Little Tiny Teeth

“FBI?” Scofield cried, twinkling away. “Good heavens, are we under investigation?”

“Nope,” said John. “Well, not yet, anyway.”

Scofield chuckled, the others smiled civilly, and Scofield got to his feet again. “Well, now that we’re all friends, I hope you’ll let me present you with a little welcoming gift and do a little bragging at the same time. As most of you know, I have a few publications to my credit—”

“A lot more than a few, sir!” Tim enthused a little too ardently, then blushed bright pink.

“Well, thank you, Tim, but be that as it may, until now I’ve never written anything for the general public. So when Javelin Press asked me to put together something of an autobiographical nature, something that wasn’t full of technical jargon, I didn’t know where to turn

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for help. Fortunately, they were able to recommend a first-rate writer to assist me.” He smiled at Mel Pulaski, who grinned back. “I want to thank you for all your help, Mel. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Hell, you did all the work, Arden,” Mel said. “I just tweaked a word or two here and there. I was ashamed to take any money for it.”

“Not true at all. Don’t you listen to him. I would have been helpless without his guidance.”

John made a rumbling noise low in his throat. He was getting tired of the bowing and scraping, the kowtowing, and the self-inflating modesty. As was Gideon.

“And here are the fruits of our joint venture,” Scofield said. Reaching into a backpack, he took out a stack of four brand-newlooking books in their wrappers. “Hot off the press, ladies and gentlemen, and soon to be available at fine bookstores everywhere, I give you Potions, Poisons, and Piranhas: A Plant-hunter’s Odyssey.” He handed out the handsomely embossed, silver-and-green books to Maggie, Mel, and Tim, and walked the few steps necessary to give one to Duayne.

“I fear I brought only enough with me for our formal expedition members,” he said apologetically, “so John, and Gideon, and, ah—”

“Phil,” Phil said.

“—and Phil, I’m afraid I don’t have copies for you, but if you’ll give me your addresses at some point, I’d be pleased to send them to you.”

There was a chorus of thanks all around and Scofield took his seat again. Gideon peeked at Osterhout’s copy, opened to the title page, and saw that there was an inscription: “To Duayne V. Osterhout, with admiration, Arden Scofield. November 26, 2006, somewhere on the Amazon.” Osterhout looked pleased.

“Of course,” Scofield was saying jocularly, “this means that you

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three will be excused from the quiz on chapters one through five to

morrow morning, but I’ll be glad to arrange—”

“What the hell,” Mel Pulaski said under his breath.

“Is something wrong, Mel?” Scofield asked.

Mel was leafing—roughly pawing was more like it—through the opening pages of the book. Paper crumpled under his heavy hand. “I thought . . .”

“You thought what?”

“Nothing,” Mel said grimly.

Scofield looked perplexed and a little unsure of himself. “If you’ll notice, I did acknowledge your help. On page two of the acknowledgments, about midway down, you’ll find—”

“I said ‘nothing,’ all right?” Mel slammed the book shut without bothering to check page two of the acknowledgments. Whatever was eating him, he was done kowtowing for the day.

The two were still staring at each other—Mel sullen, Arden with a concerned frown—when Captain Vargas appeared from the forward passageway, closely trailed by a man Gideon hadn’t seen before.

“I am sorry about the interruption earlier,” Vargas said. “A few trees in the water from the timber plantations. No damage was done. As I said, there is nothing to worry about. And now I have the pleasure to present to you the gentleman who will be your guide on this excursion. He has guided expeditions in this region for more than ten years, including many scientific expeditions like this one, and I am sure he will meet every expectation. I assure you, there is no one who knows the Loreto jungle and its inhabitants better. He is a true professional in every respect. And a man who knows so much about the ancient teachings of the jungle shamans that he himself is known by

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many as”—a dramatic pause—“the White Shaman—el Curandero Blanco.”

He stepped aside to give the stage to his companion, whose appearance didn’t live up to the introduction.

Gaunt, gray-bearded, and hollow-cheeked, he was bizarrely dressed in baggy, bulgy camouflage pants, new faux combat boots with peppermint-striped shoelaces, and a grimy Chicago White Sox baseball cap worn backward. A loose red tank top with Maui Rules on it bared stringy, leathery arms with a multitude of pale scars. Down the back of his neck ran a dingy gray ponytail tied with a knotted blue rubber band. All he needed was three coats and a supermarket cart stuffed with plastic garbage bags and he would have fit right in mumbling at the tourists from a park bench in Seattle’s Pioneer Square.

Several crew members were standing off to the side watching, and Gideon heard one of them speak to another. “El Curandero Blanco,” he repeated with a derisive laugh. It was Chato, the one who had taken them to their rooms. “El Lechero Blanco.” The White