Now and then dc-1

by John Locke

  Too many to count.

  He heard Creed and Rachel kiss.

  Then-O h my God! -suddenly his nuts were on fire!

  Christ, it hurt.

  It felt—

  Christ, Almighty!

  It felt like someone had built a fire in his lap and sent a bunch of bees to put it out.

  The pain was horrific. D’Augie’s body started to twitch and tremble. His face contorted involuntarily. His eyes became slits, and his upper lip peeled away, exposing his entire top row of teeth. D’Augie bit his lower lip so hard he drew blood. Then he opened and closed his mouth, faster and faster, raising and lowering his teeth, sinking them into his mangled lip again and again-until he realized this activity was only making things worse.

  Lying there with his upper teeth exposed, clenched against his lower lip, D’Augie imagined he looked like a lounge lizard doing the “white man overbite” dance. Except that he wasn’t dancing. He’d love to be dancing, hopping around, squishing the bugs-but he couldn’t move. He couldn’t move because he knew he couldn’t beat Creed from the front. He wanted to move. Had to move! But he couldn’t. D’Augie squeezed his eyelids together, and tears poured out, slid down the sides of his face, pooled in his ears.

  The pain was intolerable.

  Other-worldly.

  D’Augie was being eaten alive.

  What the fuck kind of bugs were these? It was as if they’d burrowed a centimeter into his flesh and laid a dozen acid eggs. Then the eggs exploded into flame at the same time. This was worse than bee stings, a million times worse, because it wasn’t a “one and done” burn. No, these little fuckers tore into his skin like shark on chum. They bit and kept on biting or stinging or whatever the hell they were doing to him and he was trembling and shaking and chattering his teeth and-And his nuts were swelling at an alarming rate, which seemed only to serve the purpose of creating a larger area to accommodate the reinforcement bugs. The more they bit, the more his nuts swelled, and this ever-expanding battlefield encouraged a hundred more insects to join the assault.

  Get out of here! he silently screamed to Creed. For the love of God, keep walking down the road!

  The woman said, “Kevin, let’s do it right here.”

  What?

  No! D’Augie thought. Please God, don’t let them do it right here! Twenty feet. Do it twenty feet down the road. Give me twenty feet and I’ll kill them before they get their pants off.

  Creed said, “Best offer I’ve had all day. But there’s gravel on the road, and possibly broken glass. You might get cut.”

  D’Augie didn’t know why she was calling Creed Kevin, and he didn’t care. All he could think about was how his nuts were twice their normal size and how the motherfuckers wouldn’t stop stinging him. His testicles hurt so bad he almost didn’t feel the insects stinging the rest of his privates.

  Almost didn’t.

  Holy Shit!

  D’Augie’s insides began churning. He needed to vomit. Started to vomit, but swallowed back the bile. The contents of his stomach lurched, preparing for a second attempt. D’Augie realized he was having an allergic reaction to the venom from the bites or stings. Itchy welts were forming on his face and forehead. His upper chest throbbed. His throat started closing up. His eyelids fluttered. Barely conscious, slipping fast, he heard Rachel say:

  “We could fuck on one of these sand dunes!”

  …And heard Creed answer:

  “Not in a million years.”

  …And Rachel:

  “Why not?”

  …And Creed:

  “Fire ants.”

  …And then D’Augie passed out.

  Chapter 4

  “YOU HEAR THAT?” I said.

  “What, the ocean?” Rachel said.

  “More like something in the dune. You got a flashlight in your purse?”

  “No. Wait, I’ve got a mini light on my car keys, will that work?”

  I waited while she unsnapped the light, then took it from her.

  “Stay here,” I said.

  I moved through the near-darkness, found the man lying on the sand dune. I kicked his ribs. No response. I leaned over him, flashed her mini light on his face.

  “What’s there?” Rachel said.

  “A kid. Young man, early twenties.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “Dead or dying. His body’s crawling with fire ants.”

  “You think he’s in shock?” she said, looking at him over my shoulder.

  “Shock?”

  “Anaphylactic shock. Like maybe he’s having an allergic reaction?”

  “Could be,” I said. I grabbed his collar and dragged him to the side of the road.

  Rachel fumbled in her purse a couple of seconds and pulled something out.

  “What’s that?” I said.

  “An EpiPen. It’s for allergic reactions.”

  She handed me the pen and I gave her the mini light. She said, “There’s a syringe inside. Take the cap off, hold the pen in your fist, and jab it in his thigh till you hear a click. Then hold it there for ten seconds.”

  “You’ve done this before?”

  “A thousand times.”

  “Really?”

  “No. But I read the directions.”

  I yanked his pants down to his knees.

  “Ten seconds?” I said. “Any magic to that number?”

  “That’s how long it takes to enter the bloodstream and get absorbed by the muscles.”

  “You got your cell phone handy?”

  She did, and used it to call 911. I injected as she calmly gave the dispatcher our location and explained the patient’s condition.

  “We gave him a dose of epinephrine,” she said, “and we’re about to start CPR.”

  That sounded like a good idea to me, so I slapped the fire ants off the kid’s clothes as best I could, then his face. Then I tore his shirt open and killed a bunch more of them, and started CPR.

  “Pull his shorts off,” I said.

  “Excuse me?” Rachel said.

  “Strip him down. He’s literally crawling with fire ants. We’ve got to get them off his body.”

  Rachel put the pen light in her teeth and tugged his boxers off.

  ” Jesus Christ! ” she said.

  “What?”

  She aimed the beam at his crotch, and I looked at the kid’s nuts. They were swollen to the size of avocados and covered with red, circular welts.

  And scores of fire ants.

  “Slap the ants off his dick,” I said.

  She raised her hand tentatively, poised to strike, then started to retch.

  “How about we trade places,” she gasped.

  “His mouth’s kind of mangled,” I warned.

  “Still,” Rachel said.

  We traded places. She gave him CPR, and I slapped the kid’s crotch and thighs like they owed me money. When Rachel paused a moment, I pushed him on his side and slapped the ants on his back and ass for good measure. Then I eased him onto his back and she started in again with the CPR.

  “That was so creepy,” Rachel said, while pumping the kid’s chest.

  “Creepy?”

  “His nuts.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “You ever see anything that creepy?” she said.

  “The Grady Twins.”

  “The Grady twin boys?”

  “Girls.”

  “Hmpf,” Rachel said.

  We worked on him till the ambulance arrived. While the two-man crew checked him out, I shook out his pants and shorts, and a large buck knife fell out and skittered across the pavement. I retrieved the knife and put it in my pocket. Then I put his clothes in a ball and tossed them on the front seat. While one of the EMS guys covered the kid in a blanket, the other took down some contact information from Rachel. They placed him in the ambulance, thanked us, and rushed him to the hospital.

  Rachel and I stood still a minute before resuming our walk.

  “You get stung?” I sai
d.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You’d know if you had.”

  “I guess. How about you?” she said.

  “I’d feel better if we patted each other down.”

  She laughed. “You’re just looking for an excuse to touch my boobs.”

  “How easily you see through me.”

  We brushed each other’s clothing in the dark until satisfied we weren’t transporting any ants to the B amp;B, then started walking.

  “You were fantastic back there,” I said.

  “When?”

  “The whole time.”

  “Tell me.”

  “You knew what to do, and you never hesitated. You were completely lucid and rational.”

  Dusk had become night, and though I couldn’t see it, I’m sure she smiled.

  “I have my moments,” Rachel said.

  We were quiet a while. I finally asked, “How’d you happen to have the syringe?”

  “I carry it in my purse all the time.”

  I knew this to be untrue. Until just recently, Rachel and her husband, Sam, had lived in a huge house in Louisville, Kentucky. Unbeknownst to Rachel, I’d lived in their attic off and on for the past two years, during which time I’d routinely gone through her purse and their medicine cabinets, documenting every detail of their lives, checking their medications. I knew Rachel’s medical history, or thought I did.

  “How long have you been carrying this particular syringe?” I said.

  “I got it in Savannah, at the drugstore.”

  “Don’t you need a prescription?”

  “Not when you’ve got a smile like mine!”

  I knew about the smile. What I didn’t know was if she’d been planning to kill me with the syringe.

  “Why’d you get it?” I said. “Seriously.”

  “When I was a kid I got stung by fire ants,” she said. “In the drug store in Savannah, a guy was saying how bad they were this year. I wanted to be ready in case one of us got stung on the beach.”

  That’s the funny thing about Rachel. When she wasn’t being crazy, she was quite capable.

  We kept walking. I could tell she wanted to ask me something. Finally she did.

  “Are you allergic to anything?”

  “Cheesecake.”

  “What?”

  “It makes me fat.”

  She might have muttered the word “asshole” under her breath.

  We walked some more, and I said, “Nicotine.”

  “You don’t smoke.”

  “Still, it’s a poison. If you distill it and concentrate it to its purest essence, it’s one of the deadliest poisons on earth.”

  “Is that the little black one in your kit?”

  I keep a poison kit in my belongings. It’s essential in my line of work. I’d made the mistake of warning Rachel about it early in the vacation when I’d caught her about to dab some Ricin on her wrist, thinking it was part of my cologne collection. When asked why I carried a kit filled with poisons, I came up with the bullshit excuse that I was delivering it to the Justice Department in Miami.

  “You need to stay out of that kit.”

  “Fine, don’t worry. But is it the black one?”

  “It’s the clear one, in the vial.”

  “That’s the one that can kill you?”

  “It is.” Though it was the clear one in the vial, like most poisons, I had built up an immunity to it over time. The only poison I’m unable to handle is Tetrodotoxin, or TTX. Of course, I would never tell Rachel that, nor would I carry TTX in my kit. I love Rachel, but I couldn’t trust her not to kill me.

  “You must really trust me to tell me about your Kryptonite,” she said.

  “Of course. How can a relationship thrive without trust?”

  After a few minutes we were able to make out the lights and wrought iron balcony of The Seaside Bed and Breakfast. The balcony’s ironwork was famous, unique, and more than a hundred and fifty years old. It had been handcrafted in Boston and shipped to St. Alban’s Beach by rail. The architect who designed it was murdered in the alley behind the local bar the very night the installation had been completed. Local legend had it that the original owner of the Seaside had the architect killed so he wouldn’t be able to replicate the design elsewhere.

  I said, “After we shower I thought I’d take the rental car to the hospital to check on the kid.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “Just to recap,” I said. “We’ll go inside, strip down, make sure we’ve gotten rid of all the ants, take a hot shower, make wild, passionate love, then drive to the hospital.”

  “Whoa, cowboy,” she said.

  “Whoa?”

  “On the sex part.”

  “Why?”

  “You owe me an explanation. And an apology.”

  “For what?”

  “You said a relationship can’t flourish without trust.”

  “I said that?”

  “You did.”

  “Then I stand by it.”

  “Prove it.”

  “Okay. How?”

  “That comment you made about the Grady Twins.”

  “What about it?”

  “I don’t care how creepy they were. If you’ve had a threesome, I have a right to know the details.”

  I laughed.

  “Laugh now, pay later,” she said. “I’m not kidding, Kevin.”

  “Heeeere’s Johnny!”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You know the movie, The Shining?” I said. “Jack Nicholson?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Remember the kid on the tricycle?”

  She thought a minute.

  “The one in the hotel that’s riding up and down the hallways?”

  “Right, the caretaker’s son.”

  “Yeah, I remember. So what?”

  “So he’s riding down the hall a hundred miles an hour and he suddenly sees the two girls and nearly shits his pants, remember?”

  “Oh, God, yes!”

  “The Grady Twins,” I said.

  Chapter 5

  THE NORTHEAST FLORIDA Medical Center is located on Fifth Street, St. Alban’s Beach. We were standing outside the kid’s room, talking to the attending physician, Dr. Carstairs.

  “How is he?” Rachel said.

  “Too soon to tell, but he’s on a ventilator, so he’s got a chance. Thanks to you folks and the luck of St. Alban’s.”

  “A doctor who believes in luck?” I said.

  “We’ve lost very few patients since I’ve been here. I’d call that lucky, wouldn’t you?”

  “Some might be inclined to give you the credit.”

  “They’d be kind to do so. But there’s something more at work here.”

  “Such as?”

  “The patients here have the best attitudes I’ve ever seen. They eat more, sleep better, complain less, and most important, they believe they’re going to improve.”

  “I don’t know if I’d call it lucky,” I said. “Miracle might be a better word.”

  “Then let’s put it this way,” he said. “If you’re going to get sick or injured anywhere in the country, this appears the best place to be. And not because of me.”

  Dr. Carstairs was short and squat, late forties. His head was completely bald in the middle, and he’d grown his fringe hair long enough to form a short pony tail in back.

  “Incongruous,” Rachel whispered, trying out a word I’d taught her months ago, when she first started cheating on her husband.

  “Compensatory displacement,” I whispered back.

  She arched an eyebrow and I wanted to take her right there. She caught my look and smiled, then turned back to face the doctor. While she looked at him I studied her profile, and-okay, I know it’s corny, but time seemed to freeze. Rachel nodded her head, responding to something the doctor had said, and I realized I’d been focusing on her sexuality so intently, I’d missed it. Rachel somehow managed to keep her focus on the doctor despite my sexu
ality. What willpower she must have!

  “Sensitization?” Rachel said.

  “That means he had to have been stung by fire ants at least once in the past, probably as a child. The first stinging event often fails to cause an allergic reaction. But the second can be deadly.”

  “Who is he?” I said. “Any guess how long he’d been lying there?”

  “There was no identification, and none of the nurses know him, so he’s probably not local. We were sort of hoping you might know who he is.”

  “No clue,” I said.

  Something tugged at my brain, making me wonder what kind of kid comes to town and walks around with no wallet, no cell phone, no money in his pockets-but has the sharpest knife I’d ever seen. I could always take it down to the P.D., and have the locals lift his prints. If he had a police record, I’d be doing them a favor. On the other hand, I didn’t want to buddy up to the local police if I didn’t have to. A little town like this, they probably have plenty of time on their hands. If some over-achiever gets a bug up his butt and begins checking too deeply into my background he might find some inconsistencies.

  Dr. Carstairs said, “As to how long he’d been lying on the ant hill, I’d have to say not very, because anaphylaxis occurs rapidly, within seconds to a minute. If I had to venture a guess, I’d say two, three minutes, tops.”

  Rachel said, “That poor kid must have been walking up from the beach when he got stung.”

  I said, “I think you’re right. He was probably walking up from the beach and saw the car full of jerks heading in his direction, got scared, and ducked down for cover. Then the ants got him.”

  “Poor kid,” she said. “Alone and scared.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  But with a hell of a dangerous knife.

  Chapter 6

  NEXT MORNING I checked Rachel’s pulse, kissed her on the cheek, and climbed out of bed. I left her a note to say I’d be back in time for the eight-thirty breakfast, then I put on some shorts and running shoes and hit the road.

  With a four-thousand-year-old history rich with ancient Indians, marauding pirates, seafaring captains, railroads, shrimpers, saloons and sharks, St. Alban’s, Florida, is a visitor’s paradise.

  I headed north on A1A and turned left on Coastal, followed Coastal all the way to the tiny airport that served Amelia Island, turned left again on Farthing, and wound up back on A1A, a couple miles south of the Seaside. Six minutes later I passed the area where we had our run-in with the homeboys and then the place where we saved the kid. I sprinted a half mile, then slowed to a cooling jog and stopped a few yards shy of the Seaside’s front gate. The owner, Beth Daniels, was pulling weeds from the stone path that led to the front door.