Serial Fiction - "The Cruise" - Week 8

The cellar door is opening and--

“--she’s pointing the gun—now a shadowy face appears in—my god!” The normally impassive face cracked open,  Alex howling, “NOOO!” Suddenly he was on his feet, his cuffed hands thrashing helplessly in the air.

            Agent Fischer reacted instantly, leaping to pull Nimilov’s arms down and pin them in front of him. “Alex!” he snapped, adding the key words in a clear and steady voice: “Be still.” Instantly Nimilov’s whole body went rigid and then, in the same motion, relaxed. His head fell forward, and Fischer stepped back. “Sit down, Alex,” he said quietly. Alex sat.

“Your memory is clear now,” Fischer said. “Everything has come back to you.” He waited a few moments. “Now,” he continued, “tell me who you saw, Alex. Who came up from the cellar that night, the last night that you saw Susanna Ozier?”

“It was my brother Paovil,” Alex replied, so quietly that Fischer could hardly hear him. “I saw my brother, and behind him came Jack Stiles, the Peruvian penguin smuggler. And that was the night my brother died.”

**********

Sherri Lee didn’t hear the pounding at her door.  Clammy and shivering in the leather chair, she dozed as her scrambled thoughts chased their own tails around her addled brain. She certainly didn’t register the clicking noises as the lock was picked behind her, and it was only when she felt her wrists being slapped that her eyes fluttered open and she tried to focus on the \ red-haired woman leaning over her.  The woman tugged at the circlet of silver links encircling Sherri’s wrist and flipped over the etched rectangle they bracketed. Moments later, she groaned and lifted Sherri’s chin with one hand.

            “Sherri,” she said insistently, “can you hear me?”

            With an effort, Sherri nodded. “Yes, who are you?” she managed to whisper.

            “I’m Rebecca,” the woman said, “and I need to know when you last ate. When, Sherri?”

            “Uhhh… I think it was... At lunch? Yes, that fish and…rice things…”

            The woman—Rebecca— left her suddenly and crossed the room to the mini-fridge. She opened it, scanned the contents, then grabbed a plastic bottle of orange juice.  The fridge swung shut as she crossed the room, already twisting off the lid. “Here, drink this,” she said. “All of it, quick as you can. Here, I’ll hold it for you.” She held the bottle to Sherri’s mouth with one hand and slid her other arm around to pull her to a more upright position. Sherri wasn’t thirsty, but Rebecca held the bottle to her lips, tilting it fractionally more and more so that Sherri had to either drink or let the juice spill. She drank until the bottle was empty, and then Rebecca let her sink back against the chair, looking around until she spotted the black bag next to the fridge. She brought that to Sherri’s chair and unzipped it, pulling out a little electronic meter and a vial of plastic strips. “You were at the dinner before the police came—we saw you there—but you didn’t eat anything, did you?” she asked. “You and Alex left quickly, and you never got any dinner.”

            “No, nothing,” Sherri said, shaking her head. She was beginning to feel just the tiniest bit cooler and more clear-headed, and-- “Oh my god.“

            “Right,” Rebecca said. “You took your insulin before you went to dinner, didn’t you?”

            “I did,” Sherri exclaimed, “but—“ she stared at Rebecca in consternation. “But this shouldn’t have happened,” she insisted. “Since I didn’t know exactly when dinner would be served, I took only the NPH longer-acting insulin, one that keeps my sugars stable. I didn’t use the fast-acting one that’s necessary right before eating. With that one, I have to begin eating within fifteen minutes of the dose, because it can bring on insulin shock fast enough to induce a coma if there aren’t any carbohydrates on hand. But I didn’t take that dose here in the cabin! I brought it to the dining room with me, see? Look…”

She pulled a little cloth bag from the pocket of her jacket. “It’s right here.” Unzipping the bag, she pulled out a tiny glass bottle and held it out. Then she did a double take. “Wait –“ she shook her head, stunned. “This isn’tthe fast-acting one, it’s the 8-hour one! But then, what--” Looking horrified, she seized the case that Rebecca still held. As it fell open, she gasped. “How--?”

“What is it?” Rebecca asked sharply.

“They’ve been switched!”

**********

“You found it where?” Alex cried. “But only look! This is not my EpiPen! It’s the glucagon syringe from Sherri’s first aid kit! The antidote for insulin shock—you say someone removed it from the room? But that would mean--?”

            Fischer stared. “Attempted murder.”