Colgan wanted to please himself, and he had to feed his enormous and eccentric ego.
Bolan knew that such an ego was voracious.
Soon even so elaborate a charade as this would not be sufficient. More and more would be necessary.
Colgan had bought into the self-constructed myth so totally that he wouldn't be able to see it even if it were pointed out to him. That was why he lost his patience with Bolan, and why he kept everyone, even Marisa, at arm's length.
Let somebody close, and you have to acknowledge their existence. You have to interact, and once that happens, you are forced to realize that the world holds a hell of a lot more than just yourself. For a man like Thomas Colgan, the Filipino people were not people at all. They were props. Their diseases and injuries were part of the script, and they were what enabled him to shine so brightly.
And that's as far as Colgan cared to see. It was as if he lived inside a plastic bubble. People on the outside could see through it, see him gliding on angelic feet, ministering to the sick and infirm. But when he looked back, all he saw was his own reflection on the inside of that bubble. No matter which way he turned, it was his own face he saw. And he liked what he saw too much to ever want to look at anything else.
Carlos had reached the flag and stood with his back to the convoy. Bolan saw him turn sharply to the left, then raise a hand in greeting. A moment later two men in fatigues materialized against the dark green of the jungle. Carlos stepped toward them. One of the men hung back, and the other waded through waist-high grass. He said something to Carlos, who turned and waved, then together they started walking back toward the jeep, accompanied by one man.
Carlos waited for his companion to climb into the jeep, then jumped behind the wheel. He released the emergency brake, and the jeep bumped forward in first gear. As the small convoy rolled slowly ahead, Bolan watched Colgan, who had said nothing to the man and had barely even looked at him.
Instead he sat with his hands in his lap, staring straight ahead.
When Carlos reached the flag, the second guide waved him on, running through the tall grass for about fifty yards. He turned left, heading toward the trees, and pulled aside a net interlaced with green fronds. A small lane appeared in the forest wall, and Carlos wrestled the jeep through the shallow ditch and into the tall grass. Bugs swarmed up out of the thick clumps and buzzed around them as they bounced over the uneven ground and into the lane.
After the third jeep had entered the forest, the guide replaced the netting and eased through a narrow gap in the trees. He climbed into Bolan's jeep without saying anything. Carlos jolted ahead now, and they made their way slowly forward. The big truck, its canvas cover slapped incessantly by branches, groaned and squeaked as its chassis twisted back and forth.
Bolan looked at the new passenger, who kept his eyes forward and made no attempt to communicate with the rest of them. The lane snaked its way, tall grass nearly shrouding the hint of ruts beneath. The lane had been cut some time ago, and many of the stumps, cut off just above the soil, had already begun to sprout new shoots, which whipped at the undercarriage of the jeep, slapping against the gas tank and filling the narrow gap with a hollow drumming sound.
The lead jeep braked, its taillights flashing and smearing a wash of artificial color over the shiny green leaves. Carlos leaned forward and the engine died. Bolan's driver turned off his own engine.
Behind them the truck continued to rumble.
"We're there," Marisa stated.
"Looks like," Bolan said.
"Watch Thomas. You'll see what I mean."
"He's still sitting in his jeep. Somebody's coming to talk to him, I guess."
Bolan waited until a small man in fatigues and a headband, like an aged version of the one who had climbed into their own jeep, halted beside Colgan. The doctor turned his head and leaned down to listen to the new arrival. Bolan was reminded of scenes of the Pope among the faithful.
Colgan climbed down from the jeep, the little old man darting in and out like an anxious child. Colgan moved toward the scattered tents, and children raced toward him on their own or were dragged by stern-faced women in khaki with rifles slung over their shoulders.
The men of the camp seemed to hang back, forming a ragged ring around the growing knot of women and children. Colgan nodded and patted the children on their heads like a man dispensing indulgences rather than medicine. When he reached the center of the camp, towering over the crowd, his white clothes gleaming in the morning sun, he turned and waved toward the medical supply truck. For a moment Bolan held his breath, waiting for a thunderbolt to be summoned by that long, shining arm.
"Maybe now you can begin to see my husband for what he is," Marisa said.
"I already do."
16
Bolan lay on the narrow cot, his arm folded under his head. The moist air smothered him, pressing on his chest like a layer of damp concrete. He had tried to sleep off and on for two hours.
His watch told him it was nearly three in the morning, but it made no difference.
In disgust he threw the light blanket off and let his legs dangle down over the edge of the metal frame. He leaned over and tugged on his boots.
Rubbing his hands on his thighs, he realised how tight he was. The muscles in his legs felt like metal bands. Getting to his feet with a weary sigh, he stretched his arms out as far as he could, then did a dozen deep knee-bends. His legs loosened up a little, but he could feel the tension sitting there in his gut like a ball of freshly smoked rubber.
He strapped on the AutoMag and walked to the door of the hut. Fitted with a simple screen door, it was bug tight and hot as an oven. Already he could feel a river of sweat coursing down his backbone. He listened to the night with one hand on the doorjamb. A small trickle of sweat ran down his bare forearm, beaded at his elbow, then dripped away.
Outside he could just see the corner hut at the right end of the compound. Just beyond, on the edge of the trees, a small glow told him a bored sentry was taking a smoke to ease the monotony. It always amazed him how predictable men could be. Left alone with the night, even men who had no interest in smoking reached for an open pack, if only to take a puff and crush the nearly whole cigarette under a boot heel. The coil of smoke, at least, moved. It made one feel a little less alone, as if the smoke might somehow be a companion until the next shift.
Deep in the jungle, something screamed. It was frightening, but not a scream of terror. More likely a predator, howling its frustration, was coping with the night in its own fashion. Idly Bolan pushed the screen door away with the toe of one boot. It swung open noiselessly, and almost like an automaton, he stepped out into the thick, hot air.
Stepping aside to let the screen door close behind him, he bumped it with a hip to make sure it shut tightly. Whatever else he accomplished, he didn't want to come back to a room full of mosquitoes. He walked out into the center of the green half-moon that echoed the curve of the line of huts.
Looking up, he saw stars brighter than any he'd seen in a long time. Only this far from the city were so many stars visible that one could keep counting them until morning.
A single dim rectangle of light spilled through one of the screen doors. Faintly orange, it came from a kerosene lamp. For purposes of saving fuel, the generator was shut down every night at nine.
The day was too insistent very early in the tropics, and no one had the need of electricity much after dark.
He started walking without knowing quite why. Colgan's hut, like the others, was dark. The camp was as quiet as an empty tomb. The cigarette across the compound was long since dark. Staring into the night, Bolan saw no trace of the sentry. Behind him someone moaned, probably having a bad dream.