A Fierce and Subtle Poison (7 page)

Ten

I DON’T KNOW
how many seconds I watched that wasp lie motionless on the bricks. But I do know I said something small and meek—like,
oh
—before I tripped over my own feet to get to the front gate and start to fumble with the latches. A splinter wedged itself underneath my middle fingernail, and I swallowed that new burst of pain. My skin was crawling, and my fingers were trembling to the point that I wanted to tear my useless arms from my shoulders.

“I really am sorry about that rash,” I heard Isabel call out from behind me. “The itch should fade in a little while, and any blisters should heal by morning.”

I pretended that I didn’t hear her. After several desperate seconds, I triumphed over the latches, scrambled through the gate, and then slammed it shut behind me. I’d made it only a few houses down Calle Sol before pain gripped my head again. I braced myself against the cement wall of Señora Garcia’s courtyard. Soon, something light and cool began to fall on my arms and the back of my neck. It had started drizzling again, thank God.

By some miracle, I made it back to my room without throwing up in the middle of the street. Once there, I stripped my sweat-soaked shirt off, ran into the bathroom, and turned on the tap. I stuck my face under the running water and took a series of large, desperate gulps. Once I’d had my fill, I let the cold water run over the inflamed skin of my arms and gasped with relief.

As the water ran, I checked my face in the mirror. I looked like shit. My eyes were bloodshot; the strands of my hair had formed into greasy tangles, and despite all I’d just drunk, my lips were dry and cracking.

There was a new loop going through my head: Isabel told me she was sick. There was a wasp. It was alive. She blew on it. It died. I panicked. Isabel told me she was sick . . .

My arms went numb from the cold. I turned off the tap, threw a couple of aspirin down my throat, went into my room, and fell onto my bed.

I must have left the television on earlier because I could hear it buzzing in the background. The meteorologist was talking about the oncoming storm. I peeked to see her pointing at a map of the Atlantic, trying to predict the trajectory of a giant yellow swirl.

Almost immediately, the room started to spin along with the storm. I buried my face into the sheets and squeezed my eyes shut. That was how I managed to force myself to sleep.

I woke up late the next morning to the sound of someone banging on my door. Before I opened it, I looked down at my forearms. The bumps were gone, and I wondered if I’d imagined them there in the first place. All that remained, along with a faint itch, were pink blotches, like uneven stripes around both wrists
.

Isabel told me she was sick. There was a wasp. It was alive. She blew on it. It died. I panicked. Isabel told me she was sick . . .

“Lucas!”

I finally flung the door open, and there was Rico, bleary-eyed and frantic.

Behind him the sky was swirling into a thick, dark cream. It was gray, yet it glowed. A cool wind whipped through the courtyard, causing the leaves of the palm trees to slap against each other. There was no rain, not yet, but there would be soon.

The first drops would hit full and fat. The gray sky would burst orange, and the birds would abandon their nests on beaches. Once the winds picked up, the raindrops would fly in needles cutting sideways through the sky.

It was hurricane weather.

Rico saw where my gaze was directed and turned his head. “It’s nothing,” he said. “Just some cat 3. It’ll probably pass to the south and maybe hit Ponce later this afternoon.”

Irene had only been a category 1, but I’ll never forget the faint
click-tap
when the power went out in the hotel, and how for hours all I could hear was the wail of the storm sirens and the roaring wind. There was a point when that wind shook the glass of the patio doors to my room so violently they shattered. My cheek is still marked with a faint scar from a shard of glass that flew across it. That morning, I had run to my dad’s room, watching the palm trees in the courtyard struggle to stay rooted and fighting a wild wind determined to either knock me flat or suck me into the sky.

After the storm had passed everything was quiet. Wet palm fronds ripped from their trees were on everything: cars, roofs, sidewalks, power lines. The stray cats were hiding and didn’t come out for days. One person died. He was probably a surfer; they never heeded warnings. Other than that, the old walled city survived to open its windows to the sea again, like it had done hundreds of times before.

“Lucas, listen,” Rico said, shoving me on the shoulder and snapping me out of the memory. “Celia’s gone.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Celia,” he repeated. “She wasn’t in her bed this morning. Her family thinks she wandered off to search for Marisol. Ruben said she went a little nuts last night, kept asking everyone why they weren’t trying to find her. They called the cops, but until the storm comes I’m taking my scooter out to see if I can find her. Maybe you can take one of your dad’s cars?”

I nodded but knew it wasn’t a possibility. What I
could
do was slip a taxi driver a few twenties and tell him to drive me around for a while.

After throwing on some clean clothes, I flew from my room, down the stairs, and out the front door to hail a cab from the stand across the street from the hotel. Rico could handle the narrower cobbled streets of Old San Juan by himself on his scooter, so I had the driver take me a couple of miles out so I could work from the outlying districts back into the city center.

The sky was darkening, growing more hateful by the second, and the rain was falling down in sheets. People were leaning out windows, snapping their shutters closed, preparing to stay in and brace for the onslaught.

My cab was only about a mile and a half away from the convent when the driver stopped and told me I was out of luck.

“La tormenta!” he said, leaning forward to knock his knuckles on the windshield.

I pulled out all the cash I had and urged him on, telling him in broken Spanish that he was used to driving in the rain, that it rained todos los días here. I needed to find a little girl, una chica desaparecida, didn’t he understand?

He didn’t, apparently.

I climbed out of the cab. The wind instantly clung to the folds of my wet clothes and tried to pull me both off and to the ground. Trudging down the street, I passed shuttered buildings and pictured the people inside them. On the off chance they had power, they might be wrestling with rabbit-ear antennas, struggling to get TV reception. If they didn’t have power, they were likely playing cards or dominoes by candlelight around the dining room table.

It was crazy to be out—a total gringo move. I had to get back to the hotel.

I’d just slogged around a corner when I saw her, through the slanting rain: only a slice of yellow at the far end of an alley, but that was enough. That yellow belonged to a dress I’d run my fingers across, gripped, and pulled at.

“Marisol!” The storm swallowed my cry.

Despite the dark water swirling around my ankles and the persistent winds beating me down, I pulled myself down the alley in her direction. Ten feet ahead, the butter-colored fabric of Marisol’s dress fluttered once more, and I watched it, along with the heel of one of her bare feet, vanish around a corner.

I pushed forward, and seconds later emerged from the alley into the empty Plaza de Armas. On a normal day, it would be full of locals going about their lives and tourists posing for pictures. Now, the only vaguely human figures around were the four gleaming white statues—one representing each season of the year—that guarded its central fountain. On the opposite side of the plaza from where I was standing, a dim yellow floodlight appeared to blink as the rain came down in front of it. The twitching fabric of a dress was an illusion caused by water and light.

Grief was a strange thing, bewitching and bewildering. It had convinced both Celia and I that we could defeat a hurricane and track down a phantom.

My muscles were shot, torn and trembling. The wind was hitting my head so hard, I couldn’t think. It was time to go home. I leaned into the wind and began to march through the ankle-deep water. When I reached edge of the plaza, I turned. Just to make sure. It was still empty; the yellow floodlight still blinked.

Eleven

NO NEW NOTE
was waiting for me when I returned to the convent, thank God. I wasn’t in any condition—physical or mental—to deal with that right then, but I hadn’t even closed my door before my dad rushed up.

“Lucas?” He braced himself against the frame of my open door as he looked me up and down, seeing for the second time in as many days that I was drenched. “I wanted to make sure you were alright. I checked earlier, but you weren’t here.”

“I got caught in the storm.” I wiped the water from my eyes. “It took me a while to get back.”

I diverted my gaze from his and noticed that even while riding out a major meteorological event, my dad was dressed to impress. The creases in his suit pants were sharp, and his shirt collar was perfectly starched. Even the brown leather of his shoes shone.

“I left you a message saying I’d come back early and to check in with me. Did you not get it?”

Before I could answer, wind and spray tore through the courtyard, causing my dad to check his balance.

“I didn’t get it.” I latched on to my dad’s arm to steady him. “I just got back.”

“Yes, you mentioned that,” he replied without looking me in the eye. “I was worried about you. Tell you what—why don’t you change into some dry clothes then and have dinner with me? I’ll order food and tell you about all you missed in Rincón.”

I gathered that last bit was an attempt at a joke, so I forced a smile as I tried to come up with a reason to refuse his invitation. Aside from our breakfasts, we rarely spent time together; he was either holed up in his room on the phone or out on the road. The fact that he’d practically been waiting at my doorstep meant he’d been genuinely worried.

“Luke?”

“Sure,” I said, snapping to. “I’ll be there in a minute. You didn’t get a message, did you? About Celia Reyes?”

My dad shook his head. “No. Is this a friend of yours?”

She’s a child!
She’s missing!
How could he have not heard about this?

I changed clothes, shoved my collection of notes into the back pocket of a dry pair of jeans, and fought the wind around the mezzanine to my dad’s room. As if this was any other early evening, he was enjoying a glass of red wine. He’d also set the television to the cable channel that plays classical music and was picking from various plates containing cheese, fruit, tiny fried smelts, and a Spanish potato omelet. I sat down and forced myself to eat, even though I wasn’t hungry. Under the table my knee bounced uncontrollably as I thought of Celia somewhere out in this weather.

As the rain and branches of trees pummeled the windows, I half-listened while my dad told me about his plan to build a massive Italian villa–style resort on the hills overlooking the beach in Rincón. His firm had already bought the land, and he’d gone out there to meet with the architects and engineers who’d design and construct the place. He envisioned luxury bungalows, a world-class spa, and a series of sparkling wading pools with elaborate fountains made from Venetian marble.

I envisioned a giant blot on a perfect stretch of beach.

“Doesn’t that seem excessive?” I asked.

My dad peered at me across the table as if he hadn’t heard me right.

I clarified: “I thought the reason people love going to Rincón is because it’s semi-deserted.”

“Don’t be so romantic,” he said after a sip of wine. “People like going where people like me tell them they like going. Regardless, that’s where you and I’ll spend next summer. The resort won’t be entirely finished of course, but they’ve promised to have a couple of the bungalows done in time.”

“We’ve never lived on-site like that before. We’ve always just stayed here. I’ve gotten used to it.”

“Well, that’s part of what I wanted to talk to you about.” He threw a sliver of white cheese into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “Last month we sold the St. Lucia to developers. Next winter they’re going to close it, tear it down, and start building something new in its place.”

My first concern was where the ghost would go.

“You can’t destroy the St. Lucia. It’s five hundred years old.”

My dad plucked a grape from its stem and shrugged. “It’s out of my hands. For whatever reason the municipality never added this place to the historical registry, and the new owners want a building that doesn’t require so much upkeep. You saw the damage Hurricane Irene caused. This storm could add to it. Buildings come and go,” he said with a laugh. “I think this one’s had a pretty good run. Besides, I thought you’d be more excited about spending more time on that beach.”

That beach. That perfect beach captured by a painting that hung in Dr. Ford’s entryway.

Isabel told me she was sick. Isabel . . .

Marisol is dead.

As if waiting for the most ironically well-timed moment, the lights in the room flickered and faded. The classical music cut out mid-crescendo. My dad cursed under his breath.

“You want to stay in here?” he asked. “Or ride the storm out in your room? Either’s fine, though I wouldn’t mind your company. And maybe you’d like to talk about what happened last night.”

“I’ll go back to my room,” I replied, silently blessing the outage for giving me good cover for leaving. “I haven’t slept very well in the last couple of days.” I stood and felt my way through the darkness to the door. When I reached out to the handle I stopped.

“You know that old high-rise hotel on Condado Beach? La Andalusia?”

I heard leather squeak as my dad shifted in his chair. “The abandoned one, yes.”

“Why doesn’t anyone tear
that
place down?”

“I don’t know, Lucas. But I do know that demo for a job that big wouldn’t be cheap. Why do you ask?”

“No reason.” I opened the door just a crack, but that was enough for the wind to blow it wide. Spray shot into the room, and the plates shook against the table. What must have been my dad’s wineglass shattered with a pop against the tile floor. From the far side of the room, I could hear a whoosh as the heavy fabric of the curtains billowed up, followed by the slaps of those curtains beating against the thick glass of the patio doors. Once I’d stepped over the threshold, I dug in my heels, latched onto the doorknob with both my hands, and pulled.

“Stay safe!” my dad yelled over the wind. He rushed up and began pushing the door from the inside. Our combined effort resulted in getting it shut.

Back in my room, I stared at the dark ceiling, and listened to the storm attack the building. I knocked around the criss-crossing mental images of two tragic girls, one out of myth, the other dead. My forearms still tingled and gave off residual warmth from the rash. Isabel had been right. Isabel, the witch who grants wishes. The blisters had disappeared; the itch was fading. I took out the notes from my pocket. I traced the girls’ handwriting, so different from one another’s. More than once, I found myself looking at the base of the door, hoping another note would be there.

From Marisol:
It was all a mistake, Lucas. I’m here. Running through the storm. Come find me.

Or from Isabel:
I’m here, too. Just down the street. Come back.

I only knew where one girl was, and I went to find her
.

On the mezzanine, the porters and housekeepers were shouting in Spanish, asking one another where the stock of candles was so that they could pass them out to all the panicking guests. Here and there a flashlight clicked on. Since I was the last person any of them cared about, no one noticed as I slipped past them and down the stairs.

At the front desk, some of the porters were huddled around a small rabbit-eared television that ran on reserve power, tracking the path of the storm with only mild interest. Others played cards. Clara had finally been the one to find a cardboard box full of votive candles, and I watched as she carried them through the lobby, taking her time and humming a little tune to herself.

I stepped out the front door and stopped. The rain fell diagonally, in swirls and in circles, every way except for down. I couldn’t see the street in front of me. The water had risen to the tops of the tires of the cars unfortunate enough to have been left out, and the current was racing toward the sea. A palm frond shot across my field of vision, followed by a twisted mass, maybe a shirt that had been left out on a line. Wind as strong as underwater tides tugged sideways at my clothes. Again, I was completely soaked. Not just soaked: waterlogged. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d felt truly dry.

Hurricanes sound like horror movies. Even when you’re outside, it feels like you’re shut up in a closet, listening to the wail of sirens and the shrieking sound that wind makes when it’s forced through narrow slits. Those sounds would make most people want to hide under their beds and cover their heads to protect their senses while waiting for the chorus of needy spirits to forget about them and move past.

Those sounds do not make most people want to try and run down the middle of Calle Sol, where power lines can spark and snap and land in water, or where heavy limbs can fall from trees and smash in skulls.

The three minutes it would’ve usually taken to reach Isabel’s house dragged out into what felt like an hour. Once I reached the gate, weather-beaten and with thigh muscles screaming from kicking through two feet of water, I shouted her name and banged on the wood. Wiping my wet hair from my forehead, I tasted bits of salt water carried from the ocean by the wind. Glancing at the courtyard wall, I knew that in this rain and with my legs completely shot, I’d never be able to jump it.

I slammed my fist against the wood again. When there still wasn’t any response, I beat against the gate with the heel of my right hand. Splinters tore into wet skin. Rain trailed down my arm and poured from my elbow to the ground.

Finally, the gate flew open. Isabel had me by the front of my shirt. She pulled me through the courtyard and into her house where the rain pelted the glass ceiling above our heads. With her free hand, she slammed the door shut behind us. By the light of several candles throughout the entrance, study, and dining room, I could see that she was wearing the same patchwork pair of jeans from yesterday and a black short-sleeved shirt. Both were soaked.

Isabel’s bruise-rimmed eyes flickered across my face. Without her sweatshirt on, she had lost her armor and much of her confidence; she was caught off guard, a poorly prepared antagonist.

“Did anyone see you come in?” she demanded, releasing my shirt and backing away.

“No.” I raked my fingers through my wet hair and peered into the darkened corners of the house. “Is your dad back?”

“No. It’s just me.”

Isabel took another step back and studied me more intently. I could only imagine what a mess I was: wheezing, soaking wet, anxiously cracking the knuckles of one of my hands, eyes bloodshot from several nights of strange dreams and little rest.

“Listen,” I began, catching my breath. “I know I shot out of here yesterday, but I need to know what happened with that wasp.”

“You came here during a hurricane so that we could talk about a
wasp
?”

“I want to know what’s going on inside this house. You said you were sick. Maybe I can help you.”

Isabel tensed; her dark eyes pinched together, and the offer I thought would be met with gratitude was instead met with fury.

“
Help
me?” Isabel asked. “Is that what you just said—that you want to
help
me?”

“Whoa.” I put my hands up and took a step back. “I just thought that maybe—”

“Save it. You know what you suffer from, Lucas?” Isabel paused for a moment, searching for the right ammunition. “Hero syndrome. You see every situation as an opportunity for you to come save the day. You think that because I’m sick and there’s a storm that I’m here huddled in a corner waiting for Lucas Knight to come knock on my door and ask if he can
help
me? I’m not some imprisoned princess who’s desperate for your rescue. I can take care of myself.”

I cringed as her words hit their mark. My recent attempts to “save the day” had all failed. My search for Celia had ended before it even began, and my hunt for the phantom Marisol had been in vain. The thing that had sent me over the edge—and straight to Isabel—was knowing that the young nun I’d always hoped haunted my room would never find her love letters and would soon have nowhere to roam. And there was absolutely nothing I could do about any of it.

I wasn’t, however, going to give Isabel Ford the satisfaction of knowing how well she had me pegged. I’d found my ammunition, too, and was ready to use it.

“Don’t talk like you know me. You were a fiction to me until three days ago, when you started doing everything you could to get my attention. Now that you’ve gotten what you wanted and I’ve landed in your house
three
times, you’re pissed off about it.”

“You coming here has nothing to do with me,” Isabel snapped. “It has to do with you wanting to satisfy your burning curiosity.”

“You sent the letters! You asked me to come!”

Isabel turned away, dragging her hand through the tangles of her wet hair.

“It was a mistake coming here even once,” I said. “It won’t happen again.”

My hand was already on the door when something massive slammed into the ceiling above me. I ducked, expecting an explosion of glass and debris, but the ceiling held. I peered up, but it was far too dark to see what had fallen.

“Guabancex is mad,” Isabel said.

“What?”

“Not
what
.
Who.
Guabancex is the goddess that makes the storms. The Taíno say she gets angry when people upset the balance of her island. She punishes them with storms. She caused the hurricanes that wrecked the Spanish conquistadors’ ships. Don’t worry, though. The glass will hold.”

I swallowed. “Who’s upsetting the balance of her island now?”

Isabel shrugged away my question. “Does it matter? You shouldn’t go back out there, though. Your skull won’t fare as well as this ceiling.”

“I’ll take my chances,” I replied, yanking open the door. The entryway was instantly doused with rain. Isabel dashed forward, slammed the door shut, and bolted it.