Bone Deep (19 page)

“Cottonmouth!”
Mick yelled the word over and over. “Goddamn snake bit me!” He was applying pressure with his left hand, blood dripping from his fingers.

Downriver, the Jet Ski made an indifferent whine. From the trees came the sound of a big man crushing branches—Duncan Fallsdown on his way to the rescue.

I was more interested in the snake. Where was it? I rinsed my prescription mask and put it on.

The snake surfaced. I backed a step. Cottonmouth moccasins can strike underwater or atop it. This snake fled, though, and I watched it carving giant
S
’s on the surface as it traveled a straight line toward the bank.

“I need some help here, man!” Mick, going into shock, appeared pale.

“Hang on,” I said. I removed my fins and started toward him while still watching the snake.

I’m no herpetologist, but it’s dumb to live in Florida without knowing the basics. Cottonmouth moccasins—which are pit vipers,
although seldom aggressive—swim with their heads high out of the water. Very high, a forty-degree angle or more. As a warning, they often open their mouths wide before striking—a white telltale bloom I would have noticed before it struck. No guarantees about that, however, which is why I paid attention.

Common water snakes swim and behave differently. They can be surly, aggressive animals that bite, and keep biting until they decide you’re too big to eat. Nonvenomous but lots of teeth. Unlike cottonmouths, they swim low in the water with their head level to or on the surface.

I watched the snake exit onto the bank. That told me what I wanted to know and I decided to take advantage of the situation. Taking Mick’s arm, I asked him, “Is the bite throbbing? Do you feel a burning sensation?”

“
Yeah
 . . . goddamn hurts, man! Where the hell did he come from?”

People in shock are easily manipulated. I said, “How about nausea? That’s usually a first symptom.”

“Oh man . . . I feel like shit.”

“You’ll probably have to vomit soon,” I said—a subliminal nudge.

A minute later, Mick groaned, leaned over the water, and coughed until he did vomit.

Fallsdown appeared from the trees, caught his foot on something, and stumbled down the bank. It gave me the chance to help him up while I whispered, “Just a water snake—play along.”

His eyes posed a question:
Are you sure?

My eyes locked into his and I nodded but said loud enough for Mick to hear, “A cottonmouth bit him, I think.”

Fallsdown was a quick study. “Holy Christ!” he responded. “Are they bad as a rattler?”

“A big one,” I said, “so maybe worse, but it could be a dry bite. I haven’t checked yet.”

Mick made a sobbing sound. “Goddamn cottonmouth bastard!” and he allowed me to take his wrist while he instructed Duncan, “Call nine-one-one—I’m hurt bad, brother.”

Duncan patted his pockets, then asked me, “Doc, where’s your phone?”

I was studying the wound. Blood dripped. I used my T-shirt several times. Water snakes have curved teeth that are short but sharp as needles. They angle toward their throat, which is why the snake couldn’t let go. The underside of Mick’s wrist was perforated. The teeth had gouged two wide, convincing holes.

“Fangs got him near a vein,” I said, then asked Mick, “Do you have a weird taste in your mouth? You’re probably starting to feel dizzy.”

He spit and licked his lips. “Shit yeah, like I’m gonna pass out.” He looked downriver and hollered, “Call for a medevac!” then muttered, “Goddamn Jet Ski,” because he knew that Shelly and Alfie couldn’t hear.

I asked Duncan, “What do Indians do for snakebite?”

The man’s blank expression requested guidance, so I added, “The suction method and ice don’t work. Is there something traditional we can try?”

“Poultice,” he answered immediately, assuming the role of a Crow medicine man. “Sit him down. Let the river clean the wound while I grab some moss.”

Mick yanked his arm away from me. “Moss? Are you out of your mind? I need a fuckin’ doctor!” Then screamed for a medevac again before stumbling toward shore, where he’d left his fins. He intended to swim for help.

Fallsdown wrapped his arm around the man. “Whoa . . . calm yourself. Doc? Help him sit, and wash it out good. We’ll do this the old way.”

“My arm’s gonna turn black, you idiot,” Mick shot back. “I could die—call nine-one-one.”

Duncan took Mick’s face between his hands to make him focus. “Until help gets here, you need to trust me. Do what I say. Take a big, slow breath, then let it out.”

The tour guide tried to wrestle away, but Duncan held him in a bear hug and made him do it. Stood there looking into Mick’s face while Mick took several deep breaths—no theatrics about Fallsdown’s concern—then helped him sit, Mick resigned and calmer while shock settled in.

I took over while Dunk scrambled up the bank and disappeared. I checked Mick’s pulse, then, against my better judgment, washed the wound in the river because I’d been told to do it. I don’t find humor in scaring people, but if it won the tour guide’s trust, or caused him to feel indebted, the ploy was worth a try. Mick had set us up, after all, to be robbed by a brain-damaged biker.

One thing for certain: The tour guide was scared. He went on a talking jag, hyperventilating again and speaking way too fast.

“A medevac chopper, mate . . . I’ve got to get to a hospital . . . Shit, can’t believe this is happening.”

I tried to calm him, but he wouldn’t shut up.

“On Discovery Channel, I watched a whole thing on snakebites. My arm . . . it’s gonna swell up and turn black because it’s, like,
rotting
, man. And . . . they’ll have to cut my arm off before the venom gets to my heart. Then I’m really screwed—but only if I don’t die first.” He almost chuckled at that, but panic returned. On impulse,
he sucked at the fang marks and spit. Did it three times, then looked at me, eyes wide. “Oh my god. Why’d you ask me about a funny taste?”

We all know the taste of blood. Mick had just set himself up. I replied, “
Metallic
, is how some of the victims describe it. Or
minty
. It’s one of the symptoms in the literature about pit vipers.”

He groaned, his face chalky, and tasted his lips. “Metallic . . . oh god. That sonuvabitch really got me good.”

It gave me an opening to ask about the psycho biker, who already had a hand missing, but I resisted and let him ramble on about losing an arm, and necrotizing flesh, then he got back to snakes, groaning, “Damn . . . I’ve seen a million cottonmouths. Had my head up my ass as usual. Showing off to impress you . . . Man, why am I such a loser sometimes?” That sobbing sound again.

I felt a wisp of guilt, so told him, “We all think we’re losers occasionally,” then stood because Dunk had returned. He had a glob of moss in one hand, a bouquet of tiny purple flowers and what looked like miniature carrots in the other.

I didn’t like the way this was going. There are too many dangerous plants and flowers in the Sunshine State. I’m familiar with only the most common—lantana, manchineel, a few others. The man from Montana was about to risk actually poisoning a guy who, at the worst, might suffer an infection.

“Don’t get carried away,” I whispered when I intercepted him.

“Arrowleaf violets and snakeroot,” Fallsdown responded, and held up the flowers for me to see. “How’s our patient doing?”

“He’ll be fine if you don’t kill him with that crap.”

“Not a chance,” he confided. “In prison, the books on ethnobotany were in the herbs and spices section.” Which sounded like a
joke until he added, “Except for the moss, the same plants grow in the Rockies.” Then gave me a
Can’t hurt
shrug and went to Mick without waiting for my okay.

I watched Duncan sniff the wound, then say, “Let me smell your breath.”

Mick exhaled. “Metallic, huh?”

“Good weed, more like it,” was the reply. “I think my Fawnee brother has gone and pissed off the Little People.”

“The
what
people?” Mick sounded weaker but compliant.

Fallsdown turned to me. “Doc—hike back and call an ambulance. Just in case, okay?”

Twice, I checked over my shoulder for a secret signal to cancel the call, but the Crow or Apache medicine man was busy chanting. Using the moss, too. He had Mick’s wrists clamped between his hands.

The last time I looked, Mick was chewing something. He also began to chant.

•   •   •

AN HOUR LATER,
by phone, Tomlinson asked me, “Why did the crazy biker threaten to kill the elephant?”

I hadn’t yet mentioned what the biker had said about how Lillian had died. Instead, I was listening to Tomlinson tell me about his afternoon with Ava Albright, but a faint trumpeting had nudged us off topic.

I said, “I’m not sure, but the biker’s mean enough to kill animals just for fun. You’re right, I think he was the guy wearing the ski mask.”

I was in the rental car, air on low, while Dunk, Mick, and Shelly stood in the heat watching the ambulance pull away. Mick, a
bandage on his arm, waved. He had declined a ride to the hospital, said he felt fine . . . no, had said he felt
reborn
, which had caused the EMTs to roll their eyes. After checking vital signs and treating the wound, the medics hadn’t pressed the issue beyond what protocol obligated them to tell their semi-stoned patient, who didn’t appear to be in danger.

Now some color had returned to Mick’s face, but he still looked shaken when he turned and followed the others from asphalt into shade. Dunk conversed with Shelly—no surprise—but Shelly was more attentive to Mick, the fossil savant, who had recently been wounded in battle. Her motive was obvious: Mick was her key to fossil greatness.

That morning, I had packed sliced mangoes and grilled fish in a cooler. The cooler was open on the seat beside me. I took a bite of a snapper-mango sandwich, and told Tomlinson, “I wish you could see this. The great Chief Fallsdown is hitting on the woman I mentioned, but she’s more interested in your stoner buddy. Ask Dunk about Shelly when we get back.”

“No thanks,” Tomlinson said. “Not after five hours with Ava. I’ve had it up to here with women. She pulled her swimming pool act again.”

“I warned you,” I said.

“You would have been very proud.”

“I bet. What did you find out?”

“That there are too many Avas in this world and not enough Lillians.” Tomlinson had sounded upbeat until he said that, but then rallied, asking, “After seeing Ava in the flesh, you mean? I found out I’m still a breast man, God help me. Last year, it was noses and dimples. But I’m not hung up on the consistency thing.”

I said, “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know. My friends in Venice still haven’t heard anything about how Lillian died. You should warn Leland about the biker. Did he threaten to kill the elephant for his tusks? Or was it more an extortion thing?”

From Tomlinson’s phone, in the background, a bell tinkled; a child’s voice spoke of hating papaya. I asked, “Where are you?”

“Just leaving a juice bar, downtown Sarasota near the bookstore. Mack wouldn’t loan me his Lincoln, so I now have to wait for my radiator to cool.”

I wasn’t surprised to hear that his van had broken down.

He added, “It’ll be hard to say good-bye to the ol’ Magic Bus, but I think it’s time for new wheels. I’m considering an almost cherry GTO.”

Tomlinson’s VW van, with its “Deluxe Swiss Alps Touring package”—a fridge and an automatic pop top—didn’t fare well in hot weather. The Electric Kool-Aid Love Machine, as it was also known on the islands. I suggested, “Try something from the current century,” then asked about Ava again.

“She and I had an interesting talk once she finally put on some clothes. That’s why I wouldn’t feel right about calling Leland. I’d be forced to lie.”

I asked, “Since when has force been required?”

“Sure, go ahead, make jokes, but Ava is nothing to joke about. She wants two things from me. One is to convince the twins their father should cash in on the mine.”

I asked him to repeat that before remarking, “That’s a switch.”

“Not really. Ava has been manipulating the daughters all along. That’s what I think, anyway, which wouldn’t be that hard.”

“Esther and . . . What’s the other one’s name?”

“Tricia and Esther. Esther is more levelheaded, but they are
identical twins. They’re the kind of girls who think they can save the earth by cutting back on air freshener and donating to PETA. Smart, but they’re not devious, so they still buy Ava’s act—but not enough to manipulate their vote. Ava’s counting on me, just like Leland’s counting on you to write a rosy report about the water quality.”

“Squeeze play,” I said.

“Ava did her damnedest to score, that’s for sure. When I didn’t hop in the pool, she had a backup plan all ready—a yoga mind-link thing that involved a blindfold and touching hands. Talk about God’s little morality tests. It’s a way of swapping polarities, she said, but then pretended to see images projected from my hara. Take a guess at what she saw.”

“Projected from your navel?” I asked.

“Close enough. She claimed to see stolen Spanish coins and the other stuff in the duffel bag. Didn’t come right out and say what they were. It was more like one of those old-time séances. She stumbled around, describing the mammoth tusk, and I was tempted to say,
Yes, yes! That’s the gigantic dildo on my boat
.” He made a snorting, laughing sound. “But nothing about the saber cat glyph, Doc. I dreamt about that carving last night.”

I said, “Ava knows you’re a sucker for metaphysics. That’s the angle she’s taking.”

“Of course. She sized me up at the drum ceremony. But also because of my book—which the twins love, by the way. Tricia and Esther can both quote whole passages verbatim. Or so they claim. How would I know?”

Tomlinson’s
One Fathom Above Sea Level
, written between shock treatments and hallucinogenics, was still paying him royalties, plus perks in the form of female groupies.

I watched Duncan, Mick, and Shelly file into the trees,
returning Shelly to the river and her Jet Ski, while Tomlinson told me more about his yoga mind-link experience. I could picture him and Ava near the pool, sitting in an air-conditioned gazebo with yoga mats and candles to cover the smell of marijuana. Ava wearing a flimsy beach dress over a bikini while Tomlinson, blindfolded, played along by clinging to the last thread of what, in him, passes as morality.