by Angela Hunt
Turning, she winced at the bite of an instinctive stab of fear. She had checked all the obvious places and public areas. Surely Caitlyn knew she shouldn’t be hanging around the kitchen while the staff worked to prepare dinner. She had always been good about obeying the rules when they traveled, but the Somerville sisters might not have been the most interesting companions . . . especially when they were snoozing in hammocks.
Caitlyn didn’t like napping, never had. Even as a toddler, her active little brain had compelled her hands and feet to search out all kinds of mischief.
Alex left the rest room and jogged to the dining hall, then opened the screened door. She breezed by Lazaro and a couple of other staff members as she marched toward the kitchen area. Someone called out her name as she passed, but Alex had no time for anything but finding her daughter.
She pushed open another door, then found herself staring at two native women with wide brown eyes.
“My daughter,” she said, wishing she remembered more of her highschool Spanish. “Me hija. Do you know—donde esta . . . me hija?”
The women glanced at each other, then shook their heads. One of them wiped her hands on an apron and began to chatter in Spanish, but Alex couldn’t understand a word. She blinked away tears and turned, nearly bumping into Herman Myers.
“Your daughter?” he asked, clearly reading the distress on her face. “Was she not in a hammock?”
“No, she wasn’t in a hammock.” Alex bit her lip, trying to maintain control of her rebellious emotions. “She wasn’t in our room or in the bathroom. Where else could she be, Mr. Myers?”
Propping one hand on his hip, Myers surveyed the dining hall as if he expected Caitlyn to pop up from beneath a table at any moment. Finally, he scratched his neck. “There are the gardens.” Limply, he gestured toward the jungle. “And the river. You don’t think she would go down one of the trails, do you?”
“She’s not stupid.” Alex bit down on her lower lip; she hadn’t meant to speak with such animosity. “Will you check the gardens, Mr. Myers? I’m going to walk along the river.”
She did not wait to hear his response, but set out with a long-legged stride any of the men might have envied. “I’ll send Lazaro with you,” Myers called, but Alex didn’t wait. She exited the dining hall, jumped from the porch to the soft green grass, and began jogging toward the water’s edge.
The late afternoon air was heavy, warm, and still, filled with a quiet malevolence that painted her frustration with fear. Caitlyn was a good kid; she wouldn’t disobey. They were hundreds of miles from civilization, so she couldn’t have been snatched by an insane serial killer. No drunken drivers whizzed by this lodge, so she wasn’t lying in an emergency room somewhere. These people had never known the kind of fear that resulted from drive-by shootings and sniper attacks, so Alex had nothing to worry about—
Just jaguars and poisonous snakes and tarantulas.
“Twinkle, twinkle . . .”
Pausing, she leaned against a tree and forced herself to draw deep, steady breaths. She had to focus. Look around, study her surroundings, look for intelligent clues. If she panicked, she’d miss something.
Though an eel of fear still wriggled in her bowels, Alex lifted her chin and walked across the grass. Whoever maintained the landscaping had done a good job; the grounds could have vied with any resort in the world for flowers and plants. A colorful Heliconia in glorious bloom dangled from a tree beside the path; wild orchids festooned the limbs of sheltering trees and splashed the landscape with color. But after a moment of scanning the grounds, Alex turned her eyes to the river and concentrated on the soggy shoreline.
Spearfishing, one of the Somervilles had said. Caitlyn wanted to try spearfishing. So she would have walked this way, followed this shifting and watery boundary. Yet the grass was damp and slippery; with one misstep anyone could fall in. The water wasn’t especially deep or dangerous, but caimans lived in this river, and those cousins of the crocodile had been known to drag dogs and wild pigs into the water.
Slapping at mosquitoes, Alex moved steadily along the shoreline, eyes alert for some evidence of her daughter’s presence. Twenty yards from the dining hall, the grass ended abruptly, and in the mud she saw a footprint— a small indentation made by a rubber sandal. Caitlyn’s flip-flop.
Alex caught her breath as she spied a round hole in the sand. She had never seen a fishing spear, but if it looked anything like a fireplace andiron, it might leave a mark like this if pressed into the mud.
She hurried on, following the footprints until they vanished in another patch of grass. Mosquitoes swarmed amid a tangle of hanging foliage, and in her determination to bat them away she walked face first into a spider web. Spitting and swatting, she stumbled up the embankment, then froze.
On the grass, barely ten feet away, coiled the largest snake she had ever seen. It undulated in loose curves over the earth, its powerful neck extended, its tongue flicking in her direction, tasting her scent.
Anaconda.
Terror lodged in her throat, making it impossible to speak or scream.
The snake hissed, its tongue darting toward her in quick strokes. Her brain screamed run! but fear paralyzed her legs. Helpless to flee, she recoiled even as her gaze swept over the gigantic body of the beast . . . and spied a suspicious bulge in the snake’s midsection.
Alex’s heart congealed into a small lump of terror. She stood motionless, staring at the bulge, while a single droplet of sweat traced the course of her spine.
How did anacondas kill? They suffocated their victims, squeezing the life-giving oxygen out of them. Often they attacked at the water’s edge and held their victims underwater until drowned. Then they leisurely opened their jaws and swallowed their victims whole . . .
As a strangled sob rose from her chest, silver flashed at the corner of her eye. Trembling, she turned to see Lazaro standing beside her, his eyes dark and focused, a machete in his hand.
“Go back inside.” He did not look at her, but kept his attention focused on the snake. “It has eaten. If we leave it alone, it will slide into the water and leave us.”
Propelled by panic, Alex clawed at Lazaro’s arm. “My daughter is missing. I saw her footprints here, by the river. And she is a very little girl.”
He turned to her then, and she knew she would never forget the look of horror in his eyes.
1 APRIL 2003
5:27 P.M.
Startled, Michael looked up as Fortuna rapped on his open door. His nurse had usually gone home by this hour.
“What is it, Fortuna?”
“The patient—the man with the stab wound. I checked on him for you. Esma is still with him, and she sent me to get you.”
Michael swung his legs off the desk. “Is his condition deteriorating?”
“Yes, but it is the story that concerns Esma.”
“His story? She understands him?”
“Enough. He is talking, she is picking up a few things, but she says he talks like a man out of his head.”
“That’s not surprising, really. I would expect some sort of delirium in his condition. What I find surprising is the fact he’s able to talk at all.”
Michael glanced at his watch—long past time for dinner, and nearly sunset. He ought to go home himself. He snorted at the thought. What on earth for?
Nodding, he looked up at his nurse. “Thank you. I’ll go tell Esma she can go home. We can’t expect her to conduct a bedside vigil for every native who wanders out of the jungle.”
Fortuna’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “She does not mind, el doctor. But please, she wishes to speak to you.”
Blowing out his cheeks, Michael pushed back from his desk. The day would never end unless he locked his office and went back to his flat. Sooner or later, he would.
Yet nothing waited for him there but impersonal furnishings and a television spewing out Spanish-language programs that only muddled his thoughts . . . and made him long for home.
1 APRIL 2003
5:30 P.M.
Before Lazaro could act, the still air over the riverbank shivered into bits, a thunderlike blast scattering the birds that had flown in to roost for the night. The restless anaconda’s head fell to the ground with a soft thud, and Alex fell with it. She sat down hard on the wet earth, feeling the grass beneath her fingers as she looked up and saw Herman Myers with a shotgun in his hand.
The blast had torn through the huge serpent’s body and Lazaro wasted no time. With the expertise of a surgeon he sliced the stillshuddering carcass open, then stepped back, caught Myers’ eye, and shook his head.
Alex closed her eyes as the world went black. She reached for something to cling to, felt the strong firmness of a human hand, and would have fainted if not for a childish voice that snapped her back to reality—
“Mom? What’s going on?”
Energized by that voice, Alex opened her eyes and scrambled toward her daughter. Deborah Simons gripped Alex’s arm, helping her to her feet, and she realized that the commotion had brought everyone from the dining hall, including her daughter. Mud-smeared and frizzyhaired, Caitlyn stood beside one of the staff boys, a bucket of fish in one hand and an iron spear in the other.
“Caitlyn!” Alex rushed forward and drew her daughter into her arms. “I thought you were . . . lost.”
“I’ve been fishing.” Caitlyn’s muffled voice came from within their embrace. “Tito took me to a special place where it’s quiet. Look what I caught.”
Not quite willing to release her daughter, Alex peered over the top of Caitlyn’s head. Half a dozen gaping piranha lay wide-eyed inside the bucket, yet Caitlyn didn’t seem to have a scratch on her.
The situation was typical Caitlyn. The child learned best by doing, touching, and tasting, so she’d probably learned more about piranha in ten minutes with Tito than she would if she’d read a dozen articles on the subject.
Closing her eyes, Alex pressed her lips together. Part of her wanted to scream out her frustration, to scold Caitlyn for worrying her so, but if she vented those emotions now she might completely lose control. Besides, Caitlyn hadn’t broken any rules. So it was better to be silent, to rein in her feelings . . . and brace herself for her daughter’s next stunt.
Fortunately, Caitlyn didn’t seem to realize the horror that had risen in Alex’s imagination. Pulling out of Alex’s embrace, she looked past Lazaro, then her jaw dropped at the sight of the huge serpent. An instant later her nose crinkled in disgust. “Ugh! Gotta be an anaconda, right, Mom?”
“I think so. Yes, I’m sure of it.” Alex forced a laugh. “Ugly, isn’t it?”
“Did it scare you or something? You’re as white as chalk.”
“Something like that.”
With her arm firmly around her daughter’s shoulders, Alex turned in time to see Lazaro peel back a thick flap of snakeskin to reveal the creature’s last meal: a pig?
“It’s a tapir,” Caitlyn’s voice warmed with recognition. “I wondered if we’d see one. Never thought we’d see one like this.”
“What’s a tapir?”
“An ungulate mammal with a bulky body, short legs, and a head characterized by a short, flexible proboscis, small eyes, and erect ears.”
“And I suppose you know what ungulate means?”
Caitlyn snorted. “Hooves, Mom. Everybody knows that.”
The Amazonian version of a wild pig, then.
Feeling weak-kneed, Alex turned and led her daughter toward the bungalow. “Why don’t you and I get cleaned up for dinner?” she said, trying to keep her tone light. “I want to hear all about your fishing.”
“It was great, Mom. Tito says you don’t have to be afraid of piranha— he swims in the water all the time. They won’t bite unless you’re bleeding.”
“All the same, I don’t want you to go swimming unless there are lots of other people around. On second thought, stay out of the water all together, okay? I’ll take you swimming when we get home—in a nice, clean pool. I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”
As Alex ran her fingers through Caitlyn’s tousled hair, profound gratitude washed over her, a feeling so intense and overwhelming that for an instant she almost wished God existed . . . just so she could say thank you.
1 APRIL 2003
5:40 P.M.
Leaving Fortuna to close up his office, Michael walked with long strides to the postoperative ward. The hospital had grown quiet in the last hour; most people completed their business well before five o’clock. Except in the seediest parts of the city, the approach of sunset sent most of the locals scurrying to their homes. He suspected the habit had its roots in jungle life, where darkness and danger walked as one.
He found the injured native in a curtained cubicle. Esma sat in a chair, her head propped against the wall, her eyes closed. Not wanting to disturb her, Michael picked up the chart and skimmed the ward nurse’s notations. The patient’s kidneys had completely shut down. His respiratory rate had increased. His lungs would fail next, followed rapidly by his liver and brain.
He frowned as he read the man’s temperature—thirty-nine degrees Celsius, so the patient was still febrile.
The chart clattered against the railing on the bed, startling Esma into wakefulness. She looked up and blushed when she saw Michael. “I am sorry to have stayed here so long.” She glanced at the unconscious patient. “I think he is sleeping now. I would have gone, but I wanted to tell you what I learned.”
Michael slipped his hands into his pockets. “I’m sorry, Esma, I should have come sooner. I hope you were able to get the name of a relative. I do not think he will live until morning.”
A tremor touched the clerk’s thin lips. “He knows he will die. He says the Spirit of keyba told him he would die soon after reaching the big naba village. But he is not afraid.”
Michael crossed one arm over his chest. “Hold on a moment— what’s a keyba?”
Esma wagged her head. “I do not know—the word is not Yagua. He said many things I could not understand—and I am not sure of the things I think I did understand. His story is incredible—”
“Why don’t I grab a chair so we can discuss it? Tell me as much as you can.”
As the patient stirred on the bed, Esma rose to wipe his forehead with a cool cloth. A nice woman, Michael thought, stepping across the hall to fetch an unused chair from another cubicle. A clerk with a nurse’s compassion.
When the native had stilled, Esma sat down and consulted a notepad she had pulled from her pocket. “He would not say his name, of course, but I discovered it by asking incidental questions.”
Michael sank into his chair. “How do you do that?”
Esma lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I asked him who would be missing from his village if we were to journey there. The answer was Ya-ree.”
Michael nodded, looking at his patient with new eyes. No longer was the man a nameless native, he was Ya-ree, from. . .
“The name of his village?”
“I’m not sure they have a proper name. But he says he was born into the tribe of the feroz pueblo—you would say the Angry People.”
Michael frowned. “I’ve never heard of such a tribe.”
Leaning forward, Esma lowered her voice to a confidential tone. “Neither have I, except in my grandmother’s legends. They say the feroz pueblo are powerful cannibals who live deep in the jungle. They say the people of that tribe can move like spirits on the air without being seen.”
Michael crossed his arms, not knowing whether to laugh aloud or pretend sincere interest. “Obviously,” he began, taking care to speak slowly, “this man is visible, so your grandmother got the story wrong. But please, go on.”
Esma glanced at her notes, then shot a guilty look toward the man on the bed. “He said he left the feroz pueblo when he realized he was dying of the shuddering disease like his mother and father before him. He had begun to tremble, and he knew it was only a matter of time before he could not walk. So he traveled four days to the village of
his enemies, the people he had been taught to hate—the árbol pueblo, the Tree People who worshiped the Spirit of keyba and had the gift of healing.”
Michael chuckled. “Now you’ve completely lost me . . . and I think our patient has lost his mental faculties. One of the signs of dementia is a reversion to childhood, and it sounds like Yar-pee here—”
“Ya-ree,” Esma corrected.
“Ya-ree, then. It sounds like he is reciting every childhood myth the village shaman ever taught him. If he told you he ascended through the clouds and flew like an eagle over the jungle—”
“Actually,” Esma lowered her notepad, “he said he walked to the top of the keyba and met the luz—the light—which cured him of the shuddering disease. He remained with the árbol people many seasons, until the shaman of that village sent him to find a naba.”
Michael raked his hand through his hair. “You’ve used that word before—what is a naba?”
“A non-Indian. Ya-ree set out, but on the journey he ran into a group of warriors from the Angry People. They chased him and stabbed him with the spear, but the Spirit of keyba sent lights to guide him to the river. The Spirit said he was not to worry, for his duty would be accomplished once he reached the big village where a naba would take care of him.”
“Just curious—was I mentioned by name in any of this rambling?” Esma’s small smile faded. “Of course not, Doctor.”
“Well, then. It’s an interesting tale, but patently unbelievable.” Michael drew a deep breath, then glanced over at his patient. “Why did his appearance frighten my orderly?”
Esma pressed her lips together. “The tattoos.”
Against the stark whiteness of the covering bedsheet, the dark tattoos that marked the patient’s face and chest stood out more than ever. “What about them? Are they some sort of symbols?”
“Apparently they are the tribal markings of the Angry People.”
Michael lifted a brow. “You weren’t frightened.”
