'This trip we pay attention to business. Last time we failed.' That closed the discussion.
Gaudet did not believe himself a sociopath, but rather a man of business. At the moment his one business goal de pended on finding Michael Bowden and obtaining all the information on one kind of plant or animal tissue that Bowden had collected and first located in 1998, most particularly its identity and where it might be found. He knew that it would be a powerful immunosuppressant but that it also would do far more than merely suppress the immune system on a tem porary basis. From this organic molecule had come Chaperone and he desperately needed it. It was distressing that Bowden himself probably wouldn't know which material it was, or why it might be useful. Bowden discovered hundreds of new plants and other organisms, large and small, each year.
Gaudet estimated they were about twenty miles from Michael Bowden's place. Of the six in the party, only Cy had gone with the group sent for the initial visit. They hadn't gotten what he needed and so this time he had come himself. It would be important that Bowden did not make a connection between the two visits.
They had managed to disguise the last intrusion as moti vated by looting and rape and had left the authorities with the impression that it was the work of ordinary criminals. Unfortunately, Michael Bowden had left his wife at home but had hidden all his journals, including the one for 1998. Gaudet walked to the edge of the jungle and ignored the men at the fire while he listened to the night sounds. He had a feeling and he always paid attention to his hunches. And maybe it wasn't just a hunch. The American, Sam, was hunt ing him and was getting close. People had shown up recently at his old home site in Polynesia, his beloved island, and they had conducted a thorough search. Was it Sam's people? The pursuit had grown wearisome.
Gaudet stepped into the darkness away from the fire and watched the men as they joked about women and sex, the same topic as always. After a time he heard a symphony of bird cries in the jungle.
'Carlos, what is with the birds?'
'Could be anything. But there are no warring tribes around here.'
'I'm the nervous type. Go check.'
Carlos groaned but made his way into the jungle and did not return.
Gaudet went to his pack and removed a Beretta 9mm model 92 automatic pistol with a fifteen-round magazine that was a twin to the gun in his shoulder holster; then he re treated farther from the fire and squatted, watching and wait ing. The birds continued with the noise and a nearby troupe of howler monkeys started their breathy calls.
It had begun to rain, but in the heat they didn't bother with rain gear. Wet or dry didn't really matter because even when it wasn't raining, it felt wet. However, the rain did affect what they could hear. Little droplets popped like tiny bullets as they bounced down through the leaves blending to form a sort of pimpled and dimpled wall of sound. Whispers or movement through the brush were much harder to detect. It was good for sneaking, but not so good for finding. Marita was a wizard in the forest and Michael followed her closely, knowing that some inner sense guided her in a way he'd never understand.
'We will need to stop for the night,' she said. 'I cannot feel the river.'
'How do you mean?'
'Whether it is there or there,' she said, pointing in two di rections that were ninety degrees apart. 'I am not used to the flashlight and it confuses me.'
'Which river?'
'Galvez.'
'Ah.' He now realized that she knew the location of the Galvez from her position in the jungle and that sense served as the basis for her navigation. Interesting, though it ex plained nothing about the source of this strange instinct.
Michael pulled out the GPS. He could only get one satel lite signal strong and one weak. Three were needed to get a firm location. He showed her the electronic map.
'We are probably here. And the river is probably this way.' He pointed. 'But the signal is not good here because of all the trees overhead.' They had gone a little farther, looking for a spot to make a clearing and hang their ham mocks, when she stopped and sniffed.
'There is a fire. I can smell it.'
Michael sniffed but could detect nothing. He took hold of the pistol grip on the gun and continued following her. He seldom shot at animals, even with his bow, and had never shot at a human being. Even now, despite his anger and fear, he could not imagine shooting to kill. He felt only the certain knowledge that he must try to capture the man who had killed his wife.
They walked farther and the rain abated, although some of the dripping continued. Then he detected the charcoal smell and soon after they saw a faint glow lighting the forest canopy. At some time past, the birds had seemed to increase their night calls and the howler monkeys began. It was eerie.
'They will know we are coming,' she whispered.
'Probably.'
'What do you want to do?'
'I will go to the edge of their camp. You stay back with your gun, Marita. I will tell them to raise their hands, and if anybody tries to shoot you, shoot them. Hopefully, we can take the bad one and scare the rest out of the Matses territory.'
'That sounds difficult. I intend to shoot.'
'But only if they go for their guns. Otherwise we talk. We need to make sure we have the right men. We cannot shoot men we don't know.'
'I will tell you when I see him,' she said.
Michael wondered how close they would have to get before she would be able to identify the man.
They moved ahead quietly, inches at a time. He found his knee shaking and his hands unsteady.
Perhaps fifteen yards from the fire they stopped. It was a yellow dancing flicker through the trees. They could see no faces despite their efforts to find a clear line of sight. After each deliberate step they paused for seconds. The men were speaking in French, joking and not particularly wary.
They were screened by some small trees and brush, but no large trunks. A giant kapok grew to Michael's right and a Brazil nut to his left.
Suddenly one of the men rose and said something in French.
He came right toward Michael, who held his breath and studied the man, trying to guess his intent. He could see the man's reddish whiskers growing far down his neck, heavy brows and a face molded in a cold stare. Dried blood caked the man's pants; Michael supposed it was from the native girls. The man bent over and reached in a pack and pulled out a small bottle of liquor. Whiskey, by the look of it. Then something rustled the bushes behind Michael. The man leaned forward, staring. It seemed a certainty that the man was look ing right at him. Michael waited, knowing he couldn't start a war until Marita confirmed the man's identity.
Turning, the man shrugged and sat back down.
The others quieted. They were nervous. Then one of them joked and the others, still looking a little uneasy, began to converse. After several minutes Michael and Marita were a mere twenty feet and all the faces were visible. She tugged on his sleeve and pointed at the man who had been staring in the brush. Michael motioned for her to move behind the broad trunk of the Brazil nut. For one crazy moment he wanted to ask her if she was sure about the identity.
She motioned for him to step back. Fear flashed through him. They couldn't stand around where they might be seen. She motioned again. Carefully he stepped back behind the tree; in response to her beckoning he put his ear to her lips.
'The others are not there.'
'But that is the man?'
'Yes. The big one. I watched him rape my sister. He killed my child.'
Michael willed himself forward.
'Help, help me!' Michael shouted.
The men jumped for their guns. Faster, though, Marita began shooting. Michael ducked back behind Marita's tree and began firing himself. The gunfire from Marita's Ml6 automatic nearly severed the redheaded man's arm at the shoul der. It hung by a thread, and the man stared open-mouthed as the next bullet knocked him over backward.
