by Angela Hunt
“I don’t know,” Delmar snapped. “I’ve never heard this language. It seems to be a cross of Yagua and Yanomamo.”
“So? Can you speak those languages?”
“Shut up, Mr. Bancroft, and let me do my best.”
Something in the tone of Delmar’s voice, the natives’ gestures, and Bancroft’s frustrated expression told Michael that the guide was arguing for their lives. After one particularly impassioned exchange, in which Delmar repeated a series of words that only seemed to incense the warrior, the native planted his spear in the earth next to the fire, then stalked toward the lake, leaving his captives alone.
“They want the women,” Delmar explained, twisting to look around at the others. “They do not want or need us. But I’ve tried to convince him we are valuable people who could do much for their tribe.” Looking past Bancroft, he caught Michael’s eye. “I told him one of our men was a great healer.”
Michael snorted. “In a hospital, maybe I could do some good. But out here?”
“You are a great healer,” Delmar stressed. “If ever you believed that, you’d better believe it now. And Olsson—” he inclined his head toward the botanist—“is a great shaman who knows the secrets of jungle plants.”
Olsson groaned. “If only.”
A sneer of derision crossed Carlton’s face. “You think you can negotiate with these heathens? You can’t reason with unreasonable people—”
“I can reach them,” Delmar said simply, his dark eyes gleaming in the light from the sputtering fire.
Michael considered the man’s answer and found it credible. Alejandro Delmar was Indian, and he certainly had more experience in the jungle.
“I say we let Delmar do whatever he needs to do.” Michael looked directly at the American. “This is no longer your expedition, Carlton. We must let Delmar take the lead.”
Carlton snorted softly. “Fine. Just get us to the women, then get us out of here. Tell them whatever you need to tell them.” His cold eyes sniped at Bancroft. “What did you tell them about him? That he’s utterly worthless as a guard?”
“I said he is strong,” Delmar answered. “He can lift a man with one hand. And Baklanov can see into the spirit of water and know when it will make people sick.”
Carlton’s mouth curved into a half-smile. “What’d you tell them about me?”
A sneer might have flitted into Delmar’s shadowed eyes, but Michael couldn’t be sure.
“I could say you were good at making money,” the guide said, “but money means nothing here. So I said you are good for nothing.”
Carlton’s face twisted.
“They believed me, too,” Delmar went on with killing calmness, “because only a fool would bring a stupid woman into the jungle—a woman not even his wife.”
His face darkening, Carlton strained at his bonds for a full minute before dropping his shoulders in frustration.
He glared at Delmar. “You wait. When we get out of here, I’ll have you blacklisted, blackballed, arrested, jailed, and whatever else occurs to me.”
“I do not think so, Mr. Carlton.” Delmar lifted his head like a cat calmly scenting the breeze. “This is the jungle, not America. These warriors will have to transport and feed the captives they take. Why should they carry a worthless man back to their village?”
At that moment the painted warrior returned to the fire circle. As the tattered fire cast its red light upon the conqueror, Michael felt a memory close around him.
Beneath his war paint, this native’s skin was mottled with tattoos . . . exactly like Ya-ree’s.
Calling to his companions, the warrior plucked his spear from the mud, then pointed toward the lake.
Almost immediately, another warrior’s weapon pressed against Michael’s rib cage.
Amid a chorus of shouting from the other natives, Michael groaned. “All right,” he said, leaning forward to gain his footing. His legs still felt heavy and sluggish, but his stunned muscles worked well enough for him to stand and stumble through the lakeside vegetation. When he reached the shore, he saw that Delmar, Baklanov, Bancroft, and Olsson had preceded him into canoes.
Olsson’s face had gone pale in the moonlight. As Michael settled behind him, he asked, “Did you see her lying there?”
Michael took a deep breath to quell the leaping pulse beneath his ribs. “Who?”
“Carlton’s woman. Dead in the grass.”
Michael closed his eyes as a bead of perspiration traced a cold path from his armpit to his rib. “I didn’t see. Were there others?”
Olsson’s jaw clenched. “I saw no others. But who knows?”
A few moments later they were floating over water the color of strong tea. Only when he twisted to look behind him did Michael realize Kenneth Carlton was not aboard either boat.
13 APRIL 2003
3:08 A.M.
Alex’s pulse quickened as the canoes slid onto a patch of soft sand. They had been traveling for hours, and her legs and feet were numb from crouching in the canoe. Subdued by the threat of their captor’s club, Deborah and Emma had not spoken on the journey. Caitlyn had actually managed to sleep, her arms around Alex’s waist and her head upon her mother’s shoulder. Alex, however, had remained awake and shivering in the front of the boat, feeling like the point man on an incursion into unexplored and dangerous territory.
As soon as the bow touched earth, she heard a sudden splash and the sound of Caitlyn’s gasp. One of the natives had jumped into thighdeep water and was now urging the women to follow him.
“Mom,” Caitlyn clung to Alex’s shoulders, “there are things in that water.”
Holding tight to the side of the canoe, Alex shuddered as fearful images rose in her mind. Caitlyn was right—anaconda lived in these black waters, and leeches, and piranha, electric eels, and who knew what else.
No. She could not panic now. She could not lose it here because these natives had no patience with women who dissolved into hysterics.
“So?” She injected an artificially bright note into her voice. “You said Lazaro swims in these waters all the time.”
“But he’s . . . used to them. I’m not.”
Drawing deep breaths, Alex turned to look behind her. Emma had already jumped out of the boat, while Deborah scrambled to obey the warrior who kept jabbing her shoulder with the head of his club.
Alex focused on her daughter. “It’s going to be okay, honey. If these people aren’t afraid to walk through the water, we won’t be afraid to wade only a couple of steps.”
Gulping in a deep breath, she rose and extended her tingling legs into the lake. She had expected a shock, but the water felt surprisingly warm on her skin. Caitlyn followed, squeaking as her ankles disappeared into the brown liquid, then she took Alex’s hand. Together they waded onto the shore.
With Deborah and Emma, they stood in silence for a moment while their captors ran around them in some sort of celebratory moonlight dance. They filled the air with warbling whoops until another contingent of natives arrived. Broad smiles shone from the faces of excited men and women, then the warriors prodded their captives forward.
Alex clung to Caitlyn’s hand and followed Emma and Deborah, their wet sneakers squishing as they walked. A narrow trail had been trampled through the tall grasses, and they passed through it in a single line. The path ended in an open space before a roundhouse of timber and thatch. Two poles flanked the opening, each topped by a toothless, grinning skull.
Caitlyn tightened her arms around Alex’s waist while Emma eyed the totems.
Alex stepped closer to whisper in the anthropologist’s ear. “Do you think they are cannibals?”
Emma’s eyes lowered, as did her voice. “Possibly. But I think these skulls are intended as a warning. Notice that they have no teeth—they probably came from people who died at an advanced age.”
Alex frowned as a memory surfaced. “I thought most Indian tribes ground the bones of their dead and drank the dust.”
“Many
do. But there are always exceptions.” Lifting her head, Emma met the bold gaze of one of the warriors, then inclined her head in a display of respect. “These skulls,” she continued, keeping her voice low, “might belong to enemies. Or they might have done something to disgrace themselves in the eyes of the tribe. So the others would not want to drink their ashes.”
Caitlyn tugged on Alex’s arm. “Mom, what do they want from us?”
Alex glanced at Emma, who lifted her shoulders in a shrug, then followed the native who was gesturing toward the roundhouse.
Alex pasted on a nonchalant smile. “I hope, sweetie, that they’re going to give us a nighttime snack. I’m hungry enough to eat a tapir— how about you?”
Guiding Caitlyn, she followed Emma over a trail gnarly with roots, then heard Deborah’s whispered comment as the entomologist brought up the rear: “I just hope they’re not planning to put us on the menu.”
13 APRIL 2003
5:37 A.M.
The sun had begun to brighten the eastern horizon by the time the warriors’ canoes reached what appeared to be a lakeside settlement. Michael had tried to follow their course as they paddled through the darkness, but even by the light of a full moon it was difficult to determine in which direction they were traveling. All their equipment— weapons, GPS systems, and even Michael’s small compass—remained in the camp, where it would be ruined by rain and scattered by animals unless they could retrieve it quickly.
He glanced down, where the leather sheaf of his hunting knife still hung from his belt. The length of the scabbard had slipped into his pants pocket, obscuring all but the strap and hilt. The natives hadn’t looked for a blade at his waist. Perhaps they had never seen a knife.
The thought of his weapon brought a dark little pleasure. Though he couldn’t reach it with his hands bound, it might prove useful in the hours ahead.
After an initial exchange of threats and grumbling, his companions and their captors settled into silence for the journey. The night whispered, chirped, and hissed as invisible things moved under the susurration of the wind. A circle of moon hung amid a jumble of stars above them, while around them black water held secrets Michael wasn’t particularly keen to discover.
He had assumed these warriors lived on the island they had seen from the lakeshore, but though the natives initially paddled toward it, they skirted the island’s edge and steered into a curve of the lake that lay hidden behind the elevated knoll. The lake turned out to be longer and larger than the explorers had imagined.
As the India ink sky brightened to deep purple and then to indigo, the natives quickened their pace and moved toward a clearing on a distant shore. As soon as the boats approached, several of the warriors leaped into the water and urged their captives to do the same.
Michael obeyed, stepping into bath-warm water, then splashed his way toward the others. He caught Olsson’s eye, then shook his head, acknowledging a grudging respect for the well-planned raid. The warriors’ weapons kept the captives in line, the savage vine kept their hands still, and the watchful eyes of warriors with blowguns kept them obedient. None of them wanted to suffer the effects of another paralyzing dart, for falling into the lake could easily prove fatal.
Once they were all ashore, the leading warrior pointed to a trail. The natives positioned themselves among the group, then they set out at a quick pace, following a flattened path cut through sharp-edged grasses.
As he strode forward, Michael couldn’t help wondering what had happened to Carlton. Had the warriors cut his throat? Cracked his skull with a club? Immobilized him with another dart? Whatever they had done, they had accomplished their work quickly and efficiently, for Michael hadn’t heard a sound from the executive. And even if the blow had not killed the American, he wouldn’t last long in the jungle with his hands tied.
Michael glanced back at Olsson, trudging behind him. “What sort of vine would you say this is?”
The Swede shook his bushy head. “There is a giant stinging tree in Australia whose leaves inflict pain like a bee sting when touched . . . this might share the same chemical composition.” He moved his arms, then winced. “A devilishly ingenious self-defense mechanism, no?”
Michael would have replied, but the warrior in front of him turned and lifted his spear while shouting an unintelligible phrase. Michael shrugged, then followed the warrior into a clearing where a grisly pair of skulls adorned wooden poles.
Snarling, Bancroft flexed his fists behind his back. “Who are these cold-blooded murderers?”
“Do not jump to conclusions, my friend.” Baklanov tilted his head toward the skulls. “These bones are weathered, so they have been here for some time. And we do not know that they died anything but a natural death.”
Bancroft growled deep in his throat. “Doesn’t matter. People who use human skulls for decoration are seriously demented.”
The painted warrior who had done the most shouting back at the camp walked to the head of their line, then waved toward a structure made of sticks and palm fronds. Michael closed his eyes. What had Emma called it? A roundhouse. A shabono.
Bancroft growled again. “He wants us to go in.”
Delmar threw a warning look over his shoulder. “We should follow him. I do not think they intend to kill us—at least not without testing our abilities. Who knows?” His golden smile sparkled through the gloom. “If they find you useful, they might decide to keep you.”
The former SEAL thrust his chin forward. “And you? You figure you’re gonna get some special compensation just ’cause you can stutter enough of their language to make yourself understood?”
“I think I’m going to get out of here,” Delmar answered, calmly turning toward the wooden structure. “If you’re wise, you’ll come with me.”
With no other choice, Michael followed the others into the roundhouse. Once inside, he peered at the calm village scene, a bit astonished that such violent people could belong to such a peaceful place. He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but he hadn’t expected to see hammocks filled with sleeping children or women breast-feeding infants around the central fire.
The sleeping hammocks hung from poles supporting a roof that extended only along the outermost edges of the circular building. In an area open to the sky, banked coals glowed beneath the carcass of some pig-like animal, probably a tapir, which hung on a spit. A wizened older woman with short dark hair squatted by the fire, a green palm frond in her hand and a wary expression on her face.
He drew a deep breath, inhaling the scents of smoke, roasted flesh, and assorted odors associated with unwashed human bodies. Moving slowly as not to alarm anyone, Michael turned to survey the rest of the building. In the shadows under the roofed section, women cowered behind straw baskets while small-boned men stood alertly watching.
Like the warriors who had appeared in the night, these men wore nothing but strings around their waists. None of them wore beards, and all of them had short hair, shaped in what Michael thought his female teammates would call a bowl cut.
Taking a quick headcount, he estimated the building held at least fifty men and half as many women. Impossible to count the children, for most of them were hiding behind their elders.
“Dr. Kenway?” Starting at the sound of a familiar voice, he turned and saw Emma Whitmore and Deborah Simons seated behind a halfwall of palm leaves. A chill climbed the ladder of his spine until he walked forward and found Alexandra and Caitlyn huddled together and half-hidden by shadow.
Thank God their group had suffered no other casualties.
“Are you all right?” he called, careful not to raise his voice beyond the limit of their captives’ tolerance.
Emma lowered her chin in a determined nod. “We’re fine. We were herded here and left . . . to wait for you, I suppose.”
He jerked his thumb toward Delmar. “I wasn’t so sure we were going to make it. But apparently our guide has convinced them that we blokes are extraordinarily gifted. Whether or not they’ll buy that st
ory is another matter.”
He glanced at Alexandra. Weariness had carved merciless lines on her face, but determination still lay in the jut of her chin.
“How are you two getting on?” he asked.
“Fine.” Caitlyn clapped her hands on her arms. “I’ve never had an adventure like this. It’s invigorating, exhilarating, enervating, and stimulating!”
Alexandra’s expression softened into one of affectionate patience. “We’re good,” she said, giving him a relieved smile. “And we’re glad to see you. For a moment, I feared. . .” She blushed as her words trailed away. “It’s good to see you, Kenway. All of you guys, I mean.”
“Carlton didn’t make it. Neither did Fortier.” Their eyes met, and Michael knew he couldn’t say anything more in front of the child.
Alexandra gave him a quick, denying glance, then lowered her eyes. “I’m so sorry.”
“So am I.”
He would have sat with her to offer further comfort, but at that moment the Indian men moved toward the central fire. The warriors who had raided the camp entered the alcove where Michael and the women waited.
Caitlyn’s eyes widened as the natives began to gesture toward the fire. “I think they want us.”
“I think you’re right.”
After being jostled and shoved, he found himself wedged between Caitlyn and her mother as the expedition members were forced to sit on the sand around the fire. As they stared at each other through the wood smoke, two natives stepped forward and carried the tapir away, grunting with exertion as they removed the spit from its supports.
While the native women gathered to cut up the meat, an old man more tattooed and painted than any of the others emerged from the shadows with a long reed in his hand.
Michael searched his memory, but couldn’t recall seeing the older man at their campsite. He was not a warrior, then . . . perhaps the village shaman?
A pair of young boys sat behind the captives with drums between their knees. They began to play, the rhythm of the drums increasing and growing stronger with the rising of the sun. The painted man accepted a gourd from one of the women, then dipped his fingers in it and knelt to smear a white streak across Olsson’s nose. The Swede recoiled, but a curt command from Delmar stopped him.
