wan smiles from the kitchen, the coolest spot in the room. Their clothes stick to their bodies with sweat. A wet sheen of perspiration coats their skin wherever it’s exposed.
“It’s been boiling for over a half hour,” Chloe says. “We chopped the whole tree up, branches, roots, bark and leaves.”
Claudia nods. “It was such a cute little tree. I feel like a murderer.”
I nod and look out the window. During the worst of winters, we rarely use the fireplace more than a few times, and even then the grand room usually gets too hot. The air conditioning certainly can’t handle a large fire now, with the sun bright outside and the temperature in the high eighties. The whole room feels like the inside of a blast furnace.
The heat and the smell and the worry that it may all be in vain make me want to bolt from the room. I sigh, wish it were all done with already. “When can I try it?” I say.
Chloe shrugs, takes a long ladle and walks over to the pot. She stirs it a few times, beads of sweat forming on her forehead, running down her cheeks. Lifting a ladleful of the brew to her nose, she smells it and grimaces. “I guess now would be as good a time as any,” she says.
Picking up an empty coffee mug, Claudia joins her and holds it out. Chloe empties one ladleful into it and then another. She looks toward me. “We don’t really know what the dosage should be. My guess is, this should be fine.”
Claudia brings the cup back and puts it on the countertop in front of me. “Let it cool a little before you try it,” she says.
I nod and stare at the cup. Thick, dark brown liquid fills it to the top, giving off a rank, sulfuric aroma, as if a hundred cups of tea had been brewed too long and then intermixed with rotting vegetation. Stifling a gag, I back away.
Chloe, who’s come back from the fireplace, puts her hand on my forearm. “Not very pleasant, is it?” she says.
“Not at all. But if it works, it will be worth it.”
Frowning at the cup, rubbing my forearm, Chloe says, “Peter, if it doesn’t work, we still have time. We’ll figure something out.”
“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.”

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