by Angela Hunt
Bancroft looked at Carlton, who nodded almost imperceptibly. With some sort of permission granted, Bancroft pulled something from his pocket. “We found this lodged in his neck.”
He powered on his flashlight, then held a slender object to the beam. Squinting, Alex could barely see something like a splinter between his fingers.
The security chief gave Alejandro Delmar a faintly accusing look. “Can you explain this, sir?”
“A poison dart.” Delmar’s voice had gone flat. “Made from a sliver of the inayuga palm and designed to immobilize an enemy. The paralysis is not permanent, but the ants must have gotten to Chavez . . . before he woke up.”
Alex looked away as nausea roiled in her belly.
“Somebody’s out there.” Lauren stepped out of her hammock, her feet bare. “Good grief, Ken, somebody’s out there!”
“Of course.” Carlton shrugged. “They’re probably the people we’ve come to find.”
“Chavez would not have felt anything.” Wrapping her arms around herself, Deborah moved into the dim glow of the fire. “The bite of the carnivore ant numbs the victim. His limbs would have been insentient long before he died.”
Lauren moved toward the men, her eyes blazing. “You expect me to stay here with some crazy savages out there?”
“They didn’t mean to kill him.” Delmar’s eyes had gone dark and unreadable in the firelight. “There is no honor in killing a man unless you are face to face with your enemy. They meant to paralyze him. I think they wanted to capture him, but something frightened them away.”
“Mom?” Caitlyn’s voice trembled.
Alex fumbled for the shoes she’d stashed at the end of her hammock. “I’m coming, honey. Stay put.”
Bancroft pinned Delmar in a steely gaze. “Why Chavez?”
Delmar shrugged. “He is Indian. You are outsiders. Chavez was less intimidating.”
Deborah pulled her flashlight from her pocket. “I’d like to see the ants, please.”
Bancroft scraped his hand across his face. “Not possible. We disposed of the body.”
“I understand, but I still want to see the ants. Will you take me to the spot where you found them feeding?”
“You threw him in the lake?” Lauren screeched like a starlet auditioning for a B movie. “Ken, I’ve had it. I want you to take me out of this godforsaken place now!”
As Alex hurried to her daughter’s hammock, Emma Whitmore stepped free from her mosquito netting. “I know it’s asking a lot, but could we possibly retrieve the body and carry it back to the lodge? His people will want to bury him properly.”
“Dr. Whitmore.” Delmar’s dark face and direct eyes, which could intimidate most people even from a good distance, filled with exasperation. “You are in the tropics. Burial must take place quickly here, because decomposition—” he hesitated as Alex pointedly cleared her throat, reminding him of the child in their midst—“well, we could not wait. Chavez would understand; his family will understand.”
“And you, sir, are a disgrace to your ancestors.” Emma drew herself up to her full height of five feet, maybe two inches. “If you were living in the jungle with your forefathers, you would burn the body and then drink the ashes so a part of your brother, your heritage, would forever be a part of you.”
“I do not follow the practices of my forefathers,” Delmar interrupted. Though he had to be ticked off by Whitmore’s sanctimonious sermonizing, his face remained locked in neutral. “I am an educated man, a product of a higher civilization. And Chavez was no brother of mine.”
Leaving her teammates to squabble over their differences, Alex crawled into Caitlyn’s hammock and slipped her arms around her daughter. Holding Caitlyn’s damp head against her pounding heart, she realized the full horror of what had happened. Raul Chavez had supported a wife and four young children in Iquitos. Now his wife would either have to find employment or depend upon the charity of relatives . . . not an easy thing when families routinely averaged ten or twelve members.
Would Chavez’s children end up sleeping on the crowded sidewalks of that river city?
She pressed her hands over Caitlyn’s ears as Emma’s and Delmar’s bickering combined with Lauren’s hysterics. The younger woman might be worthless in the wilds, but she had a point. Someone was out there—and so far, contact with them had proven deadly.
12 APRIL 2003
8:15 P.M.
Michael swiped his hand through his hair as Alexandra shielded her daughter from the sight of Lauren’s mad flailings. The executive’s woman was going off in a full-fledged tantrum, beating her man’s chest and shrieking so loudly that even the insect chatter faded.
He flinched as something splashed in the lake. Bancroft must have heard the sound, too, for the arm holding his gun tensed. The guard stared toward the lake, then caught Michael’s eye. Lifting his free hand, he pointed toward the outer rim of the camp and drew a circle in the air, signaling that Michael should walk around and check things out . . .
Armed with what? Michael’s brain protested even as he turned to obey. He had a knife strapped to his belt, but it was only a six-inch blade, not a machete. Still, his hand sought the reassuring solidity of the handle.
Moving quietly so as not to arouse the others, he crept toward the hammock where Louis Fortier lay with open, glassy eyes. The sedative had not yet had time to work, but perhaps he had quieted under a placebo effect . . . or the fellow had slipped into shock. Michael couldn’t fault him if the latter were true. He’d be in shock, too, if he’d gone to relieve himself in the grass, tripped, and fallen on the half-devoured face of a friend.
Glancing over his shoulder, Michael saw Milos Olsson hand the Indian dart to Emma Whitmore. “What do you think about this?” The botanist’s deep voice growled through the darkness. “You know about jungle people—what does this mean?”
Emma took one look at the dart, then dropped it back into the Swede’s palm. “I think it’s a warning, no more. We are uncomfortably close to their village, and this is a warning to stay away. Though many tribes are nomadic, they still consider the surrounding environs their own territory.” Her eyes moved out into the dark, looking toward the lake and the island beyond. “Yet I doubt this tribe is nomadic. They have found security on that island, and they may have lived there for generations. If so, they will be determined to protect it.”
Michael moved past Fortier’s hammock, treading as silently as he could through the tangling vines and broken shrubs. Holding tight to his knife with his left hand, he used his right to bounce the beam of his flashlight from tree to shrub, investigating the foliage along the edge of the camp.
“I say we establish a perimeter beyond the hammocks,” Bancroft called, his voice strong and reassuring. “We station guards at the north, south, east, and west. Though we’ll keep the fire blazing through the night, we’re in luck because the moon is bright and right above—”
Michael froze in mid-step when the big man’s voice broke. Glancing through the hammocks toward the fire, he saw Bancroft’s eyes widen until they appeared to be in danger of falling out of his face.
Michael’s feeling of uneasiness turned into a deeper and more immediate fear when Bancroft pitched forward. From the security of Carlton’s arms, Lauren screamed as the executive folded gently at the knees and crumpled into a heap. Olsson, who had been reaching for Chavez’s weapon, looked at Michael with wild eyes, then slapped at his neck, cursed, and tumbled into the fire.
Without pausing to think, Michael ran forward to yank the big Swede away from the flames. He grabbed the man’s arms and pulled; when he looked up, Alexandra stood beside him, dragging Olsson by the boots.
“Take cover,” he yelled. “We don’t know who—”
He flinched as the distinctive chatter of a machine gun shattered the night. Lauren had picked up Bancroft’s weapon and was now shredding tender trees and foliage, ripping into anything that stirred the moonlit darkness.
“She’s lost it!” Alexandra s
creamed, crouching as she ran toward her daughter’s hammock.
Michael would have agreed, but necessity demanded that he hit the ground. Fortunately, Valerik Baklanov stood behind Lauren. Moving in from behind, he wrapped the hysterical young woman in a bear hug, lifting her from the ground until she dropped the weapon. After Emma darted forward to retrieve both guards’ weapons, Michael turned to check on Alex and Caitlyn. The spunky girl had rolled out of her hammock and dropped to the ground at the sound of gunfire; now she and her mother lay amid a pile of tangled vines.
Rising to his knees, Michael noted that they were safe, then felt the hair at the back of his neck bristle with premonition.
From out of the darkness dense with trees and leaves and shadows, the jungle’s soft breath carried the scents of sweat and aggression. Someone was close. And somehow—from some primal or extrasensory ability—he knew the enemy was dangerous.
He heard the quiet pffft, felt the stinging bite of the dart, and barely had time to fumble at his neck before his arms went limp and his legs gave way. He heard sharp cries and high-pitched screams, then his cheek slammed to the earth and he could not even summon the strength to blink the sand from his lashes.
Helpless, he lay on the ground and watched as ghosts of darkness entered the camp.
12 APRIL 2003
8:35 P.M.
Mindless of ants, spiders, or anything else that might be crawling over the ground, Alex lay on top of her daughter, holding Caitlyn’s shoulders tight. The last five minutes had passed in a blur, imprinting surreal images upon her mind. The men had fallen, one by one, and then the natives entered the camp, as fearless as eagles defending the sky. Emma Whitmore, who had captured both high-powered weapons, had kicked dirt over them as the Indians approached. Now she stood before the invaders in a posture of relaxed submission.
Alex blinked, then shook her head. She would never understand anthropologists.
“Mom?” Caitlyn’s voice quavered.
“Shh, honey. We have to keep our heads.”
At least two dozen natives had entered the camp—small brown men who had painted their faces and bodies in white lines and red patterns. Carrying clubs, bows, and spears, they scattered throughout the camp like ants exploring a picnic blanket.
When one of the men reached out to touch Lauren, she threw up her hands and ran screaming toward the lake. The warrior showed no expression, but nocked an arrow, then drew back the string and let the missile fly. Alex didn’t see it strike, but by the sudden halt of Lauren’s screaming, she surmised it had found its mark.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star.
She closed her eyes, her heart beating hard enough to be heard a yard away. Lauren might have been an affront to self-sufficient womanhood, but she didn’t deserve to die like that.
“Rule number one,” Alex whispered in her daughter’s ear. “Whatever you do, don’t run.”
As she and Caitlyn lay motionless, the natives swarmed over the moonlit camp, poking at backpacks and prodding paralyzed men with the tips of their weapons. Alex’s heart skipped a beat when one man pressed the sharpened edge of a spear to Michael Kenway’s throat, but the native only screeched something in a language she couldn’t understand, then scampered away.
A moment later a fiercely painted warrior stood directly before her, blocking her view of the others. He yelled, gestured toward the moonlit lake, and then stabbed at the earth with his spear.
Clearing her throat, Alex lifted her head as much as she dared. “My name is Alexandra.” She lifted her hand to show she carried no weapon. “’We mean you no harm.”
When the warrior had the temerity to jab at the earth an inch from Caitlyn’s head, Alex realized the futility of their situation. “All right,” she snapped, determined not to show her fear. “We’ll get up.”
Moving with extreme caution, she helped Caitlyn to her feet, then surveyed their captor. The warrior before them was only an inch or two taller than Caitlyn—probably no more than five feet. But he was angry and armed, so they obeyed his prodding spear and walked toward the water.
Apparently content to leave the paralyzed men where they had fallen, the natives herded the women into canoes hidden among the grasses at the lake’s edge.
Caitlyn balked at the sight of the shallow canoe. “I don’t think this is such a good idea, Mom.”
“It’s all right, honey. Just follow me.” Carefully, Alex crawled the length of the canoe, then sat back and gripped the narrow edges. “Remember all the natives we saw in canoes at Yarupapa? Just pretend we’re with them, and we’ll be fine.”
Her temper spiked when she saw the anthropologist crawl into position behind Caitlyn. “Good grief, Emma, you had a gun. Why on earth did you put it down?”
The older woman gave her a disdainful look. “How are we supposed to learn anything from these people if we shoot them?”
“But they attacked us! Our guys were dropping like flies!”
“They subdued our men with more charity than we would have exhibited in the same situation. None of them have died.”
“What about Chavez?”
“An unfortunate accident.”
“What about Lauren Hayworth?”
The older woman’s eyes closed. “That was regrettable. But she resisted, and with all that screaming she signaled she wouldn’t cooperate. Remember this, Alex—they are more frightened of us than we are of them. That’s what all this stomping and posturing is about—they’re trying to convince us they are fearless.”
“They’re doing a remarkably good job.”
Clinging tighter to the sides of the narrow canoe, Alex faced the darkness on the lake beyond. “I don’t suppose, Emma, that you can guess what will happen next?”
The sound of a warrior splashing through the shallows prevented the woman’s response. Apparently the sound of their conversation had displeased him, for he lifted his club and snarled out terse commands that must have had something to do with silence.
Alex hung her head in the same submissive posture she’d seen Emma adopt earlier. Her cowering seemed to please him, for he splashed away, leaving them alone.
“You speak the Indian language, don’t you?” Alex whispered. “Can you understand anything of what they’re saying?”
“Only a few passing words.” Emma spoke in a stage whisper. “And I can’t be certain what will happen next until we see the village. I suspect their community may be in need of women. Females are the lifeblood of a native community; they produce the children that make a people strong.”
“Mom?” Honest fear threaded Caitlyn’s voice. “I’d like to go home now.”
As Alex turned to comfort her daughter, a warrior loomed out of the darkness and rapped her temple with the narrow edge of an oar. As a flashbulb went off behind her eyes, she leaned forward into the shallow bow, then pressed her hand to her throbbing head.
“It’s okay, honey,” she whispered, not daring to turn around again. “We’re going to be okay.”
“Fine?” Caitlyn’s voice wavered.
“Great.”
“Okey-dokey?”
“All right.”
“Satisfactory?”
“Absolutely, irrefutably acceptable.”
Back and forth they batted words of assurance as the natives launched the canoe into the deep.
12 APRIL 2003
11:54 P.M.
Still groggy from the effects of whatever drug had been smeared on the dart, with difficulty Michael turned over and pulled himself into a sitting position. His captors had tied his hands behind his back with some sort of stinging vine, and testing the ropes only seemed to increase whatever botanical secretions irritated the skin.
Enveloped in a drugged blanket of exhaustion, Michael forced himself to focus on his surroundings. He could see none of the women; like phantoms they had vanished into the jungle. Their attackers had ripped every hammock from the trees; the contents of backpacks lay scattered over the ground.
Several of t
he painted warriors crouched around curiosities—one man peered into a mirror, another ran his thumb over the spines of a hairbrush. One fellow squatted on his haunches, staring wide-eyed as a breeze off the lake ruffled the pages of what appeared to be a handwritten journal . . .
Alex’s notebook. Michael strained against his bonds, then felt the reproving bite of the malicious vines at his wrists. Taking a deep breath, he flexed his fingers until the urge to strangle the native had passed.
He had to collect his wits, evaluate the situation. At least, thank God, he was not alone.
All the men of their party had been tied up; several were scattered around the campfire, sitting where they had fallen. Taking a mental headcount, Michael came up short, then realized Louis Fortier was missing. He glanced toward the Frenchman’s hammock to make sure the man was not hiding beneath the mosquito netting, but the slashed screen lay trampled on the ground, leaving the hammock empty. Realizing the little Frenchman must have slipped away in the confusion, for an instant Michael felt the stirring of hope—perhaps Fortier could reach civilization and get help.
His hope shriveled when he recalled Fortier’s state of mind just before the attack. And how far could he run with heavy sedatives in his bloodstream?
Michael shuddered to think the perfumer might meet with Chavez’s fate. On the other hand, there were worse ways to die in the jungle.
God, be merciful to him.
He shifted his gaze toward Alexandra’s hammock, then felt a stab of memory. The women had been taken away over the lake—he had heard them calling reassurances to each other before he slipped into a drug-induced doze. Some of the invaders had undoubtedly gone with the women, yet several remained behind to bind the men and raid the camp.
The leader of the remaining group now seemed to be arguing with Alejandro Delmar. The Brazilian tracker was awake, angry, and defiant. Bancroft, who was tied as tight as a Scotsman’s purse, kept demanding to know what the warrior was saying.
