She replied, “Before I make any assumptions, can you explain how you intend to cut up the Anomaly without it reacting?” Shifting her response to another question was a standard intelligence bluff.
With a smile, Hans said, “It was simply a matter of careful analysis.”
Catalina relaxed a bit. Like many intelligent but lonely individuals, Hans was always eager to trumpet his achievements. His OCD level attention to detail ensured them at least twenty minutes of safety.
Hans went on. “I immersed the fragment in liquid helium. At minus four hundred and fifty degrees it simulated the temperature of deep space. Once that was done, I used a ten kilowatt ytterbium fiber laser cutting torch with a parallel refracting beam to cut into it. Due to the extreme cold the fragment did not react. I’ve brought a larger version of the laser and will apply the same logic.”
Catalina gave him an enthralled look that virtually screamed tell me more. And he went on. She thought, Another bullet dodged. Micah had been much easier to fool, primarily because she’d maneuvered herself into becoming Faye’s babysitter and BFF. But Hans was a scientific polyglot, with knowledge of engineering, geology and even zoology.
One of the cooks entered carrying trays. He set one down in front of Catalina and said, “For the serpente assassina,” uncovering an aromatic blend of fish and vegetables. “A grilled Patarashca with chilies and onions, and a bowl of shrimp Tacacá.”
Catalina inhaled deeply. “It smells amazing.”
The cook said, “Anything for you,” and quietly set down an identical tray for Faye who was napping.
He set the final tray down in front of Hans and left.
Hans uncovered his tray. It was just sliced Spam on some white bread. Catalina avoided eye contact with the Austrian. While she appreciated the crew’s admiration, it made dealing with Hans more awkward.
Santos barged into the cabin unannounced. Without a word he rifled through her luggage. It was a classic intimidation tactic, designed to keep her on edge. But Catalina knew he wasn’t really looking for anything in her bags—in truth, he was studying her reactions, hoping to see a flash of guilt in her eyes. He’d been suspicious of her since the gunboat incident, looking for any excuse to throw her and Faye overboard without inciting a mutiny. Thanks to her CIA training, his tactics hadn’t borne fruit.
Dealing with Hans was challenging, but Santos was the genuine threat. The massive thug had the same flat, emotionless eyes she’d seen in CIA wet boys—as if someone had surgically removed every trace of poetry from their soul. Catalina pegged him as an ex ABIN operative; Brazil’s ruthless version of the CIA. She knew that any successful escape meant killing him first.
Santos stepped over to the fold down cot where Faye was napping and contemplated waking the child up.
Catalina said, “I just got her to sleep. It really helps us to focus on our work.”
He stared at her with those dead eyes then left the cabin, grunting what passed for a goodbye.
In a near whisper, Hans said, “Such a distasteful man,” before continuing his dissertation on laser-cutting torches.
Catalina nodded, thankful he’d left without trashing the cot. The Glock remained safely tucked beneath the mattress.
#
Micah spent the next twenty-four hours manacled to the platform, roasting in the tropical sun with only the occasional short bursts of rain preventing sunstroke. Umberto only made two appearances, bringing him just enough food and water to stay alive.
Micah heard a pitiful moan from the cage dangling above him and yelled, “Hang in there, amigo, we’ll get out of this somehow,” amazed that the poor wretch had hung on this long.
With a loud caw, a pair of brightly plumed tropical crows settled onto the cage. They roosted there, contemplating the helpless man’s eyeballs. Micah rolled onto his back, kicking at the cage, scaring off the birds. But crows were smart, and he wondered how many times this tactic would work.
Umberto climbed up onto the platform carrying a gourd. He pulled Micah upright, saying, “I’ve got something for you. Now drink!”
Holding Micah’s head, he poured some of the contents down his throat. Micah, who’d been anticipating water, choked on the caustic liquid.
Umberto slapped him, shouting, “Drink it!” and forced him to take another long swallow.
Micah did as ordered, recognizing the drink as cachaca, a sweetened Brazilian rum, mixed with another ingredient he couldn’t place. Then his tongue went numb and he felt a tingling in his spine. The secret ingredient must have been coca leaves—the plant used to produce cocaine.
With a yellow-toothed grin, Umberto said, “Drink it down, Lucky Man, you’ll need the energy.”
After forcing a few more swallows, Umberto unlatched the manacles. Micah stood up, massaging his wrists, while mentally debating whether to dive overboard. But Umberto shoved him towards the ladder, pointing down.
Once on deck Micah, was herded towards the captain’s cabin. The crew stood around idly, smiling and muttering to one another as he passed.
Micah asked, “What’s going on?”
“Shut up,” was all he got.
Umberto led him through the pilothouse to the main cabin. He banged on the door once, slid it open and shoved Micah inside.
The cabin was pitch black, the humid air thick with cigar smoke. Micah closed his eyes for a few seconds, adjusting to the darkness. Even then, all he could make out were a few candles and someone sprawled across an oversized bed.
Queen Caveira said, “Well, Lucky Man, I see you survived the night.”
The queen reclined on the bed, the monkey perched on her chest. She lit a match and slowly sucked at a fresh cigar. And that’s when Micah realized she was completely naked.
She said, “Boiúna came to me in a dream last night and said that earning his aid will require two sacrifices. You may choose which you provide. One is blood.”
Gulping, Micah asked, “The other option?”
“Seed.” She lay back, stretching out her long legs. “Which do you choose?”
“Is this a trick question?”
She put down the cigar, her tone growing sharper. “Boiúna requires strong seed, so I’ve chosen the man who killed a jaguar with his bare hands.”
Micah thought, I never should’ve taken credit for that donkey’s work.
She added, “Plus most of my crew has syphilis.”
Micah was stunned. The same madwoman who’d threatened to cut off his hands and then manacled him to the crow’s nest was now trying to seduce him.
She slapped the mattress, commanding, “Come here and do your duty. How can you expect to save your daughter without Boiúna’s aid?”
“Uh, can we leave her out of this?”
“What’s wrong? Are you a boiola?”
“No, no, I’m straight.”
“Then give me your seed like a man or I can give you to the crew for their amusement! Choose!”
The prospect of being beaten or buggered by her syphilitic crew held zero appeal. Micah took a deep breath, muttered, “Screw it,” and peeled off his shirt.
Queen Caveira swatted the monkey aside and lay back, her arms outstretched. “That’s it, now come to me, Lucky Man.”
And Micah did. Maybe it was desperation or just the fear of witnessing her next psychopathic mood swing. Being tanked up on cachaca and coca leaves didn’t hurt either. Seconds later, he was on the bed, her muscular legs clamped around him while he struggled to get his pants off. What followed wasn’t so much foreplay as unarmed combat. She wrenched his spine, gnawed his ear, and clawed at his buttocks while shouting obscene instructions. Then the monkey leapt back on the bed, jealously yanking his hair as they rutted away. Thankfully Micah’s body responded in a sort of carnal fight-or-flight instinct.
The pirate queen seemed to enjoy their entanglement, moaning loudly and repeatedly screaming Boiúna’s name. That’s when Micah realized the sounds weren’t physical pleasure but rather some kind of religious e
cstasy. It was the most bizarre sexual experience he’d ever had—and he’d worked in reality television.
After a few minutes of fevered thrashing, it was over. Micah rolled onto his back panting; Queen Caveira’s body wound around his.
She whispered, “Did you give me your seed?”
All Micah could muster was, “Uh huh,” followed by a stretch of awkward postcoital silence.
Stretching like a cat, she proclaimed, “Now, with Boiúna’s blessing, I shall put Batista in the bamboo cage, take out my knives and have my revenge.”
“So you two have … a history?”
After a moment of quiet reflection, she said, “I was a little girl when my parents sold me to one of Batista’s emerald mines as a slave. You soft Americans can’t imagine the things they did to children like me. After nine years of torture, I staged a revolt. My crew were all part of that escape.”
This moment of emotional sharing seemed to make Queen Caveira uncomfortable. She climbed out of bed and began lighting candles on a statue-laden altar. The flickering light revealed the lines etched across her bare back—lash marks from her childhood of slavery. The same kind of marks Micah had seen on the crew, explaining their utter devotion. The sight of her standing there, naked, her physical and emotional scars laid bare, made him feel a twinge of sympathy. A childhood like hers would have driven anyone mad.
Muttering a prayer, she touched the snake spirit’s statue. Micah couldn’t shake the sensation that it had been watching them.
Eager to break the silence, he said, “I’m sorry your parents sold you to those horrible people.”
The queen turned to him, grinned and said, “Not as sorry as them.”
The glowing altar candles revealed the cabin’s full splendor. Micah glanced at the far wall and shuddered, as if someone had thrown ice water on him. It was stacked floor to ceiling with rows of human skulls. There were at least fifty, the bottom rows yellowed with age, the upper still gleaming white.
Micah thought, She really is the Queen of Skulls.
Pointing to her wall, the queen said, “Mother and Father were the first to decorate my wall. Do you like my trophies?”
Micah said, “Oh yeah, impressive collection,” though inside he was screaming.
The queen slipped on a poncho, saying, “I’ll be back in a moment,” and padded out the door.
Micah stared at the wall of skulls, fighting the impulse to dive overboard—monster snakes and hungry caimans be damned. But if there was the faintest chance of saving Faye and Catalina, he had to stick out this nightmare. He heard a commotion from up on deck, followed by chanting male voices and, finally, a chorus of cheers.
Feeling horribly naked, Micah groped around for his pants, muttering, “What the hell are they doing now?”
But before he could find them, Queen Caveira returned, clutching something to her chest. She carefully placed it on the altar, proclaiming, “The second part of the sacrifice is now complete.”
Micah stared at the altar in horror. Resting among the statues and candles was the severed head of Batista’s cook.
Queen Caveira slithered into bed next to him, running her bloody fingers through his hair, whispering, “Boiúna be praised my Lucky, Lucky Man.” Wrapping her arms around him, she asked, “So, how will you convince Beyonce to play me?”
Chapter Twelve
Batista’s flotilla continued downriver. The tributary gradually narrowed, becoming roughly one hundred and fifty feet wide.
Catalina and Faye were ensconced in the workroom. The little girl was sprawled on her cot, reading one of her YA novels, but Catalina could tell she’d picked up on the tension growing between her and Hans. It was Catalina’s fourth day of trying to impersonate a geologist—a facade that was unravelling more every hour.
After another of her attempts to deflect a question, Hans slapped his papers onto the table. “Do you know anything about geology?”
Catalina said, “Yes, though I certainly lack your level of scientific expertise.” But one look told her flattery wasn’t cutting it.
“I’m an engineer, with only a working knowledge of geology, yet I clearly know more than you!”
Catalina said, “Please, you’re scaring Faye.”
Hans stood up. “I must inform Mister Batista of your incompetence. He’ll decide what to do with you… stowaways.”
Catalina tensed, knowing exactly what Batista would do with them. Her fingers inched across the table to a stapler, hoping it was heavy enough to cold-cock the Austrian before he got to the door.
Just then they heard an ear-splitting crack, followed by a thunderous roar. The boat shuddered. Faye leapt off the couch, locking her arms around Catalina.
Hans shouted, “What the hell?” and rushed out the door.
Catalina heard shouting and pounding feet on the deck below. Gripping Faye’s hand, she said, “Why don’t we go out and see what happened?”
The little girl asked, “Out there?”
“We’re safer if we know what’s going on. But I want you to stick to me like glue, and if I say run, you run. Okay?”
The child nodded, fear in her eyes.
Catalina asked, “Are you a good swimmer?”
“Yeah. I got a medal at school.”
“That’s good to know, just in case.” Catalina reached under the cot and slipped the Glock into her waistband. “I’m going to peek outside for a second, just wait here.” And she slipped out the door.
Faye sat, listening to the commotion outside. Then another sound caught her attention—a soft rattling. She glanced around, unable to place the source. She heard it again. It was coming from the fragment on the table.
Leaning over it, she whispered, “You’re back.”
The finger-sized sliver continued vibrating.
Faye picked it up. It felt warm as it quivered in the palm of her hand. She asked, “Are you alive?”
The vibrating stopped. Faye remembered what a huge deal this tiny fragment was. Hans kept saying it would prove all her dad’s theories—the same ones everyone said were crazy. If that happened, he wouldn’t have to run around the jungle and be so far away all the time.
Catalina leaned into the cabin and said, “Let’s go.”
Faye slipped the fragment into her pants pocket, zipped it shut, and scurried over to Catalina.
They reached the front deck just in time to hear another deafening crack echoing from the port side.
Faye pointed to the riverbank, shouting, “Look!”
A huge tree pitched forward. Five men clad in loincloths were perched on its trunk, riding it down. It crashed into the water ahead, blocking the boat’s path. The moment it splashed down the men raced along its trunk toward the riverbank.
Santos muscled past Catalina, pistol drawn. She pulled Faye aside, shielding her body. Santos fired six shots at the fleeing men, hitting none. One of the men actually stopped to wave his arms in what Catalina assumed was an obscene gesture then ran off. Santos holstered his sidearm, cursing at the natives.
The Valentina shuddered to a stop, barely fifty feet from the fallen tree. A shorter tree had already fallen from the opposite bank of the tributary, forming a blockade.
Catalina was impressed. Canadian lumberjacks couldn’t have done a better job.
Batista’s yacht pulled alongside the Valentina. Batista climbed off, shoving sailors aside, bellowing, “God damn bastards! Somebody get me a radio!” One of his men raced over with a walkie talkie. Batista shouted into it, “I want gunboats along the shoreline, and get my divers up here, now!”
Hans cautiously approached Batista, asking, “Do you have a moment, sir?”
Catalina’s hand inched closer to the hidden Glock.
Batista shouted, “Do I look like I have a moment? Leave me the hell alone!”
The terrified Austrian retreated to his cabin. Catalina relaxed, knowing Hans’s timidness had bought them some time.
She whispered to Faye, “Let’s go over and talk to the
big creep.”
Faye made a face.
Catalina laughed. “Trust me; I don’t like it either.”
Holding Faye’s hand, Catalina strolled over to Batista. She’d made it a point to stay close to him, knowing the bastard would be well protected if creatures or natives attacked. Being a certified narcissist, Batista interpreted this as attraction.
She asked, “What happened?”
Upon seeing her, Batista assumed a calm facade. “It’s those savages, the Morte Tinto. They’re dropping trees in our path to block us. Those Stone Age bastards think they own this part of the river.”
“How’d they manage to chop down those trees? I mean, they’re huge.”
“Never mistake primitive for stupid. They’re industrious shits who probably stole axes from my own outpost.”
One of the gunboats roared along the riverbank, churning up a wake of brown water. Once in position it opened fire, its machine guns shredding the tree line.
Batista handed Catalina a pair of binoculars and said, “Take a look, the Morte Tinto are squatting out in the bush laughing, but we’re going to put the fear of God in them.”
A barrage of arrows flew from the river’s edge, bouncing off the gunboat’s armored hull. The boat let loose with another salvo.
Batista said, “They’ll shoot arrows at us then slink back into the jungle.”
Catalina said, “Arrows ain’t much against machine guns.”
“Don’t let those tiny arrows fool you. They’re soaked in dart frog venom. Just being nicked by one will kill a man in ten minutes. We need to keep them back while the divers work.”
A second gunboat slid alongside the first, cutting its engines. It drifted silently for a minute, arrows pinging off its armored hull. The silence was broken by a dull thud, followed by a puff of smoke on its deck. A second later, an explosion tore the jungle apart, showering the riverbank in mud and debris. The gunboat fired three more mortar rounds in rapid succession.
Catalina instinctively pulled Faye closer, but the little girl kept squirming, trying to see.
Batista slammed his fist on the guardrail, shouting, “How do you like that, you Neanderthal shits?” He turned to Catalina. “They’re not so brave once they get a taste of mortar fire.”
Primeval Waters Page 11
