Rodgers liked it.
'Any thoughts?' Hood asked.
'Not at the moment,' Rodgers said.
'Any questions?' Hood asked.
'Just one,' Rodgers replied.
'I already have the answer to that,' Hood said. He smiled. 'You start right now.'
SEVEN
Okavango Swamp, Botswana Tuesday, 5:36 P.M.
It felt good to breathe again.
For the first part of his ordeal, Father Bradbury was on the edge of panic. The man of the cloth could not draw breath easily nor could he see through the hood. Except for his own strained breathing, sounds were muffled by the mask. Sweat and the condensation from his breath made the fabric clammy. Only his sense of touch was intact, and he was forced to focus on that. The priest was hyperaware of the heat of the plain and the ovenlike convection inside the vehicle. Every bump, dip, or turn seemed exaggerated.
After lying in the vehicle for a long while, Father Bradbury forced himself to look past his fear and discomfort. He concentrated on drawing the air that was available, even if it was less than he was accustomed to. More relaxed, his oxygendeprived mind began to drift. The priest went into an almost dreamlike reverie. His spirit seemed to have become detached from his weakened body. He felt as if he were floating in a great, unlit void.
Father Bradbury wondered if he were dying.
The priest also wondered if the Christian martyrs had experienced something similar, a tangible salvation of the soul as the flesh was consumed. Though Father Bradbury did not want to give up his body, the thought of being in the company of saints gave him comfort.
The priest was torn from his reflection when the vehicle stopped. He heard people exit. He waited to be pulled out. It never happened. Someone climbed into the vehicle. Father Bradbury's hood was lifted at the bottom and he was given
scraps of bread and water. Then the hood was retied and was left there for the night. Though the priest kept drifting into sleep, he would invariably suck the cloth of the hood into his mouth, begin to choke, and wake himself. Or his perspiration would cool just enough to give him a chill.
In the morning, the priest was hauled from the vehicle and placed face forward on someone's back. As the men entered what was almost certainly a marsh, Father Bradbury's body returned, vividly alive. For a time, his shoulders, arms, and legs were hounded by mosquitoes and other biting insects. The humidity was greater here than on the plain. Breathing was even more difficult than the previous day. Perspiration dripped into his dry mouth, turning it gummy and thick. The paste caused his throat to swell, and swallowing became a chore. The clergyman once again succumbed to mortal despair. But he was too -weak to struggle. Father Bradbury went where he was taken.
Whenever he opened his eyes, the priest saw dark orange instead of black. The sun was up. As the humidity increased, the priest became dehydrated. He found himself fighting to stay awake. He feared that if he lost consciousness, he would never regain it. Yet he must have passed out. When they stopped, the sun appeared to be much lower in the sky.
But he could not be sure. Even as he was walked across thick, almost muddy soil, his captor would not remove his hood. Once again, he would not tell the priest why he was brought here. It was not until Father Bradbury had been taken into a structure of some kind that he was given any information at all.
Unfortunately, not all of the communication was verbal. And none of it was encouraging.
Father Bradbury was led onto a rug and was ordered to stand there. The man who had brought the priest in released him. Through the hood, he saw a gauzy spot of light directly ahead.
'May I have a drink?' Father Bradbury rasped.
The priest heard a high whistling sound from behind. A moment later, there was a sharp snapping sound followed by a blaze of intense heat behind both knees. The fire jumped up
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through Father Bradbury's thighs and down to his ankles like an electric shock. He sucked a deep, involuntary breath. At the same time, his legs folded, and he dropped to his knees. When he was finally able to let the air from his lungs, he moaned miserably.
The burning grew worse as he lay there. He knew at once that he had been struck with a switch.
After several moments, he was hoisted roughly back to his feet and cuffed on the side of the head to get his attention.
'Do not speak,' someone ordered.
The speaker was standing a few feet in front of the priest. His voice was soft but commanding. Father Bradbury's ear was ringing from the blow. He turned the side of his head toward the man who had just spoken. There was something compelling about his voice.
'This island has been sanctified with blood of fowl and day dancing,' the man continued. 'The voice of a reverend from outside the circle can only be used to advance or accept our faith.'
The words made sense, but Father Bradbury was having difficulty concentrating on them. His legs were weak and trembling violently. He fell again.
'Help him,' the voice from in front said.
Strong hands moved under the priest's arms. He was raised from the rug. This time the hands held him upright. The priest's breath was tremulous. The pain behind his knees settled into a regular, forceful throbbing. His head,
