Little Tiny Teeth

jungle.

“Idon’t...think they’re . . . following us anymore,” Theo gasped.

They’re following us, all right, Arden thought, but said nothing. His heart was pumping crazily and he needed all his breath to keep going. The three Americans had been running for almost ten minutes, pushing clumsily through the jungle and hacking inexpertly away with their machetes when they had to. Moving along what they thought was a diagonal track, they should have reached the path by now, but if they had they must have gone right through it without realizing it. But there was no doubling back to look for it. All they could do was keep going in what Arden thought—prayed—was generally the right direction. The only one to carry a sidearm—a little Beretta semiautomatic—he had pulled it from his holster and now clutched it in his right hand.

There was no doubt in his mind about the Chayacuro being on their trail. In the early morning hours, once the godawful dawn racket from the birds and howler monkeys had died down, a tropical rainforest was very quiet. Sounds traveled a long way, and several times he had picked up the Indians’ voices, frighteningly calm and monosyllabic. Unlike the Americans, they were in no hurry. Unlike the Americans, they knew what they were doing. Besides, Theo’s increasingly dragging feet were making enough noise to be heard down in Iquitos.

11

“Maybe...maybe they just ...wanted to ...scare us off,” Theo managed, following it with an “Uff!” as he tumbled headlong over a fallen trunk.

Sure, Arden thought grimly, and maybe they forgot to dip their darts in poison. And maybe your poor gray face and your uncoordinated movements—this was the third time Theo’d fallen—are just in my imagination.

“Jesus, Theo,” Frank said. “You have to watch ...where you’re going.” He said it with a kind of teeth-clenched jauntiness, trying to convince himself—to convince all of them—that there was nothing the matter with his brother aside from simple, frightened clumsiness.

Theo knew better; Arden could see it in his eyes as he and Frank pulled him to his feet.

“Well, let’s go,” Theo said, but he just stood there. His speech had slowed perceptibly now and was more mumble than words. He could no longer put his lips together. His system was shutting down. “Oh, hell, I need to...I need ... lie down.” He sagged against Frank.

“Theo,” Frank said urgently. “You can’t lie down. Come on, we have to keep going.”

“B...bud ...I can’t...I can...” His eyelids were drooping; saliva ran down his chin.

Frank wiped it away with his fingers, his eyes filming over with sudden tears. “Theo, you can make it, we’ll get you there, bro.”

“Don’t worry, Theo, we can do it,” Arden said. “Come on, buddy.”

Quickly, they each hooked one of Theo’s flaccid arms over their shoulders and got going at as close to a trot as they could manage. Theo was as inert, and as frightfully heavy, as a corpse.

12

“Artificial respiration,” Arden panted, as they struggled on. “Get him ...to boat...artificial respiration.”

This was mainly for Theo’s benefit, if he could still hear them. As they all knew, if artificial respiration could be applied until the effects of the toxin receded, the victim could recover, and Arden wanted him to know they hadn’t forgotten.

“Right,” Frank said brightly. “We’ll take . . . turns. All . . . have dinner in Iquitos...tonight.” But his eyes were rolling back in his head and he had begun to stagger with Theo’s weight. He was more delicately built than Arden, and he was clearly in agony, at the very end of his rope.

As was the stronger Arden. His lower back shrieked with pain, and every breath drove shards of glass into his lungs. His legs were beyond pain; he was no longer running, only driving each leg one excruciating, slogging step at a time. How many more could he force them to take? And were they really getting any closer to the boat, or were they going deeper into Chayacuro country?

Again, seemingly from a few hundred feet behind them, came a casual, softly spoken syllable or two of the Chayacuro language.

Frank slowed, struggling for air. “Can’t ...carry ...anymore!” he groaned. “Got to...put him down.”

Arden wouldn’t have been able to haul Theo much farther either, and it was with mixed guilt and relief that he slipped out from under Theo’s arm and helped Frank lay him gently on the mossy ground.

Frank crouched beside the supine, inert body and looked up at Arden. “We have to hide him. We can’t let them . . .” He couldn’t bring himself to say it. “You take his legs. I’ll take—”

“Are you out of your mind?” Arden cried in a hoarse whisper.

13

“They’re right behind us. Do you want us all to die?” He was tugging at Frank as he spoke. “Come on!”

Frank resisted, slapping angrily at Arden’s hand. “He’s still alive. He can hear us.”

Theo’s eyes were open, though unmoving. He could see them too. But there was nothing they could do. Hauling him farther was out of the question. “The hell with you then,” Arden said, straightening and turning away. “I’m going.”

“Wait! I’m coming, I’m coming!” Frank bent quickly to kiss Theo’s forehead. “Don’t worry, little brother, we’ll be back for you,” he said, choking on the words. Tears dripped from the end of his nose, but he let Arden drag him to his feet.

They had hurried on for only another minute or so before they stopped dead at the sound of Chayacuro voices carried on the still, heavy air; not the laconic syllables they’d been hearing till now, but an excited jabbering.