by Angela Hunt
Reading the article, Michael learned that an international delegation had flown into Lima in late March. Many esteemed researchers would be staying at the Yarupapa Lodge and conducting various experiments throughout the months of April, May, and June.
“Among the American scientists are noted anthropologist Emma Whitmore and neurologist Alexandra Pace,” the reporter wrote. “And while Dr. Pace’s work is well known to medical researchers working in the field of brain diseases, few people realize why she has invested her life in this field of study.”
Michael tensed as the soft popping sounds of flip-flops broke his concentration. He stared at the doorknob, willing it to remain closed, then slowly released his breath as the passerby continued down the hallway.
He returned to his reading.
Alexandra Pace, one of the world’s leading neurologists, is employed by Horizon Biotherapies. She specializes in the quest for a cure or treatment for diseases caused by infectious proteins, more commonly known as prions. Few doctors have encountered prion diseases among their patients, but since the outbreak of mad cow disease in Europe, the threat of such illnesses hangs like a specter over mankind.
Prions—ordinary proteins that have somehow become misfolded— not only do not function properly in the body, but they cannot be eliminated or rendered harmless by enzymes. As they accumulate, they cause the patient to lose coordination, mental function, and speech. Often patients experience dementia or sleeplessness. Death usually occurs within two years after the onset of symptoms.
The quest for a cure brings Dr. Pace to Peru. When asked what she hopes to find within our country, the pretty American smiled and replied, “Nice people. Beautiful views. And hope.”
She went on to cite the recent rainforest discovery of a substance that enhances the action of adenosine, a brain chemical that reduces the effects of strokes and may help combat Alzheimer’s disease. She explains: “According to anthropologists, the Matses, a Peruvian tribe, use a particular frog to cure hunters of what we would call burnout. Whenever a weary hunter wishes to ‘take frog,’ another man finds the frog and harasses it, scrapes the defensively produced mucus off its skin, then burns the hunter with a hot twig. To the burn he then applies the frog mucus mixed with saliva. The hunter becomes violently ill for a few hours, but he awakens the next morning eager to hunt. And while I don’t know much about hunters or Peruvian natives, I am vitally interested in chemical compounds that affect brain function.”
When asked if she believes the frog mucus contains some bacteria or virus that will help her find a cure for prion diseases, she answers, “I have no idea, but at this point I’m open to any experiment. Researchers recently discovered a small molecule drug that can stop the misfolding of prions before they begin to malfunction. I’m looking for a molecule that can undo the damage caused by misfolded prions that result in brain disease. I am hoping to find that catalyst here in Peru.”
The American researcher, who lives in Atlanta and is employed by the company sponsoring the expedition, went on to cite several pertinent statistics: “Seventy percent of all prescription drugs in the United States come from plants found only in the rainforest. More than 90 percent of all the world’s plant and animal species live in the tropics. The rainforest contains the very biology of our planet, and if cures for our illnesses exist, I believe they can be found here.”
Michael gripped the edges of the newspaper as a slight coldness settled around his bones. He had never heard a local doctor speak of encephalopathies; few American physicians even knew what a prion was.
But his colleagues at London’s St. George’s Hospital knew all about prion-induced diseases. In their own wards they had treated variations of Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease, and under their microscopes they had peered at evidence of kuru and bovine spongiform encephalopathy, more commonly known as mad cow disease. BSE had frightened the country spitless in the late 1990s, resulting in the destruction of over half a million cattle . . . and the deaths of 107 people, including Michael’s wife.
The empty air around him seemed to vibrate, the silence filling with remembered dread. Slowly, he lowered the newspaper.
“If you find a cure for prion diseases, Dr. Pace, I’ll kiss your bloomin’ feet.”
1 APRIL 2003
4:45 P.M.
By the time the sun had begun to drift toward the horizon, Lazaro had the crew of the canopy expedition back on the river highway that led to their jungle lodge. Leaning forward on her elbows, Alex stared at the water and tried to relax. The river flowed quietly here, eddying around the occasional log or fallen tree like melted chocolate pouring over Twix candy bars.
She smiled at the image—she must be hungrier than she realized, or maybe she was just craving chocolate. Out here, miles from a grocery store, she wasn’t likely to satisfy a craving for anything but fish, rice, or plantains.
The Yarapa River, one of the many tributaries feeding the mighty Amazon, bore little resemblance to the wide thoroughfare they had traveled as they left Iquitos. The Amazon had been rough with waves and occasional whitecaps, and one of the guides told Alex it was not unusual for sudden rainstorms to swamp a small canoe and drown its occupants.
Studying the boat provided by the lodge, she could understand why the vessels swamped so easily. Even this boat, framed with benches around the sides and a wooden subfloor to keep the tourists’ feet dry, rode with the gunwales only a few inches above the water. She could easily trail her fingertips in the brown liquid . . . and might have been tempted to if she hadn’t known about the anacondas, caimans, and piranhas that lived in these waters.
The Indians, on the other hand, carved their boats from fallen trees. Their long, narrow, and extremely shallow canoes lacked benches or subfloors to provide comfort for passengers. After examining a native canoe at the lodge, Alex concluded that riding in it would not be much different from paddling on a rough-hewn plank.
The water swirled beside her now, quietly absorbing the passage of the boat. Lazaro sat in the bow, keeping an eye out for fallen logs, while one of the boys from the lodge steered from the stern. Her exhausted teammates had fallen silent, only an occasional camera click broke into the musical duet of the jungle and the outboard motor. Alex closed her eyes, relishing the breath of wind on her face. If her muscles hadn’t ached, it would have been a truly magical moment.
She let her head fall back as the putt-putt of the outboard motor slowed and Yarupapa Lodge appeared through the jungle foliage. The motor died; the boat floated toward the dock.
One of the young men who worked at the lodge extended his hand as the boat nudged the tires against the wooden pilings. “Gracias,” Alex murmured, allowing him to pull her up. She clumped across the deck on legs that felt stumpy and uncoordinated, then laughed when she looked around and saw that the others were walking the same way.
“I thought I’d never put my feet on a proper floor again,” Lauren moaned, one hand pressed to her forehead as Ken Carlton led her away.
Olsson peered at his arm as he walked; when he reached Alex, he pointed toward a pair of red welts on the back of his wrist. “Do you see this? There are cruel flies in these bushes. I did not even feel them biting, yet look at my arm—”
“It’s the law of the jungle, Olsson.” Deborah Simons goodnaturedly patted Olsson on the shoulder as she passed by. “Don’t take it personally. But I have some ointment in my room, and I’ll bring it to you at dinner.”
Dinner! Alex drew a deep breath and breathed in a wave of delicious scents. She didn’t know what the lodge chef was preparing, but she was fully prepared to eat first and identify foods later. Caitlyn might not be so accepting, however.
Waving farewell to her teammates, Alex hurried to keep a longoverdue appointment with the rest room, then made her way to the cool shade of the screened walkway that led into the dining room. Herman Myers, the manager, sat at a round table playing cards with some of the lodge staff.
She nodded a greeting, then lifted her chin as
Myers stood. “Buenos tardes, señor. Have you seen my daughter?”
Myers stared into the distance and tapped his chin with his index finger. “Your daughter . . . yes, I saw her in the hammock room a little while ago. We visited the village at Puerto Miguel today, and the ladies were tired. I believe you’ll find your daughter and the other guests napping in the hammocks.”
Alex thanked him, then forced her tired legs to traverse the long dining room. A chalkboard on an easel announced that dinner would be served at 6:00 P.M.—in just over an hour. Perhaps she could talk Caitlyn into a cold shower before dinner—Alex knew she had never felt more in need of one.
The hammock room lay just outside the dining hall. As she opened the screened door, for a fleeting instant Alex thought it should have been called a hammock hut. The lovely octagonal shelter featured eight hammocks attached to a stout center pole like the spokes of a giant wheel. A river breeze wafted through the screens while lizards rustled in the thatched roof overhead.
Alex entered quietly, then approached one of the gently creaking hammocks. One of the American tourists lay inside, her eyes closed and her manicured hands resting atop an open John Grisham novel.
Wrong hammock. Alex tiptoed to the next occupied hammock and immediately realized the body encased within was far too adult.
She had turned to leave when a drowsy voice broke the stillness: “Did you have a good day up in the trees?”
Turning, she greeted the brown-haired woman in the hammock. “Yes, thank you, we did. Ms. Somerville, isn’t it?”
“Call me Gayla, please.” The woman’s lips parted in a bleached smile, dazzling against her tanned skin. “We had a good day, too. I brought several T-shirts to trade, and the villagers seemed happy to get them. I’ll be taking home a purse, some baskets, and a piranha jaw necklace—the girls at my garden club will love that.”
Though she yearned to find her daughter, Alex forced herself to make polite conversation. “I hope my little girl wasn’t a bother. Did Caitlyn enjoy the trading?”
“She seemed to have a ball—except when one little boy started crying because she ran out of candy. His mother couldn’t get him to stop.”
Rolling her eyes, Alex edged toward the door. “I told her not to take candy to the village. I doubt there’s a dentist within fifty miles of this place, so the last thing those children need is sugar.”
Gayla shrugged. “Whatever. The day was quite an experience, but I am absolutely exhausted.” Straightening, she suddenly looked at Alex as if a cloud of weariness had evaporated from her brain. “By the way, that’s one smart little girl you’ve got there. What is she, a genius?”
Alex took another step toward the screened door. “Pretty close.”
The woman snorted a laugh. “Must be some kind of prodigy. One of the guides taught her a few words of Spanish, and before we left she was jabbering with those kids like she’d been born there.” She frowned. “At least, I think she was making sense. But what do I know?”
“She has a gift for languages . . . among other things.” Alex pushed the door open. “Well, I’d better find Caitlyn and try to talk her into cleaning up for dinner. Have you seen her lately? Mr. Myers thought she might be in here.”
Gayla swung her legs out of the hammock, then looked around. “She was here, but she must have slipped out while I was napping. She said something about walking along the riverbank to look for fish. Mr. Myers was going to let her borrow his fishing spear.”
Memories of the piranha sent a sudden chill up Alex’s spine. The local residents probably thought nothing of sending their children out to hunt with spears and machetes, but Caitlyn was a sheltered American girl . . . and supremely overconfident of her abilities.
“She’s probably in your room.” The other woman, a heavier, older version of Gayla, sat up in her hammock. “You know how kids are. They always go home when they’re tired.”
“I’m sure you’re right.” Alex nodded at each of the sisters. “See you at dinner, then.”
She hesitated on the elevated plank platform that led to the guest rooms. The bungalows lay deeper in the forest, away from the river and the common areas. Should she walk along the riverbank just to be sure she hadn’t missed Caitlyn?
Jumping from the walkway, she walked over stubby grass and past a cluster of hibiscus bushes. She could see the river’s edge to her left and right, but she saw no sign of her daughter. A group of the young men who served as lodge staff were laughing and smoking on the dock, while dozens of yellow butterflies danced around a rowboat half-filled with water.
Alex turned and moved over the wooden sidewalk, humming to the rhythm of her steps on the wooden planks. Everything had been built above ground here; every building and permanent walkway rose from the ground on stilts. She had read that this part of the world did not experience four seasons. Because the lodge lay only three degrees south of the Equator, twelve-hour days were followed by twelve-hour nights and all seasons offered virtually the same climate. Rain fell two out of every three days at a rate of about 120 inches per year.
She came to a gap between the buildings and peered around a clump of shrubs. “Caitlyn?” The silence of the woods swallowed her voice.
Shaking her head, Alex moved on toward their bungalow. They were lucky, Myers had told them after their arrival, because they had come at the end of the flood season. Most of the areas they wanted to visit were still accessible by boat. The floodwaters did not come from rainfall, but from water accumulating in the distant Andes Mountains, where glaciers melted and runoff collected in scores of tributaries that poured their waters into the Amazon. The rivers began to rise in October; by November, the river would lap against the landing outside Yarupapa’s dining hall and completely flood many Yagua villages. By mid-April, however, the waters would begin to subside as the mountain glaciers froze and precipitation in the Andes shifted from rain to snow. By July and August, the villagers and tourists would be traveling through the jungle on foot, and wide lakes that had provided fish and eel in November and December would be planted with rice, beans, and watermelon.
Turning left on the walkway, Alex glanced up at the sky, which was still bright and clear. Thankfully, it had not rained this morning on the canopy raft. She couldn’t imagine how slippery the raft might become in the midst of a tropical rainstorm, but the experience wasn’t at all appealing.
After reaching the bungalow she shared with Caitlyn, she studied the door and frowned. No doorknobs or locks secured these doors, only hook-and-eye latches on both sides—to block creatures while you were out and intruders while you were in. The outside latch had been secured, which meant Caitlyn had either found a way to latch the hook-and-eye from the inside . . . or she wasn’t in the room.
To be certain, Alex flipped the hook and opened the door. “Caitlyn?”
The room lay silent and still amid the chirping of the cicadas. The lodge, while modern and pleasant, took pains to allow its guests to feel at home in the rainforest. Two screened walls opened to the jungle at the side and rear; the middle wall faced an adjoining bungalow; the solid front allowed a measure of privacy. Two wooden benches occupied the square room, matched by two beds, each securely enclosed by opaque mosquito netting. Two small ledges had been built into the wall; one of these supported an oil lamp and a packet of matches, while the other held a pitcher of purified drinking water and several plastic cups.
Caitlyn’s suitcase lay open on the floor, her clothing scattered about. A pair of mud-spattered sneakers jutted from beneath a bench, which meant she was traipsing around the jungle in her rubber flipflops . . . or her bare feet. A towel hung over the foot of her bed, and Alex’s fingertips encountered dampness when she touched it. Either Caitlyn had already showered, or the cotton towel had soaked up humidity from the air.
After peeking into the mosquito netting over both beds, Alex whirled on the ball of her foot and left the room, letting the screen door slam behind her. Her naturally gregarious daughter was probably
charming the kitchen staff with her gift for mimicry, or she might be sitting on the dock watching the swarming butterflies. No—she hadn’t been there a moment ago, so she might be trying to attract butterflies down by the river. Dishwashing liquid would do it, one of the guides had explained. One squirt in standing water attracted butterflies like nothing else, and Caitlyn found that sort of thing fascinating.
Alex pressed her hand to her chest as her lungs began to tighten. No—she would not freak out. The pounding of her heart resulted from a mother’s natural concern, not a panic attack. She would find her daughter in a moment, and everything would be all right.
Breaking into a jog, Alex passed the women’s bathrooms, then wheeled and barged through the swinging door. Of course! Caitlyn had to be in either the shower or one of the rustic toilet stalls. Being ten, she might be perched on a stepstool before the mirror, sneaking a peek at herself in a forbidden shade of lipstick. Maybe she’d raided one of the Somerville sisters’ purses.
“Caitlyn?” Alex grimaced as the door slammed behind her, then moved farther into the Spartan facility. Every visible surface had been painted in a glossy gray enamel, the better, she guessed, to reveal the dark brown cucarachas that scurried for shelter every time sunlight pierced the shadowy room.
“Caitlyn? I’m not in the mood to play games.”
A cockroach clung to the rim of the white enamel sink as Alex waited for an answer. Hearing no answer, she moved from stall to stall, opening doors and finding nothing but plumbing fixtures and termite trails.
