by John Bolin
For five minutes Peter stood under the water, letting it pour over him and clean his wounds. The soap and water stung his leg.
He couldn’t stop thinking about the gaunt guy with the gun and the hospital boat.
An incident.
After his shower he air-dried and tried to reapply the bandages. They weren’t pretty but they held. He put on a set of clothes that Linc had let him borrow. Fresh khakis and a T-shirt and, most importantly, clean socks.
He decided he needed to think. He collapsed on the bed and sprawled out on the sheets, facing the ceiling. He filled the bed from head to toe. The last of the adrenaline was bleeding from his system. His mind flipped back through the events of the day, sorting them out. Then he was asleep.
* * *
Peter woke up exactly forty-five minutes later. He went to the window. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. He got dressed and strapped on the only weapon he had with him: a Kershaw Blackout with a folding blade.
Bogart was waiting for him in the lobby. Linc had decided that sleep trumped food and had opted to hit the sack.
“Hey, boss,” Bogart said, “I thought you were going to clean up a bit?”
“Funny,” Peter said as he stepped from the hotel and started toward the clinic.
It was nearly midnight, but people were still lingering on street corners and sitting in small clusters in lighted canteens. The heavy air smelt of burnt trash and sewage and it seemed as if the jungle had been emptied of bugs because of the lights. Welcome to the city.
Neither of them said anything for a while, not even a wisecrack. They just walked. It was fine by Peter. Bogart’s left boot scuffed slightly with every step, a constant reminder of a bullet he’d taken for Peter two years before.
“I was thinking,” Bogart finally said.
“About what?”
“About how people respond when they’re in trouble.”
Peter groaned. “Look, for the last time, I didn’t panic in the jungle. I would have been fine.”
Bogart laughed. “Are you still hung up on that? I know you well enough, Peter Zachary. But I wasn’t talking about that.”
“Okay,” Peter said. “Then what?”
“You know, how everybody reacted in the jungle. Not just you,” Bogart said. “Like the one who killed himself.” Bogart’s leg shuffled.
“Right . . . ?”
“Well,” Bogart said, “everyone thinks they know what they’ll do when a crisis hits, but no one ever does what they say. You hear about it all the time: guys who run away instead of protecting their family, teachers who cower in the face of gunfire.”
Peter nodded. “I’ll tell you right now, you can’t rely on someone else to do what has to be done. Except you,” he added, glancing at Bogart’s leg. “I’d trust you anytime.”
Bogart smiled.
They passed across what was probably a busy street during the day. Peter could see the lights of the clinic a few blocks away. He could hear the sounds of a city falling asleep. Cars honked drearily, metal clanged, and people shouted in the distance. They passed a couple of nightclubs that were just getting warmed up. One of them had a live jazz band, and a sign in the window advertised BBQ.
“How about a round and maybe something to eat?” Peter asked.
“Lead the way, boss,” Bogart said, repeating the Ranger motto. They ducked into it.
It was the kind of place you’d expect to find on the outskirts of a city like Iquitos. The whole place was no more than twenty-five feet across. It had a small staircase on the far end that led to upper-level patio seating. The bar was to the side, and tables were scattered around a small dance floor that Peter guessed hadn’t been used in years. The room was dingy and smelled of smoke and sour beer. But it was full. Jam-packed with people. Even the dark corners of the place were filled with small huddles of people leaning in over their drinks, laughing or crying or exchanging blank stares.
In one corner, Peter noticed a group of men clearly eying them. Not surprising. He and Bogart stood out like crazy. It looked like they were the only white men in the place, and they both stood almost a foot over the rest of the crowd. He didn’t really want to draw attention. He shifted his gaze and spotted a couple of open barstools. They shouldered their way in, sat down, and ordered drinks and some food.
“So,” Bogart said, “how’s Walt?”
“Huh?”
“Your dad. How is he?”
Peter shrugged. “You saw him the last time I did.”
“You mean that time in Iraq?”
“Yep,” Peter said.
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. He left when I was a kid. Mom raised me, you know that.”
“Sure, but I thought maybe you’d seen him since the last time.”
“Nope,” Peter said, nodding to the bartender as he brought their drinks. “Haven’t felt the need, I guess. Mom’s the real hero, raised two hellions by herself. And climbed the ol’ corporate ladder while she was at it.”
“What’s your dad up to now?”
Peter shrugged. “Last I heard he was a hotshot over at DARPA. Someone told me he got religion.”
Bogart’s eyebrows rose. “Interesting.”
“Yeah, sure. Interesting for you. Hey, it’s great for you. You’re the real deal, bro. But my dad? It just doesn’t make any sense to me. I think he’s trying to compensate for everything bad he’s done his whole life.”
Bogart drank from the beer bottle and wiped his mouth. “Maybe you’re just not used to him being religious.”
Peter thought about that for a minute. “Maybe he’s just not himself. He’s getting older, so I suppose that sort of goes with the territory.” Peter slapped Bogart on the back. “What’s with you? Talking about my dad and all. You’re not dying on me or anything, are you?”
Bogart studied his bottle. “I guess watching Afanzo today made me do some more thinking, you know? Like maybe I need to try to patch up some relationships in my life. Like even with my own dad. And,” he said with one eyebrow lifted, “seems like you and your old man could use a bit of TLC, too.”
Peter nodded. Whatever. He didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t exactly his area. He was about to change the subject when someone bumped his left arm.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” a woman’s voice said from behind him.
Peter turned his head. And did a double take.
He couldn’t help himself. Even in the dull gloom of the bar, she was striking. Blond hair pulled back and tucked away behind a red bandana. Her face was strong but not hard. Her green eyes were brilliant against her tanned face. She had a great figure.
“Hi,” she said as she grabbed three beers from the bar.
Peter smiled. “Hi, yourself.”
“You Peter Zachary?”
Peter all but fell off his stool. “That’s me.”
“Got a couple of drinks if you’re interested,” the woman said as she turned to walk across the bar toward a table.
Peter and Bogart exchanged a look. Then, with a sheepish grin, they grabbed their plates and followed the girl through the crowded room to a wooden table near the back wall. There were two drinks waiting for them.
She was an American, clearly. Her accent had given her away. She looked great in her jeans and T-shirt. Peter looked at his watch. It was nearly eleven thirty. Gator would need to be relieved at the medical boat soon.
“Don’t think we’ve met, sweetheart,” Peter said as he took a chair.
The girl paused. “Name’s Alex Forsythe.”
“I’m Pete,” he said, leaning in slightly, grinning. “You don’t sound Peruvian. You live here?”
“Sort of,” she said. “I’m staying down the street, on a boat.”
Peter laughed.
“No, really,” Alex said, “I’m an anthropologist. I’ve been working just up the river in one of the villages. Look, I know you don’t know who I am but—”
“Yeah, about that,” Peter said. “I didn’t even know
I was coming here tonight. How did you know? And how did you find me? Nobody even knows we’re in town. And why are you looking for me anyway? Not,” he said as he lifted his glass, “that I mind the attention.”
The woman, Alex, looked him square in the eye. “I’ve got a . . . situation . . . and your buddy said that maybe you can help me.”
“My buddy?”
“At the boat. The Hope II. You know, the floating clinic where you dropped off one of your guides a few hours ago?” Alex’s gaze went unfocused. “I was with a sick girl there and I met your friend in the waiting room. Big black guy with a bald head. He told me to check the bars between the boat and your hotel. This is the third one.”
Peter and Bogart shared a smile. Had to be Gator. Peter looked back at this Alex Forsythe. She was all business, but she had a great voice. The kind of voice you just want to listen to, whatever it’s saying. It was low and warm, but in a bit of a hurry.
For his part, Peter wasn’t in a hurry. Skins and his parents would be back in a couple of days. And anyway, he was thinking of suggesting that he and his team take it easy for a few days and get a bit of extra footage. Bogart had to get to the boat to relieve Gator, but he had all night.
“Maybe,” Peter said. “What kind of help do you need?”
Alex leaned forward and dropped her voice. “I need someone to take me into the jungle. I understand you do that sort of thing.”
Peter and Bogart exchanged a look. “What sort of thing?” Peter asked.
“Lead expeditions. That’s what you do, right?”
“Not exactly. We’re a film crew.”
“Yeah, your friend mentioned that to me, something about science and the supernatural. A film crew that paratroops into the jungle and rafts through whitewater. A film crew that just happens to be made up of former military types. Let’s see. . . . I think he called you a killer scientist,” she said. “Look, I need someone with, uh, expertise to get me through the jungle.”
“You mean,” Peter said in a sarcastic whisper, “someone with guns?”
Alex scowled and pulled back. “No, I hate guns. I mean expertise. The jungle is totally unpredictable, and I need someone with enough brains that he isn’t easily freaked.”
Bogart turned to Peter. “Pete’s got the brains all right, but someone who isn’t easily freaked? Well,” Bogart said with a grin, “I think that leaves him out!”
“Shut up, Bogart.” Peter turned to Alex. “Go on.”
“A lot of the local guides are afraid of the jungle.”
“They’re superstitious,” Peter said. “But there’s nothing ‘supernatural’ there.” He grinned. “That’s what we’re doing, Miss Forsythe. Using the laws of science and the miracle of film to disprove paranormal hocus pocus.”
“Doctor.”
Peter cocked his head. “What?”
“Dr. Forsythe. Not ‘Miss.’”
“Oh, sorry.”
“Look, can you help me or not?”
Peter rocked his bottle on the table. He could feel the ache in his leg from the attack. “That depends.”
“Depends on what?”
“On where you’re going and how much you’re paying. And whether or not I’ve got an opening.”
Alex’s face soured. “That’s just it. I don’t know.”
“You don’t know how much you can pay?”
“No, I’ve got access to deep pockets, and I can pay you whatever you charge. But I don’t know exactly where we’re going.”
The room around them still buzzed with nightlife. Groups of men sat in small circles around tables, drinking and laughing. The jukebox was droning some song Peter didn’t recognize. The haze of smoke was swirling and moving above the crowd of bodies.
“Well?” she said.
Peter leaned in again. “If you have no idea where you’re going, how are we supposed to know which way to walk?”
Alex shifted. “I don’t know which way to go, but I have someone who does.”
“If you already have a guide, why do you need us?”
“I don’t have a guide,” Alex said. “I have an Indian to help me.”
“An Indian guide?” Peter said, looking at Bogart. “They’re the best, if you can find one who isn’t superstitious.”
“No, not a guide, a girl,” Alex said, flipping her bottle cap back and forth along her fingers.
“I had been studying the girl’s tribe for several years. I’m an anthropologist, so that’s what I do. Anyway, one day about six weeks ago the entire tribe just disappeared. I’ve been searching for them ever since. We even thought . . .” She shook her head. “Anyway, two weeks ago, the girl just showed up at a small fishing village a few miles downriver. I want to know where the rest of the tribe is.”
“I thought they did that,” Peter said.
“Did what?”
“Move around a lot. At least that’s what it seemed to me.”
“That’s true to a point. Most of the tribes are nomadic. It’s part of their culture. Once they’ve exhausted the resources of one area, they move on.”
“Like gypsies,” Peter said.
“No,” she snapped. “Look, I’m not asking you for your opinion. I know more about the Mek than anyone else on the planet.” She pushed back in her chair. “Why am I even telling you this?”
Peter pulled out a cigarette and lit it. “Because you need help getting into the jungle and you can’t do it on your own, and wherever you’re going the Indians don’t want to go, at least not the ones who could guide you. But I’m still not following what you want us to do.”
“I want you to help me follow an Indian girl through the jungle,” Alex said, waving her hand through the smoke. “She wandered out of the jungle a few weeks ago, sick and disoriented. The doctor says she’s got some sort of unknown disease. They think she has only a few days before the disease begins to eat away at her system.”
An incident.
Peter took another drag from his cigarette, thinking.
“You know those things will kill you,” Alex said.
“That’s what they say,” Peter said. “Chances are, something else will first.”
Alex sniffed. “Look, there’s a chance that the people in the fishing village where she was found will know what happened to her. If we can find the rest of her tribe, we might be able to figure out who did this to her and maybe find a cure.” She hesitated. “It might be her only hope.”
“Is she contagious?” Bogart asked.
“The doctor says she’s not.”
“Then why the ‘Quarantine’ sign on her door?” Bogart said.
“Good question,” Peter said, leaning forward, “and why did a guy point a gun at my face when we got to your hospital boat and say there’d been an ‘incident’?”
She seemed to be choosing her response carefully. “I’m sorry about that. I think they didn’t know what she had, so they took precautions. They do get outbreaks of malaria and all sorts of STDs here from time to time.” She tilted her head. “Maybe they just overreacted. But I’ve been with Tima—the Indian girl—several times now, along with a number of nurses, doctors, and even priests, and we’re all fine.”
“Could take weeks before symptoms show,” Bogart said. “You don’t know, do you?”
Alex brought her bottle to the table with a bang. “Look, there are dangers. Yes, you’re right. We don’t know what we’re dealing with. And I’m asking you to come with me into the Amazon jungle—where, I might add, there are more dangers—to try to help me save this girl and her entire tribe. I’m not asking you to do it for free. I’m prepared to pay a fair price. But I see you’re not interested.” She stood and gathered her things. “I guess I was wrong about what kind of men you are.”
Peter grabbed her wrist. “Who?”
“You! I thought you were—”
“No,” Peter said, “you said someone did this to your sick girl. Who?”
Alex stood still. “Oh.” She put her hand to her neck
. “The girl said something about a White Shaman, a white man that she says kidnapped her tribe. She said the man has special powers and that he made her sick.”
Peter glanced at Bogart, who toggled his head from side to side.