Read Online The Serpent's Bite by Warren Adler - Free Book Online Page B

sure. If Mom were alive, she’d be in my corner.”
    Nothing seemed to move the old man. He stood stubbornly to his conviction. But unlike Courtney, Scott had not closed the door completely. He told himself he was being more practical than his sister, betting that his father’s decision would one day be reversed. He hoped that this experiment with bonding might achieve such a reversal.
    Seeing his father that morning convinced him that however strained their relationship, the old man had not cut the ties that bind. Nor had his son.
    The ties that bind
. Scott mulled its meaning. At times, early memories of his childhood, warm happy memories of loving family life would surface. Little vignettes like sound bytes on a television screen would intrude on his mind: clutching Dad’s warm hand as they walked through the Central Park Zoo, cuddling in the safety of his parents’ bed to dispel the horrors of a sudden nightmare, the sweet pleasant aura of his mother’s perfume, parental embraces, words heard around the dining room table, the reassuring timber and tone of his parents’ voices, the distinctive taste of his mother’s cooking, household smells, the view from the window of his old room, familiar pictures on the wall, his father’s proud face when he dumped a basket at a high school game, and echoes of his father’s praise, pride, approval, and admiration in his modest childhood achievements.
    They were mostly images and memories of life before puberty, when separation and secret treachery began.
    He felt transient sensations of a child’s love and would often be baffled by their enduring power, no matter how divisive their present differences. When his mind drifted to such memories, he tried gamely to exclude them and perhaps summon up the level of his sister’s antagonism to his father. He could not. The memory of his disloyalty and dissimulation was too much of a barrier. His guilt was too overwhelming.
    After about five hours on the trail, they stopped in the shade of a stand of poplars near a stream, dismounted, and after their father shot more pictures of everyone including the horses and mules, they sat on a fallen log and ate their lunch. Scott’s knees ached, but it did not affect his appetite as he devoured the roast beef sandwiches Tomas had prepared and washed them down with water from his flask. They were also provided with Milky Ways, Snickers bars, and nuts.
    During the lunch break, Harry refreshed their memory on the mysteries of the ceramic filter, which was designed to strain the giardia virus from the waters of rivers, lakes, and streams. The virus was spread by animals and could make one permanently subject to cramps and diarrhea, although Harry, who acknowledged drinking directly from the crystal clear water of the mountain streams, had remarked with a chuckle that he found a heavy dose of bourbon could be equally effective, although he was quick to point out that it was definitely not recommended for his clients.
    The reek of spirits that clung to the outfitter and his florid complexion were further proof of Harry’s frequent use of this remedy. Scott hadn’t remembered any suggestion of hard drinking during their last foray but acknowledged that twenty years had made a big difference in all of them.
    The mechanical ceramic gizmo took thirty-one hard hand pumps to fill a one-pint flask, but the effort was a necessity since dehydration was an equally serious problem at high altitudes, and the limited water supply carried in by horse and mule would quickly be depleted. The demonstration reminded Scott of the hardships that were still to be endured on the trek, a depressing prospect for someone as out of shape as himself.
    â€œGorgeous, isn’t it?” his father said, his eyes roving the landscape to observe the carpet of wild grasses and the vast forest of evergreens, poplars, and shaking aspens that edged the meadow. Looking upward, he shook