Authors: Pamela Hegarty
If Daniel was flushed before, now his cheeks turned nearly as red as the underside of the belladonna leaf. “That’s what he was paying me for,” he said. “He said the temple couldn’t be connected to the Breastplate.”
Percival shook a fist at him. “And you believed him.”
Daniel stood his ground. “Contreras is not a killer.”
“
For my daughter’s sake, I pray you’re right.” But he did more than pray. “Contreras kidnapped my daughter. He gave Christa his demands, impossible demands. He threatened Lucia. He threatened all of us.” Daniel looked physically ill. Despite his awkwardness around anyone younger than eighteen, he loved the kids. He actually seemed to enjoy going on the swings with them. On that evening two weeks back when they were cracking open their souls, he admitted that the children had revealed an emotion in him that he had accepted he would never feel, the joy of innocence, and he liked it.
“
A temple,” she interrupted, before Percy could tell him about Salvatierra’s letter. This was ridiculous. She should trust Daniel. He could help them, if she could give him the chance. “Gabriella wrote about it,” she opened to a page covered with random notes. Salvatierra’s letter had referenced a temple, too, and a canyon. Oculto Canyon. But another name on Gabriella’s page was a far more promising lead. Gabby hadn’t only asked Donohue for help. Christa knew just where to go next. She returned the journal to Percy. “Donohue’s waiting for this,” she said. “And we have no time to waste.”
The door of the greenhouse burst open. A sudden frigid gust lanced into the greenhouse. It smelled of minerals, like before a snowstorm.
Helen stepped in, one hand clenched around the scruff of her brown wool coat, the other gripping Liam’s mitten-encased hand. Liam was naturally skinny, but he looked as round as a snowman in his puffy jacket and clunky black snow boots. His hood was pulled tightly around his face and his cheeks seemed to reflect its bright red hue. Helen, despite the chill air, looked paler than usual. She was older than Christa and would be pretty, if she didn’t downplay her looks in outfits better suited to a great aunt.
Percival rushed to Liam. He knelt awkwardly and encased him with a mighty hug. The greenhouse took on a complete if ephemeral hush. Helen swiped the handknit cabled hat from her head. “What’s going on?” she commanded. Her eyes strafed the room. “Where is Lucia? And why are you at the greenhouse?”
Percival did not relinquish his hug. It was as if he was afraid Liam would melt away should he let go.
“
My head hurts, Daddy,” Liam said, speaking even more softly than usual.
Percival leaned back. He unsnapped Liam’s hood and slipped it off with the gentle touch. He wove his fingers through the boy’s scruffy brown hair and tenderly caressed his reddened cheeks. “Tell Daddy,” he said.
Liam sniffled. Helen extracted a tissue from her coat pocket and blotted his nose. “I was at the clinic here on campus when I got Christa’s text,” she said. “I don’t care if the doctor said it’s just a virus. He had so many sick kids waiting, he didn’t want to spend the time. Then two moms started arguing in the waiting room. I was afraid they were going to start hitting each other. I had to get out of there. It’s something serious. I know it is.”
A faint smile crossed Liam’s lips. “The nurse gave me a smiley face sticker,” he said.
Percival carefully unzipped the boy’s jacket. “Is he overheated?”
“
Of course not,” she said. “He was feverish like this before we left home.”
Liam frowned, his gaze on Gabriella’s desk. “I want Mommy.”
Percival tugged down the crew neck of Liam’s striped knit top, revealing a smattering of tiny red bumps just below his neck. Percival’s face visibly paled. “Mommy will be home soon, Liam,” he said.
“
Mommy is here now, Daddy.” Liam pointed his puppy mitten towards the empty desk chair. “She’s sitting right there.”
Percival, with trepidation, swiveled his neck towards the desk. His expression looked confused, doubtful. Helen reached down and pressed her palm against Liam’s forehead. “He’s burning up,” she said. “He’s hallucinating.”
“
It’s not the fever,” he said. “Belladonna poisoning can cause hallucinations.”
Liam screamed. He struggled to run past Percival. “Mommy! That monster is after Mommy! Help her, Daddy. Help her!”
Percival hugged him tighter. “It’s okay, Liam.” Liam’s snow boots kicked wildly.
Helen knelt. Christa rushed towards them. Liam collapsed into Percy’s arms, unconscious, his limp legs dangling. A look a sheer panic crossed Percival’s face. He cradled Liam’s head in his hand. “Liam!” he shouted.
“
I’ll call 911,” Daniel offered, barely finding his voice.
“
No,” Helen said. “The clinic is two blocks away. He’ll receive care faster if we take him there. They have an emergency unit.”
Percival wrapped one arm around his son. Liam looked impossibly small in the arms of his father. “Give me Gabby’s journal, Christa,” he said. “I’ll get it to Donohue. You find those stones.”
CHAPTER
31
Baltasar Contreras repressed a scream of rage. Dubler’s text was short but clear.
I know about poison. G’s antidote only lasts 7 days
. Damn it. She hadn’t perfected the antidote yet. It would hold off the effects of the poison for seven days, then those who had ingested the poison would go mad and die as surely as those pathetic villagers in his ancestor’s time. He had to remain calm. All was not lost. He had to put his plan for this contingency into play.
Little Lucia Devlin was down on her hands and knees guiding a courageous and very frilly Barbie through the green fringes of the blanket of purple-flowered Vinca in the orangery. The doll’s pink glittery ball gown floated above the undergrowth. Is this what little girls dreamed of? He, too, had simple dreams at her age, to be beautiful, desirable, adventurous and, most of all, to be guided by someone else’s adoring, all powerful hand. Man truly did not want free will. Since history began, men have wanted a superior being to tell them what to do. This burden fell heavily on Baltasar’s shoulders, but he would soon have the means to communicate God’s wishes. And for that, he needed to bend Gabriella’s will. Break it, if necessary.
“
She’s a fairy,” the little girl said, sensing Baltasar’s presence above her. She held the doll up towards him and rocked her back and forth, speaking in a high-pitched Barbie voice. “I’m looking for the fairy prince. Have you seen him?”
Baltasar smiled. Delightful girl. “The prince is in the anthurium.” He gestured to what he considered the most sexual of flowers with its erect spadix.
Lucia cocked her head, crinkled her nose and shrugged. She plunged the Barbie back into the Vinca jungle.
Fenton entered carrying an open laptop. “I have the video connection, sir,” he said, placing the laptop on the glass-topped table. He bowed and left, taking up his position just outside the inner door, ready to enter if Baltasar needed him. Baltasar had made a study of manipulating adults’ emotions, but he had found children’s emotional reactions frighteningly unpredictable.
Baltasar took a moment to admire his virtually connected portal to the other side of the world. On the computer screen was the real-life version of the ecological microcosm in his orangery. He heard a symphony in the variations of green, with hundreds of hues in harmony yet distinct. Groundcovers just inches high formed the bass of the oboes and cellos, ferns the melody of the violins, towering trees the high pitches of the flutes and piccolos.
His cadre of soldiers, dressed in khakis and mud, looked as though they were morphing into the jungle, which waited for them to slumber so it could slowly digest them.
They had hacked away just enough of the jungle for three dome tents and a campfire ringed with stones. The laptop, his portal to that world, sat on one of the two crude wooden tables.
Baltasar punched up the volume key. He could hear the noisy clicks and scrapes of the thousands of insects, the cacophony of bird songs, the occasional screech and chatter of a curious monkey. A face appeared on the screen before him, a beautiful, if drawn, face. Gabriella Devlin Hunter was a stunning woman, even with mud, not makeup, accentuating her high cheek bones. Her dark blonde hair was unwashed and tied back carelessly. Her skin was tanned, her tank top revealing impressive biceps and an intriguing cleavage. She didn’t only look like she could survive a week in a jungle with only a canteen and a cookpot, then shower and dress for a state dinner in the evening. Baltasar had seen her do it.
A man stood behind her, but all that was visible on the screen was his mud-stained khaki shirt and pants and his dirty fingers grasping his Uzi. Baltasar recognized him as Mendoza, by his signature ring and his missing pinky.
Baltasar sat before the laptop and leaned forward. The woman facing him pushed back, an expression of anger darkening her face as surely and swiftly as a summer squall. She grabbed the edges of the laptop as if to throw the computer, Baltasar along with it, out of her world. Mendoza’s beefy hand grappled her shoulder and yanked her back, holding her petite but feisty frame firmly in check. Baltasar smiled. “Hello, Doctor Hunter,” he said.
She struggled ineffectively against Mendoza’s grip. Contreras watched his man slide his Uzi out of the way and bend down to position his face within the webcam’s shot. “She’s still not cooperating, Mister Contreras. Keeps claiming that it’s not possible to find a plant that’s been extinct for five centuries.”
A cold bile rose in Baltasar’s throat. He fought it down. He refused to believe this. If he did, all would be in vain. “What did the Muisca medicine man tell you?” he growled.
Gabriella Devlin Hunter did not answer. Mendoza’s fingers closed like a vice clamping her shoulder. Baltasar could see his fingers press against her tanned flesh until it blanched. She grimaced and pressed her lips tighter.
“
The medicine man said that his ancestors destroyed that species five hundred years ago,” Mendoza said. “They figured that if one man who sought it brought death and devastation to their villages, then others like him might follow. No plant, no conquistador, they figured.”
“
A Contreras is not easily deterred,” said Baltasar. “And neither should his chief botanist be. Researchers are discovering new species in the rainforest all the time. In 2009, they discovered a pitcher plant that eats rats. In the last few years, right there in Colombia, scientists continue to discover new species of frogs, including the golden dart frog of Supata, perhaps the very species that eats the insects that consume the plant for which you search. Surely, Doctor Hunter, you can find this one plant.”
Hunter squirmed her shoulder out of Mendoza’s grip. “Not if it doesn’t exist,” she said. “Colombia’s rainforest is home to more than 583 species of amphibians. They have evolved and adapted to man’s intrusions. The plant your ancestor used may well be extinct.”
“
You are well familiar with the Lazarus effect,” said Baltasar. “A species of rat thought extinct for eleven million years was found on sale at a Laos meat market. Perhaps you’re not looking hard enough,” said Baltasar.
“
Mommy?” The tiny voice came from behind him. The little girl, after a tentative moment, rushed towards him. She scrambled onto his lap. She felt so light, airy, the subtle scent of lilies in her strawberry blond curls, like a fairy had alighted upon him. The little girl’s smile was captivating. “Mommy, where are you? Daddy’s been trying to call you.”
Hunter’s face paled. She leaned forward and thrust out her hands to her daughter, as if she could grab her and pull her through the looking glass. She mouthed her daughter’s name, “Lucia.” Baltasar punched up the volume button, but it was only the mother who had lost her voice. Mendoza stepped back, to the outside of the camera’s range, as if a sudden sense of decorum swayed him to give mother and daughter their private space.
Lucia held her Barbie up to the camera. “Mister Profit got me a new Barbie,” she said. “It’s the one I wanted for Christmas. Isn’t she beautiful?”
Hunter nodded stiffly. She smiled, although Baltasar could detect a tremor in her lower lip. “Mister Profit?”
Lucia giggled. “You know, your boss. He remembered me from your work picnic last summer, before you went to Colombia the last time. You never told me he had such a funny name. He picked me up from school and got me ice cream at Jimmies. Two scoops!”
Hunter’s eyes fluttered. Baltasar found it curious to see someone struggling so hard to hold back tears. He was surprised to see it pained him. His own mother, he had seen her do that, hadn’t he? Hunter bit her lip. “Where are you, honey?”
“
In Mister Profit’s jungle,” she said. She squinted at the screen. “Hey, are you still in Colombia? We’re learning about the rainforest in school. I told the teacher all about how you went on a plant safari in Colombia last summer.”
It was all Baltasar could do not to embrace the girl, oddly proud of her cleverness. “Go play with your Barbie,” he said, nudging her from his lap. It’s the kind of thing a father would say.