The Dust of 100 Dogs - A. S. King [72]
When she awoke in the governor’s office, she was alone. Since she was too weak to escape, they hadn’t handcuffed her or tied her to any furniture. On the desk, there was a plate of fruit and a large washing bowl of water. She heard quarrelling in the next room.
“You wanted her imprisoned. I did what you wanted.”
“I didn’t want her dead.”
“If you wanted her healthy and strong, why didn’t you take her with you?”
“You fool! You brainless idiot!”
“What did you expect from me? It’s not my fault she was left for nearly a year!”
“You could have given her more to eat! You could have let her walk a bit.”
“I have no say in what they feed the scum down there. And I most certainly took your orders seriously when you said not to let another man touch her. Did you think I could do that if I was parading her around the prison at the same time? You told me to keep her safe. I kept her safe. She’s not dead. You can have her now. There’s nothing so wrong with her that food can’t cure.”
Emer heard movement and a loud slap. “Not dead? You come with me. Come look at this … this … thing!” The door of the office swung open and the two men entered. The Frenchman pointed. “Look at this. This is not a woman! This is a ghost, Robert! You have given me a ghost for all my trouble! We had a deal—this was no part of that deal.”
“I said I would make sure she was here when you returned. She is here, is she not?”
The Frenchman pulled a loaded pistol from his waist and pointed it at the governor’s left leg. “I’ll have that map back now, and those rings.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
The Frenchman fired the pistol, and the governor fell onto his desk in agony. “The map,” the Frenchman said, holding his left hand out, palm up.
The governor reached into his desk and grabbed a rolled map. He handed it to the Frenchman, and when he did, the Frenchman peeled the rings from his fingers. He picked Emer up and walked through the door, gently so she wouldn’t hit her head.
When they were free of the stone building, the sun beat down on Emer’s dying body and her head went limp. The Frenchman hurried to the dock, up the gangplank of his own frigate, the Chester, and screamed for the ship’s doctor. His first mate, the man Emer had once thought was his servant, reached out to help steady his captain.
“Hurry! The woman is dying!” the Frenchman cried. Emer lost consciousness again, puzzled at the irony that surrounded her—puzzled about how she should feel about her rescue—puzzled about what would become of her if she lived.
Fred Livingstone inspected his chin in the rearview mirror.
“That bitch,” he said, rubbing the red mark where he’d collided with the head of his beautiful bikini girl.
You certainly made a mess of that, Fred.
“Shut up.”
You looked like a creep.
“Just shut up.”
You should watch where you’re going, Fred. You never know who you’ll bump into.
“You think this is funny then, do you?”
It is funny.
“Just shut up,” Fred answered, and he turned on the radio.
He drove home and parked the car in the garage, went quickly to the bar in his office, and inspected his chin again in the mirror. He fixed himself a large drink and sat down on the nearest barstool, resting his head in his hand.
“I blew it.”
No point in fretting, Fred. She’ll be gone in a week or two. You’ll find plenty more after that and forget she ever existed.
“No. She has to pay. She has to pay for turning me down. No woman ever turns me down!” He gulped from the glass. “I’ll take her out and get her drunk. She’ll fall for me then. They always do.”
Fall over, you mean, right? Because of the drugs you put in her drink?
“Oh, shut up, will you? You’re always mocking me, and where are your good ideas? You never have anything good to say, do you?”
I said something good this morning.
“Oh, you did?”
Yeah. You should see a shrink.
Fred’s voices were interrupted by a knock at the front door. He tried to see from the corner of his glass wall who it was, but the bougainvillea had outgrown