The FBI Thrillers Collection Books 1-5 - Catherine Coulter [559]
“A hot dog might be nice,” Sherlock said. “Potato chips, some dill pickles.”
“Tortilla chips and hot salsa,” Savich said, rubbing his hands together, and grinned. Behind him, a branch shimmied. A brown-spotted gecko poked its head around a tree, looked at us, then pressed itself flat against the bark. I swear it disappeared.
“Maybe some pickle relish on the hot dog,” Sherlock said. “Forget the dills.” As she spoke, she was looking over at Laura, who lay quietly.
We were trapped in a Hieronymus Bosch painting and we’d managed, for a moment, to superimpose normalcy. As evening settled in, the beetles began to move around. You could hear them scuttling to and fro. So many of them, all hungry. I smiled over at Laura. “We’re geniuses. Just look at that fire.”
But Laura wasn’t looking at either me or the fire. She was staring to her right, just beyond the perimeter of the campsite, just beyond Sherlock’s moat. Her face was whiter than boiled rice. I heard her say my name, her voice just above a croak.
I pulled the Bren Ten out of my waistband and slowly turned.
CHAPTER THIRTY
There, reared up on its hind feet, its claws extended, claws so ragged and huge that one swipe could have taken off my face, was a golden brown armadillo. Not one of those small guys you see as road kill on the west Texas highways, but a giant armadillo. I’d never even seen one in a zoo. I’d only seen pictures of them. It had a long snout and small eyes that never left us. The hoary flesh seemed to retract farther, showing more of its claws.
“It doesn’t eat people,” Laura whispered. “It eats worms.”
“That’s a happy thought,” I said as I lowered the Bren Ten. Who knew if men were out there to hear the noise? Savich tossed me a rock. I threw it, kicking up leaves and dirt not six inches from where the armadillo stood. It made a strange hissing noise and disappeared back into the undergrowth.
I heard a collective sigh of relief.
It was time to eat. Savich peeled mangoes with the first-aid scissors. A great find, those scissors. Savich assigned me the task of peeling bananas.
I eyed my slice for just an instant before eating it. I didn’t think we could get food poisoning or diarrhea from something we had just peeled. We each ate only two mangoes, followed by one banana, and polished it off with one of the precious Baby Ruths.
“It’s only eight o’clock,” Sherlock said. “Does anyone know what day it is?”
“If it’s Friday,” Savich said, “you and I would be putting Sean to bed and curling up downstairs with some of my French roast coffee.”
Sherlock grinned at the thought, then she scooted over to Laura. She lightly laid her palm on Laura’s cheek, then her forehead. “Mac, when did you give her aspirin?”
“Two hours ago.”
“She’s getting a fever. We’ve got to dump water down her throat and keep at it. That’s what the doctor told me to do with Sean when he had a high fever.”
I’d endured long nights before, but this was the longest. At least three dozen different beetles kept up an endless dissonant concert throughout the night. We heard things slithering all around us. I’d swear I heard at least a dozen winged things fluttering over my head. But the noise of those beetles, there was nothing like it.
Savich kept the fire burning bright. No more giant armadillos came to visit. No snakes slithered in to get warm. Just the four of us and the fever that was burning Laura up inside.
I was sleeping lightly when I felt her trembling beside me. The shakes, I thought, from a breaking fever. I got all the water I could down her throat, then eased her tight against me, and perhaps it worked because she stopped moaning and eased into fitful sleep for several hours.
We had to find civilization.
With our luck, we’d probably go loping into another drug dealer’s compound.
The next morning, we drank a bottle of our precious water, ate two more mangoes, three more bananas, and savored the last of our Baby