Chapter One
I
Pomacochas, Peru
October 14th
8:38 a.m. PET
By the time Wes Merritt caught up with the children, they were giggling and prodding the corpse with sticks.
This certainly wasn’t how he had envisioned starting his day.
He had been down on the rickety floating dock on Laguna Pomacochas, loading his 1953 DHC-2 #N68080 seaplane with supplies for a quick jaunt down to the City of Chachapoyas, capital of the Amazonas Province of Peru, when the three boys had raced up the wooden planks and begun chattering at him in Quechua. Far from fluent in the native tongue, he had captured just a handful of words here and there, but the few he understood told him he wouldn’t be making the flight that morning. Two words had stood out specifically. The first, aya, meant “dead body.” And the second, undoubtedly the reason they had come directly to him rather than the policía, was a word that he had been called on more than one occasion himself.
Mithmaq. The Quechua word for stranger.
As Merritt approached the bank of the river and the partially concealed body, he wondered if the children had been mistaken. What little skin he could see was mottled bluish black, and the hair was so thick with mud and scum that it was nearly impossible to determine the color. The Mayu Wañu, or, roughly translated, Resurrection River, rose and fell with the seasons, alternately climbing up the steep slope behind him in the spring into the primary rainforest, where the massive trunks of the kapok trees bore the gray discoloration of the water, and diminishing to a gentle trickle mere inches deep during dry spells. The body was tangled in vegetation, half-buried in the mud on the shore, half-floating in the brown river. Swirling eddies attempted to pry it loose to continue its journey along the rapids into the lagoon, but the earth held it fast.
“Sayana,” he said in Quechua. Stop.
The boys looked up at him, then slowly backed away, their fun spoiled. One, a shaggy-haired boy of about twelve in a filthy polo shirt and corduroys that were far too short, peeked at Merritt from the corner of his eye and gave the corpse one final poke. All three whirled and sprinted back into the jungle, laughing.
Merritt eased down the slippery bank. The mud swallowed his feet to the ankles and he had to hold the limp yellow ferns to maintain his balance. A quick glance at the ground confirmed the only recent tracks belonged to the barefooted boys. He breathed a sigh of relief. There was a long list of creatures he didn’t want to encounter in his current compromised position.
Merritt hauled himself up onto the snarl of branches that shielded the body from the brunt of the current and crouched to inspect the remains. Judging by the broad shoulders and short hair, the corpse belonged to a male, roughly six feet tall, which definitely marked him as a foreigner to this region of northern Peru. The man’s shirt and cargo pants had both absorbed so much of the dirty river that it was impossible to tell what color they might once have been. Twin black straps arched around his shoulders. His left leg bobbed on the river, the laces from his boot squirming beneath the surface. His right foot was snared in the branches under Merritt, the bulk of the leg buried in mud. Both arms were pinned somewhere under the body.
Back home in the States, this was when the police would arrive and cordon off the scene so the forensics team could begin the investigation. But he wasn’t back home. He was in a different world entirely. A world far less complicated than the one he had left behind, one that had initially welcomed him with overt suspicion, but had eventually introduced him to a culture that had made him its own. And although his white skin would always brand him a mithmaq in their midst, no place in the world had ever felt so much like home.
He looked to the sky, a thin channel of cobalt through the lush branches that nearly eclipsed it from either bank. Blue-capped tanagers darted through the canopy in flickers of turquoise and gold, and common woolly monkeys screeched out of sight. The omnipresent cloud of mosquitoes whined around his head, but showed little interest in the waterlogged corpse, which already seethed with black flies.
Merritt had seen more than his share of bodies during his years in the army, and approached this one with almost clinical detachment. That was the whole reason he had run halfway around the world to escape. There was only so much death one could experience before becoming numb to it.
With a sigh, he climbed down from the mound of sticks and rounded the body again.
“This is so not cool,” he said, leaning over the man and grabbing one of the shoulder straps.
He braced himself and pulled. The body made a slurping sound as he pried it from the mire and dragged it higher onto the bank. Silver shapes darted away through the water, their meal interrupted.
The vile stench of decomposition made him gag, but he choked down his gorge. It wasn’t as though this was the first corpse he had ever seen. A flash of his previous life assailed him. A dark, dry warren of caves. Smoke swirling all around him. Shadowed forms sprawled on the ground and against the rock walls. One of them, a young woman with piercing blue eyes—
Merritt shook away the memory and willed his heartbeat to slow.
He blew out a long, slow breath, then rolled the corpse onto its back. The angry cloud of flies buzzed its displeasure.
“For the love of God…” he sputtered, and drew his shirt up over his mouth and nose.
The man’s face was a mask of mud, alive with wriggling larvae, the abdomen a gaping, macerated maw only partially obscured by the tattered remnants of the shirt. Merritt had obviously dislocated the man’s right shoulder when he wrenched it out of the mud. The entire arm hung awkwardly askew, while the left remained wrapped around a rucksack worn backward against his chest, the fingers curled tightly into the fabric as though afraid to release it even in death.
Merritt groaned and knelt above the man’s head. He really wished he’d brought his gloves. Cupping his hands, he scooped the mud from the forehead, out of the eye sockets, and from around the nose and mouth. The skin beneath was so bloated it felt like rubber.
Even with the brown smears and discolored flesh, Merritt recognized the man immediately. He had flown him and his entire group into Pomacochas from Chiclayo roughly three weeks ago. So where were the rest of them?
His gaze fell upon the rucksack. If it was still here when the policía arrived, nothing inside would ever be seen again. Corruption was a way of life down here.
Merritt unhooked the man’s claw from the fabric, pulled it away from the bag, and set it on the ground. He unlatched the clasp and drew back the flap. At first all he saw was a clump of soggy plants. He moved them aside and blinked in astonishment.
“Son of a bitch.”
II
Hospital Nacional Docente Madre Niño San Bartolomé
Lima, Peru
October 15th
9:03 a.m. PET
Eldon Monahan, Consul-general of the United States Consulate in Peru, waited in the small gray chamber, handkerchief over his mouth and nose in preparation for what was to come. At least this time he’d had the foresight to dab it in Vicks VapoRub before leaving the office. He wore a crisp charcoal Turnbull & Asser suit with a navy blue silk tie, and had slicked back his ebon hair with the sweat that beaded his forehead and welled against his furry eyebrows. His piercing hazel eyes absorbed his surroundings. It took all of his concentration to suppress the expression of contempt. Slate gray walls lined with ribbons of rust from the leaky pipes in the ceiling surrounded him on three sides. The fourth was a sheet of dimpled aluminum that featured a single door with a wide horizontal handle, the kind of freezer unit they installed in restaurants. Twin overhead sodium halide fixtures were mounted to the ceiling on retractable armatures. The diffuse beams spotlighted the scuffed, vinyl-tiled floor in front of him.
God, how he hated this part of his job.
A baccalaureate degree in Political Science from Stanford and a doctorate in Politics and International Relations from Oxford, and here he was in the basement of what could
only loosely be considered a hospital by American standards, in a backward country half a world away from where he really wanted to be. Paying his dues. Mastering the intricacies of foreign diplomacy. Whatever you wanted to call it, it was still about as far as a man could get from a seat on the Senate floor. Here he was, thirty-six years old and not even an actual ambassador.
The screech of his grinding teeth reminded him of his hypertension, and he tried to focus on something else. Anything else.
The door in the aluminum wall opened outward with a pop and a hiss. Eldon took an involuntary step in reverse. The morgue attendant acknowledged him with a nod as he wheeled the cart into the room and centered it under the lights. A sheet, stained with a Rorschach pattern of mud and bodily dissolution, covered the human form beneath.
“What can you tell me about the body?” Eldon asked in Spanish through the handkerchief.
“The policía dropped it off last night,” the attendant said, visibly amused by the Consul-general’s squeamishness. He wore a yellow surgical gown and cap, finger-painted with brown bloodstains. “Found him way up north in the Amazonas. Textbook case of drowning, you ask me.”
“How do we know he’s an American citizen?”
“The pilot who flew him into Pomacochas recognized him.”
“But he couldn’t identify him?”
“That’s all I know. You’re supposed to be the man with the answers. Shouldn’t your embassy have told you all of this?”
Eldon flushed with resentment.
“Where are his possessions?” Eldon asked.
“What you see is what you get.”
Par for the course.
“Let’s just get on with this then, shall we?”
With a curt nod, the attendant pulled back the sheet to expose the head and torso of the corpse.
Eldon had to turn away to compose himself, but he couldn’t chase the image from his mind. The man’s face was frosted from the freezer, his skin tinged blue. Chunks of flesh had been stolen from his cheeks, earlobes, and the tip of his nose. There were still crescents of mud in his ear canals and along his gum-line. He was dramatically swollen from the uptake of water, which caused his epidermis to crack as the deeper tissues froze.
“You don’t want to see the parts I left covered,” the attendant said. He smirked and clapped Eldon on the shoulder, eliciting a flinch. “Do what you need to do quickly. We don’t want him to start to thaw.”
Eldon removed the digital camera from the inner pocket of his suit jacket and leaned over the body. Three hurried flashes and he was out the door without another word. He needed fresh air, humid and oppressive though it may be. He ascended the stairs and crossed the lobby through a churning sea of the sick and injured, oblivious to their curses as he shouldered his way toward the front doors. As soon as he was outside, he ducked to his left, cast aside the handkerchief, and vomited into an acacia shrub.
Sometimes he absolutely hated his life.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and headed to where his car idled in the emergency bay. The driver waited outside the open rear door of the black Mercedes-Benz E-Class sedan, and ushered him inside. They drove in silence, save the whoosh of the wind through the open driver’s side window. The chauffer repeatedly raised his hand to cover his nose as discreetly as he could.
Wonderful, Eldon thought. He’d obviously brought more than pictures of the corpse with him.
The Mercedes turned through the black, wrought-iron gates of the Consulate. Armed Marines saluted as the car passed and rounded the circular island of rainbow flowers, from which twin poles bearing the American and Peruvian flags rose.
Eldon didn’t wait for the driver to come around to open the door. He just wanted to get this over with. As he ascended the concrete stairs beneath the gray marble portico, he focused on the task at hand: upload the digital images into the program that would compare them to the passport photos of all Americans still in Peru, starting with those who had registered their travel plans with the Embassy. Once he had positive identification, he could make his calls, get the body embalmed and on a plane back to the States, and wash his hands of the whole mess.
“Mr. Monahan,” the receptionist called in a thick Spanish accent as he strode into the lobby. She pronounced it Meester Monahan.
He pretended not to hear her and started up the staircase beside her desk. The middle-aged Peruvian national climbed out from behind her post with the clatter of high heels.
“Mr. Monahan!”
With a frustrated sigh, he turned to face the frumpy woman and raised the question with his eyebrows.
“There’s a man waiting for you outside your office.”
“I assume he’s been properly cleared?”
“Yes, Mr. Monahan.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Arguedas.”
He ascended to the top floor and headed toward his office at the end of the corridor. A man with shaggy chestnut hair and pale blue eyes sat in one of the chairs outside his office, a filthy backpack clutched to his chest. The armed soldier beside him snapped to attention when he saw Eldon, while the other man rose almost casually from his seat. His discomfort was apparent, yet he seemed less than intimidated by his surroundings. He had broad shoulders and a solid build that suggested he had been shaped more by physical exertion in the real world than by countless hours in the gym.
Eldon extended his hand and introduced himself as he approached. “Consulate-general Monahan.”
“Wes Merritt,” the man said. He offered his own hand, but retracted it when he noticed how dirty it was.
Eldon was silently grateful. He lowered his hand, gave a polite smile, and gestured for the man to follow him into his inner sanctum. The soldier fell in behind them and took his place beside the closing door.
“How can I be of assistance, Mr. Merritt?” Eldon seated himself in the high-backed leather chair behind his mahogany and brass Royal Louis XV Boulle desk, and made a show of checking his watch.
“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Monahan. Especially with no notice.”
Eldon waved him off, but he would definitely have to discuss such improprieties with Mrs. Arguedas.
Merritt opened the flap of the rucksack and set it on the edge of the pristine desk.
“I wanted to give this to you in person. You know how the authorities are down here…”
Eldon nodded and fought the urge to shove the vile bag off of his eighteenth century antique desk.
“I found this with the body you just visited at the morgue. I need to make sure it reaches the right people back home.” Merritt shrugged and rose as if to leave. “You’ll make sure it does, Mr. Monahan?”
“Of course. Thank you, Mr. Merritt. I’m sure the decedent’s family appreciates your integrity.”
Merritt gave a single nod in parting and exited through the polished oak door.
His curiosity piqued, Eldon plucked a handful of tissues from the box on the corner of the desk and walked around to inspect the bag. He gingerly moved aside a tangled nest of dried vines and appraised the contents. His eyes widened in surprise.
He leaned across the desk and pressed the “Speaker” button on his phone.
“Yes, Mr. Monahan?” Mrs. Arguedas answered.
“Please hold my calls.”
“Yes, sir.”
He disconnected and returned his attention to the rucksack.
Now he really needed to figure out to whom the body in the morgue belonged.
BLOODLETTING
MICHAEL McBRIDE
Now available in paperback and eBook
From Delirium Books
The butchered remains of twelve year-old Jasmine Rivers are discovered in the cellar of an abandoned farmhouse on the desolate eastern plains of Colorado, the fourth mutilated body found in the last two months. The FBI is still searching for the missing parts of the previous three.
Hundreds of miles away in Arizona, eleven corpses are exhumed from the Sonoran Desert. They’ve been mummified and
bundled in the traditional Inca style. But the Inca lived in South America, and these bodies aren’t centuries old.
Seemingly unrelated victims that share a common cause of death: exsanguination.
Special Agent Paxton Carver follows the trail of blood, which leads him to the continuation of genetic experimentation that began during World War II and a designer retrovirus capable of altering human chromosomes. Can he track down the virus and prevent further exposure before the real bloodletting begins?
Prologue
El Mirador Ruins
North of El Petén, Guatemala
30 Years Ago
Torrential rain laid siege to the jungle, beating a discordant melody on the broad leaves of the sacred ceiba trees and tropical cedars. No celestial light penetrated the smothering black storm clouds, beneath which a damp mist rolled across the muddy ground. Somewhere in the darkness a parrot cawed from an enclave in a mahogany tree and the hooting of howler monkeys echoed from nowhere and everywhere at once.
Until abruptly the world fell silent.
Four shadows peeled from the night at a crouch and emerged from the undergrowth into a small clearing at the base of the steep hillside that had grown over the ancient Maya temple La Danta, converging upon a rickety aluminum shack surrounded by drilling and earthmoving equipment sinking into the detritus. One of the shadows reached the door of the flimsy building, and after a few seconds, a padlock dropped into the mud. Another shadow drew the door wide and all four disappeared inside. Wooden crates and packing material lined the wall to the left, while middle Preclassic Era artifacts from narrow-mouthed tecomate jars to jade and obsidian figurines were displayed in a staged jumble on a table to the right as though someone had merely stepped away from their task of boxing and shipping. It was all for show. As were the baskets brimming with small picks and brushes, the dirty jackets hanging from nails, and the row of hardhats mounted with halogen lamps.
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