Jungle of Deceit

by Maureen A. Miller

  For the most part, Franklin Langley ignored his daughter, or treated her as another part of his entourage. From what Alex had heard, it was pretty much the same way he treated her mother up until the day she died of heat exhaustion near the Valley of the Kings.

  When Alex flourished in college and earned her doctorate in archeology, her father had said it was a career best suited to a man and that she should leave it to the professional in the family. In other words, he was the archeologist and she was a fool to try and emulate him.

  That was the day she left him.

  Perhaps it was with a sense of ambivalence, but Wes was soon to follow. They never discussed his disillusionment with her father. Wes was the son that Frank Langley wished he had. He could have flourished under the man’s tutelage, but when Alex would ask Wes why he left, he would just shrug his shoulders and say, “You can’t do this on your own.”

  Alex tossed aside those nagging memories. She closed her eyes and listened to the forest awaken. It seemed a competition as to which creature could screech the loudest at the onset of day.

  It was time to begin her hike.

  ***

  It was time to begin his hike.

  Mitch grinned at how easily the archeologists had misplaced their photographer, losing him in the melee of their departure. He watched the last taillight fade into the mist and hitched his camera strap over his shoulder. He was no fool. He made sure he had a copy of the map which detailed their destination. He would find them later and ‘give them hell’ for leaving him behind.

  Damn, the jungle was loud in the morning. Not that it bothered him. Sounds at night disturbed him. Moving objects that could not be seen or identified. Whether it was this humid rain forest or an abandoned village in Montenegro—anonymous nocturnal noises gave him the creeps.

  Glancing down at the map, Mitch located the crooked black line that indicated the trek of an unnamed river. The camp would be set up on its banks, some six or seven miles west of here, and as long as he stayed on track with the snaking course he would eventually reach it. In the meantime, he prayed for some trace of evidence that the stolen shipment from the museum was here as Nicholson predicted it would be.

  Phillip Nicholson.

  Thirty-six hours ago, Mitch had no clue as to who Nicholson was. Now this virtual stranger was the single motivating force in his immediate life.

  Is this what he had been reduced to? Heeding the commands of an eccentric whose intentions were clandestine at best?

  Yes.

  Adventure had been such an integral part of his existence. The day it was so unfairly ripped away from him, he might as well have had a limb severed. Oh sure, he loved to bitch and moan about some of the crazy experiences. Hell, those nuns in Spain were a hoot. But all in all, he’d relished that lifestyle.

  Nicholson’s proposal to track down evidence on a stolen shipment of Mayan artifacts seemed a blessing. When Mitch was on that dock with adrenaline still pumping in his veins, he had convinced himself that this opportunity was a piece of good fortune. But now that lucidity returned he was concerned. He had no idea there was a woman down here—a woman unaware of her proximity to danger. It sounded chauvinistic, but he couldn’t stand to see a woman in jeopardy. He didn’t want to see her defeated.

  Not again.

  ***

  This was when she was most content.

  Alone, with only the companionship of a bird that sometimes spoke back, Alex was free to survey the rain forest in search of a temple she was determined to prove existed. She had little time to find this mislaid tomb and its forgotten people, though. The grant supplied by the museum was running out and Phillip indicated that he was powerless to renew it.

  Alex knew better though. It was his doing. If anything, the relationship between her father and she had evolved into professional combat−but in this warfare, Franklin Langley had the connections and money to play dirty. Every grant that came up, he was one step ahead of her.

  Disgusted, she gazed out at the stagnant creek, finding solace in the reflection of the Spanish cedar on the smooth black surface. She sipped her water bottle, frustrated that this morning’s efforts had produced nothing to validate her theories. Her fear was that in the world’s eyes she looked like a little girl, trying to emulate her father’s success. But what the world didn’t see—what seemed like something only she observed, was that Franklin Langley was a mere figurehead of late. He was a man who paid little attention to the dig, but rather stood for the glory at the end. He was not the young man with an enthusiastic glean in his eye anymore, or with the zeal for the hunt that Alex now thrived on. Franklin Langley was a star.

  An archeological superstar.

  Closing her eyes and tilting her head back, Alex listened to the symphony of birds and crickets, and thought that it was a shame her coveted time alone had to end so soon.

  On a sigh, she brought her head down and uttered, “You are about as subtle as a charging elephant, Mr. Hasslet.”

  Alex heard the awkward brush of tree limbs, and felt a presence behind her.

  “It’s just Mitch,” he grumbled.

  Standing up, Alex brushed her palms together and turned around. Perhaps she had risen too quickly. Her heart beat just a little bit faster, and her breath was a little too shallow.

  Mitch wore jeans, and his short-sleeved shirt stuck to his torso, hinting at the ladder of muscles running up his stomach. Her glance climbed to the unbuttoned collar that exposed bronzed skin, and at the last second she raised her eyes to clash with his.

  Alex cleared her throat and straightened her shoulders.

  “You’re following me,” she declared. “I presume that’s because you either purposely missed the convoy to the new camp…” her lips forced a smile, “−or they left you behind.”

  “Maybe I just wanted to enjoy the view on foot.”

  His eyes were like an aphrodisiac, but Alex made sure to ignore them and the languorous sweep they took down her legs. Instead, she went on the attack.

  “What were you going to do if you lost me? How were you going to find your way to the camp?”

  Alex waited for him to climb down the embankment and fall in beside her and then she added, “I don’t have time to scour the jungle looking for you.”

  “I stand duly chastised, Doctor, but I’m not exactly helpless. I may look green to you.” He looked away towards the small pond where an umbrella of cedar limbs tried to keep the mist from escaping into the midday sun. “But I’ve had to fend for myself in worse places than this.”

  “Maybe so.” Alex caught a whiff of him. All rugged man, with a hint of soap leftover from an early morning bath at the creek−an image she quickly dispelled. “But you weren’t in my care then.”

  Mitch was at her side now as he looked down at her. “I like the sound of that.” His voice was soft. “Being in your care.”

  For an impractical moment she liked the idea too, but she chalked that up to too much time in the jungle. She jerked her backpack over her shoulder and turned away, executing a pace much faster than normal.

  A few determined strides later, curiosity got the best of her. Her steps slowed and she turned around, walking backwards, facing Mitch as she asked, “What are you really doing here?”

  “What do you mean?” His stride faltered.

  “Why are you here?” Alex’s hand swept the jungle. “Phillip called down. He told me who you are—I mean, where you’ve been—the turmoil you have photographed. Why would you go from documenting civil wars to tagging along on a so-far unproductive jaunt in the mosquito-infested jungle?”

  ***

  An uncomfortable churning began in Mitch’s stomach−something like trepidation, or possibly a reaction to one of the many shots he received yesterday.

  “Putting it that way, I can imagine you’d be curious.”

  Alex continued to stare with her arms crossed.

  The unsettling feeling in Mitch’s stomach persisted, and her eyes seemed to be the root of
the problem.

  Truth be told, he could have remained concealed in the dense forestry, but on some subliminal level he wanted to be discovered by this downhearted woman.

  Trite answers would not satisfy Alex, he knew−but if he was to reveal his true purpose for being here, one of two things might occur. One, perhaps the beautiful and enigmatic doctor was involved in the heist to begin with—a struggling archeologist driven by her ambition.

  Mitch saw Alex cock her head, studying him as if he were a new species of jungle wildlife.

  No. He didn’t really know her, but that summation just didn’t fit.

  The second, more likely reaction, would be for Alex to take a personal affront to someone stealing the artifacts, and insist on joining his search, which could threaten her safety.

  And he didn’t want that to happen.

  “Mr. Hasslet?”

  “Mitch,” he sighed. “If you want to be formal, make it Mitchell.”

  “Why are you here?” Alex persisted.

  “Nicholson must have told you. Your grant was running out—”

  She waved away a buzzing mosquito, or was she discarding his words?

  “What did Nicholson tell you?” he asked.

  Alex’s stare was direct. “That you were a necessary evil, and that I should not torture you.”

  “Torture?” Mitch hated it when his voice pitched like that.

  “I’ve been known to torture men, or so the rumors have it.”

  They had reached the river. A flock of Jibaru storks perched at the edge on spindly legs looking as if the slightest breeze might topple them over. The water was thick with mud and almost viscous enough to impede the current. It reminded Mitch of Willy Wonka’s chocolate river.

  He reached out and grazed Alex’s bare arm. Her skin felt warm and moist. “Can we stop for a minute?”

  “Tired already?” Alex teased, but glanced down at his hand, which he jerked back.

  Under her scrutiny, he felt unsettled. Whatever Alex surmised from his expression, she didn’t seem keen to share. Instead, she dropped her backpack at her feet and stooped down onto the lush bank, her tanned arms wrapped around her knees. She stared up at him with frank curiosity.

  Mitch had never seen anything so riveting. For just a second he was not considering the banal aesthetics of a beautiful woman. Instead, he was in awe of the creature herself. She was enigmatic, poised, and possessed a hint of youth. The overall effect captivated him. It was like stumbling across a fawn in the wild and thinking there was no more enchanting being in the world.

  Now there was.

  “For just a few minutes, Mr. Hasslet,” Alex offered in a quiet voice. “And only because you look like you could use it.”

  Genuine relief caused his knees to buckle. “Mitch,” he mumbled with exasperation.

  “Mitch,” Alex repeated on a smile.

  Oh, hell yeah.

  That smile was prettier than the fawn.

  “I guess I am a little tired.” He didn’t even realize how tired he was until he actually sat down. Now he wondered what single motivating force could ever inspire him to stand again.

  “Well, honestly…” Alex cocked her head, “−you look like you got hit by a truck.”

  Of course.

  It wasn’t hurting, so Mitch hadn’t even considered it. Yesterday, when he left New York he was sporting quite the shiner. Beneath a shadow of scruff, his jaw was discolored as well. He must have looked like the battered leftovers of a street brawl.

  “I imagine I do.”

  There was no likelihood of telling her the truth, so he flapped a hand in front of his face. “Remnants from my last photo shoot.”

  “Mmmm hmmm.”

  Time to change the subject. He unfastened a button on his shirt, but the nonexistent breeze didn’t billow the cotton as he had hoped.

  “How do you do it?” Mitch asked, glancing over her attire. “I mean, the tank top and shorts, how come the mosquitoes aren’t feasting away on that—”

  A slight bow of Alex’s lips was concealed by her hair as she leaned forward and delved her hands into her knapsack. Nimble fingers extracted an unmarked plastic bottle.

  “My own blend.” She extended it towards him. “It works wonders. Nothing will touch this skin as long as this ointment is on it.”

  Nothing?

  Mitch eyed the container and then took her offer to sniff it.

  “Put some on,” Alex ordered. “I don’t care if they gave you inoculations. I don’t want any of these insects to be tempted by you.”

  Who cares about the insects?

  Mitch rubbed a hand over his jaw and felt the tender tang of a bruise there. Good. Pain. Focus on the pain. There was absolutely no time to harbor lecherous thoughts about the doctor.

  But as he rubbed the salve onto his arms, Mitch felt Alex’s gaze and his glance jerked up just in time to catch hers flee. It’s okay, Doctor. I’m watching you too.

  “So, why are you here?” Alex repeated.

  It was hard for him to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “I suppose Nicholson told you I was fired.”

  “From which job?”

  He flinched and grabbed a flat stone. Hurling it across the water, it skidded and disturbed a cloud of gnats. “Would it do any good to say neither was my fault?”

  Heck, the Chronicle just released him less than two days ago because he refused to recount the events of the museum heist. With Mitch being the only reporter on the scene, the newspaper reveled in their exclusivity, but when he relayed that he saw nothing—that he was unconscious during the heist, the editor didn’t sympathize.

  Bottom line was that they had been looking for an excuse to unleash him all along. It was no secret that he was miserable working for the glorified tabloid. If it hadn’t been for Kosovo, he would still be a correspondent. He would still be doing what he loved.

  Maybe traveling to the heart of the Guatemalan jungle in search of guerillas was absurdly dangerous, but in these early hours of the morning, trekking alone through the rainforest made him feel alive in a way he had not experienced in years.

  “I’m not particularly concerned who is at fault.” Alex used the throaty inflection that he came to associate as her business voice. “All I’m concerned with is the fact that you’re under my supervision now, and I need to know what I’m dealing with. I need to know if I have a problem here. Did you come here because you failed elsewhere?”

  In his periphery, Mitch noticed that he had Alex’s undivided attention. Uneasy under the scrutiny, could his ego allow for her to believe him so inept, or should he defend himself and tell her what really happened in Kosovo?

  “I’ll be honest with you…” It was odd to utter those words and actually mean them. He didn’t think he’d been honest with anyone since that Serb village.

  Mitch cleared his throat and continued. “I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t ask to be here. I have no clue what it is you’re up to in the jungle.” The humid air, or Alex’s stare, made breathing difficult. “Phillip Nicholson made me an offer I simply could not refuse.”

  A smile toyed with Alex’s lips. “Yeah, that would be Phillip. Persuasion before dignity.”

  Persuasion before dignity?

  Had the museum director persuaded Alex as well?

  “How well do you know him?” There was no intention on his part to pose the question with a pitch of implication, but regardless, it happened. Mitch awaited the backlash.

  An arched eyebrow and a slight pinch of the lips were the only facial reactions. Alex’s words bore a bit more venom.

  “I’m really hoping there was no hidden inference to that question, Mr. Hasslet. Do you want to join the ranks who think I got to this stage in my career on my back?”

  Alex sliced him a fiery look, but under those flames, Mitch caught the trace of a wounded animal. It was such a subtle nuance, and yet it twisted around his heart and squeezed like the boa he suspected hung from a nearby tree limb.

  �
�Yes, Phillip has located most of these digs for me. He’s gone to the extent of hiding projects from more viable outfits, namely my father…” she added bitterly, “−and for what possible reason? For what possible reason would a young woman in this field be rewarded with such opportunities other than—”

  Mitch felt the suction of air as Alex surged to her feet. “Come on, we’ve got three hours of hiking yet.” She climbed the embankment with ease.

  It wasn’t so easy for Mitch. By the time he actually managed to get to his feet, Alex had disappeared.

  “Hey,” he called. “Hey!”

  He climbed to the top of the knoll and saw nothing but the blockade of cedar, a wall that divided light from a lair that could house all of Grimm’s fairy-tale creatures.

  “Alex!”

  “This way.” Her voice startled him as she appeared only several yards away with her hands on her hips. “You start shouting like that and this jungle will be in an uproar. Keep it down.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  Without the pervading sunlight, the temperature dropped and the dense flora made breathing a little easier. Still, with little sleep and traces of his episode on the dock pinching at his muscles, Mitch found it hard to keep up.

  “Hey, wait up.”

  Almost imperceptible, Alex’s pace slowed, but the backlash of a branch sprung loose from her body and smacked Mitch in the face.

  “Shit,” he swiped at his sore jaw.

  “Sorry,” she called sweetly and turned around to pin him with a satisfied smile.

  Treading backwards, laughing at him, Alex’s boot hit a root. She scrambled for a handhold and latched onto the trunk of a tree, her fingers wrapping around its glutinous veneer.

  “Ugg.” She snapped her fingers, but the jelly-like sap stayed glued to them.

  “Oh dear.” Mitch’s voice rang with sarcasm. “Well, isn’t that just a bitch?”

  Alex looked like she was ready to let loose a curse, but she pulled back her shoulders and managed, “I’m glad you are amused.”