It had to be Raines.
But no.
Raines was a gorilla. The figure on the ladder had long spider legs.
Spider.
The spider on my face.
Duclos’s “spider” tooth.
The itsy bitsy spider went up the waterspout …
My lids felt heavy.
I allowed them to drift down.
Briel took the spider tooth from Bergeron’s tub and placed it with the Lac Saint-Jean child.
Down came the rain and washed the spider out …
Like I’d soon be washed out.
In a sewer.
What do you explore?
Underground stuff.
Drainsplorers.
Joe.
Joe had access to the tub.
Not Briel.
I had a key.
Joe had a key.
I was so tired. I wanted to drag myself back uphill to the tomb. To hide.
Spine to the wall, I slid downward into the fetid water. Hugged my knees in an attempt to preserve heat.
A million miles away I heard splashing. Shouting.
No. Not distant.
Here.
Now.
Dragging my lids apart, I muscled myself forward and peeked into the intersecting sewer.
A two-headed monster-marionette stumbled and splashed in the pale circle of gray cast by the open manhole. Four legs struggled in the swirling black water, two glistening, two dark. Four arms flailed.
As I watched, the marionette-monster exploded down the middle. Two puppets emerged. Both were tall and lanky. One wore a tassled hat. The other had hair that was spiked on top.
Spike lurched left.
Tassle lunged after and grapple-hooked Spike around the throat.
Both puppets toppled backward but were not swept away. Their thrashing sent waves cascading outward into the darkness.
Angry shouting bounced down the tube. I could not catch words.
My vision was swimming.
I blinked. Still the images seemed disjointed, like frames of film disconnected by edits.
Spike staggered to his feet.
Tassle clung to Spike’s leg, was dragged.
Spike turned and kicked out with one foot.
Tassle’s head snapped back. He pinwheeled, then fell. Filthy brown water covered his face.
Spike slogged toward the ladder.
Tassle struggled to his feet, pistoned, caught Spike from behind and drove him face-first into the wall.
Spike’s hands flew up and his neck whiplashed.
Tassle body-slammed Spike a second time, harder.
Spike’s head again smashed brick.
Tassle stepped back.
Spike slid downward into the watery scum.
“Here.” Barely a whisper. “I’m here.”
With that, I crawled to a hidden corner of my mind. To the reassuring cadence of blood pulsing in my inner ear.
The sewer evaporated. The water. The cold. The rats.
Moments, or hours, later I saw a flashlight bob toward me.
Time passed. Or didn’t.
I became aware of a presence. Of my shoulders being raised. Deep rasping breaths. The smell of wet wool. Male sweat. Warmth.
I forced my eyes open.
A face floated inches from mine.
Slowly, the features shaped up.
“Hold on, buttercup.”
STAGE TWO HYPOTHERMIA.
That was the diagnosis. When Ryan found me, my body temperature had dropped to 95 Fahrenheit.
For mammals, that’s not good.
I have only dim memories of my last moments in the sewer. By then I was feeling warm and sleepy, ready for cocoa and cookies and bed.
I remember being jostled. Something padded under my back, probably a stretcher. Gray sky. Flashing red lights.
Then nothing.
I woke in a hospital room. It was dark. Then light. Then dark again. Nurses adjusted tubes, changed drip bags, checked my hands and feet, shined lights into my eyes.
I’d suffered frostnip, not frostbite. The doctor had chuckled on explaining that. I’d been far less amused. But relieved that I’d keep all my digits.
I was also relieved that my treatment involved only heated blankets and hot drinks. No sloshing warm liquids through my bladder, stomach, and other hidden places. Lavage. He’d described that, too.
