As he stood there, he heard a slight rustle coming from the next room, the master bedroom. He let the paper slip from his fingers back to the pile. He would have time later to review the details and formulate a plan. Right now, he simply wanted to enjoy the serendipity of the moment.
“Tshui!” he called again and crossed to the bedroom door.
He slipped the door open and found the room beyond lit with candles and a single incense burner. His mistress lay naked on the canopy bed. The queen-sized bed was draped in white silk with its mosquito net folded back. The Shuar woman reclined upon pillows atop the ivory sheets. Her deep-bronze skin glowed in the candlelight. Her long black hair was a fan around her, while her eyes were heavy-lidded from both passion and natem tea. Two cups lay on the small nightstand, one empty, the other full.
As usual, Louis found his breath simply stolen from him at the sight of his love. He had first met the beauty three years ago in Equador. She had been the wife of a Shuar chieftain, until the fool’s infidelity had enraged her. She slew him with his own machete. Though such acts—both the infidelity and the murder—were common among the brutal Shuar, Tshui was banished from the tribe, sent naked into the jungle. None, not even the chieftain’s kinsmen, would dare touch her. She was well known throughout the region as one of the rare female shamans, a practitioner of wawek, malevolent sorcery. Her skill at poisons, tortures, and the lost art of tsantza, head-shrinking, was both respected and feared. In fact, the only article of adornment she had worn as she left the village was the shrunken head of her husband, hung on a twined cord and resting between her breasts.
This was how Louis found the woman, a wild, beautiful creature of the jungle. Though he had an estranged wife back in France, Louis had taken the woman as his own. She had not refused, especially when he and his mercenaries slew every man, woman, and child in her village, marking her revenge.
Since that day, the two had been inseparable. Tshui, an accomplished interrogator and wise in the ways of the jungle, accompanied him on all his missions. She continued to collect trophies from each venture.
Around the room, aligned on shelves on all four walls, were forty-three tsantza, each head no more than a wizened apple—the eyes and lips sewn closed, the hair trailing over the shelf edges like Spanish moss on trees. Her skill at shrinking heads was amazing. He had watched the entire process once.
Once was enough.
With the skill of a surgeon, she would flay the skin in one piece from the skull of her victim, sometimes while he or she was still alive and screaming. She truly was an artist. After boiling the skin, hair and all, and drying it over hot ashes, she used a bone needle and thread to close the mouth and eyes, then filled the inside with hot pebbles and sand. As the leathery skin shrank, she would mold its shape with her fingers. Tshui had an uncanny ability to sculpt the head into an amazing approximation of the victim’s original face.
Louis glanced to her latest work of art. It rested on the far bedside table. It was a Bolivian army officer who had been blackmailing a cocaine shipper. From his trimmed mustache to the straight bangs hanging over his forehead, the detail of her work was amazing. The collection was worthy of the finest museum. In fact, the staff of the Hotel Seine thought Louis was a university anthropologist, collecting these specimens for just such a museum. If any thought otherwise, they knew to keep silent.
“Ma chérie,” he said, finding his breath again. “I have wonderful news.”
She rolled toward him, reaching in his direction. She made a small sound, encouraging him to join her. Tshui seldom spoke. A word here or there. Otherwise, like some jungle cat, she was all eyes, motions, and soft purrs.
Louis could not resist. He knocked off his hat and slipped from his jacket. In moments, he was as naked as she. His own body was lean, muscled, and crisscrossed with scars. He swallowed the draught of natem laid out for him while Tshui lazily traced one of his scars down his belly to his inner thigh. A shiver trembled up his back.
As the drug swept through him, heightening his senses, he fell upon his woman. She opened to him, and he sank gratefully into her warmth. He kissed her deeply, while she raked his back with sharpened nails.
Soon, colors and lights played across his vision. The room spun slightly from the alkaloids in the tea. For a moment, it seemed the scores of shrunken heads were watching their play, the eyes of the dead upon him as he thrust into the woman. The audience aroused him further. He pinned Tshui under him, his back arching as he drove into her again and again, a scream clenched in his chest.
All around him were faces staring down, watching with blind eyes.
Louis had one final thought before being consumed fully by his passion and the exquisite pain. A final trophy to add to these shelves, a memento from the son of the man who had ruined him: the head of Nathan Rand.
Act Two
Under the Canopy
PERIWINKLE
family: Apocynaceae
genus: Vinca
species: Minor, Major
common names: Periwinkle, Cezayirmeneksesi, Common Periwinkle, Vincapervinc
parts used: Whole Plant
properties/actions: Analgesic, Antibacterial, Antimicrobial, Antiinflammatory, Astringent, Cardiotonic, Carminative, Depurative, Diuretic, Emmenagogue, Febrifuge, Hemostat, Hypotensive, Lactogogue, Hepatoprotective, Sedative, Sialogogue, Spasmolytic, Stomachic, Tonic, Vulnerary
Wauwai
AUGUST 7, 8:12 A.M.
EN ROUTE OVER THE AMAZON JUNGLE
Nathan stared out the helicopter’s windows. Even through the sound-dampening earphones, the roar of the blades was deafening, isolating each passenger in his own cocoon of noise.
Below, a vast sea of green spread to the horizon in all directions. From this vantage, it was as if the entire world were just forest. The only breaks in the featureless expanse of the continuous canopy were the occasional giant trees, the emergents, that poked their leafy crowns above their brethren, great monsters of the forest that served as nesting sites for harpy eagles and toucans. The only other breaks were the half-hidden dark rivers, snaking lazily through the forest.
Otherwise, the jungle remained supreme, impenetrable, endless.
Nathan leaned his forehead against the glass. Was his father down there somewhere? And if not, were there at least answers?
Deep inside, Nathan felt a seed of anxiety, bitter and sour. Could he handle what he discovered? After four years of not knowing, Nate had learned one thing. Time did indeed heal all wounds, but it left a nasty, unforgiving scar.
After his father’s disappearance, Nate had isolated himself from the world, first in the bottom of a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, then in the embrace of stronger drugs. Back in the States, his therapists had used phrases such as abandonment issues, trust conflicts, and clinical depression. But Nate experienced it as a faithlessness in life. With the exception of Manny and Kouwe, he had formed no deep friendships. He had become too hard, too numb, too scarred.
Only after returning to the jungle had Nate found some semblance of peace. But now this…
Was he ready to reopen those old wounds? To face that pain?
The earphone radio clicked on with a rasp of static, and the pilot’s voice cut momentarily through the rotor’s roar. “We’re twenty klicks from Wauwai. But there’s smoke on the horizon.”
Nathan peered ahead, yet all he could see was the terrain below and to the side. Wauwai would serve as a secondary field base for the search team, a launching-off point from which to supply and monitor those trekking through the forest. Two hours ago, the three Hueys, along with the sleek black Comanche, had set off from São Gabriel, carrying the initial supplies, gear, armament, and personnel. After the expedition proceeded into the jungle later today, the Hueys would serve as a flying supply chain between Wauwai and São Gabriel, ferrying additional supplies, men, and fuel. Meanwhile, the Comanche would remain at Wauwai, a black bird reserved in case of an emergency. Its armament and long-range capabilities would help
protect the team from the air if necessary.
That had been the plan.
“The smoke appears to be coming from our destination,” the pilot continued. “The village is burning.”
Nathan pulled away from the window. Burning? He glanced around the cabin. In addition to the two O’Briens, he shared the space with Professor Kouwe, Richard Zane, and Anna Fong. The seventh and final passenger was the hard-faced man who had sat across the conference table from Nathan during the debriefing, the one with the ugly scar across his neck. He had been introduced this morning as Olin Pasternak, another CIA agent, one associated with the administration’s Science and Technology division. He found the man’s ice-blue eyes staring right back at him, his face an unreadable stoic mask.
To his side, he watched Frank pull a microphone up to his lips. “Can we still land?”
“I can’t be sure from this distance, sir,” the pilot answered. “Captain Waxman is proceeding ahead to survey the situation.”
Nathan watched one of the helicopters break formation and speed forward as their own craft slowed. As they waited, the Huey banked around, and Nathan spotted a column of smoke rising from the blanket of greenery near the horizon. It climbed high into the blue skies. The other passengers shifted closer to peer out the port-side windows.
Kelly O’Brien leaned near his shoulder, eyes on the smoke. He watched her lips move, but the noise and the earphones blocked her words. She pulled back and caught him staring at her.
Her eyes flicked away, and a slight blush reddened her cheeks.
The pilot came on over the radio. “Folks, it looks like we have an okay to proceed from the captain. The landing field is upwind of the fires. Please ready yourselves for landing.”
Everyone settled back into their seats and snapped their buckles into place. In short order, the bevy of helicopters was circling the village. Each pilot was careful to keep the wash from his rotor from blowing the smoke toward the landing field. Though still unable to see the source of the flames, Nathan watched a chain of people passing buckets from the river as the helicopter aligned for landing.
As they descended, a clapboard church with a whitewashed steeple came into view. The source of the fire was on its far side, and someone stood on the church’s roof, soaking down its shingles.
Then the skids of the helicopter settled to the ground with a slight bump, and Frank signaled for everyone to disembark.
Nathan tugged off his earphones and was assaulted by the growl of the rotors. He unbuckled his shoulder harness and climbed from the helicopter. Once clear of the rotors, he stretched and surveyed the area. The last of the Hueys settled to earth on the far side of the field. The tilled soil and barren rows were telltale signs that the landing field must once have been the village’s garden.
Across the yard, the Rangers were already busy. A handful were off loading gear and supplies, while most of the others trotted toward the front of the church to help with the fires.
Slowly, the noise of the helicopters dissipated, and voices could be heard again: shouted orders, yells from beyond the church, the chatter of soldiers hauling equipment.
Kelly stepped to Nathan’s side with Frank in tow. “We should see if we can find the padre who found Agent Clark. Interview him, so we can be on our way.”
Frank nodded, and the two headed for the rear door of the church. Someone clapped Nate on the shoulder. It was Professor Kouwe. “Let’s go help,” the older man said, pointing toward the smoke.
Nathan followed the professor through the fields and around the side of the church. What he found on the far side was chaos: people running with buckets and shovels, smoke billowing in every direction, flames rampant.
“My God,” Nate said.
A village of a hundred or so small homes lay between the church and the river. Three-quarters of them were burning.
He and the professor hurried forward, adding the strength of their backs to the water brigade. Working around them were a mix of brown-skinned Indians, white missionaries, and uniformed Rangers. After about an hour of laboring, they all looked the same, just soot-covered rescuers choking and coughing on the smoke.
Nathan ran with buckets, dousing flames, concentrating on maintaining a fire break around the burning section of the village. It was up to them to hold the flames at bay. Inside the fire zone, the blaze consumed all the palm-thatched structures, turning homes into torches in mere seconds. But with the additional men, the fire was contained at last. The conflagration quickly died down as all the homes were consumed within the fire zone. Only a few glowing embers dotted the smoky ruined landscape.
During the crisis, Nate had lost track of the professor and now found himself resting beside a tall, broad-shouldered Brazilian. The man looked close to tears. He mumbled something in Portuguese that sounded like a prayer. Nate guessed he was one of the missionaries.
“I’m sorry,” Nate said in Portuguese, tugging away the scrap of cloth that had been shielding his nose and mouth. “Was anyone killed?”
“Five. All children.” The man’s voice cracked. “But many others were sickened by the smoke.”
“What happened here?”
The missionary wiped the soot from his face with a handkerchief. “It was m…my fault. I should’ve known better.” He glanced over his shoulder to the steepled church. Aside from being stained with ash and smoke, it stood unharmed. He covered his eyes, and his shoulders shook. It took him another moment to speak. “It was my decision to send the man’s body to Manaus.”
Nathan suddenly realized to whom he was speaking. “Padre Batista?” It was the mission’s leader, the one who had found Gerald Clark.
The tall Brazilian nodded. “May God forgive me.”
Nate guided Garcia Luiz Batista away from the blackened ruins of the village and into untouched green fields. He quickly introduced himself as he led the man back to his church. En route, he passed one of the Rangers, covered in soot and sweat, and asked him to send the O’Briens to the church.
With a sharp nod, the Ranger took off.
Nate walked the padre up the wooden steps and through the double doors. The interior was dark and cool. Varnished wooden pews lined the way to the altar and giant mahogany crucifix. The room was mostly empty. A few Indians lay sprawled, exhausted, both on the floor and on pews. Nate led the church’s leader toward the front and settled him in the first pew.
The man sagged into his seat, his eyes fixed on the crucifix. “It’s all my fault.” He bowed his head and lifted his hands in prayer.
Nathan remained quiet, giving the man a private moment. The church door swung open, and he spotted Frank and Kelly. Professor Kouwe was with them. All three were covered in ash from head to toe. He waved them over.
The arrival of the other three drew Padre Batista’s attention from his prayers. Nathan made introductions all around. Once done, he sat beside the padre. “Tell me what happened. How did the fires start?”
Garcia glanced around at the others, then sighed heavily and looked at his toes. “It was my own shortsightedness.”
Kelly sat on the man’s other side. “What do you mean?” she asked softly.
After a moment more, the padre spoke again. “On the night the poor man stumbled out of the forest, a shaman of the Yanomamo tribe scolded me for taking the man into the mission. He warned me that the man’s body must be burned.” The padre glanced to Nathan. “How could I do that? He surely had family. Maybe he was even a Christian.”
Nathan patted his hand. “Of course.”
“But I should not have so easily dismissed the Indians’ superstitions. I had put too much faith in their conversion to Catholicism. They’d even been baptized.” The padre shook his head.
Nate understood. “It’s not your fault. Some beliefs are too ingrained to be washed away in a single baptism.”
Padre Batista sagged. “At first, all seemed well. The shaman was still angered at my decision not to burn the body, but he accepted that at least it was gone f
rom the village. This seemed to appease him.”
“What changed that?” Kelly asked.
“A week later, a couple of children in the village developed fevers. It was nothing new. Such ailments are commonplace. But the shaman decided these illnesses were the sign of a curse from the dead man.”
Nate nodded. He had seen firsthand such assessments himself. In most Indian tribes, illness was considered not only due to injury or disease, but often to a spell cast by the shaman of another village. Wars had broken out over such accusations.
Amazonia: a novel Page 8
