He pulled out a wrinkled topographical map. The compound lay ten miles to the east, in the direction of this wide overgrown path. Casius crossed into the jungle and resumed his jog.
Since his departure from the city, he'd eaten only papaya and yie palm cut on the run, but hunger pains now slowed his progress. Without a bow and arrow, killing a heron or a monkey would be difficult, but he needed the protein.
Ten minutes later he spotted the root that would give him red meat. Casius took his knife from his belt, cut deep into a twisted
mamucori
vine, and let the poisonous sap run over his blade. Under normal conditions the Indians dissolved the poison in boiling water, which would evaporate from any dipped surface, leaving only deadly residue. But he had neither the time nor the fire necessary for the application.
Finding the howler monkeys was like finding a traffic light in the city. Approaching them undetected wasn't nearly as simple. The small animals had an uncanny sense of danger. Casius slipped behind a tree and eyed a group of five or six howlers shaking branches fifty meters away, high in a Skilter tree. He slid into the open and crept toward them. The approach was painstakingly slow, and for fifteen full minutes he inched forward, until he came to rest behind a large palm. Four monkeys now sat chattering unsuspecting on the end of a branch that hung low, no more than twenty meters from his position. Casius slipped from behind the tree and hurled his knife into the group.
They scattered in terror as the knife flipped toward them. The blade clanged into the branches, grazing one of the monkeys. It was two minutes before the poison reached the monkey's nervous system and sent it plummeting from its perch high in the tree, unconscious. He picked it up, snapped its neck with a quick twist, and resumed his push south. The poison would be harmless to him, and the meat would replenish his depleted energy. He had always preferred meat cooked but he had learned to eat it however it came. Today a fire was out of the question, so the meat would remain raw.
The sun had already dipped behind the horizon by the time Casius reached the rock outcropping overlooking the Catholic mission station, twenty miles south of his destination by the map. A scattering of buildings rose from the valley floorâit was inhabited then. Once the valley had been vacant. Now, even from this distance, a mile above, Casius could see a cross at the base of an airstrip flying a limp windsock.
A slow river wound its way past the end of the airstrip and then lazily wandered through the flat valley toward the south. If there was one thing Casius needed now it was information, and the mission might give him at least that.
He dropped from the cropping and began the descent. He'd seen no one on the station. Odd. Where were the Indians? He'd think they'd be loitering all over the place looking for whatever the missionaries might give them in exchange for their souls.
Half an hour later, he stepped from the jungle under a black sky and jogged for a long house lit with pressure lamps from the interior. The night sang with overlapping insect choruses, and the memory of it all brought a chill to Casius's spine.
Casius ran up to the house in a crouch and flattened himself next to a window. He looked through and saw two people seated at a wooden table, dipping spoons into their evening meal. A priest and a woman. The priest's collar was missing, but there was no mistaking his black-and-white attire. The woman wore a white T-shirt, the sleeves rolled once or twice baring her upper arms. Her dark hair fell shoulder length and for a moment he thought she reminded him of a singer whose music he had once purchased. Shania Twain. He had put the CD through his sound system only twice, but her image had made an impression. Or was it that actress . . . Demi Moore? Either way she brought images of a soft-souled American to his mind. Somehow misplaced in this jungle.
He watched the two eat and listened to their indistinguishable murmur for a full minute before deciding they were alone. He slipped around the house.
SHERRY STARTED when a knock sounded on the door.
Rap-rap-rap.
The evening had been quiet. There were the comforting sounds normal to jungle living: the forest's song, a pressure lamp's monotonous hissing, clinking silverware. Following the father's confession of his parents' sacrifice, the day had floated by like a dream. Perhaps the most peaceful day she'd experienced in eight years. They talked of what it meant to lose life and what it meant to gain it. They talked of real love, the kind of love that gave everything, including life. Like her father had given, and according to Father Teuwen, the kind they were all asked to give. She let herself go with him, remembering the passionate words of her own fatherâreliving the best of her own spiritual journey, before the box.
It brought her peace.
For the last twenty minutes her mind had come full circle, to the box, to suffering. She had cried, but it wasn't a cry of remorse. It was the cry of a heavy meaning. A head cold was coming on, she thought. Unless it was only the day's crying that stuffed her sinuses.
And suddenly this
rap-rap-rap
on the door.
She glanced at Father Teuwen and swiveled in her seat to see the door swing open. A well-muscled stranger stood in the frame, his arms hanging loosely to his sides, his legs parted slightly, his shoulders squared. But this simple realization quickly made way for the dawning that the man wore only shorts. And torn shorts at that.
Sherry felt her jaw part slightly. His face was painted in strokes of green and black that swept back from his nose, casting the odd illusion that his head belonged on a movie screen, not here on a mission station. Brown eyes peered from the paint. A sheen of moisture glistened on the intruder's dirtied chest, as if he'd worked up a good sweat and then tumbled to the dust. Short-cropped, dark wet hair covered his head. If she didn't know better, she would have sworn that this man had just come from the jungle. But she did know better. He was a white man. And white men didn't come from the jungle during the night. It was too dangerous.
The stranger stepped into the room and pulled the door closed behind him. Now other details filled her mind. The sharp edges to his clenched jaw, the hardened muscles, the muddied legs, the wide band of browned tape around his thigh, the bare feet.
He was dripping on their floor.
“Good evening,” he said, speaking evenly as if they should have expected this visit.
The father spoke behind her. “My goodness, man. Are you all right?”
The man shifted his eyes from Sherry to the priest. “I'm fine, Father. I hope I'm not intruding, but I saw the lights and hoped I could ask you a few questions.”
Sherry stood. His voice moaned through her skull like a howling wind. She saw that Father Teuwen was already on his feet, gripping his chair with one hand. “Ask a few questions? Heavens, you sound like the jungle patrol or something, popping in to ask a few questions. Where on earth did you come from?”
The man shifted his dark gaze to Sherry for a moment, and then back to the priest. He looked suddenly lost, she thought. As if he'd crossed over from another dimension and mistakenly opened their door. She noted that her pulse raced and she assured herself that the man meant no harm.
“I'm sorry, perhaps I should leave,” he said.
“No. You cannot leave, man!” the priest objected quickly. “Look at you. It's night out there! A bit dangerous, don't you think?” He paused, catching himself. “But then I suppose you already know that. You look like you've just spent the day in the jungle.”
For a moment the man did not respond and Sherry thought he had indeed made a mistake and was now looking for a graceful exit. A hunter perhaps. But what would a hunter be doing running around barefoot at night? The whole thing was preposterous.
“Perhaps I've made a mistake by coming here,” the man said. “I should leave.”
The father stepped up beside Sherry now. “This is a Catholic mission,” the priest said evenly. “I'm sure you know that. I'm the priest hereâI think I have the right to know the identity of a man who calls on my door in the middle of the night, don't you?”
The man's arms still hung loosely at his sides, and Sherry noted that the knuckles on his right hand were red with blood. Perhaps he was a drug runner, or a mercenary. Her pulse quickened.
“I'm sorry. I should leave.” He shifted his feet.
“And why do you insist on withholding your identity, sir?” Father Teuwen asked. “I will have to report this, of course.”
That stopped the man. He eyed the priest long and hard. “And if I tell you who I am, you won't report me?”
So the man was on the run! A fugitive. Sherry's pulse quickened again. She glanced at Father Teuwen and saw that he was grinning knowingly.
“That would depend on what you tell me, young man. But right now I can tell you that I'm imagining the worst. And if you tell me nothing, I will report what I imagine.”
The stranger slowly smiled.
THE MOMENT the priest stood, Casius knew coming here had been a mistake and he cursed himself.
He had wanted to leave then, before the father asked any questions. Perhaps a missionary would hold his curiosity. But the priest had proved otherwise. And now he had no choice but to either kill them or take them into some kind of confidence. And killing them wasn't really an option either, was it? They had done nothing; they were innocent.
The woman's eyes were ringed in red, as if she'd been crying recently. He smiled at the father. “You're a persistent man. You don't give me much choice. But trust me, you may wish you'd let me go.”
“Is that a threat? I suppose that goes for the sister as well.”
He noted the woman's quick glance at the priest. So she was a nun then. Or at least she was being cast as a nun by the father. “Did I threaten your life, Father?”
The father glanced at the nun. “You don't have anything to fear from us.”
Casius decided he would give them a bone, a herringâjust enough to draw out their knowledge of the region. Sooner or later they would call on the radio, of course. But by then it would no longer matter.
“I work for the DEA. You know the agency?”
“Of course. Drug enforcement.”
“We suspect a significant operation south of here. I'm on a reconnaissance mission. I was inserted a mile from here, at the top of the western ridge.”
The priest nodded.
Casius paused, searching their eyes. “I'm planning to take the Caura River south tonight.” In reality he was headed north, of course. “As for my dress, I realize it's not every day you see a westerner traipsing through the brush near naked. But then I'm Brazilian, from Caracas.”
“You don't sound so Brazilian,” the father said.
Casius ran out a long sentence of fluid Portuguese, telling him he was wrong before switching back to English. “I attended university in the United States. Now, if you don't mind, I have a few questions of my own.”
“And your name?” the father asked.
“You may call me Casius. Anything else, Father? My GPA perhaps? My ancestry?”
The woman chuckled and then launched into a cough. Casius smiled at her. “You're quite bold, Sister. Not many women would willingly choose the jungle as a place to live.”
She nodded slowly and spoke for the first time. “Well, I suppose I'm not most women, then. And not many men, Brazilian or not, would run through the jungle, half naked, in bare feet.”
She sounded as if she had a cold from her husky tone. He ignored the comment. “Have you heard rumors of any drugs south?” he asked, turning back to the father.
“To the south? Actually no. Which is surprising, because most of the Indians we serve are from the south. How far did you say?”
“Thirty miles, along the Caura River.”
The father shook his head. “Not that I am aware of. They must be well concealed.”
“Possibly. But I suppose that's why they pay me. To find the difficult ones,” Casius responded.
“What about up north?” the nun asked.
He blinked. “Up north? Caracas?”
“Not the city. The jungle up north.”
Casius glanced at the father. So they had their suspicions of the north.
“We've heard occasional rumors of drug running farther north. I think the sister refers to those rumors,” the priest said.
Casius felt his pulse surge. “How long ago did you hear these rumors?” he asked, trying to sound casual.
“How long? They come sporadically.” The father turned to the woman. “Wouldn't you say, Sister? Every few months or so.” She nodded, her eyes a bit too wide, Casius thought.
“Interesting. Farther north, huh? How far north?”
“Twenty miles or so. Wouldn't you say, Father Teuwen?” the woman said.
“Yes.”
Casius looked from one to the other. “Well, I'll definitely report it. Any unique details?”
They both shook their heads.
“I'm sorry, but what are your names?”
“Forgive me. Petrus Teuwen. And this is Sherry Blake. Sister Sherry Blake.”
Casius nodded. “It's a pleasure meeting you,” he said. He turned and reached for the door.
SHERRY THOUGHT the man who called himself Casius knew more than he admitted and she thought to ask him about the assault on their mission. But the incident at the plantation occurred eight years earlier, and judging his age, he would have been too young to be involved with any agency at the time.
The longer she looked at him, the more she thought he resembled some outrageous drugstore action figure. Or one of those Wrestlemania wrestlers, snarling at the television cameras and flexing their muscles for the kids. Either way she had seen his kind before, and they had always made her cringe.
She saw the knife at his back as he turned. A large bowie shoved into his waistband. Casius could do more than observe, she decided. His image couldn't have stood in greater contrast to the day's discussion with Father Teuwen. A small knot of disgust churned in her belly.