by J; P Voelkel
Ha-hah! Those guards patrolling the beachfront thought they were keeping a low profile, but their body heat made them stand out like luminous green ghosts!
Excited, Max turned his goggles onto the rainforest. Surely tonight he’d be able to spot signs of life in the normally inscrutable mass of foliage.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Wait.
He saw a movement.
He focused in on it.
Gotcha!
Something was coming out of the jungle and heading this way. As Max watched, the faint green glow formed itself into two distinct heat spots. He increased the magnification on the goggles until he could make out two monkeys, one a little bigger than the other.
With their long tails curved in the air behind them, the monkeys loped quickly toward the perimeter wall. For a few minutes they disappeared from view, but soon appeared again on the edge of the wall. Max smiled to himself. They must sneak in all the time to steal bananas.
The monkeys certainly seemed to know where they were going, but it was not toward the banana warehouse. They were headed straight toward the house. Max was tingling with excitement. Seeing animals in the wild felt very different from seeing them in the zoo. He kept absolutely still so as not to frighten them away.
What were they up to? They seemed to be interested in a particular stone pillar in the garden. Was there some sort of tasty vine growing on it? What was the special attraction? Max’s smile faded as he watched the monkeys remove a metal grate off the side of the pillar and climb inside. It must be a ventilation shaft for the underground rooms!
He kept his eyes fixed on the pillar, but the monkeys had vanished.
Just when he was wondering if he’d dreamed the whole thing (had he fallen asleep for a moment?), the monkeys reappeared.
But what was that? They were carrying something. Max’s jaw dropped when he recognized the metal case containing the Red Jaguar.
This was not remotely funny anymore. It was deadly serious and Max seemed to be the only one who was aware of it. Where were the guards? Where was Lucky Jim? Where was Uncle Ted?
If only someone would come before it was too late. …
The monkeys moved awkwardly across the lawn toward the perimeter wall. The case was heavy and they were having difficulty lifting it. But even so, they would soon be over the wall and into the jungle.
Max was in turmoil. Should he shout for the guards and try to convince them that two monkeys had staged a commando raid? Or should he go after the monkeys himself and break his promise to Uncle Ted about staying in his room?
Max made his decision.
A promise was a promise.
He basked in a glow of self-righteousness. For once, he would act in a mature and responsible manner. He would do as he was told—even if the monkeys got clean away.
He ran to the door to raise the alarm.
It was locked.
Uncle Ted had locked him in!
So much for mutual trust and respect!
As of now, all promises were null and void.
In a hotheaded rage, Max grabbed his backpack and reviewed the jumbled contents: flashlight, towel, mosquito net, shades, and—what was that, at the bottom?—ugh, granola bars. (He would never, never be that hungry.) What else? He threw in his Red Sox cap for good luck.
Ready to go.
He slung his backpack over his shoulder and climbed over the balcony railing. It was a little high to jump down, but with the aid of a climbing vine he made it to the ground.
Uncle Ted was going to be mad.
Very mad.
But there was no going back.
Besides, if Uncle Ted had trusted him and not locked him in his room, he wouldn’t have attempted this crazy escapade. Now he was master of his own destiny. And if he could just get those monkeys to drop the Jaguar Stone, Uncle Ted would have to kiss his feet and beg his forgiveness.
Through the night-vision goggles, Max spotted the monkeys disappearing over the perimeter wall. He raced across the garden toward them. Steps led up to a battlemented walkway that ran along the top of the wall. Max took the steps two at time and peered over. About forty more feet of lawn lay between the wall and the start of the jungle. He could see the monkeys slowly dragging the case toward the tree line. They seemed to be heading for a gap in the undergrowth, maybe some sort of trail.
Max swung over the wall and found footholds to climb down in the crumbling stone. Then he sprinted across the lawn and … after a moment’s hesitation … he plunged down the trail and into the forest. His pace slowed. It was like entering a tunnel. The noise was incredible. Whook-whook. Whook-whook. At first, he thought a chopper was circling above him, but then he realized that this deafening sound was coming from the tiny pop-eyed frogs that looked down at him from every tree.
Though no competition for the frogs in the decibel stakes, nocturnal birds were shrieking, insects were buzzing—and every so often something a whole lot bigger would let out a hungry growl that shook the air like a subway train passing through.
Max told himself that the creatures were more scared of him than he was of them, but he doubted it was true. He wanted to turn back. But which would he rather face—a wild beast or an angry Uncle Ted?
He decided to keep going.
With every step, the din of the jungle grew louder. The trees rustled and shook. Bats darted in front of his face. Lightning bugs and click beetles lit up his goggles with their fluorescent green trails. He seemed to be surrounded by creeping, crawling, jumping things.
Okay. Concentrate.
Max could clearly see the path and he picked his way carefully over the tangled mass of tree roots. His pace was slow and he was grateful the Red Jaguar was so heavy. If it had been lighter, the monkeys could have swung through the trees and he wouldn’t have had a chance of following.
As it was, they continued their slow, shuffling progress until they came to an open space under a tall stand of bamboo. Then they inspected the ground fastidiously before choosing a place to set down the suitcase, like two old ladies getting ready for a picnic.
Max hid behind a tree, hardly daring to breathe. Any minute now, he thought, I’ll run into the clearing, frighten them away, and grab the suitcase. But as he stood there, gathering his nerve, the bigger monkey opened its mouth and began to roar. Max couldn’t believe the sheer volume of it. It was like something out of Jurassic Park. If he hadn’t seen with his own eyes that it was coming from a monkey, he would have thought a T. rex was loose in the jungle. Make that a T. rex with a megaphone. But who or what was the monkey calling?
A human figure, dressed all in black, emerged from the forest. The monkeys jumped up and down excitedly. The figure patted them and gave them something to eat. The monkeys grabbed at the food and leapt into the trees, whooping and screeching at each other.
Then the figure opened the case and took out the Red Jaguar.
Its glow illuminated the whole clearing.
Suddenly, the air was silent. The insects, the birds, even the tree frogs ceased their calling. The whole jungle seemed to be waiting and watching.
Quickly, the figure wrapped the stone in a cloth and put it into a small backpack. Then he started digging in the ground, scooping out the dirt with both hands until he’d made a hole big enough to bury the metal case. Only when both stone and case were hidden from view did the jungle cacophony resume.
Who was this mysterious thief who trained monkeys to do his dirty work? Was it one of Landa’s henchmen? Or a business rival of Uncle Ted’s?
An unearthly noise made Max jump out of his skin.
It sounded close.
He peeped out from behind the tree.
The noise was coming from the thief! With his hands cupped around his mouth, he was making a series of throaty, inhuman growls. Loud monkey grunts rained down from the trees in reply. At one point Max’s legs turned to jelly when it seemed the thief was looking directly at him, but it was a
false alarm and the thief resumed his “conversation” before taking off again into the jungle.
Max followed, trying to be as quiet and light-footed as he could.
It was harder than before, because the pace was faster and the trail was much less distinct. Even with the night-vision goggles, he had to use all his wits and concentration to keep the figure in view. Roots tripped him, vines clung to him, branches pulled at him. But none of these obstacles seemed to bother his quarry, who made the trek look as effortless as a stroll in the park.
They came to a stagnant river with a layer of green scum floating on top. A large tree had fallen across it, creating a natural bridge. The thief ran nimbly over the tree trunk and continued up the path.
Max paused before crossing. A division of army ants was marching toward him across the tree trunk. Their column was as wide as the log, and there was no end in sight to their ranks.
They’re only ants, he told himself, and stepped gingerly onto the log.
It was perilously slippery.
Max concentrated every fiber of his being on keeping his balance. Now he could see that many of the ants were dragging prey—dead beetles, wasps, and crickets—underneath their bodies. He stomped on them with his thick-soled sneakers as he inched his way across. He’d made it about halfway when he felt a searing pain in his legs. He looked down to see ants on his sneakers, crawling up inside his jeans. Instinctively, he leaned over to swat at them and fell headfirst into the murky river.
It tasted disgusting. Max spluttered to the surface and stood up on the oozy bottom. The water came up to his knees. He couldn’t see much because his goggles were smeared with mud, but the pain in his legs seemed to be subsiding so he guessed the ants had been washed off. Now he just had to get to the bank without being attacked by bloodsucking leeches or razor-toothed piranhas. …
The glutinous mud of the riverbed made every step a struggle. At one point the suction pulled off a sneaker, and he had to stick a hand in and feel around for it. The thick, green water stank like rotten eggs, and his whole body shook with revulsion.
Something slimy touched his face.
A piece of weed? A water snake?
Splashing hysterically, he made it to the bank. He sat down on a rock. His heart was pounding. Where was he? What had he done? Dripping wet and trembling with fear, he rammed his sneaker back on. Then he ran his hands all over his body to wipe down every inch of himself. He didn’t want any creepy jungle thing to touch any bit of him.
This was it, the end of the line.
He would sit here until he was found.
Or until he starved to death.
Or until something ate him.
It was at this low point that Max realized what an idiot he’d been. He was lost in the treacherous forest, alone, wet, bitten, scared, and hungry. Now the police would have to break off their search for his parents to look for him instead (if Uncle Ted even bothered to report him missing).
He drew his feet up, put his head on his knees, and hugged himself. His clothes smelled sulfurous and moldy. Overwhelmed by self-pity, he unzipped his wet backpack and looked inside. It seemed to be pretty dry. He pulled out a towel and dried himself off as much as he could. Then he stuck his hand in again and groped around. Among the tangle of mosquito netting and odd socks, his fingers closed on something unnaturally hard and dense.
The granola bars.
It had come to this.
Miserably, he unwrapped a bar. He brought the compacted brown mass to his lips. With a heavy heart, he opened his mouth and prepared his tongue to receive the foul-tasting grunge.
Then, in the nick of time, he recovered his fighting spirit.
Things were bad, but not that bad.
He still wasn’t desperate enough to eat a granola bar.
So he sat on the rock and pulled himself together and thought about what he should do. The most sensible thing would be to retrace his steps. But going back over that ant-covered log was not an option. Nor was wading across that slimy river. And they both paled in comparison with the terror he felt about facing Uncle Ted without bringing back the Jaguar Stone.
He wiped the last of the mud off his goggles and looked around.
Trees, trees, nothing but trees.
Big, thick trees with buttress roots taller than he was.
Tall, thin trees with sinister, twisted trunks and long, sinewy roots, gnarled and warty like a witch’s fingers.
He looked harder. Now he was seeing things.
In the unreal green light of the goggles, he could see a mark hacked into one of the tree trunks.
It looked like an arrow. And it was freshly carved.
He thought again about that late-night zombie movie. We’ve been expecting you, Max Murphy, cackled the zombies in his head.
Stop it.
He told himself there was a natural explanation for the mark, that it was made by the beak of a giant woodpecker or the teeth of some demented rodent. Possibly something that was watching him right now.
Was something watching him?
He couldn’t see any eyes in the darkness, but he had the same sensation that he’d had on the beach.
Something was watching him for sure.
How tasty he must look, sitting on this rock in the moonlight like the last jelly doughnut in the school cafeteria.
Any moment now, something big would come along and eat him.
Or maybe it wouldn’t, and he’d be forced to eat the granola bars.
Either way, the future was looking grim.
Something fell out of the arrow-scarred tree with a thump.
With his heart in his mouth, Max turned to look. A ripe mango lay squashed on the ground. Squashed and rotten like his hopes for survival.
He put his head in his hands.
He was lost in the middle of a jungle. If only he’d marked the way he’d come so he could find his way back. This was Boy Scout 101, and he’d flunked it.
There was a rustling in the leaves. Two more mangoes fell to the ground and landed by the first one. As Max regarded them miserably, he noticed a faint trail at the base of the tree, eerily illuminated like a ghostly runway by phosphorescent mushrooms on either side.
A trail. Any trail was better than nothing.
He got to his feet and headed for the mushrooms.
His feet squelched in the mud as he tramped along, but he no longer cared if he made any noise. He was miserable and tired, and his quarry was long gone. The important thing now was to keep to the trail, watch out for snakes in the leaf litter, and try to find somewhere safe to wait for daybreak.
After an hour or so, he came to a part of the forest that was quieter and airier. By now, he was bone tired. His legs ached, his feet ached, his arms ached, his head ached.
He looked around and saw a massive tree trunk, easily twenty feet in diameter. The bottom of the trunk was bare, but its higher reaches had some kind of vine growing down them. The vine had big leathery leaves and exposed roots that dangled from the tree like bits of frayed rope. Where the trunk split into two, about ten feet off the ground, the crook was cushioned by a thick green mattress of leaves that seemed to have been flattened down, just for him. In Max’s exhausted state, it looked as cozy and inviting as a featherbed.
Using a neighboring tree stump as a step and pulling on the dangling roots to haul himself the rest of the way up, Max reached the crook of the tree quite easily. Then he wedged himself between the branches, hung up his mosquito net as best he could, and lay back, using his backpack as a pillow.
Now all he had to do was watch out for predators and wait for the dawn. As long as he didn’t fall asleep, he should be safe here. He scratched the insect bites on his arms and face, and allowed himself to relax a little. He’d been awake for two days and it felt good to finally rest. Stars twinkled in the little patch of sky that was visible through the leaves above his head. Stars meant a clear sky and no rain clouds. His clothes still stank from the river, but at least they were beginn
ing to dry out. He’d survived this far and, with a whole day ahead of him, he was sure he could find his way back to the Villa Isabella. He remembered a time in the distant past when he’d walked through a rainforest like this one. Or was it a video game? Past and present, waking and sleeping, games and reality … it was all merging into one.
It was surprisingly comfortable in this tree.
As Max’s thoughts settled like roosting doves, the hum of the jungle arranged itself into a soothing lullaby.
His eyelids felt heavy. He’d close them just for a moment.
Soon he curled up like a baby bird in its cozy nest and nodded off to sleep.
“Ow! Ow! Ow!”
The next thing he knew, he was screaming in pain and terror.
He’d been attacked as he slept.
He woke up to find great black hairy hands all over him, pinching him, squeezing him, pulling out his hair by the roots.
Chapter Eight
THE MONKEY GIRL
They weren’t hands, they were paws. Great hairy paws with long fingers.
Max tried to bat them away, but he was tangled up in his mosquito net and he fell out of the tree. He landed in a heap on his backpack.
Seconds later, the night-vision goggles landed next to him with a dull crunch.
He peered up to see what had attacked him.
Two monkeys were sitting high in the branches. One was big and black. The other was smaller and reddish in color. The bigger one was wearing Max’s baseball cap. They both had thick hair and wispy beards that would have made them look quite intellectual had they not been baring their teeth and screeching with monkey laughter.
They looked suspiciously like the monkeys who’d stolen the Red Jaguar. But before Max could study them in any detail, they were off, leaping from branch to branch, still screeching raucously.
Max looked around. The leaf canopy above him blocked out most of the sun, but he could have guessed it was morning just from the energy in the air. Thousands of busy little life-forms scuttled around, intent on getting breakfast before it got too hot to move. Bugs buzzed and whirred and clicked. Birds shrieked and squawked and whooped. Flowers pumped out their heady scents, competing with each other to lure the passing insects like those salespeople who lurked in Macy’s doorway with sprays of perfume.
