A. Colucci - Seeders

That’s it, all I needed, he thought.

As soon as he stood, the vertigo returned and he had the sensation of not being able to breathe. He tried to draw in oxygen but only wheezed as the woods swirled around him. Jules staggered, twisting and falling hard on his rump. He slid onto his elbow and then flat on his back, squinting at the sky tumbling over the trees. His skin tingled and he felt his body floating away from him. The woods were fading, turning black, and when he closed his eyes he had the oddest sensation of something touching his brain, stick-thin fingers delicately picking through his thoughts.

His eyes sprang open like a doll’s, and he was sitting on the ground of a sprawling rose garden, under an enormous blue sky. He was digging a hole in the dirt, his child-size hands scooping the cool earth. Then he looked up and saw his mother laughing, and he was laughing too because he was a little boy and that’s what they do. He was gardening with his mother, because she loved to garden, and she was young and beautiful in a bright-colored dress and a red lipstick smile. They were planting seeds and getting dirty. He could feel the cool shade of her big straw hat as she leaned over him and their hands dug together.

Jules was happy, reaching into the cold pit, but a shadow moved over him as if clouds were covering the whole world. He felt cold, grainy hands on his neck. The hands squeezed tighter and he was terrified. With great force they pushed his head down, mashing his face in the pile of dirt, and all the while there was laughter.

He was drowning in soil that filled his nostrils and his mouth until he couldn’t take a single breath. He tried to get loose but his arms wouldn’t move, and he tried to scream but his mouth was stuffed. A shrill voice echoed in his head.

Repeat! Repeat! Repeat!

Jules awoke in the woods with his face in the dirt, snorting soil from his nose. His body was trembling, his heart pounding, and some terrible thing still lurked in his mind. But he barely remembered the dream.

The golden sunlight between the trees had turned dark red. He had no idea how long he was passed out. Jules tried his best to stand on weak legs and finally got his ground. He started toward the path. A bird cawed in the distance and he wasn’t so frightened anymore.

Then he remembered the body and turned around. The doll head was dangling in the last bit of light. One white eye twinkled over red smiling lips.

Jules hurried back to the house.

ISABELLE WAS ANXIOUSLY WAITING in the laboratory, drinking a third cup of coffee, when Jules entered the house looking pale and disheveled. He slid closed the glass doors behind him, and Isabelle forgot all the questions stored up in her head.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said.

“What do you expect? I just buried a body.”

“Of course,” she said, shaking her head. “Sorry.”

“The radio—has it cleared?”

“No. Luke is trying to fix it.”

He took hurried steps. “I’m going to my room.”

“Wait,” she begged. “I must speak to you.”

Jules stopped and looked at Isabelle. He already knew what she was going to ask him. “You’re wondering if George killed Hodges.”

She didn’t answer, but he knew from her expression he guessed right.

“I think it’s possible.” He nodded. “Are you familiar with ergot?”

“It’s some kind of plant fungus. Why?”

He reminded Isabelle that the Canadian police had arrested George for growing ergot on the island. “The fungus is used to make LSD. George had grown it in the field of ryegrass in front of the house, in order to create his own more potent versions of the drug.” He took a breath. “We cannot rule out the possibility that George killed Hodges in a drug-induced state. According to Mr. Bonacelli, he had access to a rifle and wasn’t afraid to use it.”

“No, I won’t believe it.”

The idea that she might be the daughter of a drug addict, a dealer, and now a murderer to boot was more than Isabelle could bear.

“I’m sorry,” he said in a low voice.

She picked up the ivy leaf Sean found. “You’re saying this fungus could produce a psychedelic drug.”

“It’s not just the ivy.” Jules rushed to the basket of specimens he’d collected. “I found the same fungus all over the woods. Trees. Grass. Ferns. Pine needles.”

He was getting excited and Isabelle sensed a thread of anger in his voice.

“It seems to have infected every plant on this island.”

“Is that possible?”

“No. Ergot only grows on grasses. This could be something… worse.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know!” he shouted, and his expression changed dramatically.

Isabelle flinched.

“I had a feeling something like this could happen.” He wrung his fists. “Don’t ask me how I knew, but all those years on the island, I could feel it.”

“What are you talking about? Why are you getting so angry?”

He stepped to the window and peered into the night sky filled with stars and a bright full moon. “There’s something in those woods. That fungus .”

“What can it be?”

He shook his head. “I need to study it.”

“There are microscopes in the cabinet. We’ll have to find the key.”

“ The key, ” he hissed and fury returned to his face. “Why in God’s name would he lock a cabinet when he’s all alone on an island?”

In one sweeping motion, Jules picked up a heavy metal stool and smashed it through the door of the mahogany display cabinet, sending shards of glass flying across the room. Two microscopes crashed to the floor. The stool dropped with a loud clang.

Isabelle stared in astonishment.

The room fell silent, except for Jules’s heavy breaths. He wiped a sleeve across his damp face and said, “I need to know what we’re dealing with.”

It was nearly midnight and Luke lay on his bed, staring at the flickering light on the ceiling that came from the fireplace across the room. The fire had a pleasant smoky aroma and cast dancing shadows over the hunter-green walls and heavy tapestry curtains.

Luke was thinking about the dead body, the swim at the beach—and Monica.

He should have been shaken after the day’s events and finding a rotting corpse, but nothing could penetrate the memory of her warm slender hand in his own, the smell of her damp hair against his shoulder, or the look in her eyes when she turned to him for protection. It was the best feeling in the world. A smile caught his lips when he recalled the smooth white curve of her buttocks, how they jiggled as she ran toward the woods. He closed his eyes in a fantasy of that same fleshy backside squirming in his lap as they made passionate love. He moaned and threw a pillow over his thighs, sliding it back and forth.

There was a knock on the door and Luke bolted up in bed, holding the pillow down firmly and trying to remember if he locked the door. “Wait—I’ll be right there!” he said and stood up slowly, focusing his mind on calming his erection.

Ginny… think of Ginny… blue veins… wrinkled mouth… baggy stockings.

“Luke?” It was Monica.

He took a deep breath and opened the door, one hand bracing the pillow.

She was standing alone in the hall, wearing pink shorts and an oversized Yankees sweatshirt. Without makeup her face was hardly recognizable. Gone were the black liner, white powder, and dark lipstick. She was more beautiful with peachy flawless skin and blond lashes over the lightest green eyes.

“I can’t sleep.” Her arms folded defensively.

“Me neither,” he told her. “You want to come in?”