by Angela Hunt
Leaning forward on her knees, she propped her chin on her fist and tried to disguise her annoyance in front of the others. So the man in the chopper had business at the lodge—fine, but why was he still here? Anyone in such an all-fired hurry should have completed his business and rushed off by now. If Mr. Baseball Cap were still around, she could only surmise that the pilot’s mission had not been a matter of life and death . . . though it had nearly created a life-and-death situation for the canopy team.
Milos Olsson must have been thinking the same thoughts. “Stupid fool is still here,” he muttered, tossing his gear onto the dock as the boat pulled alongside it. “If that’s some millionaire dropping in for a nighttime caiman search, I’ll—”
The sound of footsteps interrupted his threat. Alex looked up to see Herman Myers and another white man turn the corner. The stranger, a clear-eyed, stubble-cheeked thirty-something at least a foot taller than Myers, had lost the baseball cap. The pleated trousers and a polished cotton shirt he wore hinted at refinement, but his trousers were wrinkled and patches of perspiration marked the underarms of the shirt. Despite his disheveled state, he moved in an attitude of selfcontrol and studied relaxation, his black hair falling over his collar and gleaming in the fading sunlight. One curl casually brushed his forehead, giving him the windblown look of a spoiled tourist who had just choppered in for a bit of sightseeing. As much as she wanted to be irritated at the intrusion, the sight of such an unexpectedly attractive visitor caught Alex off guard.
Lifting his hand, Myers pointed directly at Alex. “That’s the woman you want.”
To her annoyance, she felt herself blush.
The stranger came forward with long strides, offering his hand to help her out of the boat. “Dr. Pace? Mr. Myers said I might find you here.”
She narrowed her eyes, trying to place his accent. He was not American—maybe English or Australian. Unless English was his second language; in that case, he could have come from anywhere.
“It’s Pah-chay.” She tossed her bag onto the dock. “I use the Italian pronunciation.”
“I beg your pardon.”
Ignoring his outstretched hand, she stepped onto the boat bench, then leaped onto the dock, rocking the boat. Behind her Olsson began to mutter in Swedish while Deborah Simons suffered a sudden fit of giggles.
The blasted man persisted with the outstretched hand. “Forgive the intrusion, Dr. Pace. I’m Michael Kenway, a physician practicing at the Regional Hospital in Iquitos.”
He had to be English—his manners were too polished to be Australian. The few Aussies she’d met in her travels were more freewheeling and a thousand times more field-savvy than this guy.
Reluctantly, she shook the interloper’s hand. “What brings you out to Yarupapa, Dr. Kenway? I certainly hope it was a medical emergency— snakebite, perhaps? Caiman attack?”
He released her hand. “Not an emergency, I’m afraid—unless you consider the term in a broad sense.”
“Really?” Slinging her bag over her shoulder, she began to follow her departing teammates toward the dining hall. “I figured it would have to be something extremely important to make a helicopter pilot nearly knock a team of researchers off a canopy raft.”
The doctor fell into step beside her. “I’m sorry. I tried to warn the fellow away, but he was curious.”
“Well, that excuses it, then. Except that you weren’t content to blast us with rotor wash or whatever you call it, but you also nearly inflicted another variety of violent and painful death upon us. Were you aware, Doctor, that your little buzzing of our work area kicked a wasps’ nest onto our platform? And that nest of extremely large and terribly potent wasps landed only inches from the porthole through which we had to descend?”
A faint smile hovered about his lips as he slipped both hands into his pockets. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Perhaps you didn’t know that certain species of the Amazonian wasp can paralyze with one sting—and cause even more problems if a human is allergic to the venom. But, being the big-shot doctor you are, I suspect you were prepared to intubate anyone who stopped breathing—”
“That’s quite enough.” Turning in front of her, he blocked her path, halting the torrent of her words. “I’m trying to apologize, if you will only listen. I didn’t know about the wasps, and I didn’t know the helicopter would create such a problem. But when I rented the chopper, I happened to tell the pilot what sort of work you were doing, so the bloke was naturally curious. The moment I realized he’d spotted you and was descending, I tried to warn him off, but apparently I didn’t speak forcefully—or accurately—enough. For my weak Spanish, I apologize. For causing you trouble, I apologize. For being here, I apologize. If there’s anything else for which you’d like me to apologize, you had better tell me quickly because you, Dr. Pace, have taxed the limits of my patience.”
She stared at him as a thought that she’d pushed aside resurfaced in her brain—this foolhardy doctor was an incredibly attractive guy.
In that lay a major problem.
She swallowed hard. “You’re a man.”
He blinked. “Am I supposed to apologize for that?”
“It might help. I’ve had bad experiences with men.”
“Obviously.”
He stood there, tall and irritated, and in that moment Alex realized he would not be intimidated.
She changed her tactics. “You told your idiot pilot what sort of work I was doing?”
“Yes.”
“Me, personally? Or the entire team?”
“You, personally.” Holding her stare, he crossed his arms. “If you would stop firing salvos in my direction, Dr. Pace, I think you’ll be interested in what I’ve come to tell you.”
“I fail to see how you could know anything that would interest me or—”
“I have information regarding a spongiform encephalopathy case in Iquitos.”
Alex caught her breath. Mad cow disease had not yet been reported in South America. So this had to be either a genuine case of sporadic disease or . . .
She frowned as another thought occurred. “How did you know about my interest in prion diseases?”
“I read the article.”
“What article?”
“In the Lima newspaper, El Tiempo. They even had a nice picture of you . . . though, I must say, I don’t think it did you justice.”
Good grief, was he flirting with her? She brought the meaty part of her palm to her forehead, wishing she could remember what she’d told the reporter. Probably nothing. After all, not even Carlton knew about her personal link to her work.
Lowering her hand, she focused her gaze on the doctor. “I’d like to know why you think your patient has spongiform encephalopathy.”
“Had—he expired last night.”
“You discovered spongiform tissue postmortem?”
“Yes.”
“You did the autopsy?”
“This morning.”
She shook her head. “I don’t mean to disparage your methods, Dr. Kenway, but I doubt you have the proper equipment for a proper diagnosis.”
“This afternoon I confirmed the results in Lima under an electron microscope. With my own eyes I observed spongiform brain tissue and scrapie-associated fibrils. I know what I saw, Dr. Pace. I saw prions.”
Alex closed her eyes as surprise siphoned the blood from her head. Thirty seconds ago she would have thought it impossible to find a Peruvian prion patient or a physician who could discern a prion from a paramecium . . .
She studied the planks on the walkway. “Did you train in neurology?”
“Pediatrics. But I worked with several BSE patients in London during the outbreaks.”
“About your patient—any family history of the disease?”
“We couldn’t take a family history. The man walked out of the jungle thirty-six hours ago. He spoke an odd Indian dialect—we were fortunate to find anyone who could understand him.”
Abruptly,
she lifted her head. “You say he walked out of the jungle? A patient in the last stages of a prion disease does not walk.”
“That’s why I came to see you. My patient died from acute sepsis due to bowel perforation—he’d been wounded with a stone spear.”
She rubbed her forehead. Of course. The infection had ended his life before the disease could, perhaps the infection had been a mercy. Still . . .
She lifted her eyes to find him studying her. “Does your standard autopsy include a microscopic examination of brain tissue?”
His expression changed, some stray thought quirking the corner of his mouth. “Not when I have twenty patients waiting.”
“Then why did you go the extra mile?”
His gaze shifted, his eyes momentarily darting up to the thatched roof as if he were appealing to a higher authority. “I looked because the patient told our interpreter that he had been stricken by the shuddering disease years earlier. Knowing he would soon weaken and die, he fled to a nearby tribe known as the Tree People and lived with them for years. He was searching for a white man’s village when he encountered the spear-chucker.”
“I fail to see—”
“The Tree People healed him, Dr. Pace. Though his brain tissue was riddled with prions, I observed no symptoms of encephalopathy in his body. He had good muscle tone, strong legs, and he was ambulatory even after his wounding.”
For a moment Alex could do nothing but stammer while her head swarmed with words, then paralysis loosened its grip on her tongue. “I should warn you, Doctor, that I don’t like games, particularly when the hour is late and I’m tired and hungry. The circumstances you’ve described cannot be accurate.”
“Are you certain?” The setting sun gilded his face as he challenged her. “I, too, thought the story incredible until I saw prions under the EM. If his story is true, Dr. Pace, a cure for prion diseases exists . . . and it lies somewhere in the jungle.”
Blank, amazed, and shaken, she could only stare at him as his words faded into the gathering shadows.
2 APRIL 2003
6:30 P.M.
Watching Dr. Alexandra Pace from the corner of his eye, Michael sliced a piece of catfish with his fork as the researcher pushed the fringe of hair away from her eyes, then rested her cheek on her hand. For the last half-hour she had alternated between staring at her untouched plate and peppering him with questions about his deceased patient. His answers, he noted with relief, apparently intrigued her, for though she seemed to find him as irritating as a rash, she had not yet told him to bugger off.
The helicopter pilot seemed in no hurry to leave. He sat with the lodge staff at a table next to the kitchen, where beer and laughter flowed like water. Michael had tried to follow their conversation during one of Dr. Pace’s lapses into silence, but their Spanish seemed more fluid than Fortuna’s.
His nurse and the other hospital staff, he decided after a few minutes, had been speaking a Spanish version of baby talk for his benefit.
Sighing, he returned his attention to his own dinner companions. Dr. Pace had offered quick, perfunctory introductions around the table, and Michael was still trying to match names and titles with faces.
The child obviously belonged to Alexandra Pace, for they shared the same petite build, light brown hair, and brown eyes. After taking the empty seat to Michael’s right, Caitlyn had not hesitated to tell him she was ten years old and studying tenth-grade material. “It’s our version of independent study,” she had said, sitting on her hands and swinging her feet in wide arcs while she waited for the servers to bring their food. “I’ve learned Spanish since we came to Peru, and Tito has promised to teach me some Yagua tomorrow. I expect I will know five or six new languages by the time we get back to Atlanta.”
Lifting a brow, Michael tried to look terribly impressed—not a difficult task. “Really?”
Caitlyn had begun to answer, but halted mid-syllable when Dr. Pace told her daughter to stop badgering their guest.
Milos Olsson, the Swedish botanist, sat to Michael’s left, but he was primarily engaged in a conversation with the woman who sat next to him, a white-haired anthropologist named Emma Whitmore. The older woman had greeted Michael with a smile and a simple, “Call me Emma, please.”
An Indian guide employed by the lodge sat next to Emma and directly across from Michael. He had merely nodded when Dr. Pace introduced him as Lazaro; now he seemed content to eat his dinner and smile whenever Emma tossed a comment in his direction.
Alexandra Pace sat next to the guide, and though she had cut her catfish into a dozen or so tiny pieces, Michael didn’t think she had eaten a single bite. Her eyes were wide and unfocused, as though she were replaying their previous encounter and searching for some lapse in logic through which she could dismiss the entire conversation.
“Is it possible,” she said as she propped her elbows on the table, “that the natives of this so-called healing village have access to a plant we know nothing of? You said they were called the Tree People—could they have access to a biological agent that grows in the canopy?”
Michael accepted a steaming bowl of rice from Olsson and passed it to the little girl. “Anything’s possible, I suppose. But I’m not sure how much trust I’d place in Ya-ree’s story. He seemed lucid while I observed him, but even my clerk found the story unbelievable.”
“It’s absolutely unbelievable.” The poodle-haired anthropologist abruptly lifted her chin. “To my knowledge, none of the Amazon tribes have ever lived in trees. Virtually all of them have adopted the roundhouse style of timber dwelling commonly called a shabono. They lack the tools necessary for construction of a tree house.”
Michael lifted his hands to show he had not intended to contradict common knowledge. “I didn’t say they lived in trees, Emma; I am reporting only what my patient told our clerk. He said he lived with the Tree People—whether they lived in a tree or near a tree, I couldn’t say. I was rather hoping you could shed some light on the subject.”
“Perhaps they worshiped a tree.” Milos Olsson injected his opinion into the mix. “That would be expected in a primitive culture, yes? After all, a tree can provide wood, shade, water, food, even medicine. I would not be at all surprised if a tribe decided to name a tree as its deity.”
While Emma snorted, Michael lifted his glass and nodded at the botanist. “You may have something there. Ya-ree, my patient, spoke of the keyba before he died. I had never heard the word, and at the time I thought he was babbling in fever. But our clerk told me the patient spoke coherently and reverently of the keyba. He said it sent lights to guide him through the forest.”
Emma’s face brightened. “Ah, his people were spiritualists, then. The shamans of many tribes have proven their ability to summon spirits to aid them in the jungle. I’ve heard some of them can call fire from the sky in order to frighten their enemies.”
“I’m thinking fireflies.” Olsson stroked his beard. “If these people worshiped a tree, or even lived in a tree, perhaps the tree housed a nest of fireflies. Your man might have come up with something that exuded a scent they found attractive, just as Fortier used that flower to entice the wasps this afternoon. It’s possible the native literally escorted a swarm of fireflies away through the forest.”
Alexandra laughed. “Really, Milos, be serious.”
“I am being serious.” The Swede tempered his smile. “Picture this—the man walked with a stick held out in front of him while the fireflies swarmed around some bit of fragrant material at the end of the stick. The bugs would have functioned as a lantern as he traveled through the forest.”
Alexandra shifted in her chair. “I’m afraid I couldn’t buy that one unless Deborah endorses your theory. I’m having a hard time believing that fireflies can create a light bright enough to illuminate a pathway.”
“Don’t forget, Mom, they would be Amazonian fireflies, which are actually bioluminescent beetles.” Caitlyn looked up at her mother with an earnest smile. “Everything’s bigger down h
ere.”
“Not that big.” Alexandra tented her hands, then pressed two steepled fingers to her chin. “Though the notion of fireflies may be doubtful, the timing could be right.” She shifted her gaze to Michael. “When, exactly, did your patient leave the jungle?”
Michael counted backward. “Two nights ago.”
She nodded. “Exactly. There was no moon that night, so your patient would have needed something to guide him.” She looked around the table. “Have you stepped outside after sunset? The stars are as bright as new dimes, but without moonlight, it’s completely black in the shadows. And the deep jungle, as you know, is nothing but shadows.” She sighed. “So I’m thinking he carried a torch.”
“A torch, fireflies. . .” Emma breathed the words softly, then shook her head. “I doubt he would have gotten far with a torch or a swarm of fireflies, particularly if he was moving quickly. I find it easier to believe your man was a shaman who summoned his guiding spirit— this keyba—to guide him through the jungle.”
“Emma, if I may be so bold—” Michael gave her a smile—“may I inquire as to your own spiritual beliefs?”
She laughed, a husky, three-noted chuckle. “I have deep spiritual beliefs, strong convictions. I believe a spirit resides within each living thing—man, woman, child, animal, and yes, even trees. Our entire lives are spent searching for a way to commune with these spirits, but we civilized folk have forgotten the simple things nature once taught us. Native people like your patient are closer to the source of elemental things than we are.” Her eyes grew large and wistful. “One day I hope to commune with the spirits of nature as easily as your Ya-ree.”
Michael wavered, trying to comprehend what he was hearing. “So you believe he actually summoned fire from . . . where, heaven?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know that it came from heaven—I doubt our definitions of heaven would mesh at all. I believe your patient probably knew how to persuade natural forces to accomplish his will.”
