A Touch of Malice (24 page)

The chirping came from the Indians which were speaking with each other in the most precise birdcalls Nick had ever heard. Kalinikov reached into his pocket and removed a string of shells and held it up for the Indians to observe. He kept his head down and subservient.

He was surrounded by at least seventy-five Natives who seemed to appear out of the jungle mist. They moved on the balls of their feet, some with seven-foot-long spears, some with various sizes of bamboo blowguns. They formed a circle around Kalinikov, who remained on his knees, head bowed.

The birdcalls softened and the circle parted to expose a corridor. At the end of a long row of Native Indians, at the top of a ridge, stood a powerfully built Indian with black circles painted around his eyes and a buckskin pouch around his waist. He stepped down the path toward Kalinikov. As he drew closer, Nick could see that he was older, with gray streaks through his thick mane of hair. This was obviously their chief.

The chief stood in front of Kalinikov and stared intently. He didn’t have muscles in the typical places. His chest was thick with upper body strength, but his legs were tapered down at the ankle. His calves were cut like a fine race horse. He reached down took the string of shells, then raised Kalinikov’s chin to face him. A spark of recognition flickered in his eyes.

Kalinikov gestured with his hands, small loops followed by placing his hand on his heart. The chief mimicked these movements with a great look of satisfaction on his face. He pulled Kalinikov to his feet and the two men stood face to face. Then they both tilted their foreheads slowly toward each other until they touched. They stood there for a few seconds while the rest of the Natives chirped birdcalls to each other. A sense of excitement whirled around the scene.

When they separated, Kalinikov and the chief had a conversation with sign language. Finally Kalinikov looked over his shoulder toward Nick and Matt. “It’s okay,” he said loudly, so the rest of the team could hear. “Please join us.”

Instinctively, Nick and Matt knew to drop their weapons and headsets as they stepped out into the clearing created by gunfire. The three SEALs also joined them, weapon-free. They all stood in the circle and Nick offered a head bow.

The chief returned the gesture, then added a few hand signs.

“He senses you are the leader of our tribe,” Kalinikov translated for Nick. “He says he watched us driving on the invisible road in the sky until we were attacked by fire shooters.”

“Yes,” Nick said. “Our plane.”

“He says you are hiding something.”

Nick cocked his head. “What does he mean? What am I hiding?”

Kalinikov and the chief exchanged hand signals.

“He wants to see your tongue,” Kalinikov said.

“Excuse me?”

The chief stared at Nick while gripping the handle of the blade on his hip.

Kalinikov slowly turned toward Nick, while a nervous tension seemed to spread among the Natives. “If you would like to live another minute or two, I suggest you show him your tongue.”

Nick stepped forward and looked directly at the chief while carefully sticking out his tongue.

The chief examined his tongue like a scientist looking into a microscope for bacteria. After a few tense moments, the chief raised his head and a broad smile came across his face.

Nick shut his mouth and watched Kalinikov sign with the chief.

“What is he saying?” Nick asked.

“He says the tongue is the conduit to your soul. He can see you have no malice in your heart and that pleases him.”

The chief continued to signal to Kalinikov.

Kalinikov translated. “He says you are keeping your greatest fear inside of you and it is making you sick.”

“Yeah, well, tell him I’m seeing a doctor twice a month about that.”

Kalinikov kept up with his gestures. “He says you must speak with someone very important to you about your fear. Then you will begin to heal.”

In the thick jungle air, with the rain trickling down on their heads, Nick felt a sense of understanding with this older being. For some reason Nick’s inner fear came to his mind as clear as day. He’d been suppressing it for so long, he hadn’t even the courage to bring it up in therapy. The chief had been able to touch Nick’s soul with a simple examination of his tongue and a few hand gestures.

Nick smiled, then bowed graciously at the chief.

The chief returned his bow with an amiable smile as well. As if Nick had passed some ancient test of fidelity, the chief raised his hand with his five fingers spread wide. The rest of the tribe began to chirp and stomp their spears in a cohesive rhythm. The jungle was alive with an a cappella celebration.

Among the joyous cheers, Kalinikov turned to Nick with a nod. “You are a special guest. They want to help you with your quest.”

“They know why we’re here?” Nick said.

Kalinikov nodded. “They knew we were coming for the great storyteller.”

This got Nick’s attention. “The great storyteller. You mean—”

“Yes,” Kalinikov said, acknowledging Nick’s assumption while watching the chief continue the conversation. “He says the great storyteller came to them with a machine that could remember their thoughts so he would not forget.”

“A tape recorder?” Nick mumbled.

“He says the great storyteller was here to tell other people about their war against the fire shooters. The fire shooters were taking over their land and the great storyteller was here to help them. He says the war was about to begin when we arrived.”

“Does he know—” Nick asked.

“He says the great storyteller has an honest tongue . . .”

Then the chief pointed to Nick.

“Like you,” Kalinikov added.

“Yes, but does he know where the great storyteller is?” Nick asked.

Kalinikov seemed to be able to get his message across because the chief half-turned toward the path behind him. Then he turned back and gestured to Kalinikov while looking at Nick.

“He wants you to walk next to him,” Kalinikov said. The Russian gave Nick a severe glare. “Do not take this lightly. Walking next to him is the highest honor one can receive from a Maruto chief.”

Nick nodded at the Native leader and joined his side, careful to stay just a tad behind the dominant figure as they strode up the rise toward the crest of the hill. The other members of the team followed. When they passed the Camenos bunkers, the cartel soldiers were peacefully lying on the ground as if they were in a deep sleep. Except they were never getting up from that sleep. Every one of them had a thin green stick protruding from their neck or cheek.

“Phyllobates Terribilis,” Kalinikov said from behind Nick. “Poison frog darts. Each frog has enough toxins to kill twenty people.”

Nick tried to keep up with the tribal leader as he marveled at the carnage. All these soldiers with their sophisticated weapons and they never heard the birdcalls overhead coordinating their demise. The Marutos blended in with the landscape so well, they were never even detected.

As they reached the crest, the tents came into view. Ten of them. As Nick suspected, the camp was surrounded by a man-made body of water forming a moat. The bridge was already in place for the tribe to cross when they approached the camp. A dozen Marutos were on the other side awaiting their chief.

Nick paused and gestured for the tribal leader to go ahead of him on the narrow bridge.

The chief stepped onto the wooden structure and stepped across.

“Smooth move,” Nick heard Matt say from behind him.

As they reached the other side, Nick found Manny Padilla’s body sprawled out on the ground. His mouth was open with splotches of blood across his lower face. The man’s tongue was missing.

“He had a touch of malice in his heart,” Kalinikov said casually, as they entered the Camenos’ camp.

The chief pulled the mosquito netting aside from the nearby tent and motioned for Nick to come.

On the floor of the tent was Trent Merrick. Unconscious. His left leg was exposed with nothing but a primitive wooden splint wrapped with white tape. There was a long laceration along the side of his calf which looked like it had been traumatized fairly severely. The gash was fresh and dripping blood.

Nick was fairly certain the guy was dead. He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket and realized they now had satellite coverage. Stevie had told them there would be a booster once they reached camp and he wasn’t wrong. Nick turned to see Matt checking out his own phone and realizing the same thing. Nick made a circle motion with his index finger in the air. Get the choppers going. Matt nodded and began texting Walt.

Nick returned his attention to the president’s brother. Although it was early afternoon, the tent was still fairly dark with a couple of candles providing most of the light. Nick thought he saw a rope or a vine lying next to Trent’s injured leg, but had to squint to see that it was a line of bugs, single file, entering into the wound on his leg like miners entering a tunnel.

Squatting next to Trent was a thin, mature Indian, sprinkling what looked like different colored herbs and plants into a hollowed out piece of wood in the shape of a bowl. As the Indian dropped the assortment of leaves, he would take a stick with a round head and grind the powdered mixture in the bowl with an intense look on his face.

“What’s happening?” Nick asked Kalinikov.

“Those are Red Chigger Ants,” Kalinikov said. “Piranha Bugs. Among other things, they feed on human tissue. The Marutos’ medicine man is trying to save him.”

The medicine man was sprinkling the dry mixture directly onto Trent Merrick’s wound, then packing it down with his bony fingers to cover the entire laceration. He seemed careful not to drop any excess mixture making Nick wonder just how toxic the treatment was.

At first Nick didn’t notice any change. Then a minute later, the line of ants didn’t seem as straight as it was. They appeared to be more spread out.

“Stand back,” Kalinikov said.

Nick moved away from Trent and saw the ants scatter. The medicine man seemed prepared for this and he placed a candle in front of the tent opening, which stopped the ants from heading their direction.

The medicine man chirped a short birdcall and one of the Maruto Indians pulled up on the side of the tent to create an opening for the ants to exit. And they did. Quickly. They poured out of Trent’s leg as if there was a bomb scare, seeming a little disoriented and mostly frantic.

After a few minutes, the mass evacuation appeared complete. Trent Merrick’s leg, however, looked like a mangled piece of meat you’d see in a butcher shop. Instinctively, Nick stepped toward the injured man, but Kalinikov grabbed his arm and simply shook his head.

The medicine man dipped his fingers into a pouch strapped around his waist and came out with a pinch of herbs between his index finger and thumb. He opened Trent’s mouth and dropped the mixture onto his tongue. The old man crouched next to Trent with his hand gently lying on the patient’s chest.

Nick stood behind the medicine man and hovered, wondering if there was anything he could do that these Indians weren’t already doing. He was amazed to see the overwhelming concern on the medicine man’s face, as if Trent were his own son.

Just outside the tent, Kalinikov and the chief exchanged information with fervent hand gestures, the conversation getting so animated, the chief would add some loud chirps to the discussion.

Matt poked his head inside the tent and watched the medicinal proceedings with the same awe and concern as Nick had.

“The choppers are on the way,” Matt whispered while staring at Trent’s unconscious body. “What’s going on?”

“I’m not sure,” Nick said.

“Is he alive?”

Nick shrugged.

“You realize that’s all Walt and the boys want to know,” Matt said, holding his cell phone down by his waist. “Can’t we check for a pulse?”

“I tried. Apparently it’s not appropriate to interfere with the medicine man.”

Matt gazed down at Trent’s mangled leg with a disgusted expression. “The guy needs some professional help.” Then he glanced down at the medicine man still administering his form of treatment, which seemed to include depressing Trent’s chest with his hand and mumbling some guttural noises similar to a wolf. “I mean, someone who’s been inside a medical school maybe.”

Nick was nodding, but deep down part of him felt this particular patient might’ve been in the best hands. Something about the way the medicine man was listening and feeling, using all of his senses. Here in the Amazon, dealing with a particular bug which American doctors had never even heard of, this seemed like this could be Trent’s best chance for survival.

“How long are we going to let this primitive form of healing go on?” Matt asked, now holding up the cell phone, apparently the command center wanting some answers and Nick being responsible for them.

“Right now, we don’t have a choice,” Nick said. “I’ll make a decision once the choppers get here.”

“Nick, we need to get him prepped for the transfer. Every minute we waste might cost him his life, if he’s not dead already.”

Nick realized he was reacting to a simple diagnosis by an Indian chief who touched a nerve inside of him without ever knowing his history with PTSD or his medications. The man had reached down into Nick’s heart and tugged on something that was slithering within his soul and possibly the root cause to most of his symptoms. As a matter of fact, Nick’s condition had been improving ever since the tiny therapy session. His headache was gone and he could think so much more clearly.

“He’s staying here until the medicine man is finished,” Nick said with a firm tone.

Matt pulled on Nick’s arm to face him. “What is wrong with you? Are you having a relapse?”

“I’m fine. Just get the team ready to leave. Find the nearest clearing and guide the choppers in.”

“Nick—”

“Go!”

In all the years they’d been partners, they’d rarely had a disagreement without a logical basis for their decisions. Matt glared at Nick as he left the tent and placed the phone to his ear.

Nick desperately wanted to feel Trent’s torso rise and fall with the act of taking in oxygen. He slowly and overtly reached his hand to Trent’s chest. The medicine man gave Nick a serious expression commanding him to remove his hand. There was a certain power to the medicine man’s face, the creases now becoming more accented. As if he’d seen all the horror the world could impose and he’d absorbed every last one of them.