by John Bolin
Alex stepped toward him. “Are you the White Shaman?”
The man smiled and looked up at Alex. He might have been in his sixties, but his face was angular and taut, with few visible lines. His white beard and hair were trimmed and neat. Brilliant blue eyes were offset against sun-darkened skin. He came to his feet, and as he did so, a tiny white mouse scrabbled up the outside of his pant leg and alighted on his shoulder. He extended his hand to Alex. “It’s true, I’m afraid. The Indians here call me their White Shaman.” He chuckled. “But my name is Dr. Michael Khang.” His tone was disarming. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Forsythe.”
“You know my name?”
“Oh, but of course,” he said, gripping her hand warmly. “The intrepid Dr. Alexandria Forsythe, discoverer of the lost Mek Indians. I owe you my gratitude.”
“I’m flattered, Dr. Khang.” As she shook his hand, Alex noticed the tattoo on the inside of his wrist: >H.
Khang smiled, noticing her gaze. He began walking away from the lagoon.
Alex followed. “Where’s Tima?” she said. “I’d like to see her.”
“The Indian girl? You mean you know her name?”
“Yes, I know her name,” Alex said. “I speak her language. Anyway, she’s very sick, and I’m hoping you have the antidote for her condition.”
“I can assure you,” Khang said, holding a vine aside for Alex to pass, “that she is being taken care of. You were wise to bring her back here. Without the power of Eden, she may well have died.”
Alex felt a rush of relief. “So you have her? She’s receiving medical attention?”
“Oh, yes. There’s nothing to worry about.”
Alex breathed more easily now than she had in weeks. But now a new question suggested itself. “You said ‘Eden.’ What do you mean?”
Khang smiled expansively. “Eden, my dear. All of this,” he said, sweeping his hand toward the glass panels far above them, “and the surrounding grounds. The folly of an old man.”
He led Alex to a small flagstone patio area with half a dozen wrought-iron chairs and a glass table. He settled into one of the chairs in front of the table, crossed one leg over the other, and capped one hand on his knee. His other elbow rested on the arm of the chair. The tiny white mouse was still perched on his shoulder. “Please. Come sit down with me.” He waved toward a pair of chairs opposite his.
Alex walked slowly toward the chair and sat down. “What about the others?”
“Others?”
“Major Zachary and the other Americans?”
Khang’s face darkened.
* * *
Peter was floating at the bottom of a sinkhole. The rock walls pushed straight up on all sides for at least fifty feet. On one side of the sinkhole, a waterfall dripped over the edge, dumping water into the abyss. He remembered seeing pools like this from above when he’d stood at the waterfall.
The clouds were visible now, indicating that the sun was beginning its rise. In the new light he estimated that the abyss was about fifty feet across.
Arching his back, Peter pushed against the Plexiglas with all his strength. Nothing happened. He lifted a soggy boot out of the water and kicked. His rubber soles squeaked on the plastic, but that was it. Not near enough room to gain leverage. He formed two fists and pounded on the plastic. Again and again. Still nothing. He lay on his back in the reliquary and rocked it side to side, trying to free himself.
A face appeared.
He gasped and jerked, hitting his head on the clear plastic. The face blocked the light above, but Peter could still see that it was a man’s face, covered in crimson. He was breathing hard. Blood dripped onto the Plexiglas between them. Though he couldn’t see the face, Peter recognized the bandana and the metallic clink of a harmonica hitting his box.
It was Linc. [TS3] He was bloody but alive. And out of his box.
“Are they gone?” Linc mouthed through the Plexiglas.
“Who?” Peter hadn’t seen anything.
Linc shook his head, scanning the water. He started pecking at the electronic keypad, trying different combinations. After a few minutes, Peter heard a distinct clicking sound, then nothing. Linc looked in, shrugging his shoulders. He tried the code sequence to the lock again. Still nothing. He banged on the Plexiglas in frustration. Maybe the circuitry had been fried by the water. Linc pulled his bandana off, smoothed his hand over his wet hair, and tried the numbers again.
Peter heard a short click as the lock released. The box was still shut, but now he could get out. With Gator sucking air in the other reliquary, he knew that time was their greatest enemy.
Linc pointed at the latch. “You ready?”
Peter nodded and took a deep breath. He kicked the top open and dumped into the water. If you could call the gray sludge he swam in “water.” It burned his skin where he’d been cut in the jungle. Great way to get an infection, but it was better than dying.
Ignoring the pain, he propelled his legs and quickly broke the surface. He held on to the door of the reliquary, but it was taking in water faster than he could move. It didn’t help that Linc was scrabbling on the box, trying to stay out of the water himself. The box ebbed and sloshed over, lid side up and open. Then, Linc was standing in the box, water midway up his calves.
“Linc, what are you—”
“Swim!” Linc commanded. “Get out of the water!”
“Why?” He looked around.
Something moved in the water. Dark forms darting here and there. A flash like the reflection off a dime.
The silver-fanged fish.
Peter could see Gator’s box floating only twelve feet away. He didn’t think about it. He just dove halfway to the box and started swimming toward it, pushing hard against the water.
He erupted from the water right beside Gator’s box. But not before one of the fish managed to get its teeth into Peter’s calf. It burned like crazy, and Peter kicked the thing against the plastic box as he pulled himself up and onto Gator’s box. It wriggled free, plopping back into the water. Peter’s leg oozed blood, but it wasn’t going to kill him anytime soon.
Gator pounded on the Plexiglas. He looked pained but smiled and touched the plastic lid.
“Boss, unlock his box!” Linc shouted. “We don’t have much time.”
Peter willed himself up onto his hands and knees. “What’s the code?”
Linc told him the sequence, and Peter entered the numbers into the lock. The electronic padlock made the familiar click. He tugged on the latch to get Gator out. This time, the half-door opened easily. Gator managed to wriggle his way out of the box and sat for a moment, sucking in air.
He looked up at Peter and then glanced over at Linc. The three of them bobbed ridiculously in the water, tired smiles on their faces.
Peter glanced at Linc. “How’d you get out of your box?”
Linc shrugged. “It was open. The lock was broken off. It must have hit the side of the hole on the way down.”
“Lucky you,” Peter said.
“Hoo-rah,” Gator said. “Could be luck had nothing to do with it. Ah well, that was fun. Now, how are we going to get out of here?”
* * *
“Don’t worry; you will join your friends soon,” Khang said. He crossed his legs again. “I sincerely apologize for the unfortunate incidents on the water and at the morgue. You see, what we are doing here will forever change the human race. We have been under attack by every hater of progress you could imagine. We simply must protect our location. It is the key to our survival.”
“But . . . your guards killed Bogart back at the boat and nearly killed us on the water.”
Khang straightened. “The big guy on the boat was trying to be a hero. My men never would have shot him had he been compliant. There was no way we could have explained what’s happening here.”
“I don’t understand,” Alex said, still staring into the enormous fish tank. “What do you want from me?”
“Surely you see what’s happe
ning here, Dr. Forsythe,” Khang said, turning to Alex. “I want you to join me.”
Alex laughed out loud. “You don’t even know me.”
“I know you were the top graduate from your class at Columbia. I know your parents were both renowned researchers. I know you chose to stay in the Amazon instead of accepting a fellowship at Cambridge. You did it because you have the same vision as I do, Alex.”
“What’s that?” Alex said, her head spinning.
“The preservation of the human species,” Khang said. “Including the Mek and all the other Quechua tribes.”
Alex blinked. “What?”
Khang stroked his white beard. “Do you like classical music, Dr. Forsythe?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“Do you hear this music?” Khang asked, pointing to the trees overhead.
It seemed to Alex that the music got louder just then, wafting from hidden speakers made to look like rocks, no doubt. It was a particularly complex piano piece. One she knew. Alex nodded.
“Do you know what it is?”
“Rach the third,” Alex said. “It’s legendary.”
“Indeed,” Khang said, eying her closely. “It is Rachmaninov’s Piano Concerto Number Three. An exquisitely difficult piece. Did you know that Rachmaninov composed it while hypnotized? Even the most accomplished pianists are afraid of it.”
“Really?” Alex said as if interested, though she already knew that little piece of trivia.
“This piece, Dr. Forsythe, is about as close to perfection as has ever been written.”
“I’d say that’s true.”
A woman dressed in a flowing white dress walked onto the patio. Alex did a double take. With high cheekbones and long silken brown hair, the woman could have passed for a European high-fashion model. She carried a silver plate with two ceramic cups and a steaming pot. Alex could smell the coffee a mile away. Her senses went wild.
“Ah, yes. Thank you, Jones,” Khang said to the woman, receiving a cup and saucer. He turned to Alex. “You drink coffee?”
Alex’s mouth began to water. “Cream and sugar, please.”
The woman handed Alex a cup and saucer and then walked back down the trail. Alex sipped. It was amazing, a perfect cup of coffee.
“Now,” Khang said, setting his own cup down on the table between them. “Let’s talk.”
* * *
The three of them bobbed in the boxes, considering their options. Peter had already ruled out trying to scale the walls. Linc was the best climber of the three, and he couldn’t get two feet off the ground. The limestone was smooth and slick as oil.
“What about diving?” Gator said. He was kneeling in his box, scanning the water.
“What? Are you nuts?” Linc said. “Have you seen those fish? They’re like piranha on steroids.”
“See those bubbles?” Gator said. “Those are coming from underwater thermal vents.”
“And . . . ?” Linc said.
“And that could mean a cavity. Could lead to an underwater tunnel.”
“What are the risks?” Peter asked. “Besides, of course, the man-eating fish.”
“Well,” Gator said, “Peru does have the highest level of seismic activity in South America. Worst case is we trigger an earthquake or volcano. Other than that, I’d say the only real danger is getting sick from exposure to this cesspool.”
“So, you’re saying we could do it.” Peter said, joking. He already knew that there wasn’t a lot of hope that they’d find a way out. But he also knew that with enough time, they’d think of something. They always did.
“Oh, great,” Linc said, pointing up. “As if this wasn’t bad enough, looks like our friends are back to finish us off.”
Peter looked up. Sure enough, a shadowy figure stood over the edge of the hole.
The three of them went silent, waiting.
“Look like you need help,” a familiar voice said.
It was Skins.
“I don’t believe it,” Gator said, “the kid’s back from the dead.”
“I love you, man!” Linc shouted.
Fifteen minutes later, they were out. Skins explained that, after he’d been shot, he had jumped into one of the reliquaries and posed as a dead Indian. When the shooters pulled out his box, they immediately closed it again, not noticing that it was slightly open. When the four-wheelers had taken their three boxes to the sinkhole, he’d followed them. Then he’d returned to the laboratory to find rope. The wound on his leg had stopped bleeding, and he was able to walk on it.
“You save Afanzo,” Skins said, patting Peter on the back. “I save you.”
“Yeah, well, now I’m going to return the favor once again,” Peter said. “I want you to go back to the laboratory. Stay there until we come back to get you.”
“No, no. I come with you.” Skins stood but nearly fell again because of his injured leg. He sat down, dejected.
“You’ve done good, Skins,” Gator said, shaking his hand. “We’ll come back for you; don’t worry.”
Skins nodded.
“Let’s help Skins back to the lab,” Peter said, pulling a sopping paper from his pocket. He carefully unfolded it and laid it out on a rock. It was the drawing he’d done at the morgue. He made a mental calculation in his head. “We’ll clean up a bit there and then hoof it toward the main facility. With any luck, we’ll be there in a few hours.”
* * *
Raul sneered as he walked down the row of cages, Taser in hand. The animals had been restless and unruly, and he knew it was up to him to maintain control. The air was hot and putrid, but Raul had grown accustomed to it. He was walking by a row of vertical steel bars when a set of claws reached out and nicked his arm.
He spun around and peered into the cage. A smile crossed his face. He lifted the Taser. He adjusted the knob and then clicked the lock on the cage open. He kicked the door wide with his foot. Shrieks and cries echoed as the animals skittered to the far corner, cowering in fear.
As well they should.
Raul moved toward the offending creature. He reached out and touched the contacts of the Taser to the thing’s head. The animal convulsed and cried out, then fell to the floor in a heap—white foam on its mouth. The others huddled close together, shaking in fear.
Raul smiled and pointed to one of the animals. “You! Come with me!”
The creatures began to hiss and growl. One of them, a large male, lunged forward, knocking the Taser from Raul’s hand. Panic struck him for a moment, but he was able to crawl on the floor and reach the Taser.
He pushed to his feet. Sweat dripped from his forehead. Anger pumped through him. Without thinking, he reached out and connected with another of the animals. The creature dropped, like the first, wriggling on the ground before it went slack. The only sign of life was a rhythmic rise and fall of the animal’s chest. Raul did the same thing until there was only one animal left standing.
He pointed to it. It stepped forward, and Raul recognized it. He remembered someone had given this one a name.
Tima.
Chapter 18
With his map in hand, Peter led the group in a beeline through the dense trees. It was slow going, but even so they moved at a faster pace than they’d traveled since they landed in South America. It was just the three of them now, and he and Gator had been trained to move fast through any terrain. Luckily, Linc managed to keep up without any trouble.
They’d been walking for an hour when the helicopter returned. It hovered not far from where they were and then disappeared behind the trees, where it landed. He listened as the motor slowed and stopped.
Peter looked at the others. “You already know what I’m thinking.”
“If we can get to the chopper, we can take it,” Gator said.
Linc looked at him. “You probably couldn’t fly a helicopter if your life depended on it.”
“All right, girls, let’s go,” Peter said. “We should be able to catch up with it, as long as it stays put for a while.
”
Peter led them up a hill overlooking the river. Sure enough, below them, the Bell LongRanger helicopter sat next to a stream-fed pool, partially hidden by a grove of trees. A large utility shed, surrounded by razor wire fencing, stood near the bank of the pool. The doors to the shed were open, and Peter could see racks of scuba gear against the walls. At least one person was in the shed, back facing Peter. A trail ran from the helicopter to the shed to the bank of the pool in a neat little pattern.