The Lion's Den(49)
It makes my blood boil. So many good people suffer through their lives trying to make ends meet while he sits on his throne counting his gold, believing he deserves every ounce of it. For he is a lion, hear him roar! I took a zoology class in college, because why not? And what I remember most vividly about the exalted rulers of the animal kingdom speaks more to their cunning than their courage: in a drought, the king of beasts drives the lesser creatures from the watering hole while he drinks, then falls upon their weakened bodies with triumph, devouring their parched flesh before they’ve even expired.
You can’t blame a lion for being a lion. An animal has no wickedness; it knows only how to survive. But a man who fancies himself a lion to excuse his depravity? Well, he’s no more than a predator.
But, of course, no one’s asking my opinion.
After John’s associates left, he and Summer withdrew to their room and I climbed up to the roof deck for a nightcap with Wendy and Claire. None of us needed another drink, but there was half a bottle of Dom left, and it felt wasteful to abandon it. The evening was beautiful and clear, the moon yet to rise. A dazzling array of twinkling stars lit up the sky as the boat bobbed gently in the tide, but I could hardly keep my eyes open to enjoy the display. Claire leaned on Wendy’s shoulder, and Wendy leaned on mine, all of us so drowsy that the trek back to our rooms seemed almost insurmountable. “I don’t think I’ve been this sleepy since I was on painkillers after my accident,” Wendy commented, yawning.
“I feel drugged,” Claire agreed, matching her yawn. “It must be all the sun.”
“And champagne,” Wendy added, taking a slug from the bottle.
Suddenly I remembered the Valium in Bernard’s pocket. I thought about how strangely tired I’d been every night, how deeply I’d slept, the floating sensation I couldn’t seem to shake. Could they be drugging us?
No, surely not. But the idea wasn’t ill founded. I considered whether to broach the subject with Wendy and Claire. I didn’t want to alarm them, but I was curious whether they’d noticed the same things I had. “You guys”—I lowered my voice, pretending to be more drunk than I was—“what if they’re, like, drugging us?”
Claire sat up, her eyes wide in the starlight. “What?”
Wendy laughed. “Oh my God, of course they’re not drugging us. That’s insane.”
“Yeah,” I whispered conspiratorially, “but just go with me here––we’re sooo tired at night, and there’s cameras everywhere, no Wi-Fi…Doesn’t it seem like something shady could be going on?”
Wendy rolled her eyes. “Ohmygod, stop being dramatic. This isn’t one of your horror movies.”
I laughed, taking the bottle from her. “I have been in waaay too many horror movies.” Bubbles fizzed and popped in my mouth.
“This is our best friend we’re talking about,” she continued quietly, “and it’s super nice of her to invite us here. Let’s just be grateful, k?”
It was no surprise that ever-diplomatic Wendy preferred us to stay in our lanes. I should have known better than to bring it up with her. I sighed, passing the champagne to Claire. “Okay, Mom.”
A star shot across the sky. I pointed, glad for the diversion. “Did you see that?”
“Make a wish,” Wendy said.
Claire squealed and wiped her mouth with her hand. “I got so excited I spilled champagne all over myself.”
I lifted the seat cushion next to me, revealing rows upon rows of neatly stacked navy-and-white towels beneath. “You get a towel.” I tossed Claire a towel. “And you get a towel.” I tossed Wendy a towel. “And I get a towel! Everybody gets a towel!”
We laughed together and curled up beneath our plush towels, our eyes fixed on the diamond-studded sky.
Once we retired to our rooms around midnight, I forced myself to lie awake quietly listening until I heard the click of the lock in the door. Amythest slumbered while I stealthily got out of bed and tried the handle, confirming we were indeed locked in. So I wasn’t crazy. Claustrophobia wound around me like a python. I squeezed my eyes shut and controlled my breath in an effort to pry it loose.
It couldn’t be one of the crew locking us in; there’s no way that could be safe. If the ship were to go down, we’d have no way out.
So it must be Bernard and Vinny, our hall monitors. But why?
Regardless of how tired I was, sleep eluded me. After what must have been more than an hour of tossing and turning, trying to convince my feverish mind to sleep, I heard a motor out on the water, close by. I carefully climbed over Amythest and pushed up the shade on the small round window above her bed. In the silvery moonlight, I could just make out the back of a tender idling by the landing at the stern of our boat. Two men were in the process of boarding the Lion’s Den, though whether others had gone before them, I couldn’t tell. Nor could I tell anything about their identity, other than that they were dressed in white robes and wearing headpieces of the type favored by royalty from certain Middle Eastern countries.
Whoever these men are, they must be shadow associates of the variety a high-profile American businessman fraternizes with only in private. Was this the sole reason for our being locked in at night? Or was there something more? I wondered what Summer was privy to and how much control John exerted over her evening hours, beyond his seemingly unquenchable thirst for sex. And what of the crew? Did they know about this, or were they confined to their quarters during certain hours as well?