The Canopy

by Angela Hunt

  “Dr. Garcia.” Michael lowered his head in a respectful pose. “If a new physician needs this office, I will certainly understand if you must reassign it. Dr. Aznar, however, has agreed to oversee my chronic and casualty patients, and I will return as soon as I am able. But I fully understand your quandary, and I will not protest if this office is no longer available when I return.”

  This assurance seemed to satisfy the heavyset administrator, but apparently he could not resist one final warning. “Have you considered,” he called as Michael picked up his duffel bag, “how many people may die because you have gone into the jungle?”

  Michael met the older man’s eye. “Have you considered how many may not die because I have gone?”

  He moved past Garcia, gave Fortuna a brief wave, then strode out into the sweltering afternoon.

  7 APRIL 2003

  6:40 A.M.

  Alex pulled six pairs of clean socks from her suitcase, then tossed them into the shoulder bag she would carry on her foray into the jungle. She felt silly taking up valuable room for something as common as socks, but a week in the jungle had taught her that dry anklets were worth their weight in chocolate. Clean socks kept the feet dry, and wet socks did not stand a chance of drying in the equatorial humidity unless spread in the sun or hung in the dry heat of a wood fire. Better to take many pairs of clean socks and bury them at the end of the day than walk around with fungus factories producing mold between your toes.

  She glanced across the bungalow, where Caitlyn had spread her belongings on her bed. “Don’t forget the DEET,” Alex warned. “Make sure you put your mosquito repellent in one of those side pockets. And don’t forget to spray the brim of your hat and the back of your neck before we set out. It won’t stop all the mosquitoes, but it’ll help.”

  Caitlyn screwed her face into the universal expression of preteen petulance. “You don’t have to nag me.”

  “It’s my job to nag you. Shoot, sometimes I wish I had someone to nag me.”

  Straightening, Alex mentally checked off the items on her list of things to pack: lots of socks, a water bottle with purification filters, her journal and two pens, a flashlight with extra batteries, matches sealed in a plastic bag, a camera also sealed in plastic, a rain poncho, insect repellent, a rain hat, sunglasses, a Swiss army knife, a compass, toilet paper, a mini toothbrush and toothpaste, a folded plastic tarp, a fresh pair of long pants, and an extra long-sleeved blouse, along with changes of rapid-dry underwear. What had she missed?

  As she had anticipated, Kenneth Carlton had expertly risen to the challenge of mounting a deep jungle expedition. While the others continued their canopy work through the rest of the week, he and Lauren had remained at the lodge to send radio messages and assemble a team of support personnel for the mission to search for the healing tribe. Last night at dinner, Carlton had introduced the newcomers to the scientists, intending, Alex was certain, to put their minds at ease.

  First Carlton introduced Michael Kenway, though most of the group had already met the physician from Iquitos. Caitlyn was thrilled to see the man again, and Alex felt the corner of her mouth droop when Kenway greeted her daughter with an affectionate hug. Tall, attractive, and affable, the man did have a way with children . . . but Alex wasn’t completely certain she trusted him. Long experience with competitive researchers had taught her to be wary of other scientists, particularly if they were emotionally invested in an experiment’s outcome. Kenway’s personal history and his role in bringing the story to their attention almost guaranteed that he’d view any evidence they discovered from a biased perspective.

  She couldn’t deny her personal investment in the outcome of this venture, but she was too objective a researcher to be swayed by emotions, particularly as her time was growing short.

  After Dr. Kenway, Carlton introduced Duke Bancroft and Raul Chavez, the two men in charge of security. Bancroft was an American, an ex–Navy SEAL, and he still wore the buzz cut Alex always associated with special-ops types. As burly and broad as a football player, Duke stood and greeted them with a cocky two-fingered salute. Alex frowned at the revolver at his belt. She was leery of all firearms, and who knew what sort of weapons the man carried beneath those baggy camouflage pants?

  Bancroft’s assistant, Raul Chavez, was Peruvian, and Alex was glad Carlton had the good sense to hire at least one national. Unlike Bancroft, who easily topped six feet, Chavez was compact and muscular. While Bancroft looked like he’d just stepped off a military base, Chavez wore a plain white T-shirt and green shorts. Glancing at his muscular legs, Alex saw no blades in ankle straps or guns in leather holsters, yet he still looked like a coiled snake ready to strike.

  She made a mental note to position Caitlyn next to Chavez whenever possible.

  The next newcomer stood with grave dignity when Carlton called his name. Alejandro Delmar, Carlton explained, was a professional Brazilian sertanista, or Indian tracker. “The Brazilians are trying to keep track of their indigenous population,” Carlton added. “So they hire guys like Delmar to go into the jungle and search for lost tribes. Since that’s what we’re doing, I figured Delmar would be just the man we needed. Fortunately, he was able to clear his calendar and join us for a few days. Best of all—” Carlton’s grin widened—“he speaks more languages than you can count, including Portuguese, English, Spanish, and several Indian dialects.”

  Delmar did not smile, but inclined his head, his grave eyes darting from face to face in the assembled group. He had dark hair and brown skin like the Peruvians Alex had met, yet a definite sense of otherness enveloped him. Perhaps it emanated from the leather pouch dangling from the belt around his waist. Though she had no idea what it contained, she could smell it from where she sat.

  “That completes our team, then.” Carlton rubbed his hands together. “The only people who will not be joining us on the expedition are the dirigible pilot, who will fly his blimp back to Iquitos, and Lazaro, who must remain at the lodge to play host to Mr. Myers’s guests.”

  Alex glanced around the room—the Somerville sisters had departed on Saturday, replaced by two American father-and-son pairs who had arrived Sunday afternoon. The new guests, who were dining together at a table in the far corner of the room, sent occasional curious glances toward the expedition members.

  Sighing, Alex shook her head. Though she desperately wanted her daughter nearby, the rational part of her brain had hoped that the incoming tour group would be chatty and female, women with whom Caitlyn would bond and feel comfortable. They would have offered Alex a second option for her daughter, but once again, life had dealt her a sour hand.

  No way would Caitlyn want to hang out with two retired fathers and their middle-aged sons. Better all around, then, that she join the expedition.

  Kenneth Carlton had looked around the group, his hands slightly upraised. “Any questions?” When no one answered, he had smiled again. “Good. Enjoy your dinner, and we’ll see you on the dock at eight o’clock tomorrow morning. Breakfast, if you want it, will be served at seven.”

  Now Alex checked her watch—the sun had risen at five-forty. After sleeping maybe an hour, she had lain awake in the gloom and judged the day’s advent by the gradual crescendo of birdcalls—every parrot in the forest seemed to sense the approaching sun and feel compelled to herald news of its arrival. Just as the noise became nearly deafening, the first rays of sunlight had appeared on the eastern horizon, pouring color back into the room where Caitlyn slept and Alex stared at the mosquito netting.

  She shrugged away the frustrating reminder of her sleeplessness. Research had proven that FFI patients could carry a far greater sleep debt than ordinary people. If her symptoms were the result of earlystage FFI, she still had time to find a cure and begin its implementation. If she had to remain under the care of some village witch doctor until the protocol took effect, she would, and she’d make sure her daughter received treatment, too.

  “Are you ready, Caitlyn?” She winced at the sharp edge of her voic
e. “Take your bag and run on down to the dining hall. I’ll take a last look around and join you in a minute.”

  Caitlyn turned, her backpack dangling from her shoulders and her favorite stuffed monkey in her arms. “I’m ready.”

  Alex frowned at the stuffed animal. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to take Chester with us.”

  “But he’s light! And I’ll carry him the whole time, I promise. I won’t ask you to take him, and I won’t put him in your backpack—”

  “He’ll get wet, honey, and he won’t dry properly in this humidity. Then he’ll get moldy, and he’ll start to stink. He might even get infested with lice or something, and then you won’t be able to sleep with him.”

  “But—” Caitlyn’s lower lip edged forward—“since I can’t take a pillow, I thought I could take Chester. I’ve slept with him forever . . . ”

  Torn between reason and sentiment, Alex closed her eyes. It wasn’t fair that her daughter had never known a father; it wasn’t right that her grandmother had died such an awful and untimely death. Whoever wrote “God’s in his heaven—all’s right with the world” must have been verifiably insane.

  “All right, take the monkey, but he’s your responsibility. If you lose him, I don’t want to see you cry.”

  Caitlyn clutched the monkey tighter. “Nothing bad will happen to him.”

  “Okay then.” Alex jerked her thumb toward the door. “Scoot. Be sure to stop by the bathroom before you go to breakfast. We won’t find any Porta-Pottis in the forest.”

  Caitlyn scurried out the door, letting it slam behind her. Alex took a last look around the room, bending to search under the bed. A cockroach scuttled into the shadows as she lifted her shoes. Shuddering, she carefully shook out each sneaker before putting it on to make sure no creepy crawlies had hidden themselves inside.

  With her shoes laced tight, she placed her laptop into her suitcase. She would have loved to take it along, but she didn’t want to subject it to damp and rough conditions.

  After zipping her suitcase, she locked it and shoved it beneath her bed. The staff at Yarupapa had agreed to let the researchers leave their belongings in their rooms until their return—this was the slow season, Herman Myers explained, and they wouldn’t need the space until June, when students descended in droves.

  After a final survey of the bungalow, Alex slung her backpack over her shoulder then left the room and latched the door.

  She found Caitlyn seated at a breakfast table next to Dr. Kenway. “Please,” he called, spotting her. “Have a seat.”

  She hesitated when he pulled out the empty chair between himself and Kenneth Carlton. “What about Lauren?” She looked at her employer. “Will she be joining us?”

  “Not for breakfast.” He smiled, but a cynical tone underlined his causal reply. “When I woke she had four bags stacked by the door. When I told her she couldn’t possibly carry four bags through the jungle, she laughed and said she figured I’d help her.” He winked at Caitlyn. “She stopped laughing when I said each member of our party had to carry their own supplies. So now she’s repacking in the bungalow. I expect she’ll be ready just in time to join us on the dock.”

  As Alex slipped into the empty chair, one of the lodge’s waiters lowered a steaming platter of waffles to the center of the table. Ignoring the food, Dr. Kenway gestured to the other men seated nearby. “Dr. Pace, have you met Raul and Duke?”

  “Call me Alex, please.” She smiled at the two newcomers, who had stood in her honor. “And please be seated. Though we didn’t meet personally last night, I am glad to make your acquaintance. I’m feeling more at ease about this trip now that I know you’ve joined us.”

  “I’m sure there will be no cause for worry, Dr. Alex.” Duke gave her a small salute as he settled back into his chair. “I’ve been on many a jungle expedition where we encountered nothing more dangerous than a three-toed sloth hanging from the trees—and he’s only dangerous if he decides to urinate directly over your head.”

  “Really?” Not particularly eager to discuss treetop urination at breakfast, Alex gave him a bland smile.

  “Maybe you did not see because you did not look.” Raul grinned at his companion. “Me, I grew up in the jungle. I see everything, everywhere. But if I walk carefully, if I do not bother the jungle creatures, they do not bother me.”

  Alex speared a pair of waffles as Carlton passed the platter. “Do you live in Iquitos, Raul?”

  “Si, señora. I have a wife and four children in the city.”

  “And you, Duke?”

  The soldier grinned above a neck so thick that his head appeared to rest directly on his linebacker shoulders. “Shucks, ma’am, I couldn’t live outside Texas if you paid me. Since retiring from active duty, I live in Dallas and take odd jobs like this just to fill my days.”

  “You have family in Texas?”

  “A brother and sister. No wife, no kids, but I’d sure like to have them someday.”

  Alex looked away as she accepted a pitcher of syrup from Dr. Kenway, then caught him waggling his brows at her. You heard it, that waggle seemed to say. The big guy’s looking for a wife and kid.

  She scowled at him, then tipped the pitcher over her waffles and smiled at Duke. “You should get to know Deborah Simons, our team entomologist. She’s from Texas, too. Your state seems to be brimming with pretty girls.”

  “I’ve seen a fair amount of pretty women here at the lodge, too.”

  Alex picked up her fork and studied her waffles. She was almost certain Kenway was chortling beside her.

  Pretending an urgent need for private conversation, she leaned in to confront the doctor’s merry expression. “Stop it. I’m sure he’s not referring to me.”

  “How do you know?” His baritone lowered to a low rumble. “In case you haven’t noticed, there are only four adult women on this expedition, and the anthropologist looks old enough to be Duke’s grandmother. Carlton’s mistress is obviously off-limits, so that leaves you and the insect expert.”

  She stared at him, then lowered her voice further. “How did you know Lauren was Carlton’s mistress?”

  He snorted softly. “Masculine body language transcends culture. I hadn’t been here ten minutes before I realized Carlton would not be too keen on my spending time with Miss Hayworth.”

  “Did you want to spend time with Miss Hayworth?”

  He pulled back, regarding her with somber curiosity. “Dr. Pace, you astonish me. Is it ill-mannered Yankee curiosity that drives your question, or some desire on your part that I not spend time with the lady under discussion?”

  Against her will, Alex felt rage rising in her cheeks. She wanted nothing more than to tell this man off, but too many people would freeze in mid-sentence to stare, including her daughter.

  Grateful for the buzz of conversation around the table, she propped her head on her hand and met his gaze. “I really don’t care where you spend your time. You may go to the devil for all I care, but it looks like we’re going to be forced to travel in each other’s company. So be nice, Dr. Kenway, and know this—I am not here to encourage any sort of masculine attention. I am here to find a cure for prion diseases.”

  His lips parted in what had to be pretended hurt. “I must apologize, Dr. Pace. Truthfully, I respect you as a serious researcher. The fact that our overly macho security guard finds you attractive is merely an entertaining diversion.”

  “You want entertaining?” Ignoring the stares of the others, she turned in her seat to face him directly. “I found some particularly interesting information on the Internet yesterday.”

  “The Internet? Here?” His blue eyes widened. “I didn’t know they had power, let alone Internet access.”

  “I have a battery for my laptop and a satellite dish that can get me an uplink to a communications satellite during a two-hour window.”

  He shifted to face her. “Let me guess—those shadows under your eyes are the result of your tapping the computer keys at some godforsaken ho
ur.”

  His words sent another tremor through her composure, but she kept a plastic smile on her face. “Thank you for noticing my less-thanperfect appearance, Dr. Kenway. And yes, last night I accessed the satellite.”

  “So what did your investigation turn up?”

  She studied his face, trying to peer behind the pleasant smile he wore like a mask. Ordinarily she’d approach the topic with great discretion, but he had already lowered the bar of civil conversation.

  She pressed her hands together. “I was curious as to why you knew so much about prions, so I typed your name into a search engine.”

  The smile flattened slightly. “And you discovered?”

  “Your name linked with a vCJD patient—Ashley Kenway, who died in 1996 at age twenty-seven. A vegetarian, the report said. A patient who hadn’t eaten meat in eleven years.”

  Kenway turned to study his untouched plate. “My wife.”

  Alex looked away as the bitter gall of regret burned the back of her throat. Her barb had struck home; oddly, its effectiveness brought no pleasure.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I suspected the patient was a relative.”

  Kenway pulled his napkin from his lap and set it on the table. “Anything else you want to know, Dr. Pace?” he asked, keeping his voice low. “I have no secrets. As you have already discovered, my life and its heartbreaks are part of the public record.”

  Bracing herself to confront the pain in his eyes, the researcher in Alex pressed on. “How long was your wife symptomatic?”

  “Less than a year. The strain was virulent and quick.”

  “Incubation time?”

  “As you’ve surmised, at least eleven years. Unless, of course, prions passed through a chicken who ingested ground bone meal from an infected cow.”

  She quirked her brow. “So your wife ate poultry?”