“I’m sorry I asked.” Dodge eyed the shadows along the bank as he pushed them further along, but he also made sure the machete was always within reach.
The greatest challenge in punting up the Congo was keeping the raft out of the main channel. On more than one occasion, a random eddy sent them too far from shore, and into the deeper water where the poles could not reach the bottom. These mishaps required them to wait until another vagary of the current brought them back to shore, for a loss of hundreds of yards and several minutes. By daybreak, Dodge estimated they had gone no more than a few miles from the ruins of the settlement.
The constant friction of the pole against the skin of his palms, which was already raw from the struggle with the crocodiles on the previous day, soon began to weep blood. In the ascending light of dawn, Molly spied the scarlet rivulets running down the length of wood and immediately called for a halt.
“It’s okay,” Dodge lied. “I don’t even feel it.”
“Good for you, tough guy.” Molly didn’t sound very impressed by this stoicism. “The bad news is that your blood is stinking up the water for miles. Anything with a nose is going to think there’s wounded animal or a fresh kill floating on the river. So why don’t we clean and bandage that before we attract unwanted attention.”
Dodge scanned the reedy shore to make sure there were no crocodiles sunning themselves there then pushed them onto the beach. “Whatever you say, doc.”
He was impressed with her firm grip as she took his hands and twisted them in opposite direction in order to view his ragged palms. “Oh, I see why you’re not feeling much pain. See these black specks?
“What’s that, dirt?”
“Leeches,” she answered, matter of fact. “They secrete a natural anesthetic in their saliva so that their victims won’t feel the bite.”
Dodge grimaced, but said nothing as she went to her satchel and brought out a clear glass decanter. “Here, take a sip of this.”
“What is it?” He took a swig of the odorless liquid, and immediately choked as it burned a cool trail down his throat.
“Medicine. I distilled it myself from a local tuber. I guess it’s kind of like gin.” She took the bottle and before he could protest, splashed a copious amount on his ravaged flesh.
He tried to snatch his hands back, but it was too late. The spirits felt like liquid fire in the open wound, and if it had been within his power to draw breath past the burn in his throat, he would almost certainly have screamed out loud. Instead, he flailed his hands in the air, trying to cool the ongoing blaze.
“Damn!” he finally managed, still coughing. “You should have warned me.”
There was a gleam in her eye and a mischievous smile she could not quite suppress crept over her lips. “That’s what they always say.”
His indignation quickly gave way to laughter. “Maybe I should have another sip.”
“That’s the other thing they all say.” She took out a packet of gauze and after verifying that the wounds were clean, began wrapping his hands. “So why are you called ‘Dodge’?”
“When I was a kid, I wanted to play baseball. I was even a bat boy for the team in Brooklyn. Back then, the team didn’t really have an official name, but everyone was already calling them the Dodgers — short for ‘trolley dodgers’ — and the name stuck. My friends started calling me ‘Dodger’ and eventually it just became ‘Dodge.’“
“But you don’t play baseball now?”
“No. I guess I found out that there’s a difference between doing something you love for fun and doing it for a job.”
She finished cinching the gauze bandages in place. “How’s that?”
He flexed experimentally. “Doesn’t give me very much freedom of movement.”
“That’s the idea. It will heal better that way. Let me ask you something else. You’re not old enough to have served with my dad in the war, so why are you here?”
Dodge wasn’t used to conversing with people who didn’t already know everything about him. That he was with someone who probably knew Captain Falcon’s story better than he, only complicated things further. “Well, I’m a writer. Hurricane and I write a weekly feature based on… I should say, loosely based on his experiences with Captain Falcon and your father, during the war and after.”
“Really? I’d love to read them sometime.”
Dodge scrutinized her expression. From any other girl, he would have taken that to be the opening salvo in one of the flirtatious exchanges he had so come to loathe. Ironically, Molly was the one girl he wouldn’t have minded making an impression on, but flirting didn’t seem Molly’s style, which meant she was probably sincere. “You probably know them all already,” was his guarded reply.
“Not really. Dad doesn’t talk about the old days much; his friends, yes, but no war stories. Dad’s kind of… well, he keeps to himself a lot.”
Dodge had to smile; that was exactly how he had imagined Hobbs to be.
“I sure hope he’s all right.”
Dodge reached out patted her shoulder. The gesture felt awkward because he was unquestionably attracted to her and didn’t want to seem forward. “He’s fine. Believe me, once Hurricane helps him escape, there’s nothing those two can’t accomplish.”
Hurley’s hands shot through the bars of his cage to seize the taut rope, just as the last hemp fiber parted under the assault of Krieger’s claw blades. There was a lurch as the tension holding the box abruptly vanished but it stopped, bare inches from the poisoned tips of the spikes below. Hurley’s fists were clenched tight around the rope, his grip the only thing holding him back from a painful demise.
Krieger was inscrutable behind his mask, but made no further effort to dispatch Hurricane. “That should keep you busy for a while,” he remarked sardonically. “Wouldn’t want you entertaining notions of escape.”
“If you’re going to kill us,” Hurley rasped through clenched teeth, “just do it. Get it over with.”
“I thought I told you. I am a businessman; you are worth more to me alive.” Krieger turned abruptly and stalked away, leaving only a handful of pirates to guard the caged men and the native captives; the rest of the gang moved off to their respective duty stations and commenced getting the armada ready to depart. As the first gleams of dawn illuminated the sky, the pirate vessels commenced moving further up the tributary.
After recovering from the shock of the nearly getting skewered, Hurricane pulled in the slack, drawing down enough of the rope to knot it around one of the bars. Once the cage was secure, he turned to Hobbs. “Just like old times, eh?”
“Yes,” the clergyman observed sourly. “I’d forgotten how much fun we had. So how did you get dragged into all this?”
Hurley briefly recounted the attack on the White House and the demands of its hooded mastermind. “Do you think it could have been Krieger? That this was all part of an elaborate plot to bring the three of us together so he could take his revenge?”
Hobbs stroked his bloodied chin thoughtfully. “Krieger’s known where to find me for years. He could have taken me any time.”
“What? You knew Krieger was alive and didn’t do anything about it?” Despite the bonds they shared, both brotherhood-in-arms and currently prison bonds, Hurley could not stem the flood of anger that arose from learning of the omission.
“Yes, well it seems I am being punished for that sin.” Hobbs sighed heavily. “I didn’t come here looking to relive the glory days, Hurricane. But I was keeping an eye on Krieger. He’s never done anything like this; it’s not his style.”
Hurricane took a deep breath, letting his wrath boil away. “Seems exactly like his style, Padre.”