Chapter 17
Raul padded through the underground tunnel. The lights illuminated the space with a haunted glow. The tunnel system in Eden was complicated, extending for miles in nearly every direction, well beyond the compound itself. As head of security, he’d memorized every one of the branches, splinters, and caves of the labyrinth. He’d walked between the assembler room and the laboratories nearly every day since he had arrived.
He was growing tired of the artificial lights and the stench of chlorine, but he knew Michael’s scientists were close to their goal, closer than ever. A year ago, he wasn’t so certain. The work had been slow. Often, he had wanted to leave; he had threatened to leave only once. The lack of feeling in his right foot reminded him of the missing toes. A simple reminder, he had been told. It would have been pointless. He of all people knew Michael had eyes and ears everywhere. Even if he ran, he would eventually be found. He shuddered at what that would mean.
Michael did not tolerate disloyalty. Or failure.
The tunnel came to a sudden end and terminated into a giant limestone wall. Raul moved quietly and quickly in the dark, triggering the mechanism, and a moment later, a rumble sounded in the darkness as the giant rock began to swivel in toward him. It moaned until it revealed a small opening, just big enough for a man to pass through. Raul entered. Then the giant slab of granite crunched as the heavy rock ground against the stone floor.
The cave opened up to a large area nearly fifty feet across, Michael’s personal office. Raul scanned the room. The office was lined with bookcases and filled with scientific equipment. Victorian chandeliers had been rigged to the ceiling. Raul flipped off the flashlight and set it on a nearby shelf. A bright fluorescent wash covered the area. The room wasn’t damp or cold like the caves. Temperature-control systems kept the room perfectly comfortable. Classical music sounded from somewhere in the ceiling. His eyes fell on the big aluminum desk at the far side of the cavern.
Michael was there, waiting in a silver chair, his face hidden in the shadows of a jungle of scientific equipment.
“What happened?” Michael asked, leaning forward out of the shadows. The lights situated above his head made Michael’s eyes appear sunken and dark.
Raul winced. “We found the girl.”
Michael smiled. “Good. What about the others, the Americans?”
“Nothing to worry about. The Indian girl has been returned to the laboratory, and the American woman has been drugged and is asleep in the barracks.”
“And the rest of them?”
“We killed them,” Raul said, crossing his hands over his chest.
Michael nodded slowly and tapped his foot against the stone floor, a jittery little pattern. “Very good. The assembler is almost ready. Soon, the world will realize the power of Eden. That cannot be jeopardized. This American, this Peter Zachary, has already been too much trouble. I don’t want anything interfering with my research; is that clear?”
“Completely,” Raul said. “What should I do with the American woman?”
A short pause.
“Bring her to me.”
* * *
The speakers pulsed gently as Sarah McLachlan’s “Ordinary Miracle” sailed across the room. Alex woke with a start, realizing that her favorite song had been playing for a while. Eyes opened. Something wasn’t right. For an instant, she had the distinct feeling she’d just awakened from a nightmare, but the substance of it totally escaped her.
She pushed the sensation to the back of her thoughts and breathed deep. The air was fresh, scented with flowers. She shook her head. Maybe it was just one of those nights without dreams at all. Maybe she had just been dead to the world. She squinted as the sun crept onto her bed in long shafts of light, shining in from giant windows that stretched from floor to ceiling. Just a little more sleep. She pulled the sheets back over her head.
Sheets?
She sat up, trying to orient herself.
The world around her snapped into focus. She was in a giant bed with a down comforter and clean sheets. And she was wearing a fresh nightgown.
Where am I?
It came back to her in waves. The river, the jungle, the morgue, and . . . the dart in her back. She reached around and rubbed it.
Where were Tima and Peter? Or Gator and Linc? Or Skins? She remembered Skins lying on the floor of the morgue, gasping for breath.
Alex pulled back the sheets, swung her legs over the edge of the bed, and looked around. There was a bed, a dresser, and a small table and chairs, like a hotel. It was cold and clean, a big departure from the muggy jungles she’d been traipsing through for the past few days. There was no television or phone.
Set out on one of the chairs was a set of fresh clothes. A white jumpsuit.
None of the walls was constructed in a straight line. They all had slight curves, including the windows. The walls had been painted a slightly muted green, Alex’s favorite color, and decorated with modern art featuring random interconnected circles like atoms or molecules.
She noticed an attached bathroom, walked over and snatched the pile of fresh clothes, and headed for the shower.
As she did, a voice suddenly filled the air, coming from a speaker in the corner of the room.
“Dr. Forsythe,” a voice said in perfect Quechua, “Dr. Khang would like to see you now.”
* * *
Peter’s neck hurt. He opened his eyes and tried to sit up.
“Ow!”
He looked up to see what he’d hit his head on. All around him was dull silver. He knew instantly where he was: inside one of the reliquaries.
He banged his fist against the lid, but the cramped box simply didn’t give him enough leverage. He was stuck. The air was hot and close.
A muted silver light illuminated the space outside the box, casting an eerie glow into his small aluminum casket. Though he couldn’t be certain, he guessed the light was from the moon. If so, that meant it was nighttime and he was probably outside.
The foggy feeling in his mind slowly waned, giving way to another sensation. Motion sickness? He was drifting, moving. He turned his head so that he was facing the Plexiglas side of the box.
He was floating.
The reliquary he was in was floating in dark water. He heard it now, slapping gently against the box, sloshing as he moved around.
His neck still ached where the dart had struck him. His muscles were tight, partially from the impossible position he was in but also from the paralyzing chemicals that were still draining from his system. He shook his head and shut his eyes tight. He remembered diving for the tattooed guy and then being struck by the dart, but after that he didn’t know. The men must have put him in this box and left him to die.
As if he needed yet another reason to kill the White Shaman—or Michael Khang or whoever he was—once he got out of here. The list was growing. Bogart, Skins, and now this.
What about the others? Are they alive?
He looked out the window again and tried to make some sense of where he was. Outside, water lapped against the Plexiglas. He lifted himself on his elbow and looked out at the dim gray world around him. As his eyes focused, he saw that he was six inches away from a natural limestone wall, like the wall of a cave. Leaning over, he tried to see how far up the wall went, but it was no use. Just above him the stones seemed to arch inward. Nothing but rock.
It was almost impossible to move. He tried to shift onto his side, careful not to flip the box over, but a loud crack and jolt sent his forehead smashing against the window. His box had floated into the rock wall.
Peter found that he could jostle his body around to make the reliquary move in the water. The box bobbed and splashed, but he was able to edge only a short distance away from the wall.
Foul-smelling water splashed against his face. Water inside the box. Was he taking on water?
His feet were wet. He strained in the dark to see down the length of the box to the end where his feet were. Filmy, gray water formed a pool at his feet, halfway up his boot.
Great.
The air he had to breathe was thin and rank and had a dank septic quality. Then a thought hit him. How much air did he have left? He breathed shallower, careful to conserve as much as he could.
His box hit something again. This time it sounded like metal against metal. He looked out his window.
Another reliquary.
It bobbed gently in the moonlit water. Through the half-submerged Plexiglas panel of the other box, he could see Linc’s face. He wasn’t moving. Either he was already dead or he was still unconscious from the drugs. Putrid water lapped up and down the inside of Linc’s box, splashing against his face.
Peter shouted and pounded the glass with his fist. His voice sounded hollow. Linc didn’t move. Peter worked to calm down. Going nuts would be useless. He knew there was no way Linc would be able to hear him through the Plexiglas. But at least he was accounted for. More than he could say for Gator or Skins.
Or Alex.
Where was Alex? He hated being stuck in a stupid box when she could be floating somewhere nearby, freaked out of her mind. The last time he’d seen her, the tattooed guy had been trying to take her away. Maybe they’d spared her life. His mind flashed to several unpleasant scenarios. Maybe she was dead.
Another metallic thud jolted his box. He turned his head. A face was staring back at him. It caught him by surprise, like turning a corner to find someone you don’t expect.
It was Gator, alive and awake.
Gator looked nervous. He kept shaking his head and pointing up.
“We’re trapped,” Peter said, knowing he couldn’t hear him. “The electronic locks, remember?”
Gator pointed toward Peter’s feet. Peter looked down. The water inside his box had pooled and was now up to the top of his boot. He glanced back at Gator, who mouthed the words, telling Peter what he already knew but couldn’t see: “You’re sinking.”
* * *
A teenage native with a broad smile was waiting for Alex when she opened the door. She said good morning in Quechua. The boy replied. Apparently, it was the only thing he knew how to say in the Quechua dialect. When she began to ask him questions about Tima and Peter and where she was, the boy lifted his hands and shook his head, as if not understanding her.
He tried to use his native dialect. It looked like he thought it was very important. But Alex couldn’t understand. Finally, she stopped trying and simply reached out, touching the boy on his arm. “It’s okay,” she said, nodding her head, “we can go now.”
She and the boy stood alone in a long hallway. It looked like a hotel hallway with doors on each side. Metallic sconces hung from the walls between doors, casting light up toward the ceiling. White walls met white ceiling and floor, giving the whole space a sort of clinical look and feel. It smelled clean. Classical music wafted through the corridor.
The boy turned and led her down the hallway, through a set of metal doors, into a white windowless stairwell, and down three floors. He was dressed in a traditional Quechua wraparound skirt, and brightly colored tattoos lined his back and chest.
He’d been trying to tell her something important. There’d been some look in his eye that Alex couldn’t quite place. Maybe it was simply the same connection she’d felt with Tima’s tribe. She had to admit that seeing another Indian was a relief, but she was anxious to find Tima.
Where am I?
At the bottom of the stairwell was a door leading to the exterior. A series of metal clicks sounded, and the boy pulled down on the handle. As the door opened, a brief suction echoed against the walls. A shaft of muted moonlight filtered through the open door and a waft of thick, warm air struck Alex’s face.
The boy led Alex through the door and into the warmth of the outdoors. It was early, nearly dawn. She was surprised to find two armed guards, dressed in white, waiting on either side of the exterior door. Neither spoke to her. One said a few words to the other in a European language—German, Alex thought—and the other pointed to a walking path. The boy went that way, and Alex followed.
The scene around her was overwhelming. She felt like she had stepped into a massive arboretum. Giant trees towered above carefully manicured lawns. Water was everywhere: Fountains and streams and a giant azure lagoon that stretched out just beyond the buildings in front of her and gleamed in the bright moonlight. The air was perfumed with the scent of flowers. Gas-powered lanterns sat alight wherever she looked, adding a flickering glow to the pre-dawn gloom.
Pathways made of perfectly hewn white stones snaked between a dozen pristine granite and glass buildings. People walked briskly between the buildings, dressed in white jumpsuits, like the one she’d found in her room and was wearing now.
As Alex followed her guide down the white path, she scanned the faces. She noticed Caucasians and Africans and Asians, all dressed in white clothes. She saw other Quechua, dressed as the boy was. Everyone looked healthy and fit, especially the Indians. Alex had worked with hundreds of Indians in the rain forest. Many of them had battled disease or malnourishment and looked sickly. These Indians were all tall and strong and healthy.
They were scurrying about, weeding gardens, carrying water, or on their way to something. Daily life. Most of them were accompanied by men in white, who used hand gestures to communicate with them. From what she could tell, the Quechua mixed normally with the non-Indian population. Alex wondered if there were other newly discovered tribes, like the Mek, living here.
The Indian boy giggled as he pranced down a path, looking back occasionally to be sure Alex was still behind him. It was like some bizarre scene from The Wizard of Oz. The boy pointed and cooed all around him, showing off his home.
A small river ran parallel with the path. On the opposite riverbank, Alex noticed what at first had appeared to be tall, thin trees. Looking closer, she could see that they were actually metallic posts dressed to look like trees. Alex smiled. Talk about green industry. Even the architecture had been designed to complement the surroundings. What was this place?
As she walked, she saw that small metallic discs protruded every few feet up the length of each post on both sides. Beyond the posts was a wonderland of flora and fauna. Giant trees and lush gardens were situated around meandering streams.
Ahead of them, wandering across a picturesque meadow toward the trail, was a herd of deer. It reminded Alex of a painting or postcard, a perfect picture. Alex watched one of the deer stop, its tail lifted to alert the others. Though they seemed to be heading the direction of the path, the herd turned sharply and took off into the brush. A flurry of motion and Alex’s eyes were drawn upward. A flock of brightly colored birds took flight between the branches of towering trees. Even in the pre-morning light the colors of the birds were almost impossibly brilliant.
Alex became aware of a massive tree ahead of them. Monkeys and parrots fluttered and dangled all over its ancient branches, which were dotted with large white cocoons. Colorful butterflies flew in zigzagged patterns high overhead. Almost everything here seemed more extreme in some way than its counterpart out in the Amazon jungle she knew. Here it would be brighter or bigger or more beautiful. Was this some kind of lost world?
Alex noticed a creature, probably a sloth, easing its way up the gigantic tree trunk. Even the sloth seemed to have stepped from the pages of a children’s book or movie set. All the creatures she’d seen so far looked healthy and well-nourished. They seemed to be living quite comfortably despite the dozens of humans zipping around nearby. The happiest zoo Alex had ever seen.
In the darker corners, between the tree trunks, Alex caught a glimpse of another animal, maybe a jaguar. That was odd. Were the predators free to wander around with the prey? Or had the peacefulness of this place calmed their killer instincts? What was this place and who made it?
She watched as two howler monkeys played in the branches over her head, near one of the posts. The two animals smacked and bit each other playfully. One of them lost its balance and swung through the air, aiming for another branch. But it hit something in midair, as if it had struck an invisible wall. The monkey let out a cry of pain and fell thirty feet to the ground.
Instinctively, Alex took a step toward the animal, but her young guide held her back. He spoke in his dialect and pointed at the metal posts.
Was it some kind of virtual fence? Some electronic barrier that could stop heavy objects in mid-flight? The boy’s eyes darted around as if he were trying to figure out what to do next.
“I wouldn’t think of going past there,” one of the guards said, hustling toward them. “Unless you want to be something’s breakfast. I guarantee they can kill you a lot faster than I can.”
Alex turned to look across the jungle scene. She noticed that the whole racket of bird and animal sounds had all but ceased. “Who can?”
Two more guards appeared at the shoulders of the first. “Who can what?” the first guard said.
“Who can kill me fast?”
The guards didn’t answer. The new arrivals came to stand at Alex’s shoulders. They prodded her back toward the path.
Her young guide took her by the hand. “Come,” he said with a rather anxious smile.
Alex obliged. As they walked, the trees grew denser. Soon, pink sunlight crept through the branches, but only in shafts and spotted patterns. As she walked, the words kept tumbling around in her head.
They can kill you a lot faster than I can.
* * *
Gator was right. Peter was sinking.
The water now filled the lower part of the box. Peter figured there were probably five gallons of water already in the reliquary. At this rate the weight of the incoming water would soon overpower the reliquary’s buoyancy, and he would go under. He looked at Gator. Gator’s box was definitely taking in less water, maybe because he hadn’t been moving around.
As Peter looked through his window into Gator’s, he saw a school of football-sized fish swim between them. He caught a glimpse of one. The fish had a bulbous head with silvery fangs and a long, thin tail almost like that of a tadpole. It glinted as it swam, looking almost mechanical. The fish turned and disappeared in the water.
Peter’s breathing became difficult. He could feel the air in the chamber thinning. His exhaled carbon dioxide was returning to him as a slow killer, squeezing out the little remaining oxygen.
His mind began to toggle in and out of reality.
He was twelve years old, standing in the sun, squinting down the road. It was hot, even for Montana—almost one hundred degrees. His shirt was soaked in sweat, and he kept thinking about the lemonade and air-conditioning inside. He thought he saw something. A truck? He waited, watching the dust gather in a little cloud. It was closer. Yes, it was definitely a truck.
His heart was beating faster. Of course it was. He hadn’t seen his father in two years, but he’d always known he’d come back. He had promised he would. The truck was loud, banging its way down the road. Peter could see that it was red. Was Dad’s truck red? He remembered it was black. He must have painted it. Or bought a new one.
Now it was only a hundred yards away. Peter moved to the middle of the road. He stood, waving his hands, smiling from ear to ear. He started jumping up and down. It was Dad. He was back.
The truck honked but didn’t slow down. Peter stayed where he was, waiting for his dad to slam on the brakes. But it didn’t happen. Instead, the red truck swerved and passed by. An old man yelled at Peter as he passed.
Peter stood in the road, his chest heaving. Tears rolled from his eyes. He’d already been waiting for three hours. That was it. Mom was right. He wasn’t coming back, no matter what he’d said.
That’s the way things are. The thought came to him like a news flash. Things either happen or they don’t. Wishing for something doesn’t make it so. You believe something when you see it. Right there, standing on the cracked pavement of that old highway, he decided he’d never wish for anything again. Life was cruel to people with wishes.
He began to walk back to the farmhouse. Inside it would be cooler—
Wait a minute. That was it: the temperature-control system.
Peter looked down at his feet, now totally covered by the reeking water of the Amazon jungle. Just below his foot, against the rear side of the box, a small stream of bubbles was emerging from the temperature-control unit. The valve was open, allowing at least a small amount of air into the box, along with the water. If he could shift the entire box one turn so that the Plexiglas was facing up, the leaking might stop and more air could come in.
Adrenaline pumping through him, Peter began to rock his box. As he did, water pulsed into the chamber. The weight of his body complicated the physics of rolling the box over. Finally, with little energy left, Peter tipped the box tipped up on one long edge. It crashed back down on the opposite side, sending water sloshing around the chamber.
Immediately, he felt fresh air seep into the chamber. He took several long deep breaths. It was rancid jungle air, full of decay, but to him it tasted like sweet ocean breeze. He waved at Gator and banged on the side of the box, wishing he could let him know what he’d done, but Gator looked okay for the moment. He wondered about Linc, Tima, Skins, and Alex. Mostly about Alex.
He lay his head against the aluminum and breathed deeply, organizing his thoughts. Dim Amazon light suddenly shined through the Plexiglas window, now directly above his head. His eyes focused on the scene above him.
Oh, no.
* * *
Two guards flanked Alex as she walked down the path, following the boy. Looking behind her, Alex saw that the building she’d been in had disappeared behind the trees. She could still hear the distinct sounds of humanity though: the low hum of machinery, the echo of footsteps, and even an occasional verbal exchange.
She looked up into the trees towering over her. What had at first appeared to be branches and vines transformed into a vast network of ancient-looking houses connected by an intricate system of bridges and ladders. All of it was suspended more than one hundred feet in the air. It looked like an eight-year-old’s dream.
Ultra-modern buildings hung next to other structures that looked like ancient Incan lodging. All of the structures were connected by rope bridges. It was The Jetsons meets Robinson Crusoe. The technology and architecture here were staggering, but even more so was the idea of an ancient culture colliding so peacefully with a modern one, taking up residence together in this mystical valley.
The boy marched under the tree house structures to another opening in the forest. In the middle of the clearing, snug up against a mountain’s rock face, was another building, a sprawling dome made of glass and metal. A massive geodesic biosphere.
The mountainside behind the dome looked like a postcard of the old Indian dwellings at Mesa Verde. It was littered with caves and structures. Ladders, walkways, and steep steps connected the various rooms and structures. Alex could see figures moving from one cave to the next. A living ancient Indian village. It was incredible.
A series of building pods—like mini Epcot Center spheres—were connected to the main dome. Some of the pods were nestled in the branches of the trees like beehives, all tied together with aluminum ladders and ramps. Scattered around the grounds were ancient vine-covered pyramids and temples and homes. An ancient Incan village synthesized with modern technology.
The dome appeared to be the central structure of this place. She felt like she’d found the centerpiece of the lost world. The building was gigantic, as wide as several football fields. Its roof was composed of hexagonal panels made of glass or Plexiglas.
Once at the main building, the Quechua boy handed Alex off to the guards, who hustled her through two sets of glass doors. The insulation around the doors made a sucking sound as they passed through an anteroom and into the huge, glass-paneled dome itself. Once inside, Alex stopped involuntarily.
It was as if God himself had lifted the Garden of Eden and put it down here. It was a tropical paradise. Tall moss-covered trees towered above delicate palms. Flowers of every variety and color burst out of the ground. Crawling vines formed bright green loops and patterns as they hung from the tree branches. As impossibly verdant as it had been outside the dome, inside it was twice as rich and suffused with life.
Water was everywhere. Bubbling streams meandered across the ground. All the water flowed toward a lagoon on the opposite of the dome. The lagoon and the dome itself were situated against a steep mountainside. A waterfall cascaded down from towering rocks into the lagoon. Mist formed at the bottom of the waterfall and rose off the water like steam. Brightly colored birds swooped and cawed in the air above the lagoon, drawing Alex’s eyes up.
The ceiling was even higher on the inside than it appeared to be from the outside. Each clear panel looked to be thirty or forty feet across. An intricate steel cage held the entire structure together, like a metal spiderweb. In addition to hundreds of smaller trees, two titanic trees—strangler figs—spanned the entire two hundred feet to the top of the dome, their branches meshing with the steel of the structure, as if holding it up. Alex recognized the snarled roots and looping branches that formed the latticework trunk of the massive hollow trees.
At the base of one of the trees, an elevator had been inset into the trunk. It reminded Alex of a gigantic sequoia tree in California that she and her family had driven their family car through when she was a child. These trees put those to shame.
Benches and table were scattered around. Men and women in white coats moved throughout the structures, appearing and disappearing in the thick woods. She half-expected that if she looked, she’d find rows of cubicles lined up against trees and copy machines next to climbing vines.
Inside, the temperature had to be fifteen degrees lower than outside, comfortable but not cold. Alex was sure she could feel a slight breeze but couldn’t tell where it was coming from. The geodesic clear ceiling panels above her head allowed the morning light to filter in as if she were still outside. Alex could hear music being piped into the room. Somehow, it made the room feel more like a fancy Vegas hotel lobby than a jungle research center.
If that’s what this was. She needed to find out. Whoever had built this place was certainly powerful and visionary. He seemed to have the ability to control and enhance life, if the creatures and plants she’d seen were any indication. If here was where Tima’s illness had started, surely the architect of this place would know how to cure her.
“Let’s go,” the guard said.
The guards led Alex along another path, through a glade of trees and across a footbridge that spanned a bubbling stream. The place was alive with color, light, and life. They passed rows of orchids, jasmine, and lilacs, all filling the air with fragrance. Animals roamed freely, unnerving Alex a bit. Howler monkeys swung from branches overhead, a solitary sloth moved along one of the tree trunks and a pair of spotted jaguars lounged in the nearby grass.
The trees in front of her opened up again, and she was standing on the edge of the lagoon, facing the waterfall. The guards stopped.
Ahead, Alex saw a distinguished-looking gentleman sitting on the edge of the lagoon, gazing into the water. The man was white, like most of the guards. He had salt and pepper hair and a neat white mustache and beard. A young Ernest Hemingway. He wore a stylish black suit with an open collar. The guards nudged Alex closer.
“Did you know,” the man asked as Alex approached, “that the Amazon Basin is the most fertile ecosystem in the world?” He still didn’t look up at Alex. “Hidden in these jungles are the answers to the biggest problems of the world: energy, disease, defense.” His deep voice was rich and carried a slight foreign lilt—Irish, or maybe Scottish. It carried an aura of authority and wisdom.
Alex stepped toward him. “Are you the White Shaman?”
The man smiled and looked up at Alex. He might have been in his sixties, but his face was angular and taut, with few visible lines. His white beard and hair were trimmed and neat. Brilliant blue eyes were offset against sun-darkened skin. He came to his feet, and as he did so, a tiny white mouse scrabbled up the outside of his pant leg and alighted on his shoulder. He extended his hand to Alex. “It’s true, I’m afraid. The Indians here call me their White Shaman.” He chuckled. “But my name is Dr. Michael Khang.” His tone was disarming. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Forsythe.”
“You know my name?”
“Oh, but of course,” he said, gripping her hand warmly. “The intrepid Dr. Alexandria Forsythe, discoverer of the lost Mek Indians. I owe you my gratitude.”
“I’m flattered, Dr. Khang.” As she shook his hand, Alex noticed the tattoo on the inside of his wrist: >H.
Khang smiled, noticing her gaze. He began walking away from the lagoon.
Alex followed. “Where’s Tima?” she said. “I’d like to see her.”
“The Indian girl? You mean you know her name?”
“Yes, I know her name,” Alex said. “I speak her language. Anyway, she’s very sick, and I’m hoping you have the antidote for her condition.”
“I can assure you,” Khang said, holding a vine aside for Alex to pass, “that she is being taken care of. You were wise to bring her back here. Without the power of Eden, she may well have died.”
Alex felt a rush of relief. “So you have her? She’s receiving medical attention?”
“Oh, yes. There’s nothing to worry about.”
Alex breathed more easily now than she had in weeks. But now a new question suggested itself. “You said ‘Eden.’ What do you mean?”
Khang smiled expansively. “Eden, my dear. All of this,” he said, sweeping his hand toward the glass panels far above them, “and the surrounding grounds. The folly of an old man.”
He led Alex to a small flagstone patio area with half a dozen wrought-iron chairs and a glass table. He settled into one of the chairs in front of the table, crossed one leg over the other, and capped one hand on his knee. His other elbow rested on the arm of the chair. The tiny white mouse was still perched on his shoulder. “Please. Come sit down with me.” He waved toward a pair of chairs opposite his.
Alex walked slowly toward the chair and sat down. “What about the others?”
“Others?”
“Major Zachary and the other Americans?”
Khang’s face darkened.
* * *
Peter was floating at the bottom of a sinkhole. The rock walls pushed straight up on all sides for at least fifty feet. On one side of the sinkhole, a waterfall dripped over the edge, dumping water into the abyss. He remembered seeing pools like this from above when he’d stood at the waterfall.
The clouds were visible now, indicating that the sun was beginning its rise. In the new light he estimated that the abyss was about fifty feet across.
Arching his back, Peter pushed against the Plexiglas with all his strength. Nothing happened. He lifted a soggy boot out of the water and kicked. His rubber soles squeaked on the plastic, but that was it. Not near enough room to gain leverage. He formed two fists and pounded on the plastic. Again and again. Still nothing. He lay on his back in the reliquary and rocked it side to side, trying to free himself.
A face appeared.
He gasped and jerked, hitting his head on the clear plastic. The face blocked the light above, but Peter could still see that it was a man’s face, covered in crimson. He was breathing hard. Blood dripped onto the Plexiglas between them. Though he couldn’t see the face, Peter recognized the bandana and the metallic clink of a harmonica hitting his box.
It was Linc. [TS3] He was bloody but alive. And out of his box.
“Are they gone?” Linc mouthed through the Plexiglas.
“Who?” Peter hadn’t seen anything.
Linc shook his head, scanning the water. He started pecking at the electronic keypad, trying different combinations. After a few minutes, Peter heard a distinct clicking sound, then nothing. Linc looked in, shrugging his shoulders. He tried the code sequence to the lock again. Still nothing. He banged on the Plexiglas in frustration. Maybe the circuitry had been fried by the water. Linc pulled his bandana off, smoothed his hand over his wet hair, and tried the numbers again.
Peter heard a short click as the lock released. The box was still shut, but now he could get out. With Gator sucking air in the other reliquary, he knew that time was their greatest enemy.
Linc pointed at the latch. “You ready?”
Peter nodded and took a deep breath. He kicked the top open and dumped into the water. If you could call the gray sludge he swam in “water.” It burned his skin where he’d been cut in the jungle. Great way to get an infection, but it was better than dying.
Ignoring the pain, he propelled his legs and quickly broke the surface. He held on to the door of the reliquary, but it was taking in water faster than he could move. It didn’t help that Linc was scrabbling on the box, trying to stay out of the water himself. The box ebbed and sloshed over, lid side up and open. Then, Linc was standing in the box, water midway up his calves.
“Linc, what are you—”
“Swim!” Linc commanded. “Get out of the water!”
“Why?” He looked around.
Something moved in the water. Dark forms darting here and there. A flash like the reflection off a dime.
The silver-fanged fish.
Peter could see Gator’s box floating only twelve feet away. He didn’t think about it. He just dove halfway to the box and started swimming toward it, pushing hard against the water.
He erupted from the water right beside Gator’s box. But not before one of the fish managed to get its teeth into Peter’s calf. It burned like crazy, and Peter kicked the thing against the plastic box as he pulled himself up and onto Gator’s box. It wriggled free, plopping back into the water. Peter’s leg oozed blood, but it wasn’t going to kill him anytime soon.
Gator pounded on the Plexiglas. He looked pained but smiled and touched the plastic lid.
“Boss, unlock his box!” Linc shouted. “We don’t have much time.”
Peter willed himself up onto his hands and knees. “What’s the code?”
Linc told him the sequence, and Peter entered the numbers into the lock. The electronic padlock made the familiar click. He tugged on the latch to get Gator out. This time, the half-door opened easily. Gator managed to wriggle his way out of the box and sat for a moment, sucking in air.
He looked up at Peter and then glanced over at Linc. The three of them bobbed ridiculously in the water, tired smiles on their faces.
Peter glanced at Linc. “How’d you get out of your box?”
Linc shrugged. “It was open. The lock was broken off. It must have hit the side of the hole on the way down.”
“Lucky you,” Peter said.
“Hoo-rah,” Gator said. “Could be luck had nothing to do with it. Ah well, that was fun. Now, how are we going to get out of here?”
* * *
“Don’t worry; you will join your friends soon,” Khang said. He crossed his legs again. “I sincerely apologize for the unfortunate incidents on the water and at the morgue. You see, what we are doing here will forever change the human race. We have been under attack by every hater of progress you could imagine. We simply must protect our location. It is the key to our survival.”
“But . . . your guards killed Bogart back at the boat and nearly killed us on the water.”
Khang straightened. “The big guy on the boat was trying to be a hero. My men never would have shot him had he been compliant. There was no way we could have explained what’s happening here.”
“I don’t understand,” Alex said, still staring into the enormous fish tank. “What do you want from me?”
“Surely you see what’s happening here, Dr. Forsythe,” Khang said, turning to Alex. “I want you to join me.”
Alex laughed out loud. “You don’t even know me.”
“I know you were the top graduate from your class at Columbia. I know your parents were both renowned researchers. I know you chose to stay in the Amazon instead of accepting a fellowship at Cambridge. You did it because you have the same vision as I do, Alex.”
“What’s that?” Alex said, her head spinning.
“The preservation of the human species,” Khang said. “Including the Mek and all the other Quechua tribes.”
Alex blinked. “What?”
Khang stroked his white beard. “Do you like classical music, Dr. Forsythe?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“Do you hear this music?” Khang asked, pointing to the trees overhead.
It seemed to Alex that the music got louder just then, wafting from hidden speakers made to look like rocks, no doubt. It was a particularly complex piano piece. One she knew. Alex nodded.
“Do you know what it is?”
“Rach the third,” Alex said. “It’s legendary.”
“Indeed,” Khang said, eying her closely. “It is Rachmaninov’s Piano Concerto Number Three. An exquisitely difficult piece. Did you know that Rachmaninov composed it while hypnotized? Even the most accomplished pianists are afraid of it.”
“Really?” Alex said as if interested, though she already knew that little piece of trivia.
“This piece, Dr. Forsythe, is about as close to perfection as has ever been written.”
“I’d say that’s true.”
A woman dressed in a flowing white dress walked onto the patio. Alex did a double take. With high cheekbones and long silken brown hair, the woman could have passed for a European high-fashion model. She carried a silver plate with two ceramic cups and a steaming pot. Alex could smell the coffee a mile away. Her senses went wild.
“Ah, yes. Thank you, Jones,” Khang said to the woman, receiving a cup and saucer. He turned to Alex. “You drink coffee?”
Alex’s mouth began to water. “Cream and sugar, please.”
The woman handed Alex a cup and saucer and then walked back down the trail. Alex sipped. It was amazing, a perfect cup of coffee.
“Now,” Khang said, setting his own cup down on the table between them. “Let’s talk.”
* * *
The three of them bobbed in the boxes, considering their options. Peter had already ruled out trying to scale the walls. Linc was the best climber of the three, and he couldn’t get two feet off the ground. The limestone was smooth and slick as oil.
“What about diving?” Gator said. He was kneeling in his box, scanning the water.
“What? Are you nuts?” Linc said. “Have you seen those fish? They’re like piranha on steroids.”
“See those bubbles?” Gator said. “Those are coming from underwater thermal vents.”
“And . . . ?” Linc said.
“And that could mean a cavity. Could lead to an underwater tunnel.”
“What are the risks?” Peter asked. “Besides, of course, the man-eating fish.”
“Well,” Gator said, “Peru does have the highest level of seismic activity in South America. Worst case is we trigger an earthquake or volcano. Other than that, I’d say the only real danger is getting sick from exposure to this cesspool.”
“So, you’re saying we could do it.” Peter said, joking. He already knew that there wasn’t a lot of hope that they’d find a way out. But he also knew that with enough time, they’d think of something. They always did.
“Oh, great,” Linc said, pointing up. “As if this wasn’t bad enough, looks like our friends are back to finish us off.”
Peter looked up. Sure enough, a shadowy figure stood over the edge of the hole.
The three of them went silent, waiting.
“Look like you need help,” a familiar voice said.
It was Skins.
“I don’t believe it,” Gator said, “the kid’s back from the dead.”
“I love you, man!” Linc shouted.
Fifteen minutes later, they were out. Skins explained that, after he’d been shot, he had jumped into one of the reliquaries and posed as a dead Indian. When the shooters pulled out his box, they immediately closed it again, not noticing that it was slightly open. When the four-wheelers had taken their three boxes to the sinkhole, he’d followed them. Then he’d returned to the laboratory to find rope. The wound on his leg had stopped bleeding, and he was able to walk on it.
“You save Afanzo,” Skins said, patting Peter on the back. “I save you.”
“Yeah, well, now I’m going to return the favor once again,” Peter said. “I want you to go back to the laboratory. Stay there until we come back to get you.”
“No, no. I come with you.” Skins stood but nearly fell again because of his injured leg. He sat down, dejected.
“You’ve done good, Skins,” Gator said, shaking his hand. “We’ll come back for you; don’t worry.”
Skins nodded.
“Let’s help Skins back to the lab,” Peter said, pulling a sopping paper from his pocket. He carefully unfolded it and laid it out on a rock. It was the drawing he’d done at the morgue. He made a mental calculation in his head. “We’ll clean up a bit there and then hoof it toward the main facility. With any luck, we’ll be there in a few hours.”
* * *
Raul sneered as he walked down the row of cages, Taser in hand. The animals had been restless and unruly, and he knew it was up to him to maintain control. The air was hot and putrid, but Raul had grown accustomed to it. He was walking by a row of vertical steel bars when a set of claws reached out and nicked his arm.
He spun around and peered into the cage. A smile crossed his face. He lifted the Taser. He adjusted the knob and then clicked the lock on the cage open. He kicked the door wide with his foot. Shrieks and cries echoed as the animals skittered to the far corner, cowering in fear.
As well they should.
Raul moved toward the offending creature. He reached out and touched the contacts of the Taser to the thing’s head. The animal convulsed and cried out, then fell to the floor in a heap—white foam on its mouth. The others huddled close together, shaking in fear.
Raul smiled and pointed to one of the animals. “You! Come with me!”
The creatures began to hiss and growl. One of them, a large male, lunged forward, knocking the Taser from Raul’s hand. Panic struck him for a moment, but he was able to crawl on the floor and reach the Taser.
He pushed to his feet. Sweat dripped from his forehead. Anger pumped through him. Without thinking, he reached out and connected with another of the animals. The creature dropped, like the first, wriggling on the ground before it went slack. The only sign of life was a rhythmic rise and fall of the animal’s chest. Raul did the same thing until there was only one animal left standing.
He pointed to it. It stepped forward, and Raul recognized it. He remembered someone had given this one a name.
Tima.