Watching Dr. Alexandra Pace from the corner of his eye, Michael sliced a piece of catfish with his fork as the researcher pushed the fringe of hair away from her eyes, then rested her cheek on her hand. For the last half-hour she had alternated between staring at her untouched plate and peppering him with questions about his deceased patient. His answers, he noted with relief, apparently intrigued her, for though she seemed to find him as irritating as a rash, she had not yet told him to bugger off.
The helicopter pilot seemed in no hurry to leave. He sat with the lodge staff at a table next to the kitchen, where beer and laughter flowed like water. Michael had tried to follow their conversation during one of Dr. Pace’s lapses into silence, but their Spanish seemed more fluid than Fortuna’s.
His nurse and the other hospital staff, he decided after a few minutes, had been speaking a Spanish version of baby talk for his benefit.
Sighing, he returned his attention to his own dinner companions. Dr. Pace had offered quick, perfunctory introductions around the table, and Michael was still trying to match names and titles with faces.
The child obviously belonged to Alexandra Pace, for they shared the same petite build, light brown hair, and brown eyes. After taking the empty seat to Michael’s right, Caitlyn had not hesitated to tell him she was ten years old and studying tenth-grade material. “It’s our version of independent study,” she had said, sitting on her hands and swinging her feet in wide arcs while she waited for the servers to bring their food. “I’ve learned Spanish since we came to Peru, and Tito has promised to teach me some Yagua tomorrow. I expect I will know five or six new languages by the time we get back to Atlanta.”
Lifting a brow, Michael tried to look terribly impressed—not a difficult task. “Really?”
Caitlyn had begun to answer, but halted mid-syllable when Dr. Pace told her daughter to stop badgering their guest.
Milos Olsson, the Swedish botanist, sat to Michael’s left, but he was primarily engaged in a conversation with the woman who sat next to him, a white-haired anthropologist named Emma Whitmore. The older woman had greeted Michael with a smile and a simple, “Call me Emma, please.”
An Indian guide employed by the lodge sat next to Emma and directly across from Michael. He had merely nodded when Dr. Pace introduced him as Lazaro; now he seemed content to eat his dinner and smile whenever Emma tossed a comment in his direction.
Alexandra Pace sat next to the guide, and though she had cut her catfish into a dozen or so tiny pieces, Michael didn’t think she had eaten a single bite. Her eyes were wide and unfocused, as though she were replaying their previous encounter and searching for some lapse in logic through which she could dismiss the entire conversation.
“Is it possible,” she said as she propped her elbows on the table, “that the natives of this so-called healing village have access to a plant we know nothing of? You said they were called the Tree People—could they have access to a biological agent that grows in the canopy?”
Michael accepted a steaming bowl of rice from Olsson and passed it to the little girl. “Anything’s possible, I suppose. But I’m not sure how much trust I’d place in Ya-ree’s story. He seemed lucid while I observed him, but even my clerk found the story unbelievable.”
“It’s absolutely unbelievable.” The poodle-haired anthropologist abruptly lifted her chin. “To my knowledge, none of the Amazon tribes have ever lived in trees. Virtually all of them have adopted the roundhouse style of timber dwelling commonly called a shabono. They lack the tools necessary for construction of a tree house.”
Michael lifted his hands to show he had not intended to contradict common knowledge. “I didn’t say they lived in trees, Emma; I am reporting only what my patient told our clerk. He said he lived with the Tree People—whether they lived in a tree or near a tree, I couldn’t say. I was rather hoping you could shed some light on the subject.”
“Perhaps they worshiped a tree.” Milos Olsson injected his opinion into the mix. “That would be expected in a primitive culture, yes? After all, a tree can provide wood, shade, water, food, even medicine. I would not be at all surprised if a tribe decided to name a tree as its deity.”
While Emma snorted, Michael lifted his glass and nodded at the botanist. “You may have something there. Ya-ree, my patient, spoke of the keyba before he died. I had never heard the word, and at the time I thought he was babbling in fever. But our clerk told me the patient spoke coherently and reverently of the keyba. He said it sent lights to guide him through the forest.”
Emma’s face brightened. “Ah, his people were spiritualists, then. The shamans of many tribes have proven their ability to summon spirits to aid them in the jungle. I’ve heard some of them can call fire from the sky in order to frighten their enemies.”
“I’m thinking fireflies.” Olsson stroked his beard. “If these people worshiped a tree, or even lived in a tree, perhaps the tree housed a nest of fireflies. Your man might have come up with something that exuded a scent they found attractive, just as Fortier used that flower to entice the wasps this afternoon. It’s possible the native literally escorted a swarm of fireflies away through the forest.”
Alexandra laughed. “Really, Milos, be serious.”
“I am being serious.” The Swede tempered his smile. “Picture this—the man walked with a stick held out in front of him while the fireflies swarmed around some bit of fragrant material at the end of the stick. The bugs would have functioned as a lantern as he traveled through the forest.”
Alexandra shifted in her chair. “I’m afraid I couldn’t buy that one unless Deborah endorses your theory. I’m having a hard time believing that fireflies can create a light bright enough to illuminate a pathway.”
“Don’t forget, Mom, they would be Amazonian fireflies, which are actually bioluminescent beetles.” Caitlyn looked up at her mother with an earnest smile. “Everything’s bigger down here.”
“Not that big.” Alexandra tented her hands, then pressed two steepled fingers to her chin. “Though the notion of fireflies may be doubtful, the timing could be right.” She shifted her gaze to Michael. “When, exactly, did your patient leave the jungle?”
Michael counted backward. “Two nights ago.”
She nodded. “Exactly. There was no moon that night, so your patient would have needed something to guide him.” She looked around the table. “Have you stepped outside after sunset? The stars are as bright as new dimes, but without moonlight, it’s completely black in the shadows. And the deep jungle, as you know, is nothing but shadows.” She sighed. “So I’m thinking he carried a torch.”
“A torch, fireflies. . .” Emma breathed the words softly, then shook her head. “I doubt he would have gotten far with a torch or a swarm of fireflies, particularly if he was moving quickly. I find it easier to believe your man was a shaman who summoned his guiding spirit— this keyba—to guide him through the jungle.”
“Emma, if I may be so bold—” Michael gave her a smile—“may I inquire as to your own spiritual beliefs?”
She laughed, a husky, three-noted chuckle. “I have deep spiritual beliefs, strong convictions. I believe a spirit resides within each living thing—man, woman, child, animal, and yes, even trees. Our entire lives are spent searching for a way to commune with these spirits, but we civilized folk have forgotten the simple things nature once taught us. Native people like your patient are closer to the source of elemental things than we are.” Her eyes grew large and wistful. “One day I hope to commune with the spirits of nature as easily as your Ya-ree.”
Michael wavered, trying to comprehend what he was hearing. “So you believe he actually summoned fire from . . . where, heaven?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know that it came from heaven—I doubt our definitions of heaven would mesh at all. I believe your patient probably knew how to persuade natural forces to accomplish his will.”
“You speak as if these natural forces have personalities.”
“They do, Doctor.” A bit of a blush rose to the older woman’s cheeks. “Trust me.”
“What about you, Dr. Kenway?” When Alexandra looked at him, he was surprised to see a smile twinkling in her eyes. “Do you believe in spirits?”
“Of course I do.” He returned her smile in full measure. “I believe in the Holy Spirit, part of the triune God. I’m sure you’ve heard of him—Jesus the Son, God the Father, the Holy Spirit? I hear they’re very big in the United States.”
An easy smile played at the corners of her mouth as she lifted her glass. “Indeed, they are—at least on those TV channels that play bighaired, hellfire-and-brimstone Bible-thumpers all day long.”
Michael watched the muscles work in her long, slender throat as she brought the lemonade to her lips and swallowed. “What about you?” he asked when she had lowered her glass. “Are you a believer?”
She chuckled softly. “In hellfire and brimstone?”
“In God.”
“I do love the way you Brits say that—Gah-awed, as if he deserves his own pronunciation. Sounds more holy that way, I suppose.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Didn’t I?” She cast him a glinting glance, then picked up her fork and poked at the uneaten catfish. “I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you, Dr. Kenway. I’m an agnostic on the verge of becoming an avowed atheist. Only a reasoned dose of humility keeps me from making a full declaration.”
Folding his hands, he turned in his chair. “Was that so hard to confess?”
“It wasn’t a confession; it was a simple statement of fact. If I seemed reluctant to share it, it’s not because I’m ashamed. It’s because now you’ll feel you have to convert me.”
“I can’t convert anyone. I leave that sort of business to the Spirit— the one you dismiss so lightly.”
“Sorry.” She pressed her fingertips to her chest in a display of pretended modesty. “It’s not easy, particularly in the Bible Belt, but someone has to represent logic and reason.”
He lifted his glass, silently absorbing her comments, then tilted his head and addressed everyone at the table. “Did any of you study the Elizabethan period at university?”
Olsson grunted; Emma shook her head and smiled, obviously entertained by the ongoing debate.
Alexandra responded to his question by making a face. “Why do you ask?”
“Because the Elizabethans had a soundly Christocentric view of the planet. They believed that through God’s revelation to Adam, human beings once understood everything about the natural world. This knowledge was lost in the intervening centuries due to the corruption of sin, but the Elizabethans believed it could be recovered as people listened to God and the Almighty revealed new fields to be researched.”
“God and research.” Emma smiled at Olsson. “Not often do we hear those words linked together.”
Michael ignored her comment. “In keeping with this philosophy,” he continued, “the Elizabethan explorers believed that since God knew sin would corrupt the planet, within nature he planted cures for every disease that would befall mankind.”
“That’s a lovely thought,” Alexandra answered, “almost comforting. But weren’t your Elizabethans the same people who believed the earth was flat?”
Michael smiled. “You’re thinking fifteenth century. The Elizabethans lived in the sixteenth.”
She shrugged. “Sorry. But while you were learning about your Elizabethans, we were studying Benjamin Franklin—you know, the American patriot who once said, ‘He that lives upon hope will die fasting.’”
“And your point is?”
“Your Elizabethans died without finding every cure, didn’t they? And as I recall, some of their so-called cures were fairly horrific. Bloodletting, for instance.”
Resting one arm on the table, Michael bit back his rising frustration. “My point is this: The explorers of that age believed God loved the world so much that he provided remedies for sin, for loneliness, and for disease. Christ came to save the world from sin and restore mankind to fellowship with God, but to believers fell the task of thoroughly exploring the earth to find the cures for disease. That shared conviction fueled one of the greatest periods of discovery the world has ever known.”
“How convenient.” Emma’s voice went dry. “They should have concentrated on discovering free love, painkillers, and hallucinogens— they would have solved the problems of disease and loneliness without getting into a lot of God-talk about salvation and sin.”
“My point—” Michael repeated, but Olsson cut him off.
“You are trying to tell us that a cure for brain diseases might lie in the jungle. Fine. We are searching for it.”
“But if a hidden tribe already knows of the cure?”
“How do you know they know?” Emma’s bright blue eyes sharpened. “You cannot mount an entire expedition upon the word of one muttering Indian.”
Looking around the table, Michael forced himself to speak in a calm and even tone. “I know Ya-ree came into the hospital suffering from sepsis, fever, and massive dehydration. Eyewitnesses saw him walk out of the jungle. Later I heard him speak to our clerk, and she found him coherent. Furthermore—” fumbling in his pocket, he pulled out one of the photos taken by the electron microscope—“I know my patient’s brain looked like this.”
He flipped the photo toward Alexandra, whose smile froze as she picked up the black-and-white image. Olsson and Emma continued to jibe in lowered tones until Alexandra looked at Michael, hope and confusion warring in her eyes.
“We could save ourselves years of searching for the needle in the haystack,” she said, tapping the edge of the Polaroid against the table.
Michael sat back as the woman dropped her defenses. Judging from her manner, he had assumed Alexandra Pace was as stubborn as Pharaoh’s heart, but apparently she wasn’t totally unyielding.
“I don’t know about you all,” she turned her smile upon the others, “but I don’t want to waste a single moment looking at monkeys through binoculars if I could be investigating something with real promise.”
Emma’s jaw went slack.
Alexandra tapped the photo with her index finger. “Make no mistake, this is spongiform tissue, and those rods are infectious proteins. The odds of finding a case like this are astronomical, but if Kenway is right—” Her eyes suddenly swiveled to meet Michael’s. “You’re sure about all this?”
He met her gaze head-on. “I was with the man who took that photo this afternoon. And I hand-carried the slides from the autopsy room to the university in Lima.”
“And you’d swear this man was ambulatory when he came out of the jungle?”
Michael considered. “My witnesses had no reason to lie.”
“Then, friends,” Alexandra looked at the others, “I think we should investigate further.”
“I don’t suppose I should discount the opportunity to discover a lost tribe.” Emma’s spidery hand drummed the tabletop. “There are few uncontacted tribes remaining in Amazonia, and none I know of in Peru. If they exist . . . well, why not? I suppose I should welcome the opportunity to search for them.”
Michael studied the expressions of those around the table, then settled on Alexandra’s face. “I came here,” he said, “because I believe my patient spoke the truth. Even if I’m wrong, can we afford to ignore the possibility that I might be right? Research is about testing theories and taking risks.”
“You say we.” Alexandra’s voice went as cool as the smoke off dry ice. “Yet you are not a researcher.”
“I’m interested in prion diseases.”
“Why? Transmissible spongiform encephalopathies are not widespread in this part of the world. Every expert I know in the field of prion research would say your patient was an anomaly, the one-in-amillion case of sporadic Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease.”
Michael felt memories stirring at the center of his gut, but fought them down. “TSEs caused a stir in London in the mid-1990s. I was caught up in . . . everything.” He cleared his throat to push past the lump that rose whenever he thought of that troubled time. “I’ve seen what damage variant Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease can do. I’d give my life to find a cure, even an effective treatment. If we could find something to stop prions from wreaking havoc in the brain, these patients would not have to die.”
Alexandra’s eyes seemed to weigh his sincerity and his motives, then she placed her hand on her daughter’s head in a protective gesture. Lifting a brow, she flashed a smile around the table. “What do you say, friends? Should we move our fieldwork into the jungle?”
Emma leaned forward, her hands pressed together. “I’d love to.” She tilted her head toward the next table. “But Kenneth Carlton’s paying the bills.”
She had no sooner spoken the pharmaceutical manufacturer’s name than the American rose from his place at the next table.
“Count me in!” he called, walking to the empty space between Michael and Olsson. He dropped his arms to the backs of their chairs, then leaned into the gap like a coach intent on calling the next play. “We could send for a few additional team members and mount an expedition within a week. Any of you who want to come along would be welcome.”
Alexandra gave the man a smooth smile. “I didn’t realize you were listening, Mr. Carlton.”
“Hard to ignore such a spirited conversation.” Utterly unembarrassed by his eavesdropping, the man straightened and propped his hands on his hips. “My dinner companions were talking about dull topics like fishing and trading. But this—” He lifted a brow at Alexandra. “Horizon Biotherapies will finance the entire expedition. Give me three or four days to augment our team, then we’ll set out to search for this mysterious tribe. Given the relatively small search area, how could we miss them?”
Michael parked his elbow on the table. “It may not be such a small search area. We don’t know how far my patient had traveled before he was wounded.”
Olsson looked up at Carlton. “Still . . . a wounded man could only run so far in twenty-four hours. We could probably do a thorough canvass of the area in a couple of weeks. A native tracker could help us find the tribe in even less time.”
Emma snapped her fingers. “Sign me up. My work with the Yagua can wait.”
Olsson hesitated, scratching at his beard, but the anthropologist placed her hand on his shoulder and spoke in a stage whisper. “The Tree People. Perhaps an undiscovered botanical species with unexplored medicinal benefits.”
Olsson jerked his head in a nod. “All right. I am in.”
Michael lifted his head to catch Carlton’s eye. “I’d like to go along. If they survived years without me at the hospital, I’m certain they can cope if I’m gone a few days.”
“That seems only fair, since you brought us this momentous news.” Carlton looked at Alexandra, who had slipped her arm around her daughter’s shoulders. “Will your daughter be joining us, Alex?”
“Mom?” The girl, who had been following the conversation with wide eyes, clasped her hands in a begging posture. “Please, can I go? It’ll be so much fun.”
Alexandra cast Carlton a “gee, thanks” look, then gave her daughter a rueful smile. “I don’t know if you should go, hon. It’s the jungle.”
“This is the jungle!” Caitlyn waved her hand to indicate their surroundings. “Besides, how can I get into trouble if you’re with me all day? I’d be safer in the jungle with you than hanging out here at the lodge with the Somerville sisters.”
Alexandra did not look convinced, but her gaze shifted to the empty table where two tired-looking Americans had eaten dinner and slipped away.
“While Caitlyn would undoubtedly enjoy a trip through the jungle—” Alexandra met Michael’s eye—“how can we guarantee her safety? After all, your patient suffered a spear wound.”
“I’ll bring in a security team,” Carlton promised. “I know an ex–Navy SEAL who lives for this kind of gig. I’ll have him on the next plane to Lima, but I need you, Alex, to give me 110 percent on this one. If that means we bring your kid along so you can keep an eye on her, then that’s okay. Let her come.”
For an instant Alexandra seemed to waver, then she gave Carlton a nod of assent. “All right. But we have to keep a reasonable pace. Caitlyn’s strong, but I’m not going to risk her breaking a leg on some kind of jungle obstacle course.”
“I’ll tell the military warrior to go easy on us. You’ll be safe—you have my word on it.” Grinning, Kenneth Carlton went back to his table to share the news.
As the others at his table buzzed with the news, Michael noticed that Alexandra said nothing, but stared at her untouched dinner, her face a pale knot of apprehension. Her eyes flickered toward him. “What have I done?” she whispered.
“You have taken a step of faith.” He lowered his voice to match her tone. “Congratulations.”
“I’m trusting you.” She pronounced the personal pronoun as if it were distasteful. “I can’t believe I’m about to take my daughter into the jungle because you think I should.”
“It’s not me you’re trusting.” Michael set his fork on the edge of his plate. “The photo convinced you, I think.”
“It’s crazy.”
“It’s probably the sanest decision you’ve ever made. You heard the facts and responded to them with logic and common sense.”
One of the servers paused at Alexandra’s elbow, his arm extended for her plate, but Michael put out a hand to stop him from taking it.
“You’d better eat.” He turned to face her. “You’ll need your strength in the jungle.”
She looked at him, the corners of her mouth tight with distress and her eyes slightly shiny. He expected another sharp retort, but her reply startled him more than any comment he might have imagined.
“You may be right,” she said, picking up her fork.