The Orchid Hunter

by Sandra K. Moore

  “We’re still connected,” I reminded him. I stroked him again and smiled to feel him shiver. I knew what he meant. The body connection drove me crazy, but the other connection, whatever it was—heart, soul, spirit—made us one. The deeper we could get into each other, the better. “Are you going to come for me?” I asked.

  “I have, every time you did after the first one.”

  “Swear,” I challenged.

  “I swear,” he breathed into my ear.

  I sighed. Of all the men I knew, the only one actually capable of keeping it up all night would turn out to be a bug nerd.

  But that wasn’t fair. He was much more than just a bug nerd. Rick, good idealist that he was, believed in something richer and deeper than I thought existed, whether that was this forest, or the dignity of humankind, or even how to treat a woman in bed. Maybe the shaman’s medicine worked on him because he believed in the connection between all things. Maybe he connected with me because he believed he could, and I responded because his belief was big enough to carry me.

  Now I just didn’t know what to do. Ask him to come back to the States with me? Hell, I didn’t even know what university he worked for. Did he teach or was he a researcher? He probably had co-eds hanging all over him every semester.

  My first hint of jealousy twinged, followed by a quick prick of fear. Was he married? In a relationship?

  His lips contentedly pressed my shoulder. No, he was single. He was too good a guy to two-time a wife or girlfriend.

  “I want you to help me catch another moth before you go,” he said.

  I dragged my thoughts out of the interesting places on a college campus a Tantra-practicing entomologist and an orchid hunter might recreate. “I left a trap up in the canopy. I’ll check it this afternoon.”

  “If there’s a moth, my work will be done.” He traced a circle around my breast, then gripped me gently. “I want to go back with you.”

  “You mean go back in general or go back in particular?”

  “Go back in general. We can talk about particular after I’ve dropped off my moth and you’ve seen your uncle.” He squeezed, making me squirm a little. “There’s no rush.”

  My heart thudded hard. A protestation of eternal affection would have been scary and a goodbye speech hurt like hell, but his “let’s see” felt just right. And because his grip felt so good, I simply nodded agreement.

  I didn’t know what I wanted for the rest of my life. All I knew was that I wanted Rick around longer than for just one roll in the hay.

  He must have heard that thought because he started moving, sliding easily, creating a gentle friction in the way that made my skin tingle, and after a very short time, I stopped having thoughts altogether.

  A Corpse Moth rested in the trap.

  I studied its black wings and body in the afternoon light. “Beautiful thing,” I whispered to it. It was doing me a favor, getting Rick to come back with me. Seemed a shame to have it end up mounted on a bug board.

  I took the trap down and hung it off my climbing harness. Pausing for a last look around, I spotted a tiny pink Cattleya delictabus near the trap, clinging to the bark. Scooter didn’t have one of those. A couple of quick swipes with the machete and I had the little orchid in my hands. I tucked it into Rick’s backpack.

  After that came the tricky business of taking down the slings without accidentally dropping myself a hundred feet. I fed the belaying rope over the Pterocarpus’s bare branch.

  “Here it comes,” I said into the headset.

  “I’m ready.”

  The rope fell. Rick took up the slack. “Got me?” I asked.

  The rope tugged comfortingly on my harness, then his low, sexy voice answered, “You’re safe with me, babe.”

  Ignoring the burn that comment started, I detached myself from the slings and dangled, held only by Rick’s grip on the rope. The slings slid off the branch and hooked onto my harness.

  I double-checked to make sure I hadn’t left anything, then asked Rick to drop me. He eased me down, controlled but not too slow.

  The very first time I climbed, my belayer—someone I thought I could trust—chatted with friends while I was on the cliff. I struggled up a particularly rough stretch, panting, tired, a little scared, and glanced down to see a pool of rope lying on the ledge beneath me. My belayer had been too busy talking to keep the slack taken up. Had I fallen, I would have fallen only about ten feet, but I’ve not liked being belayed since. Sort of like life in general for me, I guess. I can trust myself, but not anyone else.

  Not until now.

  My boots touched down and I started unhooking myself from the harness. Rick stored his trap while I rearranged the Cattleya in my duffel. In minutes I had the rest of my climbing gear collected. For the first time in my career, I’d leave my gear behind. Father João would be able to string himself a new hammock, I supposed. Nice high-tech bed for him.

  “I’m sorry,” Rick said out of nowhere.

  “About what?”

  “I didn’t show you what I wanted to do with you behind the waterfall.”

  My body hummed briskly. “You’ll have to show me next time we’re here.”

  He grinned and in the late afternoon light his glasses glinted mischievously. “Do we have time now?”

  I was sorely tempted, but I didn’t like the idea of yet another sprint through the dark. Especially not with the customs agent wandering around with trigger-happy pistoleiros in tow. “Next time. Promise me.”

  Sandalwood and musk enveloped me for a moment while his clever lips and tongue promised, at length and in detail. If there was a loophole in that contract, I didn’t find it.

  “Ready?” Rick asked, readjusting his glasses.

  I fleetingly hoped he’d never succumb to the temptation of contacts. “After I drop this stuff off at Father João’s, you want to try navigating?” When he hesitated, I added, “It’s good practice. If we run into the customs agent, we’ll probably have to split up. I need to know you can get to the mine without me.”

  “But not leave without you.”

  “Preferably not.”

  He nodded. “Should we divide up your orchids? In case the customs agent shows up and one of us doesn’t make it to São Paolo. I can take the Death Orchid to your lab for you.”

  I considered. It made sense, but Scooter was my responsibility. And I didn’t know how many plants the biotech lab would need to develop its wonder drug, even if it could. If the Death Orchid was that toxic, the lab might need every plant I had in my possession to figure out how to turn its deadly alkaloids into the elixir of life.

  “Better keep them together,” I said.

  And when we came across the customs agent a mile away from the mining camp, I was glad we did.

  Chapter 14

  I ran. Thorns and spiky branches tore at my long sleeves and pants. I ignored them. Dodging rocks and fallen logs, I tried to put more distance between myself and the big American pounding through the jungle behind me. He was fast, much faster than Daley could hope to be. And smarter.

  Two hours of cat and mouse in the jungle wasn’t my idea of entertainment. So far the agent had avoided a fire liana trap, a drop into a bog, and a low-hanging beehive. The man looked like he could break little ol’me in half with one hand. And he seemed to know which biologically hazardous trees and bushes to avoid. This guy wasn’t a pencil pusher or a Tarzan wannabe. He was the real McCoy.

  And I was getting tired.

  It’s not a good time to wear out, I told myself as I scrambled up a muddy embankment, heaving for breath. Only eight more hours of this to go before dawn.

  The agent didn’t bother me as much as the missing pistoleiros. I hadn’t spotted any when this little jaunt got kicked off, which suggested they were either scattered over the jungle looking for me or maybe lurking around the airfield waiting for me to try to leave.

  Why hadn’t I thought to meet Carlos at the research station’s airfield instead? I would have smacked my
forehead if I’d had the energy.

  With any luck, Rick had found his way to the mining camp. Down to my last day, I couldn’t afford to go looking for him if he got lost. If I could still walk after losing the customs agent.

  A little more time sleeping this afternoon and a little less time on the verge of total ecstasy might have been prudent, I reflected, splashing across a stream.

  Ain’t no Ladybug of mine goin’ give up now, Scooter’s voice whispered in my ear.

  No, sir. No givin’ up.

  Pushing hard, I kept the hell-for-leather pace for another thirty minutes, circling wide back toward the mining camp. My best bet was to find a place where I could wait out the long hours until dawn. Porfilio’s little cave, sheltered from casual sight by a manioc tree and practically nonexistent in the dark, fit the bill.

  Staggering, I threw my duffel into the cleft and climbed in after it. Sweat poured down my face and back. I fought to control the gasps as my breath hitched. The agent might not be able to see me, but he could probably hear me wheezing for miles. I pulled my camo shirt collar up to cover my face and hunkered down to wait.

  The jungle at night is the scariest place on God’s green earth, even if you know what’s making all those sounds. Clicks, hisses, howls, hoots, screeches. Hour after hour, day after day, of trying to pick out human noises—rifle safety click, snapped twig, low voice—from the jungle noise drove sane men crazy in Vietnam.

  That’s what I was up against now, straining to hear a footstep, a cough, anything that would tell me the agent had come close.

  Chuff. Chuff, chuff. I froze, forgetting for a moment my jackhammering heart and aching lungs. The growling chuff moved further north, a little ways up the hillside, then circled back, crossing in front of the cave’s mouth. Silence. Then scraping, like metal tearing wood. Then the chuffing again, a rhythmic pant with a hint of growl behind it.

  Jaguar.

  I’m not a fan of mixed blessings. I usually end up on the less desirable side of them. In fact, I couldn’t think of a single mixed blessing that had actually turned out more good than bad for me. My track record strongly suggested I think of a plan. Fast.

  If the cat was out there, the agent wouldn’t be. But if the cat decided I resembled kibble, I literally had nowhere to hide.

  Too bad I’d left the old bolt-action and the assault rifle with Porfilio last night.

  I shrank a little deeper into the cave and tried not to smell delicious. The chuffing wandered back and forth across the cave entrance, each trip bringing it closer. My mental inventory of the gear I had with me confirmed I had nothing to use as a weapon. And I doubted I could climb a tree faster than a jaguar, especially in the dark.

  What I really needed was one of those Hollywood moments: lone Yanomamo warrior emerges from the forest to shoot the cat with a curare-tipped arrow. The best I could hope for was the jaguar would get bored and go away. Heck, maybe it’d already had dinner. Maybe it was just curious about my scent.

  Just in case, I dragged the duffel out from the deepest part of the cave and wedged it between me and the cave entrance. Pitiful barricade. I’d have to do better than that.

  The chuffing paused. Utter silence. A snort.

  I strained to see in the dark. But I didn’t need to see. I suddenly smelled the dark, pungent scent of a wild animal. My blood iced in my veins. Over the duffel’s top, the jaguar’s silhouette filled the entrance. Dimly outlined by faint starlight, the cat’s magnificent head turned. My hand clutched the duffel’s strap.

  The cat dabbed a paw at the duffel. I held on, feeling the paw’s weight in the tugging motion. Did the jaguar want the bag? Or was it trying to get past the obstacle to its goal—me?

  My heart thudded. I had to do something. I couldn’t just sit there and be slowly mauled to death.

  Jaguars aren’t naturally aggressive with human adults, I told myself. They attack only when provoked. They’re spookable. Dangerous, but spookable. Okay. I breathed deeply. Time to make a ruckus.

  In a minute. My hands shook too hard. I couldn’t move. I ordered my legs to scramble. They ignored me. Sweat poured from my neck despite the night’s coolness. The jaguar pawed the duffel again. Try, I silently yelled at myself. I shifted one foot under me before my body froze up again. The cat was too big, too close. Its eyes gleamed, round and yellow.

  The cat got a claw into the bag and pulled. My throat, long closed tight with fear, refused to open up enough to shout. The only part of me working reliably was the hand white-knuckled on the bag’s strap. I held on. The bag scraped over the cave’s uneven rock floor as the jaguar tugged it.

  The cat backed up enough to clear some space in the entrance. It was the opening I needed. Time to stop being a wuss and get on with it.

  No, Scooter, I ain’t skeered.

  “Get the hell out of my way!” I yelled with all the breath I had. My “Aaahh!” escalated from a mild growl to a roar as I scrambled out of the cave, charging. I jerked the bag around, swinging it wildly. The cat’s paw got yanked right and left, then the jaguar released the duffel. It paused, took a swipe at my leg, growled. My pant leg tore at my calf but I felt nothing. All the pent-up panic came gushing out of me in a crazy dance. I spun and stamped and growled and yelled. I swung the bag toward the cat’s head. The jaguar ducked and slunk back, eyeing me.

  “You think you’re tougher than I am?” I shouted at the cat’s tensed form. “You better stay the hell away from me! I’m not backin’ down!” The bag whirled in the air over my head. “I’m not your dinner!” I stomped my feet, advancing on the cat. It backed off, hissing, its teeth bared. “Get away from me!”

  Two more swings with the duffel and the cat decided I was too much trouble to bother with. It turned its back on me but eyed me over its shoulder. Two fluid steps later, it faded into the night.

  I dropped the bag, exhausted. Every ounce of spare energy I had left had just been screamed and danced out of me. I panted, trying to get some control over my shaking hands. My stomach churned. My leg started to sting where the jaguar had managed to get a claw in. My breath hitched.

  “Dr. Robards,” an authoritative American voice said from the trees. “Are you all right?”

  Concern wasn’t one of the top ten things I expected to hear from a United States customs agent, especially one who knew my work. Too exhausted to run, I dropped the pack and collapsed on the nearest flat rock.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Give or take cat scratch fever.” I rolled my pant leg up.

  A click, then a powerful light beam swept over my leg. The agent whistled. “You got lucky,” he drawled, all peaches and Spanish moss.

  “Unusual for me,” I remarked.

  But he was right. Purely superficial, the scratch ran a good eight inches or so from just below the kneecap halfway to my ankle. The bleeding had already slowed.

  “You’d better disinfect that.”

  I never knew the word that could have two syllables or that such a short sentence could take so long to say.

  The agent squatted next to me. His flushed and sweaty face accentuated his fairness, and a puckered scar furrowed his cheek. Broad features. Healthy country stock. “You won’t mind if I search your bag while you take care of your leg.” He reached for the duffel.

  I snatched it out of his reach. “Damn tootin’ I will,” I retorted, wishing for the umpteenth time I’d kept the rifle. “Let’s start with some basics. Who the hell are you?” I demanded.

  “I’m very sorry, ma’am. I assumed you knew who I was.”

  I nodded. “Right. Big white man chases me through the jungle. That narrows the list of possibilities to, oh, about two billion. Try again, Atlanta.”

  He pulled his wallet from his pants pocket and obligingly held the flashlight while I studied his ID. Yep. He was definitely a customs agent. And I was up the creek without a paddle. He didn’t have any legal right to be here, but I was certain his cronies would be waiting for me to touch down in the States. And where were his pistole
iros? Time to bluff.

  “Mind if I ask why you’re harassing me?” I asked as I dug through the duffel for a disinfectant wipe.

  “I wanted to ask you some questions, Dr. Robards. That’s all. You’re the one who ran when I approached you—” he checked his watch “—three hours ago.”

  I shrugged. “Must have been the way you started the conversation by pulling your sidearm.” I nodded at the gun butt sticking out of his shoulder holster. “Most gentlemen I know introduce themselves before whipping out the old six-shooter.”

  “Beggin’ your pardon. Lewiston Shoemaker, Special Investigator for the U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement, Homeland Security.” He put on a happy face, like he wanted to earn my trust. “Maybe we can have that conversation after I search your bag.”

  His hand rested gently, almost caressingly, on his revolver.

  I sighed resignedly and handed over the duffel. Shoemaker started pulling stuff out. I tore my disinfectant wipe out of its pouch and mopped up my leg while he did his duty.

  He looked carefully through my camo clothes, unfolding everything and shaking it out. Out came my plastic zippy bags of supplies. He stared for a moment at the cloves of garlic, then shrugged and put them aside. His fingers dug into the duffel’s lining. He turned the bag upside down and shook it. Finally he set it to one side.

  “There aren’t any orchids,” he said.

  “Bummer of a trip for me,” I replied, suppressing a smile. I’d put all my eggs, as it were, in one basket, and had handed that basket over to the one man in the world besides Scooter I trusted.

  Shoemaker scowled. “You collect rare plants for a man called Linus von Brutten the Third.”

  “Is that a question?”

  “This will go much easier, Dr. Robards, if you cooperate with me.”

  “I’m sure it would. But you’ve given me no reason to answer your questions, you’ve searched my gear without a warrant, and last time I looked, this wasn’t our homeland. If you want my cooperation, you’re going to have to tell me what you’re fishing for.”