by Jon Land
She brought them back to her favorite of the family’s houses in Laurel Canyon, insisting that was the best way to help them get on with their lives. She was done with the sea. The boys needed her, and here she would stay. Custody problems were inevitable and still forthcoming. The cushion of shock was still delaying matters, and Patty was grateful for that much.
Her arms wrapped about her body, she walked out of her room and into the hallway. Her bare feet rebelled against the coldness of the bare wood floor, and she moved quickly onto the Oriental runner that covered its center. She peered into the rooms of both her brothers and then decided to go down to the kitchen to make some coffee. But the downstairs was cold and dark, and to get there she had to pass her father’s study.
Inside it a single desk lamp burned over her mounting collection of tear sheets and photocopies. She did not remember leaving the lamp on. She did not remember leaving the study in favor of plunging into bed without undressing.
Intending only to switch off the light, she entered the study and walked to the desk. The reading material spread over it clutched at her again, she sank into the chair and began paging through the clutter of papers once more.
What was the connection between these men?
Something had to hold her father and the other victims together. They were being killed for a reason—and at least some hint of that reason had to lie here, in these papers. She had filled half the pages of a yellow legal pad with notes based on her reading. Tonight she would make notes on the notes.
It was like sailing into a head wind. She wasn’t getting anywhere.
What would Blaine McCracken have done?
Her eyes fell on the phone. She’d considered dialing the number he had given her so often these past few days that she could see it embossed on her eyelids every time she tried to sleep. But what was she going to tell him if he answered? What made her think his response would be any different from Banyan’s?
I’ve got to find something to tell him, something that will make him—make all of them—believe, she thought now.
Patty flipped her second pad open to a chart she had been making with the victims’ vital statistics. Nothing there that even suggested a connection. Different hometowns, different birth places, different colleges, different ways each had made his fortune, different birthdays as well, she quipped to herself.
Then something made her go back to that final column. Birth dates…Birth dates…
A chill shook her before she was even halfway down the list, an icy chill just like the one that had awakened her earlier.
Well, I’ll be damned, she thought. I’ll be damned!
“A minor problem has arisen, Kami-san.”
Takahashi looked up from his desk to see Tiguro Nagami standing before him. He hadn’t even heard his subordinate enter the study.
“Speak, Tiguro.”
“The daughter of one of the victims has been to the police. She has apparently caught on to the pattern of deaths.”
“She couldn’t have.”
“The police said as much.”
“Then why must I know this?”
“The possibility that she will make inquiries in other arenas is very real, Kami-san. One of these might provide a more willing ear.”
“Can you monitor the situation?”
Nagami nodded.
“If she persists, Tiguro, order her elimination. But don’t use one of our six specialists.” The vaguest hint of a smile crossed Takahashi’s lips. “No sense throwing off their timetable, is there?”
Chapter 6
MCCRACKEN MOPPED HIS brow yet again as the black waters of the Amazon slid by beneath him.
“Next year, Indian, remind me to choose Club Med.”
Wareagle was hefting a long, thick log to help steer their boat clear of the shallows. Their pilot, Luis, had warned of the shallows just before finishing his last bottle of whiskey. That had been two hours back, after they had turned down the frighteningly calm trunk river that appeared on no map.
“You sure this is the right way, Johnny?” Blaine had asked.
“According to the directions passed on to me, yes.”
“Wouldn’t happen to have a map, would you?”
“The Tupis speak in terms of landmarks.”
“What happens when we hit the jungle?”
“We follow the signs of the land.”
“What about the spirits? Where are they this time? Somewhere air-conditioned, I’d bet.”
Wareagle was not amused. “The words they speak filter through the light. The heart of darkness we are entering makes it difficult to hear.”
Now only Johnny’s massive strength pushing off of the bottom allowed the drunken Luis to steer the rickety ship that had been their home for over a day. After escaping from Casa do Diabo, Johnny and Blaine had driven straight to a small airfield outside of São Paulo. From there, unregistered flights were available to virtually anywhere in the country if the price was right. Fortunately Blaine had enough money left to make sure it was. Most of the men he usually dealt with weren’t fond of credit cards, so Blaine always traveled with large reserves of cash stored within secret compartments of his carry-on bag.
The plane took them to Manaus, a sprawling river port with a population of almost a million that rose from the densest part of the Amazon jungle. A combination of high-rise buildings and older stucco structures dwarfed in their midst, Manaus attracts a huge tourist population, primarily because it is a free port. Bargains in electronic merchandise abound, televisions and stereos sold out of warehouse lots from piles of boxes stacked to the ceiling. The port section is cluttered with hucksters and fishermen selling their wares from the docks, boasting of incredible bargains and trading barbs about freshness.
Upon arriving early Sunday morning, Blaine and Johnny filtered among the streams of humanity in no mood to linger too long. The need for a boat brought them to the port section, but few were available. They opted for Luis’s because he was lying drunk in a hammock and asked not a single question after being stirred. He didn’t even inquire where they were going until they were a mile out in the Amazon. Then his questions were answered by the money Blaine flashed before him.
The early hours of the voyage were almost pleasant. The waters of the Amazon are black due to the dissolving of humic acid, which repels insects and mosquitos. But as morning grew into afternoon, a stifling humidity took over. McCracken sat on the deck dripping in hot sweat that drenched even his hair and beard.
The boat motored easily as Johnny’s course took them into a maze of uncharted connecting waterways that ran green with the lifeblood of the countryside. With the coming of night came the onset of distinct unease on Blaine’s part. They could not have risked carrying weapons through Manaus, and none were available at any of the markets, except for ancient hunting rifles and shotguns. McCracken opted for the best he could find of the latter, a pump-action job that had seen better days. That and a box of ammunition were all they had on their side against the Spirit of the Dead.
“We are close now, Blainey,” Wareagle assured him, joining Blaine in the bow, where he was keeping a careful watch on the bottom for sudden rocks. The morning had dawned friendly, but already the dripping humidity was starting to choke the air.
“You going on strike, Indian?”
“Our boatman says the shallows have ended.”
Luis, behind the wheel, burped.
“And you trust him?”
“He has lived his life on the river, just as the Tupis have lived theirs in the jungle. He knows the waters as well as they know the land. Another twenty minutes and we will anchor.”
The resolve on Johnny’s face was sharp and keen. McCracken had seen it before, in other jungles, as other battles were looming.
They dropped anchor on schedule, and Luis helped them unload their packs; then Blaine instructed him to wait for their return. Luis gazed about him, not looking happy.
“Quando volta?”
; Blaine gave him his best guess. “Amanhã.”
“Não sei,” the boatman said, resisting Blaine’s orders.
“Vehna ca, por favor,” Blaine told him. And then, in English, “Come on. I’ve got something here for you.”
Luis’s eyes gleamed when Blaine produced the contents of a sack not yet unloaded: three bottles of decent whiskey he’d purchased at the port market before they’d set out.
“Muito bem,” Luis thanked him. “Muito obrigado!”
“Then you’ll be here when we get back?”
“Oh, absolutely,” the boatman replied, cuddling up to the whiskey as if it were a long-lost friend.
The brush of the Amazon Basin was like nothing Blaine had ever experienced before. It was wholly unique, a world unto itself. There was no path to follow, just trees to slide between and bushes to shove back. The feeling that he might well be the first person ever to step where he was stepping was new and fresh to him. The entire jungle was alive, even more steaming than the water, with no breeze to cool the drenching sweat that poured off him.
Wareagle led the way, at first clearing their path with a machete. The deeper they plunged into the jungle, however, the shorter his swipes became, as if he were reluctant to disturb nature’s delicate balance. Vines and broad leaves scraped at Blaine’s face with the tenacity of iron. More than once he felt some reptilian creature slithering about his feet and feared that it might be a deadly bushmaster snake ready to inject its lethal venom into him.
The jungle about him was alive with constant animal sounds, some high-pitched and loud, others barely more than a chirp. Above, only slight rays of direct light were able to penetrate the thick canopy of trees that formed a shroud over the jungle. This part of the Amazon had thus far been spared the ruinous mining and senseless stripping of the land for profit by bandeirantes, the Brazilian backwoodsmen.
The jungle smelled fresh, too, in spite of the humidity; not rank like Southeast Asia. You hated Nam before you even knew you were there because the air stank. Here the woods smelled like a fresh salad and were blessed with an incredible diversity of plant and animal species that breathed vitality into the scene. Blaine dared ask himself if war might have been the difference in Nam. Perhaps it was the smell of hate more than anything that sickened him even in memory. Here there was no hate, only life; this land supplied one-third of the world’s oxygen.
Wareagle followed the trail that was invisible to Blaine until they reached a large clearing that contained stray piles of wood and thick leaves.
“A tribe slept here last night,” Johnny said. “Most of them set out at dawn, the rest followed closely behind to provide cover against pursuit. They were restless. Something happened that frightened them.”
“You didn’t tell me the Tupis were nomadic.”
“Because they never were before.”
They came upon the encampment two hours before sunset. Wareagle pointed out perimeter guards so well camouflaged that Blaine could barely discern them even when staring directly at their positions. The Indian then showed him where to silently wait until he returned with safe passage assured. Under the circumstances, the sight of a “white-face” might scare the Tupi guards. Their arrows and blow darts might not be as formidable as machine-gun fire, but death didn’t know the difference.
Blaine watched Johnny disappear into the jungle and did as he was told. One minute dragged into another and he began to ask himself how much longer he would wait before impatience led him to make his own move. The next moments passed as slowly as any he could ever recall; he had very nearly made up his mind to follow in Johnny’s steps when Wareagle’s frame emerged from the brush, followed by a pair of Tupi warriors.
“We were expected, Blainey,” Wareagle announced, bidding him to rise. “They knew I would be coming.”
“What’d you tell them about me?”
“That you are a great white warrior who rescued me so I might rescue them. I called you cheinama, which in their language means a stranger who is a friend.”
“Thanks for the recommendation,” Blaine said.
The Tupis had been fortunate enough to find a rare valley in the Amazon Basin. As McCracken hiked down the slope to the hub of activity, he noted it was a uniquely defensible area. By the size of the branches the Tupi braves were hefting, and the way they were being stacked, he also noted that the tribe was not actually building a settlement.
They were building a fortress.
The bulk of the living quarters were being erected a story or more in the air upon sturdy tree branches linked together with tied-down logs. The construction was lean-to style and, once completed, would be accessible only by dangling vines easily pulled up to deny entry. The building of similar structures was underway closer to the rim of the valley, although these were clearly guard towers. The Tupis were developing their own early warning system.
“Looks like they’re digging in,” Blaine commented.
“With good reason. The chief is waiting for us.”
The chief was seated cross-legged in the center of the valley, a vantage point from which he would survey all ongoing work. He was an ancient man, with white hair tied in a ponytail and a mask of wrinkles covering the coppery flesh of his face. He might have been a hundred or seventy, but Blaine could see that the muscles of his wrists and hands were those of a younger man, at least one who had never stopped using them. They protruded from a tribal shawl colored in a simple pattern with a dominant shade of wheat.
The chief spoke to Wareagle without looking at McCracken.
“He bids you welcome,” Johnny translated, “and says he can tell he is in the presence of a great manitou.”
“Tell him the pleasure is all mine.”
Before Johnny could do so, the chief spoke again.
“O Memeka bu?”
“He wishes to know what tribe you belong to,” Johnny translated.
“Tell him my own.”
“Omei,” Johnny repeated to the old man.
The chief laughed and said something softly to Johnny.
“He says he knew that, Blainey.”
“Iti omoi reima.”
“He says you are a strong man.”
“Tell him thanks—and ask him what the hell is going on here!”
“Nefoteo nia?”
Wareagle waited patiently for the chief to finish before translating.
“He says they are digging in here to make a stand. He says there is no sense in running because the Spirit of the Dead will find them…like it found them last night.”
Johnny waited for the chief to complete his thought before continuing his translation.
“Blainey, he says two boys were found missing from that clearing we came upon at dawn this morning. He says there were no tracks to indicate they wandered off and no tracks to indicate anyone had come for them. They simply disappeared. “
“Thanks to this Spirit of the Dead?”
Wareagle nodded grimly. “The chief believes it to be a demon capable of appearing and disappearing as it desires. He says it was drawn up from the underworld one full moon ago by a Gift Giver still in touch with the Forgotten Times.”
“In which case the defenses being erected here will prove woefully inadequate.”
“They must make a stand, Blainey. Whatever is killing their people must be made to show itself where their warriors will at least have a chance.”
“Ask him if any of his people have seen the Spirit of the Dead.”
Wareagle obliged, and the chief shook his head methodically before responding.
“He says all that has been seen is the shape of the hatred the enemy leaves,” Wareagle translated. “The enemy sucks the life out of the land, out of the world, and the result is a hollow spot, an empty spot. It is into this hollow spot that the Spirit of the Dead disappears after its work is finished.”
The old man spoke again as soon as Johnny had finished speaking.
“There is more, Blainey. He says signs of the Green
Coats were found in their search for the missing boys.”
“Meaning soldiers?”
“Seven of them, their steps orderly and precise.”
“Ben Norseman,” Blaine replied, recalling his meeting with the Green Beret colonel in the lobby of the Caesar Park.
“They do not seem interested in his tribe, but they are out there, too.”
Just then a panting brave rushed up to the chief and sat next to him, whispering. The old man listened calmly, then turned to look up at Wareagle and spoke softly.
“He says the missing boys have been found,” Wareagle translated. “He wants us to come.”
The boys’ bodies swayed in the breeze, suspended from the tree by vines tied around their throats. The instrument of death, though, had been something much worse.
They had been disemboweled while still alive.
Large, jagged holes had been sliced in their abdomens, the contents drained a bit at a time. The pain would have been enormous, and much of it was still frozen on their faces. Blood from their mouths and noses had dripped down to their chests like paint running down a wall. Blaine kept his eyes on it to distract himself from the holes ripped where their stomachs had been. He kept to a distance where the smell was less intense. “What did this, Johnny? What the hell did this?”
Wareagle had ventured closer, eyes cold as marbles. He stared at the corpses and swiped at the flies that had clustered about. The boys’ toes dangled two feet off the ground, so Johnny was looking directly into their dead eyes.
“The vines are knotted in a way that would not bring on suffocation,” he said, eyes lowering. “The initial stomach cuts were made with a sharp object, a knife perhaps, so the skin could be parted and stripped back. The contents could then be pulled out.” He turned to McCracken. “By hand.”
“Jesus Christ….”