Aftershock & Others (41 page)

Hank had gone all out to impress her, and they’d been on the town half a dozen times so far. She’d tapped him out without letting him get to first base. He knew he wasn’t the only guy she dated—he’d spied her out with a couple rich cake eaters—but Hank wasn’t the sharing kind. Trouble was, to get an exclusive on her was going to take moolah. Lots of it.

And he was going to get lots of it. A steady stream…

He yawned. What with playing the bon vivant by night and the soft heel by day, he wasn’t getting much sleep.

He dropped onto the bed, rolled onto his back, and closed his eyes. Tempest didn’t go on for another couple of hours, so a catnap would be just the ticket. He was slipping into that mellow, drowsy state just before dropping off to sleep when he felt a sharp pain in his left shoulder, like he’d been stabbed with an ice pick.

As he bolted out of bed Hank felt something wriggling against his under-shirt. He reached back and felt little legs—
lots
of little legs. Fighting a sick revulsion he grabbed it and pulled. It writhed and twisted in his hand but held fast to his skin. Hank clenched his teeth and yanked.

As the thing came free, pain like he’d never known or imagined exploded in his shoulder, driving him to his knees. He dropped the wriggling creature and slapped a hand over the live coal embedded in his shoulder. Through tear-blurred vision he saw a scarlet millipede at least eight inches long scurrying away across the floor.

“What the—?”

He reached for something, anything to use against it. He grabbed a shoe and smashed it down on the thing. The heel caught the back half of its body and Hank felt it squish with a crunch. The front half spasmed, reared up, then tore free and darted under the door and out into the hallway before he could get a second shot.

Hell with it! His shoulder was killing him.

He brought his hand away and found blood on his palm. Not much but enough to shake him. He struggled to his feet and stepped into his tiny bathroom. The bright bulb over the speckled mirror picked up the beads of sweat on his brow.

He was shaking. What was that thing? He’d never seen anything like it. And how had it got in his room, in his
bed,
for Christ sake?

He half turned and angled his shoulder toward the mirror. The size of the bite surprised him—only a couple of punctures within a small smear of blood. From the ferocity of the pain he’d expected something like a .38 entry wound.

The burning started to subside. Thank God. He balled up some toilet tissue and dabbed at the wound. Looky there. Stopped bleeding already.

He went back to the front room and looked at the squashed remains of the thing. Damn. It looked like something you’d find in a jungle. Like the Amazon.

How’d it wind up in San Francisco?

Probably crawled off a boat.

Hank shuddered as he noticed a couple of the rearmost legs still twitching.

He kicked it into a corner.

“The usual table, Detective?”
Maurice said with a practiced smile.

Hank nodded and followed the Serendipity’s maître d’ to a second-level table for two just off the dance floor.

“Thank you, Maurice.”

He passed him a fin he could barely afford as they shook hands. He ordered a scotch and water and started a tab. This was the last night he’d be able to do this until the Mandarin came across with some lucre.

He shook his head. All it takes is money. You don’t have to be smart or even good-looking, all you need is lots of do-re-mi and everybody wants to know you. Suddenly you’re Mr. Popularity.

As Hank sipped his drink and waited for Tempest to take the stage, he felt his shoulder start to burn. Damn. Not again. The pain had lasted only half an hour after the bite and then felt as good as new. But now it was back and growing stronger.

Heat spread from the bite, flowing through him, burning his skin, breaking him out in a sweat. Suddenly he had no strength. His hands, his arms, his legs…all rubbery. The glass slipped from his fingers, spilling scotch down the pleated front of his shirt.

The room rocked and swayed as he tried to rise, but his legs wouldn’t hold him. He felt himself falling, saw the curlicue pattern of the rug rushing at him.

Then nothing.

Hank opened his eyes
and found himself looking up at a woman in white. She looked about fifty. He looked down. More white. Sheets. He was in a bed.

“Where—?”

She flashed a reassuring smile. “You’re in St. Luke’s and you’re going to be just fine. I’ll let your doctor know you’re awake.”

Hank watched her bustle out the door. He felt dazed. The last thing he remembered—

That bite from the millipede—poison. Had to be.

The pain had tapered to a dull ache, but he still felt weak as a kitty.

A balding man with a gray mustache strode through the door and stepped up to the bed. He wore a white coat with a pair of pens in the breast pocket and carried a clipboard under his arm.

“Detective Sorenson,” he said, extending his hand, “I’m Doctor Cranston, and you’ve got quite a boil on your back.”

“Boil?”

“Yes. A pocket of infection in your skin. You shouldn’t let those things go. The infection can seep into your system and make you very ill. How long have you had it?”

Hank pulled the hospital gown off his shoulder and gaped at the golf ball–size red swelling.

“That wasn’t there when I put on my shirt tonight.”

Dr. Cranston harrumphed. “Of course it was. These things don’t reach that size in a matter of hours.”

A flash of anger cut through Hank’s fuzzy brain. “This one did. I was bitten there by a giant bug around seven o’clock.”

Cranston smoothed his mustache. “Really? What kind of bug?”

“Don’t know. Never seen anything like it.”

“Well, be that as it may, we’ll open it up, clean out the infection, and you’ll be on your way in no time.”

Hank hoped so.

Bared to the waist,
Hank lay on his belly while the nurse swabbed his shoulder with some sort of antiseptic.

“You may feel a brief sting as I break the skin, but once we relieve the pressure from all that pus inside, it’ll be like money from home.”

Hank looked up and saw the scalpel in Cranston’s hand. He turned away.

“Do it.”

Cranston was half right: Hank felt the sting, but no relief.

He heard Cranston mutter, “Well, this is one for Ripley’s.”

Hank didn’t like the sound of that.

“What’s wrong?”

“Most odd. There’s no pus in this, only serous fluid.”

“What’s serous fluid?”

“A clear amber fluid—just like you’d see seeping from a burn blister. Most odd, most odd.” Cranston cleared his throat. “I believe we’ll keep you overnight.”

“But I can’t—”

“You must. You’re too weak to be sent home. And I want to look into this insect. What did it look like?”

“Send someone to my place and you’ll find its back half.”

“I believe I’ll do just that.”

Two days cooped up
in a hospital room hadn’t made Hank any better. He had to get out to seal the deal with the Mandarin. But how? He was able to stand and walk—shuffle was more like it—but he still felt so weak. And the pounds were dropping off him like leaves from a tree.

The boil or whatever it was had gone from a lump to a big open sore that wept fluid all day.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking out at the fogged-in city when Cranston trundled in.

“Well, we’ve identified that millipede.”

Here was the first good news since he’d been bitten.

“What is it?”

“The entomologists over at Berkeley gave it a name as long as your arm. Other than that they weren’t much help. Said it was very, very rare, and that only a few have ever been seen. Couldn’t imagine how it managed to travel from the rain forests of Borneo to your bed.”

“Borneo,” Hank said. Everybody had heard of the Wild Man from Borneo but…“Just where the hell is Borneo?”

“It’s an island in the South China Sea.”

“Did you say South
China
Sea?”

Cranston nodded. “Yes. Why? Is that important?”

Hank didn’t answer. He couldn’t. It was all clear now.

Good Christ…China…

The Mandarin had sent his reply to Hank’s demand.

“There’s, um, something else you should know.”

Cranston’s tone snapped Hank’s head up. The doctor looked uneasy. His gaze wandered to the window.

“You mean it gets worse?” Cranston’s nod sent a sick, cold spike through Hank’s gut. “Okay. Give it to me.”

Cranston took a breath. “The millipede may or may not have injected you with venom, but that’s not the problem.” His voice trailed off.

Hank didn’t know if he wanted to hear this.

“What
is
the problem then?”

“You remember when we did a scraping of the wound?”

“How could I forget?”

“Well, we did a microscopic examination and found what, um, appear to be eggs.”

Hank’s gut twisted into a knot.

“Eggs!”

“Yes.”

“Did you get them all?”

“We don’t know. They’re quite tiny. But we’ll go back in and do another scraping, deeper this time. But you should know…”

“Know what?”

Cranston’s gaze remained fixed on the window.

“They’re hatching.”