Sitting up into the noisy chattering of tropical birds, Alex clutched a loose puddle of damp sheet to her chest and blinked. She stared up at the nearly opaque mosquito netting engulfing her bed, then pressed her palm to her forehead and groaned.
After writing in her journal, she had stretched out and stared at the soft weave of the beige netting for hours. Sleep had come, finally, but last night had been one of the longest she’d experienced in weeks.
She closed her eyes as the textbook prognosis scrolled across the blank screen provided by her memory: Stage one of fatal familial insomnia included increasing insomnia, panic attacks, and occasional failure of voluntary muscle movements. Duration was usually four months, but might be accelerated in cases where the onset of the disease occurred before age fifty.
Pressing the back of her hand against her brow, Alex bit back a moan. It wasn’t fair. Her mother hadn’t exhibited any signs of illness until age fifty-two, but apparently life intended to play another of its sick jokes on Alex.
She rolled onto her side, her anguish nearly overcoming her control, but Caitlyn must not hear the sounds of her suffering. She was a bright child, far too intuitive for her own good, yet she couldn’t know how far—and how fast—the disease had approached Alex.
Clapping her hand over her mouth, Alex wept silently, hot tears running into her hair and dropping onto the pillowcase. When she heard the creak of Caitlyn’s bed, she swiped her hand over her cheeks and steeled her emotions to obey her will.
“Mom?” Caitlyn’s voice came through the heavy netting. “You awake?”
“Uh-huh.” Alex didn’t dare say more.
“I gotta run to the bathroom. Can I go in bare feet?”
Alex wanted to tell her to get her shoes, but she couldn’t push the appropriate words over the lump in her throat. “Uh-huh.”
She heard her daughter’s footsteps on the planks, the metallic pop of the latch and the creak of the springs on the door. When Caitlyn’s footsteps faded away, Alex swung her legs free of the netting and sat up, then pulled a tissue from her pack and blew her nose.
What a mess she must be.
Inhaling deeply, Alex lowered her feet to the floor, checking first to be sure no other living creatures occupied the space. She looked toward the open screens—day had dawned misty and pink over the jungle. In better spirits, she might have called it lovely.
She reached for her plastic sandals, picked them up, and gave each of them a solid shake before dropping them back to the floor. She stood and slipped her feet into the shoes, then glanced at herself in the small mirror Caitlyn had propped against her suitcase. She had slept in shorts and a tank top—not exactly modest by her mother’s standards, but fine for the jungle heat. She ought to be able to slip out to the bathrooms without causing a scandal.
She pulled a clean towel and clothing from her suitcase, grabbed her toiletries case from the shelf, then stepped out of the bungalow. Caitlyn was approaching on the walkway, and at the sight of her mother she stopped.
Alex brought her hand up to hide her blotchy face, then looked away. “Hey there, cutie. I’m heading down to the shower, okay? You can go back to sleep if you want.”
Caitlyn’s gaze dropped to Alex’s feet, then slowly lifted. A faint smile appeared at the corner of her mouth. “You wearing that to breakfast?”
“They aren’t serving breakfast for another hour. If you sleep through breakfast, though, I expect you to stay in camp today. You don’t go anywhere without one of the guides, okay? Stay away from the river . . . and the jungle. Just hang around the lodge and wait for me to get back.”
“It’s boring around here when you’re gone.” Caitlyn mumbled these words in a drowsy whisper, and Alex knew her daughter was still treading on the edge of sleep.
“Mr. Myers has something really special planned, I’m sure. And you can always talk to the Somerville sisters or Dr. Whitmore. Last night I got the impression she really likes you.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Hey.” Alex reached out and gently squeezed Caitlyn’s earlobe. “You’ve got studying to do, remember? When we get home, you have to take your tests.”
Caitlyn mumbled again, but Alex knew her daughter had gotten the point. Homeschooling—or field schooling, to be more accurate—had never been a problem, for Caitlyn always scored far above her peers on the standardized tests the state required her to take each year. Occasionally some well-meaning educator murmured something about how much Caitlyn was missing by not socializing with her peers, but Alex had always believed adults provided better company for her child. Besides . . . she’d always found packs of children a little frightening.
“Go back to sleep, hon.”
She took a step, but halted when Caitlyn called, “Mom?”
“Yeah?”
“You okay? Your eyes are all red.”
“Allergies, I think.” Turning, she forced a smile and twiddled her fingers. “Go back to bed. I’ll see you later.”
When Caitlyn had returned to the bungalow, Alex walked down to the bathroom, showered and dressed, then brushed her teeth using purified water from a pitcher. Herman Myers had explained that the showers and toilets dispensed chlorinated river water—clean, but still not safe for drinking. To avoid illness, tourists were advised to use purified water for anything that entered their mouths.
Leaving her nightclothes in a neat stack on a restroom bench, Alex walked down to the dining hall. Valerik Baklanov sat outside on a bench, a cigarette in his hand and a taciturn expression on his face. Alex quickly surmised he wasn’t a morning person, but he returned her greeting with a flick of his cigarette and an abrupt nod.
Inside the hall, the Somerville sisters were sharing a table and a pot of coffee with Emma Whitmore. The anthropologist wore clothing suitable for the jungle: khaki trousers, a long-sleeved cotton shirt, and a wide-brimmed straw hat. The sisters, however, wore fluorescent orange pants, knee-high rubber boots, and matching T-shirts advertising Hooters restaurants—
Some things ought to be left at home.
Shaking her head, Alex went to look for a coffee mug. She found a row of them at a varnished bar against the wall, and a moment later she was joined by Deborah Simons and Lauren Hayworth. Kenneth Carlton stood behind Lauren, his cell phone pressed to his ear.
“Hello?” he shouted, as if screaming would somehow boost his reception. “Can you hear me?”
Lowering the phone, he punched in a series of numbers with his thumb, cursed softly, then knocked the phone against the counter.
“He’s been doing that for the last half-hour,” Lauren whispered, resting one elbow on the bar as she reached for a mug. “He’s convinced he can call out of this place.”
“Trouble at the office?” Alex asked.
Lauren shook her head. “Trouble at home, I think. His wife sent a radio message yesterday, but the help didn’t deliver the note until last night when it was too dark to find the phone in our—in his— room.”
Alex met Deborah Simons’s knowing glance, then looked down to smother a smile. She followed Deborah to an empty table and took a seat, then summoned a smile as Milos Olsson dropped into the empty chair next to her.
“Good morning, all.” The Swede flashed them an energetic grin that practically jumped through his wiry beard. “I’ve news from our dirigible pilot—he launched with the platform at sunrise and will drop it atop a lovely mahogany about three kilometers from here. Unfortunately, he and Lazaro couldn’t agree on the shortest foot route to the tree, so we may have to do a bit of hiking before we find it.” He slapped his thigh and grinned at the challenge. “So—eat a hearty breakfast and be sure to pack enough water. We’ll be heading out at eight o’clock, more or less.”
Deborah dropped her head onto her folded arms and grimaced at Alex. “How are your muscles? I’m aching all over.”
“I’m not too bad.” Alex tested her arms just to be certain. “My shoulders are a bit sore, though—all that resisting, I think, on the way down.”
“It’s going to be hot up in the canopy.”
“It’s always hot up in the canopy.”
The women fell silent as one of the serving boys set a heaping plate in the center of the table.
Alex’s jaw dropped. “Do those look like—?”
“Yep,” Deborah answered. “Good old American Aunt Jemima pancakes. And surely they have syrup—with all the insect life around here, they should have honey by the bucketful.”
Alex reached for the platter. “I’m hungry enough to eat them dry.”
She had just taken a heaping bite of buttered pancake when Lazaro entered, his hands in his pockets and a wide grin on his face.
“Whassa matter, Lazaro?” Deborah called. “You never had pancakes before?”
The guide’s smile deepened. “I have them every morning.” He patted the soft paunch beneath his T-shirt. “I like them very much.”
Alarmed by the mischievous glint in the guide’s eye, Alex stopped chewing. “Um, Lazaro—these are made of flour, right?”
“Si.” He nodded. “Manioc flour.”
Alex hesitated, then swallowed. “I don’t care what it is,” she said, cutting off another bite. “It’s good, and I’m hungry.”