River of Nightmares (Rogue Angel)

by Alex Archer

  Hammond continued moving through the boat. He crept into a lower cabin, where someone slept soundly, snoring—the videographer who’d been at the camp with Annja Creed. Dillon watched Hammond pan around the room, seeing a suitcase and opening it, and then looking through a few drawers...probably looking for the camera bag she was carrying when she and Annja Creed had come to the camp. That would be a nice touch, Dillon thought, getting rid of all their footage.

  Apparently Hammond gave up the search, pulled back the mosquito netting, and uncapped another vial. He dosed a cloth with the contents, and pressed it to the woman’s face. Her eyes flew open, but his free hand clamped over them. She struggled for a second, and then lay still. Hammond held the empty vial up in front of the goggles for Dillon’s benefit.

  Indeed, Dillon had hired well. The dose would put the woman into a comalike state for a least several days, especially given her small size. Give her a fever that ought to prove worrisome to the others, the dose a derivative of the poison the Dslala used to fish in the dry season. Hammond saw a T-shirt draped on a chair by the bed, took it and wiped the floor where he’d walked and left wet boot prints. He retraced his path, diligently wiping the floor, down the stairs, and back into the kitchen and dining room, then out onto deck, covering his tracks again before he went over the side, the rail creaking ominously from his weight.

  Dillon had been worried that Hammond might take matters a little too far, as the man had a churlish streak. He shouldn’t have doubted his man; Hammond would be due for a sizeable bonus when this was all done.

  The comalike state of the photographer should be enough by itself to turn the boat around and send everyone into a tizzy thinking it might be contagious. The other passengers getting ill after eating some of the drug-laced food would be icing on that very sweet cake. Nothing would be detected, as the drugs would be too far through the victims’ systems by the time any tests could be run. Everyone should eventually recover—so no lasting harm done; and this tributary would start to dry up and prevent a return trip. Dillon would be finished with his work before the next rainy season.

  No fingers would point in his direction. Illness was not uncommon among foreigners in the Amazon basin: malaria, yellow fever, typhoid, hepatitis, influenza and more. Something could sweep through a group without raising eyebrows. Dillon couldn’t keep the Cheshire cat grin off his face.

  No more Annja Creed and the potential for media coverage and undue scrutiny.

  Hammond settled himself on the shore west of the Dslala village, back against a peppertree, and eyes trained on the boat. Dillon knew his man would keep the post until morning, when, if everything went well, the big boat would turn around.

  Dillon clicked on his mic. “Good job, Ham. Exceptional work, actually.”

  “Couldn’t find the woman’s camera,” he whispered.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Dillon replied. “The woman won’t be able to use it.”

  “Good night, boss.”

  Time for bed. Dillon turned off his computer, stretched, and stepped out into the deluge. He stripped, letting the rain pummel him and wash away the sweat and malodorous insect repellent. When he was satisfied that he was clean enough, he retreated to his sleeping tent and toweled himself dry. He expected that his dreams would be pleasant ones.

  Chapter 18

  “Dengue fever maybe,” Captain Almeirão said. “There was an outbreak on the river ten years ago, a first mate I had back then caught it. And years before that there were outbreaks. Scattered cases since, but not among the boatmen that I have heard. This? It looks like Dengue. But I am no doctor.” He stood in the doorway to Marsha’s cabin, shaking his head. “There’s no vaccination for it, Dengue. She couldn’t have prevented it with shots. Dengue is very bad.”

  Ned was behind him, looking around his shoulder. “How’d she catch it?”

  Almeirão shrugged. “Insects. Usually always insects. So many insects along the river, and they spread many, many things.”

  Annja peered through the mosquito netting. Marsha was completely still, except that her chest rose and fell regularly, but shallowly. Her skin gleamed with a thin sheen of sweat. Her eyes were moving behind the closed lids, but that was the only hint of activity. Marsha had been so eager to go with Annja yesterday, traipsing through the rainforest to the pharma camp, insects and standing water everywhere. Maybe if she’d stayed in the village she’d be all right, Annja thought. But she had been gung-ho.

  “We were going to get shots of the Dslala village waking up this morning.” Ned backed up. Annja couldn’t see his face. “It was her idea—Marsha’s. We were going to meet in the dining room about four, grab something to eat and wade over before the rest of you got up. Get some shots of Annja coming ashore with the captain. But I couldn’t find my camera bag. Came here thinking maybe I left it in her room last night. She’d stuffed hers under the bed, said she didn’t want any kids to sneak on board and take it.” He paused. “I hope no kid stole mine. I really don’t remember leaving my bag here. Just my shirt.”

  Annja raised an eyebrow at that.

  “This was how I found her.” He stepped closer and pointed to the bed. “I couldn’t wake her up, so I went and got you. Is she going to be all right?” Ned paused and looked to the captain. “Is she contagious? Last night, we...uh—”

  “No,” Annja said. “Dengue is not contagious. If that’s what it is.”

  “She was fine when I left her last night. Honest.” Ned ground the ball of his foot against the deck and cursed. “I left a little after midnight. We’d been up...talking and stuff.”

  “Dengue is treatable.” Annja sat on the edge of the bed. “Like I said, if that’s what it is. But Marsha should be in a hospital, and somebody should call her folks and her boyfriend. She lives with a guy in Greenwich. Can we arrange for a helicopter? I can use Wallace’s sat phone to call for one.”

  “I have such a phone as well, but they won’t come this far out. The risk of being here. We must get closer to the city.” Almeirão shook his head. “I’ll turn the boat around and we’ll go back to Belém at full speed. That is the best course and—”

  “Wallace is sicker than a dog.” Amanda showed up talking louder than anyone. “He’s puking. His cabin reeks. And I’m not doing so good myself. Hey, what happened to Marsha?”

  “Turn it around now,” Annja said. She touched Marsha’s arm through the mosquito netting, then she reached under the bed and retrieved her camera bag. “When Marsha eventually comes to, tell her I’ve borrowed this.” To the captain she said, “Just give me five minutes to grab my duffel and Wallace’s sat phone. I’m staying with the Dslala.”

  “Say what?” Amanda exclaimed. “Are you nuts? You’re friggin’ nuts, Annja! We all need to get back to what passes for civilization.”

  Almeirão left, his uneven footsteps fading.

  Annja squeezed by Ned and went face-to-face with Amanda. “No, I’m not nuts. This series has to be salvaged. If I can get a little more footage, enough to give us at least one good episode, it’ll justify us all coming here. I can’t do anything for Marsha by going with her. But I can do her justice by adding enough material so what she’s already shot isn’t tossed.”

  “In short,” Amanda growled, “you’re making sure Doug gets something for the money he’s tossed at this. The almighty dollar trumps compassion for your crew.”

  “Wow, that’s cold,” Ned said.

  Annja walked past both of them.

  “Hey! How will you get back?” Amanda followed on Annja’s heels. “Are we just supposed to all fly back to New York without you? Or—” She turned, grabbed the rail and leaned over the side, retching into the river. “Breakfast isn’t agreeing with me. Why did I ever get up so early?”

  Annja stopped and over her shoulder gave Amanda a sympathetic look. “Get yourselves checked out in Belém. The station’
s insurance will cover it. Then you can fly home to New York.” Annja dashed up the stairs and into her cabin, haphazardly throwing things in her duffel and grabbing her laptop. Next stop was Wallace’s room.

  The senior cameraman was on his side in bed, hands pressed against his stomach. His cabin smelled of vomit; he’d puked into the trash can. He watched Annja as she set her laptop on his nightstand and made a show of grabbing his satellite phone. “Hate to take this,” she said. “But Captain Almeirão has one, and he’s going to call a hospital in Belém. Marsha’s in bad shape, and you and Amanda need to get checked out. Use his sat phone if you have to. Make sure Ken and Ned get checked out, too, before going home. You’re in charge, Wall. And please take care of my laptop. It’s not going to be any use to me where I’m going.”

  He opened his mouth to say something, but she was in the doorway, waving. “I’m going to stay behind a little while. I’ll find a way back.” Resourceful, determined, she’d find a route to Belém; she’d either catch another boat going by while the tributary was still swollen, or hitch a ride on one of the helicopters that apparently visited the pharma camp. She wanted to return to the camp anyway...something wasn’t right there. Arthur Dillon was up to something and the notion was making her hands itch. Annja was always one to follow her instincts. More than wanting some additional footage for Chasing History’s Monsters, Annja wanted to chase down whatever Dillon was into.

  Once her curiosity was sated, she’d leave. She sprinted back down the stairs and practically flew to the port side of the Orellana. The ship’s engine had caught, and the boat had swung around.

  “What about taking your own advice and getting yourself checked out?” Ned grabbed her arm at the railing. “What if you’re sick, too?”

  “I’m not.” Annja had a remarkable healing rate, which was somehow connected to her having Joan of Arc’s sword. It was as if the sword wouldn’t let her be sick—or at least not sick for long. “I’m just blue, and apparently the only cure for that is time and a lot of showers. Or maybe wading through the river.”

  “I could go with you,” Ned volunteered. “I haven’t found my camera yet, but I can use Marsha’s.” He pointed to the camera bag on Annja’s shoulder.

  The boat started moving.

  She almost said “yes,” as it would be nice to have the company. But she shook her head and was quick over the side, holding the duffel and camera bag out of the water, and sloshing to the bank. Her stomach growled with each step. She’d been heading into the dining room for an early breakfast when Ned had hollered about Marsha, and so she’d skipped eating. Annja really was hungry, but how could she possibly think about food at a time like this anyway? Marsha and Wallace sick, Amanda from the sounds of it. Maybe some parasites in something the cook prepared. Maybe insects. Most certainly bad luck. It was a good thing she hadn’t eaten.

  “Be well,” Roux had told her.

  So far she was feeling fine.

  Chapter 19

  D’jok invited her to stay in his family’s hut. She accepted, pleased it was one farther back and not in the river so her stuff would remain relatively dry. And the experience would finally be the roughing it that she’d expected when she’d booked the original boat.

  “Doug—” Annja managed to reach him on the satellite phone. She’d woken him and he sounded as if his mouth was full of cotton balls. “Doug, the crew is sick—Marsha, Wallace, Amanda.”

  “Oh, that’s great.”

  She scowled. No compassion, probably worrying about the money he was losing.

  “Listen, they’re heading to a hospital in Belém, but it might take two days or so to get there. Depends on the weather and the river.” She gave him the number for Captain Almeirão’s satellite phone. “You can check with him later, when you’re more awake. What? No. I’m staying behind. For a little while. No, I don’t know the name of the village I’m in. Actually, the village doesn’t have a name.”

  He said something she didn’t pick up.

  “I need to check out a few things, maybe get some more footage—I have Marsha’s camera. We’ll have enough for an episode in any event, not the entire series we’d planned, but it all won’t be wasted. I’ll make sure of that. Marsha? Yes. She’s real sick, Doug. Yes, Wall is sick, too. Aren’t you listening? What? Maybe Dengue fever. Look it up. I don’t want to keep talking. No, I’m fine. Doug...I have to go. I want to keep the charge up on this phone so I can use it again. I’ll call you later.”

  He was still talking, but she turned it off to conserve the battery, and zipped it into her duffel—underneath her clothes. She didn’t want this phone to go missing. Then, despite thinking that she shouldn’t be considering food, she went to find something to eat.

  Instead, she found three black-as-night Dslala. The color was wholly unnatural and disturbing, as if they’d been dipped into a bottle of ink. Edgar and Moons were with them, the long sleeves of Edgar’s T-shirt nudged up to his elbows, his lower arms covered solid with insect bites, looking like he’d walked into a nest.

  “These men, Annja, have been looking for Baladi and F’yd since yesterday near the pharma camp. They said they saw us in the camp and almost joined us, but they don’t like Dillon and his guys. Anyway, they came up with zilch.”

  “The two Dslala are still missing?”

  “Yeah, these ones went dreaming last night, trying to find clues in some mystic vision,” Edgar went on. “Baladi is this man’s brother. He’s worried.”

  “I’m worried, too,” Moons said.

  Edgar kept on speaking. “Turns our skin blue, turns their skin black. Man, that’s really, really black. Moons would do it if it turned hers black. She thinks you look like a crayon.”

  “I didn’t say that!” Moons spit out.

  “Interesting,” Annja said for want of anything else to say.

  “Anyway, they turn black because they’re naturally darker than us.”

  “I don’t care what color they are, Edgar, what color I am. I care if they learned anything interesting.”

  “Zilch again,” Edgar said. “It doesn’t sound like they had good dreams. I can translate for you. They told me all about it and—”

  “No.” Annja’d had enough of the Dslala dreams. She stuffed her pockets full of fruit, waited until Edgar and Moons were occupied elsewhere, grabbed Marsha’s camera bag, and slipped down the trail that would take her to the pharma camp.

  Certainly she intended to get extra footage for the episode, but she would do a little investigating first. Being a busybody would keep her mind off her ailing companions. Chasing History’s Monsters crew members had taken ill before on shoots. It happened. But Dengue? Annja shivered. If her well-wishing thoughts could increase the boat’s speed, Orellana’s Prize would be making good time to Belém. She intended to make good time to the pharma camp.

  Although the vegetation did its best to snag at her feet, Annja kept a quick pace. She didn’t have Marsha, Moons and Edgar to slow her down. The high-stepping was good, anchoring that welcome burn in her chest and making her muscles work. Rather than tire her, it proved invigorating. The birds were especially noisy this morning, the macaws a riot of blue, green and red. A pair of hyacinths circled above the path, probably curious about her. They were beautiful parrots, prized as pets elsewhere, and costing as much as a car. She thought people should leave such creatures in their natural habitat.

  A breeze found its way down through a gap in the canopy, bringing the scent of rain and a mix of things she couldn’t entirely place, animals maybe, mixed with rotting vegetation. She jumped at the first bang.

  A few more bangs in succession, and Annja relaxed, finding some burst seed pods that had been launched from a possumwood tree. She kept a good speed, but she couldn’t run; the rainforest prevented that with the myriad roots that spread across the ground coupled with the scattered snake holes. She p
aused to watch a large green and black snake slide across her path and into a hole, a bulge in its middle suggested it had recently dined on something. She put the snake at about eight feet long. Annja divided her attention between the ground and the way ahead and raised her knees as if she were in a marching band to avoid getting caught on the roots.

  She was nearly to the camp when she noticed the sudden quiet. The birds weren’t squawking anymore, and not a single monkey howled. She concentrated, feeling eyes on her, but not seeing any suspicious shadows. She’d learned long ago to realize that if she had the sense she was being watched—then she was indeed being watched.

  But by whom?

  Or what?

  Shouldering the camera bag, she opened her hand and summoned the sword. Holding the blade low so it wouldn’t catch the sunlight, Annja crept off the path and took a slightly winding route to the camp, the taller vegetation effectively cloaking her...but also probably cloaking the eyes she still felt.

  Was she being stalked?

  She moved slowly toward the camp, intending to come at it from the side nearest the big tent. A four-foot-high log wall would present no challenge. It was midmorning, and she saw only a little activity. The generator was running louder than it had yesterday, the incongruous sound probably what had quieted the wildlife. The sun fighting with the clouds, the area was well enough lit that she could see three figures moving around in the big tent. She noticed none in the other tents, but didn’t have that good of a vantage point to be certain if they were empty. One man she hadn’t seen on her previous trip was fussing with something on the table covered with chainsaws and machetes. There was a tarp on the ground next to it, in the event of more rain to keep the equipment from rusting. The skinny security guard was nowhere in sight; neither was the one Moons and Edgar had dubbed the big guy. The others? Maybe they had left earlier to gather plants...or to do whatever it was Dillon was trying to hide.