John Locke - Now and then

"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 said.

"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.

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 sexuality. What willpower she must have!