The DMZ

  Rick shifted his hunkered-down position to where he had a better panorama of the woods beyond the pool and outcropping before he went on. “It didn’t take long to figure out you were a civilian who’d wandered into the wrong place and didn’t have a clue what was going on. But in all those weeks, you never complained or let them get you down—never even let them see you cry. You were more worried about those campesino friends of yours, and Tim McAdams and Carlos, than about yourself. I thought you were one of the most courageous, caring people I’d ever seen.”

  Julie, embarrassed, started to speak, but Rick stopped her with a finger to her cracked and bleeding lips. “No, don’t talk! Just let me say this. These last few days, I’d never have dreamed that a civilian—and especially a woman—would have the grit to come through what we’ve run into without snapping. But you—again, you didn’t complain even once. I don’t know another woman in this world I could say that about.

  “And you haven’t just kept up; you’ve been a partner all the way. I said it before, and I’ll say it again—if I ever had to pick a person to have at my side when the going got tough, it’s you, Julie Baker.”

  Rick reached up—so unexpectedly it brought fresh tears springing to Julie’s eyes—and ran the knuckles of his hand gently down her bumpy, mottled cheek. The expression in those brown eyes so close to hers was one she’d never seen before but dared not try to read.

  “You were a very pretty girl when I met you, Julie Baker,” he said softly. “And you will be again someday when we get out of this, and those mosquito bites go away, and you get a haircut and those new clothes. But right now, when I look at you, I don’t see a pretty girl. I see the most beautiful person I’ve ever known.”

  Julie opened her eyes wide to keep the tears from brimming over. “But—I didn’t think you even liked me! Everything you said—about my parents … and me.”

  Rick dug into his pocket before remembering he no longer had his handkerchief. Instead he ran a finger gently under her eyelashes and wiped away the drops quivering there.

  “Me and my big mouth,” he said ruefully. “It’s just—you had so much to offer. I hated to see you holding onto the past, resenting it—especially when so much of what made you so special was this place, those parents of yours. As for not liking you …”

  Julie could hardly breathe under the intensity of his gaze. But he never finished, and she felt the stiffening of his body, his almost physical withdrawal from her, even before his head shot up, his eyes narrowing and his face hardening. Julie wondered if she had imagined that glow in the brown eyes, those moments of tenderness.

  Even as she swallowed her disappointment, she felt it too—the sensation of someone watching that had been plaguing her all day, now so strong it drove all thoughts of Rick from her mind. She turned her head, searching.

  Then she saw him, peering around the base of the cedar, the gray-and-white streaks that dappled his bronze skin blending into the wood of the trunk so that Julie caught first the menacing slant of his black eyes.

  If this wasn’t the same Amazonic native they had spotted two days earlier, it was his twin brother.

  This time the face did not waver. It disappeared but only to reappear as a stocky Indian no taller than Julie. He was naked except for a tattered pair of men’s black running shorts. A surreal illusion of clothing was created by his streaks of a tarlike substance that Julie knew to be a type of pitch, plus the gray of ashes and touches of white that on closer inspection proved to be the down of bird feathers pressed into the pitch.

  Not that his almost clownish attire projected an impression of harmlessness. The bow of polished ironwood in his right hand was as tall as himself, and the arrows bound by vines into a bundle and slung over one shoulder and down his back were almost as long. From a woven bag hung over the other shoulder protruded a bamboo dart gun, and Julie hadn’t been so long absent from these parts to forget the deadly poison that tipped its darts.

  Glancing past him, Julie saw that the woods was full of them—shadowy figures among the trees, their body paint creating an illusion of camouflage. They seemed to flicker in and out of view against the undergrowth like ghosts or a hologram.

  Rick, sliding back on his heels to where his AK-47 was within easy grasp, had lowered one hand out of sight to where he could snatch up the weapon.

  “Rick!” she whispered.

  “Don’t look at them,” he muttered through his teeth. “We don’t want a confrontation. If we don’t show any reaction, maybe they’ll just pass on through.”

  Julie was already shaking her head. “We’d have never seen them if they didn’t want us to. They’ve shown themselves because they want something from us. In fact, I’m betting this is who’s been following us all this time. We’ll just have to hope it isn’t our skins they want. I grew up with some of these people—let me try to speak with them.”

  Rick nodded a curt acquiescence, but his hand that was out of sight closed on the AK-47, and his tense body didn’t relax as Julie stood. She winced as her weight rested on her feet, but she didn’t allow herself to hobble as she took a step toward the native.

  What could she say to communicate with this primeval tribal warrior? We come in peace? We’re lost and don’t want any trouble? Our weapons are more powerful than yours, so don’t try anything? The man’s tattered shorts indicated that the tribe had had some contact at least with the outside world. Did this man, or any of them, speak Spanish?

  The native was stepping forward to met her, a broad smile crinkling the black eyes and banishing the menacing look.

  “Señorita Julia?”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  IF JULIE’S MOUTH DIDN’T DROP OPEN, it was only because she’d snapped it shut as she bit back her prepared greeting. That there were those in San Ignacio who had remembered the little gringa they had helped raise wasn’t so surprising. But a primitive native in the depths of the densest rainforest left on the planet?

  As the Indian stepped into the open, Julie marked more details about him. He was younger than she’d first thought—about her own age, if she could still judge the passing years on these natives—with a bone structure that was broad and barrel-chested for his height compared to the more lanky build of the average Caucasian.

  The expression on his round face seemed less intimidating now and more anxious as his initial smile faded. His black eyes darted in that side-to-side flicker that indicated worry or fear in these natives, as rapid blinking might indicate for Julie’s people.

  Try as she might, Julie could see nothing familiar in this adult tribal warrior that he should call her by her name, or in any of the others who were drifting closer in around them. Too close! At the edge of her vision, Julie saw Rick rise soundlessly to his feet behind her, the AK-47 hanging loosely from his hand but needing only a split second to bring into play.

  There were pleasantries to be followed in establishing contact with a potentially hostile jungle tribe. But right now Julie couldn’t think what they were. Even after opening her mouth and snapping it shut again, all that emerged in stammering Spanish was, “How … how do you know my name?”

  The Indian stepped closer, and with him came the strong musk of his body odor, a smell that combined a lack of soap and antiperspirants with the smoky overtones of campfires, compounded by the blood scent of a fresh-caught opossum that was tucked somehow into the waist of those tattered shorts.

  It was a scent that attracted far less attention from the denizens of the jungle than the deodorants and colognes that clung to “civilized” intruders into their territory, and in Julie’s childhood it had seemed as natural as the perfume of a flower or the smell of wet dog, and unique enough to each individual that she, like the natives, could pick out the scent of those she knew well even in the dark of a jungle night. But after long years in a more sanitized environment, Julie had to consciously restrain the flare of her nostrils as the native approached.

  “You do not remember me, Señorita Julia?” His own S
panish was halting and slow, as though it hadn’t been used for a long time, and he switched with his next words to what sounded at first to Julie like gibberish. Then, as her brain began separating long unused patterns, the meaningless sounds converged into speech.

  “I am Bernabé. I taught you to use one of these when we were children.” He patted the blow gun protruding from his shoulder bag. “You shot at the opossum I was hunting and missed. Your father gave my family rice instead for our supper. Can you truly have forgotten me and my people?”

  Julie shook her head, too stunned to speak. Yes, she remembered Bernabé—though she would never have recognized the child she’d known by that name in this adult warrior. The son of the curandero—shaman—in the Indian village where her parents had frequently ministered. While they had tended the sick and discussed theology with the village elders, Julie had played with their children. The boys’ activities had seemed far more interesting than the weaving and pounding corn and washing clothes that were the chores of even the smaller Indian girls, and Julie had climbed trees with the boys to pick mangos or guava and let them teach her to use their blowguns, child-sized but still deadly.

  Those days hadn’t lasted long. By age ten, both boys and girls in the tribe were taking on what to North Americans would be considered adult responsibilities, and by age twelve, Julie had been considered marriageable and was no longer allowed to associate freely with the males of the tribe.

  Bernabé had not been the boy’s birth name, though it was the only one Julie had known. His father had been one of the village’s first converts to Christianity and, like many other native Christians, had chosen biblical names for his children in addition to the Indian names outsiders found unpronounceable. In his case, the name chosen was the Spanish equivalent of Barnabas, the apostle Paul’s first traveling companion.

  Julie couldn’t have been more than eight or nine when Bernabé had yielded to her pleading to take her with him into the jungle, but she still remembered her poorly aimed dart that had deprived him of the supper he’d been sent out to bring home. Elizabeth Baker had been frantic by the time the two children finally reappeared out of the jungle. Her father had simply given the family some of their own food supplies to make up for the lost meal, and his quietly delivered lecture on the flight home had been effective enough to keep Julie from ever wandering off again.

  Rick spoke up, in low English. “What is it, Julie? Do you know these people?”

  Julie swung around, hope lighting up her tired face. “Oh, Rick, I think we’re saved! These people are I’paa. The Indian tribe my parents used to work with. I used to play with Bernabé when I was a child.”

  A sudden realization struck her. “Rick, the press releases said the I’paa were the tribe those environmentalists were visiting! It could even be Bernabé’s own village. They were in that part of the jungle when they disappeared. Maybe these Indians know what happened to them.”

  Julie turned eagerly back to Bernabé, shifting into Spanish rather than I’paa, not only because she wasn’t sure her tongue could twist itself around the long-unused phrases, but so that Rick could understand.

  “Yes, Bernabé, of course I remember you and your people! But what are you doing here? Have you been following us? And the rest of your village—where are they?”

  Shooting a swift glance at Rick, Bernabé switched with clear reluctance into his halting Spanish. “I do not know where the others are, only where they were when we saw them last and where they are to be. There was great trouble in the village—evil and death brought by the riowa from the outside. We were afraid, so we left.”

  Julie threw Rick an eager look over her shoulder. “Then the three foreigners who died—the riowa—they did come to your village! Do you know what happened to them, then? How they disappeared?”

  There was no mistaking the sideways flicker in the black eyes. “Yes, the three riowa came to our village. They wished to know about the white ghosts who dwell in the jungle.”

  “White ghosts?” Rick murmured into Julie’s ear. “Sounds as though these guys might have had contact with the people we’re looking for. Your average Arab would be considered white by these guys—as would a fair share of Colombians.”

  Rick said aloud in Spanish, “White ghosts—or white men?”

  Bernabé favored him with only a brief glance. “That is what the other riowa asked too. They wished us to help them fight these ghosts. We told them that there was only evil and death in that part of the jungle. But they insisted that they see for themselves. When the ghosts took them, we knew there would be more trouble. So we left the village. But then the evil and death began to spread in the jungle, and we did not know where to go to be safe. We did not know who we should tell.”

  He looked directly at Julie. “In the past when trouble came from the outside, the elders spoke to your father. He helped us. But he is gone, and we did not know what to do. Then the word came that the daughter of Don Ricardo had returned to the land of the I’paa. We did not know if you were like your parents or if you had changed in the long years away. But we hoped you might listen to our fears as others would not, and speak to the authorities outside.”

  Julie could feel exhaustion settling over her again because everything the I’paa native was saying seemed only to confuse her more. His halting Spanish didn’t help. “I don’t understand. How could you possibly know out here in the jungle that I was coming back to San Ignacio?”

  “Yes, how?” Rick demanded softly behind her. “Julie, you didn’t know you were coming yourself until the day before. I don’t like this! If these guys aren’t telling the truth, they may be involved with the very bunch we’re looking for.”

  But the I’paa warrior was already answering. “You were seen. When you came in on the …”—Bernabé groped for the Spanish word, failing to remember it—“on the bird of metal on the great field where the riowa train their warriors. Word was sent to our people. When the …”—he groped again and triumphantly came up with the Spanish term—“the avion arrived in San Ignacio, there were eyes to see you. I was among them. We sent word to the elders that the daughter of Ricardo and Elizabet Baker had returned to the jungle.”

  “Yeah, right!” Rick muttered again. “He’s saying they saw us fly into San José. That’s an hour’s flight from San Ignacio—a good 150 kilometers. And they sent word to their people to be waiting when we landed in San Ignacio? How—some kind of jungle telegraph?”

  Rick’s skeptical remarks had been in English, but something in their tone must have conveyed itself to Bernabé. The native’s glance toward Rick was far from friendly as he said, “It was on the teléfono that we heard. Does he believe that the I’paa know nothing of riowa machines?”

  Bernabé switched into I’paa, and the impatient gesture with which he made the shift only emphasized the razor-sharp tip on the spear he held in that hand. “Señorita Julia, you we know and your father. But this man we do not! He is dressed like those who held you prisoner, and he was one of them. Now he walks with you and acts like one who is not a stranger or your enemy.” Bernabé threw Rick another darkling look. “Is he an amigo?”—he used the Spanish term for friend. “Or shall we kill him for you?”

  “No, of course not!” Julie said, horrified. “I mean, yes, he is an amigo. He saved my life from those who held me prisoner.”

  The angle of the spear eased back perceptibly. “That is well. But it is taking too long to explain in the language of the outside. Besides, it is best that the others understand what is being said, and they do not speak the Spanish. It will be easier if I speak to you of all that has happened and you tell it to the riowa in his language.”

  Julie nodded respectfully. This was no longer the young boy with whom she had played so many years ago, but a leader among the tribal warriors, and as a woman, she was clearly expected to acquiesce, not argue. Turning to Rick, who was watching the I’paa with a look as dark as the one Bernabé had given him, she left out Bernabé’s first comments
as she explained. “Rick, Bernabé isn’t comfortable speaking Spanish, and the others don’t speak much, if any. He says it will be faster to explain to me in I’paa, then let me pass it on to you. Do you mind?”

  Rick’s jawline tightened, but he made no argument. “Just don’t make this too long,” he said shortly. “I don’t like hanging around here with so many people around. We’re too exposed. If these ‘white ghosts’ of theirs are anywhere out here …”

  He caught a grimace of pain on Julie’s face as she shifted her feet and added sharply, almost pushing her back down onto the root where she had been resting when the I’paa appeared, “And for goodness’ sake, sit down before you fall down!”

  In Spanish, he added to Bernabé, “The woman is injured. She must rest.”

  Bernabé didn’t bother acknowledging Rick’s suggestion. As he began to speak in his own language, the other Indians drifted in closer. Rick watched for a few moments, then strode a few paces away where he could keep an eye on both the I’paa and the surrounding jungle.

  It was no more than ten minutes later before the lift of Julie’s head drew Rick back over to her. Bernabé stalked away as Rick approached, melting into the trees as swiftly and invisibly as he had appeared.

  “He’ll be right back,” Julie said in answer to Rick’s upraised eyebrow. She was chewing on what looked like a piece of dried-out rawhide, and as Rick squatted down on his heels in front of her, Julie handed him a similar length. “Here! Bernabé had some charky on him. It’s made from—”

  “I know what it is,” Rick interrupted, cramming an end of the strip into his mouth. Julie smothered a grin at the grimace that crossed his face. The sun-cured jerky was a jungle traveling staple, but “tasty” wasn’t an adjective often applied to it, and with the added flavoring of the I’paa‘s personal scent and a tinge of what must be the unskinned opossum, only their hunger made it palatable.