Insects 2: The Hunted

by John Koloen

  Returning to the village, Thomas and Murphy were already planning for tomorrow’s activities while the others, hungry and sweaty, suffered the bruising bumps in silence, looking no farther ahead than supper.

  70

  AFTER UNLOADING GEAR under the overhang, the five men entered the administrative building. Silvio Santiago perched on his stool behind the high counter, watching as Robinson moved toward a large, vintage beverage cooler pushed against a wall. It was empty.

  Watching Robinson, the old man spoke in Portuguese. “No drinks,” Suarez translated and Robinson said, “Too bad. I was hoping for a beer.” They didn’t know that beer was kept in a cooler under the counter.

  “Can I use your guide for a minute to translate?” Mitchell asked Boyd, who glanced at Duncan.

  “He’s Howard’s guide.”

  Duncan nodded agreeably.

  “Hi,” Mitchell said, extending his hand to Suarez. “I’m Bob. People call me Mitch. What’s your name?”

  “Antonio,” Suarez said, shaking limply. “I’ll talk to him. What do you want to know?”

  “We’re gonna need ATVs in the morning.”

  Suarez spoke with the old man, who shook his head.

  “He says they don’t have any.”

  “Did you hear that?” Mitchell asked, moving toward Duncan, who was sitting on bench seats at a table with the others.

  “Yeah, that’s not good.”

  “That’s crap. I saw some when we landed,” Robinson grumbled as he lit a cigarette. “He’s full of crap.”

  Mitchell looked at Suarez questioningly. Suarez told the old man they saw ATVs when they landed.

  “Oh, sure, we have ATVs, but they’re rented,” the old man said.

  Mitchell groaned.

  “Offer to pay more,” Robinson said. “Go on, ask him.”

  Mitchell nodded at Suarez, who asked if they could give extra money and the old man’s dour expression brightened.

  “He says that would be OK,” Suarez said.

  “Ask him how much,” Robinson said, smoke billowing from his mouth.

  “Four hundred,” Suarez said.

  “Four hundred dollars?” Mitchell said. “Goddamn it, that’s a lot. And that’s just for a day?”

  “Reals,” Suarez said, “for the day.”

  “O-kay,” Mitchell said, trying to convert reals to dollars in his head.

  “That’s less than one hundred dollars,” Boyd said.

  “We can do that,” Mitchell said. “He doesn’t have a problem with, you know, doing that?”

  “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” Robinson said. “He doesn’t give a shit about us or the other guys. Money talks.”

  “Yeah, but if he’s willing to do this for us, wouldn’t he do the same if someone else comes in and ups our price?” Boyd said.

  “Not if we get out of here bright and early,” Robinson said. “Whoever rented them isn’t gonna know we stole them out from under them until we’re gone.”

  Mitchell and the others looked at Robinson with newfound appreciation. He was not only older than everyone else, and grumpier, he was also shrewder.

  “Yeah, but when they find out…” Duncan said.

  “It’s up to you, doc,” Robinson said. “You want to walk or ride? Simple as that.”

  Duncan looked at Boyd and Mitchell, both of whom agreed with Robinson.

  “It’s a cutthroat business, doc,” Robinson said. “Nothing personal.”

  71

  WHILE DUNCAN, BOYD, Suarez and Robinson erected tents, Mitchell met with Murphy in his tent. His encampment consisted of three tents, one for Mitchell and his crew, one for Thomas’s four assistants and one for Thomas. Murphy sat in front of his tent on a three-legged camp stool. Light faded quickly after the sun dipped below the treetops and lanterns came to life in some of the nearby encampments. Murphy greeted Mitchell enthusiastically.

  “I see you got here,” Murphy said good-naturedly. “Where’d you find that plane? In a museum?”

  “I didn’t ask,” Mitchell said. “How’d your day go?”

  Although they spoke in conversational tones, Murphy noticed some of the others were trying to listen in as they stood in front of tiny, single-burner camp stoves waiting for water to boil so they could eat their dehydrated dinners. The air was heavy with the smell of mosquito repellant. Because the various camps were scattered and isolated from each other, the pair walked past the administration building and toward the river’s edge where a number of boats were tied to posts. Most were dugouts; two were beamier and longer with pointed bows and thatched roofs over the rear half. Down the river’s edge were houses and huts on stilts, well out of earshot. The pair sat on the remnants of a primitive dock and for a moment stared at the muddy, slow-moving water. The opposite bank was a wall of trees. It looked impenetrable.

  His gaze directed at the opposite shore, Murphy summarized his uneventful day. Mitchell filled him in on his flight but avoided mentioning how they’d been able to reserve two ATVs, though he desperately wanted to do so. It had occurred to him, as they walked to the river, that they may have finagled Murphy’s ATVs from the old man. He had no way of knowing, and if it turned out that it was the case, he was certain Murphy would pull rank and take the vehicles for himself. When the conversation turned to Mitchell’s plans for the next day, the junior field producer looked away as if he didn’t know what to say.

  “ATVs are hard to find,” Murphy said matter-of-factly. “Did you get any?”

  “Yeah, we did. Two.”

  “Really. That’s great. There aren’t that many and I was thinking the media folks would have everything locked up. You know how they are.”

  Mitchell nodded.

  “We haven’t really worked out where we’re gonna go, yet,” Mitchell said. “We’ll do that tonight, if we don’t get eaten alive by these mosquitoes.”

  Mitchell furiously batted at the blood suckers. Murphy, who was dressed in a long-sleeved shirt and nylon cargo pants, smiled sympathetically as he watched Mitchell, who wore shorts and short-sleeved shirt, slap at his bare legs and arms.

  “Maybe we should get outta here,” Murphy suggested. “The skeeters seem to be in attack mode.”

  72

  AFTER UNSATISFYING CUPS of dehydrated chili, Duncan, Boyd and Suarez huddled in the tent, fighting off mosquitoes. Suarez produced three roasted plantains that he had taken out of his daypack. Illuminated by Boyd’s headlamp, which hung from a strap on the tent’s ceiling, they ate them ravenously. Duncan asked where the guide had gotten them.

  “I talked to some people I met. They offered one to me and when I told them about you they gave me more. People are very friendly.”

  “It helps to speak their language, huh?” Boyd said.

  Suarez smiled boyishly. Unlike his companions, whose shirts were drenched with sweat, Suarez was shirtless and looked comfortable. It wasn’t long before Duncan and Boyd removed their shirts. The light breeze that blew through the tent’s screening refreshed them almost immediately.

  “Hey, let me in,” Bob Mitchell whispered urgently as he unzipped the tent’s entry.

  “Shut the damn door,” Duncan said frantically. “You’re letting mosquitoes in.”

  “Sorry,” Mitchell said as he fumbled with the zipper, pulling on it unevenly and causing it to become stuck on the fabric.

  “Here, let me do it,” Boyd barked, pushing Mitchell out of the way. Though Boyd was able to make the adjustment quickly, the pests had invaded the tent and they scrambled to bat them down.

  “So, Bob, what’s up?” Boyd asked, the mosquitoes having been subdued. “You didn’t tell anybody about our little deal for the ATVs, did you? We saw you walking with Carl.”

  “No, of course not,” Mitchell said.

  “We were just getting ready to make our plans for tomorrow,” Duncan said. “Did Murphy tell you anything?”

  “Yeah, he told me everything. I felt kinda bad that I kinda lied about the ATVs. I told him
we got two but not how we did it.”

  Mitchell briefed them on what Nolan Thomas’s group had done and that they planned to expand their search area in the morning.

  “You know, I just hope we don’t get their ATVs,” he concluded. “I don’t know what’ll happen if they find out we did it.”

  “You can always blame it on us,” Boyd suggested.

  “I hadn’t thought about that. You don’t mind?”

  “What’s he gonna do to us? It’s not like we work for him.” Boyd paused.

  “You do work for him, you know that, right?” Mitchell said.

  “Ah, fuck. OK. So, he’ll fire me. I still have a job with Howard. Besides, I haven’t done much consulting.”

  Duncan refocused the conversation, pumping Mitchell for details. Once he’d repeated everything he remembered, Duncan looked at Suarez to see what he thought.

  “Mister Howard, I heard from some kids that they found more bones, you know.”

  All eyes were on Suarez, who lowered his head.

  “Tell us about it,” Duncan said encouragingly. “You’re the one who speaks Portuguese. We don’t know anything.”

  Suarez described what he’d been told and pointed toward the rainforest, away from the route that Thomas’s group had used since coming to the village.

  “They say there’s a trail but if you don’t know where it is you can’t find it.”

  “Do you know where it is?”

  “No. But we can get one of the kids to take us there.”

  Duncan, Boyd and Mitchell were all smiles.

  As Boyd prepared to unzip the door to let Mitchell out, he asked, “You aren’t gonna tell Murphy about tomorrow, are you?”

  “Not a word. Anyway, I don’t think he cares.”

  73

  THANKS TO A brief downpour, the trio in Duncan’s tent spent an uncomfortable night, the rain insinuating its way through the screened openings. Tossing and turning, their bodies coated with sweat, they emerged from their partial sleep like lizards in need of life-giving sunlight. It was a good thing too, because they’d had their coffee before other campers had arisen from their troublesome sleep. They scarfed down their cups of instant oatmeal and, like men on a mission, Boyd and Suarez went directly to the administrative building to pick up their ATVs while Duncan roused Mitchell and Robinson. Everyone in the group wore a hat or shirt or carried an item emblazoned with the logo of Broken Tree Productions. Not that they would have aroused suspicion, since they would be the first to make their getaway into the forest. Though Silvio Santiago was already perching on his chair, he shrugged when asked by Suarez where the drivers were.

  “He said they’re still sleeping,” Suarez told Boyd.

  “Ask him when they’ll be here.”

  The old man shrugged again.

  “Ask him which ATVs we’re supposed to use.”

  Santiago rose stiffly and, with a gait suggesting arthritis of the knees, waddled behind the building, pointing to a pair of vehicles, one red, one army green. Re-entering the building, Boyd and Suarez were joined by the other three members of their group. Each carried a daypack containing water, snacks, mosquito repellant, maps, wireless radios and several containers to hold specimens. Suarez carried a machete to break ground if needed.

  “What’s the hold up?” Duncan asked.

  “The drivers,” Boyd moaned.

  “They’re sleeping,” Suarez interjected.

  “What the fuck?” Mitchell said, exasperated. “We already paid for this. Tell him we need to get going.”

  “You tell him,” Boyd said. “He doesn’t speak English, you know.”

  “So, are you just gonna wait?” Mitchell said nervously.

  “You’re worried that you stole Murphy’s ATVs, ain’t that right?” Robinson said.

  Mitchell glared at his videographer and then acknowledged his question with a nod.

  “Why not just offer more money?” Robinson said. “That’s the only reason we got the ATVs to begin with.”

  Suarez negotiated with the old man, who was reluctant at first, having noticed how anxious the Americans had become. He knew a good thing when he saw it. For an extra three hundred reals they would be able to drive themselves. His cousins, he was certain, wouldn’t mind the extra money, especially if they didn’t have to earn it.

  “One more thing,” Suarez said to Duncan. “He wants another five hundred reals as a deposit to cover damages.”

  Mitchell shook his head resignedly.

  “I’m running out of Brazilian money,” Mitchell said.

  “Oh, he’ll take dollars,” Boyd said helpfully.

  “He won’t charge for the cart,” Suarez said as the producer counted out currency.

  Mitchell handed the money to Suarez, who set it on the counter in front of Santiago. Dropping a pair of keys on the countertop, the old man smiled broadly.

  “He said thanks,” Suarez said.

  “He said more than that,” Boyd said, whose limited understanding of Portuguese included the standard greetings and phrases.

  “He also said, nice doing business with you.”

  74

  THE ENCAMPMENT HAD come to life as Duncan’s two ATVs drove slowly toward a collection of huts raised several feet above the red dirt on stilts. Nolan Thomas, surrounded by his assistants, stood in front of Murphy’s tent, talking to media who crowded in front of him. Mitchell waved to Murphy as they passed.

  “Boy,” Mitchell said, “Carl looks pissed.”

  “Why?” Boyd asked.

  “Look at that. Those media guys are gonna steal his show.”

  Robinson snorted.

  “How so?” Duncan asked.

  “You know what’s gonna happen,” Mitchell started, barely able to contain a laugh, “they’re gonna follow them into the jungle. Wow. That’s too funny. I’m sure if they knew who you were, they’d be all over us, too.”

  “Good thing they don’t,” Duncan said.

  “I’ll say,” Boyd agreed.

  After pausing near the huts, Suarez returned with the boy who had agreed to show them where he and his friends had found other carcasses. About five feet tall and slightly built, he was equipped with a machete and water bottle swinging from his shoulder at the end of a short rope. Shirtless and shoeless, he rode in the cart with Suarez in the lead ATV. Boyd drove and Duncan sat behind him. Mitchell drove the second ATV.

  Driving away from the village, clouds of red dust rising behind them like a veil, Duncan saw that none of the media paid attention to his group. The deception was working.

  75

  CARL MURPHY WAS livid as he took Jason Gruber aside, out of earshot of Nolan Thomas, who was conducting an impromptu interview with an American, a Brazilian TV crew and several print journalists.

  “Does he not understand that we have an exclusive contract with him?” Murphy grumbled.

  “I’m sure he does,” Gruber said. “He likes to lecture. He’s an academic at heart.”

  “So why is he undermining me—us? We’ve accommodated you in every way.”

  “Don’t blame me. I don’t control what he does.”

  “So, why’s he doing it? What’s the deal?” Murphy said, calming slightly.

  “I can’t speak for him. Maybe he—look, the project he’s working on is…confidential, let’s say. He’s not allowed to talk about it outside the lab. He can’t even publish papers about it.”

  “I don’t understand,” Murphy said, baffled. “You know we’re gonna put this on TV, right?”

  “Oh, yeah, but this isn’t directly related to our project. It could be, depending on what we find, but it’s outside the scope right now. He’s kinda working on a hunch. And, you know, he’s a publicity hound—at least he was in academia. You knew that, didn’t you?”

  “Well, I don’t like it. I’m afraid they’re gonna steal our thunder and we’ll end up with nothing.”

  As they talked, Murphy, who hadn’t been involved in negotiations resulting in his assignment
to cover Thomas’s expedition, realized that either his boss hadn’t been as upfront about the project as he’d thought, or that he hadn’t asked enough questions. Why was Thomas’s expedition a higher priority than Duncan’s? Once he was assigned to the project, his producer’s mind took over, completely absorbed in the process of preparation and execution. The why of it was unimportant, until now.

  “So, why’s he even doing it?” Murphy asked.

  “Well, when he saw some of the video from what happened, he saw something that got his attention. I think he believes he can tie this into the project he’s been working on. I really don’t know what he’s thinking, but I sure as hell can’t tell you anything about his work. I’d go to jail if someone found out,” Gruber said.

  “Damn!” Murphy said, astonished.

  “So, is he working for us or are we working for him?”

  Gruber shrugged and drew his finger across his lips.

  76

  WITH THE YOUNG villager pointing the way, Duncan was pleased that he would be plowing new ground not yet inspected by Nolan Thomas. Early morning clouds were clearing as they motored slowly into the damp forest, following a trail that coursed like a narrow stream around rocky outcroppings and islands of forty-foot açai palms, towering Brazil nut, rubber and stilted Cashapona trees. Sunlight filtered through the canopy as if through holes in an umbrella. Ground fog appeared in thin misty clouds that evaporated as they rose. The ATV motors were loud enough to drown out all but the most determined screeches of howler monkeys. Mosquitoes swarmed all around as the Americans coated themselves with DEET. Most wore pants and long-sleeved shirts, with the notable exception of Suarez and their young guide.