Midnight Shadows

by Nancy Gideon

  Her nod was as jerky as her heartbeats.

  "That, only you can answer, Sheba. You were the only one there."

  "But I don't remember, Paulo. I don't remember any of it."

  Even as she claimed that in a soft frustrated cry, she knew it wasn't the complete truth. She did remember some of it. Like having a handful of pieces to a puzzle, each with a different shape and color and none joining with the others to make any recognizable whole. She didn't know what she was looking at. All she had were those disjointed flashes that made no sense when taken alone.

  She jumped slightly at the sudden pressure of Paulo's hand over hers, then she clung to it unashamedly.

  "Perhaps, little Sheba, the memories will return when you look upon the site once more. Or is that what you're afraid of? Are you sure you want to know?"

  "I have to know, Paulo. I've left this blank in my mind alone for too long. I've got to fill it in, if for no other reason than to honor my parents with the truth."

  "But the truth will change nothing,” he cautioned gently, telling her what she knew in her mind but couldn't accept within her heart.

  "Or everything,” came her fatalistic reply. “It depends upon what truth's been hiding out there for all these years waiting for a group of luckless fortune hunters to stumble over it.” She met his compassionate stare, her own bright and glassy with purpose. “I'm afraid, Paulo, afraid to know, afraid not to. I've been living in fear of that truth since the night it happened, and I can't go on like this any more. I must know what my mind is trying so desperately to keep from me."

  "Then I will help you uncover that truth. And together we will face whatever it reveals."

  She embraced him then, overwhelmed with gratitude and relief not to be alone. Ignorant of the satisfied smile on his face as he held her close.

  He hadn't planned to sleep. Awareness returned with the lethargic lurch of an overly warm afternoon nap. He shook off the sensation of sluggishness the moment he saw that the daylight was gone.

  Good lord, he'd been sleeping for hours.

  Disgusted with himself and embarrassed for his show of weakness, Cobb climbed out of the damningly comfortable hammock and went to join Sheba at the bow of the boat. Moonlight gleamed like quicksilver on the surface of the water and reflected in the darkness of her eyes, making them gleam like onyx.

  "Have a nice nap?"

  He winced at the slight chiding. “Did I miss anything?"

  "If you do on the Amazon, it's too late to rectify the problem. You're usually someone's meal."

  "Point taken. Where are we?"

  "Almost there."

  The anxiety in her tone was a palpable thing, as richly textured as the scent of butterscotch that permeated the air.

  "What's that smell? Someone been baking Oatmeal Scotchies?"

  That won a faint smile. She gestured toward the shore, where giant water lilies sprawled across the quiet backwaters on saucer-shaped leaves up to two meters wide. The flowers themselves floated like pale human heads peeling back into bloom at the same instant to emit their overpowering aroma to perfume the night. The effect was as gruesome as it was strangely beautiful. Like much of the Amazon itself. In tandem, an orchestra of up to fifteen different frog species began to tune for their evening serenade.

  "So what's your connection to Peyton Samuels?"

  There was no mistaking the sudden flat curtain of distance that came down over her shiny eyes.

  "He's Paulo's uncle who made good. When I knew him, he was a bit of a schemer, always working some angle to get ahead. Apparently, he found that way. He's very respected amongst both the government and the people for the lengths he goes through to protect the environment."

  "While bringing a nonstop influx of outsiders in, at great expense, I might add."

  She shrugged philosophically. “You could argue that he balances that out with the money he raises off those wealthy guests to preserve the rain forest and educate those who might abuse the ecosystem out of ignorance. You won't find me saying bad words about him. It was through his generosity that I was able to go to school in the States. Otherwise, I don't know what might have become of me."

  The shadows increased in her gaze until Cobb was moved to distract her from thoughts of the past.

  "So who might have it out for this sainted jungle savior by wanting to close him down?"

  Her features grew contemplative. “I really don't know. I've been away from the political arena for too long to know what toes he's stepped on. Paulo would be a better one to ask."

  "Sammy's not to be trusted,” came a sudden, intruding sentiment. “Don't ever forget where he came from or what he was, and you'll be fine. Just don't let yourself believe the sophisticated facade he's made for himself out here in the wilderness. The man who would be king.” A snort. “He's a bandit, nothing more."

  Then, there was a shifting of the boat as Rosa Kelly came up behind them, standing just a little too close to Cobb for comfort. He tensed, wondering what he should do if she made a grab for his butt. But her interest lay elsewhere, up river toward the shadow of a man emerging from the mists as if by magic to stand on water. But as they grew closer, Cobb could see he waited for them on the end of a dock.

  "His majesty's lackey,” Rosa drawled with obvious dislike.

  Despite the fact that he moved on a partially crippled leg, the man on the dock made quick work of lashing the boat securely to the moorings before speaking to them. With the wide, flat features that claimed pure Indian descent, he was nevertheless dressed in Western fashion with modern, if shabby, outdoor wear right out of an L.L. Bean catalog. He spoke English the same way, well but sloppily.

  "Good evening.” There was a flash of bad teeth in the swarthy face. “I am Joaquin Cross. Welcome to Txukamayura. Mr. Samuels is expecting you."

  He put down his hand to hoist first Sheba then a more reluctant Rosa up onto the dock beside him. Cobb and Paulo gathered up their gear, transferring it up before following themselves.

  Their guide gestured to the stack of luggage and supplies. “Your things will be brought up to the Reserve. Don't concern yourselves with them. Come."

  Contrarily, Cobb bent to pick up his duffle, his gaze colliding with Sheba's as she gripped her suitcase. He grinned to let her know that he was remembering her warning to keep his belongings close, and her sudden response was like those huge glowing flowers bursting into bloom. For a moment, Cobb forgot to breathe.

  From the dock, they started up a wide cinder path that followed the bend of the river. It wasn't a long walk and, the minute they rounded the curve, Cobb could see it was purely for dramatic effect. Before them, illuminated in torchlight, was the Txukamayura Reserve.

  It hunched down along the landscape like something constructed by the Swiss Family Robinson out of thatch, cane and natural materials. The main lodge building stood as a grand multi-storied parent followed by a brood of smaller hutches all interconnected by palm frond-roofed walkways. It looked frightfully rustic until one grew close enough to hear the hum of mechanization that meant civilization was at hand.

  And on the main porch, a welcoming Mr. Rourke to his own Fantasy Island, stood Peyton Samuels, his white suit and silver hair gleaming in the darkness. While the rest of them waited at the foot of the stairs, Sheba raced up them and into the arms of her benefactor.

  "Uncle Sam, I've missed you so!"

  "And little Sheba, back home again where you belong."

  And Cobb didn't have to see her expression to know how that observation hit her. The line of her shoulders squared as if to deflect a mortal blow.

  And it was then he determined to find out all there was to know about Sheba Reynard's past.

  Chapter Seven

  After extending a stiff but not inhospitable welcome to Rosa Kelly, Peyton Samuels, with the forceful enthusiasm of someone who thought he had to explain and justify, showed them around the resort he'd carved out of the jungle.

  Sheba had told Cobb that in his youth S
amuels had been somewhat of a rogue. A kind understatement. He'd been a greedy adventurer, ready to strip the Amazon of its every available and profitable resource without the slightest remorse. And then he'd married a native woman, Paulo's father's sister and she died within the first year. Perhaps that shattering event changed him. Perhaps. Or, Sheba, wondered to herself, perhaps it had something to do with the missionary couple he should have guided into the jungle in search of a rumored cult.

  Samuels hovered over Sheba with a grandfatherly air she found both touching and slightly suspicious. She didn't remember him well enough to hold more than a passing affection, not with the clarity she did Paulo and Rosa. He'd flitted in and out of her childhood, a handsome, colorful character who smelled of drink and smoke and spoke loudly with words her parents didn't approve of. He'd been her parents’ guide on many occasions that took them into the deeper, unchartered and potentially dangerous areas of the forest, and he'd always brought them back safely. Along with a brilliant flower or two for their young daughter's hair. He was held as harmless, until after a long afternoon of drinking, he'd taught Sheba a song she'd proudly performed over dinner while her family entertained one of the sponsors of the Institute's program. Needless to say, the adults were more horrified than amused, and she didn't see Peyton Samuels for a long time after her recital. Her father had called him a reprobate, and that word had sounded ugly even spoken in his soft Alabama drawl.

  Sheba remembered the wedding because she'd had to wear tights that were hot and constantly twisting, and pinching new shoes. Samuels married Paulo's petitely lovely aunt, Cipriana, which made him family in a roundabout way. Sam had smelled of hair oil and after-shave from then on, not of bad habits, at least until Sheba had to don the tights and shiny shoes again for the funeral. The lovely Cipriana Samuels died at the hands of a robber. It was Sheba's first brush with death. Not her last.

  Samuels had been too drunk to take her parents on their last trek into the jungle. They hadn't come back safely. They never came back at all. Peyton never came right out and admitted his guilt, but then she did suspect he was behind the large donations that had kept her in a private school in the East on a generous allowance. He never said. She never asked. But before she left Peru, she would find out what kind of guilt caused a man to support a child not his own for twelve years of private schooling and undergraduate studies.

  Unlike Rosa, whom she'd never seen again after her last day in Peru, Peyton kept in a loose sort of contact with her, always seeming to know where she was. He'd sent brief letters when she'd been well enough to receive them. His and Paulo's missives were the only things she'd had to look forward to for those first dark years. When she was at the university, exotic flowers would be delivered for her birthday. Then he'd sent a promotional video advertising the Lodge. But no invitation to visit. Never an invitation to return.

  Because he knew she wouldn't or because he didn't want her to?

  Samuels led their group on their tour from highlight to highlight within his eco-lodge. Paulo appeared proud, Cobb stoic and watchful, and Rosa seemed to be choking on her cynicism. Sheba reserved judgement.

  How had he gotten the money together to front such an elaborate endeavor?

  "There are no roads leading to Txukamayura, no direct route to civilization. That way it has a harder time following us back here. While we provide necessities and more than a few luxuries, nothing we do here will upset the natural balance of the forest. Everything you see was built from traditional materials and techniques by native hands. Our staff are all area Indians who have grown up here and have a respect for the land and the environment."

  "The same Indians that help carve through the mahogany forests?” Rosa interjected.

  Samuels gave her a patient look. “When one is hungry, one takes whatever work is available. I think of this as a safe alternative to more harmful occupations."

  "And how hungry were you, Sammy, back in the old days?"

  "I devoured what I could.” His mild blue eyes glittered briefly, then his smile returned as he patted his ample girth. “But as you see, I'm well fed now, as are our guests—on the finest of local cuisine.” He turned away from her, returning to his promotional travelogue. “High quality meals and a comfortable rest are the key to our guests’ enjoyment. We have thirty-two rooms, four rooms to a bungalow, each room with its own flush toilet and fresh sheets. We practice ecological waste management, no latrines or contamination of the river. Here, we think of ourselves as custodians of the jungle."

  Rosa made a rude sound that he pointedly ignored.

  They wound their way through the main lodge on floors of polished mahogany, where the roof was made of crisneja palm fronds and the dividing walls of cane and clay. Huge windows overlooked the river on one side and the jungle on the other. There was a small theater where films on ecology and the rain forest were shown to newcomers, along with a slick production promoting the Lodge and its role in investing in the health, education and financial stability of the nearby settlements. Upstairs were meeting spaces and an extensive library. The main lobby housed museum-quality artifacts as well as a stylish and expensive shop where tourists could purchase everything from cameras with .300 mm lenses or good binoculars to bathing suits, hiking boots with absorbent socks, head-to-ankle rain suits, guide books, insect repellent, digestive cures, and wildlife miniatures hand carved by a staff member. There was a tropical lounge with a bar and fireplace where guests could gather around low tables for cards at night or wait out the rain in bamboo chairs or rope hammocks. Opulent and exotic. Samuels knew how to entertain.

  From there, they passed through the open air dining hall where fine netting kept out the pests but let sultry breezes filter through. He pointed out the research section where various ecologically-minded groups could host classes and studies. A group researching the feeding habits of the dusky-headed titi monkey had just left, and one studying the giant river otter would be arriving at week's end. A half dozen indigenous students were now waiting for Paulo's next forage into the forest for their first taste of field work.

  And of particular interest to both scientists and tourists was the lodge's central focal point; a ten-story tower from which one could observe various levels of the forest then rise above the canopy for a spectacular view.

  Of greater interest to Sheba were the bungalows where she could drop her weighty suitcase and change into fresh clothes. The four of them would share one of the quaint thatched huts that appeared rustic on the exterior but were made for relaxation and personal comfort inside with their private showers and netted beds.

  "Dinner in an hour and cocktails afterwards,” Samuels announced, obviously enjoying his role as genial host. “Mingle with our other guests and make free use of the hospitality of the lodge. If you have any particular needs that one of the staff can't provide for you, come see me. Enjoy your stay."

  On that optimistic note, they were left to their own resources.

  Sheba collapsed on her bed, releasing a huge sigh up into the darkness. The tension knotting through her shoulders eased with a leisurely stretch and roll. Well, here she was. So far, so good. She let her eyes close while she planned out the night ahead—a cool shower, dress for dinner, maybe a cocktail or two and a stroll in the fragrant night air. Her mind wandered to an improbable image of her and Frank Cobb, arm in arm. Smiling at that intriguing absurdity, she opened her eyes, sat up.

  And screamed.

  * * * *

  Invitation or no, Frank Cobb was through the doorway at the first raw cry. After sweeping the corners of the room for potential dangers, his focus returned to the woman on the bed. The sight of her brought the hair up on the back of his neck. She sat frozen, her expression stark and stiff with terror. Her face was as pale as one of the giant lilies floating on the river, her eyes saucer-wide. That blank, unblinking gaze seemed to stare right through him to some horror he couldn't see or recognize. She wasn't breathing.

  "Dr. Reynard? Are you all right?"
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  He waited, releasing the grip of his pistol. Her response sank a shiver to his soul. It was a sound, a hoarse bleat of fear. He crossed to her in three quick strides, panicking now himself.

  "Doc, what is it?"

  The muscles of her face worked in jerky spasms, her mouth opening on a silent scream he didn't have to hear to grasp its desperation. A plea for help. For rescue. All the invitation he needed.

  She didn't resist when he swept his arms around her quaking figure. In fact, he wasn't sure she was aware of him at all. Like a mannequin, she remained inanimate and unresponsive until he angled slightly to sit beside her on the bed.

  And in doing so, turned her away from the object of her terror.

  A shuddering breath ripped up from deep inside her and with it, a horrible, anguished weeping began, torn from memories past and bleeding with remembered pain. No images tormented her, just overwhelming, emotionally crippling sensations, so huge, so devastating, she couldn't defend against them as they ravaged her spirit and battered her mind.

  What's happening to me?

  She pressed her face into the sheltering lee of Cobb's shoulder, her arms whipping about his neck in a circle the Jaw's of Life couldn't break. That was what he meant to her at the moment—life, safety, sanity—for those things wobbled in tenuous uncertainty as reality was pulled back toward the anchor he represented.

  Save me, Frank! Save me!

  From what? What threat had stunned and so petrified her that, even now, she couldn't grasp its enormity? Was she losing her mind? Nothing seemed real to her.

  Except the solidity of Frank Cobb's embrace.

  He was real. He was here and strong and perhaps capable of fighting back her demons. If he didn't think she was crazy.

  As she was very afraid she was.

  Her tremors lessened into an uncontrolled hitch of dry sobs. She used the rough nap of his shirt to dry her eyes. He smelled good, of warm cotton and heated male energy. He felt good, firm, reliable, unyielding to even the most unreasonable assault.