As I sat there, listening to him (“Commander? You seem like a civilized man, Commander. For God’s sake, please answer me!”), I knew without having to give it much consideration or much wrestling with my conscience that if he had caused harm to Amelia, I would have a difficult decision to make. My instincts, all my training, told me to kill him.
A pilot himself, Tyner sat forward next to the pilot in his employ. I noticed that he’d combed his muttonchops and waxed his handlebar mustache, everything downward, perhaps so the facial hair wouldn’t distract his vision-a tactical touch.
As we lifted off, he turned toward me and touched the earphones of the voice-activated communications system he wore-he wanted to talk.
I fitted my tiny earphones on and adjusted the microphone arm as I heard his voice say, “The Jivaro village I know is on our way, but I still want to make it quick. Drop the girl and go. It’s at the confluence of two rivers. We’ll see their fires, and let’s just hope the men aren’t too drunk. They drink this psychedelic swill called chuchuwausee. Gives them visions. A drunken Jivaro is quick to use his blowgun, and they dip their darts in curare. Or the frog poison. You know about that, don’t you?”
I knew. The poison, curare, contains strychnine. Throughout South America, indigenous people made it from the wourali vine. I’d seen it done, once. The vine was boiled until it became a thick, gooey black mess-curare.
In the jungle, there are also many varieties of tiny frogs, only an inch or two long and always brightly colored-red, blue, yellow, strawberry-that, if roasted, produce a highly toxic alkaloid. Also a very effective poison if delivered into the bloodstream by an arrow or a dart.
I said, “I’ll talk to Keesha, and make sure she warns them off.”
“Do you trust her?”
Into my mind flashed an image of the little Pakistani man back in Cartagena calling to me, “Trust no one! No one!” Now it seemed almost funny.
I told Tyner, “Lately, she’s one of the few people I do trust.”
With my hand on the girl’s knee, I sat back and watched the moon drift upward beside us, afloat on the rolling black hills of forest, the surface of which was layered with a yellow, fulminating mist. I felt the outside air turn cool, then cold, as we gained elevation and soared southward through the night.
Perhaps because I was filled with adrenaline and anxiety, it seemed a long time-though my watch said it was only twenty minutes-before the pilot circled over what looked to be a ring of campfires in the darkness.
In my earphone, Tyner’s voice said, “This is it. See where the two rivers come together? It’s a little trading outpost. The Jivaros and the Yagua, they use it because they both refuse to mingle much with the outside world. This is kind of a halfway point between what’s civilized and what’s not.”
Below, I could now see two silver rivers, an arrow-shaped spit of land in the blackness between them, in the body of which the fires had grown larger, the distance between them greater. Keesha had flown most of the trip with her eyes closed-terrified-but now she was looking out the window, too.
I pushed the microphone away from my face and said to her, “Below us, there’s a village. He says these are Jivaro people. People who are part of your tribe. We’re going to put you off here. They’ll take care of you.”
She answered, “The Bad Gift. He tells you that?”
“Yes. But I believe him.”
“You will return before the sun rises?”
“No. Probably never.”
In the red lights of the cabin, I saw her eyes expand with a sudden awareness. “You are leaving me? I will not be seeing you again.”
I’d already given her my name, my phone number on a waterproof card-meaningless data in a place like this, but the only small offering I could make. “If you need me, if you need anything, look at the paper and dial those numbers. I’ll come.”
The chopper listed to port and starboard as it landed, tail swinging like a horizontal pendulum. I shoved the door open when the skids touched down. I reached in, unbuckled Keesha’s seat belt, and then took her up into my arms and ducked beneath the overhead blades, carrying her toward the campfire light.
I was aware of small, dark shapes in the shadows. In the strobing white explosions of the helicopter’s lights, like the flash of a camera, a series of images were printed briefly in my mind’s eye: naked men with rice-bowl haircuts, faces painted red or yellow, holding blowguns six feet long, watching me as I carried the girl past them. An old woman, her breasts sagging flat, as if they’d been deflated. Three young girls, black hair hanging down, babies strung across their bellies in little hammocks, skinny dogs yapping while naked children, boys and girls, hid behind their elders, peering at me, the strangest of visions.
The village smelled of wood smoke, roasting meat, river air, and something else-something powerful, important, and very intimate. It was an odor that seemed to register low on the back of my neck, not in my brain. It was very familiar. It created in me a curious yearning for something -what, I did not know.
I continued walking toward the fires, feeling the girl’s weight in my arms, the warmth of her breath on my cheek, and, for an instant, I felt an overwhelming but ludicrous desire to stay right here, in this village, with her. To tell Tyner to go on without me, leave me and never return.
Into my ear, Keesha said, “Do you see that old grand-mother? That’s her. How did she know I was sick? Our curandeira, the woman who makes medicines.”
Standing before us, next to a blazing fire, was a woman in a grass skirt, wearing layers of beads around her neck, grayhaired, toothless. When I called out a greeting in Spanish, she looked at me as if she were deaf.
“The old people here don’t speak Spanish,” Keesha explained.
I put the girl on the ground and held her until her feet were steady beneath her. I waited until I was sure before I said, “Then tell the woman that you must take the medicine I gave you. You promised. Understand?”
The girl hugged herself to me, her body shaking, then held me away. “I will do this thing for you.”
Then Keesha turned, held her hand out to the old woman, and the two of them walked into the darkness with only the briefest of glances at me.
Back in the helicopter, I watched the village, the silver river, and then the campfires grow so small that they were finally absorbed by the overwhelming gloom of jungle. I rode in silence, trying to recapture that mysterious but oddly familiar odor that I’d recognized, which therefore had to be recorded in my memory.
I couldn’t find it. I knew it was there, somewhere in my brain, but it was gone; it had ascended into some place that I could no longer access.
The nose of the chopper tilted downward, and we were under way.
It was a while before I realized Tyner and I were alone with the pilot in the helicopter. Behind me, the cargo area was empty. Where was McCauley?
I had removed my earphones, so I was out of contact-didn’t want to listen to anyone’s chatter-but now I put them on again. “Sergeant? You there?”
The response was immediate: “Roger that, Commander. I thought you were asleep. Couldn’t hear a thing. Or were maybe just lovesick and didn’t feel like talking.”
I said, “Neither. But I just checked the cargo area. What happened to the Irishman?”
I heard Tyner laugh and cover his microphone as he said something indistinguishable to the pilot.
I repeated the question: “What happened to the IRA guy?”
“Well… our bomb-making friend has gone native,” Tyner replied. “He seemed confused when I told him he’d make an excellent necklace. Kind of smiled, like we were dropping him off at camp to learn arts and crafts.”