A Fierce and Subtle Poison (5 page)

Dr. Ford found me neither funny nor charming. His mouth pulled into a frown.

The questions “How’s your wife?” and “It is possible that your witch daughter left some notes under my door?” rolled around on my tongue.

The rain outside came down harder, hitting the glass ceiling and producing a sound like muffled applause. Since the doors to the courtyard on the side of the house were open, puddles were beginning to form on the interior tiles.

“Shouldn’t you close those?” I asked.

“Mr. Knight.” The scientist drew my name out slowly and took a step in my direction. The rain spilling into his house was apparently of no importance. “You show up at my door unannounced to tell me that you’re interested in botany and ask me what colleges you might consider attending. Do I understand you correctly?”

“Yes, you do.”

I hoped to God Dr. Ford wouldn’t start quizzing me on the plant kingdom.

There was another long pause as the scientist continued staring at me with the disarmingly severe eyes of someone who spends his time analyzing living things. Aside from the sound of the rain and the ticking of a distant clock, the house was quiet.

Then there was a sudden twitch in Dr. Ford’s left eye. His head snapped in the direction of the courtyard. I followed his gaze and watched an empty terra-cotta pot near the edge of the door tip on its base and then shatter against the brick porch. A thin stream of rainwater dribbled from its mouth.

At that point, the conversation shifted from bad to over.

“I have to leave town this afternoon.” Dr. Ford slammed his saucer down on the table and strode across the room to pull the doors shut. As he roughly fastened the latch, the glass panes shook in their sashes. “While I’m gone I’ll give your question some thought and get back to you. I might be able to help, as I’ve somehow managed to maintain a few important connections while quarantined on this godforsaken island.”

I knew the breezes weren’t strong enough to knock over something that heavy; something (a cat?) or someone (a girl?) had to have tipped it over. As I took a step forward, watching the wind gently push the broken remains of the pot back and forth, like a hand rocking a cradle, Dr. Ford snatched the cup and saucer out of my hand, causing scalding hot liquid to spill across my wrist. I winced, but Dr. Ford either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

“Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Not right now, no,” I hissed.

“Well, then.” Dr. Ford wrapped his long fingers around my upper arm and steered me in the direction of the door. “It was a pleasure, Mr. Knight, but time’s wasting. I do have to get ready to be going.”

As he practically wrestled me into his foyer, I noticed a small painting on the wall hung up near the front door. It was of a stretch of beach I recognized, out near Rincón. It was where I learned to surf, with its big waves and miles of massive trees. In delicate wisps of greens and blues and oranges, the painter captured the glimmering ocean and swaying treetops.

“I know this beach,” I said, grinding to a halt. “It’s Rincón. Who painted this?”

“I did.” He answered without looking at either the painting or me. “I have a lab there and in my free time I like to paint.”

He flung open the door and hustled me down the stone path. With his free hand he yanked his pocket watch from his vest and checked the time. I snuck a glance in the direction of the broken pot; there was nothing near it, aside from several dense shrubs. Dr. Ford pulled open the gate and then waited for me to step through it. We both ignored the fact that we were in the process of getting soaked.

“Is that where you’re going today, sir?” I asked. “Out to Rincón?”

He disregarded my question and asked one of his own: “Are you sure, Michael Lucas Knight, that plant science is the branch of study to which you want to commit yourself? I ask because a man can get lonely when he chooses to devote himself to another living thing that isn’t capable of giving anything in return.” Droplets of rainwater burst off his lips as he spoke. “You’d be wise to keep that in mind.”

I stepped onto the sidewalk, turned, and put on my sincerest smile. “I’m committed, Dr. Ford. Plants are my passion. But I appreciate your advice. I really do.”

The gate slammed in my face before my last words had even left my mouth.

Seven

I CAME IN
through the doors of the Hotel St. Lucia as the sun was setting and asked Jorge at the desk if anyone had come in recently looking for me.

“Not that I know of, Señor Lucas.”

“What about an older, well-dressed gringo?” I asked.

“You’ll have to be more specific than that,” he replied, leaning in with a grin. “You are aware of this hotel’s star rating, no?”

It was Jorge’s cordial way of telling me that I’d just asked a really stupid question. Older, well-dressed gringos were pretty much par for the course around here.

“What about a little girl with green skin?”

The grin on Jorge’s face remained, but his eyes flickered with confusion.

“Little girl? Green skin, green hair?”

I was being a brat, harassing Jorge in the lobby of a five-star hotel with water dripping off my clothes onto a checkerboard marble tile floor that cost more than some people make in a lifetime. But I couldn’t help it. The events of the day had left me . . .
unhinged
.

“Piel verde?” I asked. “Pelo verde?”

Jorge’s grin vanished. He opened his mouth but didn’t get the chance to respond because my dad chose that precise moment to saunter into the lobby. He glanced at the puddles forming on his marble floor and frowned. He didn’t ask where I’d been, and I didn’t tell him.

“You’re making a mess,” he said.

“I’m not going to Rincón.”

My dad shrugged and waited for Jorge to come around the desk and escort him out with an open umbrella so he wouldn’t have to suffer the indignity of getting wet on the way to his waiting town car.

I trudged up to my room, grateful there wasn’t a third note waiting for me when I opened the door, but also disappointed there wasn’t a message from Marisol—not that she’d promised to leave one. After I showered and changed into dry clothes, I remembered how Ruben said earlier that he and Rico would be hanging out at his house. If I hurried there would still be beer.

But by the time I got to Ruben’s, he and Rico were in the process of polishing off their second six-pack. They were sitting next to one another on the floor at the foot of Ruben’s bed, watching a documentary about Geronimo on the public television station. Both of them were red-eyed and half asleep. They were probably stoned.

I scanned the room for an unopened beer, but all I saw were crushed cans.

“What the hell?” I asked, kicking what I thought was an empty. A thin stream of white foam poured out from the mouth of the can and onto the rug.

“I got here as fast as I could,” I added.

“Not fast enough, apparently.” Rico reached up to absently tug on the dime-sized St. Anthony medallion that always hung around his neck.

“Where’s Marisol?” I asked.

Ruben peered up at me, took another swig from the Medalla in his hand, and laughed.

“Have you looked at yourself in the mirror today, man?” he asked. “You look terrible—all twitchy and shit. What, are you getting sick or something?” He glanced over at Rico, but Rico wasn’t paying attention. “Not that we have anything else to drink, but if we did, I’d highly recommend taking a break for a while, eh? Get some sleep.”

I grimaced. “What are you, my mother?”

Ruben laughed again, and as he did, his gut bounced lightly under his shirt.

“Hell no, Lucas,” he said. “Everybody knows you don’t have a mother.”

Something, like the thinnest of twigs, snapped in my brain. Within the same second, I’d kicked the beer can out of Ruben’s hand with my right foot and then shoved my knee into his throat. He made sad gurgling sounds as piss-yellow liquid seeped out from between his lips and his hands clutched at the fabric of my jeans.

“I’m sorry,” I snarled through a jaw clenched tight. “What did you just say?”

“Luke!” His words were garbled, probably because I was crushing his windpipe. “What the hell is wrong with you? Shit! Rico, man, help me out!”

Rico gave Ruben and me an apathetic once-over. His eyes then went back to the television and the mean-looking Apache with the gun.

“You’re on your own, Ruben,” he said. “You know better than to talk about a man’s mother.”

“I’m sorry, okay?” Ruben’s words continued to struggle to find their way out. “Now get off me!”

The instant I backed away, Ruben sprang up and threw me against the door. I caught myself with one of my hands, launched off the door, and shoved him back, causing him to fall, trip over his feet, and crash into the side of his bed. As he stood up and straightened his shirt, he stared me down, mumbling curses under his breath.

My next words were directed to Rico. “Where are the girls? Are they coming over or what?”

Rico dropped his medallion and looked over his shoulder at me. “I don’t know where they are, okay? Ruth called earlier and said that she was waiting for Marisol to get to her place. That was around seven, maybe.”

I glanced at the clock on Ruben’s nightstand. It was eight forty-eight.

The last thing I wanted to do was hang around with two guys who were drunk and stoned while I was neither.

“I’m leaving. You two have fun.” I turned to go but stopped, scraping my fingernails through my hair. “Hey,” I said. “Do you two remember any stories about the house on the end of Calle Sol?”

Ruben continued with his indignant scowling while Rico stared at me blank-faced.

“We would make up stories about it being cursed,” I urged.

Rico looked down and shrugged. His fingers flew back to his medallion.

“I don’t remember any stories like
that
,” Ruben said, wiping foam off his chin with his shirtsleeve. “I do remember a story about a nun who hung herself in your hotel back when it was a convent. You seeing ghosts, Lucas?” Ruben continued to shout after me as I turned and started down the hall. “Is that why you look so bad? Serves you right! You are such an asshole. You know that, don’t you?”

I knew that, yeah.

I reached the bottom of the stairs and passed through the kitchen where Celia was sitting by herself at the table playing with an assembly of plastic, pink-skinned dolls. She was stroking their hair while speaking to them in a language only they could understand, all babbles and shushes, like water in a cold stream.

Once outside, I hailed a cab and told the driver to take me to Condado Beach.

Other than the stray strips of police tape flapping in the wind and a small cluster of pillar candles—the kind with the pictures of the saints on them—the beach was empty. There were no cops, no curious onlookers, certainly no tourists. When families plan their trips to paradise, they don’t exactly expect a dead girl to wash up right in front of their hotel. My dad didn’t own any of the high-rises in this part of San Juan, but if he had, he’d be in full-on damage control mode right now, easing anxieties with smooth talk, complimentary trips to the spa, and meal vouchers.

Unlike the señoras with their elephant memories, however, the tourists from the mainland never let something as unpleasant as a dead girl dim their days for very long. Most likely by tomorrow morning the beach would be packed again, and everyone would be back to fun in the sun.

For now, it was good to be alone. I took off my shoes and made my way down the wet sand toward La Andalusia. Its name, spelled out in huge, curving red letters that hadn’t been lit up for decades, faced the water and reminded me of a lighthouse with a negligent keeper. I snaked around the side of the hotel to where one of several first-story windows was boarded over with a thin square of plywood. This had always been my way in. The nails holding the square in place had rusted to the point of being useless, and the plywood came off easily. I ducked through the frame and landed inside what used to be a ballroom. A cobwebbed crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling above a pile of chairs upholstered in red-and-gold-striped fabric. The once-vibrant colors were now muted by dust. Wooden tables were stacked on top of each other, some with canvas tarps hanging off them. A long, curving bar took up the length of one wall. Behind it were dirty mirrors that hadn’t given a reflection of anyone in a very long time. Scattered across the water-stained carpet were small leaves, brown and crisp. There were empty bags of Fritos and cans of Coke, proof of my previous visits. The wind whistled from invisible cracks in hidden places and caused the walls of the empty building to shake. The entire place smelled like mildew.

Several summers ago, Rico, Carlos, Ruben, and I first snuck into this high-rise to chase each other through the hallways and up and down stairwells. We played bartender, and when that got old, went into the kitchen and trashed it. During one of our games of hide-and-seek, I’d stayed in a storage closet on the twelfth floor for over two hours until Rico found me. As I was nestled between the shelves, I remember thinking that this huge, empty hotel was where I wanted to live for the rest of my life.

Since then, I’d snuck in countless times, sometimes with my friends, but usually alone. I loved this building because it didn’t have any stories about curses or magic attached to it. All its noises could be attributed to wind or to an old foundation settling in the sand or to rats, but never to ghosts. La Andalusia was a giant empty vessel: all mine. I could find clarity here.

I stood in front of one of the non-boarded-up windows for a while, watching the slanting rain pelt the ocean. Eventually, I dragged a rust-red sofa into the middle of the large room and collapsed onto it. I fell asleep there, listening to the hiss of wind. When I woke, it was still dark. The rain had stopped, but drops speckled the windows.

Sure enough, the silent solitude of La Andalusia worked. With sleep came a plan.

I sat up, pulled the two wishes from my pocket, and grinned. Part of what had contributed to my funk was the fact that I’d have to wait until Dr. Ford came back from his trip to Rincón in order to get some answers about these notes. But, I now realized, that didn’t have to be the case. I’d already broken into one place today—this one—so what was the harm in doing it again?

Because of the rain, the beach was a mess of fallen coconuts and palm fronds torn from their trees. Most of the hotel rooms were either completely dark or had their curtains drawn. I didn’t know how late it was, but I hoped there would be a taxi at the nearest hotel stand so I wouldn’t have to wait for one of the bellmen to call me one.

It’s wise to tiptoe along on a dark beach. I should’ve been keeping my eyes on the sand, watching for the shimmer of a broken piece of glass so I wouldn’t accidently slice my foot open.

But I was running barefoot—away from the shoreline and toward the dunes—when I tripped over a log and fell face-first to the ground. I cursed, flipped myself over, spit the sand from my mouth, and reached down to try and free one of my feet that had gotten tangled in seaweed.

That’s when I realized that what was wrapped around my toes wasn’t seaweed. It was dark hair matted into ropey tangles. What I’d tripped over wasn’t a log. It was a girl. Her eyes were milk-white, speckled with sand, and staring up at the moon. Her blue and bloated lips were parted and pulled back from her teeth into a wicked grimace. The gold
M
around her neck glinted in the moonlight.