by Winn, J. K.
At that thought she suddenly became aware that her behavior might not be so different from Kruger’s. Perhaps he, too, had been recruited against his will. Perhaps he was no more culpable than she was. By agreeing to help him, she had been willing to compromise her integrity in the service of survival. She couldn’t exactly condemn him without taking a look at herself.
She sighed and reluctantly sat back down, plucking the pad off the desk. “Okay. Tell me about your childhood.”
He slumped back in his seat and droned on about his early years in Berlin, while she took notes, but her mind was as far away as his past. Before her sat the grandfather she had sought for so long. The one who frequently filled her daydreams. The hero her mother had spoken about and traced to South America.
Instead of filling her with joy, finding him only filled her with despair. With this discovery, a part of her past had been torn out like the pages of a notebook. Everything she had wanted to believe about her family, her history, even herself—was irreparably altered. Lost. Her only hope now was to replace those missing pages with the truth.
Chapter Twelve
Three more turns took Dylan further into the labyrinth where shallow water narrowed to a stream. He navigated the boat through high reeds, scraping along the channel’s sandy bottom. It snagged on weeds. He could go no further.
He stilled the motor and maneuvered through reeds with an oar, despite his aching shoulder. Flocks of vibrant orange tanagers and yellow finches flew east away from the sun. He followed their lead, hoping to find the main waterway.
Just before sunset, he fired his engine in deeper current and rounded a bend onto the Amazon. His pursuers were nowhere in sight. Relieved, he stoked the motor and headed upriver.
Sunset lavishly streaked the sky fuchsia and lavender, but his appreciation for the beauty was overshadowed by his apprehension of the approaching night. The jungle’s absolute darkness would make it impossible to locate his destination by the imposed deadline.
A sealed tomb of darkness soon enclosed him, leaving only a cacophony of sounds to guide him. The hoot of Gray Owl, groan of Bullfrog, swish of bat wings accompanied him. An occasional splash indicated a passing caiman.
The symphony played against a backdrop of inky blackness as the night jungle set an eerie stage. To preserve his battery, Dylan flicked on the flashlight only when he needed to check his map. Between the advancing hour and the hypnotic darkness, he frequently had to rub his eyes to stay alert. The chirps and cries became lullabies. In an attempt to break the spell, he stood and stretched.
With the unanticipated suddenness of a siren, the boat lurched, throwing him backwards. His shoulder collided with a wooden seat. A gut-wrenching sound of metal tearing sent his heart into arrhythmia. He had jammed a rock. Shoulder pain flamed to a blistering burn.
When he could, he grabbed the flashlight, pulled himself to a stance and staggered toward the bow. Water dribbled into the craft through a small tear in its port side. With no time to drag the boat on shore and patch the hole, he grabbed two plastic bags, shaking their contents free and plugged the tear, praying he’d locate the doctor’s compound before the damned boat floundered.
Shifting the motor into high gear, he angled the rudder to keep the boat mid-river away from reeds and rocks. A flick of the flashlight and a glance at the hand-held satellite-powered Global Positioning System told him he had a chance of making it to the doctor’s dock before he took on too much more water.
Moisture soaked through his shoes and into his socks from the rising water. Ladling it with a tin cup proved a losing battle. With one hand on the rudder and the other scooping water back into the river, he had no time to consult the map again until he reached an unrecognizable river bend.
He turned on the flashlight and aimed it into darkness in search of a break in the jungle leading to the compound. He knew from the map that a profusion of fluorescent Secropia brush marked the entrance to the doctor’s inlet. Even though signs of Secropia flourished in the area, he thought he might have overshot his goal. The Global Positioning System showed he had come thirty-five miles since reentering the river from the tributary. He soon had to decide whether to turn back or keep heading upriver, but he didn’t want to backtrack prematurely and lose precious time.
His boat took on water at an alarming rate. No matter how hard he ladled, it relentlessly countered, filling the bottom of the boat with muddy water. The cuffs of his jeans soaked it up. Before long he would have no alternative but to pull ashore.
Around the next bend, an island to his right sparkled with what looked like lightning bugs in a bog. The iridescent leaves of the Secropia acted as his lighthouse, directing him to land. He had arrived! He smiled with relief.
He cut the motor and edged up to the island, rowing past the Secopia grove to a small dock where a similar craft to his own was tethered. He tied his boat to a nearby pole, climbed out and pulled it onto land. Water drained from the puncture in the bow.
A dirt road gashed into the jungle as promised on the map. He cautiously followed it until he came to a ten-foot high fence. Using his hands to guide him along its perimeter, he located a gate, but it was tied tight with twine. He pounded on the gate and yelled as loudly as he could to gain someone’s attention, but no one came. The only thing left to do was unwrap the binding and apply his weight to open the gate, but, when he did, an impediment prevented him from budging it.
He backed up, took a running leap and grabbed the top of the gate with both hands. A spasm shot down his arm, but he gritted his teeth to stifle the howl that arose in his throat, and held on for dear life. Grateful for his height, he managed to hoist himself enough to momentarily look over the fence. A huge wooden board had been used as a latch on the opposite side of the gate. How the hell would he ever move that enormous latch aside? He released his grip and tumbled to the turf. His shoulder again flamed.
He stood, dusted himself off and tried to scale the high wall, but failed. With his throbbing shoulder he would have to come up with a different approach. He crept along the fence, feeling for loose boards. About halfway around the compound, his foot snagged a hole recently excavated by an animal. That gave him an idea. He lowered himself onto his hands and knees and patted the ground around the hole. The earth was softer there than anywhere else in the area. He might be able to enlarge it enough to accommodate him.
With the end of a small branch and his jungle knife, he began to burrow under the barrier, ignoring his shoulder and arm pain. Midway through his effort digging, the squelch of footsteps and a hand-held light flashed along the inside of the fence. He yelled and waited for the guard, inhaling the rich, musty earth. When, inexplicably, no one answered, he resumed digging.
Dirt and rocks gradually gave way and the initial opening-the size of a coconut-expanded with his labor until he hoped to squeeze through. He worked at the hole a little longer to insure safe passage in and out without becoming trapped, then pressed his head and shoulders beneath the fence. Every millimeter of his squirm through reminded him of the bullet embedded deep in his shoulder.
On the inside of the fence, he slipped his knife into his sock and placed two palm fronds over the hole to hide it, just in case he had to use it again, a precaution he’d learned with the Rangers. He stood and beat the dirt from his clothes, listening for signs of civilization. All he could hear were the cicadas rattle like maracas and the owls’ nightly hoots. He stepped forward in the dark toward the center of the compound with only a half-moon to light his way.
Nearby voices alerted Dylan to the presence of others. He was about to inform the men to his whereabouts, when he heard, in heavily accented Spanish, “I am glad you summoned me. Now find intruder and bring him to me. Shoot him if he resists.”
Dylan stopped cold. Evidently Von Schotten wasn’t as friendly as he’d been led to believe. He quickly looked around for cover and headed into a copse of trees. A root caught his foot and threw him off balance. He pitched forward, his shoulder slam
med into a rock. Agonizing pain radiated down his side.
Gradually he struggled upright, trying to shake off the paralyzing pain and struggled to move out of the open area, but the root had entwined around his ankle and held him fast. He clawed at the thick cord.
Crunching leaves signaled the approach of more than one person. Voices sounded closer than before. The harder he strained at the root, the tighter it held. He wrenched at the vine, but to no avail. In his injured condition, only a desperate drive to survive offered him any strength. He shivered in the warm night air.
A blinding light blazed into his eyes. As his eyes gradually adjusted, he focused on the barrel of a revolver aimed directly at his face.
The owner of the revolver reached to roughly grab Dylan’s bad arm and jerk him forward. His senses instantly sharpened as he struggled against his captor’s grip. “All right, you bastards. You got me!”
A portly, balding old man studied him while the younger man held him firmly.
“Ah, you speak English? I have chance to practice mine. I am not fond of trespassers. You are prisoner. Xikxu vill search you for weapons and then take you to study vhere we vill speak of reason for intrusion and consequences of your action,” the old man said with a decidedly German accent.
“Dr. Von Schotten?”
The bald man squinted until all that could be seen of his eyes were overhanging skin flaps. “You know my name?”
“I was sent by Dr. Heinz Kruger. I’m sorry for my strange entrance, but if anyone had heard me knocking and yelling, I wouldn’t have had to burrow my way into your compound.” Dylan extracted the letter crumpled in his pocket and extended it to the doctor. “Here’s confirmation, identifying me.”
The old man refused the letter with a brush of his hand. “I cannot possibly read introduction in dark. If you cooperate vith Xikxu and proceed to study, I vill certainly consider it.”
“All right.” The revolver pressed against the back of his skull. “I’ll do whatever you want.”
The doctor motioned toward a large wood-sided, thatched-roof bungalow.
Prodded by the pistol and a shove, Dylan moved in the direction of the house. Each step sent a spasm radiating through him, as if his shoulder was attached by an invisible thread to his feet. When he faltered, the guard reminded him to move on with a poke to the kidneys.
He was shoved into the house through a narrow doorway and led to a room that looked more European than South American. An imposing pecan desk was surrounded by precisely stacked bookshelves against three white-washed walls. To the side, a drop-leaf table held a Tiffany lamp. The smell of furniture wax and cleaning fluid mingled in the air. Xikxu posted himself in the doorway to the room. Dylan stumbled forward and collapsed into an overstuffed armchair by the desk and waited for the doctor. He had to convince the doctor of his sincerity and purpose. Without Von Schotten’s help, Leah’s fate was dark indeed.
When Von Schotten entered the room, Dylan grabbed the arm of the chair in an attempt to push himself up.
“Sit.” The German seated himself across the desk.
Dylan extended the letter again. “Dr. Kruger’s granddaughter is infected with the smallpox virus. He needs the vaccine as soon as possible. Everything is explained here.”
The old man took the letter and tore it open. “This signature looks like Dr. Kruger’s, but tell me real reason you vere sent to me?”
“Because you may be the only one in the Amazon with a supply of the vaccine.” Dylan sat forward. “Dr. Kruger needs that vaccine as soon as possible. His granddaughter’s life’s at stake.”
“Vhat do I care for Kruger? He is only a decrepit veakling,” Von Schotten mumbled, then said to Dylan, “Is vaccine all you vant?”
“That’s all. I just want to save my friend’s life.”
“If you know Dr. Kruger, you know about my past. Out there are people-” Von Schotten swept his arm in a broad gesture. “-who vould like nothing better than to capture me. They vould put me on trial me for vhat they call crimes against humanity.” He snorted. “I did everything for purpose of advancing medical science. Helping humanity. And this is reward for my effort.”
With this insight into the doctor’s suspicious nature, Dylan wanted to immediately quell any fear. “I have nothing to do with these people you speak of.”
The doctor’s face and bald spot turned beet red. “Do not pretend ignorance. Vhat is your affiliation to them?”
The last thing Dylan wanted was to make the doctor leery, but how could he put Von Schotten at ease? “I have no association with anyone except Dr. Kruger. I’m here for one purpose and one purpose alone. I need the smallpox vaccine. Period. Now please, can I just take the vaccine and go? I must leave immediately. A young woman’s life is at stake.”
Von Schotten’s eyes never left Dylan’s face. “Not every night stranger breaks into my compound.”
“Kruger sent me for the smallpox vaccine because of a lab accident.”
The doctor narrowed his bloodshot eyes. “Letter does not mention one who had accident to be Kruger’s granddaughter.”
This man was sharper than he first appeared-smarter and more dangerous. “The old man is beside himself because the accident was his fault. He’s not thinking clearly, how could he explain himself well. I’m telling you what happened. I hope you will believe me.”
“It matters not vhether I believe you. There is no vay you vill travel back at night along river.” The old man pointed at Dylan’s shoulder. “Even you cannot manage in such a state.”
Dylan glanced down. Bloodstains in the shape of petals had blossomed on his shirt, clearly trumpeting his condition. “I’ll manage. Kruger’s granddaughter means a lot to me.”
“Let me have look at that shoulder.” Von Schotten rose stiffly and moved around the desk.
“The vaccine is more important,” Dylan said. “I really have to go back tonight.”
The doctor loomed over him, looking more sinister than ever when backlit by the crystal desk lamp. His eyes veiled, the creases on his well-lined face were in shadow. “Please open shirt. I must take look.”
“But...”
The doctor raised a hand to silence him and Dylan could see further resistance was futile. He fumbled with the buttons on his shirt and painfully peeled it away from the wound. Coagulated blood prevented him from fully removing the shirt and he had to tear it away from the skin. Agony replaced ache. The room wavered before his eyes.
Von Schotten fingered the wound, compounding his pain. “Your shoulder is infected. Vhat happened?”
Being shot by soldiers might make him look more suspect than he already did in Von Schotten’s eyes. He had to downplay the seriousness of his wound so he could convince Von Schotten to allow him to leave with the vaccine. “I fell on a nail. Its embedded in my shoulder. Kruger can remove it when I return to Peru.”
“It should at once be treated.”
“I don’t have time. I must get back,” he pleaded, too weak to put up much resistance.
The doctor studied his shoulder. “I vill clean and salve wound and disinfect vith Sangre de Gardo sap. Xikxu vill tend you while I fetch remedies.”
Von Schotten left the room and returned with surprising dispatch with a bowl of steaming water and a jar of salve, which he placed on the desktop. He produced a wash cloth. “This may hurt, but I must clean your arm.”
The doctor’s warning was an understatement. Dylan gritted his teeth to keep from crying out while the doctor washed the wound. For a moment the world around him grew dark. He fought to maintain consciousness.
Von Schotten lightly fingered the opening. “Cavity looks to be wound from bullet.”
A glance down confirmed the doctor’s impression. “No—it was just a screw with a very wide head.”
A raised eyebrow let Dylan know he hadn’t been fooled. Von Schotten covered the punctured area with salve and a gauze pad.
“Vhen vas this young woman infected?”
“A couple of
days ago.”
Von Schotten taped the pad. “She must be vaccinated in two or three days more. You may take her vaccine, but only if you rest first. As doctor, I cannot permit you to travel in your condition. Othervise you may never be able to complete your mission of mercy.”
“But...”
“No argument. Few hours vill not endanger her life. Verstehstdu?” Von Schotten’s eyes held his.
“I understand, but I can’t...” he muttered.
The doctor stared through him, unbending.
Weak and tired, Dylan crumpled. What choice did he have? “Only a couple of hours.”
“Ach so, but first eat something.” Von Schotten signaled the guard. “Ask Sava to heat Sopa de Mani.”
The thought of eating the popular peanut soup turned Dylan’s stomach. Eating would only delay his departure, and he was anxious to move on as quickly as he could. “Sorry, I’m not hungry.”
“Nonsense,” Von Schotten replied. “You cannot keep your strength vithout nourishment.” He patted Dylan on his good shoulder.
The soup arrived, carried by an extremely young native girl, who placed the bowl on the desk in front of him.
When he hesitated, Von Schotten pointed at the bowl. “Eat.”
Dylan slowly poured a spoonful of the soup into his mouth. His throat constricted and he had trouble forcing it down.
Von Schotten sat across the desk from him. “Is good?”
“Fine,” Dylan mumbled. He took two more spoons of soup and tried to swallow them as gracefully as possible to appease Von Schotten, whose eyes never left him.
“So,” Von Schotten sat forward and placed his elbows on the desk, “For whom do you really vork?”
“I already told you. Do we have to go over old ground?”
Von Schotten rose, went to the bookcase and extracted a volume. He thumbed through it. When he came to a page about mid-book, he searched it with a finger. “Here, an article by Simon Weisenthal, the Nazi hunter. He mentions everyone he is after. Look-” he moved toward Dylan, book outstretched, “my name.” He pointed at words that danced before Dylan’s eyes. “On list.”