“Coming up,” said one of the men watching the well.
The water bubbled for a moment, then a froghead came to the surface. Its silver eyes regarded the men standing around the well for a couple of seconds; they stepped back from the hole to give it room, and the aborigine came the rest of the way up. A nylon bag was harnessed to its chest; once the froghead was standing on dry ground, one of the men unfastened the harness, carried the bag over to the wheelbarrow, and upended it. A couple of wet, fibrous objects that looked like large knots fell into the wheelbarrow: slickbark roots.
The man who’d collected the bag from the froghead picked up a root, inspected it, then held it out for his boss to see. He said something in Russian; David frowned a little but nodded anyway. The other cropper reached into his pocket, pulled out a Hershey bar, and held it out to the froghead.
Surprisingly, the aborigine didn’t immediately take it. “Wurgo wogka kroh,” it croaked, looking down at the hole from which it had just emerged. “Krokka kow wok-wokka.”
Mikhail hissed, an angry sound that only Ronson heard. He didn’t say anything, but from the corner of his eye, he could see that Mikhail’s mouth was drawn into a tight line. “Oh, c’mon,” the man with the candy bar said; he was an American, a Southerner judging by his accent. “Take it and git back down there.” When the froghead didn’t accept the chocolate, he yanked a cattle prod from his belt. “This or this,” he said, holding up both the prod and the Hershey bar. “Your choice.”
The froghead flinched at the sight of the cattle prod. Ronson realized then that this creature was different from the three Water Folk who’d escorted Aphrodite from Veneragrad. Thinner, its head slumped forward and its eyes dulled, there were dark, bruiselike marks on its flanks that could have only been caused by electrical burns. He was looking at a slave.
“Kroh,” it said softly, then it reached for the Hershey bar.
“Yeah, kroh this, you ugly mother.” The cropper broke the bar in half and tossed the froghead the smaller part. “Now git back down there … and next time, make ’em bigger!”
The froghead put the chocolate in its mouth, swallowed it slowly. Then, as if resigned to its fate, it turned and jumped feetfirst down the hole.
“Pretty slick,” Ronson said softly. Mikhail remained quiet.
“I kinda think so.” David grinned, proud of himself. “I mean, it’s just regular, ordinary chocolate, but they’re totally addicted to it. So all we have to do is find a few froggies, give them a couple of bars, then don’t give ’em anymore until they learn to chew off slickbark roots and bring ’em to us.”
“Hell, I don’t think they want anything else now but chocolate.” The man with the cattle prod started to take a bite from the other half of the bar, then stopped himself. “Running low, boss,” he added, his voice becoming worried. “I don’t think we’ve got but a few bars left.”
“Really?” David frowned. “Well, we’re going to have to do something about that. Next time we send someone to Veneragrad for supplies …”
“We got some on the boat,” Ronson said.
“Oh, yeah?” David looked at him again, his face brightening again. “How much?”
“Whole bag full. Couple of dozen bars at least.” Ronson was exaggerating—he knew that Mikhail had brought only a few—but an idea had occurred to him. “C’mon back to the boat, and I’ll give ’em to you. We can work out a deal on the way … I’ve got the cash there, too.”
A smile stretched across David Henry’s face. “Sounds like a plan.” He turned to walk back toward the camp. “I like a man who comes prepared. Let’s go.”
Ronson followed him, consciously avoiding Mikhail’s angry glare.
______
Capturing David Henry was almost ridiculously easy. The kid was so confident that the Russian authorities would never catch him, he’d become trustful of anyone who offered to buy yaz from him. He didn’t even take any of his crew with him when he followed Ronson and Mikhail back to the dock.
Ronson kept up the pretense on the way to the Aphrodite. He had to guess how much a runner might offer for a hundred kilos of yaz, but it appeared that he was close to the mark when he bid 500,000 rubles. David tried to talk him up to 600, and by the time they reached the boat, they’d settled on 550. Plus the bag of chocolate bars, which David laughingly called “a sweetener.”
He was still chuckling at his own joke when they stepped onto the boat. Ronson was smiling, too, as he casually bent down beside the net locker and found the Taser he’d hidden there. He straightened up, turned around, and fired it at David before he knew what was happening. The charged prongs hit him in the chest; the kid collapsed with little more than a grunt, and he was still twitching on the aft deck when Ronson and Mikhail hastily cast off the lines and Angelo started up the engine.
By the time David regained his senses, his wrists and ankles were bound, and he’d been deprived of the jackknife Ronson found in his pocket. He rolled over on the deck and glared at the detective. “What the fuck are you …?”
“Your father hired me to come find you.” Ronson was sitting beneath the tarp, watching the island as it receded behind them. “If you’re lucky, I’ll be taking you home to him. But I know a certain cop who might have a say in that, so …” He shrugged.
“Dude, you’re so screwed. When my guys figure out what you’ve done …”
“They’ll come after you?” Ronson shook his head. “Don’t count on it. No one’s following us. I imagine that, even if they put two and two together, they’re not going to risk everything trying to rescue you. My guess is that they’ll pack up and move out as fast as they can, and someone will take over as the new boss.” He glanced at David, gave him a knowing smile. “Hate to break it to you, kid, but with guys like that, you’re expendable. And easily replaced.”
David Henry glowered, but didn’t reply. He must have realized the truth of what Ronson was saying. Ronson cracked open a beer he’d found in the galley. “So how did you fall into all this, anyway? Did you come here looking to get into the yaz business, or was it just something you stumbled into and …?”
“Slow down!” Mikhail was standing at the bow, searching the waters ahead. “Stop! The Water Folk are just ahead!”
“Oh, for God’s sake …” Angelo was reluctant to stop for the frogheads who’d led them to the island, but he throttled down the engines and the boat coasted to a halt. “Make it quick, okay? I want to put distance between us and the croppers.”
The three aborigines floated just beneath the surface, their protuberant eyes the only things visible. As the boat idled, its engine still throbbing, Mikhail leaned over the rail and called to them. He spoke for nearly a minute, but the frogheads didn’t respond. When he was done, they silently submerged, vanishing as if they’d never been there. Angelo waited a few seconds to make sure he wouldn’t run over them, then started up the boat again.
“What did you say to them?” Ronson asked once Mikhail came back to the aft deck.
Mikhail didn’t reply at once. He stood over David Henry, hands clenched at his sides, regarding the kid with cold and murderous eyes. David tried to return his gaze but quickly looked away. “I told them we found the man we were looking for,” Mikhail said at last, his voice low, “and thanked them for their help.”
“That’s all?” Ronson didn’t believe him. Mikhail had spoken a long time for something as simple as that.