Lady Sativa by Frank Lauria Page A

rain and considered going back to the house. May as well give it a try as long as you’re already wet, he thought.
    As his vision adjusted to the murkiness, he saw that above him, looming like a massive guardian beside a square structure, was a gnarled, fat-trunked tree. Thick roots spilled out of its bulging base like a nest of just-loosed snakes scrambling down to repel intruders.
    Orient took his hands out of his pockets and edged toward the tree. As he neared, he saw that the building it protected was a mausoleum.
    A twig cracked behind him. He stopped and looked around. There was no one—only the hiss of the wind-lashed leaves above him. Small drops of water wriggled under the damp neck of his sweater.
    He took a few more steps, listening carefully as he continued slowly up the rise toward the immense tree. As he approached, he saw someone standing just behind the trunk. He stepped into the shadow of a large bush and waited.
    For a moment, he thought that he’d been misled by a moving branch, but then he glimpsed a dull flash of skin near the dark stone wall of the mausoleum.
    The blood was racing through his pulse as he stepped over the protruding roots to the edge of the building.
    Hannah was standing between the wall and the tree trunk, her pale skin barely visible beneath a black shawl that covered her head. Her hand went to her mouth. “What do you want?” she whispered.
    “You sent me a note.” He reached for the folded piece of paper in his pocket and took a step nearer.
    The shawl fell away revealing a face contorted with fear. Her lips were twisted away from her teeth and her eyes glittered intensely. “No,” she said shrilly, rushing at him, “don’t. Go back.”
    Orient’s fingers had just closed around the note when a bone-numbing blow on his chest sent him sprawling into the mud. Someone fell heavily on top of him, crushing the wind from his belly and pinning his hand in his pocket. Hannah’s blurred face appeared next to his, eyes squeezed shut and mouth open.
    Her screams exploded against his ear and a gloved hand closed over his throat. Instinctively, he jabbed his elbow back. Something like a wet slap shocked across his forearm and he realized he couldn’t move his fingers. He jabbed again and rolled, trying to dislodge the weight holding him down and free his other arm, but the hand ground his face into the cold gummy dirt. A rush of hot, damp breath caressed the skin of his unprotected throat.
    There was a hollow pop and the pressing weight on his body suddenly lifted. He raised his head and saw a flash of light. There was another pop as he rolled over.
    Hannah pushed herself up to her knees, half-turned, and fell across his legs.
     
     

 
     
    7
     
     
    Orient heard the sounds of running footsteps and men yelling in Swedish. Then the bright electric rays of flashlights cut through the shadows and illuminated Hannah’s face.
    She was staring in open-mouthed terror at the gnarled roots that dug into the wet earth near her face. Her chin was thrust forward in the mud and there was a small blue hole in her temple.
    The flashlights bobbed closer, blinding him. He tried to shield his eyes with his arm and found that it was paralyzed from the elbow down. Something warm and oily filled his palm. He looked down and saw that it was blood.
    “You disobeyed my orders,” someone said.
    Orient recognized the tenor voice of the lanky detective. “I received a message,” he grunted as he got to his feet.
    “I sent no message.” The detective shined the light on Orient’s arm. “Were you shot?”
    He pulled back the sticky, ragged sleeve of his sweater. His forearm was streaming blood from four deep gashes that raked his skin open to the wrist. He tried to flex his fingers. They moved slightly. “Looks like I was stabbed. Or bitten.”
    “Tell me about the message you received,” the detective said, lifting his flashlight to Orient’s face.
    He turned away from the glare and reached for