She climbed into the rear seat, groped behind it, came up with a translucent red nightgown. It smelled of mildew and there was a green streak of rot across it. She handed it to Jeb.
“Here. Use this.”
And she thought: Now there’s a macabre twist! That little bit of red fluff was supposed to save my marriage. Now … maybe it’ll save my life!
She shook her head, slid across the seat, peered out at Jeb.
“How’s it going?”
“I think the ignition shorted out. Everything’s soaked. It’s getting plenty of gas.”
She glanced up at the sky.
“Why aren’t there planes out looking for us now that the weather’s clear?”
Jeb continued to work, spoke without looking at her.
“The clear weather may be local. We don’t know what it’s like downstream.
“But couldn’t they just fly up the river?”
“Maybe … maybe not.”
“They must’ve missed us by now!”
“Don’t count on it.”
Her voice sank to just above a whisper: “I’m famous, dammit. They won’t just leave me and forget me.” She raised her voice. “We heard that one plane! There’ll be more.”
Jeb stopped, looked at her.
“That was over a week ago, Monti.”
“They’d search at the rancho first,” she said. “That’s natural.”
“If they’ve missed us, they may suspect that we found a chunk of mountain in a cloud … or crashed into the jungle.” He stared out across the flooded river. “The jungle can swallow a plane in a week—grow over it so that it’d never be found.” Again he looked at her. “Why should anyone expect us to be on a river that curves all over hell’s half acre?”
She put a hand to her eyes, shook her head.
Jeb leaned against the cowling as a trembling of weakness passed over him. He felt that he had passed beyond hunger.
“The floats are as dry as I can get them,” said Gettler.
Jeb straightened, looked down at Gettler standing in the water ahead of the plane. A look of feral cunning veiled the man’s eyes. Unconsciously, Jeb put his hand to the revolver in his belt.
“You’re going to have to crank her,” said Jeb.
“How?”
“Beach the canoe between the floats, and stand in it.” Jeb looked at the prop. “Ever do this before?”
“No.”
“You grab the prop with both hands up here, stand well back; you haul it down and step clear all in one motion.”
“When do I do this?”
“Get the canoe in position. I’ll tell you when. We’ll prime it first. You have to be careful when I yell contact.” He looked down at the canoe. “Fall back into the canoe if you have to. Let’s get moving.”
Jeb climbed into his seat, checked the controls, nodded to Gettler.
The motor coughed on the second try, then settled into its familiar banging, spitting roar. Jeb adjusted the carburetor, leaned out his door, shouted: “Tie the canoe to the float and shove us off!”
Presently, the nose of the plane swung out into the river. Gettler appeared standing on the right hand float.
“Why’re you using the motor?” asked Monti.
“To dry it out.”
“Is David all right up on top?”
“Yes. He was lying down flat when I got in.”
“If we just had enough gas,” said Monti.
“It’d save some blisters all right,” said Jeb. He glanced up at the wing tank gauge on his left, looked down to the temperature needle. “That should do it.” He turned off the ignition.
Gettler rapped on the door window beside Monti.
“We going to have to crank her every time?”
Jeb shrugged.
David slid down to the cowling, dropped to the left float, climbed into the rear seat.
“Boy, it’s hot up there!”
A wavering diagonal current took the plane around a thin neck of tree-garlanded land. Again they heard the sound of falling water. The river below them stretched more than half a mile wide with a straight line slanting across it. Vapor whorls hung above the line.
“A shallow falls,” said Jeb. “Maybe three feet.” He looked left to right. “Clear across!”
“What’ll we do?” asked Monti.
“Gettler!” called Jeb. “Crank her!”
Gettler moved forward along the float.
The motor caught on the first turn.
Jeb swung toward the left shore in a wide, curving arc. Oil smoke fumed back into the cabin.
Monti coughed.
“What’re you going to do?” she asked.
“Look at those trees,” said Jeb. “See the water beyond them? Means it’s open. No place for an ambush.”
She nodded.
Jeb cut the motor, slipped down to the float. The plane coasted in among drooping vines. He caught one, tied it to the strut.
“Plantain,” said Gettler.
Jeb looked at him. “Huh?”
“Bananas.” Gettler pointed into the narrow peninsula.
Jeb followed the direction pointed, saw a tree of thick fronds with red-skinned fruit showing through the green.
Gettler already was off the float, forcing his way through the undergrowth. He returned with three thick stems of the fruit, passed two to Jeb.
“Are those bananas?” asked David. “They’re red.”
Jeb handed Monti one of the stems of fruit.
“They ought to be cooked if you want to take the time,” he said. But he already was peeling and eating one.
The food felt leaden in his stomach, and he suffered a sudden cramping pang of nausea. It passed, and he ate a second one.
Gettler squatted on the muddy shore, staring at the nose of the dugout beneath the plane. If he closed his eyes, he knew that he would see rapids around him, feel the canoe fighting the savage water beneath him, the cane pole vibrating in his hands.
Curious, he thought. I wasn’t afraid.
And he realized that he had never once doubted his ability to shoot the white water safely. The feeling had come over him as he crouched in the dugout to escape the dart attack, and watched the plane drift away. But all the same … something had happened back there: a new kind of awareness tingling in his nerves.
He saw David come out of the cabin and onto the float beside Jeb.
“May I go pick some more of that fruit?” he asked.
Gettler absently pinched off a tick on his leg.
Jeb studied the peninsula to the left where it curved off into higher ground, looked across the flood waters on the other side at the feathery green hills, a great softness of hills bending down to the river. There was a desolate, sweltering emptiness to the landscape, all motion crushed by the pressure of heat.
And Jeb knew that the emptiness was a false image.
“I’ll be careful,” said David.
“Let him pick some of the fruit,” said Monti. “It’s open in there. Nothing could be hidden.”
A black and scarlet dragonfly buzzed across the cowling of the plane, hummed in among the trees.
Jeb shrugged. “Be careful.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And keep your finger out of the water.”
David leaped to the mud beside Gettler, skidded, caught himself on a vine. He made his way toward the fruit still showing through the green.
Jeb turned to bail out the floats.
“How’re you planning to go over those falls?” asked Gettler.
“Skim over them under power,” said Jeb.
Gettler sniffed.
“And what about the canoe?”
“We’ll let it go over by itself and recover it below.” Jeb glanced at the canoe. “Untie it and beach it for now.”
Gettler straightened stiffly, moved to obey.
Monti leaned out the door. “Where’s David?”
Jeb glanced at the shore. No sign of the boy.
Monti pulled back, look
ed into the rear seat, on the floor, under the front seats.
“Jeb, he’s got the other gun: the twenty-two,” she said. There was an edge of panic to her voice.
“It’s all right,” said Jeb. He moved to the front edge of the float, called: “David!”
No answer.
And again, louder: “David!”
Monti dropped down beside him, shouted: “David!”
No answer.
Gettler beached the canoe, climbed up the muddy shore.
“David!” he called.
A hummingbird darted past him with a musical whirring of wings. No other sound except the roaring of the falls.
“He can’t have gone far,” said Jeb.
Gettler returned to the canoe for the machete, went back into the underbrush.
Monti put a hand to her cheek.
“Something’s happened to David!” Her voice bordered on hysteria.
“Stay here!” said Jeb.
He leaped to the shore, scrambled up toward the fronds that trembled to Gettler’s movements.
Gettler emerged from the bushes, machete dangling in his right hand. “His tracks lead off toward the mainland.”
“What’s he thinking of?” Jeb cupped his hands around his mouth, shouted: “David!”
“He can’t hear you above the sound of the falls,” said Gettler. “He’s following the tracks of a river pig.”
“Following the …”
“He thinks he’s going to get us some meat,” said Gettler. “I heard her say he took the gun.”
“What’s wrong?” called Monti.
Jeb returned to the bow of the canoe, explained.
Monti’s glance darted fearfully along the line of the peninsula.
“Logan,” said Gettler.
Jeb turned.
“I’m going after him,” said Gettler. “Let me have your gun.”
Jeb shook his head. “You’re staying here … without a gun.” He lifted the revolver from his belt, hefted it. “I’ll find him.”
“Stay where you are!” ordered Gettler. He lifted the machete.
Jeb brought up the gun muzzle.
And Gettler laughed, a brutal, chopping sound. “You’re not the killer type, Logan. And that’s why I’m going after the boy.”
Gettler whirled, crashed into the underbrush, through it.
Jeb started after him.
“Wait!” called Monti.
He hesitated.
“Don’t leave me,” she said.
“Sonofabitch!” muttered Jeb.
Gettler was already out of sight.
Jeb felt a sudden chill, thought: He could wait for me in there, chop me down with the machete.
Slowly, he made his way back to the plane, jumped out to the float.
Then he thought about the twenty-two, glared at Monti.
“Christ!” he whispered. “If he gets that gun away from David, he could pick us off here like sitting ducks!”
“What’ll we do?” gasped Monti.
Jeb rammed the gun under his belt, scrambled after the canoe, held it by tossing the grapnel into it. He slashed the vines tying the plane, pushed off, brought the grapnel. The canoe drifted free.
“Get inside!” ordered Jeb.
“What’re you doing?”
“Get in there!”
She climbed into the cabin, gazed at the shore.
Jeb joined her, primed the motor.
“Pray there’s enough juice in the battery.”
He pulled the starter.
The motor kicked over, coughed, belched a cloud of black smoke, settled into its uneven, banging.
Jeb let out a long breath.
“You’re stranding them!” shouted Monti. “What’re you doing?”
Jeb pointed the nose of the plane upstream, cracked the throttle a notch. They drew away from the falls.
“We’ll recover the canoe and anchor below the falls in that big pool there.”
“But they …”
“The peninsula comes right down to the edge of the falls. We can pick them up there. Gettler can’t shoot us. It’d strand him without transportation.”
He swung the plane around in a wide arc, pointed it downstream. Oil smoke pouring from the cowling screened off the view ahead momentarily, and Jeb saw that the motor already was beginning to overheat. He threw off caution, pushed the throttle all the way ahead. The plane burst through its smoke screen, and the line of falls loomed up ahead like a pencil mark drawn across the river.
“Pray!” gritted Jeb.
The controls felt sluggish, soft, and the drag of the patched float forced him to use heavy left rudder. But some of the purpose built into this metal and fabric still lived. The plane wavered up onto the step as the falls came underneath. There was a bouncing sensation, a tortured roaring from the motor. They shot outward, dropped with a sodden splash that sent spray rattling against the fuselage and up under the wings.
Jeb eased off the throttle, kicked right rudder.
“There’s the canoe!” shouted Monti.
It floated upside down beneath the falls, held there by the back surge of current.
Jeb killed the motor at the last minute, coasted up to the canoe, into the warm spray and rising mist. He slipped down to the float, caught the canoe, righted it, tied it alongside with a length of fish line.
The plane drifted slowly back from the falls into the wide pool.
He tossed out the grapnel, felt it bite into the river bottom.
The line tightened, and they swung around to face upstream.
Jeb bailed out the canoe, straightened.
Monti stared toward the peninsula above the falls. A dove-grey mist boiled up from the disturbed water to veil the shoreline. There was a dream quality to the forest wall.
“Monti,” said Jeb.
She chewed at her lower lip, continued to stare shoreward.
“I know this can’t mean much now,” he said. “But I’m sorry I let him go.”
“You didn’t let him go,” she said. “We all let him go. Even Gettler.”
A deep sense of weariness dragged at Jeb. He tipped up the visor of his cap, rubbed his forehead. The insects they had evaded in moving the plane, found the new location, settled around the two humans, buzzing and biting. It was like being struck with thousands of pins. Jeb ignored them out of a deep feeling of fatigue. Monti forced her mind away from the horror of them until she felt that she was actually outside herself, an interested onlooker.
And she thought about Gettler with a new clarity.
If David’s alive, Gettler will find him.
She held onto this thought like a thin flame of sanity.
A gentle flowing of wind pushed across the plane, turned it slightly. The wind brought a false coolness that made the after sensation of heat more unbearable. Again the wind surged across them—stronger this time. They could hear it in the struts, across the wings: a thin metallic vibration.
Jeb looked up into the wind.
A thick billowing of dark clouds filled the eastern horizon. There was a feeling of depth and weight and blackness to them. Lightning flickered soundlessly from beneath the rolling front. A long interval passed before the thunder came: a low, sodden hammer stroke.
A feeling of soundless suspense came over the river and the jungle. Even the pulsing of the falls became muted.
The current crawled beneath the plane like a writhing serpent, a muddy grey velvet oozing motion that harried the plane. Wind and current fought for domination over the creaking metal.
Again, lightning flickered over the jungle, and the growl of thunder came faster, sharper. The sound set off a band of howler monkeys on the eastern shore, and their cries echoed across the river.
Luminous grey darkness flowed across the plane, flattened all shadows. A line of rain surged over the water, whipped up violent bursts of wind. The storm broke over the plane as night fell. It was a blackness filled with the rattling of rain and shuddering wind.
&nb
sp; A fork of lightning speared the darkness.
Jeb’s eyes carried an afterglow image of the distant forest wall and veiling rain: everything frozen in a stark blue-white glare. He climbed into the cabin.
Monti leaned against him with a quick, seeking motion.
“Oh, God, I’m scared,” she whispered. “Oh, God, I’m scared. Oh, God, I’m scared.”
He had no words to comfort her. Their world and everything it demanded of them had gone beyond words into an elemental flow of feeling and emotion.
Monti shuddered, clutched at him. Abruptly, she pushed away, dragged in a sobbing breath.
A gust of wind and rain shook the plane.
She stared out into the blackness. It was impenetrable oblivion: a foretaste of death. She jerked her mind away from this thought, fumbled in her pocket for the cigarette lighter. The wheel rasped against the flint in the darkness. A thin spray of sparks shot across the wick, ignited it. The flame was a warm spot of yellow that sent wavering shadows into every corner of the cabin.
Jeb looked at it.
“What’s that for?” he asked.
She reached out, balanced the lighter atop the instrument panel, stared at the tiny flame.
“Call it a candle in the window,” she whispered. “Could they see it?”
“You couldn’t see that light a hundred feet away through this rain.”
“Jeb, what if they come back to the shore and find us gone?”
“They’ll wait for morning.”
“But the storm …”
“It’s rough, sure. What else can we do, though?”
She buried her face in her hands. “If I could just stop my mind! Stop thinking!”
Abruptly, she dropped her hands, whirled against him. Their lips touched, then bruised together.
An uncaring recklessness came over Monti. There was nothing more important in the world than the need to drive away thoughts, to win a blank passage of forgetfulness. She pulled her lips away from Jeb, whispered: “The body knows how to forget.”
Jeb reached up, clicked the cap down on the lighter, extinguished it.
His mind took one fleeting glance into the jungle before he surrendered himself to his own need to forget. He saw the rain beating into the eternal mud, and two human figures crouching there. He felt that they were together.
Their lips met.
Cold blue gleams of lightning flared across the night: prongs of fire in an ebony sky. Thunder rolled and muttered and clapped. There came the crashing of uprooted trees in the jungle.
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