Still groggy from the effects of whatever drug had been smeared on the dart, with difficulty Michael turned over and pulled himself into a sitting position. His captors had tied his hands behind his back with some sort of stinging vine, and testing the ropes only seemed to increase whatever botanical secretions irritated the skin.
Enveloped in a drugged blanket of exhaustion, Michael forced himself to focus on his surroundings. He could see none of the women; like phantoms they had vanished into the jungle. Their attackers had ripped every hammock from the trees; the contents of backpacks lay scattered over the ground.
Several of the painted warriors crouched around curiosities—one man peered into a mirror, another ran his thumb over the spines of a hairbrush. One fellow squatted on his haunches, staring wide-eyed as a breeze off the lake ruffled the pages of what appeared to be a handwritten journal . . .
Alex’s notebook. Michael strained against his bonds, then felt the reproving bite of the malicious vines at his wrists. Taking a deep breath, he flexed his fingers until the urge to strangle the native had passed.
He had to collect his wits, evaluate the situation. At least, thank God, he was not alone.
All the men of their party had been tied up; several were scattered around the campfire, sitting where they had fallen. Taking a mental headcount, Michael came up short, then realized Louis Fortier was missing. He glanced toward the Frenchman’s hammock to make sure the man was not hiding beneath the mosquito netting, but the slashed screen lay trampled on the ground, leaving the hammock empty. Realizing the little Frenchman must have slipped away in the confusion, for an instant Michael felt the stirring of hope—perhaps Fortier could reach civilization and get help.
His hope shriveled when he recalled Fortier’s state of mind just before the attack. And how far could he run with heavy sedatives in his bloodstream?
Michael shuddered to think the perfumer might meet with Chavez’s fate. On the other hand, there were worse ways to die in the jungle.
God, be merciful to him.
He shifted his gaze toward Alexandra’s hammock, then felt a stab of memory. The women had been taken away over the lake—he had heard them calling reassurances to each other before he slipped into a drug-induced doze. Some of the invaders had undoubtedly gone with the women, yet several remained behind to bind the men and raid the camp.
The leader of the remaining group now seemed to be arguing with Alejandro Delmar. The Brazilian tracker was awake, angry, and defiant. Bancroft, who was tied as tight as a Scotsman’s purse, kept demanding to know what the warrior was saying.
“I don’t know,” Delmar snapped. “I’ve never heard this language. It seems to be a cross of Yagua and Yanomamo.”
“So? Can you speak those languages?”
“Shut up, Mr. Bancroft, and let me do my best.”
Something in the tone of Delmar’s voice, the natives’ gestures, and Bancroft’s frustrated expression told Michael that the guide was arguing for their lives. After one particularly impassioned exchange, in which Delmar repeated a series of words that only seemed to incense the warrior, the native planted his spear in the earth next to the fire, then stalked toward the lake, leaving his captives alone.
“They want the women,” Delmar explained, twisting to look around at the others. “They do not want or need us. But I’ve tried to convince him we are valuable people who could do much for their tribe.” Looking past Bancroft, he caught Michael’s eye. “I told him one of our men was a great healer.”
Michael snorted. “In a hospital, maybe I could do some good. But out here?”
“You are a great healer,” Delmar stressed. “If ever you believed that, you’d better believe it now. And Olsson—” he inclined his head toward the botanist—“is a great shaman who knows the secrets of jungle plants.”
Olsson groaned. “If only.”
A sneer of derision crossed Carlton’s face. “You think you can negotiate with these heathens? You can’t reason with unreasonable people—”
“I can reach them,” Delmar said simply, his dark eyes gleaming in the light from the sputtering fire.
Michael considered the man’s answer and found it credible. Alejandro Delmar was Indian, and he certainly had more experience in the jungle.
“I say we let Delmar do whatever he needs to do.” Michael looked directly at the American. “This is no longer your expedition, Carlton. We must let Delmar take the lead.”
Carlton snorted softly. “Fine. Just get us to the women, then get us out of here. Tell them whatever you need to tell them.” His cold eyes sniped at Bancroft. “What did you tell them about him? That he’s utterly worthless as a guard?”
“I said he is strong,” Delmar answered. “He can lift a man with one hand. And Baklanov can see into the spirit of water and know when it will make people sick.”
Carlton’s mouth curved into a half-smile. “What’d you tell them about me?”
A sneer might have flitted into Delmar’s shadowed eyes, but Michael couldn’t be sure.
“I could say you were good at making money,” the guide said, “but money means nothing here. So I said you are good for nothing.”
Carlton’s face twisted.
“They believed me, too,” Delmar went on with killing calmness, “because only a fool would bring a stupid woman into the jungle—a woman not even his wife.”
His face darkening, Carlton strained at his bonds for a full minute before dropping his shoulders in frustration.
He glared at Delmar. “You wait. When we get out of here, I’ll have you blacklisted, blackballed, arrested, jailed, and whatever else occurs to me.”
“I do not think so, Mr. Carlton.” Delmar lifted his head like a cat calmly scenting the breeze. “This is the jungle, not America. These warriors will have to transport and feed the captives they take. Why should they carry a worthless man back to their village?”
At that moment the painted warrior returned to the fire circle. As the tattered fire cast its red light upon the conqueror, Michael felt a memory close around him.
Beneath his war paint, this native’s skin was mottled with tattoos . . . exactly like Ya-ree’s.
Calling to his companions, the warrior plucked his spear from the mud, then pointed toward the lake.
Almost immediately, another warrior’s weapon pressed against Michael’s rib cage.
Amid a chorus of shouting from the other natives, Michael groaned. “All right,” he said, leaning forward to gain his footing. His legs still felt heavy and sluggish, but his stunned muscles worked well enough for him to stand and stumble through the lakeside vegetation. When he reached the shore, he saw that Delmar, Baklanov, Bancroft, and Olsson had preceded him into canoes.
Olsson’s face had gone pale in the moonlight. As Michael settled behind him, he asked, “Did you see her lying there?”
Michael took a deep breath to quell the leaping pulse beneath his ribs. “Who?”
“Carlton’s woman. Dead in the grass.”
Michael closed his eyes as a bead of perspiration traced a cold path from his armpit to his rib. “I didn’t see. Were there others?”
Olsson’s jaw clenched. “I saw no others. But who knows?”
A few moments later they were floating over water the color of strong tea. Only when he twisted to look behind him did Michael realize Kenneth Carlton was not aboard either boat.