The Codex

by Douglas Preston

  He continued downhill, slipping and sliding on the wet leaves, sending pebbles rolling down the steep slope. The mists were getting thicker by the minute. He heard another set of grunting coughs, behind him, very humanlike in sound. The animal was pursuing him.

  “Sally!”

  Sally emerged from the mists, carrying the gun, with a scowl on her face. “Your shouting caused me to miss a shot.”

  He pulled up short, then slid the machete back into his belt, embarrassed. “I was worried, that’s all. I don’t like the sound of that jaguar. It’s hunting us.”

  “Jaguars don’t hunt people.”

  “You heard what my brother said about what happened to his guide.”

  “Frankly, I don’t believe it.” She frowned. “We might as well go back. I’m not going to get anything more in this fog anyway.”

  They climbed back to the spot where the body of the rodent had been. The pieces were gone, leaving a few torn and bloody palm leaves behind.

  Sally laughed. “That’s all he was doing—chasing you away so he could eat our dinner.”

  Tom colored with embarrassment. “I wasn’t chased away—I came looking for you.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Sally, “I probably would have run, too.”

  Tom noted with irritation the word probably but said nothing. But he suppressed a tart reply. He wasn’t going to let her bait him anymore. They started back toward camp, following the trail they had come in on. As they approached the first rockpile, the jaguar screamed again, the sound oddly clear and crisp in the foggy forest. Sally stopped, her gun raised. They waited. Water drops were collecting and falling off the leaves, filling the forest with a soft pattering sound.

  “He wasn’t ahead of us before, Sally.”

  “You still think he’s hunting us?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nonsense. He wouldn’t be making such a racket if he were. And besides, he just ate.” She smirked at him.

  They walked cautiously toward the rocks. Empty, but with a lot of dark holes and crevasses.

  “Let’s play it safe and skirt that rockfall,” Tom said.

  “All right.”

  They began climbing uphill, to go around it from above. The mists were getting thicker. Tom felt the wetness creeping through his only set of clothes. He stopped. There was a soft rustling sound.

  Sally paused.

  “Sally, get behind me,” Tom said.

  “I’ve got the gun. I should be in front.”

  “Get behind me.”

  “For heaven’s sake.” But she got behind him.

  He drew his machete and moved forward. There were trees all around them, crooked trees with low branches hung with moss. The mists were so thick he could not see their upper reaches. Tom realized that they were now upwind of the jaguar. It had moved around them so that it could scent them, even if it could not see them.

  “Sally, I can feel it hunting us.”

  “It’s just curious.”

  Tom froze. There, about ten yards ahead, was the jaguar, suddenly exposing itself fully to their view. It was standing on a branch above their path, calmly looking at them, twitching its tail. Its magnificence took Tom’s breath away.

  Sally did not raise her gun to shoot, and Tom understood why. It was impossible to contemplate destroying such a beautiful animal.

  After a moment’s hesitation the jaguar leapt effortlessly to another tree branch and walked along it, eyeing them the whole time, its muscles rippling under its golden pelt, moving like flowing honey.

  “Look at how beautiful it is,” Sally breathed.

  It was beautiful. With a movement of incredible lightness, the animal leapt to another branch, this one closer to them. There it stopped, slowly sinking down onto its haunches. It looked at them boldly, utterly unafraid, making no effort to hide, motionless except for the faintest twitching of the tip of its tail. There was blood on its muzzle. The look in its eye, Tom thought, was contemptuous.

  “It’s not afraid,” said Sally.

  “That’s because it’s never seen a human being before.”

  Tom backed up slowly, and Sally followed suit. The jaguar remained in its perch watching them, forever watching them, until it disappeared in the shifting mists.

  When they got back to camp, Don Alfonso listened to their story about the jaguar, his brown face crinkling with concern. “We must be very careful,” he said. “We must not talk about this animal anymore. Otherwise, he will follow us to hear what we say. He is proud and does not like to be spoken ill of.”

  “I thought that jaguars don’t attack humans,” Sally said.

  Don Alfonso laughed and whacked Sally’s knee. “That is a good joke. When he looks at us, what do you think he sees?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “He sees a weak, stupid, slow, perpendicular piece of meat without horns, teeth, or claws.”

  “Why didn’t he attack?”

  “Like all cats, he likes to play with his food.”

  Sally shuddered.

  “Curandera, it is not pleasant to be eaten by a jaguar. They eat the tongue first, and not always before you are dead. Next time you have the opportunity to kill it, do it.”

  That night the forest was so quiet that Tom had trouble sleeping. Sometime after midnight, hoping a little air would help, he crept out of his hammock and ducked out the door of the hut. He was astonished at the sight that greeted him. The forest all around him was aglow with phosphorescence, as if glowing powder had been dusted over everything, outlining rotting logs and stumps, dead leaves and mushrooms, a luminescent landscape that stretched off into the forest, merging into one misty glow. It was as if the heavens had fallen to earth.

  After five minutes he crept back into the makeshift hut and gave Sally a little shake. She rolled over, her hair a tangle of heavy gold. Like all of them, she was sleeping in her clothes. “What is it?” she said in a sleepy voice.

  “There’s something you have to see.”

  “I’m sleeping.”

  “You’ve got to see this.”

  “I don’t have to do anything. Go away.”

  “Sally, just this once please trust me.”

  Grumbling, she got out of her hammock and stepped outside. She halted and stood there in silence, staring. Minutes passed. “My God,” she breathed. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful. It’s like staring down at L.A. from thirty thousand feet.”

  The glow cast a faint illumination on Sally’s face, barely outlining it against the darkness. Her long hair hung down her back like a cascade of light, silver instead of gold.

  On an impulse, he took her hand. She didn’t withdraw it. There was something amazingly erotic in just holding her hand.

  “Tom?”

  “Yes?”

  “Why did you want me to see this?”

  “Well,” he said, “because I—” He hesitated. “I wanted to share it with you, that’s all.”

  “That’s all?” She looked at him for a long time. Her eyes seemed unusually luminescent—or maybe it was just a trick of the light. Finally she said, “Thank you, Tom.”

  All at once, the jaguar’s scream split the night. A black shape slowly moved against the glowing background, like an absence of light itself. As it turned its great head toward them, they saw the faint gleam of its eyes reflecting the millions of points in two orbs, like two tiny galaxies.

  Tom slowly pulled Sally back by her hand, toward the dull heap of coals that had been their fire. He reached down and heaped some brush on. As the yellow flames licked upward, the jaguar disappeared.

  A moment later Don Alfonso joined them at the fire.

  “He is still playing with his food,” the old man muttered.

  36

  The next morning when they set off, the mists were so thick they couldn’t see more than ten feet in any direction. They climbed farther up the mountain, still following the faint animal trail. They topped a secondary ridge and began to descend. Tom could hea
r the sound of roaring water at the bottom. In a few moments they came out on the steep banks of a river tearing down the mountainside, bursting over boulders on its way.

  “We cut a tree,” said Don Alfonso. He hunted around and found a slender tree that was positioned to fall in the right way. “Cut here,” he ordered. They all joined in, and in fifteen minutes it had fallen, forming a bridge of sorts over the roaring cataract, where the river narrowed to a chute that ended in a boiling pool created by a logjam.

  Don Alfonso gave a few whacks at a nearby sapling; in a moment he had fashioned it into a twelve-foot pole. He handed it to Vernon. “You first, Vernito.”

  “Why me?”

  “To see if the bridge is strong enough,” said Don Alfonso.

  Vernon looked at him for a moment, and then Don Alfonso laughed, slapping his shoulder. “You must take off your shoes, Vernito. God gave us bare feet for a reason.”

  Vernon removed his shoes, tied the laces together, and draped them around his neck. Don Alfonso handed him the pole.

  “Go slow, and stop if the log begins swaying.”

  Vernon crept out onto the log, balancing the pole like a tightrope walker, his feet white against the dark green. “It’s as slick as ice.”

  “Slowly, slowly,” Don Alfonso crooned.

  As he crept out, the tree sagged and wobbled. In a few minutes he was over. Vernon threw the pole back across.

  “Your turn,” said Don Alfonso, handing the pole to Tom.

  Tom removed his shoes and hefted the pole. He felt silly, like a circus performer. Cautiously he ventured onto the log, sliding his feet over the cold, slippery bark, one foot after the other. Every movement seemed to make the tree sway and tremble. He moved, waited, moved again. About halfway across, Bugger, who had been sleeping in his pocket, took the opportunity to poke his head out to take a look around; when he saw the torrent below, he let out a shriek and clambered out of the pocket and up Tom’s face to nestle in his hair. Tom, startled, allowed one end of the pole to dip down. In a panic he heaved that end up; the inertia of it carried it up high; he took two quick steps trying to maintain his balance, which only caused the log to give a violent bounce.

  He fell.

  For a split second he was in the air, and then it was as if he had been swallowed by something black and freezing. He felt a violent tug as the current grabbed him, a terrifying weightless rush, and then a sudden pummeling roar. He nailed his arms, trying to struggle upward, but he didn’t know which direction was up, and then he felt the current jam him into an underwater thicket of logs. He clawed about, feeling a terrible pressure on his chest, the air being forced out of his lungs. He tried to kick and pull himself free, but the logs surrounding him were slick and the pressure was fierce. It was like being buried alive. There were flashes of light in his vision, and he opened his mouth to scream, only to feel the pressure fill his mouth. He twisted his body, desperate for air, trying to propel himself out of the nest of branches, twisted again, but he had lost all sense of direction. He twisted and thrashed, but he could feel his energy fast ebbing; he was becoming lighter, weightless, going far, far away.

  And then there was an arm around his neck and he was brutally pulled back to reality, manhandled through water, dragged over rocks, slung down. He found himself on the ground, staring up at a face he knew well, but it still took him a moment to realize it was Vernon.

  “Tom!” Vernon shouted. “Look, his eyes are open! Tom, say something! Christ, he’s not breathing!”

  Sally was suddenly there, and he felt a sudden pressure in his chest. Everything looked strange and slow. Vernon bent over him. He felt him give his chest a big shove, and he felt his arms being raised. All at once the pressure seemed to break, and he coughed violently. Vernon rolled him to his side. He coughed, coughed again, felt a blinding icy headache take hold. Reality returned with a vengeance.

  Tom struggled to sit up. Vernon put his arms under his shoulders and supported him.

  “What happened?”

  “This foolish brother of yours, this Vernito, jumped into that river and pulled you out from under those logs. I have never seen such craziness in my life.”

  “He did?”

  Tom turned and looked at Vernon. He was soaked, and his forehead was cut. Blood and water ran together into his beard.

  Vernon grasped him, and he stood up. His head cleared a little more, and the pounding headache began to subside. He look down into the roaring chute of water ripping into the frenzied pool jammed full of broken tree trunks and branches. He looked at Vernon again.

  It finally sank in. “You,” he said incredulously.

  Vernon shrugged.

  “You saved my life.”

  “Well, you saved mine,” he said, almost defensively. “You decapitated a snake for me. All I did was jump.”

  Don Alfonso said, “By the Virgin Mary, I still cannot believe it.”

  Tom coughed again. “Well, Vernon, thanks.”

  “Isn’t Death disappointed today,” Don Alfonso cried, pointing to the small, wet, frightened monkey crouching on a rock by the water. “Why, even the mono chucuto cheated Death.”

  A miserable Bugger climbed back into Tom’s pocket and took his accustomed place, making grumpy noises.

  “Don’t complain,” Tom said. “It was your own damn fault.”

  The monkey answered with an insolent smack of his lips.

  Past the river the trail went uphill again, and they continued to climb higher into the mountains. Darkness and a chill crept into the air. Tom was still soaked, and he began to shiver.

  Don Alfonso said casually, “You know the animal I spoke to you about yesterday?”

  It took Tom a moment to realize what he was referring to.

  “It is a lady, and she is still with us.”

  “How do you know?”

  Don Alfonso lowered his voice. “She has very bad breath.”

  “You smelled her?” Sally asked.

  Don Alfonso nodded.

  “How long is she going to follow us?”

  “Until she eats. She is pregnant and hungry.”

  “Great. And we’re the pickles and ice cream.”

  “Let us pray to the Virgin to send a slow anteater across her path.” Don Alfonso nodded at Sally. “Carry loaded.”

  The trail continued to climb through a forest of gnarled trees that seemed to get denser as they gained altitude. At a certain point, Tom noticed the air becoming brighter. It seemed to smell different, carrying a faint odor of perfume. And then, quite suddenly, they walked out of the mist and into the sunlight. Tom paused, astonished. They were now looking out over a sea of white. On the puffy horizon the sun was sinking into an orange sea of fire. The forest was draped with brilliant flowers.

  “We’re above the clouds,” cried Sally.

  “We will camp at the top,” said Don Alfonso, striking off with a newly invigorated step.

  The trail crested the ridge in a broad meadow filled with wildflowers, rippled by a breeze, and all of a sudden they were at the summit, looking northwest over a rolling ocean of clouds. Fifty miles distant Tom could see a line of sharp blue peaks breaking through the clouds, like a chain of islands in the sky.

  “The Sierra Azul,” said Don Alfonso, in a small, queer voice.

  37

  Lewis Skiba stared into the flickering fire, losing himself in the shifting colors. He had done nothing all day, answered no phones, taken no meetings, written no memos. All he could think of was Had Hauser done it? Had Hauser made him a murderer yet? He held his head and thought back to the ivy-covered buildings of Wharton, the heady sense of possibility of those early days. The whole world was there, ahead of him, ripe for the plucking. And now ... He reminded himself that he had brought jobs and opportunity to thousands, that he had grown his company and made drugs that cured people of terrible diseases and sicknesses. He had three fine sons. Yet for the past week the first thought that came into his mind when he woke up was I am a murderer. He
wanted to take back his words. Except that he couldn’t: Hauser hadn’t called, and he had no way of contacting him.

  Why had he told Hauser to do it? Why had he allowed himself to be bullied? Skiba tried to tell himself that Hauser would have done it anyway, that he himself had not caused anyone’s death, that maybe it was just big talk. There were people like that who liked to talk violence, brag about their guns, that sort of thing. Sick people. Hauser might be one of those, all talk and no action.

  The intercom buzzed, and with a shaking hand he pressed the button.

  “Mr. Fenner from Dixon Asset Management for his two o’clock.”

  Skiba swallowed. This was the one meeting he couldn’t miss. “Send him in.”

  Fenner looked like most of the other stock analysts of his acquaintance, small, dry, emanating overweening self-confidence. That was the key to his success: Fenner was a guy you just wanted to believe. Skiba had done a lot of little favors for Fenner, tipped some hot IPOs his way, helped get his kids into an exclusive Manhattan private school, given a couple of hundred thousand to his wife’s favorite charity. In return, Fenner had been calling Lampe stock a “buy” all the way down, leading his hapless clients to the manure pile and shoving them in head first—all the while making millions himself. In short, he was a typical successful analyst.

  “How are you, Lewis?” said Fenner, taking a seat by the fire. “This can’t be much fun.”

  “It isn’t, Stan.”

  “I don’t want to bandy civilities at a time like this. We’ve known each other for too long. I want you to give me one reason why I should advise my clients to keep holding Lampe. I just need one good reason.”

  Skiba swallowed. “Can I offer you anything, Stan? Mineral water? Sherry?”

  Fenner shook his head. “The investment committee is going to override me. It’s fire-sale time. They’re spooked and, frankly, so am I. I trusted you, Skiba.”

  What a crock. Fenner had known the company’s real picture for months. He was just too tempted by all the tidbits Skiba was tossing his way and by the investment banking business Lampe gave Dixon. Greedy bastard. On the other hand, if Dixon went from “buy” to “hold” or “sell,” that would finish Lampe. It would be Chapter 11.