To his surprise, three Papuan natives were there in the hut. One of them stepped away from the others and blocked Samuel’s path. He was about Samuel’s height, but he had dark skin and wore no clothing other than a sheath made from a gourd, fitted tightly over his sexual organs. A band of white paint, made from palm oil and the crushed shells of river clams, extended from one ear to the other like a mask. Green lorikeet feathers protruded in random directions from his frizzly hair. His name was Sinanie, and Samuel had lived with him and his fellow tribesmen since 1868.
Sinanie appraised the scratches and filth covering most of Samuel’s body, a deep frown forming on his face. He said, “Samuel, ge sumo abül lép-telo (you have the smell of a man who is afraid).”
Samuel was still trying to catch his breath. “Sinanie, nu khof-e-kha lamoda-Lamotelokhai tekhén-mo (I must touch the Lamotelokhai).”
Sinanie furrowed his brow. He did not step aside.
There was no time to explain. Samuel walked around Sinanie and kneeled down before a low table. Upon the table was the Lamotelokhai, a shapeless lump of clay approximately the size and mass of a man’s body. This was where Samuel had gotten the smaller lumps of clay he had secretly combined on the remote hill. And the Lamotelokhai was the reason Samuel had remained in this forest for eighty years. Without waiting to see if the natives intended to stop him, he placed his hands on the clay. He formed words in his mind without speaking them, although his lips moved slightly to facilitate the process.
“I must confess, I have again done something foolish and am in desperate need of your assistance.”
One
Quentin Darnell stared at a brown water stain on the ceiling above the bed. He had been awakened at 4:30 by a loud call to prayer from the mosque across the street. The calling hadn’t stopped, so there was no going back to sleep. Finally, he turned on his phone to check the clock—6:00 am. He had to do something—anything—to pass the time. Their flight to the inland village of Navera wasn’t for another three hours. Lindsey was still sleeping, so he quietly got out of bed, slipped into his rumpled t-shirt and khaki trousers, and shoved on his hiking shoes. He plucked a thin, 4-inch bone from the nightstand and put it in his pocket. It was from a male raccoon, a bone called the baculum, also known as the penis bone. He liked to think it brought him good luck—his only superstitious habit. This one was a replacement, as he had lost the original eight months ago in a plane crash.
After visiting the bathroom, he went back to the bed and gently shook Lindsey’s shoulder.
She stirred. “You’re going somewhere?”
Quentin sat on the edge of the bed. “I just need to walk or something. Maybe I can pick up a few things we’ll need. I’ll be back in plenty of time to make sure you’re awake and to get ready.”
She nodded slightly and rolled onto her side. In a barely-conscious whisper she said, “I’m sleeping. Makes time go faster.”
Sleeping was not an option for Quentin. He left the room and walked down to the lobby of the Grand Bayliss Hotel. The lobby was actually impressive compared to most other hotels in the Indonesian province of Papua. But upon closer inspection, it was easy to see evidence that this was a business struggling despite its best efforts amidst Papua province’s impoverished economy and Indonesia’s interminable bureaucracy.
“Mr. Grayson, delivery for you.”
Quentin turned. Grayson was the name his family now used in public. The speaker was a hotel counter clerk, the same young Indonesian man who had checked them in the night before. His nametag said Rama. He waved Quentin over to the desk and then hefted two internal-frame backpacks onto the counter. The packs looked expensive, and they appeared to be full. Rama then handed Quentin a sealed manila envelope.
“Arrived late last night,” he said, smiling pleasantly.
Quentin thanked him and took the envelope. All it said on the front was:
To: Warren and Olivia Grayson
Grand Bayliss Hotel
From: SouthPacificNet
He opened the envelope. Inside was a surat jalan, or travel permit, already filled out and approved for Warren and Olivia Grayson. He zipped open the top of one of the backpacks. It was filled with premium, lightweight wilderness gear. Hiking shoes, clothing, a cylindrical water filter with a pump lever, a handheld GPS device, and other things he couldn’t identify without pulling them out.
Quentin shook his head. How Peter Wooley’s staff had managed to get the travel permit approved without his and Lindsey’s presence was a mystery, and perhaps a bit disturbing, but it would save them from taking a last-minute minibus ride to the police station to get one. And the hiking gear was a godsend. He and Lindsey had simply had no time to shop for the things they might need.
He paused, allowing a depraved memory to resurface—a memory of watching his son Addison pick himself up from the floor of a hanging hut, battered and bleeding, and then fleeing into the trees. Addison had just had his memory wiped out by a substance Quentin himself had forced upon him. They’d searched for him with no luck, finally giving up and abandoning him to die alone in the wilderness. Now, what would it be like going back into the Papuan rainforest, and back to that same hut? It was all happening so fast. Fifty-five hours ago he and Lindsey had been awakened by a call from Samuel on their satellite phone. Samuel Inwood, who had been living in the wilderness of Papua for more than 150 years, was perhaps the most extraordinary man Quentin had ever met. He had called them with the news that their son, Addison, was still alive. Samuel had explained that Addison was no longer a normal boy, and that his appearance was rather shocking. But he was alive.
Quentin shook his head to rid his mind of these futile thoughts. He asked Rama to store the backpacks behind the counter until he came back, and then he walked through the glass and chrome doors onto the street. The street was officially named Kemiri Raya, but was often referred to as Sentani Kimera. It was the same road Quentin and four other survivors of a devastating plane crash had traveled months ago from the airport to a hospital in Jayapura. The hospital visit hadn’t ended well: Quentin’s group held captive, Bobby asking the Lamotelokhai to help, the Lamotelokhai responding by killing multiple Indonesians and transforming them into enraged, bird-like dinosaurs that then killed even more people. Again Quentin shook his head. He wished he could forget the entire incident. But of course he couldn’t—he couldn’t forget anything.
Outside the hotel, the air smelled of fried rice, curry, and a poorly-planned sewage system. The proportions of these smells would shift in the wrong direction as the day’s heat set in. The traffic was still sparse, mostly minibuses for hire and motorcycles. Bicyclists and pedestrians bustled about on the roads and sidewalks. Although Quentin preferred tropical forests over tropical cities, this entire scene was invigorating and exotic, and he welcomed the chance to walk. Plus, he desperately needed the diversion.
The crowd on the street consisted of a diverse mix of various Indonesian ethnicities, such as Bugis and Javanese, as well as people of Papuan descent, indicated by darker skin and distinct facial features. Other than tourists at the airport, Quentin had rarely seen Americans here. No more than a hundred or so expats resided in Jayapura, most of them missionaries or health workers. The city had once been a minor trading settlement, but it was now home to more than 300,000 people. Nearly all this growth had occurred since World War II, when a massive invasion of Humboldt Bay by Allied Forces had driven out the Japanese. The site had then become General MacArthur’s headquarters, establishing it as a major base. A year after the invasion, the Dutch had designated the city as the capital of Netherlands New Guinea. To Quentin, Jayapura showcased a fascinating juxtaposition of cultures—a nexus for the diffusion of customs, languages, and beliefs.
As he walked east toward the airport and Jayapura proper, Quentin turned his thoughts to Bobby and Ashley. During recent months the two teens had become part of his family. In fact, they would almost certainly have been here in Papua with him and Lindsey if the teens hadn’t
left with Peter only hours before the shocking call from Samuel.
Quentin suddenly felt the need to make contact with them. He pulled out his phone, confirmed that he had a signal, and then tapped the country codes and selected Peter’s cell number. He covered one ear to dampen the noise of passing motorcycles. The call went straight to voicemail.
That was unusual.
Quentin stopped walking. He called Bobby’s phone. It went straight to voicemail. A moment later, a call to Ashley’s phone gave him the same result. A sense of helplessness took hold of him. He and Lindsey would be flying to the interior in a few hours. They had to find Addison—they simply had to. This was no time for a second emergency. He turned and made his way back to the hotel, now oblivious to the bustling activity around him.
When he entered the room, Lindsey was sitting up in the bed with her phone to her ear.
“I understand,” she said. “We’ll be in the air in two hours. After that we’ll be reachable only on Peter’s satellite phone, but even that could be spotty. Please call back the minute you know something.” She ended the call and dropped the phone onto the bed.
Quentin swallowed hard. “What is it?”
She turned to him with a benumbed expression. “That was Ardell Gray from SouthPacificNet. He’s one of the three people in Peter’s company who know what Peter and the kids are doing. Quentin, they’ve lost contact with them. No one knows where they are.”
Two
Bobby pushed a button, and a silent motor drew the accordion shade up into a compact strip across the top of the window. He had never been in a Mercedes-Benz before, let alone a luxury Mercedes passenger van. He found it to be both fascinating and disgustingly excessive. After two hours of messing with various electronic gadgets, he was still discovering new surprises. He gazed out the window. It was April, and things were greening up, but the Oklahoma landscape outside was a desert compared to the shore of the Sittee River in Belize, where he had lived for the last eight months. He turned around and glanced at the clock next to the television mounted behind his head. It was after 8:00 am. They would arrive soon.
“Should we wake her up?” Bobby asked.
Peter was sitting in one of the two deeply-cushioned seats on the other side of the table they had folded out from a cubby in the wall. He looked up from the brown leather folder of documents he was reading and smiled. He nodded at Ashley, sleeping in the seat beside Bobby. “Be my guest.”
Bobby hesitated.
Peter said, “Afraid to rouse her, aren’t you mate?”
“I have a healthy respect for her temper,” Bobby retorted. He shook her shoulder. Then he shook it again.
She rubbed her eyes. “Are we there?”
“Almost,” Bobby said. “Just thought you’d want to be awake so we could go over the plan again.”
She gave him a look. “We’ve talked about it twenty times.”
Peter closed his leather folder and stuffed it into the matching leather satchel that was in the seat beside him. He moved the satchel onto the floor by his feet and then patted the empty seat meaningfully.
Bobby understood why. If everything went according to plan, there would soon be something that looked just like a human sitting there for the ride back to Oklahoma City.
Peter took a moment to tighten the elastic band that held his silver-speckled hair in a ponytail. He adjusted the collar of his white shirt, fastened the top button, and tucked the shirt into his blue jeans. Leaning forward, he grabbed the leather sandals he had kicked off two hours ago and put them back on. He took a deep breath and smiled at them.
“I am almost queasy, if you can believe it. I first encountered the Lamotelokhai four and a half decades ago. So much of my life has been spent thinking about it and preparing. I do hope I make a good impression.”
Bobby laughed at this, partly because he was nervous too.
“It’s just a machine,” Ashley said.
Peter said, “And the prize goes to Ashley Stoddard, for the understatement of the year.”
Ashley almost smiled. “I’m Hattie Grayson now, remember?” She pushed the button to raise the window shade on her side and turned to watch the passing countryside. Bobby wondered if she was thinking the same thing he was, that the grassy fields dotted with thick patches of trees brought back memories of outmaneuvering two fighter jets to avoid being captured or shot down, hiding in a patch of trees until the coast was clear, and then walking into the town of Pawhuska to find a motel room where they could rest until morning. It had been the most exciting time of Bobby’s life and also the most traumatic.
“It’s starting to look familiar,” Bobby said to her.
Ashley continued staring out the window. “Yes it is,” she said quietly.
Peter pressed a button on the arm of his chair. “Robert, progress report please.”
A voice came back through the van’s surround sound system. “Five minutes from our destination.” The voice belonged to Robert Ramey. Not only was he their driver for the day, but he was also one of only three of Peter’s employees who knew about this mission.
Perhaps Robert and the other two knew about it, Bobby thought, but he doubted if they really understood how important it was—or how dangerous.
Tall steel trusses suddenly punctuated the view on both sides as the van rolled over a bridge. Shortly after crossing the bridge, they slowed down and turned into a parking lot. Bobby looked past Ashley, and his eyes were drawn to the door to room 4 of the Economy Inn.
Peter said, “Does this look like the place?”
Bobby nodded. “I can’t believe we’re back here.”
“You and me both,” Ashley said. She was also staring at room 4.
Bobby saw that there were only three other cars in the parking lot. “He needs to park right there,” he said. “In front of room 4.”
Peter pressed the button and relayed Bobby’s suggestion to Robert. The van pulled in, and Robert killed the engine. Peter moved to the edge of his chair and grasped the handle of the sliding door. He looked at Bobby and Ashley.
“I know you would like to be with your folks in Papua. The timing of Samuel’s call was unfortunate. After we’ve completed this mission, perhaps we can fly there so we can greet them when they come out of the bush. If all goes well, they’ll have Addison with them.”
Ashley glanced at Bobby. She was smiling. She and Bobby had talked about requesting this but were afraid it would be asking too much. “That would be awesome!” she said.
“It’s the least I can do. For now, though, we have a most pressing matter to attend to. As you know, Quentin and Lindsey will kill me if you two get into any trouble. I want you with us when we go into the room, but wait until I come for you. Got it?”
“Got it,” they both said.
Peter slid the door open, and Robert was waiting for him just outside. Robert looked to be older than Peter, but Bobby knew he was much younger, due to the fact that Peter hadn’t aged in the forty-five years since he had first found the Lamotelokhai. Like Peter, Robert wore blue jeans, sandals, and a button-down shirt, although Robert’s shirt was plaid. He even wore his gray hair in the same ponytail. Bobby and Ashley had spent the previous day with Robert deep inside the Kembalimo server facility. Peter had asked Robert to show them everything they wanted to see, including the top secret room that would be the Lamotelokhai’s new home.
Robert was smiling as Peter got out of the van, which probably meant that Robert didn’t realize how dangerous their cargo could be. Peter shut the door, and the two men walked to the motel’s office.
Bobby and Ashley could see into the office through the large glass windows on its front. They sat in silence, watching Peter and Robert talk to the woman behind the counter. She looked like the same woman who had been here eight months ago—the woman who had called the police to report that six fugitives were hiding in room 4. She had almost caused Bobby and his group to miss the most important appointment of their lives.
“This doe
sn’t seem right,” Ashley said. “We should have brought bodyguards—like twenty of them.”
Bobby said, “Why would someone scouting a location for a movie bring twenty bodyguards?”
“Peter could have come up with a different story. A group of actors coming here to actually film the scene. Or an FBI investigation.”
“Or maybe a bodyguard convention?”
Ashley snorted a laugh. “At the Economy Inn of Pawhuska.”
Bobby smiled. He was as nervous about this as she was, but he tried not to let it show. The plan seemed too simple. Peter had insisted that they bring only one vehicle, to be inconspicuous. The Mercedes van wasn’t really inconspicuous, but it was a good match for a movie director looking for a scene location. Peter had made the point that if anyone knew the Lamotelokhai had been hiding at the motel, then they would have taken it already. Besides, there were only three other people in Peter’s corporation, including Robert, who knew why they had actually come here. ‘Secrecy is the cracker of the day,’ Peter was fond of saying. And he had insisted that Bobby and Ashley could come on this mission only if they agreed not to show their faces in public. They had taken private flights from Belize to Houston, and then to Oklahoma City. They had exited the plane and immediately entered the van, which had then taken them to Peter’s Kembalimo server headquarters. Peter hadn’t allowed them to leave the headquarters until this morning. They hadn’t even stopped to pee—Peter had told them to use the tiny bathroom in the back of the van. In spite of all this caution, Bobby was still nervous. What if someone—like Darron Mesner and the other feds, for example—suspected the Lamotelokhai was here, but they were just waiting for someone to show up and lead them right to it?
Profusion Page 2