Randy White - Black Widow

I had told Beryl and Senegal to leave on the morning helicopter, but now decided it was too dangerous to wait. Time to call in a charter helicopter large enough to take us all off the mountain. I stepped outside and tried to raise Sir James on the VHF. Moved to different parts of the quadrangle to get better reception. No luck.

As I locked the door and returned to Norma’s side, I felt an odd, dreamy dizziness as she spoke to me, saying, “It’s a sick feeling, watching that witch drink the life out of you. Her with her makeup like some child’s doll, and that white hood she wears. The way her eyes stared at me when she sucked the tube-enjoying how scared I was, and full of hate, like I was dirty. But she was the one with blood on her face. And breath so nasty, bugs could feed on it. I pretended to pass out. Maybe I really did for a few minutes.”

Norma had already told me she’d hidden in the woods until the dogs started going crazy-“They sounded so close, I thought they’d broke through the fence where it cuts close to the Lookout. That’s happened before.”

I knew the spot. I’d left Wolfie there.

Now she was backtracking, filling in the blanks as I asked questions. I found I had to concentrate to follow along.

“When I woke up, my mouth and hands were taped, and I was wrapped in some kind of heavy sheet. I heard voices-men’s voices. One sort of sounded like you. But when I got loose, there was no one around.” She leaned to look into my eyes. “Is that how you knew Fabron hurt me? Was it you I heard, Marion?”

I found it oddly touching that she called me by my first name. I said, “No. You must have been…” I had to struggle to find the word. “… hallucinating.”

“I don’t think I was dreaming it. I know Fabron. That man wouldn’t’ve just gone off and left me unless someone scared him away. Not with me naked, the two of us alone. After all the times I told him no? He would’ve taken his time and made me pay. He’s raped at least two guests since he’s been here, but no one did anything because he’s one of the Widow’s favorites.”

The light from the reading lamp had become piercing. As I turned it toward the wall, I was struck by something subtle but significant: Norma had kept the sheet primly over her breasts while we’d been talking. Used one arm, then the other, to cover herself when using hand gestures. Her determined modesty was so… decent, so admirable and consistent, despite the trauma she was dealing with. I found myself wanting to reach out and stroke the woman’s hair. I did.

Norma monitored her own eyes, as well as the eyes of others. A look from her meant something. She gave me a look now, saying, Marion? You’re acting sort of strange all of a sudden, but she let me continue stroking her hair. “Are you feeling okay?”

I felt a slow, wide smile fill my face. “I’m fine. I mean it… I feel great. Really great, in fact. What I’d like to do right now is-” I stopped. What the hell was I saying?

I didn’t feel great. It was impossible after the night I’d had. If I wanted to picture it, I could see Fabron shrinking into darkness. I could see Wolfie’s face go white as I lifted him over the fence, hearing the mastiffs charging through the forest toward us.

I put my hand on the bed and stood. I didn’t feel dizzy now, just

… strange. Happy, but also like I wanted to cry.

Cry?

I hadn’t cried since childhood. What was wrong with me? I sat and looked at the carafe of iced tea. I’d given the bottle of water to Norma. I’d drunk tea, nothing else. The explanation assembled itself slowly: The tea… I feel this way because there’s something in the herbal tea.

My glass was nearly empty. I held it up. “What’s in this stuff? I’m starting to feel drunk… only not really drunk, just high.. . and warm.”

“It’s what the monks used to make, only weaker. The name’s Divinorium. They make it from those blue flowers you see all around, plus a special orchid. It’s the regular drink we serve in the spa all day. They brew it in the kitchen. It’s purifying herbs with a little honey.”

I stood again, seeing halos over the lights while colors strobed behind my eyes. “It can’t be the same drink.”

Norma took the glass, sniffed it, then tasted. She took another drink before she said, “You’re right. This is stronger. It’s good-” She drank again. “-but it’s been brewed a lot longer. Maybe something added, too. I wouldn’t drink any more if I were you.” She thought about it, then said, “I wonder why the maids put this in your room.”

“It wasn’t here when I left. They don’t put it in all the rooms?”

"Not as strong as that, they don’t. Just the little bit I had, I can already feel.”

I said, “Wait here a second.”

I went to the bathroom, turned on the shower to cover the noise, and made myself vomit. I thought it would help. It didn’t.

"MARION? HOW LONG are you going to stay in there?”

Norma’s voice. Startling. I’d lost track of time. I searched the walls, the ceiling to confirm. Yes, I was still in the bathroom.

I’d made myself vomit again, ran cold water over my head. Now I was looking in the mirror, brushing my teeth. A stranger looked back. .. then blurred… then my own face appeared. My emotions oscillated in synch, sad… happy… sad… happy… introspective.

I studied the scratches on my face: four plowed rows of missing skin. Fabron had taken part of me with him when he fell into the sea. The combination of flesh and death, the orderly geometrics of my wound, struck me as indefinably profound. Then Fabron came into my mind. His wild eyes, the way he’d screamed for his mother as he fell.

I felt sad, thinking about his mother. I’d once had a mother. A father, too. Video of a boat exploding played in my mind as the name of my parents’ killer turned to ashes in my lab.

What did it matter? Everyone died. We all left behind family to deal with the pain, to reassemble broken pieces. It was cruel. Abandonment. Maybe I would write a letter to Fabron’s mother and break the news her son wasn’t coming home. A mother deserved to know. An anonymous letter, couldn’t use my name… maybe invent a nice thing to say about her son because it would ease the mother’s pain…

Say something nice?

I took four deep breaths… held each for four seconds, released them slowly… and the fog cleared for a moment.

Why would I write a letter that eulogized a rapist? Fabron was an asshole, a sadist, a menace. It’s the drug. Remorse is irrational.

Irrational-the right word. Yes, the drug again… effects getting stronger.

I forced myself to focus on what was rational. I was like a drunk climbing a ladder, giving elaborate attention to the rungs. Okay… why is an emotional reaction to Fabron’s death irrational? I managed to recall another maxim hammered out on a long-ago jungle night:

Unless a man is in mortal danger, hitting a woman is contrary to evolutionarydesign. The man should be confined for the welfare of the species. A man who rapes a woman breaches the laws of natural selection. He should be euthanized to protect the integrity of the species.

Laws of nature have no pity. Fabron got what he deserved. Same with Wolfie, the dog fancier.

I clung to that rational thread. It was like walking a tightrope as my brain struggled to distance itself from the effects of the drug by recalling what I’d read about MDA. There were similarities.

The drug doesn’t increase motor activity like most stimulants, it suppressesinhibitions… causes feelings of affection even between strangers. Produces a warm glow that radiates into the penis or clitoris.

I had all the symptoms-some getting stronger even as I reviewed them. The effects of the drug would pass, I told myself. All I had to do was wait it out.