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Authors: David Stone
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being alive. It was a night that Porter would have savored: the superb little orchestra at Florian’s, the vino bianco, the cigarillos, but it was too damn late for all that and too damn bad. Porter Naumann was dead now and would never see another evening in Venice.
He sighed, saw his glass was empty, and went back into the room to get some more wine, brushing past the floral display on the dresser;
the echelon vendetta | 51
he was a little disconcerted when he saw that the large white flowers were now in the process of spreading their petals wide open.
Moonflowers.
The name came up from somewhere in his memory. Moonflowers. He had heard that name before, recently, it seemed; they were a kind of morning glory, weren’t they? Jack Stallworth was a fanatical plant guy. Maybe Jack had talked about moonflowers at some point. Dalton brushed by them and plucked another bottle of prosecco out of the minibar beside the dresser, popped the cork, and went back out to the balcony.
He sat back down on the stool and breathed in the night air, pulling it down deep, smelling something new in the breeze, a sharp tangy scent a little bit like eucalyptus. There was a stirring tickle on the back of his left hand. He looked down to see a large emerald green spider resting there.
He jerked his hand reflexively and as he did so he felt the spider bite him, like a spike being driven deep into the back of his hand.
Stricken with mindless horror, he dropped the pack and stumbled backward across the balcony, slapping at his clothes and wiping his forearms vigorously, his breath coming in short sharp rasps and his heart pounding. The stinging pain in his left hand was building into a fire that seemed to blaze upward through the veins in his left forearm. He stumbled into the bathroom of the suite and ripped his shirtsleeve up to his biceps. Under the blue-white light over the sink he watched as a thin red network of inflamed veins slowly spread upward toward his elbow. The flesh of his wrist was getting puffy. He turned his hand over and saw a large red welt about the size of a silver dollar on the back of his left hand. In the center of this welt there were two tiny dots of red blood welling up.
He fumbled at his waist, pulling his thin leather belt out of the loops. He wrapped the belt around his left arm just above the elbow joint and pulled the belt as tight as he could. He watched as the thin
52 | david stone
red lines grew upward on the underside of his forearm. The pain, a hot flooding rush that burned him down to the bone, was now replaced by an icy chill. He realized he was gasping for air.
He tried to calm himself, thought about antidotes: he had been trained in jungle survival. What kind of spider was emerald green and had a bite this powerful? What kind of venom had this rapid effect? Would he go into anaphylactic shock?
Realizing that hyperventilating would only speed the poison, if that’s what it was, he tried to calm himself, tried to think clearly. He looked up and saw his face in the mirror, wet with sweat, his skin blue-white in the fluorescent light, his pale-blue eyes staring back at him; the face of a fool who might die if he didn’t do something very effective right now. He opened the door to the cabinet above the sink and fumbled through the toiletries, found a pair of stainless-steel scissors that glittered in the cold light.
He put his left hand down on the edge of the sink and sliced into the blackened welt on the back of his hand, ripping at the wound until he had it flayed opened like a red flower that gushed out bluish blood. He could see the pink cords of the exposed tendons in his hand and the blood drained from his head. He swayed at the sink, his knees shaking.
He threw the bloody scissors clattering into the sink and fumbled through the bottles and cans in the cabinet until he found a spray bottle of lime-scented cologne. He doused the open wound again and again with the cool liquid, ignoring the
He sighed, saw his glass was empty, and went back into the room to get some more wine, brushing past the floral display on the dresser;
the echelon vendetta | 51
he was a little disconcerted when he saw that the large white flowers were now in the process of spreading their petals wide open.
Moonflowers.
The name came up from somewhere in his memory. Moonflowers. He had heard that name before, recently, it seemed; they were a kind of morning glory, weren’t they? Jack Stallworth was a fanatical plant guy. Maybe Jack had talked about moonflowers at some point. Dalton brushed by them and plucked another bottle of prosecco out of the minibar beside the dresser, popped the cork, and went back out to the balcony.
He sat back down on the stool and breathed in the night air, pulling it down deep, smelling something new in the breeze, a sharp tangy scent a little bit like eucalyptus. There was a stirring tickle on the back of his left hand. He looked down to see a large emerald green spider resting there.
He jerked his hand reflexively and as he did so he felt the spider bite him, like a spike being driven deep into the back of his hand.
Stricken with mindless horror, he dropped the pack and stumbled backward across the balcony, slapping at his clothes and wiping his forearms vigorously, his breath coming in short sharp rasps and his heart pounding. The stinging pain in his left hand was building into a fire that seemed to blaze upward through the veins in his left forearm. He stumbled into the bathroom of the suite and ripped his shirtsleeve up to his biceps. Under the blue-white light over the sink he watched as a thin red network of inflamed veins slowly spread upward toward his elbow. The flesh of his wrist was getting puffy. He turned his hand over and saw a large red welt about the size of a silver dollar on the back of his left hand. In the center of this welt there were two tiny dots of red blood welling up.
He fumbled at his waist, pulling his thin leather belt out of the loops. He wrapped the belt around his left arm just above the elbow joint and pulled the belt as tight as he could. He watched as the thin
52 | david stone
red lines grew upward on the underside of his forearm. The pain, a hot flooding rush that burned him down to the bone, was now replaced by an icy chill. He realized he was gasping for air.
He tried to calm himself, thought about antidotes: he had been trained in jungle survival. What kind of spider was emerald green and had a bite this powerful? What kind of venom had this rapid effect? Would he go into anaphylactic shock?
Realizing that hyperventilating would only speed the poison, if that’s what it was, he tried to calm himself, tried to think clearly. He looked up and saw his face in the mirror, wet with sweat, his skin blue-white in the fluorescent light, his pale-blue eyes staring back at him; the face of a fool who might die if he didn’t do something very effective right now. He opened the door to the cabinet above the sink and fumbled through the toiletries, found a pair of stainless-steel scissors that glittered in the cold light.
He put his left hand down on the edge of the sink and sliced into the blackened welt on the back of his hand, ripping at the wound until he had it flayed opened like a red flower that gushed out bluish blood. He could see the pink cords of the exposed tendons in his hand and the blood drained from his head. He swayed at the sink, his knees shaking.
He threw the bloody scissors clattering into the sink and fumbled through the bottles and cans in the cabinet until he found a spray bottle of lime-scented cologne. He doused the open wound again and again with the cool liquid, ignoring the
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