by The Behrg
“So their story gets published and a year later an investigative journal sends a team back to, you know, interview or whatever these natives but they’re never found. I think one of the original guys went back with them too, I can’t remember, but where the tribe had been? There was nothing but a boneyard. Blackened and burnt bodies. Like the holocaust. And no one knows what happened.
“Three years later, a new drug is introduced said to combine angiogenesis with bone repair. It’s been touted as the next miracle drug, though it’s still awaiting FDA approval. But the one ingredient in the drug that’s never been used before in modern medicine is a rare, almost unheard of, mineral. And guess where the only place you can find it is?”
“The caves in South Africa,” Grey said.
“James Dugan, the man I’m searching for, was stationed in the Mpumalanga region, a stone’s throw from the Sudwala caves where this tribe was discovered. And if you do enough research, you find he works for the same conglomerate that’s submitted the Efescon-H drug, which will more than likely be approved this following year. And now? He’s here in Venezuela, and has been for the past year-and-a-half.”
“How do you know all this?” Kenny asked.
“I’ve been … following him, his whereabouts, for some time. I’ve just never been in a position to do anything about it before now.”
A long silence passed, thoughts Faye wished she had access to rolling through their minds.
Sir William’s steps returned on the staircase. “What’s your plan if you do catch up with said individual?” he asked, moving past them with a broom. Its bristles were crusted over in mud.
“Same plan we had with the lumber mill,” Faye answered. “Let people know the truth. You can’t fight evil if no one knows it’s there.”
“Very Tolkien-esque,” Sir William said.
Grey was striking his temple with an open palm repeatedly as he paced. She had hoped for his help in this, in convincing the others. Maybe refraining from speaking his mind was the best he could do.
“So we just record him?” Kenny asked.
“Yeah,” Faye said, hoping the lie was believable.
Donavon reappeared at the doorway, a line creased in his forehead. Faye knew what that meant. “I say no,” he said.
“No to what?” Faye asked.
“To staying. To confronting some madman who’s clearly not afraid of using force.”
“I know you’re sick, you don’t have to come –”
“Look, I think it’s great you’ve followed this guy around, Faye, I really do, and I even agree someone needs to stop him, but the right someone. You need the FBI or Special Forces or someone who can go up against a group of killers. I’m assuming he doesn’t act alone?”
Faye knew her lack of an answer was an answer in itself.
“We’re just likely to get ourselves killed,” Donavon continued. “How much evil can you stop in the world when you’re dead? My vote’s no. We stay here till this storm passes and then we get the hell out of here.”
Faye was surprised at how betrayed she felt at the moment. She thought Donavon would be the easy one to convince. With Grey cowed, she knew Kenny would fall in line. One way or another.
“I thought you were with me,” she said.
“I am with you, you’re just not thinking clearly.”
“And Grey, what do you think?” Faye asked.
He stared at her, unseen thoughts tumbling like a waterfall.
“When Grey and I went out earlier this morning, we had this very same conversation, didn’t we? As we were walking out by the road. Do you remember what you said, Grey? Before, you know? ‘This is for Malcolm,’ wasn’t that it? How it started?”
Grey broke from her gaze rubbing at his face with his hands. “Malcolm’s dead and we have nothing to show for it,” he said. “If we use the footage from the earthquake we’ll be crucified, exposing human suffering for an agenda, but this … we could do something with. Something big.”
“We already lost one member of our team and now you’re getting in line to lose another?” Donavon asked.
Grey didn’t even bother looking at him. At any of them. “If Faye tells us we’re not in danger, I have to believe her.”
“The things a pretty face will do to a man, huh?” Donavon said.
Faye slapped him.
The ringing of that slap hung in the air. Faye’s hand was imprinted in red on Donavon’s cheek. He just looked at her, not saying a word. She refused to back down, refused to be the one to look away first.
“This is what happens when you don’t get your way,” he finally said. “You just manipulate us until we all come around.”
The others in the room had gone completely silent, except for the monkey who was giving off a low mewling sound, almost like a purr.
“Thanks for bringing this before everyone so we could make a group decision,” Donavon finished.
Half the time I end up destroying something I care about – or someone – in order to accomplish something better.
The words she had spoken to Grey played through her mind.
But it still hurts.
Only it didn’t hurt. It never had. Not when she knew she was in the right. The only damage done was the violent gouging of that image she had created in her mind, who she had wanted Donavon to be.
Before she could tell him what she really thought, Kenny spoke up unexpectedly.
“I’m in.”
Faye turned, finding Kenny petting the monkey who had crawled up onto his lap. It arched its back beneath his fingers.
“But I want Exec Producer credits on anything that comes of this.”
Faye hesitated only a second. “Done. We don’t know when he’ll be in town next but we know where he goes.”
Kenny nodded, Spree wrapping his small hand over Kenny’s thumb. “I helped on a shoot for a documentary on ants few years back, most boring ass thing I’ve ever done. But you learn the only way to get the shot is to keep showing up.”
“Wait, we need to talk this through,” Donavon said.
“The lady’s made up her mind,” Sir William said. “And I don’t think she’s the type to change it often.”
“If we do this – if – then the first sign of danger we’re all backing out. I won’t be a part of some investigation on why our entire film crew was killed while on shoot,” Donavon said.
“That’s very selfless of you,” Faye said.
Donavon didn’t catch her sarcasm.
“Thank you, each of you. I know this isn’t a light thing I’m asking, but I promise it will be worth it.”
Grey was back to massaging his scalp.
Verse XV.
Zephyr ducked beneath low hanging branches, hopping over a fallen tree trunk covered in moss. They were making a good pace, especially with the weather. Just ahead, Cy moved as if he were hovering rather than running through the jungle growth. The kook may have been the oldest of their group, but he was certainly fit for his age.
Less than a meter away on his right the forest disappeared; like walking up to the edge of the earth. They had passed a few trees that had been split in two, roots dangling out over the precipice like severed veins from an amputated arm. Rain drizzled down in a constant barrage, dribbling over Zephyr’s face. With every step his feet sunk into the marshy jungle floor, beetles and spiders scurrying underfoot to escape the onslaught.
Cy came to an abrupt halt.
Zephyr immediately brought his SRM shotgun into position, scanning the trees and brush. The noises of the jungle persisted; trees come alive with the heaviness of the water that fell.
Zephyr clicked his tongue against his roof in a call made to imitate a macaw. Cy looked back at him, an emotionless gaze.
“The river,” he said.
Zephyr drew forward, stepping over coiled vines. An orange butterfly the size of his fist fluttered past his face.
Between scattered trees the river was visible in spurts, water lapping over the
bank like waves on a shore. Considering the sudden downpour, the levels should have risen much higher, the temporary ebb and flow of that line shifting from day to day.
Zephyr followed the river to its end. The source of its dipping level, painfully obvious.
The Icabarú river had become the Icabarú falls.
Cascading from the edge of the cliff, water sprayed out in a wide scattered stream. It was mesmerizing to watch, water disappearing into nothing.
“The birth of a waterfall,” Cy said.
“Illegitimate birth.” Zephyr snorted loudly, spitting over the edge. “How long before it runs dry?”
Cy blew out his breath. “If we’re bottlenecked on both sides? Half a day? Maybe sooner. We could dam it.”
“We won’t be here on this island long enough for it to matter.”
“And the town?” Cy asked.
“Can find their own water.”
Something large climbed up a tree nearby, its shaking branches accentuating the rainfall with added moisture.
Cy picked up a small stone and hurled it off the edge. “I keep wondering when I’m going to wake up and realize I’ve been shot so full of drugs by these natives I’ve been imagining the whole thing. It’s like we’re living in a dream.”
“That’s where you and I differ. I only believe what I see with my eyes.”
“Maybe that’s why you see so little.”
“I see a hell of a lot more than you, Cyclops,” Zephyr said, staring at the man’s mutilated eye. “Like Dugan said, it’s not a question of if, it’s a question of why.”
“I’ve been thinking about that. When you’re trapping an animal that’s on the run – or a native muku, we’ll say – what’s the general rule?”
“Cut off retreat, keep him surrounded.”
“More than that. What are the principles that keep him running?”
Zephyr folded his arms, his impatience growing. “You let him think he can get away.”
Cy nodded, his one good eye focusing on Zephyr. “Not just that he can get away but that he has a choice. You let him think he’s choosing where he’s going when all the while –”
“He’s going where you want him to.”
“I fear this … barrier, that has been imposed upon us? Maybe it isn’t meant to hinder our search of the Shaman, but to keep us from fleeing when we do find him.”
“Or when he finds us?” Zephyr asked.
“Precisely.”
Verse XVI.
The Humvee tore across the flat plains having left the denser jungle behind. Water splashed up from the puddles hidden beneath thick savannah grass, the wipers ticking back and forth without pause. A herd of tayassu stopped, small thin-haired boars, their necks rising to watch the vehicles roar past.
Dugan’s notebook was open on his lap, the natural fold in the book revealing the page which had been turned to more than any other. A page that contained only one name.
It was a name he couldn’t forget if he had wanted to.
What surprised him was how often he did want to.
Selah Moanna.
He had inscribed her maiden name, for reasons that escaped him then and he had yet to understand now. Selah was a Hebrew word found in the Bible, thought to be an instruction to the musicians who played to the reading of the Psalms.
Play louder and with more meaning. Selah! There was no substitute in the English language to adequately translate the ancient word.
Moanna meant Ocean Goddess in her native island roots. Maybe that was the way he preferred to remember her – a goddess, not the diseased doppelganger that had cannibalized her divinity one crippling day at a time.
Selah Moanna.
Play it louder, Ocean Goddess.
“We all die,” she had told him. “It’s part of the adventure, the climax of all these rising actions that make up the chapters of our lives. But the denouement, my love, is not this.”
She motioned to her withered body.
“The denouement is what awaits us on the other side. You can’t rob me of that, or anyone else. We earn it. We deserve to know how all these seemingly separate strands that make up our existence resolve together in the end. You have to believe, James. Believe that whatever poet in the sky is directing this mad narrative will see those strands resolved into a fulfilling conclusion. Have faith. If not in Him, in me.”
Dugan left the very next morning. Without saying goodbye.
His reverie was broken as a military jeep came hurtling over the next rise toward them, a second trailing not far behind. The first cut in at a sharp angle, cutting off their path.
Oso slammed on the brakes, bringing the Humvee to a stop. A cloud of dirt carried past, its trajectory continuing like a shadow that hadn’t realized its host had stopped.
Rojo lifted an assault rifle out from the back, a casualness to his unhurried action. Dugan rewound the strap around his notebook, tucking it back in the pocket of his vest. He flinched at the pain from where the rope had burned through the side of his pectoral muscle and inner triceps. There hadn’t been time to dress the wound; other matters more pressing.
He exited the vehicle, conscious of the driver’s door closing. Oso joined him out front.
Several soldiers hopped out of the first vehicle, followed by General Gutierrez who stepped out from the second jeep. He was dressed in grey fatigues, his large gut hanging over his pants which rode low. His ever-present brown fedora clung tightly to his head.
He opened his hands wide as if to greet them with a hug. “My friend!”
He came forward, clapping Dugan on both shoulders and shaking him jovially. Never mind that his men were fingering their rifles.
“Jou are well?”
Dugan stepped back, lighting a cigarette. “As well as can be.”
The General reached out to take the cigarette, forcing Dugan to light another for himself.
“Santa Elena? The town still stands?”
“Parts, yes, but de earthquake was, very bad.”
Dugan wondered if the man knew just how bad it had been; so bad that they had been lifted several thousand feet into the air.
“De, uh, factory is no bueno,” Gutierrez continued. “Many peoples smashed dead. Like bugs.” The general clapped his hands suddenly together in a squashing motion.
Dugan nodded as if this concerned him. “We saw two helicopters the other day.”
“Ah jes, de, uh, Americans. Dey are, how do jou say, tree lovers?” Gutierrez surprised one of his men by grabbing hold of him from behind and pretending to rape him. He barked a laugh, a few of his men joining.
“Tree huggers,” Dugan said. “It’s their helicopter?”
“No, dey rent but I check it out for you. Is no competition. But dere is bigger problem – dey are asking for you. By name.”
Dugan sensed Oso tense beside him. This wouldn’t be the first time people had been sent to follow Dugan. He was a proven bet in the big pharma community, an industry notorious for stealing other people’s work. If they could swipe what they needed before it got into a lab, all the better.
But if they were asking for him by name, why hide behind the ruse of a green organization?
“I know where dey are staying,” the General said, his grin spreading. He blew a ring of smoke into the air.
“As always, your services are appreciated,” Dugan said, handing a white envelope across to the General.
Gutierrez held the cigarette out at a distance, looking at it. “Why you like dese cheapy cheapies? A real man smokes a cigar.”
Dugan didn’t respond.
“Da last time I smoke a Cuban, is when jou firs’ arrive. Dose were some good flavors, no?”
“I’ll see what I can do to come up with another.” Dugan had no intention of following up on the promise. Not for this man.
Gutierrez opened the envelope, thumbing through the stack of hundred dollar bills. “Is not cheap to get this kind of information,” Gutierrez said. “We had dem arrested, dese America
ns, but dey know peoples and our resources are, uh, limited.”
Looming over the short fat Venezuelan, his smug smile strapped across his greasy face, Dugan felt the sudden urge to signal Rojo to cut him down. It wasn’t the money that bothered him; he would have paid ten times as much for what this beady bastard had already done for him. It was that smile the man held while accepting Dugan’s money; that cockiness, as if he were only ever revealing half of what he knew.
“Expect the same tomorrow,” Dugan said, turning his back on the man and returning to the Humvee. “And I’ll see if I can find you some cigars.”
Only if I shit on them first, Dugan thought.
“Jou no want de location? Where dey are staying?”
“Give it to Oso,” Dugan said, without looking back.
“He does not talk!”
“Which is why I trust him.” Dugan knew the General would miss the implication.
As he climbed back into the passenger seat, he heard Rojo mutter a sigh. “One day I’d really like to split that muku’s head open.”
Dugan snubbed his cigarette out against the windshield, right over the General’s face. “One day I’ll let you.”
Verse XVII.
Grey clicked through still frames on Kenny‘s laptop, cutting and saving any sequence with Malcolm in it. His files had all been transferred over, his footage saved on his jump drive. He wasn’t sure why he was doing it, other than it giving him something to do. In most of the photos Malcolm was only in the background, a partial head or body, turned away from the camera. Not important enough to be the focus of any shot.
But Grey had found a few.
Malcolm seated in one of the restaurants the bus had stopped at, pointing at the fried blackened bananas and gravy-splattered meat with a closed-mouth smile.