He bobbed to the surface after almost a full minute, like an otter, and then went under again. He repeated the process several times, with no success. When he came back up for the final time, he swam to the edge of the pool and climbed out, gasping for breath. Allie studied his glum expression with shock written across her face. She tried to speak, but the only sound she produced was a dry rasp. He shook his head and looked away, unable to meet her gaze.
Drake was gone.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Pinpoints of light floated in Drake’s consciousness, his senses numb. He coughed reflexively and water exploded from his mouth and nose. He choked and sputtered, hacking more as fluid streamed down his chin as his body tried to clear his lungs. Pain seared through his head and he retched, and then instinctively he tried to reach up and touch the raw spot on his skull.
His arms wouldn’t move. As he regained full consciousness, he realized that his wrists were bound over his head and secured to something. He opened his eyes and instantly winced – one of them was almost swollen shut from the battering he’d endured in the rapids after dropping into the pool and being flushed down the river. Vision in his other eye was blurry, but as he strained to focus, he could make out figures near him.
As his eyesight cleared, he could make out faces – indigenous tribal features burned deep brown from the sun, the vaguely Asian cast to the eyes and flatter nose typical of the Amazon rainforest’s primitive inhabitants. His gaze stopped at a young woman around his age, her animal-skin tunic soaking wet, like his clothes. She held his stare unflinchingly, and then one of the young men next to her emitted a whoop, and he felt something pulling at his belt.
The man held up Drake’s knife, unmistakable malice in his gaze. After waving the weapon around, laughing along with his companions, he turned to Drake with an ugly expression and approached, his grip on the knife tightening as he prepared to put it to use. He held it over Drake’s head, and then a warning shout barked from beyond Drake’s field of vision. The man hesitated and stepped back, his black eyes locked on Drake’s, obviously not happy. Drake passed out, his last impression a lightning bolt of agony shrieking through his skull as he tried to pull free.
When he came to again, his head was less tender, and when he tried to move his arms, he was able to. He tentatively cracked his eye open. The young woman was sitting nearby, looking at him. Next to her was a wizened elder with long gray hair, his complexion the color and texture of rawhide, the skin wrinkled from a lifetime in the rainforest.
They were in some sort of structure. He could make out thatch overhead, the dried fronds supported upon a crude framework of wooden poles, saplings that had been stripped and tied together to form the roof. Rain dripped from the sides, but inside they were dry.
Drake tried to sit up. His head swam, and along with the disorientation the pain returned with a vengeance. Supporting himself on one elbow, he reached up to his head and felt some sort of muck lathered on his skull. He brought his fingers to his nose and sniffed, and gagged at the odor.
The woman stood and approached on bare feet, her bronze legs lithe, no trace of embarrassment at her nearly nude form. She shook her head and pointed to his skull, and then hers. He understood. He wasn’t to mess with whatever they’d put on his head.
The torrent of questions that flooded his awareness brought another wave of nausea and dizziness, and it was all he could do to keep from passing out. The woman made a sign with her hands like someone sleeping and pointed to him. His attempt to nod was ill advised, and he barely got his head back onto the cushioned softness of whatever they’d placed beneath it before he blacked out.
This time when he regained consciousness it was dark out. A small fire by the side of the structure provided the only illumination as its flames licked at the sky, the dim light flickering off the drying poles that supported the roof. The woman was sitting in the same place. When she saw his eyes open, she stood and moved to him with a bowl and a gourd. He pushed himself up on his elbow again and drank greedily, the water in the gourd tasting sweeter than any he could remember. Finished, he eyed the bowl distrustfully. Judging from the smell, it appeared to be some sort of a fish stew. He ate small bites of the pungent mixture, but couldn’t manage much due to the pain that sliced through his skull each time he opened his mouth.
She seemed to understand and removed the bowl from his grasp before pointing at his backpack, which was lying nearby, his knife resting on top of it, his belt rolled up neatly next to it. He grunted and cursed his inability to communicate. He wanted to ask her where he was, how he’d come to be there, why he’d been spared when the young man had seemed an instant away from eviscerating him, but he didn’t know how.
The energy seemed to drain from his limbs from the effort of supporting himself, and his frustration drifted into a dreamless sleep as the fire’s glow faded, the cooking over and the tribe already down for the night.
Morning brought with it the familiar Amazon heat. Drake awoke sweating. The woman knelt by his head, applying more salve to his wound, and he was pleased to discover that the swelling around his eye had receded somewhat during the night and that he could now see through it, albeit with the remaining puffiness causing discomfort when he opened it.
She spoke several words, which he interpreted as instruction to stay still, and he allowed her to press the goop in place, wincing as she did so. When she was done, she moved to the edge of the hut and placed the bowl next to another, and again brought him food and water. This time he was able to choke more of the gruel down, driven by hunger and his body’s efforts to repair itself. The mixture of an unfamiliar fruit and fish wasn’t as unpleasant as the prior night’s concoction, and he finished the bowl to the woman’s smiling approval.
When he was done, the old man appeared at the far end of the hut and approached him on unsteady legs. Drake guessed he was someone of importance within the tribe by his elaborate bone necklace and his ornately carved walking stick, its top sculpted into a likeness of a jaguar head, mouth open to reveal its teeth, the dark stone polished to a bright sheen. He moved slowly and deliberately to the backpack and picked up Drake’s knife, still in its sheath. He slid the blade free and held it up to the light, examining the sharp edge before turning his attention to the scarred leather and studying it for a long time. After a pause, he edged to Drake’s position and sat beside him, the knife clutched in his gnarled hand.
He regarded Drake as if memorizing every detail. After a seeming eternity, he nodded and slid the knife back into the sheath, which he placed by Drake’s side. Drake tried a smile, but only managed a sharp intake of breath from the pain the expression caused. The man’s eyes danced with merriment. He patted Drake’s shoulder reassuringly and pointed at the knife, and then at Drake. Drake nodded, ignoring the lance of discomfort the action brought.
The man pointed at Drake again, and at the knife, and then did a pantomime that left Drake baffled, circling his face with one finger and pointing at Drake, then the knife. Seeing the lack of comprehension, the elder went through the same routine again, this time gesturing to Drake’s chest, then his own, then touching his wrinkles and pointing to Drake again.
A light bulb went off in Drake’s head and his eyes widened in disbelief. “My father? You’re saying me, but older?” Drake pointed to the old man’s face and then himself.
The elder nodded and offered a puckered smile. To be sure Drake understood, he repeated the pantomime a final time and then gestured to the young woman. She approached and sat near him. He patted her head and pointed at her, then at Drake, then touched his own lined face before waving to the girl again and making a swimming motion. Seeing no recognition, he repeated the gestures and added a fair depiction of someone thrashing around. He ended with an arm grasping at air, the fingers waggling while he had a look of distress on his face, and then he pointed to Drake and touched his face with a leathery finger, and then the woman.
A vague recollection stirred in Drake’s memor
y. Something Jack had said. About his father saving a drowning native girl and the locals leaving them in peace as a result. Was that what the old man was trying to communicate? That this was the child he’d rescued, now grown, in her early twenties? The woman smiled again and patted her chest, then reached out and patted Drake’s, and he couldn’t help but notice that she was attractive when she smiled, her face illuminated with an inner radiance and tranquility that was beautiful.
The old man patted his necklace and then the woman. She did the same, and Drake got it. She was the man’s daughter, and he was the chief. He’d recognized not Drake but his father’s knife, and figured the rest out from their strong resemblance.
They spent the remainder of the morning exchanging primitive signs, struggling through a discussion of sorts. After more water and food, Drake was exhausted and slumbered, this time his dreams filled with visions of his father swimming in rapids to save a young child who would grow up to save his son. In the dream the child transformed into the woman, and he awoke with a start when she stepped out of the water, naked and smiling, her smooth skin golden in the warm sunlight.
The woman was by his side, blotting sweat off his forehead, and when she saw he was awake, offered him more water. He was parched and felt hot, even considering the tropical surroundings – feverish. A chill ran through him and he trembled, and the woman put a soft hand on his cheek before wiping away the perspiration that beaded on his face.
Day merged with evening, and the fever worsened. He faded in and out of consciousness throughout the night and the next afternoon, his skin sizzling to the touch, and during one of the brief lucid periods, he wondered whether the gash in his head had gotten infected and somehow spread to his brain.
When the fever broke on the third day, he was so weak his guardian angel had to steady his head as she poured water into his mouth. The old man made an appearance and ground several types of roots and leaves into a slurry before adding more water and making Drake drink the bitter concoction. When he’d consumed it all, he drifted off again and didn’t wake until the next morning – but stronger, the fever gone.
This time when he tried to sit up he managed, and his head didn’t come off. The ever-present woman and the old man sat in their customary spot near the edge of the hut’s floor, watching him without expression. Drake realized that he was naked. He could see a drizzle coming down outside, and debated trying to stand, but decided against it. The woman stood and brought yet another meal, and he tried to concentrate on eating and ignore his nudity, which wasn’t helped by the young woman’s proximity.
That afternoon the elder reappeared and sat near Drake for another sign discussion. At the end of it, he offered Drake a small depiction of a jaguar head, carved out of a piece of bone and suspended on a leather lanyard. Drake noted that the carving was surprisingly detailed, and the old man slipped the leather cord over Drake’s head. He patted Drake’s chest and flexed one of his scrawny biceps, and Drake understood – the amulet would make him strong. Next, he gestured at Drake and shrugged his shoulders, then pointed at the surrounding jungle. Drake didn’t need an interpreter to understand the question: What the hell are you doing out here?
Drake pointed at his knife, then at himself, and then did his best charades version of searching for something. The old man nodded.
Drake then pantomimed structures, and when the old man didn’t understand, Drake scratched out an illustration on the dirt floor – his feeble attempt at a city. The man sat staring at it for some time before nodding and pointing to the depiction and then off into the jungle. Drake felt a thrill of hope. Jack had told him his father had been excited after saving the girl, but also tight-lipped about why, other than to say that he felt that they were close. Was it possible that this ancient shaman held the final clue?
He held his breath as the man extended his hand and called to his daughter, who went into the cloudburst and returned moments later with a short stick. The elder brushed away the depiction of structures and drew a snaking line, and then a passable illustration of a waterfall. Then another waterfall a few inches away from the first, and a circle between the two with a crude recreation of Drake’s buildings. Satisfied with his handiwork, he sat back, pointed at the second waterfall and then at Drake. Drake shook his head, not getting it. The old man drew a stick figure in the waterfall and gestured at Drake.
Understanding flashed across Drake’s face and he whispered to himself, “That’s the waterfall where I fell? Then…Paititi is between these two waterfalls, down a different river…?”
Drake’s breathing accelerated as he pointed to the first waterfall and shrugged his shoulders, signaling, “Where?”
The old man sighed and stood, then pointed at the young woman, then at the waterfalls. His meaning was clear.
His daughter would show him the way.
~ ~ ~
Gus stared at the phone as though he was holding a steaming handful of dung and struggled to maintain his composure.
“I thought I was clear. Failure on this is not an option.”
“Yes, sir, you were. But we haven’t been able to pick up their trail, and the guide says at this point he’s not going to be able to.”
“That’s not good enough.”
“Agreed. But I’m not sure that staying out here is going to accomplish much after almost a week. And we’ve already run across some drug traffickers we had to neutralize in self-defense, so we’re leaving tracks.”
Gus sighed. “Keep at it. Try not to kill everyone in the area, though. We really don’t want to have to answer difficult questions from the Peruvians.”
“We’ll do our best. This is just to warn you that the trail has gone cold.”
“I don’t want to have to report that to the director.”
“Understood.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Vadim swallowed another antibiotic pill with boiled water and tested his weight on his leg. One of the rounds exchanged during the raid on their camp had hit the exterior of his left thigh, and while the wound wasn’t life-threatening, it was certainly painful enough, although mending. His leg twinged when he walked, but was much improved, and while he wouldn’t be playing soccer anytime soon, he was ambulatory.
Sasha looked up from his position under a tall tree as Awa, one of their native guides, stepped into the camp. He shook his head as he approached, toting his Kalashnikov in one hand with a walking stick in the other – good for probing the ground in front of him while moving through the jungle to ensure he didn’t step on a surly snake.
“No sign of him,” Awa said in barely understandable English.
“What do you make of that?” Sasha asked, looking at Vadim.
When they’d caught up to the trio, Awa’s tracking ability having proved invaluable, the three were now two, camped beside a waterfall, with the Ramsey boy nowhere to be seen. At first they’d believed he was out exploring, but after watching the site in shifts, they realized that wasn’t the case. The remaining man, whom they didn’t recognize, and the girl left the camp every morning to root around in the jungle, presumably looking for Paititi, but Drake had yet to reappear.
And Vadim had no interest in the pair beyond their ability to lead him to Ramsey.
“This I do not understand, Sasha: why would he go off on his own? That makes no sense.”
“Perhaps he met with some kind of misfortune?” Sasha suggested.
“Anything is possible in this hellhole, but you had better pray his good fortune still remains. The Ramsey boy is the only connection to the journal, and if it was all in his head, we have a big problem if he fails to materialize. This is a big jungle, and he was our best chance. Without him, we could spend ten lifetimes looking for the city and never find it.”
Sasha knew better than to continue the discussion. When Vadim became enraged, he could lash out unpredictably, as they’d discovered twenty years earlier when the older Ramsey had steadfastly refused to share his knowledge. Sasha could still remembe
r it like it was yesterday. Ramsey had been beaten and burned with cigarettes, and through it all, had remained silent, refusing to reward them with even a word. When he had spoken, it had been to utter a Russian curse involving Vadim’s mother and her son, and he’d punctuated it by spitting a bloody tooth in Vadim’s face.
Sasha had tried to stop Vadim, but by the time he’d reached him, it had been too late. The point-blank shot to Ramsey’s head killed him instantly.
Sasha had also seen that brutal streak when they’d been in the gulag together in Siberia. Any prisoner who crossed him would be in mortal danger, and more than one body had been found over the years, stabbed dozens of times, frozen in the snow. Vadim was wildly bright, but as with so many who had served in the KGB on its secret wet teams, unbalanced; his anger could flare to the surface without warning, with deadly consequences.
Vadim took several cautious steps toward the stream they’d camped beside and stared into the underbrush, as though the plants held a solution to the quandary he faced. When he returned, sweat beading down his unshaven face, his mood had darkened further. He glowered at Awa and barked an order.
“We continue watching and waiting. We have no choice. They are our only option.”
“Maybe we should take them and interrogate them,” Sasha said.
“If we do that, we lose the chance to catch Ramsey. No, for now, we wait.”
Sasha waved off an ever-present mosquito and nodded with an enthusiasm he didn’t feel. He despised the infernal jungle, with its never-ending parade of poisonous insects, deadly reptiles, diseases, heat, and rain. Always rain, and the mud it created. He would gladly have traded it for the icy climes of Siberia. At least there were no bugs there.
Awa moved to one of his men and had a hushed discussion in their native tongue. The man rose and walked soundlessly to the trail to take up the surveillance of the pair a scant mile away.
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