“That’s not true!” I interrupted, suddenly furious that he had such an intimate knowledge of my past.
His voice rose, to cover mine: “Though you actually carried out only thirteen of the orders, because you refused to execute actions against women. But of the thirteen men you eliminated, you used nothing but your hands on seven of them. No knives, garrotes, nothing. Just your hands.” He had moved closer to me, looking up into my face, his eyes intense, fascinated. His voice was almost a whisper now, as he pressed, “Why? It was obviously your method of choice. But why?”
He knew too much for me not to answer-and it would also have seemed an infidelity to the person I hoped and believed I’d now become: the quiet biologist who loved to work in his lab, the guy who delighted in sunset beers with his many friends back on Sanibel Island.
I shrugged. “I don’t know, because it was quieter, maybe.” But I was already shaking my head, knowing that was a lie and an evasion, so I let myself think about it for several long beats before I said in a more reflective voice, “I chose that way, that method because… because it was more… because it was more personal.”
I could see in Tyner’s expression that he misunderstood completely, an obscene misinterpretation that I could hear it in his grinning, locker-room reply: “Outstanding! Yeah, man, up close and personal. Listen to their heart stop. It makes sense now. Perfect.”
31
At exactly 12:45 A.M., I heard the little Bell helicopter fire up out on the heli pad to the north of the complex, and I trotted all my gear up the hill to where Tyner stood far from the strobing luminescence of aircraft running lights, backdropped by the paler incandescence of a copper Amazon moon.
He wasn’t alone-which was not surprising, until I recognized the man with him. It was the ponytailed Irishman, Niall McCauley, wearing a jacket in the damp, night air, hands folded behind him-it seemed.
But then I realized that he kept his hands behind his back because he’d been handcuffed.
To Tyner, I said, “What’s wrong? Why’s he here?”
Tyner had been talking to the pilot, the two of them going over something on a clipboard, far enough from the chopper so that they didn’t have to yell to be heard. “Mr. McCauley will be accompanying us, Commander-but only for the first part of the trip. I may hand him over to the authorities at the closest city of any size. Or maybe I’ll save the British government some money and shove him out the door when we get over the jungle.”
When Tyner said that- shove him out -the Irishman began to sob, his chest heaving, as he pleaded, “Don’t, Sergeant, please don’t even joke about such a thing.”
Tyner thought that was humorous. “Joking? Hah! You know what this traitorous little coward did? When I was questioning you this afternoon, Commander, he overheard you mention the names of the two men you’re after. Kazan and Stallings?
“One of my pals intercepted a couple of cell-phone calls McCauley made this afternoon. Guess who he was trying to contact? A man by the name of Hassan Kazan. Information for a price. This little sonuvabitch may have warned Kazan and compromised the whole operation. If he did, my men-you and me-we’re all walking right into a trap. As to the hostages, they’re probably dead by now. It comes under the heading of getting rid of the evidence.”
McCauley was still sobbing. “I didn’t, Sergeant! I swear to Christ I never got in touch with Kazan.”
“But you tried!”
“I know, I know. I was that drunk and scared, and I hate this goddamn jungle so much I’m not in my right mind. I just want out. I want enough money to get out, and it’s made me crazy. You’re my friend. You’ve always been a friend to Niall McCauley.”
I moved away from the Irishman, not trusting myself to be within arm’s reach. I said, “Is he lying? Do you think he made contact?”
Tyner said, “He made five calls, one lasted nearly fifteen minutes. I don’t know. If he told me the earth was round, I wouldn’t believe him.”
“Did you try to contact your guys?”
“Of course. They’re way out of range for radio contact, and they don’t answer their cell phones, which means they’re too deep into the jungle to get a signal.”
“We’re still going to Remanso, though, right? We’re not going to let this little worm stop us.”
Tyner said, “Oh, we’re going all right. As of now, I think we’ll do a little experiment midway. See if an Irishman can fly while handcuffed.”
I was nodding-he’d get no protest from me. “Either way, there’ll be room for the girl. We’re taking Keesha. She’s sick. You’ve certainly got medical supplies here. I want a full script of Septra or Cipro, or both. She needs to be back with her people.”
I was surprised that Tyner didn’t put up a stronger argument. Maybe it was the resolve in my voice. Or perhaps he’d already anticipated the request-I did not doubt his intellectual gifts. All he said was, “There’s only one Jivaro village I know well enough to set us down at night. That’ll have to do.”
I said, “They’re the ones… the ones who do the work for you.”
He answered, “Yes. I’ve become a cottage industry, I’m afraid.”
I told him, “Then that village will have to do.”
Keesha was sick, no doubt about it, and there was very little I could do to help.
When I’d returned to our suite after touring Tyner’s macabre armory, I’d found her asleep in the bedroom, sweating and slightly feverish, but in no obvious danger.
I’d stripped to my underwear, and climbed in beside her, holding her close because she was chilled, her skin cold to the touch. She’d awakened long enough to recognize me, and favor me with a weak smile. “The big man,” she whispered. “I’m glad you’ve returned. The creature inside me is fighting and refuses to leave. You must rub my stomach and urge it out into the light.”
I stroked her belly and thighs until she drifted off to sleep, then I pulled her tight into the crook of my arm, and fell asleep beside her.
I awoke nearly four hours later-a little after 11:30 P.M.-to the sound of her moaning. Her eyes were closed, and she’d drawn her legs up into a tight fetal position, a clear sign of pain.
In the bathroom medicine cabinet, I found ibuprofen tablets and a thermometer. I got her awake long enough to get a couple of pills down her and take her temperature: It was 101 degrees, a low-grade temp, but still a matter of concern.
I was worried that jungle root tea had worked, that she really was pregnant and had miscarried-and all the dangerous possibilities that combination implied.
She would not, however, consider my pleas that she let me get her to a doctor. Became nearly hysterical, in fact, when I pressed the argument.
“Get me home,” she said over and over. “Take me to my people. They will call for the curandeira, the old woman who makes medicines, and she will drive this evil thing out of me.”
I felt terrible. Absolutely powerless in the face of her strident fear of the outside world.
Holding her, trying to give comfort, I’d whispered into her ear, “You must at least take the pills I give to you. Take them as I tell you to do, no matter what. As my friend and traveling companion, will you do this for me?”
She had nodded as I rocked her in my arms. “Yes,” she said, “that I will do. Out of my affection for you.”
I carried Keesha, wrapped in a blanket, up the hill and strapped her into the seat just aft of the pilot’s, and next to my own. As I did, her eyes grew wide, and she yelled over the noise of the engine, “How will my heart stay in my body when this airplane leaves the ground?”
I patted her knee, making certain that she could see my smile, how at ease I was. “It’s just like riding in an automobile but louder. You’re going to enjoy it!”
The Irishman had been loaded into the cargo area behind me. He lay on his belly, hands still cuffed. He tried to get my attention several times, calling my name, but I ignored him. Ingratiation is the last resort of desperate people, and I wasn’t in a mood to cooperate. The idea that he had endangered Amelia for money-the callous self-absorption of such an act-had created in me a cold fury.