“Traditional,” George said, as he took more photos.
Clark let her go and she came to a stop next to a rusted metal handrail near the first vat.
“It’s a small time arrangement,” Clark said. “We’re not here to harvest latex for sale, though we do sell what we make. It’s more a proof of concept.”
There were twenty large rectangular vats about the size of small swimming pools. At half of them, men and women of various ages used wood rakes to collect hardening latex just under the surface of the brown liquid. There was an acidic sourness that permeated the air. The stench was almost unbearable.
“As the rubber coagulates,” Clark said, “it’s removed from the vats and pressed into sheets.” He pointed to the far end of the room. A young man there seemed to be stepping in place. George moved in that direction and, as Clark followed, Jean knew she had to move. The smell was making the back of her throat itch. Maybe on the other side of the vats, the air would be better. She paused for a moment, took a breath, and walked briskly to cross the room. Each person that she passed stopped momentarily and looked at her. No doubt she was quite the sight, in her business dress, heels, and holding her breath. Finally, on the other side of the large room, she let her breath go and inhaled.
Oh my god.
If anything, the air here was worse.
The young man, who was treading barefoot on the solid latex, stood aside as Clark lifted the white sheet from the rectangular mold. An inch thick and the size of a beach towel, dripping wet with brown liquid, he held it up for George, who felt a corner of it. Clark glanced at Jean. Whether he was offering to let her touch it or was checking on her she didn’t know but she gave him a little wave while keeping her nose and mouth covered with the other hand.
“Next,” Clark said. “We squeeze out the extra moisture.”
He took the rubbery sheet to a set of wide wooden rollers and the young man helped him insert the latex between them. As Clark cranked the handle, the young man fed the white material in as a thin and almost purely white sheet came out the other side. When it had gone completely through, Clark held it out for George. Jean took a few steps and stood next to a window. There was a tiny movement of air through it that seemed a little better. She took in a lungful.
“And here are the drying racks,” said George.
He had turned away from her and was looking up. Jean looked up and blinked at the endless rows of latex sheets hung from the rafters up above them. She’d completely missed them. In various stages of drying, some were pure white like the sheet Clark had just been handling, while others were a dull brown color.
“Exactly,” Clark said. “The darkest brown are nearly cured.”
Though George was going to the end of the room to photograph the curing sheets, Clark came back to her.
“The smell of latex,” he said. “It takes some getting used to.”
She nodded but kept her nose and mouth covered. Despite the openness of the doors and windows, the room was feeling close and oppressive. It was also unbearably hot.
“I guess that didn’t come through in the text and numbers,” she managed to get out, before coughing.
But what had begun as an itchiness in the back of her throat had turned into a burning. The coughing wouldn’t stop. She took a quick sip from the water bottle. But it only made her cough all the more.
“Jean?” Clark said.
She could barely hear him. Though her lungs were dragging in air, she felt like she couldn’t breathe. Tiny lights were appearing at the edge of her vision, like multi-colored fireflies. She heard the water bottle hit the floor.
“
Jean
?” Clark said, though his voice was dim.
He was standing in front of her and she slowly reached out to him but the room started to spin. As her legs gave out, she was vaguely aware of his arms around her and then there was nothing.
• • • • •
“Annan!” Clark yelled.
He cradled Jean in his arms as he took the steps up the grand staircase two at a time.
“Annan!” Clark yelled again.
“Yeah, Boss,” he heard from below.
He didn’t bother turning.
“Call Doctor Kinchai! Get him out here!”
“Yes Boss,” Annan shouted.
Clark quickly arrived at the second story, rounded a corner of the balcony, and strode into her room. As he lay her down on the bed, she tried to hold onto him. She’d never completely lost consciousness though she was clearly on the edge.
“Clark,” she said, weakly.
“You’re all right,” he said. “We’ve called the doctor. He’ll be here soon.”
“No,” she whimpered. “Please. I’m fine.”
She tried to sit up but quickly fell back.
“I can see that,” he said.
George came to the side of the bed, panting from trying to keep up.
“Has she been ill?” Clark asked.
“No,” George said, a little breathlessly. “No, she’s been fine. Just complained of the heat.”
Right
, thought Clark. She’d done that last night and also this morning. He put a hand to her forehead. She was burning up. He looked at her feverish face and the sweat drenched blouse.
“We need to get that fever down,” he muttered.
There were footsteps at the doorway.
“Doctor’s on his way, Boss,” Annan chirped.
Clark whirled toward him.
“Get me some towels and ice,” he said. “Hurry!”
Tam’s weathered old face appeared in the doorway, just as Annan dashed off.
“Tam, get Mrs. Juntasa up here,” Clark said.
Tam didn’t waste time with words and quickly shuffled off.
Clark spun back to the bed and turned on the fan above it. He tugged the cord twice to kick it into high gear.
“Clark,” Jean whispered. “Please, I don’t need a doctor.”
Clark turned back to her.
“Let’s let the doctor be the judge of that,” he said, taking her hand.
His words had a familiar ring. In fact, everything was starting to feel like déja vu. Had it only been a year ago? At the moment, it seemed like yesterday. He forced himself not to think of it.
“I’m sorry,” Jean said, lowly, her voice shaking.
“What?” Clark said, sitting on the bed next to her and taking her hand in both of his. “Nonsense.”
“I don’t want to mess up the deal,” she said.
“You’re not messing up the deal,” he said quietly.
Tam appeared in the doorway just then. The old man was breathing hard, hand on his chest.
“Mrs. Juntasa’s not here,” he breathed. “In town maybe?”
Clark couldn’t remember if this was the day she usually made her supply run or not.
“Dammit,” Clark said. “Okay, Tam. Thanks.”
He’d needed a woman. Jean needed to get out of those clothes and get some ice on her head and her skin. Annan pushed by Tam with a bucket of ice and a stack of folded white towels.
“Good,” Clark said. “Leave those here and…” He hesitated. “Close the door but wait right outside.” Annan arched his eyebrows but didn’t question him. “Tam, wait downstairs for the doctor and tell him which room we’re in when he gets here.” Tam disappeared from the doorway immediately and Annan gave Clark one more glance before closing it behind him.
“I’m so sorry,” Jean whispered. “Look at what I’ve done.”
Clark ignored that, only one thing on his mind right now.
“Jean,” he said. “Can you take off your clothes?”
She blinked her eyes slowly a couple of times.
“What?” she said.
“You’ve got to get out of those clothes,” he said. “I’ve got ice and towels and we need to get your fever down before the doctor gets here. I’d have Mrs. Juntasa help you but she’s not here. I’ll step outside if you can manage yourself.”
He was talking too fast. Memories of another time were flooding over him. His heart was pounding.
“I can do it,” she said. She reached out her hands to him. “I just need to sit up.”
He took her hands and gently pulled but she was having trouble keeping her head up. By the time she was sitting, she was already slumping forward against him. As he held her away to get some distance between them, her hands fell into her lap and her head lolled backwards, her eyes closed. She’d passed out.
“
Jean
,” he said, holding her.
He eased her back onto the bed and felt her jugular. Her heart was racing but the pulse was good and strong. Her breathing was rapid and shallow. He undid a couple buttons on her blouse, saw the black lace of her bra, and abruptly stopped. Jean was
not
Linda. He shouldn’t even be
thinking
of undressing her.
The ice ought to be enough, even through the silk.
He turned away, quickly wrapped some ice in a towel and tucked it behind her neck. Then, he took a few larger chunks of ice, already slick and partially melted, and ran them over her forehead. Water trickled down the side of her face and he followed it with the ice. He rubbed it lower down her throat and over the exposed part of her chest. The wind from the fan pushed small rivulets of water down into her bra and out toward her shoulders. He turned back to the bucket and, with both hands, scooped out ice water and small chips from the bottom. As he ladled the combination over her torso, every curve of her body stood out under the thin fabric clinging to her skin. He forced himself to look away, grabbed more ice and started again at the top. Her forehead was already dry but as he moved the ice over it, her eyes slowly opened.
He stopped, quickly reached across her and brought a sheet over. The fan blew it down and the water from the ice plastered it to her.
“What…what happened?” she asked.
Clark dropped the remaining ice into the bucket.
“You passed out,” he said, standing next to the bed. “The doctor is on his way.”
“Passed out,” she repeated.
Her hand moved against the sheet. She looked down to see it soaking wet and adhering to her.
“I had to cool you down,” he said, watching her puzzled face.
“I…I don’t remember,” she whispered.
Slowly, she sat up, holding the sheet in front of her.
“Take it easy,” he said, his hand on her upper back. “Not so fast.”
“I just wanted to take out this clip,” she said.
She reached a shaky hand up to her hair but her fingers couldn’t find it.
“Here,” he said. “Let me.”
Carefully, he unlatched the smooth, plastic fastener and released her hair. Dark shining waves of it cascaded down to just below her shoulders.
“That feels better,” she whispered.
The silky brush of it on his hand made him want to run his fingers through it but she began to sway. He put his arms around her, leaned forward and eased her back down to the bed.
“Thank you,” she said, trying to smile.
There was a knock at the door.
“Doctor’s here, Boss,” Annan said from the other side.
“Good,” Clark called back. “Be right there.”
He looked back to Jean.
“Dr. Kinchai’s good,” he said, moving toward the door, but she’d taken hold of his hand.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
“Don’t be,” he said quietly, taking her hand in both of his. He lightly stroked it as he laid it on the bed next to her. “Let’s see what the doctor says. I’ll be right outside.”
• • • • •
In the confusion, it’d been easy for George to slip away. As the staff rushed to and fro, George had simply walked through the middle of them. He’d taken special note of the large greenhouse behind the main house as they’d passed it on their way back from the processing building.
He forced himself to walk at a normal pace, moving down the long corridor to the back of the house. Though the mansion was large, there were actually only three people that he’d seen. He’d catalogued their movements since they’d arrived. Most were accounted for in other places right now, mostly centered around Jean.
He smirked.
Perfect timing.
He might not ever have a better chance.
The back entry wasn’t as grand as the front but it was centrally located in the simple floor plan. He went straight to it and glanced quickly over his shoulder. In moments, he was outside. The rear of the house was like a small village. There was a large plaza fronted by several buildings. The long, two-story greenhouse, with its expansive panels of opaque white glass was obvious.
Jean’s forensic analysis of the accounts had included the security measures employed on the plantation–shockingly few. Perhaps Clark thought their relatively remote location provided some measure of protection from corporate espionage. Whatever the reason, it made George’s job easier. He was about to become a
very
wealthy man and Clark Peterson was going to be ruined.
George hurried across the grassy plaza and took the paved path to the greenhouse entrance. He glanced left and right–still no one in the vicinity.
Like the main house and other buildings, the greenhouse seemed transported from another time. Beautiful and ornate, the second story was smaller than the first, like a tiered wedding cake. The curved steel girders were painted white, matching the opaque glass. When he’d first realized that he’d be breaking into a greenhouse he thought it could hardly be easier. It was just a bunch of glass. But he’d later learned it was a great deal more than that, big enough to support the glass above, even in monsoon weather.
At the keypad entry, he entered the numbers he’d memorized. Although Jean’s audit hadn’t revealed the key code, it’d revealed the brand of security system that was used. It’d been a simple matter of calling the company to find out how to reset it if the code had been lost or forgotten.
He quickly punched in the series of characters and numbers: ***00000099#*.
A loud click came from the door handle.
With a brief glance over his shoulder, George grasped the knob, turned it, and opened the door.
Jean dressed in the clothes that Clark had left at the foot of the bed as he walked the doctor to the front door. Dr. Kinchai had been very nice, as Clark had said he would be. He’d taken her vitals, a family history, and even a blood sample. After spending nearly an hour to make sure she had recovered, his medical opinion had been clear and simple: heat prostration. The temperature, the humidity from the storm, and clothes that didn’t breathe had combined in a dangerous way.