Into the Wild

by Beth Ciotta

  That fucking fog.

  “Maybe it’s a good thing,” River said as they plowed forward. “The inclement weather, I mean. The fog’s a lot thicker up there. Cy knows these mountains. Knows it’s unsafe to venture in the fog. Maybe it slowed him down. Maybe he’s at the lake. You said there’s shelter there, right? More huts? Who built those huts, anyway? Brunner? Isn’t he dead? How long have they been there? Can you teach me to navigate by the stars?”

  “How are you feeling?” he asked, alarmed by her disjointed chatter.

  “Better,” she said without meeting his gaze.

  “Do you have a headache? Are you dizzy?”

  “I’m fine,” she said, but she had a vice grip on his arm.

  “Don’t lie to me, River.”

  “I’m…I’m a little light-headed.”

  “A little?” He caught her as she stumbled. “For how long?”

  “For a while,” she said in a soft voice. “I didn’t want you to worry.” She stumbled again, only there was nothing to stumble over.

  Dammit!

  His heart hammered as he scooped her into his arms.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Sweeping you off your feet.”

  “That’s sweet. No. Wait. I’m too heavy.”

  “Not even close.”

  “But with the clown-car backpack. That thing must weigh a ton.”

  “Shush.”

  “You’re thinking about that fog. About that mountain. You’re worried I have AMS. I don’t. I’m just…loopy. Maybe I OD’d on coca.”

  He was closing in on the camp. He could see the huts. No sign of Cy.

  Arms around his neck, River rested her head on his shoulder and sighed. “I bet you’ll look hot in a tux.” He smiled in spite of his concerns. “What are you talking about?”

  “Your sister’s wedding. Do you have a date?”

  “I do now.”

  The fog rolled and swirled, patches of varying thickness. He didn’t want to carry her inside one of the huts without making sure they were safe. Where in the hell was Cy? He could feel the presence of Andy, here the voice of Jo, “Get her out!” He sensed the ancient Inca curse rolling in and around him, alive like the fog.

  Spenser set River to her feet. Held her steady with one hand while shrugging off his pack. “Here. Sit on this, hon. Don’t move.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “Serious. Got it.” She saluted then dropped her fore head to her knees.

  He hustled toward the first hut, gun in one hand, satellite phone in the other. “Gordo.”

  “Miss me?”

  “Initiate and stand by.”

  “No small talk? That’s bad. A or B?”

  “B.”

  “I’ll get there as soon as I can. You know Bingly.

  Won’t fly in foul weather.”

  “He will if you pay him enough.”

  “Hate to ask, but… Everyone alive and accounted for?”

  “One missing. Cy. And River’s showing signs of progressive AMS.”

  “Shit. What about you?”

  Spenser glanced at the mountain before peering inside the first hut. He thought about the treasure, Andy. “Fighting demons.”

  “Get the hell out of there, Spense.”

  “Working on it.” He disconnected, slipped out of the first hut, turned for the second…and saw River running.

  “My stuff!”

  Near the third hut the fog had swirled upward, revealing a small, colorful pile of baggage. Belongings she’d had with her at the airport. Things stolen by the road thieves. Namely, her sling pack. “River, stop!”

  Spenser dashed across the field and lunged just as she disappeared into a fog bank…and screamed.

  He heard a hard thud and fell to his knees. Again the fog swirled. He saw it then. A hole, maybe six feet deep. River was lying at the bottom tangled in thin netting and covered with straw and grass. A camouflaged pit.

  Trap.

  He eyed the fog, eyed River. He listened.

  She moaned and moved.

  “River,” he said in a calm, low voice. “Give me your hand.” She tried to push herself up, yelped and faltered. “Think I sprained my wrist.”

  “Don’t panic.”

  “What’s that stink?”

  He smelled it too. B.O., whiskey and medicinal salve.

  “Bandit,” she said at the same time Spenser rolled and aimed at the foul smell.

  “Toss your weapon,” the man said, “or I’ll kill her.”

  Spenser saw his worn combat boots first, then the automatic rifle.

  Pointed at River.

  He tossed his handgun.

  “You have something I want,” the man said in a gruff, scratchy voice.

  “You have something I want,” River said. “My father’s journal.”

  “You’re not in a position to bargain,” he said.

  “You speak English well for someone who pretended to be Spanish,” River said. “I’m glad, because I have a question. Did you kill Professor Bovedine?” she asked in a fiery voice.

  “I’ve killed a lot of people. Uncooperative people top the list. So don’t test me, blondie.” The man’s upper half was still veiled by fog, but Spenser could tell he was tall and muscled. His brain scrambled for a plan of attack. “Where’s Cy?”

  “Your crazy-ass partner? The one you sent ahead? Alone?”

  Spenser’s conscience winced. Had he misjudged and reacted irresponsibly yet again?

  “He was almost as arrogant as Bovedine and twice as stubborn.” The man spit in the dirt. “Collateral damage.”

  River gasped. “No!”

  Stay down, angel. Stay still. Spenser eyed the fucker as the fog swirled higher, to his waist, his chest.

  “What do you want?”

  “Don’t play dumb, McGraw. Dumb’s kin to stubborn.”

  “Do we know each other?”

  “I’ve seen your show. Give me the map and maybe you’ll live to film another episode.” He turned the rifle on Spenser.

  “Don’t!” River screamed while pushing unsteadily to her feet. “I have it.”

  “I have it,” Spenser countered as calmly as possible. Damn River’s lion heart. “In my backpack.”

  “Nice try.” The bandit fired into the ground, inches from Spenser, then aimed at his head. “Give me the map, blondie. Now!” Cough. “Or loverboy dies.”

  Spenser sensed another presence a half second before something whistled through the air, out of the fog, and straight through the bandit’s chest. The man didn’t make a sound, just slumped into the pit along with River.

  She screamed and, in spite of her injured wrist, tried to scramble up the dirt wall. Spenser reached down and hauled her out just as two fierce-looking natives brandishing intricately painted faces emerged through thick, swirling fog. It was like a scene out of a movie.

  Or a dream.

  They wore sleeveless tunics with cloaks secured over their broad shoulders, the two corners knotted at their thick necks. Braided sandals, gold cuff bracelets, bows and arrows…

  Ancient warriors.

  “Rumiñahui and his men,” River whispered.

  More likely members of a lost tribe, the Sambellas maybe, although even that was far-fetched. Spenser couldn’t be sure. No one had ever seen them.

  Except maybe Professor Henry Kane.

  Too late, Spenser saw one of them raise a blowgun. Necktie Nate would love this. He shielded River even as the dart hit its mark and the world went black.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Cerro Hermoso Altitude 14,500 feet

  RIVER DREAMED ABOUT far-off places. She dreamed about places she’d been, places she’d read about and places that made no sense. All remote. All wild. But none so beautiful as this place, she thought hazily. She stared up at the towering trees, the tops hidden in a swirling mist. She saw ferns and moss and exotic orchids. She smelled cinnamon and raspberry and the smoke from a
campfire.

  She heard birds and monkeys—soothing—and human voices—troubling. She couldn’t make out what they were saying. It was as if cotton was in her ears, as if she were looking through a kaleidoscope—

  pretty, but abstract.

  Am I in Shangri-la?

  No. That couldn’t be right.

  Shangri-la was in the Himalayas. She was in…the Andes.

  River forced her heavy lids open. Heart pounding, she blinked slowly to dispel the dream, but she still saw the mystical forest, still smelled the sumptuous scents. She still heard the birds, the monkeys and the voices. Only, now those voices were angry.

  “I specifically wrote, tell no one but Bovedine.”

  Henry. They’d found him! She tried to sit up, but her muscles wouldn’t cooperate. Tried to speak, but no words came. Was she dreaming? Drugged? Dead?

  “I told you, Henry. Professor Bovedine was murdered.”

  Spenser. At least she wasn’t alone in this heavenly hell. He was somewhere to her left, beyond the heat of the campfire.

  “Unfortunate and troubling. He was a dear friend. I regret—”

  “Regret? That’s all?”

  “—that I perhaps contributed to his end. I hate that he died without knowing. I wanted him to know. I wanted River to know.”

  “Yet you expected them to keep news of this historical significance secret?”

  “Yes.”

  “Quite the burden,” Spenser said.

  “A gift,” Henry said.

  “Your friend’s dead. Your daughter’s injured and was almost killed by a thieving murderer. You call that a gift?”

  “I warned her. Beware of the hunters.”

  “People like me? And you?”

  “No! People like…that thieving murderer.”

  The bandit. A self-confessed killer. Even given his sins, River cringed at the memory of that spear sticking out of his chest. Of the blood.

  She closed her eyes, shuddered.

  “And she’d know this difference how?” Spenser asked, a hard edge to his voice. “Instead of educating her, you abandoned her.”

  “I saved her, you sanctimonious ass. She wasn’t cut out for this life.”

  “Wrong,” Spenser said. “You weren’t cut out to be a father.” River’s pulse raced as she waited for Henry’s reply. Defend yourself, the little girl in her cried. Refute him.

  “You’re right,” Henry said. “Nurturing a child, especially one as fragile as River, did not come easy.”

  “Did you even try?”

  “How do you protect a child who’s unable to function and thrive in primitive situations?” Henry asked.

  “By sheltering her. If I’d kept River with me…she would have fallen prey to some disaster. She would have died. Because of me…she’s cursed.”

  Tears welled behind River’s lids.

  Spenser swore. “You’re a man of science. Don’t tell me you actually believe some witch doctor—”

  “I know what I saw, what I heard and what transpired after,” Henry said in a gruff voice.

  “You could have amended your lifestyle,” Spenser plowed on. “Taken a path closer to Bovedine’s.

  Taught at a university—”

  “My wife wasn’t meant for that kind of life any more than I was,” Henry said. “We did the best we could. Did what we believed was best for River. Tell me, Spenser, would you be able to turn your back on your passion, on the work you were born to do? Could you stomach a lifetime of regret, of discontent? Don’t judge me, boy, until you’ve walked in my shoes.” Tears leaked from the corners of River’s closed lids, streamed down the sides of her face and tickled her ears. Instinctively she reached up to swipe them. She could move. And feel. “Ow!” Suddenly Spenser was at her side. “Easy, angel.” He helped her into a sitting position while shielding her right arm. “Pretty sure your wrist’s broken.”

  “Set it as best we could,” Henry said, hunkering down in front of her. “But you need X-rays, a cast.

  Hopefully, not surgery.”

  Instead of concerned, he sounded angry. For a moment she couldn’t speak. The relief of knowing her dad was alive and well warred with the hurt his words and expression inspired. She hadn’t seen Henry in years. His weathered face sported deeper wrinkles and some sort of tribal tattoo. His salt-and-pepper hair had turned full-blown silver. Aside from that, he looked much the same. Fit and healthy, dressed in baggy brown pants, a long-sleeved shirt and the vest with a gazillion pockets, and when he looked at her, she still saw disappointment in his intense hazel eyes.

  He blew out an exasperated breath. “Why in blazes are you here, River?” Her heart hammered as she glared at the man who’d doomed her with quirks and insecurities. The man who’d chosen career over family. The man who’d broken her heart again and again and, as of a few second ago, again.

  Could you stomach a lifetime of regret, of discontent?

  That’s how he would have felt if he’d curbed his wanderlust and obsessions to spend more time stateside with his own daughter? To keep his family intact? Even if only for a few stinking years? To hear his thoughts in blunt terms was almost too painful to bear. River tabled the gut-wrenching hurt and focused on his rude question.

  “I came here to personally inform you about the death of your closest, probably only friend,” River gritted out. “I came here because I was worried about you. I came here to apologize for the horrible things I said to you at Mom’s funeral.”

  Henry’s deeply creased brow furrowed. “Your first motivator was thoughtful but reckless. Your second—unnecessary. The third…also unnecessary. I’ve long forgotten words spoken in anger.” She blanched at his insensitivity. “Well, I haven’t.”

  Spenser squeezed her shoulder. “I’m going to make you hot tea—regular tea. Give you two some privacy.”

  “No,” she said. “Stay. Please.” Aside from feeling physically ill and sluggish, she very much needed Spenser’s emotional support. Yes, she could handle this confrontation without him, but she didn’t want to. She was sick of handling “the bad stuff” solo. Managing her fears and insecurities, internalizing, keeping friends at arm’s length, living in an emotional cocoon. She realized suddenly that even when she’d been with David, she’d been very much alone.

  Henry settled on a rotting log, jammed his hand through his thick, unkempt hair. “Let me rephrase.

  When you accused me of killing your mom…your spiteful words cut deep, River. Some of what you said was true. Bridget was in Africa because of me. She was driving the jeep because of me. I didn’t kill her literally, but…if I hadn’t asked her to join me for that expedition. If I’d been driving…your mother might’ve survived the wreck. Or maybe we wouldn’t have wrecked at all and she’d still be alive, we’d still be together. I chose to forget your hurtful accusation because it only intensified my guilt.” He looked away. “I miss your mom very much.”

  “So do I.” Tears stung her eyes. She missed Henry, too. Or at least the idea of two loving parents. She felt Spenser gently massaging her lower back. Subtle comfort. She gathered her scattered emotions and choked out what she’d traveled all this way to say. “I’m sorry for the awful things I said…at the funeral. Logically, I know Mom’s death wasn’t your fault.”

  “That makes one of us.” Henry rose to his feet.

  No “apology accepted.” No hug.

  No closure.

  River felt more ill by the second. She trembled with anger, shivered with cold. The temperature was dropping with the sun. She must have been unconscious for two or three hours.

  “We’ll camp here for the night,” Henry said, affirmation that evening approached. “You need food, drink and ample rest. Tomorrow you’ll be escorted to safer ground. The longer you’re here the greater the threat.”

  River glared. She hadn’t come all this way to be brushed off, to be insulted. Ignoring her queasy stomach, her throbbing wrist and head, she pushed unsteadily to her feet and faced her father’s coldheart
ed indifference head-on.

  “For your information,” she growled, “I made it all the way from Maple Grove, Indiana, to—” she looked around “—wherever we are…without serious illness or injury. Yes, I was challenged at times, but that doesn’t make me fragile, just human. According to Spenser, few have the fortitude to withstand a trek into the Llanganatis. Well, I beat the odds. I’m here. I’m alive. Maybe not thriving, but that’s because I was drugged.” That had to be why she was so sluggish, why her tongue felt thick and her brain hazy. She remembered tribesmen, blowguns. She remembered feeling a sharp sting in her shoulder. She glanced at Spenser. “Right?”