Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [160]
The floor under her vibrated more strongly as the beat of the engines increased. Khattab hadn’t lied about that. The boat was getting underway. She started to stand up, and then made herself remain on her knees. She had no idea how large the room was, how high the ceiling. The blackness was palpable, she could almost feel it pressing against her eyeballs, her face, her body. The air was hot and close with a strange metallic tang. Fighting the temptation to close her eyes and curl up into a fetal position, she edged forward, arms extended.
She had found a wall and was following it, trying to get some idea of the dimensions of her prison, when the door was flung open. Even that much light was welcome after the claustrophobic darkness, but she couldn’t see much, for the opening was blocked by several bodies. The doctor’s familiar, hateful voice said, “A companion for you, my dear lady, and a patient as well.”
Justin, was her first thought. But there were two men carrying the limp body. They dropped it unceremoniously onto the floor and backed away as Nefret flung herself down beside Emerson, sinking her teeth into her lower lip to keep from crying out. His eyes were closed and one side of his face was smeared with blood.
“Bastards,” she gasped. “What have you done to him?”
“Such language from a lady,” the doctor said with a high-pitched giggle. “I regret the necessity, but he is as hard to stop as a charging elephant. I don’t believe he is seriously injured. Take care of him.”
“Wait,” Nefret said desperately. The door was closing. “I need light—water—my medical bag . . .”
“You surely don’t expect me to hand over that bag with its nice little collection of scalpels and probes.” Another giggle. God, she thought, the man is as mad as Justin. Madder. He’s reveling in this.
“Please,” she whispered.
“I suppose I could leave you a lamp,” the doctor conceded. “There is water here. You will have to manage with that until we can make other arrangements. We weren’t expecting him, you see.”
He issued a low-voiced order in Arabic. One of the men put the lamp down on the floor. The door closed.
Nefret looked wildly round the room. There was a jar, presumably containing water, in one of the corners she had not reached in her blind exploration, and a crude clay cup next to it. She didn’t look for anything else. Splashing water into the cup, she wet her handkerchief and went back to Emerson.
“Father. Father, please say something,” she whispered.
The blood came from a single cut, which had bled profusely, as scalp wounds do. Her fingers probed the spot, finding only a rising lump. Anxiety hardened her touch, and Emerson stirred.
“Hell and damnation,” he remarked.
“It’s me, Father.” She heard herself laugh, as insane a sound as the doctor’s. “Oh, Father, are you all right?”
“I am,” said Emerson, flat on his back and scowling like a gargoyle, “a bloody fool. Rushing in where angels fear to tread. Peabody will never let me hear the end of this. Nefret, my dear, are you crying? Don’t cry. I can’t stand it when you cry. Did they hurt you?”
“No. I’m sorry, Father, I’m just so relieved that you aren’t . . .”
“Takes more than a bump on the head to kill me,” said Emerson with satisfaction. “I am the one who should apologize. I walked right into it, like a rabbit into a snare, and now they’ve got both of us. What sort of place is this? Let’s have a look.”
“Don’t move yet.” Her handkerchief was saturated. She threw it aside and began unbuttoning her blouse.
“Time to tear up some extraneous garment or other,” said Emerson coolly. “Not your garments, though, your mother would not approve. My shirt. It’s too cursed hot in here anyhow.”
She bandaged the cut, but Emerson refused a drink. “Better not. It may be drugged. Let us see what we have here.”
He got to his feet, steadying himself with a hand on the wall as the boat