Moving as quickly as her unsteady legs would allow, Alex followed a path into the jungle, then plunged through a thicket of leaves, trudging blindly ahead and stumbling over roots, palms, and mounds of unidentified insects. Tears flowed freely, obscuring her vision, and the sound of her own sobbing filled her ears. She moved through what seemed like yards and yards of foliage, then felt her feet sink in muck.
Swiping tears from her eyes, she realized she was standing in a stagnant pool. She tried to lift her feet, but the strong pull of the mud held her sneakers.
So this was a dead end—just like her work, her motherhood, and her life. Everything she had striven for would vanish into thin air, and she had no power to stop it. She would die in this bog, and who would care? Her friends in Atlanta would forget about her as easily as Alex and her teammates had pushed thoughts of Carlton, Hayworth, Chavez, and Fortier from their minds.
Engulfed in weariness, she squatted in the mud, not caring if she sat on a tarantula, an ants’ nest, or an anaconda. Let it end here then. Just let it end.
Michael Kenway would see Caitlyn safely back to civilization— with a little coaxing, he might even be persuaded to adopt her.
The thought resonated within Alex . . . why couldn’t he adopt her daughter? Caitlyn’s father had never wanted a child, and even though Kenway’s religious predilections troubled her, those same convictions would incline him to be a kind and caring father.
He liked Caitlyn . . . far better than he liked Alex, probably. And after losing his wife, it might do him good to have someone else to care for.
Dropping her head onto her hand, she considered the idea. The authorities would not surrender an American child to a British citizen without some sort of authorization, and Alex’s will, safely on file in an Atlanta lawyer’s office, stated that her ex-husband’s parents would serve as guardian in the event of Alex’s death.
So her darling daughter could either go with a doughy old pair who wanted her even less than their self-centered son did, or into the foster care system . . . or she could go with Michael Kenway.
Seized by a compulsion to complete one last task, Alex widened her eyes to search for something, anything, she would use to leave a message. Groping along the muddy bank for several minutes, her fingers finally encountered a sharp thorn. After breaking off the thorn—and piercing her fingers in the process—she pulled a wide leaf from a bush.
Surrendering her shoes to the mud, she slipped over the bank and spread the leaf on the ground. Gripping the thorn between her thumb and index finger, she spread the leaf with her left hand and began to blindly scratch out a message:
20 APRIL, 2003.
I, Alexandra Pace, want my daughter, Caitlyn Grace, to be the ward of Michael Kenway if I predecease either of them.
As she worked, her eyes grew more accustomed to the darkness. Though virtually no moonlight penetrated the deep jungle, it did light the tops of the trees overhead, creating sumptuous swags of shadows that hung like deep blue bunting on the plants around her. The forest whispered to itself, the faint patter of rain on leaves blending with the crackle of the night crawlers that came out to devour leaves and branches.
When she had finished, she rolled the broad leaf, careful not to crease the living material, then slipped it into her shirt. They’d find this on her body, probably within a day or two, so the message should still be legible. Then Kenway would comfort Caitlyn and take her back to Iquitos, which was no place for a young American girl. When he realized this, he’d return to England, where Cait would grow up in London and attend the best schools . . .
Sniffing, Alex used the back of her damp wrist to smear tears from her cheek. She had done all she could do; this was the best ending she could devise.
Her thoughts skittered toward Joe Slowinski, the young man who’d died in the Himalayas after being bitten by a krait. Poisonous snakes abounded in the Amazon region, including kraits, pit vipers, bushmasters, and mambas. Back at the lodge, Lazaro had told them that the natives called the fer-de-lance a “ten step,” because once a man had been bitten, he could not manage more than ten steps before dying.
Why not lay down here and wait for the paralyzing bite of a viper or carnivore ants? Delmar said the ants’ bite had a numbing effect, so perhaps this wouldn’t be such a terrible way to die. Horrible for the natives who discovered her body, perhaps, but her friends would shield Caitlyn from that sight. The natives would cover her in leaves and lift her on a burial pyre, safely destroying her body and the prions that contaminated her brain.
She would lie down and wait—but she’d have to find a better place than this. Moving forward on her hands and knees, she bumped into a huge gnarled root that demonstrated its power by pushing up the earth by the pool. Curling into one of its curves, she leaned against its strength, then used her hands to pull her trembling legs into a bent position. She wanted to look as if she had gone for a walk, sat down for a rest, and fallen asleep . . . only Kenway would realize the implausibility of that scenario. Yet out of concern for Caitlyn, he wouldn’t dispute it.
Exhaling a deep breath, she closed her eyes and allowed her thoughts to drift back to the happiest day of her life. She had been a grad student, studying in the library, when the first labor pain had struck. Not wanting anyone to think she was some kind of hysterical female, she remained at the study carrel until her water broke, then her screech of surprise brought half a dozen men running—men who promptly turned and fled when they realized they were dealing with a heavily-pregnant woman in labor and not an anguished coed.
After six hours of panting, pushing, and struggling in the safe confines of the Atlanta Medical Center, she wept with joy when the doctor held up a squalling eight-pound, six-ounce blood-smeared baby. She had lifted her weak arms, reaching to take hold of that precious life—
“Dr. Pace?”
Her eyes flew open as light slammed against her eyelids.
Blinking, she struggled to lift her hand to shield her eyes. “Who’s th-there?”
“It’s Alejandro.” The light lowered, splashing over brown mud at her feet and revealing Delmar’s silhouette. Alex tilted her head, wondering where he had found a flashlight, then realized something was wrong with the image before her eyes. Delmar stood before her, straight and erect, but his bare feet did not touch the ground, and his outline shone with a faint luminescence.
She rubbed her hand over her eyes, then looked again. Her disease was manifesting another symptom; this had to be a hallucination. “Alejandro?” She peered into the shadows. “You’re not really there, are you?”
“But of course I am.” Soft laughter tickled her ear. “Your Dr. Kenway asked me to look for you.”
A hallucination with a cynical sense of humor. Deciding to indulge her subconscious, she lowered her unreliable eyes. “Can I trust you, Delmar?”
“Implicitly.”
“I don’t want to go back. So you can leave me now.”
She had expected some token sort of protest, but undiluted laughter floated up from the man’s throat. “Michael and the villagers were actually praying for you. Can you believe it?”
Snorting, Alex let her head fall back to the tree trunk. “At this moment, I could believe almost anything.” She squinted at the hazy image. “You wouldn’t believe what I’m seeing now. You’re floating. And glowing. Sort of like the ghost of Christmas past.”
A smile flitted across the man’s features. “So you’ve decided to die here?”
Alex stared at the image her brain had conjured as an unformed thought teased her mind. Hallucinations, yes. Auditory changes? Perhaps. But why would her mind completely alter Delmar’s personality?
It wouldn’t . . . unless, of course, some still-functioning part of her brain had conjured up this vision to talk her out of suicide. If so, the will could overrule reason. If this figment was nothing but inchoate fragments of memories and thoughts, she could safely ignore it . . . if she could tear her eyes away.
“Delmar,” she whispered drowsily, “when did you become so awesomely beautiful?”
Glowing like a luminescent firefly, the native guide crossed his legs in a sitting posture and hovered above the ground near her hiding place. “I didn’t think you wanted to come back. Jaguar spirit said he has been watching you. He told me you had decided to die.”
A chill settled onto her bones—a coldness that had nothing to do with the damp darkness.
She closed her eyes for a long moment, then opened them again. The vision of Delmar—if that’s what it was—now stood in front of her, faintly glowing in the dark. Inhaling sharply, she tasted the odors of flesh and sweat and the dried herbs he always carried in his pouch.
She extended her hand, attempting to touch him, but Delmar laughed. “Do not trouble yourself, Dr. Pace. Things are not as complicated as they seem.”
“They seem real . . . but I am s-s-sick.” She looked away, then studied the outline of her fingers on her thigh. A few moments ago she had been unable to see anything, now she could see her hand in the light reflecting off the guide’s image.
“You are sick, yes.” Tremors of mirth fractured his voice. “You have tried to keep it a secret, but my spirits told me about you the moment we met at Yarupapa. Yet you are fortunate—tonight you will die here, far away from the others.” He tilted his head and gave her a careful smile. “Tell me, is this really what you want?”
“Y-yes.” Alex’s voice broke in a horrible, rattling gurgle. “It’s what I want.”
“Good. Because the others will die, too, before they reach the great river again. I will have to kill them.”
She lifted her head, but a sudden blow slammed it backward, knocking her skull against the root with such force she saw stars.
Delmar laughed again. “Do not be alarmed, Dr. Pace. If you do not fear death for yourself, why should you fear it for the others? You are all destined to die. As a sertanista, I cannot have you bringing other nabas to this part of the jungle.”
Ignoring the pain beginning to blaze a trail around the base of her skull, Alex gritted her teeth and forced herself to focus. The thing-thatmight-not-be-Delmar certainly smelled and looked like Delmar, and that last blow had convinced her he was more than an apparition manufactured by her subconscious. Furious questions raged within her, but the best her stuttering tongue could manage was one word: “Wh-why?”
“Your Mr. Carlton did not do his homework. Yes, I am an Indian tracker in Brazil, but I do not search for natives in order to exploit them—I search so they might remain hidden. The old ways have been entrusted to me, including the safeguarding of our spirit world. This Yai Pada the shaman mentioned is not good—he is unfriendly, he is cruel, he frightens the spirits who care for our people.” Smiling, he crossed his arms, and Alex thought she could hear the microwhispers of his shirt fabric as it bent and folded. “Like you, I was eager to find these lost tribes. But now I will make certain no one ever finds them again.”
Alex struggled to voice her objection, but Delmar continued without pause. “Yes, the Keyba village has chosen Yai Pada Son. But no one will come to teach them, and soon the children will forget all that happened this night. The old spirits will call to their children—Jaguar spirit and Howashi spirit and Deer spirit. The spirits will remind the people of the murders done this day, and then the people of Keyba Village will go and make war against the Angry People so the old ways will continue.” He cocked his head. “ Those who survive will starve. If the spirits drive the animals away, this village will die within one year. It will not take long to rid this land of Yai Pada and his Son. Not long at all.”
“I—I don’t believe you.” Alex spat out the words. “You . . . are as crazy . . . as M-Michael.”
He shot her a sideward look of cunning that did nothing to quell the panic rising in her breast. “You think I am crazy? Would a bite from Jaguar spirit convince you that I wield his power?”
After doing no more than lifting his index finger a scant inch, a hot, sharp pain scissored through Alex’s middle. Locking her jaws, she made a noise that sounded like all the vowels spoken at once, then wrapped her arms around her stomach and writhed in agony.
No, her brain insisted. This was not possible. This had to be part of her illness, some variety of phantom pain triggered by deteriorating neurons, just as the vision of Delmar was the product of her deteriorating brain.
But never in all her research had she read about symptoms like these.
The pain eased, leaving her as limp as a dishrag. She struggled to push herself up to a sitting position.
“Convinced?” Delmar called, floating like a cross-legged maharishi only a few inches from her head. “Or would you like him to nip at your feet?”
As she opened her mouth to beg for mercy, a sharp stab sliced through her foot, followed by a crushing pain. Gasping, she stared at her legs, unable to believe that a caiman or some other creature did not have her foot locked between its jaws.
“I have been a shaman many years,” Delmar said, apparently oblivious to her agony. “I have other spirits I could call. They are quick to do my bidding; they are desperate lest I throw them away. But I will not throw them away to follow this foolish Yai Pada. Why should I lose my powers? I have met shamans like the old man of Keyba Village— the shabonos inside their bodies are empty, for the spirits departed when they began to speak with Yai Pada.” He grinned down at her again. “Would you like to feel something from Howashi spirit? He is the spirit of the monkey, and he is mischievous.”
The words had no sooner left Delmar’s lips when something began to yank at Alex’s hair. Six or seven tiny pairs of hands clawed at her scalp, tugging at her hair, pulling out hanks by the roots. Her ears filled with the deafening, high-pitched squeal of monkeys in an uproar while the musty scent of animals invaded her nostrils.
“Do you like my spirit friends?” Delmar’s voice now buzzed in her ears. “Would you like to feel them all at once?”
She slapped at her head and screamed, beating off incorporeal assailants, then covered her stomach with her hands and tasted bitter tears. She could not bear this surreal agony. Death was a formidable foe, but this was an encounter with something far worse and far more significant.
The old shaman had said she encountered God this morning. Maybe she had, but she had not acknowledged him. Through her rejection, had she unwittingly chosen his adversary?
Compressed into an ever-shrinking space between the weight of reality and her own stubbornness, she brought her hands to her face. Why had she found it so hard to acknowledge the fact that healing occurred when believers sought it? Why had she been foolish enough to create the God of Desperate Women in Tropical Straits when the God had revealed himself in the sunset, in Michael Kenway, and in the healing of Shaman’s Wife?
The answer rose like a bubble from the fountain of her soul— because she blamed God for the death of her mother, her husband’s desertion, and, most of all, for the disease that had brought her to this dire place. Yet Kenway claimed that God could take even the tragedies of a life and bend them toward good.
If so, God was not a cosmic joker, determined to beat her down at every encounter. He was a patient and compassionate physician, tending to wounds of the heart as well as the body.
“Y-Yai Pada Son!” Broken and desperate, she screamed the name. “Oh, God, h-h-help me!”
The monkeys fell silent, followed by a quiet so thick the only sound was the sobbing whistle of her panicked breathing. The impish hands flew away, the agony at her foot ceased, the pain in her stomach stopped as if it had been on a switch. When she opened her eyes and looked into the darkness, she saw no sign of Delmar, not even a footprint on the muddy bank.
But there was light . . . glowing, sparkling, loving light.
A hallucination?
No . . . a presence. She sensed it in the silence, felt its warmth through the chill of her sweat. The blessed light surrounding her chased away the paralyzing fear and spoke peace to her heart.
Do not be afraid.
The voice held no trace of intimidation, but power pulsed through it, power enough to make Delmar’s magic seem like parlor tricks. Alex relaxed, content to die in the light, then she heard a sound on the path and turned to look. The shaman of Keyba Village stood in the light, and when he extended his hand and she took it, she found him flesh and bone.
His smile glimmered in the gloom as he pulled her to her feet. Finding her footing, Alex leaned against the tree. The shaman gestured toward the path, obviously intending to lead her back to safety.
She shook her head. “I can’t walk.” She lowered her hands and slapped them against her trembling legs. “I’m sick.”
The shaman’s gaze traveled over her form, then, without a word, the man who barely came up to Alex’s shoulder walked forward, turned, and pointed to his back.
Alex coughed rather than release the wry laughter that bubbled to her lips. Did he actually intend to carry her? She hadn’t ridden piggyback since childhood.
The shaman stood there, bent and waiting.
Alex clung to the tree a moment more, then shivered as another truth hit like an electric tingle in her stomach. If her encounter with Delmar had been real—and she now believed that on some plane it had been—then her teammates were in danger. He would kill them all on the journey away from this place.
Inhaling a deep breath, she released the tree and toppled forward, falling helplessly onto the shaman’s bony back.