Jonathan Everest - The tortured tourists

As Fleming sipped at the drink, letting it flow around his dry mouth and throat, Gerault moved to the wall where Ann and Tommy were licking their lips in anticipation. When he had given each of them a drink, he moved toward the center of the basement as if heading back toward the stairs, then turned to face them. He looked with deliberation at the captives chained to the two walls, from his vantage point almost directly out from the corner.

He's standing on the hypotenuse of our family triangle, Darla thought, realizing her silliness even as she thought it. This drink must be drugged! What are they planning to do?

"In a few minutes, we will bring you something to eat. When the food has had a chance to digest, then we will begin our little circus. Will that not be nice? The Circus Gerault, it may not get to become famous on the continent, but here in… here among our exclusive company, we shall have much amusement."

"Perhaps you may feel a little strange from your drink. It is not the Pernod of your American bar stock. It is genuine absinthe, and has somewhat more strength from the wormwood. Is it not so?"

Gerault laughed to himself, as he turned away and went back up the stairs, leaving the light on, this time. When the door closed, Darla looked at her father, and his gaze met hers with a quiet recognition of their victory in the bugging-test operation.

"Did you notice that he still doesn't want us to know where we are??" asked Fleming. "That can only be due to the fact that he expects us to live to tell about it. He doesn't intend to kill us, then. At least we learned that much." His eyes glinted with the realization that they had won a small beetle.

"Brace yourself, Daddy Chuck," said Darla. "I know where we are. At least, I think I can help you figure it out pretty closely."

"What do you mean, honey? Weren't you blindfolded on the way here, like we were?" He watched the elfin grin creep across his daughter's mouth and cheek.

"Yes, but it was pretty coarse material, and in one spot – a very convenient spot – it was only a single thickness, and I could see through it. We're just a little way from the center of Salon, Daddy. Remember the Hall of States in that photograph?"

"Yes, yes, honey. But, don't tell me that's still there like it was."

"No, Daddy. The signs aren't there, but it's the same building; the very same place. And as we came into town from Marseilles, we turned left there in front of the place, and I recognized it."

"Thank God! What a stroke of luck. Let's see. If only I can remember after all these years. What was it out that direction?" Fleming closed his eyes as he strained to recall the topography out of his past. Darla watched his knuckles turn white as his hands clenched in desperate tension to match his mental pressures.

"Okay. I think I've got it! Now, did you make any other turns?"

"No. I don't think so. We kept going until we came to the lane that leads up to this house."

"How far are we from the Hall of States. That's very important."

"I think it must be about four or five miles. One thing I'm sure of: right out front, as you turn into the lane, there is a hedgerow on either side of the lane. And to the left of the lane, there is a cabbage patch. Right down through the center of the cabbage patch, three rows have been harvested. There are heads of cabbage in all the other rows or there were when I saw it."

"Good show, Darla, honey! We mustn't let them know that we have the least idea where we are. It could mean our deaths, all of us."

"I've been thinking about something else," Darla said, wondering how to describe what she had in mind while the whole family was listening, hanging on her every word. Then she shrugged, and jumped right into it.

"Every little thing we can arrange to throw them off stride, even the smallest bit, will work in our favor. Isn't that what you used to tell us about your Intelligence training, Daddy Chuck?"

"That's right, honey. Hard to tell how much good it will do us in this case, but you never know. What do you have in mind?"

"They let me keep my purse, after they took out my nail file and a few other things. I see that Mother has her purse, too. The thought just came to me that there is no identification on the pill containers that Doctor Vaughn uses, except for dosage instructions. I could pretend that the pills in my purse are to prevent some kind of fatal attack, or something, so they'll let me take them. And I could slip one to Mother, each time, too."

"What pills are those, honey?" Fleming's brow wrinkled as he tried to imagine what his daughter was taking that he knew nothing about.

"Jussincases," Darla mumbled. She felt the flush move upward from her neck, and her face grew warm. Ann came to her rescue.

"It's something I thought Darla should use, just in case she got carried away by her female emotions on a heavy date, dear. We girls sometimes refer to them as 'just-in-cases' when we really don't expect to require the immunity they provide."

"Kee-rist! What's our younger generation going to come to? If parents provide them with the pill, they can live like the latter Greeks." Fleming turned to his daughter. "Have you been taking those things so you could give yourself to some guy whenever you got hot pants?" Darla sensed the protective jealousy emanating from her father. His face was almost livid.

"Of course not! It's just as Mother told you. Taking them is the same as getting all those shots when you leave the States. You don't really plan to expose yourself to typhus and plague, and all that, Father. Now, do you? But if something happens… unexpectedly, beyond your control, you have some protection."

Fleming didn't need the disgust in Darla's tone to tell him he'd goofed with his outburst. She never called him 'Father' unless she was really miffed with him. He turned and looked at his wife, as if she could help him take his foot out of his mouth.

"Don't look to me for moral support," Ann told him. "You ought to know your daughter's character better than that. Make your own explanations and apologies."

Fleming's face was pink as he turned back to Darla. He sputtered a little, but he managed to apologize satisfactorily, as Darla's relaxing features told him. But at her next words, he paled.

"If I have any free guesses, it might just be a good idea for us to take those things. Gerault has a one-track mind when it comes to entertainment."

"You did mention giving your mother the pills, too. Do you think that they… I mean, you don't really believe that they intend to… for the love of God, child, you don't think that… Yes, I can see that you do." Fleming's brow was beginning to exude the moisture he'd acquired from his absinthe. Beads of perspiration were starting to roll down into his eyes. He looked at Ann, then at his daughter, then back at Tommy, who had remained silent during the sex-oriented discussion.

Fleming's eyes looked haunted, and Darla thought that he seemed to age several years in a few seconds. She felt a surge of maternal protectiveness for this father whose selective naivete could render him into a small boy in his unsophisticated moments. She attempted to detour his train of thought.

"I still haven't heard how they captured you." Fleming's eyes responded, and he appeared to straighten slightly as he changed his leaning position against the stone wall.

"After I'd sent them that note, we stayed in the hotel suite for several hours. Then it seemed a good idea to check in at the Consulate, again. So we all went over there, and talked to the same attache I'd given the original report to. He'd been in constant touch with the Surete, and they had just turned in a negative report for the dozenth time, explaining that none of their informers seemed to have any knowledge of the kidnapping."