by John Bolin
“Bogart! Gator!” he cried. But his radio only returned static.
The roar was upon him. Loud and wicked, full of fury. For a moment, he was a child again and no one could get there in time. He felt it brush by his leg. Heard its accursed footfall on the ground. The lightning flashed, and Peter was doomed.
“No!”
Except in the lightning, he’d seen it for what it was. His mind broke through his panic and told him what he was facing. Not a ghost or a demon.
But a giant black cat.
Lightning flashed again, and he saw it. A jaguar, eyes glowing, teeth bared, stood five feet in front of him. He fumbled for his flashlight. Flicked it on. The beast hadn’t moved, as if it knew it was in control.
The jaguar was massive. At least five feet tall, with massive paws. Its maw was open, revealing white teeth colored red with fresh blood, jaws that could crush his skull in an instant. Peter could feel the cat’s breath, hot and wet. The smell of rancid flesh followed. Its eyes were narrow and focused. Muscles bulged everywhere, ready to explode.
Peter’s rational mind came back online. He was still in serious danger, but this was a more terrestrial kind. This he could handle. So much for the devil. Where was Linc with that camera?
The rifle had landed on the other side of the giant cat, totally out of reach. Peter raced through his options. Running was out of the question. Trees would do no good against a cat. The thing already knew he was alive, so playing dead didn’t make any sense at all. He would have to face it.
Before he could think any further, the cat lunged at Peter.
Peter fell backward and brought his boot full force against the jaguar’s face. The blow landed solidly—it felt like he’d kicked a truck.
The jaguar arched away from Peter. It landed, spun around with feline grace, and circled back to the rifle.
It was as if it was guarding the weapon, taunting him, keeping it from him.
The jaguar paced in front of the gun. It lowered its head and looked hungrily at Peter. It bared its razor-sharp teeth. This was not a good sign.
Peter reached down and pulled his SOG knife from his boot. He knew it would be useless, but he wasn’t about to go down without a fight. The cat had to be close to four hundred pounds, and its reach was twice that of Peter’s. With a shout, Peter lunged back at the animal, knife bared.
The jaguar leapt at him.
Peter was ready.
The two met in midair. Peter thrust his knife as hard and as far as he could, but only managed to skim the jaguar’s throat.
The jaguar tossed him to the side, its claws ripping into his leg and shredding his pants. The jaguar fell onto him in a tumble of fur and sweat and blood. The massive body engulfed him, ripping at his loose clothes. Peter stabbed the creature’s side again and again, but knew he was—
A deafening shot. A spasm in the body of his attacker. And suddenly the massive cat went limp and fell on top of him.
Peter could feel the life leave the creature’s body. He shifted it off him and rolled out from under it. As he came to his knees, his hands met a pair of boots. He looked up.
It was Bogart, gun in hand, smoke curling from the end of the barrel, and a smirk on his face.
* * *
“I’m fine.”
“If you ask me, it’s a miracle either of you lived,” Gator said.
Gator stood by as Bogart checked Peter’s wounds. Afanzo sat against a crate, bandages on his chest and neck.
The jungle was turning from black to gray as the sun began its slow climb into the Amazon sky. It had rained off and on all night, and everyone was soaked through.
“See,” Gator said to Peter, “I told you God liked you.”
Peter sat next to Afanzo as Bogart worked. He pointed to his own bandages. “Well, he’s got some way of showing it.”
Bogart finished and stood up. “Yeah, well, we all thought you were both goners. And yet here you both are, alive and kickin’. Some would call that a miracle.”
Linc walked up behind Bogart, camera in hand.
“Whatever,” Peter said. He reached out to Bogart, who pulled him to his feet. “You saved my life. Thanks, buddy.”
“It was nothing.” Bogart cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah, anyway, I think the kid’s going to be okay,” he said, looking at Afanzo. “He’s shaken up, for sure, but as long as it doesn’t get infected, I think he’ll be all right.”
“Still,” Peter said, “we need to get him medical attention. And there’s nothing left for us to do here anyway. We got what we came for. Legends has its first episode canned.”
“Um,” Linc said, lowering the camera, “the phrase is ‘in the can.’ We’ve got our first episode in the can.”
“Whatever. I’d call this myth busted. So let’s pack up and get going. Skins says we should be able to make it to a floating clinic he knows of by nightfall.”
“I agree,” Bogart said. “A cat’s mouth is filled with pathogens. The sooner we can get him to a doctor and a clean facility, the better.”
Peter rested his hand on Afanzo’s shoulder. “Can you travel?”
“Yes,” the boy said feebly. “Thank you.”
“Glad you’re okay, buddy.”
Afanzo smiled.
Peter walked back to the fire where the rest of the group stood. “Load ’em up. And tighten everything down. It may be a wild ride.”
Chapter 4
Peter shook his head as the two men in the other boat went after each other.
“What do you mean you’re a better driver?” Linc said.
“Look,” Gator said, “while you were going to your fancy art school, I was in Iraq earning the right to complain that I was over there in the first place. And while I was there, I drove just about every kind of vehicle you can imagine. If it has a motor, I’ve been in it. About the only thing I couldn’t pilot is a helicopter.”
“Funny thing,” Linc said. “I got my pilot’s license when I was seventeen. Spent two summers shuttling people back and forth between Seattle and the San Juan Islands. And I did that without ever leaving the country.”
Gator glared at Linc and pulled his paddle out of the water.
“Ladies, please!” Peter said. “We’ll be home in another week, and you never have to see each other again if you don’t want to. But could you please just clamp it for a minute?”
“Yeah, sure,” Linc said.
Gator grunted.
The jungle moved slowly past. Peter and his team, along with everyone’s gear, drifted down the river in three canoes. They’d left the Indians to go back to their villages. Now it was mid-morning and the mosquitoes were out in force.
Peter reclined in the bow of the small boat with his pack under his knees. Bogart sat in the rear of the canoe, using a paddle to keep them oriented in the current. Though they had to travel as lightly as possible, Peter had allowed each member of his team to bring along one “luxury” item, so long as it was small. Linc had insisted on his harmonica. Bogart and Gator had brought iPods, which figured. And now Peter was enjoying his: a worn-out paperback copy of Jack London’s The Call of the Wild.
He drew from his pack a plastic bag of cigarettes he’d bartered from the Indians. He lit one up and leaned back in the canoe. His gun pressed into his back, so he reached behind him and adjusted it. Took a puff and eased back again. Jack London’s words echoed in his mind as he read: Each day mankind and the claims of mankind slipped farther from him.
“You know those thing are going to kill you before you’re sixty,” Linc said. He was paddling the canoe with their video gear. Gator and the Peruvian brothers were in the third canoe, which trailed behind a bit.
Peter smiled but didn’t look up from his book. “Good, because I’m not planning on living that long.”
“You’re as crazy as you ever were, Pete.”
Peter shook his head, lost in the words on the page.
Deep in the forest a call was sounding, and as often as he heard this call, myst
eriously thrilling and luring, he felt compelled to turn his back upon the fire and the beaten earth around it, and to plunge into the forest, and on and on, he knew not where or why; nor did he wonder where or why, the call sounding imperiously, deep in the forest.
Peter’s mind flashed back to the jaguar. Or, rather, to the way he’d felt when he realized it was a jaguar. Was it . . . disappointment? That’s what it had felt like. Relief, but a sad relief. Like maybe he’d hoped it would be more.
He shook his head and kept reading.
* * *
Three hours later Peter looked up from his book. The scenery hadn’t changed much. He set his book down and glanced at the other boats.
Gator’s canoe was ahead of them now. Skins was asleep, but Afanzo was hunched over and moaning softly. Not good. Bogart had the paddle resting on his knees. He appeared lost in thought. Linc’s canoe was behind Peter’s. Just the red bandana atop Linc’s head showed above the crates in the canoe. They moved silently through the water. No one had spoken in several hours. Peter figured everyone had needed to unwind after the action the night before.
He heard an odd sound, like an exotic birdcall. Then a few notes from “Mr. Tambourine Man” sailed across the river. Peter sat up high enough to see over the crates in the canoe behind them. There was Linc with his harmonica at his lips.
“Are you kidding me?” Gator moaned. “Not again.”
Linc stopped. “Hey, you’re a whiz kid; you oughta appreciate this thing.”
“I played football at LSU, not the violin at Julliard,” Gator said.
Linc looked over at Peter. “You’re the scientist. Music and math are connected, right?”
Peter nodded and marked his page with his thumb. “Music is essentially auditory math. Both systems use a sequence of units, patterns that are predictable. Like math, we know when it doesn’t add up. That’s why dissonant music is so grating.”
“At least that explains his playing,” Gator said, looking at Linc.
Peter smiled and sat up in the boat to look downriver. Skins had said the river took a few twists and turns but ultimately ended up in a town called Iquitos, where there was a clinic. From there, Skins thought they could get a plane to Cusco. Peter was hoping to be back in the States within twenty-four hours.
Gator and Linc called a truce, and Linc picked up his song where he’d left off. Gator paddled his canoe closer to Peter’s. Afanzo’s moaning had subsided for the moment.
“The kid’s not looking too good,” Gator said. “Hope this river’s got a turbo, you know?”
Peter nodded. “Not much we can do for him even if we stopped.”
“You ready to go home, Boss?” Gator said.
Peter set down his book. “Are you kidding? And leave this place?”
“Yeah, right,” Gator said. “I’ll bet ole Truman is goin’ nuts with you away.”
Peter grinned. “Nah, he’s having the time of his life. Mom spoils that dog rotten when I’m gone. He’ll be fat and happy, that’s for darn sure.”
Linc started to play U2’s “Where the Streets Have No Name.” It actually sounded pretty good.
Gator dipped his paddle in the water and edged his boat closer to Peter’s. “You know your mom’s going to kill you when she finds out you were almost eaten by an overgrown alley cat.”
“Yeah, well, she’s not going to find out,” Peter said. “And you’re not going to tell her.”
“It’ll cost you,” Gator said, smoothing his bald head. “I couldn’t believe you did that. You’re nuts, you know that? I’m glad Bogart had your back. Even if you did cry like a little girl.”
“Yeah, right.”
His team laughed. In Gator’s canoe, Skins awakened but simply turned his head and went back to sleep. Linc launched into a new song, and the jungle continued to slide by.
Ten minutes later the harmonica music stopped.
“Hey,” Peter said, “what happened to the serenade?”
“Someone’s got to get some work done around here,” Linc said, digging into his backpack.
Peter couldn’t help but smile as he looked at Linc. The harmonica hung by a cord around his neck. He wore a tight gray concert T-shirt from some obscure band. His unkempt hair was secured under the red bandana as usual, and he wore a pair of big aviator sunglasses. Peter shook his head. The guy hadn’t changed at all since high school.
A moment later, Linc was perched in the boat with his eyes glued to the team’s only connection with the outside world, a Thuraya satellite phone. The best that money could buy, according to Linc. Peter saw a familiar gleam in Linc’s eyes. The man loved his toys.
“Did you ever get that thing to work?” Peter asked him. “I sure couldn’t.”
“Of course I did,” Linc said. “I just ordered a pizza to be delivered to our hotel tonight. Then I checked my e-mail and found out that the Rockies are in the World Series again.”
“You had me ’til the Rockies,” Peter said. “Anyway, it was dead as a doornail yesterday.”
“Well, it’s working now.”
Peter smiled. “How’d you do it?”
Linc had an obnoxious grin on is face. “I’m just that good, Pete. It’s magic.”
“What about it, Bogart?” Peter said, ignoring Linc. “How about I pilot this thing awhile?”
Bogart immediately dug the paddle into the water, sending the canoe into a tight turn. “Thought you’d never ask.”
Peter gripped the side of the boat. “Whoa. Careful there, Pocahontas.” He lifted his voice. “Hold up, guys: we’re going to spin this thing around, so I’m driving.”
Bogart paddled fiercely for ten seconds and got the canoe turned around. Then he handed the dripping paddle across to Peter, who fine-tuned their position in the current. Bogart had his earbuds in and his iPod on and was settled back against his pack and almost instantly asleep. Peter shook his head and smiled.
He maneuvered the canoe through the winding river. He and the others were able to keep the boats moving, even in still water and through tangled, submerged trees. The jungle embraced the boats on either side as they moved. Green ferns and low-lying plants pushed out from the trees and over the water. Hundreds of varieties of trees shot up on both sides. All around, the jungle hissed, croaked, moaned, and chirped.
Above them, howler monkeys jumped from tree to tree. Birds took flight back and forth across the river. Peter noticed a few black caimans in the shallows trying to catch the sun’s rays. A giant sloth hung from a branch like a still-frame image. They traveled like this, talking and resting, as the river churned quietly benieth them.
What was that? Something in the trees caught Peter’s eyes, just out of sight. He turned and scanned the woods. His hand moved instinctively to the pistol at his side. He tensed. Maybe an animal, maybe a shadow. Maybe one of those caimans—jungle crocs that could tear a man in half. Or maybe it was nothing.
The jungle in front of him was dark and haunting. Farther in, beyond the river and trees, lay a vast, untamed wilderness. But as the waning sun shrouded its leaves and stalks, the jungle was becoming a blur of gray and green.
Peter wasn’t going to repeat last night’s episode. He was smarter than that. But still.
He kept his eye on the trees. Something was there. He was sure of it.
* * *
Raul moved along the river’s edge with easy strides, each step quiet and determined. To either side rose giant jupati trees, carpeted in moss. Snarling liana vines crisscrossed between the trees.
He stopped briefly to scan the boats passing down the darkening Amazon: three canoes, six men, at least two gringos, lots of luggage. He sniffed. Tourists. He turned away and resumed his hunt.
Raul wore a specially designed one-piece suit that blended perfectly with the trees and earth around him. His head was covered in the same fabric, his face hidden behind camouflaged goggles. The jungle temperature was pushing ninety-eight degrees and the humidity was almost 100 percent, but he was perfectly comfortabl
e inside the high-tech suit. His backpack, including a laptop computer and an assortment ,of armory weighed less than ten pounds. His assault rifle had been specially modified and equipped for this mission.
Four others moved quietly in his shadow. They ran without stopping for three hours, at one point going overland to join another branch of the Amazon.
The radio clicked in his ear. “Have you reached her yet?”
