Amazonia

"The solar cells," Manny said from the doorway. "Still giving it juice."

Nate wiped spiderwebs from his hands. "My father was here," he mumbled, numb. "This is his equipment:"

Kouwe spoke a few steps back. "The Indian is returning . . . with company.

Nate stared at the computer for a second more. Dust motes floated in the air, sparkling bright in the morning sunlight streaming through the open flap. The room was aromatic with wood oils and dried palm thatch. But underlying it was an odor of ashes and age. No one had been here for at least half a year.

What head happened to them?

Wiping his eyes, Nate turned to the doorway. Across the glade, he watched the black-painted tribesman march toward the cabin. At his side strode a smaller man, a tiny Indian. He could be no more than four feet tall. His burnished skin was unpainted, except for a prominent design in red on his belly and the familiar blue palm print centered just above the navel.

Stepping back into the sunlight, Nate joined the others.

The newcomer had pierced ears from which hung feathers, not unlike the typical decorations of the Yanomamo. But he also bore a headband with a prominent beetle decoration in the center. Its black carapace glistened brightly. It was one of the carnivorous locusts that had killed Corporal Jorgensen.

Professor Kouwe glanced over at Nate. His friend had noticed the odd bit of decoration, too. Here was further evidence that the attack truly had originated from this place.

Like a knife through his gut, Nate felt a surge of anger. Not only had this tribe been instrumental in the deaths of half their party, they had held the survivors of his father's expedition prisoner for four years. Fury and pain swelled through him.

Kouwe must have sensed Nate's emotion. "Remain quiet, Nate. Let us see how this plays out:"

Their guide led the newcomer to them, then stepped aside, in clear deference to the smaller man.

The tiny Indian glanced at the group, studying each of them, eyes narrowing slightly at the sight of Tor-tor. Finally he pointed to the stretcher, then jabbed at Olin and Zane. "Bring the hurt man," the Indian said in stilted English, then waved an arm at everyone else. "Others stay here:"

With these simple commands, the diminutive man turned and headed back to the huge white-barked tree again.

Stunned, no one moved. The shock of hearing spoken English through Nate's anger.

Olin and Zane remained standing, not budging.

The taller Indian guide waved an arm angrily, indicating they should follow his fellow tribesman.

"No one's going anywhere," Sergeant Kostos said. Private Camera moved forward, too. Both had their weapons ready. "We're not splitting up the group."

The tribesman scowled. He pointed at the retreating tiny figure. "Healer," the man said, struggling with the words. "Good healer."

Again the spoken English gave them pause.

"They must have learned the language from your father's expedition," Anna Fong mumbled.

Or from my father himself, Nate thought.

Kouwe turned to Kelly. "I think we should obey. I don't think they mean Frank any harm. But just in case, I can go with the stretcher."

"I'm not leaving my brother's side," Kelly said, stepping closer to the stretcher.

Zane argued, too. "And I'm not going at all. I'm staying where the guns are.

"Don't worry," the professor said. "I'll take your place. It's my turn anyway.

Zane was only too happy to be unburdened of the stretcher. Once free, he quickly scooted into the shadow of Sergeant Kostos, who wore a perpetual scowl.

Kelly moved to Olin at the head of the stretcher. "I'll take the other end:" The Russian started to object but was cut off. "You get the GPS working," she ordered. "You're the only one who can get the damned thing fixed:"

He reluctantly nodded and let her take the bamboo poles of the stretcher. She struggled with the weight for a moment, then with a heave, got her legs under her.

Nate shifted forward, going to her aid. "I can take Frank," he offered. "You can follow."

"No," she said harshly, teeth clenched. She tossed her head back toward the cabin. "See if you can find out what happened here:"

Before any other objections could be raised, Kelly lurched forward Kouwe followed at his end of the stretcher.

The tribesman looked relieved at their cooperation and hurried ahead, leading them toward the giant tree.

From the dirt porch of the cabin, Nate glanced again at the clusters of dwellings nestled high up the white-barked tree, realizing it was a view his father must have seen. As Nate stood, he sought some connection to his dead father. He remained standing until Kelly and Kouwe disappeared into the tree tunnel.

As the other team members began unhooking packs, Nate returned his attention to the empty cabin. Through the doorway, the laptop's screen shone with a ghostly glow in the dark room. A lonely, empty light.

Nate sighed, wondering again what had happened to the others.

Struggling under the weight of her twin brother, Kelly entered the dark opening in the massive trunk of the tree. Her focus remained divided between Frank's weakening state and the strangeness before her.

By now, Frank's bandages were fully soaked with blood. Flies swarmed and crawled through the gore, an easy meal. He needed a transfusion as soon as possible. In her head, she ran through the additional care needed: a new IV line, fresh pressure bandages, more morphine and antibiotics. Frank had to survive until the rescue helicopter could get here.

Still, as much as horror and fear filled her heart, Kelly could not help but be amazed by what she found beyond the entrance to the tree. She had expected to find a cramped steep staircase. Instead, the path beyond the doorway was wide-a gentle, sweeping course winding and worming its way up toward the treetop dwellings. The walls were smooth and polished to a deep honey color. A smattering of blue handprints decorated the walls. Beyond the entrance, every ten yards down the passage, a thin window, not unlike a castle tower's arrow slit, broke through to the outside, bright with morning sunlight, illuminating the way.

Following their guide, Kelly and Kouwe worked up the winding path. The floor was smooth, but woody enough for good traction. And though the grade was mild, Kelly was soon wheezing with exertion. But adrenaline and fear kept her moving: fear for her brother, fear for them all.

"This tunnel seems almost natural," Kouwe mumbled behind her. "The smoothness of the walls, the perfection of the spiral. It's like this tunnel is some tubule or channel in the tree, not a hewn passage."

Kelly licked her lips but found no voice. Too tired, too scared. The professor's words drew her attention to the floor and walls. Now that he had mentioned it, the passage showed not a single ax or chisel mark. Only the windows were crude, clearly man-made, hacked through to the outside. The difference between the two was striking. Had the tribe stumbled upon this winding tubule within the tree and taken advantage of it? The dwellings they'd seen on the way here proved that the Ban-ali were skilled engineers, incorporating the artificial with the natural. Perhaps the same was true here.

The professor made one last observation: "The flies are gone:'

Kelly glanced over her shoulder. The flock of flies nattering and crawling among her brother's bloody bandages had indeed vanished.

"The bugs flew off shortly after we entered the tree," Kouwe said. "It must be some repellent property of the wood's aromatic oils:"

Kelly had also noticed the musky odor of the tree. It had struck her as vaguely familiar, similar to dried eucalyptus, medicinal and pleasant, but laced with a deeper loamy smell that hinted at something earthy and ripe.

Staring over her shoulder, Kelly saw how heavily soaked her brother's bandages were. He could not last much longer, not with the continuing blood loss. Something had to be done. As she walked, cold dread iced her veins. Despite her exhaustion, her pace increased.

As they climbed, openings appeared in the tunnel wall. Passing by them, Kelly noted that the passages led either into one of the hutlike dwellings or out onto branches as wide as driveways, with huts in the distance.

And still they were led onward and upward.

Despite her anxiety, Kelly was soon stumbling, dragging, gasping, eyes stinging with running sweat. She desperately wanted to rest, but she could not let Frank down.

Their guide noticed them drifting farther and farther behind him. He backed down and studied the situation. He moved to Kelly's side.

"I help:" He struck a fist on his chest. "I strong:' He nudged her aside and took her end of the stretcher.

She was too weak to object, too winded to mumble a thanks.

As Kelly stepped aside, the two men now continued upward, moving faster. Kelly kept pace beside the stretcher. Frank was so pale, his breathing shallow. Relieved of the burden, Kelly's full attention focused back on her brother. She pulled out her stethoscope and listened to his chest. His heartbeat thudded dully, his lungs crackled with rates. His body was rapidly giving out, heading into hypovolemic shock. The hemorrhaging had to be stopped.

Focused on her brother's condition, she failed to notice that they'd reached the tunnel's end. The spiraling passage terminated abruptly at an opening that looked identical to the archway at the base of the giant tree. But instead of leading back into the morning sunshine, this archway led into a cavernous structure with a saucer-shaped floor.

Kelly gaped at the interior, again lit by rough-hewn slits high up the curved walls. The space, spherical in shape, had to be thirty yards across, a titanic bubble in the wood, half protruding out of the main trunk.

"It's like a massive gall," Kouwe said, referring to the woody protuberances sometimes found on oaks or other trees, created by insects or other parasitic conditions.

Kelly appreciated the comparison. But it wasn't insects that inhabited this gall. Around the curved walls, woven hammocks hung from pegs, a dozen at least. In a few, naked tribesmen lay sprawled. Others of the Banali worked around them. The handful of prone men and women were showing various signs of illness: a bandaged foot, a splinted arm, a fevered brow. She watched a tribesman with a long gash across his chest wince as a thick pasty substance was applied to his wound by another of his tribe.

Kelly understood immediately what she was seeing.

A hospital ward.

The tiny-framed tribesman who had ordered them here stood a few paces away. His look was sour with impatience. He pointed to one of the hammocks and spoke rapidly in a foreign tongue.

Their guide answered with a nod and led them to the proper hammock.

Professor Kouwe mumbled as they walked. "If I'm not mistaken, that's a dialect of Yanomamo:"

Kelly glanced over to him, hearing the shock in the professor's voice.

He explained the significance. "The Yanomamo language has no known counterparts. Their speech patterns and tonal structures are unique unto themselves. A true lingual isolate. It's one of the reasons the Yanomamo are considered one of the oldest Amazonian bloodlines:" His eyes were wide upon the men and women in the woody chamber. "The Ban-ali must be an offshoot, a lost tribe of the Yanomamo:"

Kelly merely nodded, too full of worry to appreciate the professor's observation. Her attention remained focused on her brother.

Overseen by the tiny Indian, the stretcher was lowered, and Frank was transferred onto the hammock. Kelly hovered nervously at his side. Jarred by the movement, Frank moaned slightly, eyes fluttering. His sedatives must be wearing off.

Kelly reached down to her med pack atop the abandoned stretcher. Before she could gather up her syringe and bottles of morphine, the tiny healer barked orders to his staff. Their guide and another tribesman began to loosen the bandages over Frank's stumps with small bone knives.

"Don't!" Kelly said, straightening.

She was ignored. They continued to work upon the soaked strips. Blood began to flow more thickly.

She moved to the hammock, grabbing the taller man's elbow. "No! You don't know what you're doing. Wait until I have the pressure wraps ready! An IV in place! He'll bleed to death!"

The stronger man broke out of her grasp and scowled at her.

Kouwe intervened. He pointed at Kelly. "She's our healer."

The tribesman seemed baffled by this statement and glanced to his own shaman.

The smaller Indian was crouched by the curved wall at the head of the hammock. He had a bowl in his hand, gathering a flow of thick sap from a trough gouged in the wall. "I am healer here," the small man said. "This is Ban-ali medicine. To stop the bleeding. Strong medicine from the yagga:"

Kelly glanced to Kouwe.

He deciphered. "Yagga . . . it's similar to yakka . . . a Yanomamo word for mother."

Kouwe stared around at the chamber. "Yagga must be their name for this tree. A deity."

The Indian shaman straightened with his bowl, now half full of the reddish sap. Reaching up, he stoppered the thick flow by jamming a wooden peg into a hole at the top of the trough. "Strong medicines," he repeated, lifting the bowl and striding to the hammock. "The blood of the Yagga will stop the blood of the man:" It sounded like a rote maxim, a translation of an old adage.

He motioned for the tribesman to cut away one of the two bandages.

Kelly opened her mouth again to object, but Kouwe interrupted her with a squeeze on her arm. "Gather your bandage material and LRS bag," he whispered to her. "Be ready, but for the moment, let's see what this medicine can do:"

She bit back her protest, remembering the small Indian girl at the hospital of Sao Gabriel and how Western medicine had failed her. For the moment, she would yield to the Ban-ali, trusting not the strange little shaman, but rather Professor Kouwe himself. She dropped to her medical pack and burrowed into it, reaching with deft fingers for her wraps and saline bag.

As Kelly retrieved what she needed, her eyes flicked over to the nearby sap channel. The blood of the Yagga. The tapped vein could be seen as a dark ribbon in the honeyed wood, extending up from the top of the trough and arching across the roof. Kelly spotted other such veins, each dark vessel leading to one of the other hammocks.

With her bandages in hand, she stood as her brother's bloodied wrap was ripped away. Unprepared, still a sister, not a doctor, Kelly grew faint at the sight: the sharp shard of white bone, the rip of shredded muscle, the gelatinous bruise of ruined flesh. A thick flow of dark blood and clots washed from the raw wound and dribbled through the hammock's webbing.

Kelly suddenly found it difficult to breathe. Sounds grew muted and more acute at the same time. Her vision narrowed upon the limp figure in the bed. It wasn't Frank, her mind kept trying to convince her. But another part of her knew the truth. Her brother was doomed. Tears filled her eyes, and a moan rose in her throat, choking her.

Kouwe put his arm around her shoulders, reacting to her distress, pulling her to him.

"Oh, God . . . please . . :" Kelly sobbed.

Oblivious to her outburst, the Ban-ali shaman examined the amputated limb with a determined frown. Then he scooped up a handful of the thick red sap, the color of port wine, and slathered it over the stump.

The reaction was immediate-and violent. Frank's leg jerked up and away as if struck by an electric current. He cried out, even through his stupor, an animal sound.

Kelly stumbled toward him, out of the professor's arms. "Frank!"

The shaman glanced toward her. He mumbled something in his native, language and backed away, allowing her to come forward.

She reached her brother, grabbing for his arm. But Frank's outburst had been as short as it was sudden. He relaxed back into the hammock. Kelly was sure he was dead. She leaned over him, sobbing openly.

But his lungs heaved up and down, in deep, shuddering breaths.

Alive.

She fell to her knees in relief. His limb, exposed, stood stark and raw before her. She eyed the wound, expecting the worst, ready with the bandages.

But they proved unnecessary.

Where the sap had touched the macerated flesh, it had formed a thick seal. Wide-eyed, she reached and touched the strange substance. It was no longer sticky, but leathery and tough, like some type of natural bandage. She glanced to the shaman with awe. The bleeding had stopped, sealed tight.

"The Yagga has found him worthy," the shaman said. "He will heal."

Stunned, Kelly stood as the shaman carried his bowl toward the other limb and began to repeat the miracle. "I can't believe it," she finally said, her voice as small as a mouse.

Kouwe took her under his arm again. "I know fifteen different plane species with hemostatic properties, but nothing of this caliber:'

Frank's body jerked again as the second leg was treated.

Afterward, the shaman studied his handiwork for a few moments, then turned to them. "The Yagga will protect him from here," he said solemnly.

"Thank you," Kelly said.

The small tribesman glanced back to her brother. "He is now Ban-ali. One of the Chosen:"

Kelly frowned.

The shaman continued, "He must now serve the Yagga in all ways, for all times." With these words, he turned away-but not before adding something in his native tongue, something spoken in a dire, threatening tone.

As he left, Kelly turned to Kouwe, her eyes questioning.

The professor shook his head. "I recognized only one word-ban-yi:'

"What does that mean?"

Kouwe glanced over to Frank. "Slave:"

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Health Care

AUGUST 16, 1 1:43 A.M.

HOSPITAL WARD OF THE INSTAR INSTITUTE

LANGLEY VIRGINIA

Lauren had never known such despair. Her granddaughter drifted in a cloud of pillows and sheets, such a tiny thing with lines and monitor wires running to machines and saline bags. Even through Lauren's contamination suit, she could hear the beep and hiss from the various pieces of equipment in the long narrow room. Little Jessie was no longer the only one confined here. Five other children had become sick over the past day.

And how many more in the coming days? Lauren recalled the epidemiologist's computer model and its stain of red spreading over the United States. She had heard cases were already being reported in Canada, too. Even two children in Germany, who had been vacationing in Florida.

Now she was realizing that Dr. Alvisio's grim model may have been too conservative in its predictions. Just this morning, Lauren had heard rumors about new cases in Brazil, cases now appearing in healthy adults. These patients were not presenting fevers, like the children, but were instead showing outbreaks of ravaging malignancies and cancers, like those seen in Gerald Clark's body. Lauren already had researchers checking into it.

But right now, she had other concerns.

She sat in a chair beside Jessie's bed. Her grandchild was watching some children's program piped into the video monitor in the room. But no smile ever moved her lips, no laugh. The girl watched it like an automaton, her eyes glassy, her hair plastered to her head from fevered sweat.

There was so little comfort Lauren could offer. The touch of the plastic containment suit was cold and impersonal. All she could do was maintain her post beside the girl, let her know she wasn't alone, let her see a familiar face. But she was not Jessie's mother. Every time the door to the ward swished open, Jessie would turn to see who it was, her eyes momentarily hopeful, then fading to disappointment. Just another nurse or a doctor. Never her mother.

Even Lauren found herself frequently glancing to the door, praying for Marshall to return with some word on Kelly and Frank. Down in the Amazon, the Brazilian evacuation helicopter had left from the Wauwai field base hours ago. Surely the rescuers would've reached the stranded team by now. Surely Kelly was already flying back here.

But so far, no word.

The waiting was growing interminable.

In the bed, Jessie scratched at the tape securing her catheter.

"Hon, leave it be," Lauren said, moving the girl's hand away.

Jessie sighed, sinking back into her pillows. "Where's Mommy?" she asked for the thousandth time that day. "I want Mommy."

"She's coming, hon. But South America is a long way away. Why don't you try to take a nap?"

Jessie frowned. "My mouth hurts:"

Lauren reached to the table and lifted a cup with a straw toward the girl, juice with an analgesic in it. "Sip this. It'll make the ouchie go away." Already the girl's mouth had begun to erupt with fever blisters, raw ulcerations along the mucocutaneous margins of her lips. Their appearance was one of the distinct symptoms of the disease. There could now be no denying that Jessie had the plague.

The girl sipped at the cup, her face scrunching sourly, then sat back. "It tastes funny. It's not like Mommy makes:"

"I know, honey, but it'll make you feel better."

"Tastes funny. . :" Jessie mumbled again, eyes drifting back to the video screen.

The two sat quietly. Somewhere down the row of beds, one of the children began to sob. In the background, the repetitious jingle of the dancing bear sounded tinny through her suit.

How many more? Lauren wondered. How many more would grow sick? How many more would die?

The sigh of a broken pressure seal sounded behind her. Lauren turned as the ward door swished open. A bulky figure in a quarantine suit bowed into the room, carrying his oxygen line. He turned, and through the plastic face shield, Lauren recognized her husband.

She was instantly on her feet. "Marshall. . ."

He waved her down and crossed to the wall to snap in his oxygen line to one of the air bibs. Once done, he strode to the girl's bedside.

"Grandpa!" Jessie said, smiling faintly. The girl's love for her grandfather, the only father figure in her life, was special. It was heartening to see her respond to him.

"How's my little pumpkin?" he said, bending over to tousle her hair.

"I'm watching Bobo the Bear."

"Are you? Is he funny?"

She nodded her head vigorously.

"I'll watch it with you. Scoot over."

This delighted Jessie. She shifted, making room for him to sit on the edge of the bed. He put an arm around her. She snuggled up against him, content to watch the screen.

Lauren met her husband's gaze.

He gave his head a tiny shake.

Lauren frowned. What did that mean? Anxious to find out, she switched to the suit's radios so they could speak in whispers without Jessie hearing.

"How's Jessie doing?" Marshall asked.

Lauren sat straighter, leaning closer. "Her temperature is down to ninety-nine, but her labs are continuing to slide. White blood cell levels have been dropping, while bilirubin levels are rising:"

Marshall's eyes closed with pain. "Stage Two?"

Lauren found her voice cracking. With so many cases studied across the nation, the disease progression was becoming predictable. Stage II was classified when the disease progressed from its benign febrile state into an anemic stage with bleeding and nausea.

"By tomorrow;" Lauren said. "Maybe the day after that at the latest:"

They both knew what would happen from there. With good support, Stage II could stretch for three to four days, followed by a single day of Stage III. Convulsions and brain hemorrhages. There was no Stage IV

Lauren stared at the little girl in the bed as she cuddled against her grandfather. Less than a week. That's all the time Jessie had left. "What of Kelly? Has she been picked up? Is she on her way back?"

Her suit radio remained silent. Lauren glanced back to Marshall.

He stared at her a moment more, then spoke. "There was no sign of them. The rescue helicopter searched the region where they were supposed to be according to their last GPS signal. But nothing was found:"

Lauren felt like a brick had been dropped in her gut. "How could that be?"

"I don't know. We've been trying to raise them on the satellite link all day, but with no luck. Whatever problem they were having with their equipment yesterday must still be going on:'

"Are they continuing the air search?"

He shook his head. "The helicopter had to turn back. Limited fuel."

"Marshall. . :" Her voice cracked.

He reached out to her and took her hand. "Once they've refueled, they're sending it back out for a night flight. To see if they can spot campfires from the air using infrared scopes. Then tomorrow, another three helicopters are joining the search, including our own Comanche." He squeezed her hand, tight. "We'll find them:"

Lauren felt numb all over. All her children . . . all of them . . .

Jessie spoke up from the bed, pointing an arm that trailed an IV line toward the video. "Bobo's funny!"

1:05 1PM.

AMAZON JUNGLE

Nate climbed down the fifty-foot ladder from the treetop dwelling. The three-story structure rested in the branches of a nightcap oak, a species from the Cretaceous period. Earlier, just after Kelly and the professor had left with Frank, a pair of Ban-all women had appeared and led the party to the edge of the glade, gesturing and indicating that the dwelling above had been assigned to their group.

Sergeant Kostos had resisted at first, until Private Camera had made an astute observation. "Up there, it'll be more defensible. We're sitting targets on the ground. If those giant cats should come up during the night-"

Kostos had cut her off, needing no more convincing. "Right, right Let's move our supplies up there, then set up a defensive perimeter."

Nate thought such caution was unnecessary. Since arriving, the Indians had remained curious about them but kept a wary distance, peering from the jungle edges and windows. No hostility was shown. Still, Nate had a hard time balancing these quiet people with the murderous savages who had wiped out half their team by unleashing all manner of beasts upon them. But then again, such duality was the way of many indigenous tribes: hostile and brutal by outside appearances, but once you were accepted, they were found to be a peaceful and open people.

Still, so many of their teammates had died horribly at the indirect hands of this tribe. A burning seed of anger smoldered in Nate's chest. And then there were Clark and maybe others of his father's group, held hostage for all these years. At the moment, Nate found it hard to achieve professional detachment. As an anthropologist, he could understand these strange people, but as a son, resentment and fury colored all he saw.

Still, they were helping Frank. Professor Kouwe had returned briefly from the white-barked tree to announce that the tribal shaman and Kelly were able to stabilize their teammate. It was a rare bit of good news. Kouwe had not stayed long, anxious to return to the giant tree. The professor's eyes had flicked toward Nate. Despite the tribe's cooperation at the moment, Kouwe was clearly worried. Nate had tried to inquire, but the professor had waved him off as he left. "Later" was all he had said.

Reaching the last rung of the vine ladder, Nate jumped off. Clustered around the base of the tree were the two Rangers and Manny. Tor-tor stood at his master's side. The other members of their dwindling group Zane, Anna, and Olin-remained secure in their treetop loft, working on their communication equipment.

Manny nodded to Nate as he crossed toward them.

"I'll keep guard here;" Kostos instructed Camera. "You and Manny do a sweep of the immediate area. See what you can discover about the lay of the land:"

The private nodded and turned away.

Manny followed at her side. "C'mon, Tor-tor."

Kostos noted Nate's arrival. "What are you doing down here, Rand?"

"Trying to make myself useful:" He nodded to the cabin a hundred yards away. "While the sun's still up and the solar cells are still juicing, I'm going to see if I can discover any information in my father's computer records:"

Kostos frowned at the cabin but nodded. Nate could read his eyes, weighing and calculating. Right now every bit of Intel could be vital. "Be careful," the sergeant said.

Nate hiked his shotgun higher on his shoulder. "Always:" He began the walk across the open glade.

In the distance, near the clearing's edge, a handful of children had gathered. Several pointed at him, gesturing to one another. A small group trailed behind Manny and Camera, keeping a cautious distance from Tor-tor. The curiosity of youth. Among the trees, the timid tribe began to reawaken to their usual activities. Several women carried water from the stream that flowed through the glade and around the giant tree in the center. In the treetop abodes, people began to clamber. Small fires flared atop stone hearths on patios, readying for dinner. In one dwelling, an old woman sat cross-legged, playing a flute made out of a deer bone, a bright but haunting sound. Nearby, a pair of men, armed with hunting bows, wandered past, giving Nate the barest acknowledgment.

The casualness of their manner reminded Nate that, though these folks were isolated, they had lived with white men and women before. The survivors of his father's expedition.

He reached the cabin, seeing again his father's walking stick by the door. As he stared at it, the rest of the world and its mysteries dissolved away. For the moment, only one question remained in Nate's heart: What truly happened to my father?

With a final glance to his team's temporary treetop home, Nate ducked through the door flap of the cabin. The musty smell struck him again, like entering a lost tomb. Inside, he found the laptop still open on the workstation, just as he had left it. Its glow was a beacon in the dark.

As he neared the computer, Nate saw the screen saver playing across the monitor, a tiny set of pictures that slowly floated and bounced around the screen. Tears rose in his eyes. They were photos of his mother. Another ghost from his past. He stared at the smiling face. In one, she was kneeling beside a small Indian boy. In another, a capuchin monkey perched on her shoulder. In yet another, she was hugging a short youngster, a white boy dressed in typical Baniwa garb. It was Nate. He had been six years old. He smiled at the memory, his heart close to bursting. Though his father wasn't in any of the pictures, Nate sensed his presence, a ghost standing over his shoulder, watching with him. At this moment, Nate had never felt closer to his lost family.

After a long time, he reached for the mouse pad. The screen saver vanished, replaced with a typical computer screen. Small titled icons lined the screen. Nate read through the files. Plant Classification, Tribal Customs, Cellular Statistics. . . so much information. It would take days to sift through them all. But one file caught his eye. The icon was of a small book. Below it was the word journal.

Nate clicked the icon. A file opened:

Amazonian Journal-Dr. Carl Rand

It was his father's diary. He noted the first date. September 24. The day the expedition had headed into the jungle. As Nate scrolled down, he saw that each day had a typed entry. Sometimes no more than a sentence or two, but something was noted. His father was meticulous. As he once quoted to Nate, `An unexamined life is not worth living:'

Nate skimmed through the entries, searching for one specific date. He found it. December 16. The day his father's team had vanished.

December 16

The storms continued today, bogging us down in camp. But the day was

not a total wash. An Arawak Indian, traveling down the river, shared our

soggy camp and told us stories of a strange tribe . . . frightening stories.

The Ban-ali, he named them, which translates roughly to "Blood Jaguar." I've heard snatches in the past concerning this ghost tribe, but few Indians were willing to speak openly of them.

Our visitor was not so reluctant! He was quite talkative. Of course, this may have something to do with the new machete and tangle of shiny fishhooks we offered for the information. Eyeing the wealth, he insisted he knew where the Ban-ali tribe hunted.

Now while my first impulse was to scoff at such a claim, I listened. If there was even a slim chance such a lost tribe existed, how could we not investigate? What a boon it would be for our expedition. As we questioned him, the Indian sketched out a rough map. The Ban-ali appeared to be more than a three-day journey from our location.

So tomorrow, weather permitting, we'll strike out and see how truthful our friend has been. Surely it's a fool's errand . . . but who knows what this mighty jungle could be hiding at its heart?

All in all, a most interesting day.

Nate held his breath as he continued reading from there, hunched over the laptop, sweat dripping down his brow. Over the next several hours, he scanned through the file, reading day after day, year after year, opening other files, staring at diagrams and digital photos. Slowly he began piecing together what had happened to the others.

As he did so, he grew numb with the reading. The horror of the past merged with the present. Nate began to understand. The true danger for their team was only beginning.

5:55 PM.

Manny called over to Private Camera. "What's that guy doing over there?" "Where?"

He pointed his arm toward one of the Ban-ali tribesmen who marched along the streambed, a long spear over his shoulder. Impaled upon the weapon were several haunches of raw meat.

"Making dinner?" the Ranger guessed with a shrug.

"But for whom?"

For the entire afternoon, he and Camera had been making a slow circuit of the village, with Tor-tor at their side. The cat drew many glances, but also kept curious tribesmen at a distance. As they trekked, Camera was jotting notes and sketching a map of the village and surrounding lands. Recon, Manny had been informed, just in case the hostiles get hostile again.

Right now, they were circling the giant, white-barked tree, crossing behind it, where the stream brushed the edges of the monstrous arching roots. It appeared as if the flow of water had washed away the topsoil, exposing even more of the roots' lengths. They were a veritable tangle, snaking into the stream, worming over it, burrowing beneath it.

The Indian who had drawn Manny's attention was ducking through the woody tangle, squirming and bending to make progress, clearly aiming for a section of the stream.

"Let's get a closer look," Manny said.

Camera pocketed her small field notebook and grabbed up her weapon, the shovel-snouted Bailey. She eyed the massive tree with a frown, plainly not pleased with the idea of getting any closer to it. But she led the way, marching toward the tangle of roots and the gurgling stream.

Manny watched the Indian cross to a huge eddy pool, shrouded by thick roots and rootlets. The water's surface was glassy smooth, with only a slight swirl disturbing it.

The Indian noticed he was being observed and nodded in the universal greeting of hello, then went back to his work. Manny and Camera watched from several yards away. Tor-tor settled to his haunches.

Crouching, the tribesman stretched his pole and the flanks of bloody meat over the still pool.

Manny squinted. "What is he-?"

Then several small bodies flung themselves out of the water toward the meat. They looked like little silvery eels, twitching up out of the water. The creatures grabbed bites from the meat with little jaws.

"The piranha creatures," Camera said at Manny's side.

He nodded, recognizing the similarity. "Juveniles, though. They've not developed their hind legs yet. Still in the pollywog stage. All tail and teeth:"

The Indian stood straighter and shook the meat from his spear. Each bloody chunk, as it plopped into the water, triggered a fierce roiling of the still pool, boiling its surface into a bloody froth. The tribesman observed his handiwork for a moment, then tromped back toward the pair who stared at him, stunned.

Again he nodded as he passed, eyeing the jaguar at Manny's side with a mix of awe and fear.

"I want to get a closer look," Manny said.

"Are you nuts, man?" Camera waved him back. "We're out of here."

"No, I just want to check something out:" He was already moving toward the nest of tangled roots.

Camera grumbled behind him, but followed.

The path was narrow, so they proceeded in single file. Tor-tor trailed last, padding cautiously through the tangle, his tail twitching anxiously.

Manny approached the root-ringed pool.

"Don't get too close," Camera warned.

"They didn't mind the Indian," Manny said. "I think it's safe:"

Still, he slowed his steps and stopped a yard from the pool's edge, one hand resting on the hilt of his whip. In the shadow of the roots, the wide pool proved crystal clear-and deep, at least ten feet. He peered into its glassy depths.

Under the surface, schools of the creatures swam. There was no sign of the meat, but littering the bottom of the pool were bleached bones, nibbled spotless. "It's a damn hatchery," Manny said. "A fish hatchery."

From the branches spanning the pool overhead, droplets of sap would occasionally drip into the water, triggering the creatures to race up and investigate, searching for their next meal. Tricked to the surface, the beasts provided Manny with a better look at them. They varied in size from little minnows to larger monsters with leg buds starting to develop. Not one had fully developed legs.

"They're all juveniles;" Manny observed. "I don't see any of the adults that attacked us:"

"We must have killed them all with the poison;" Camera said.

"No wonder there wasn't a second attack. It must take time to rebuild their army."

"For the piranhas, maybe. . :" Camera stood two yards back, her voice suddenly hushed and sick. ". . . but not everything:"

Manny glanced back to her. She pointed her weapon toward the lower trunk of the tree, where the roots rode up into the main body. Up the trunk, the bark of the tree bubbled out into thick galls, each a yard across. There were hundreds of them. From holes in the bark, black insects scuttled. They crawled, fought, and mated atop the bark. A few flexed their wings with little blurring buzzes.

"The locusts," Manny said, edging back himself.

But the insects ignored them, busy with their communal activities.

Manny stared from the pool back to the insects. "The tree . . :" he mumbled.

"What?"

Manny stared as another droplet of sap drew a handful of the piranha creatures to the surface, glistening silver under the glassy waters. He shook his head. "I'm not sure, but it's almost like the tree is nurturing these creatures:" His mind began racing along wild tracks. His eyes grew wide as he began to make disturbing connections.

Camera must have seen his face pale. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, my God . . . we have to get out of here!"

6:30 PM.

Inside the cabin, Nate sat hunched over the laptop computer, numb and exhausted. He had reread many of his father's journal notes, even crossreferencing to certain scientific files. The conclusions forming in his mind were as disturbing as they were miraculous. He scrolled down to the last entry and read the final lines.

We'll try tonight. May God watch over us all.

Behind Nate, the whispery sweep of the cabin's door flap announced someone's intrusion.

"Nate?" It was Professor Kouwe.

Glancing at his wristwatch, Nate realized how long he had been lost in the laptop's records, lost to the world. His mouth felt like dried burlap. Beyond the flap, the sun was sliding toward the western horizon as the afternoon descended toward dusk.

"How's Frank?" Nate asked, dragging his attention around.

"What's wrong?" Kouwe said, seeing his face.

Nate shook his head. He wasn't ready to talk yet. "Where's Kelly?"

"Outside, speaking with Sergeant Kostos. We came down here to report in and make sure everything was okay. Then we'll head back up again. How are things down here?"

"The Indians are keeping their distance," Nate said, standing. He moved toward the door, staring at the sinking sun. "We've finished setting up the treehouse as our base. Manny and Private Camera are scouting the area.

Kouwe nodded. "I saw them crossing back this way just now. What about communications with the States?"

Nate shrugged. "Olin says the whole system is corrupted. But he believes he can at least get the GPS to read true and broadcast a signal. Maybe as soon as tonight:"

"That's good news," Kouwe said tightly.

Nate recognized the tension in the other's voice. "What's the matter?"

Kouwe frowned. "Something I can't exactly put my finger on."

"Maybe I can help:" Nate glanced to the laptop, then unplugged the device from the solar cells. With night approaching, juice would not be flowing anyway. He checked the laptop's battery and then tucked it under his arm. "I think it's time we all compared notes:'

Kouwe nodded. "It's why Kelly and I came down. We have our own news.

Again, Nate saw the worried look on the professor's face. As Nate stood up, he was sure his own expression mirrored Kouwe's. "Let's get everyone together."

The pair ducked out of the cabin and into the late afternoon sunshine. Free of the stifling cabin, they felt almost chilled by the slight breezes. Nate crossed over to where Kelly and Sergeant Kostos were talking. Manny and Camera had joined them.

A few steps away stood one of the Ban-all tribesmen. It took Nate a moment to recognize him. It was their guide from earlier. He had washed off the black camouflage paint, revealing brown skin and a crimson tattoo on his bare chest.

Nate nodded to Kelly as he stopped beside them. "I heard that Frank is doing better."

Her face was pale, distracted. "For the moment:" She noticed the laptop under his arm. "Were you able to learn anything about your father?"

Nate sighed. "I think everyone should hear this:"

"It's time we put a plan together anyway," Sergeant Kostos said. "Night is coming.

Kouwe pointed to the three-story dwelling in the towering nightcap oak. "Let's get everyone up to the dwelling:"

No one objected. In short order, the group mounted the long ladder and headed up the tree. Tor-tor remained below, on guard. Nate glanced down as he climbed. The jaguar was not alone down there. The Ban-ali tribesman stayed at the foot of the ladder, plainly assigned to their group.

Reaching the top of the ladder, Nate climbed onto the decking of the abode. The entire party clustered on the deck or stood inside the doorway to the lowermost level, a communal room. Above, the two other levels were a honeycomb of smaller, more private chambers, each with its own tiny deck or patio.

The tree house had clearly been some family's domicile, commandeered for their use. Personal touches abounded: bits of pottery and wooden utensils, decorations done in feathers and flowers, abandoned hammocks, tiny carved animal figurines. Even the smell of the place was not the deserted mustiness of the tiny cabin, but the subtle scent of life. Old cooking spices and oils, a hint of bodily odors.

Anna Fong crossed to him. She had a platter of sliced figs. "One of the Indian women dropped off some supplies. Fruits and cooked yams. Bits of dried meat:"

Nate remembered his thirst and took one of the moist fruits, biting deep into it, juice dribbling down his chin. Wiping his lips with the back of his hand, he asked, "How's Olin doing with the GPS signal?"

"Still working on it," she said in a hushed, scared voice. "But from the amount of swearing, it doesn't sound good:'

Kostos raised his voice from the doorway. "Everyone gather inside!"

As he stepped aside, the party moved into the common room. Inside,

Nate saw the other platters of food. Even a few pails of a dark liquid, smelling of fermentation.

Professor Kouwe examined one pail's contents and turned to Nate in surprise. "It's cassiri!"

"What's that?" Kostos asked from the doorway as he closed the flap.

"Cassava beer," Nate explained. "An alcoholic staple of many native tribes:"

"Beer?" the sergeant's eyes brightened. "Really?"

Kouwe scooped up a ladleful of the dark amber liquid and poured it into a mug. Nate saw bits of slimy cassava root floating in the pail. The professor passed the mug to the sergeant.

He sniffed it, nose curling in disgust, but he took a deep swig anyway. "Ugh!" He shook his head.

"It's an acquired taste;" Nate said, scooping a mug for himself and sipping it. Manny did the same. "Women make it by chewing up cassava root and spitting it into a pail. The enzymes in their saliva aid in the fermentation process:"

Kostos crossed to the pail and dumped the contents of his mug back into the pail. "I'll take a Budweiser any day"

Nate shrugged.

Around the room, the others sampled the fare for a bit, then began to settle to woven mats on the floor. Everyone looked exhausted. They all needed a decent night's sleep.

Nate set up the laptop on an overturned stone pot.

As he opened it and turned it on, Olin looked at it hungrily, his eyes red. "Maybe I can cannibalize some circuitry for the communication array." He shifted nearer.

But Nate held him off. "The computer is five years old. I doubt you'll find much to use, and right now its contents are more important than our own survival:"

His words drew everyone's attention. He eyed them all. "I know what happened to the other expedition team. And if we don't want to end up like them, we should pay attention to its lessons:"

Kouwe spoke up. "What happened?"

Nate took a deep breath, then began, nodding to the open journal file on the laptop. "It's all here. My father's expedition heard rumors of the Ban-ali and met an Indian who said he could take the research team to their lands. My father could not resist the possibility of encountering a new tribe and took the team off course. Within two days, they were attacked by the same mutated species as we were:'

Murmurs arose from the others. Manny raised his hand as if he were in class. "I found where they incubate those buggers. At least the locusts and piranhas." He described what he and Private Camera had discovered. "I've got my own theories about the beasts:"

Kouwe interrupted. "Before we get into theories and conjectures, let's first hear what we know for sure:" The professor nodded to Nate. "Go on. What happened after the attack?"

Nate took another breath. The tale was not an easy one to tell. "Of the party, all were killed except Gerald Clark, my father, and two other researchers. They were captured by the Ban-ali trackers. My father was able to communicate with them and get them to spare their lives. From my father's notes, I guess the Ban-ali native tongue is close enough to Yanomamo:"

Kouwe nodded. "It does bear a resemblance. And isolated as the tribe is, the presence of a white man who could speak the tongue of the Ban-ali would surely give them pause. I'm not surprised your father and the survivors were spared:"

The little good it did, Nate thought sourly, then continued, "The remaining party were all badly injured, but once here, their wounds were healed. Miraculously, according to my father's notes: gashes sealed without scarring, broken bones mended in less than a week's time, even chronic ailments, like one team member's heart murmur, faded away. But the most amazing transformation was in Gerald Clark:"

"His arm," Kelly said, sitting up straighter.

"Exactly. Within a few weeks here, his amputated stump began to split, bleed, and sprout a raw tumorous growth. One of the survivors was a medical doctor. He and my father examined the change. The growth was a mass of undifferentiated stem cells. They were sure it was some malignant growth. There was even talk of trying to surgically remove it, but they had no tools. Over the next weeks, slow changes became apparent. The mass slowly elongated, growing skin on the outside:"

Kelly's eyes widened. "The arm was regenerating."

Nate nodded and turned. He scrolled down the computer journal to the day almost three years ago. He read aloud his father's words. " `Today it became clear to Dr. Chandler and me that the tumor plaguing Clark is in fact a regeneration unlike any seen before. Talk of escape has been put on hold until we see how this ends. It's a miracle that is worth the risk. The Ban-ali continue to remain accommodating captors, allowing us free run of the valley, but banning us from leaving. And with the giant cats prowling the lower chasm, escape seems impossible for the moment anyway.

Nate straightened up and tapped open a new file. Crude sketches of an arm and upper torso appeared on the screen. "My father went on to document the transformation. How the undifferentiated stem cells slowly changed into bone, muscle, nerves, blood vessels, hair, and skin. It took eight months for the limb to fully grow back."

"What caused it?" Kelly asked.

"According to my father's notes, the sap of the Yagga tree:"

Kelly gasped. "The Yagga . . ."

Kouwe's eyes widened. "No wonder the Ban-ali worship the tree:"

"What's a Yagga?" Zane asked from a corner, showing the first sign of interest in their discussion.

Kouwe explained what he and Kelly had witnessed up in the healing ward of the giant prehistoric tree. "Frank's wounds almost immediately sealed:"

"That's not all," Kelly said. She shifted closer to get a better look at the computer screen. "All afternoon, I've been monitoring his red blood cell levels with a hematocrit tube. The levels are climbing dramatically. It's as if something is massively stimulating his bone marrow to produce new red blood cells for all he lost . . . at a miraculous rate. I've never seen such a reaction:"

Nate clicked open another file. "It's something in the sap. My father's group was able to distill the stuff and run it through a paper chromatograph. Similar to the way the sap of copal trees is rich in hydrocarbons, the Yagga's sap is rich in proteins:"

Kelly stared at the results. "Proteins?"

Manny scooted next to her, looking over her shoulder. "Wasn't the disease vector a type of a protein?"

Kelly nodded. "A prion. One with strong mutagenic properties:" She glanced over her shoulder to Manny. "You were mentioning something about the piranhas and the locusts. A theory."

Manny nodded. "They're tied to this Yagga tree, too. The locusts live in the bark of the tree. Like some type of wasp gall. And the piranhas-their hatchery is in a pond tucked among the roots. There was even sap dripping into it. I think it's the sap that mutates them during early development:'

"My father suggested a similar conclusion in his notes," Nate said quietly. In fact, there were numerous files specifically on this matter. Nate had not been able to read through them all.

"And the giant cats and caimans?" Anna asked.

"Established mutations, I'd wager," Manny said. "The two species must've been altered generations ago into these oversized beasts. I imagine by now they're capable of breeding on their own, stable enough genetically to need no further support from the sap:"

"Then why don't they leave the area?" Anna asked.

"Perhaps some biological imperative, a genetic territorial thing:"

"It sounds like you're suggesting this tree manufactured these creatures purposefully? Consciously?" Zane scoffed.

Manny shrugged. "Who can say? Maybe it wasn't so much will or thought as just evolutionary pressure:"

"Impossible:" Zane shook his head.

"Not so. We've seen versions of this phenomenon already." Manny turned to Nate. "Like the ant tree:"

Nate frowned, picturing the attack on Sergeant Kostos by stinging ants. He remembered how an ant tree's stems and branches were hollow, serving both to house the colony and feed it with a sugary sap. In turn, the ants savagely protected their home against the intrusion of plants and animals. He began to understand what Manny was driving at. There was a distinct similarity.

Manny went on, "What we have here is a symbiosis between plant life and animal, both evolved into a complex shared interrelationship. One serving the other:"

Camera spoke up from her post by a window. The sun was slowly setting behind her shoulder. "Who cares how the beasts came to be? Do we know how to avoid them if we have to fight our way out of the valley?"

Nate answered her question. "The creatures can be controlled:'

"How?"

He waved to the laptop. "It took my father years to learn the Ban-ali secrets. It seems that the tribe has developed powders that can both attract and repel the creatures. We ourselves saw this demonstrated with the locusts, but they can do it with the piranhas, too. Through chemicals in the water, they can lure and trigger an aggressive response in the otherwise docile creatures. My father believed it's some type of hormonal compound that stimulates the piranhas' territoriality and makes them attack wildly."

Manny nodded. "Then it's lucky we wiped out a majority of the adult horde so quickly. I imagine it takes time for their hatchery to grow a new supply. Just one of the disadvantages of a biological defense system:"

"Perhaps that's why the Ban-ali keep more than one type of creature;" Camera noted astutely. "Backup troops:"

Manny frowned. "Of course. I should've thought of that:"

Camera faced Nate. "Then there are those cats and giant caimans to consider."

Nate nodded. "Gatekeepers, like we thought, set up to defend the perimeter. They patrol the entry points to the heart of the territory. But even the jaguars can be made docile by painting a black powder over one's body, allowing the Ban-ali to pass freely back and forth. I imagine the compound must act like caiman dung, a scent repellent to the giant cats:"

Manny whistled. "So our guide's body paint wasn't all camouflage:"

"Where do we get some of this repellent stuff?" Kostos asked. "Where does it come from?"

Kouwe spoke up. "The Yagga tree." He had not moved, only grown more pale with the telling of the tale.

Nate was surprised by the professor's quick answer. "They're derived from the Yagga's bark and leaf oils. But how did you guess?"

"Everything ties back to that prehistoric tree. I think Manny was quite correct that the specimen behaves like an ant tree. But he's wrong about who the ants are here:'

"What do you mean?" Manny asked.

"The mutated beasts are just biological tools supplied by the tree for its true workers:" Kouwe stared around him. "The Ban-ali:"

A stunned silence spread over the group.

Kouwe continued, "The tribesmen here are the soldier ants in this relationship. The Ban-ali name the tree Yagga, their word for mother. One who gives birth . . . a caretaker. Countless generations ago, most likely during the first migration of people into South America, the tribe must have stumbled upon the tree's remarkable healing ability and became enthralled by it. Becoming ban-yin-slaves. Each serving the other in a complex web of defense and offense:'

Nate felt sickened by this comparison. Humans used like ants.

"This grove is prehistoric," the professor finished. "It might trace its heritage back to Pangaea, when South America and Africa were joined. Its species may have been around when man first walked upright. Throughout the ages, there are hundreds of myths of such trees, from all corners of the world. The maternal guardian. Perhaps this encounter here was not the first:"

This thought sank into the others. Nate didn't think even his father had extrapolated the history of the Yagga to this end. It was disturbing.

Sergeant Kostos shifted his M-16 to his other shoulder. "Enough history lessons. I thought we were supposed to be developing an alternate plan. A way to escape if we can't raise someone on the radio:"

"The sergeant is right:" Kouwe turned. "You never did tell us, Nate. What happened to your father and the others? How did Gerald Clark escape?"

Nate took a deep breath and turned back to the computer. He scrolled down to the last entry and read it aloud.

"April 18

We've gathered enough powders to chance an escape tonight. After what

we've learned, we must attempt a break for civilization. We dare not wait

any longer. We'll dust our bodies black and flee with the setting moon. Illia

knows paths that will quickly get us past any trackers and out of these

lands, but the trek back to civilization will be hard and not without threat.

Still, we have no choice . . . not after the birth. We'll try tonight. May God

watch over us all"

Nate straightened from the laptop, turning to the others. "They al: attempted to flee, not just Gerald Clark:"

Across the many faces, Nate saw the same expression. Only Gerald Clark made it back to civilization.

"So they all left," Kelly mumbled.

Nate nodded. "Even a Ban-ali woman, a skilled tracker named Illia. She had fallen in love and married Gerald Clark. He took her with him:"

"What happened to them?" Anna said.

Nate shook his head. "That was the last entry. There is no more:"

Kelly's expression saddened. "Then they didn't make it . . . only Gerald Clark."

"I could ask Dakii for more details," Kouwe said.

"Dakii?"

Kouwe pointed below. "The tribesman who guided us here. Between what I know of the Ban-ali language and his smattering of English, I might be able to find out what happened to the others, how they died:"

Nate nodded, though he wasn't sure he wanted to know the details.

Manny spoke up. "But what made them flee that night? Why the hint at some urgency in that last note?"

Nate took a deep breath. "It's why I wanted everyone to hear this. My father came to some frightening conclusions about the Ban-ali. Something he needed to relay to the outside world:"

"What?" Kouwe asked.

Nate wasn't sure where to begin. "It took years of living with the Banali for my father to begin piecing facts together. He noticed that the isolated tribe showed some hints of remarkable advancements over their Indian counterparts in the greater Amazon. The invention of the pulley and wheel. A few of the homes even have crude elevators, using large boulders and counterweights. And other advancements that seemed strange considering the isolated nature of this tribe. He spent much of his time examining the way the Ban-ali think, the way they teach their children. He was fascinated by all this:"

"So what happened?" Kelly asked.

"Gerald Clark fell in love with Illia. They married during the second year of the group's incarceration here. During the third, they conceived a baby. During the fourth year, Illia gave birth:" He stared hard at the gathered faces. "The child was stillborn, rife with mutations:" Nate recalled his father's words. " `A genetic monster: "

Kelly cringed.

Nate pointed to the laptop. "There are more details in the files. My father and the medical doctor of the group began to formulate a frightening conclusion. The tree hadn't just mutated the lower species. It had also been changing the Ban-ali over the years, subtly heightening their cognitive abilities, their reflexes, even their eyesight. While outwardly they appeared the same, the tree was improving the species. My father suspected that the Banali were heading genetically away from mankind. One of the definitions that separates different species is an inability to breed together:'

"The stillborn child . . :" Manny had paled.

Nate nodded. "My father came to believe that the Ban-ali were near to leaving Homo sapiens behind, becoming their own species."

"Dear God," Kelly gasped.

"It was why their need to escape became urgent. This corruption of mankind in the valley has to be stopped:"

No one spoke for a full minute.

Anna's voice, full of horror, whispered, "What are we going to do?"

"We're going to get that damn GPS working," Kostos said harshly. "Then we're gonna bug out of this damn place:"

"And in the meantime," Camera added, "we should gather as much of that repellent powder as possible, just in case:"

Kelly cleared her voice and stood up. "We're all forgetting one vital thing. The disease spreading across the Americas. How do we cure it? What did Gerald Clark bring out of this valley?" Kelly turned to Nate. "In your father's notes, is there any mention of a contagious disease here?"

"No, with the inherent healing properties of the Yagga tree, everyone remained incredibly healthy. The only suggestion is the taboo against one of the Chosen, the Ban-ali, leaving the tribe. A shadowed curse upon he who leaves and all he encounters. My father had dismissed this as a myth to frighten anyone from leaving:"

Manny mumbled, "The curse upon he who leaves and all he encounters . . . that sounds like our contagion:"

Kelly turned back to Nate. "But if true, where did the disease come from? What triggered Clark's body to suddenly become riddled with tumors? What made him contagious?"

"I wager it has something to do with the Yagga tree's healing sap," Zane said. "Maybe it keeps the disease in check here. When we leave, we need to make sure we collect a generous sample. That's clearly vital:"

Kelly ignored Zane, her gaze unfocused. "We're missing something . . . something important," she said, low and quiet. Nate doubted anyone else heard her.

"I can see if Dakii will cooperate," Kouwe said. "See if he has any answers-both to the final fate of the others and about this mysterious disease:"

"Good. Then we have a working plan for now," Sergeant Kostos said by the door. He pointed around the room and assigned missions for each of them. "Olin will work on the GPS. At daybreak, Kouwe and Anna, our Indian experts, will act as Intel. Gather as much information as possible. Manny, Camera, and I'll search out where the repellent powder is stored. Zane, Rand, and Kelly will watch over Frank, ready him for a quick evac if necessary. While at the tree, it will be up to you three to collect a sample of the healing sap:"

Slowly everyone nodded. If nothing else, it would keep them busy, keep their minds off the biological horrors hidden in the pristine valley.

Kouwe pushed to his feet. "I might as well get started. I'll chat with Dakii while he's alone down below."

"I'll go with you," Nate said.

Kelly moved toward them. "And I'm going to check on Frank one last time before full night falls:"

The trio left the common room and crossed the deck to the ladder. The sun was only a sharp glow to the west. Dusk had rolled like a dark cloud over the glade.

In silence, the three descended the ladder in the gloom, each in a cocoon of their own thoughts.

Nate was the first one down and helped Kouwe and Kelly off the ladder. Tor-tor wandered over and nuzzled Nate for attention. He scratched absently at the tender spot behind the jaguar's ear.

A few yards away, the tribesman named Dakii stood.

Kouwe crossed toward him.

Kelly stared up at the Yagga, its upper branches still bathed in sunlight. In her narrowed eyes, Nate saw a wary glint.

"If you'll wait a moment, I'll go with you," he said.

She shook her head. "I'm fine. I've got one of the Rangers' radios. You should get some rest:'

"But "

She glanced over at him, her face tired and sad. "I won't be long. I just need a few minutes alone with my brother:"

He nodded. He had no doubt the Ban-ali would leave her unmolested, but he hated to see her alone with such raw grief. First her daughter, now her brother . . . so much pain shone in every plane of her face.

She reached to him, squeezed his hand. "Thanks for offering, though," she whispered, and set off across the fields.

Behind Nate, Kouwe already had his pipe lit and was talking wit Dakii. Nate patted Tor-tor's side and walked over to join them.

Kouwe glanced back at him. "Do you have a picture of your father?"

"In my wallet:"

"Can you show it to Dakii? After four years spent with your father, the tribesmen must be familiar with recorded images:"

Nate shrugged and pulled out his leather billfold. He flipped to a photo of his father, standing in a Yanomamo village, surrounded by village children.

Kouwe showed it to Dakii.

The tribesman cocked his head back and forth, eyes wide. "Kerl," he said, tapping at the photo with a finger.

"Carl . . . right," Kouwe said. "What happened to him?" The professor repeated the question in Yanomamo.

Dakii did not understand. It took a few more back-and-forth exchanges to finally communicate the question. Dakii then bobbed his head vigorously, and a complicated exchange followed. Kouwe and Dakii spoke rapidly in a mix of dialects and phonetics that was too quick for Nate to follow.

During a lull, Kouwe turned to Nate. "The others were slain. Gerald escaped the trackers. His background as a Special Forces soldier must have helped him slip away."

"My father?"

Dakii must have understood the word. He leaned in closer to the photograph, then back up at Nate. "Son?" he said. "You son man?"

Nate nodded.

Dakii patted Nate on his arm, a broad smile on his face. "Good. Son of

wishwa:"

Nate glanced to Kouwe, frowning.

"Wishwa is their word for shaman. Your father, with his modern wonders, must have been considered a shaman:"

"What happened to him?"

Kouwe again spoke rapidly in the mix of pidgin English and a mishmash of Yanomamo. Nate was even beginning to unravel the linguistic knot.

"Kerl . . . ?" Dakii bobbed his head, grinning proudly. "Me brother teshari-rin bring Kerl back to shadow of Yagga. It good:"

"Brought back?" Nate asked.

Kouwe continued to drag the story from the man. Dakii spoke rapidly. Nate didn't understand. But at last, Kouwe turned back to Nate. The professor's face was grim.

"What did he say?"

"As near as I can translate, your father was indeed brought back here dead or alive, I couldn't say. But then, because of both his crime and his wishwa status, he was granted a rare honor among the tribe:'

"What?"

"He was taken to the Yagga, his body fed to the root:"

"Fed to the root?"

"I think he means like fertilizer."

Nate stumbled back a step. Though he knew his father was dead, the reality was too horrible to fathom. His father had attempted to stop the corruption of the Ban-ali by the prehistoric tree, risking his own life to do so, but in the end, he had been fed to the damn thing instead, nourishing it.

Past Kouwe's shoulder, Dakii continued to bob his head, grinning like a fool. "It good. Kerl with Yagga. Nashi nar!"

Nate was too numb to ask what the last word meant, but Kouwe translated anyway.

"Nashi nar. Forever:"

8:O8 PM.

In the jungle darkness, Louis lay in wait, infrared goggles fixed to his head. The sun had just set and true night was quickly consuming the valley. He and his men had been in position for hours.

Not much longer.

But he would have to be patient. Make haste slowly, he had been taught. One last key was needed before the attack could commence. So he lay on his belly, covered by the fronds of a fern, face smeared in streaks of black.

It had been a long and busy day. This morning, an hour after sunrise, he had been contacted by his mole. His spy was still alive! What good fortune! The agent had informed him that the Ban-ali village did indeed lie in a secluded valley, only approachable through the side canyon in the cliffs ahead. What could be more perfect? All his targets trapped in one place.

The only obstacle had been the valley's damned jaguar pack.

But his darling Tshui had managed to handle that nasty problem. Covered by the early morning gloom, she had led a handpicked team of trackers, including the German commando, Brail, into the valley's heart and planted poisoned meat, freshly killed and dripping with blood. Tshui had tainted each piece with a terrible poison, both odorless and tasteless, that killed with only the slightest lick. The pack, its blood lust already up from the attack upon the Rangers, found these treats too hard to resist.

Throughout the early morning, the great beasts dropped into blissful slumbers from which they would never wake. A few of the cats had remained suspicious and had not eaten. But hunting with the infrared goggles, Tshui and the others had finished off these last stubborn cats, using air guns equipped with poisoned darts.

It had been a quiet kill. With the way clear, Louis had moved his men into a guard position near the mouth of the side chasm.

Only one last item was needed, but he would have to be patient.

Make haste slowly.

At last, he spotted movement in the chasm. Through his infrared goggles, the two figures appeared as a pair of blazing torches. They slipped down the crude steps, alone. This morning, Louis had posted guards at the chasm mouth, ready to silence any tribesman who came down to scout for them. But none of the Ban-ali had shown their heads. Most likely the tribe's attention had remained focused on the strangers in their village, confident that the jaguar pack would keep them protected or alert them of any further intruders.

Not this day, mes arms. Something more predatory than your little pack has come to your valley.

The figures continued to thread down the chasm. Louis lowered his infrared goggles for a moment. Though he knew the figures were there, the black camouflage was so perfect that Louis could not spot them with his unaided eye. He slipped the goggles back in place and smiled thinly. The figures again blazed forth.

Ali, the wonders of modern science . . .

In a matter of moments, the two figures reached the bottom of the chasm. They seemed to hesitate. Did they sense something was amiss? Were they wary of the jaguars? Louis held his breath. Slowly the pair set out down the escarpment, ready for the night's patrol.

At last.

A new blazing figure stepped forth from the jungle, into their path. A slender torch that burned brighter than the other two. Louis lowered his goggles. It was Tshui. Naked. Ebony hair flowed in a silky waterfall to her shapely buttocks. She sidled toward the pair of scouts, a jungle goddess awoken from a slumber.

The pair of painted tribesmen froze in surprise.

A cough sounded from the bushes nearby. One of the Indians slapped his neck, then slipped to the ground. There was enough poison in each dart to drop a half-ton jaguar. The man was dead before his head hit the rocky ground.

The remaining scout stared for a moment, then fled as quickly as a snake toward the chasm. But Louis's mistress was even faster, her blood hyped on stimulants, her reflexes sharper. Effortlessly, she danced back into his path, blocking him. He opened his mouth to scream a warning, but again Tshui was quicker. She shot out her arm and tossed a handful of powder into his face, into his eyes, into his open mouth.

Reflexively choking, his call was gargled, more a strangled wheeze. He fell to his knees as the drug hit his system.

Tshui remained expressionless. She knelt beside her prey as the man toppled to the ground. She then stared over his body toward Louis's hiding place, a ghost of a smile on her lips.

Louis stood. They now had the final piece of the puzzle, someone to inform them about the tribe's defenses. Everything was now in place for the assault tomorrow.

9:23 PM.

Kelly sat cross-legged beside her brother's low hammock.

Wrapped in a thick blanket, Frank sipped weakly through a reed straw poking from a cantaloupe-sized hollow nut.

Kelly recognized it as one of the fruits that grew in clusters along the branches of the Yagga. The nut's content was similar to coconut milk. She had tasted it first when one of the tribesmen in the healing ward had brought it over to her brother. It was sweet and creamy with sugars and fats, an energy boost her brother needed.

She waited as Frank finished the contents of his natural energy drink and passed it to her, his hand trembling slightly. Though awake, his eyes were still hazy with a morphine glaze.

"How are you feeling?" she asked.

"Like a million bucks," he said hoarsely. His eyes twitched to the stumps hidden under the blanket.

"How's the pain?"

His brow furrowed. "No pain," he said with half a laugh, strained joviality. "Though I swear I can feel my toes itching:"

"Phantom sensations," she said with a nod. "You'll probably feel them for months:"

"An itch I can never scratch . . . great:"

She smiled up at Frank. The mix of relief, exhaustion, and fear in her own heart was mirrored in her brother's expression. But at least his color had much improved. As horrible as their situation was here, Kelly had to appreciate the healing sap of the Yagga. It had saved her brother's life. His recovery had been remarkable.

Frank suddenly yawned, a true jawbreaker.

"You need to sleep," she said, getting to her feet. "Miraculous healing or not, your body needs to recharge its batteries:" She glanced around and tucked in her shirt.

Around the cavernous chamber, only a pair of tribesmen remained in the room. One of them was the head shaman, who glared at her with impatience. Kelly had wanted to spend the night at her brother's side, but the shaman had refused. He and his workers, the tribesman had explained in stilted English, would watch over their new brother. "Yagga protects him," the shaman had said, brooking no argument.

Kelly sighed. "I had better go before I get kicked out:"

Frank yawned again and nodded. She had already explained to him about tomorrow's plan and would see him at first light. He reached out and squeezed her hand. "Love you, sis:'

She bent and kissed his cheek. "Love you, too, Frank."

"I'll be fine . . . so will Jessie."

Straightening, she bit her lip to hold back a sudden sob. She couldn't let go of her feelings, not in front of Frank. She dared not, or she'd never stop crying. Over the past day, she had bottled her grief tightly. It was the O'Brien way. Irish fortitude in the face of adversity. Now was not the time to dissolve into tears.

She busied herself with checking his intravenous catheter, now plugged with a heparin lock. Though he no longer needed fluid support, she kept the catheter in place in case of emergencies.

Across the way, the shaman frowned at her.

Screw you, she thought silently and angrily, I'll go when I'm good and ready. She lifted the blanket from over her brother's legs and made one final check on his wounds. The sap seal on the stumps remained tenaciously intact. In fact, through the semitransparent seal, she saw a decent granulation bed had already formed over the raw wounds, like the heating tissue under a protective scab. The rate of granulation was simply amazing.

Tucking back the blankets, she saw that Frank's eyes were already closed. A slight snore sounded from his open mouth. She very gently leaned over and kissed his other cheek. Again she had to choke back a sob, but couldn't stop the tears. Straightening up, she wiped her eyes and surveyed the room one final time.

The shaman must have seen the wet glisten on her cheeks. His impatient frown softened in sympathy. He nodded to her, his eyes intent, repeating a silent promise that he would watch closely over her brother.

With no choice, she took a deep breath and headed toward the exit. The climb back down the tree seemed interminable. In the dark passage, she was alone with her thoughts. Worries magnified and multiplied. Her fears bounced between her daughter, her brother, and the world at large.

At last, she stumbled out of the tree's trunk and into the open glade. An evening breeze had kicked up, but it was warm. The moon was bright overhead, but already scudding clouds rolled across the spread of stars. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled. They would get rain before the morning.

In the freshening breeze, she hurried across the wide clearing, heading toward their tree. At its base, she spotted someone standing guard with a flashlight-Private Camera. The Ranger pegged her with the light, then waved. At her side, Tor-tor lay huddled. The jaguar glanced up at her approach, sniffed the air, then lowered his head back to his curled body.

"How's Frank?" Camera asked.

Kelly did not feel like talking but could not dismiss the soldier's con tern. "He seems to be doing well. Very well:"

"That's good:" She jabbed a thumb to the ladder. "You should try to get as much sleep as possible. We've a long day ahead of us:"

Kelly nodded, though she doubted sleep would come easily. She mounted the ladder.

"There's a private room on the third level of the dwelling left empty for you. It's the one on the right:"

Kelly barely heard her. "Good night," she muttered and continued her climb, lost in her own worries.

At the top of the ladder, she found the deck empty, as was the common room. Everyone must have already retired, exhausted by the number of days with so little sleep.

Craning back, she stared at the dark upper stories, then crossed to the longer of the two secondary ladders.

Third level, Private Camera had said.

Great . . . just what I get for being the last one to claim a room.

The third story was a good deal higher than the other two. Built on its own level of branches, it was more a separate structure, a two-room guest house.

Her legs aching, she mounted the long ladder. The wind began to kick up a bit as she climbed, whispering the branches, swaying the ladder ever so slightly. The gusts smelled of rain. Overhead, the moon was swallowed by dark clouds. She hurried up as the storm swept toward the village.

From this height, she saw lightning fork across the sky in a dazzling burst. Thunder boomed and echoed like a bass drum. Suddenly, living in a giant tree did not seem like such a wise choice. Especially the uppermost level.

She hurried as the first raindrops began pelting through the leaves. Pulling herself up onto the tiny deck, she rolled to her feet. The wind and rain grew quickly. Storms in the Amazon were usually brief, but they often came swiftly and fiercely. This one was no exception. Standing half crouched, she faced the doors that led to the two rooms on this level.

Which room had Camera told her was hers?

Lightning crackled overhead in small angry spears, while thunder rattled. Rain swept in a sudden torrent, and breezes became fierce gusts. Under her feet, the planking rolled like the deck of a ship at sea.

Beyond caring if she woke someone, Kelly dove toward the nearest opening, half falling through the flap, seeking immediate shelter.

The room was dark. Lightning burst, shining brightly through a smaller back door to the chamber. The lone hammock in the room was thankfully empty. She stumbled gratefully toward it.

As she crossed toward the hammock, her feet tripped over something in the dark. She fell to her knees with a sharp curse. Her fingers reached back and discovered a pack on the floor.

"Who's there?" a voice asked from beyond the back door. A silhouetted figure stepped into the frame of the doorway.

On her knees, Kelly felt a moment of sheer terror.

Thunder echoed, and a new flicker of lightning revealed the identity of the dark figure. "Nate?" she asked timidly, embarrassed. "It's Kelly."

He crossed quickly to her and helped her to her feet. "What are you doing here?"

She wiped the wet strands of hair from her face, now burning hotly. What a fool he must think 1 am. "I . . . I stumbled into the wrong room. Sorry."

"Are you okay?" Nate's hands still held her arms, his palms warm through her soaked shirt.

"I'm fine. Just feeling especially foolish:"

"No reason to be. It's dark."

Lightning crackled, and she found his eyes on hers. They stared at each other in silence.

Finally, Nate spoke. "How's Frank?"

"Fine," she said in a hushed voice. Thunder boomed distantly, rolling over them, making the world seem much larger, them much smaller. Her voice was now a whisper. "I . . . I never said . . . I was sorry to hear about your father:"

"Thanks:"

His single word, softly spoken, echoed with old pain. She moved a step toward him, unwilled, a moth drawn to a flame, knowing she would be destroyed but having no choice. His sorrow touched something inside her. That hard and fast wall around her heart weakened. Tears again welled in her eyes. Her shoulders began to tremble.

"Hush," he said, though she hadn't said a word. He pulled her closer to him, arms wrapping around her shoulder.

The trembling became sobs. All the grief and terror she had held in her heart released in a blinding torrent. Her knees gave out, but Nate caught her in his grip and lowered her to the floor. He held her tight, his heart beating against hers.

They remained on the floor in the center of the room as the storm raged outside, swaying the trees, booming with the clash of Titans. At last, she glanced up toward Nate.

She reached up to him and pulled his lips to hers. She tasted the salt of his own tears, of hers. At first, it was just survival in the face of the intense sorrow, but as their lips opened, an unspoken hunger awoke. She felt his pulse quicken.

He pulled away for a moment, gasping. His eyes were bright, so very bright in the darkness.

"Kelly. . :"

"Hush," she sighed, using his own word. She pulled him back to her.

Wrapped in each other's arms, they lowered themselves to the floor. Palms explored . . . fingers loosened and peeled away damp clothes . . . limbs entwined.

As the storm hammered, their passions grew white hot. Grief faded away, lost somewhere between pain and pleasure, age-old rhythms and silent cries. They found the room too small, falling out onto the back deck.

Lightning rode the clouds, thunder roaring. Rain lashed under the awning, sweeping across their bare skin.

Nate's mouth was hot on her breast, on her throat. She arched into him, eyes closed, lightning flaring red through her lids. His lips moved to hers, hungry, their breath shared. Under the storm, under him, she felt the exquisite tension build inside her, at first slowly, then ever more rapidly, swelling through and out of her as she cried into his lips.

He met her cry with his own, sounding like thunder in her ears.

For an untold time, they held that moment. Lost to the world, lost to the storm, but not lost to each other.

ACT FIVE

Root

UNA OE SATO, "CAT'S CLAW"

FAMILY: Rubiaceae

GENUS: UriCaY7a

SPECIES: TOmentOSa, Guianensis

COMMON NAMES: Cats Claw, Una de GatO,

Paraguayo, Garabato, Garbato Casha, Samento, Toron`,

Tambor Huasca, Ann Huasca, Una de Gavilari,

Hawk's Claw

PART USED: Bark, Root, Leaves

PROPERTIES/ACTIONS: Antibacterial, Antioxidant,

Antiinflammatory, Antitumorous, Antiviral, Cytostatic,

Depurative, Diuretic, Hypotensive, Immunostimula.nt,

Vermifuge, Antimutagenic

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Betrayal

AUGUST 1 7, 7:05 A. M.

AMAZON JUNGLE

Nate woke to find his arms around a naked woman. Her eyes were already open. "Good morning," he said.

Kelly inched closer to him. He could still smell the rain on her skin. She smiled. "It's been morning for some time:"

He rose to one elbow, which wasn't easy in a hammock, and stared down into her face. "Why didn't you wake me?"

"I figured you could use at least one full hour of sleep." She rolled out of the hammock, setting it swinging, and artfully drew off the single blanket and wrapped it around her.

With one hand, he grasped for her.

She stepped out of reach. "We have a long day ahead of us:"

With a groan, he rolled to his feet and pulled his boxers from the pile of hastily discarded clothes as Kelly gathered her things. Through the rear door to the room, he stared out at the jungle.

Last night, he and Kelly had talked into the wee hours of the morning, about fathers, brothers, daughters, lives, and losses. There were still more tears. Afterward they had made love again, slower, with less urgency, but with a deeper passion. Sated, they had collapsed into the hammock to catch a few hours of sleep before dawn.

Stepping onto the rear deck, Nate studied the forest. The morning skies were blue and clear, last night's storm long gone, the light sharp and bright. Raindrops still clung to every leaf and blade, glistening like jewels. But that wasn't all. "You should see this," he called back to the room.

Kelly, now dressed in her khakis with her shirt half buttoned, joined him. He glanced to her, stunned again by her beauty. Her eyes widened as she stared beyond the deck's edge. "How marvelous. . ."

She leaned into him, and he instinctively circled her with his arm.

Covering the upper limbs of the tree, drawn by the moisture, were hundreds of butterflies, perched on branches and leaves, fluttering through the bower. Each had wings about a handspan wide, brilliant blue and crystalline green.

"Morpho species," Nate said. "But I've never seen this color pattern:"

Kelly watched one specimen waft by overhead through a beam of sunlight. It seemed to shine with its own luminescence. "It's like someone shattered a stained-glass window and showered the slivers over the treetops."

He tightened his arm around her, trying to capture this moment forever. They stood in silence and awe for several minutes. Then distant voices intruded, rising up from below.

"I suppose we should go down," Nate finally said. "We have a lot to accomplish:"

Kelly nodded and sighed. Nate understood her reluctance. Here, isolated above everything else, it was possible to forget, at least for a while, the heartaches and hardships ahead of them. But they could not escape the world forever.

Slowly, they finished dressing. As they were about to leave, Nate crossed to the rear deck and unhooked the bamboo-and-palm-leaf awning so it fell back across the rear door, returning the room to the way he found it.

Kelly noticed what he did and moved nearer, examining the hinges along the top margin of the door. "Closed, it blocks the doorway . . . pushed open and stilted, it's a shade cover for the deck. Clever."

Nate nodded. Yesterday he had been surprised by the ingenuity, too. "I've never seen anything like it out here. It's like my father mentioned in his notes. An example of the tribe's advancement over other indigenous peoples. Subtle engineering improvements, like their crude tree elevators."

"I could use an elevator right now;" Kelly noted, stretching a kink from her back. "It does make you wonder, though;' she went on, "about the Yagga-about what it's doing to these people:"

Nate grunted in agreement, then turned to reassemble his own pack. There was much to wonder about here. Once ready, Nate gave the room a final inspection, then crossed to the door where Kelly crouched.

As Kelly slung her pack to her shoulder, Nate leaned in and kissed her deeply. There was a moment of surprise . . . then she returned the kiss with a matching passion. Neither of them had spoken of where the two would go from here. Both knew much of their urgency last night had come from a pair of wounded hearts. But it was a start. Nate looked forward to seeing where it would lead. And if her kiss was a clue, so did Kelly.

They parted, and without another word, they headed to the ladder leading down to the common areas of the dwelling.

As Nate descended, cooking scents swelled around him. He reached the bottom rung and hopped off. After helping Kelly down, they both walked through the common area to the large front deck. Nate's stomach growled, and he suddenly remembered his hunger.

Around a stone hearth set into the deck, Anna and Kouwe were finishing the final preparations for breakfast. Nate spotted a loaf of cassava bread and a tall stone pitcher of cold water.

Anna swung around with a platter of honest-to-goodness bacon in her arms. She lifted her bounty. "From wild boar;" she explained. "A pair of tribeswomen arrived with a feast at daybreak."

Nate's mouth watered. There was also more fruit, some type of egg, even what looked like a pie.

"No wonder your father stayed here for so long;" Private Carrera mumbled around a mouthful of bacon and bread.

Even this reminder of his father failed to squelch Nate's appetite. He dug in along with the rest.

As he stuffed himself, Nate realized two of their party were missing. "Where are Zane and Olin?"

"Working on the radio," Kostos said. "Olin got the GPS up and running this morning:"

Nate choked on a piece of bread. "He got it working!"

Kostos nodded, then shrugged. "He has it recalibrated, but who knows if anyone's receiving."

Nate let this information sink in. His eyes flicked to Kelly. If the signal was received with the revised coordinates, they could be rescued as soon as this evening. Nate recognized the glimmer of hope in Kelly's eyes, too.

"But without the main radio to confirm," Kostos continued, "we may just be spittin' in the wind. And until I get solid confirmation, we proceed with our backup plan. Your mission today-along with Kelly and Zanewill be to make sure Frank is ready for a quick evac if necessary."

"Plus to gather some of the tree's sap," Kelly said.

Kostos nodded, chewing hard. "While Olin works on the radio, the others of us will split up and see if we can't find out more from the Indians. Get Intel on those damned repellent powders:"

Nate didn't argue with the sergeant's plan. GPS or not, it was safest to proceed as cautiously and expeditiously as possible. The remainder of the meal was finished in silence.

Afterward, the party vacated the dwelling in the nightcap oak and climbed down to the glade, leaving Olin alone in the dwelling with his satellite equipment. Manny and the two Rangers headed in one direction, Anna and Kouwe in another. The plan was to rendezvous back at the tree at noon.

Nate and Kelly headed toward the Yagga with Richard Zane in tow. Nate hitched his shotgun higher. The sergeant had insisted every member of the party go armed with at least a pistol. Kelly had a 9mm holstered at her waist. Zane, ever suspicious, had his Beretta in hand, eyes darting all around.

In addition to the weapons, each of the three teams had been equipped with one of the Rangers' short-range Saber radios, to keep in contact with one another. "Every fifteen minutes, I want to hear an all-clear from each group," Kostos had said dourly. "No one stays silent:"

Prepared as well as they could be, the group split up.

As Nate walked across the glade, he stared up at the giant prehistoric gymnospore. Its white bark glistened with dew, as did its leaves, flickering brightly. Among the tiered branches, the clusters of giant nut pods hung, miniature versions of the man-made huts. Nate was anxious to see more of the giant tree.

They reached the thick, knobbed roots, and Kelly guided them between the woody columns to the open cavity in the trunk. As Nate approached, he could appreciate why the natives called their tree Yagga, or

Mother, The Symbolism was not lost to him. The two main buttress roots

were not unlike open legs, framing the tree's monstrous birth canal. It was from here that the Ban-ali had been born into the world.

"It's big enough to drive a truck through," Zane said, staring up at the arched opening.

Nate could not suppress a small shudder as he entered the shadowy heart of the tree. The musky scent of its oil was thick in the passage. All around the lowermost tunnel, small blue handprints decorated the wood wall, hundreds, some large, others small. Did they represent members of the tribe? Did his own father's palm mark this wall somewhere?

"This way," Kelly said, leading them toward the passage winding up the tree.

As Nate and Zane followed, the blue prints disappeared eventually.

Nate glanced along the plain walls, then back toward the entrance. Something was bothering him, but he couldn't exactly put his finger on it. Something didn't look right. Nate studied the flow channels in the wood, the tubules of xylum and phloem that moved water and nutrients up and down the trunk. The channels ran down in graceful, winding curves around the passage walls. But down below, where the passage bluntly ended, the flow channels were jagged, no longer curving smoothly. Before he could examine this further, the group had passed beyond the tunnel's curve.

"It's a long climb," Kelly said, pointing ahead. "The healing chamber is at the very top, near the crown of the tree:"

Nate followed. The tunnel looked like some monstrous insect bore. In his study of botany, he was well familiar with insect damage to trees: mountain pine beetle, European elm bark beetle, raspberry crown borer. But this tunnel had not been cored out-he would stake his life on it. It had formed naturally, like the tubules found inside the stems and trunk of an ant tree, an evolutionary adaptation. But even this raised a new question. Surely this tree was centuries older than the first arrival of the Ban-ali to this region. So why did the tree grow these hollowed tubules in the first place?

He remembered Kelly's muttered words at the end of last night's group discussion. We're missing something . . . something important.

They started passing openings through the tree's trunk to the outside. Some led directly into huts, others led out onto branches with huts beyond. He counted as they climbed. There had to be at least twenty openings.

Behind him, Zane reported in on the Saber radio. All was well with the other teams.

At last, they reached the end of the passage, where it ballooned out into a cavernous space with slits cut high in the walls to allow in the sunlight. Still, the chamber was dim.

Kelly hurried over to her brother.

The small shaman stood across the room, checking on another patient. He glanced up at their approach. He was alone. "Good morning," he said in stiff English.

Nate nodded. It was strange knowing these words were most likely taught to the man by his own father. He knew from reading his father's notes that this shaman was also the Ban-ali's nominal leader. Their class structure here was not highly organized. Each person seemed to know his place and role. But here was the tribe's king, the one who communed closest with the Yagga.

Kelly knelt at Frank's side. He was sitting up and sucking the content of one of the tree's nuts through a reed straw.

He set his liquid meal aside. "The breakfast of champions," he said with his usual good-natured smirk.

Nate saw he still wore his Red Sox cap-and nothing else. He had a small blanket over his lower half, hiding his stumped legs. But he was barechested, revealing plainly what was painted there.

A crimson serpent with a blue handprint in the center.

"I woke up with it," Frank said, noticing Nate's gaze. "They must have painted it on me during the night when I was drugged out:"

The mark of the Ban-all.

The shaman stepped to Nate's side. "You. . . son of Wishwa Kerl."

Nate turned and nodded. Apparently their guide, Dakii, had been telling tales. "Yes, Carl was my father."

The shaman king clapped him on the shoulder. "He good man:"

Nate did not know how to respond to this. He found himself nodding while really wanting to rip into the shaman. If he was such a good man, why did you murder him? But from working and living with indigenous tribes throughout the region, he knew there would never be a satisfactory answer. Among the tribes, even a good man could be killed for breaking a taboo-one could even be honored by being turned into plant fertilizer.

Kelly finished her examination of Frank. "His wounds have entirely sealed. The rate of granulation is amazing:"

Her expression must have been clear to the shaman. "Yagga heals him. Grow strong. Grow-" The shaman frowned, clearly struggling to remember a word. Finally, he bent down and slapped his own leg.

Kelly stared at the shaman, then at Nate. "Do you think it's possible? Could Frank's legs really grow back?"

"Gerald Clark's arm regenerated," Nate said. "So we know it's possible:"

Kelly crouched. "If we could watch the transformation in a modern medical facility. . :"

Zane interrupted her, lowering his voice and keeping his back toward the shaman. "Remember, we have a mission here:"

"What mission?" Frank asked.

Kelly quietly explained.

Frank brightened. "The GPS is working! Then there's hope:"

Kelly nodded.

By now, the shaman had wandered off, losing interest in them.

"In the meantime," Zane hissed, "we're supposed to gather a sample of the sap:"

"I know where it comes from," Kelly said, nodding toward a channel carved deep into the wall. Shielded by the two men, she picked up the empty nut drained by her brother and pulled out the straw. She crossed to the wall and removed a small wooden plug. A thick red sap began to flow into the channel. She bent the nut's opening into the flow and began collecting the sap. It was slow work.

"Let me," Zane said. "You look after your brother:"

Kelly nodded and stepped to Nate. "The stretcher is still here," she said, pointing an arm to the makeshift travois. "When and if we get the signal, we'll have to move fast:"

"We should-"

The first explosion shocked them all. Everyone froze as the blast echoed away. Nate stared at the open slits high up the curved walls. It was not thunder. Not from blue skies. Then more and more booms followed. Beyond the roar, sharper cries arose.

Screams.

"We're under attack!" Nate exclaimed.

He turned and found a pistol pointed at him.

"Don't move," Zane said, crouching by the wall, a tight and scared expression on his face. He held the nut, now overflowing with sap, cradled in one arm, and the 9mm Beretta in the other. "No one move:"

"What are you-" Kelly began.

Nate interrupted, immediately understanding. "You!" He remembered Kouwe's suspicions: other trackers on their trail, a spy among them. "You goddamn bastard. You sold us out!"

Zane slowly stood. "Back away!" The pistol was held rock steady on them.

Beyond the tense room, explosions continued to boom. Grenades.

Nate pulled Kelly away from Zane's threatening gun.

Behind them, the shaman suddenly bolted toward the opening, frightened by the explosions, oblivious to the closer threat. A sound of alarm rose on his lips.

"Stop!" Zane screamed at the tribesman.

The shaman was too panicked to listen or to comprehend the stranger's tongue. He continued to run.

Zane twitched his gun and fired. In the enclosed space, the blast was deafening. But not so deafening as to drown out the cry of surprise from the shaman.

Nate glanced over his shoulder. The shaman fell on his side, clutching his belly, gasping. Blood flowed from around his fingers.

Red with anger, Nate turned on Zane. "You bastard. He couldn't understand you:"

The gun again pointed at them. Zane slowly circled around, keeping his weapon aimed. He even kept a safe distance from Frank's hammock, not taking any chances. "You were always the gullible fool," the Tellux man said. "Just like your father. Neither of you understood anything about money and power."

"Who are you working for?" Nate spat.

Zane now had his back to the exit. The shaman had rolled into a moaning ball off to the side. Zane stopped and motioned with his pistol. "Toss your weapons out the window slits. One at a time:"

Nate refused to budge, shaking with rage. Zane fired, blasting wood chips from between Nate's toes.

"Do as he says," Frank ordered from the hammock.

Scowling, Kelly obeyed. She freed her pistol from its holster and flung it out one of the windows.

Nate still hesitated.

Zane smiled coldly. "The next bullet goes through your girlfriend's heart"

"Nate. . :" Frank warned from the bed.

Teeth clenched, Nate edged to the wall, weighing his chances of firing at Zane. But the odds weren't good, not with Kelly's life at risk. He unslung his gun and heaved it through one of the slits.

Zane nodded, satisfied, and backed toward the exit. "You'll have to excuse me, but I have a rendezvous to make. I suggest you three remain here. It's the safest spot in the valley at the moment:"

With those snide words, Zane slipped out of the chamber and disappeared down the throat of the tunnel.

8:12 A. M.

Deep in the jungle, Manny ran alongside Private Camera. Tor-for raced beside them, ears flattened to his skull. Explosions ripped through the morning, smoke wafted through the trees.

Kostos ran ahead of them, screaming into his radio. "Everyone back to home base! Rally at the dwelling!"

"Could they be our people?" Manny asked. "Responding to the GPS?"

Camera glanced back at him and frowned. "Not this quick. We've been ambushed:"

As if confirming this, a trio of men, dressed in camouflage gear and armed with AK-47s and grenade launchers, trotted into view.

Kostos hissed and waved them all down.

They dropped to their bellies.

An Indian ran at the group with a raised spear. He was nearly cut in half by automatic fire.

Tor-tor, spooked by the chattering gunfire, bolted forward.

"Tor-tor!" Manny hissed, rising to one knee, reaching for the cat.

The jaguar dashed into the open, across the path of the gunmen.

One of them barked something in Spanish and pointed. Another grinned and lifted his weapon, eyeing down the barrel.

Manny raised his pistol. But before he could fire, Kostos rose up ahead of him, the M-16 at his shoulder, and popped off three shots, three squeezes of the trigger. Blam, blam, blam.

The trio fell backward, heads exploding like melons.

Manny froze, stunned.

"C'mon. We need to get back to the tree:" Kostos scowled at the jungle. "Why the hell aren't the others responding?"

8:22 A.M.

Kouwe kept Anna behind him as he hid behind a bushy fern. Dakii, the tribal guide, crouched beside him. The four mercenaries stood only six yards away, unaware of the eyes watching them. Though Kouwe had heard the sergeant's order to regroup at the nightcap oak, with the marauders so near, he dared not signal his acknowledgment. They were pinned down. The group of mercenaries stood between them and the home tree. There was no way to get past them unseen.

Behind him, Dakii crouched as still as a stone, but the tension emanating from him was fierce. While hidden, he had watched more than a dozen of his tribesmen-men, women, children-mowed down by this group.

Further in the wood, explosions continued to boom. They heard screams and the crash of dwellings from the treetops. The marauders were tearing through the village. The only hope for Kouwe's party was to flee to some sheltered corner of the jungled plateau, hope to be overlooked.

One of the soldiers barked into a radio in Spanish. "Tango Team in position. Killzone fourteen secure:"

Kouwe felt something brush his knee. He glanced over. Dakii motioned for him to remain in place. Kouwe nodded.

Dakii rolled from his side, moving swiftly and silently. Not a single twig was disturbed. Dakii was teshari-rin, one of the tribe's ghost scouts. Even without his paint, the tribesman blended into the deeper shadows. He raced from shelter to shelter, a dark blur. Kouwe knew he was witnessing a demonstration of the Yagga's enhancement of its wards. Dakii circled around the band, then even Kouwe lost track of him.

Anna grabbed his hand and squeezed. Have we just been abandoned? she seemed to silently ask.

Kouwe wondered, too, until he spotted Dakii. The tribesman crouched across the way. He was in direct sight of Kouwe and Anna, but still hidden from the four guards.

Dakii rolled to his back in the loam, aiming the small bow he had found high into the air. Kouwe followed where his arrow pointed. Then back down to the mercenaries.

He understood and motioned for Anna to be ready with her own weapon. She nodded, staring up, then back down, understanding.

Kouwe signaled Dakii.

The tribesman pulled taut his bowstring and let fly an arrow. A tiny twang was heard, as was the louder rip of arrow through leaf. The mercenaries all turned in Dakii's direction, weapons raised.

Kouwe ignored them, his gaze focused above. High in the branches was the ruin of a dwelling, but left intact among the branches was one of the little ingenious inventions of the Ban-ali, one of their makeshift elevators. Dakii's arrow sliced the support rope that held aloft a cradled counterweight, a large chunk of granite.

The boulder came crashing down, straight at the group of mercenaries.

One was smashed under its weight, his face crushed as he glanced up a moment too late.

Kouwe and Anna were already on their feet. From such close range, they emptied their pistols at the remaining trio, striking chests, arms, and bellies. The group fell. Dakii rushed out, an obsidian dagger in his hand. He ran at the mercenaries and slit the throats of any who still moved. It was quick and bloody work.

With a hand, Kouwe steadied Anna, who had paled at the display. "We have to get back to the others:"

9:05 A.M.

From the height of the chasm, Louis had a wide view of the isolated valley. A pair of binoculars hung around his neck, forgotten. Across the jungle, smoke rose from countless fires and signal flares. In just over an hour, his team had encircled the village and were now closing slowly toward the center, toward his goal and prize.

Brail, who had been assigned as his new lieutenant after Jacques disappeared, spoke near his feet. The tracker knelt over a map, marking off small X's as his units reported in. "The net's secure, Herr Doktor. Nothing left now but mopping up:"

Louis could tell the man was anxious to bag his own limit here.

"And the Rangers? The Americans?"

"Herded toward the center, just as you ordered:"

"Excellent:" Louis nodded to his mistress at his side. Tshui was naked, armed only with a little blowgun. Between her breasts rested the shrunken head of Corporal DeMartini, hung around Tshui's neck by the man's own dog tags.

"Then it's time we joined the party." He lifted his twin pair of snubnosed mini-Uzis. They felt powerful in his hands. "It's high time I made the acquaintance of Nathan Rand."

9:12 A.M.

"You watch over your brother and the shaman," Nathan said, sensing time was running out. "I'm going after Zane."

"You don't have a weapon:" Kelly knelt beside the shaman. With Nathan's help, the two had wrangled the tribesman into a hammock. Kelly had shot him full of morphine, quieting his pained thrashing. A belly wound was one of the most agonizing. With no better solution, she was now slathering the entry and exit wounds with Yagga sap. "What are you going to do if you catch him?"

Nate felt a fire in his own belly, just as agonizing as a bullet wound. "First he betrayed my father, now he betrayed us:" His voice choked with anger. He wanted only one thing from the man. Vengeance.

Frank spoke from his hammock. "What are you going to do?"

Nathan shook his head. "I have to try."

He headed toward the exit. Distantly the explosions had died down, but gunfire spat sporadically. The fewer the shots, the more obvious it became that the village was being wiped out. Nate knew they would fare no better, not unless something was done. But what?

Stalking down the passage, at first cautiously, then faster and faster, around and around, Nate was reminded of the serpentine pattern of the Ban-ali symbol, winding in a spiral. Could this passage be what the symbol represented, or was it what Kelly had conjectured earlier, a crude representation of the twisted protein model, the mutagenic prion? If it represented the Yagga's tunnel, what did the helixes at each end of the spiral mean? Did one depict the healing ward? And if so, what did the other represent? And the blue handprint? Nate recalled the painted handprints decorating the entrance to the passage and shook his head. What did it all mean?

He ran around a corner and stumbled over a dead Indian lying in the tunnel. Nate fell to his hands, skidding on his knees. Once stopped, he rolled around and saw the bullet hole in the man's chest and a second in the back of his head.

Nate looked down and saw another body, just its legs, around the next curve. Another Indian.

Zane.

Nate scrambled to his feet, his blood on fire. The man was picking off the unarmed stragglers here, healers and aides to the shaman, brutally clearing a bloody path to the tunnel's end. The fucking coward.

Nate shoved down the tunnel, counting off the openings on his left. When he reached the last one, he ducked out of the passage and through a small, empty dwelling. He found himself on a branch at least five feet thick. Before continuing, he needed some idea of what was happening below. Smoke billowed and wafted through the open glade.

In the clearing around the tree, a few Indians retreated toward the Yagga.

By now, an ominous quiet had settled over the village.

Nate edged along the branch, but he couldn't get a good look across the glade toward the nightcap oak and his team's temporary homestead. The branch pointed the wrong way. He couldn't even spy the entrance to the Yagga. Damn it.

Pistol fire sounded from below. Zane! A scream erupted from the field on the tree's far side. The coward must be hiding down at the tunnel's end, killing any Indians who neared. Nate knew the bastard had enough ammo to hold them off for a while.

The Indians in direct sight below fled toward the cover of the thicker wood.

Nate stared across the glade. There was no sign of his friends.

As Nate sidled along the thick limb, his toe nudged a rope coiled atop the branch. He looked closer. Not rope, he realized, but one of the vine ladders.

"A fire escape," he mumbled. An idea flashed into his mind-a plan forming.

Before he lost his nerve, he shoved the piled vine over the edge.

The ladder unrolled with a whispery sound until it snapped to its full length, only three feet from the ground. It was a long climb, but if Zane was down there, perhaps Nate could sneak up on him.

With no more plan than that, Nate mounted the ladder and began a hurried climb earthward. He raced down the rungs. If his group and the remaining Indians could fall back here, they might have a more defensible position. But before that could happen, Zane had to be eliminated.

Nate reached the end of the ladder and hopped off.

Tall roots rose all around him, and it took Nate a moment to orient himself. The stream was behind and off to the left. That meant he was about at the four o'clock position from the tunnel entrance. He began to wind counterclockwise around the trunk.

Three o'clock . . . two o'clock . . .

Somewhere off in the forest, a spatter of automatic gunfire erupted. Another grenade exploded. Clearly the fighting had not entirely ceased in some parts of the village.

Using the cover of the noise, Nate crawled and edged his way around the tree's base. At last, he spotted one of the tall buttress roots that flanked the entrance. One o'clock.

Nate leaned against the trunk. Zane was beyond the obstruction . . . but how to proceed from here was the tricky part. Another pistol shot rang out from Zane's bunker. Nate frowned down at his empty hands.

What plan now, hero boy?

9:34 A.M.

Zane knelt on one knee, aiming out with his pistol. Tiring, he supported his weapon arm with his other. But he refused to let down his guard, not when victory was so close. He only had to hold out a little longer, then his role in this mission would be over.

One eye twitched to the nut full of the miraculous sap. It was a fortune worth billions. Though St. Savin Pharmaceuticals had made a sizable deposit in Zane's Swiss account to buy his cooperation, it was the promised bonus of a quarter percentage point of gross sales that had finally sold him on the betrayal. With the potential in the Yagga's sap, there was no limit to the wealth that could flow his way.

Zane licked his lips. His role here was almost at an end. Days ago, he had successfully slipped the computer virus into the team's communication equipment. Now all that remained was the final endgame.

Late last night, Favre had instructed Zane to obtain a sample of the sap and protect it with his life. "If those damn natives pull some jackass stunt," Louis had warned, "like setting fire to their precious tree to protect their secret, then you're our fail-safe:"

Zane had, of course, agreed, but unknown to his murderous partner, Zane had his own backup plan in mind, too. Once secure here, Zane had poured a small sample of the sap from the nut, sealed it in a latex condom, tied it off, and swallowed it. An extra bit of insurance on his own part. Any betrayal and a competing pharmaceutical company, like Tellux, would find itself in possession of the miraculous substance instead of St. Savin.

Distant rifle shots sounded from the woods. He spotted flashes of muzzle fire. Favre's men were cinching the noose. It would not be long.

As if confirming this, a grenade exploded at the glade's fringe. A dwelling in one of the huge trees blew apart, casting leaf and branch high into the air. Zane smiled-then he heard a voice within the echo of the blast. It sounded close.

"Watch out! Grenade!"

Something hit the trunk of the tree just over his head and bounced into the flanking root. Grenade! his mind echoed.

With a cry of alarm, he dove away from the entrance and rolled deeper into the shaft, arms shielding his head. He waited several tense seconds, then several more. He panted, ragged from the near escape. The expected explosion never came. Cautiously uncovering his head, he clenched his teeth. Still no blast.

He sat up, crawled slowly back toward the entrance, and peeked around the corner, where he spotted the small coconut-shaped object resting in the dirt. It was just one of the immature nut pods from the damn tree! It must have fallen from an overhead branch.

"Goddamn it!" He felt foolish at his panic.

He straightened, raising his weapon, and stepped back to his guard position. Getting too damn jumpy . . .

A blur of motion.

Something solid struck his wrist. The pistol flew from his fingers as his wrist exploded with pain. He started to fall backward-then his arm was grabbed by someone stepping from the blind side of the entrance. He was yanked out of the entrance and thrown bodily forward.

His shoulder hit the dirt. He rolled and stared back around. What he saw was impossible. "Rand? How?"

Nathan Rand towered over him at the entrance to the tunnel, a long, thick section of branch in his hand, which he raised menacingly.

Zane crab-crawled backward.

"How?" Nate asked. "A little lesson from our Indian friends. The power of suggestion:" Rand kicked the immature seed pod toward him. "Believe something strongly enough, and others will believe, too:"

Zane scrambled to his feet.

Nate swung the branch like a bat, striking him on the shoulder and knocking him back down. "That was for the shaman you shot like a dog!" Nate lifted the branch again. "And this is for-"

Zane glanced over Nate's shoulder. "Kelly! Thank God!"

Nate turned half around.

Using the moment of distraction, Zane shot to his feet and darted away. He cleared the side root in three steps.

He heard the blistering protest behind him and smiled.

What a...

. . . fool! Tricked by his own damn ruse! No one stood at the tunnel entrance. Kelly was not there.

Nate watched Zane race around the thick buttress. "No, you don't, you bastard!" With club in hand, he gave chase.

Still ringing with anger, Nate flew around the tree and spotted Zane fleeing along the base of the trunk, toward a tangle of roots. The traitor could easily get lost among them and escape. Nate thought of going back for the abandoned pistol, but he didn't have the time. He dared not lose sight of the bastard.

Ahead, Zane ducked under an arched root and wriggled through agilely. He was one wiry son of a bitch. In this race, Zane's smaller frame and lighter build were advantageous.

Realizing they were matched now fist to fist, Nathan tossed aside his club and pursued Zane. They fought through the snarl, crawling, climbing, leaping, squirming their way through the tangled maze. Zane was making headway on him.

Then the roots opened. They both stumbled onto some path amid the mess. Zane ran, pounding down the trail. Nate swore and went after him.

Ahead, water glistened. As they raced along the snaking trail, Nate saw the path ended at a wide pool, blocking the way. A dead end.

Nate smiled. End of the line, Zane!

As they neared the pool, his quarry also realized he had run himself into a blind alley and slowed-but instead of a groan of defeat, Nate heard a snarl of glee.

Zane leaped to the side, diving for the ground.

Nate closed the distance.

Zane swung to face him, a gun in hand. A 9mm Beretta.

It took Nate a startled moment to fathom this miracle. Then he saw his own shotgun, hanging by its shoulder strap from a rootlet a few steps to his right. The pistol was Kelly's! One of the weapons Zane had made them toss out of the treetop.

Nate groaned. The gods were not smiling on him. He took a step toward his shotgun, but Zane clucked his tongue.

"Move another inch, and you get a third eye!"

9:46 A.M.

Kouwe herded Anna ahead of him. The crack of rifle fire was closing all around them. Dakii led the way, expressionless, in scout mode. He wound with calm assurance through his village forest, guiding them back toward the nightcap oak. They needed to rendezvous with the Rangers. Put together some semblance of a plan.

Kouwe had been able to contact Sergeant Kostos over the radio and inform him of their status. He had also learned that Olin, left up in the dwelling, had been able to report in, too. The Russian was keeping himself well hidden in the tree. But so far no word had come from Nate's party. He prayed they were okay.

At last, Kouwe spotted sunlight ahead. The central glade! His team had been circling around from the south, keeping within the jungle cover. According to the sergeant, the Rangers were angling down from the north side.

Dakii slowed and pointed from a half crouch.

Anna and Kouwe moved up with him. Through a break in the foliage, Kouwe spotted the small log cabin in the clearing. He was able to orient himself. He followed the tribesman's arm. The nightcap oak, their destination, lay only fifty yards ahead. But that was not what Dakii was pointing out. Beyond the giant oak, Kouwe spotted Tor-tor. The jaguar raced along the clearing's edge. Drawn by the motion, Kouwe was able to see figures moving through the deeper shadows.

The Ranger team and Manny! They had made it back!

Dakii led them onward, speeding deftly through the glade's fringe.

In a few minutes, the two parties reunited at the base of the tree. Sergeant Kostos clapped Kouwe on the shoulder. Anna and Manny hugged.

"Any word from Nate?" Kouwe asked.

The sergeant shook his head, then waved to the dwelling. "I've ordered Olin to pack up his GPS and join us:"

"Why? I thought the plan was to rendezvous at the tree."

"This is close enough. As near as I can tell, we're boxed in. The tree is no protection:"

Kouwe frowned but understood. The marauders were systematically destroying every dwelling. They'd be trapped up there. "What then?"

"We bug out of here. Find a way through their line as silently as possible. Once past them, we'll seek shelter, somewhere where they can't find us:"

Manny edged closer to them, glancing at his watch. "The sergeant set one of his napalm bombs back in the woods, timed to explode in another fifteen minutes:"

"A distraction," Sergeant Kostos said. He hiked his pack on his shoulder. "And we have more if we need them:"

"It's why we can't wait for Nate," Manny said, reading his friend's eyes.

Kouwe gazed at the Yagga. The sound of gunfire was trickling away . . . as was their time. If they were going to have any chance, they would have to take it now. Kouwe reluctantly nodded, conceding.

Overhead, the vine ladder shuddered. He glanced up. Olin was climbing down, his radio pack in place.

Kostos waved his M-16. "Let's get ready to-"

The blast rocked them all to their knees. Kouwe swung around and watched the roof of the cabin sail high into the air. Bits of debris blew outward with tremendous force. A section of log shot by overhead, a flying battering ram, slicing into the jungle and crashing into its depths. Smoke billowed outward.

That was no grenade blast.

Through the smoke, a cadre of soldiers appeared, weapons raised and ready.

Kouwe noticed two things simultaneously. First, walking in the lead was a naked woman, hand in hand with a tall gentleman dressed all in white.

But the second thing Kouwe noted was of more immediate menace, something carried by one of the soldiers. The man dropped to a knee and lifted a long black tube on his shoulder.

Kouwe had seen enough Hollywood movies to recognize the weapon. "Rocket launcher!" Camera screamed behind him. "Everyone down!"

10:03 A.M.

The first blast had frozen both Nate and Zane in place. Nate kept focused on his adversary's weapon. From only a few yards away, the pistol was pointing square at his chest. He dared not move. He held his breath.

What was going on out there?

As the second blast sounded, Zane's eyes twitched in the direction of the explosion. Nate knew he wouldn't have another chance. He was dead unless he did something . . . even something stupid.

Nate lunged through the air, not toward Zane, but toward the dangling shotgun. His movement did not go unnoticed. Nate heard the sharp report of Zane's pistol and felt something sting his upper thigh, but he didn't stop.

His body struck the root, his arms scrambling for the shotgun. He didn't have time to unhook the strap. From where it hung, he just blindly swung the barrel in Zane's general direction and yanked the trigger. Recoil tore the weapon from his hand.

Nate ducked and swung around.

He saw Zane flying backward, his belly bloody, arms flung out. Zane landed in the small pond at the end of the blocked trail. He sputtered to the surface-the water was surprisingly deep, even near shore-and cried in alarm and pain.

Zane was now learning the lesson he had taught the unarmed Ban-ali shaman: a belly shot was one of the most agonizing.

Nate pushed up and unhooked his shotgun. He pointed it at the floundering man. He had not seen where the pistol had gone and was taking no chances this time.

Zane, his face a mask of torment, struggled toward the shore. Then his body suddenly jerked, his eyes widened in shock. His moaning turned to fresh screams. "Nate! Help me!"

Responding instinctively, Nate took a step forward.

Zane reached toward him, face pleading, terrified-then all around his body, the waters erupted in a fierce churning.

Nate caught several flashes of silver bodies. Piranhas. He backed away, realizing where he was: the birthing pool, the hatchery that Manny had described finding.

Zane thrashed, jerking and twitching, screeching. He began to sink into the froth. His eyes rolled with panic as he fought to keep his mouth above water. He failed. His head sank away. Only one arm remained above the pool-then even this disappeared under the roiling waters.

Nate turned from the pool and crossed down the path, feeling no pity for the man. He briefly checked the stinging burn in his thigh. He found a bullet hole in his pants and a trickle of blood. Just a graze, nothing more. He had been damned lucky.

He clenched the shotgun in his grip and marched down the trail, praying his luck would hold.

10:12A.M.

Manny shifted under a pile of debris, shoving with his shoulders. Smoke choked him. The explosion of the rocket in the treetop still rang in his head. It hurt to move his jaw. He crawled free amid shouts and yells. All commands.

"Throw down your weapons!"

"Show us your hands!"

"Move now, or I'll shoot you dead where you lie!"

That was incentive enough. Manny groaned and spat out blood. He glanced up into chaos. He saw Anna Fong on her knees, hands on her head. She looked all but unscathed. Professor Kouwe knelt at her side, bearing a scalp gash that dripped blood down his cheek. Dakii was also there, wearing an expression of stunned disbelief.

Turning, Manny saw Tor-tor's spotted face peering out from under a bush. He motioned the jaguar to stay put. Near the same bush, he watched Private Camera furtively shove her Bailey under a section of the roof thatch from one of the abodes above.

"You!" someone barked. "On your feet!"

Manny didn't know who the man was talking to until he felt the hot barrel of a gun on his temple. He froze.

"On your feet!" the man repeated. His words were heavily accented, German perhaps.

Manny clambered to his knees, then to his feet. He wobbled, but this seemed to satisfy the mercenary.

"Your weapon!" he barked.

Manny glanced around him as if searching for a missing shoe or sock. He saw his pistol lying there and nudged it with a toe. "There:"

A second soldier appeared out of nowhere and confiscated it.

"Join the anderen!" the man said with a shove toward the others.

As he stumbled toward his kneeling friends, Manny saw Camera and Kostos escorted by other guards. Their holsters were empty, packs gone. They were all forced to their knees, hands on their heads. The sergeant's left eye was swollen, his nose crooked and bloodied, broken. Kostos had clearly put up more fight than Manny.

Suddenly a distant section of deeper forest blew up into a ball of fire. The soft explosion echoed out to them, along with the smell of napalm.

So much for Kostos's planned "distraction:" Too little, too late.

"Herr Brail, this one's not moving!" one of the mercenaries shouted behind them in a mix of German and Spanish.

Manny glanced back to the base of the nightcap oak. It was Olin. He lay in a crumpled heap. A spear of wood had pierced through his shoulder and blood flowed brightly across his light khaki shirt. Manny saw he was still breathing.

The one named Brail tore his gaze from the burning forest and wandered over to check on the Russian. "Hundefleisch," the German said. Dog meat. He lifted his pistol and shot Olin in the back of the head.

Anna jumped at the noise, a sob escaping her.

From near the ruins of the log cabin, the two leaders of the attack force casually wandered toward them. The small Indian woman, though naked, moved casually, as if through a garden party, all curves and smooth legs. She wore a talisman resting between her breasts. Manny had first thought it was a leather satchel, but as she neared, he recognized it as a shrunken head. The hair atop the disgusting trinket was shaved.

The slender man at her side, dressed in white khakis and a rakish Panama hat, noticed his attention. He lifted the necklace for the others' view.

Manny spotted the dog tags.

"May I reintroduce you to Corporal DeMartini:" He laughed lightly, as if he had made a joke, a party amusement, and dropped the defiled head of their former teammate back to the woman's chest.

Sergeant Kostos grumbled a threat, but the AK-47 pointed at the nape of his neck kept him on his knees.

Louis smiled at the line of kneeling prisoners. "It's good to see you all together again."

Manny recognized a distinctly French accent. Who was this man?

Professor Kouwe answered his silent question. "Louis Favre," the pro fessor mumbled under his breath, his expression sickened.

The Frenchman's gaze swung to Kouwe. "That's Doctor Favre, Professor Kouwe. Please let's keep this courteous, and we can be done with this unpleasant matter as quickly as possible:"

Kouwe simply glowered.

Manny knew the man's name. He was a biologist banned from Brazil for black-market profiteering and for crimes against the indigenous people. The professor, along with Nate's father, had shared an infamous past with this man.

"Now, we've counted heads here and seem to have come up a few short," Favre said. "Where are the last members of your little troupe?"

No one spoke.

"Come now. Let's keep this friendly, shall we? It's such a pleasant day." Favre marched up and down the row of prisoners. "You don't want this to turn ugly now, do you? It's a simple question."

Still no one moved. Everyone stared blankly forward.

Favre shook his head sadly. "Then ugly it is:" He turned to the woman. "Tshui, ma cherie, take your pick:" He brushed his hands primly as if done with the matter.

The naked woman stalked before them, and hesitated before Private Camera, cocking her head, then suddenly sprang two places over to kneel before Anna. Her nose was only an inch from the anthropologist's.

Anna recoiled, but the gun behind her held her in place.

"My darling has an eye for beauty."

Moving as quickly as a striking snake, the Indian woman drew a long;

slender bone knife from a sheath hidden in her long tresses. Manny had seen knife sheaths like this braided into the hair of warriors in only one Amerindian tribe: the Shuar, the headhunters of Equador.

The bleached-white knife pointed into the tender flesh under Anna's chin. The Asian woman trembled. Red blood dribbled down the white blade. Anna gasped.

Enough, Manny thought, reacting reflexively. His right hand dropped to his waist, settling atop the handle of the short bullwhip. He could also move quickly when he wanted, reflexes developed from years of taming a wild cat. With skilled fingers, he snapped out with the whip.

The tip of the leather struck the bone knife, sending it flying, and nicked a cut under the Shuar woman's eye.

Like a cat, she hissed and rolled away, wounded. A second knife appeared in her hand as if by magic. It seemed this cat had many claws.

"Leave Anna be!" Manny yelled. "I'll tell you where the others are!" Before he could say anything else, Manny was clubbed from behind, knocked to his face in the dirt and leaves. A foot kicked his whip away, then stomped on the offending hand, snapping a finger.

"Drag him up!" Favre barked, all traces of his genteel mannerisms falling away.

Manny was hauled up by his hair. He cradled his injured hand to his chest.

Favre stood by the Indian woman and wiped the blood from her cheek. Favre turned to Manny and licked the blood from his fingertip.

"Now was that necessary?" he asked, and reached a hand behind him. One of the gunmen placed a snub-nosed rifle in his palm. Some type of miniature Uzi, from the looks of it.

The fist in Manny's hair twisted hard.

"Release him, Brail," Favre said.

The hand let go of him. Unsupported, Manny almost sagged to his face again.

"Where are they?" Louis asked.

Manny bit past the pain. "In the tree . . . the last time we saw them . . they've not responded to our radios:"

Favre nodded. "So I heard:" He reached his free hand and pulled out

matching radio. "Corporal DeMartini was gracious enough to lend me his Saber and supply me with the proper radio frequencies:"

Manny frowned. "If you knew . . . why . . . ?" He glanced over to Anna.

A long sigh followed, exasperated and bored. "Just making sure no one was attempting some deceptive tactic. It seems I've lost contact with my own agent in your party. And that always arouses my suspicious nature:"

"Agent?" Manny asked.

"Spy," Kouwe said from the end of the row of prisoners. "Richard Zane."

"Indeed:" Favre turned toward the tree and raised the radio to this mouth. "Nate, if you can hear me, stay put. We'll be coming over to join you.

There was no answer.

Manny hoped somehow Nate had fled with Kelly. But in his heart, he knew Kelly would never leave her brother's side. All of them must still be hiding in the ancient tree.

As the Frenchman stared at the white-barked giant, his eyes narrowed. After a moment, he swung back and focused on Manny again. "That leaves me only to address the insult upon my lady here:"

The stubby Uzi again was raised in his direction.

"Not very gentlemanly of you, Monsieur Azevedo:"

Favre pulled the trigger. Shots rattled and sprayed out.

Manny winced, but not a bullet struck him.

A grunt sounded behind him. The guard at his back collapsed intb view, his upper body riddled. He lay on the ground, gasping like a beached fish. Blood poured out from his mouth and nose.

Favre lowered his weapon. Manny stared up at the Frenchman. Favre cocked one eyebrow. "It's not you I blame. Brail should have minded you better. He should never have left that damn whip at your side. Sloppy, sloppy work:" Louis shook his head. "Two lieutenants gone in the same number of days:"

He turned away and waved his weapon. "Bring the prisoners." He strode toward the Yagga. "I'm done chasing after Carl's boy. Let's see if we can coax the shy fellow to come out and join us:"

1 1:09 A.M.

Nate hid in the shadow of the Yagga's buttress root. Smoke clouded the glade. He heard intermittent gunfire and muffled shouts from the direction of the nightcap oak. What was going on?

The only object within sight inside the glade was the cratered husk of his father's log cabin. A mingled sense of dread and despair settled over his body like a shroud. Then, like ghosts from a grave, figures appeared out of the smoke, shadowy and vague.

He slipped deeper into the root's shadow, leveling his shotgun in their direction. Slowly, with each step, the apparitions took form and substance. He recognized Manny and Kouwe in the lead, guarding Anna between them. Kostos and Camera flanked them, a step behind. Even the tribesman, Dakii, marched with them.

Blood stained all of them and they walked with their hands behind their backs, stumbling, prodded from behind by shadowy figures. As they approached, the others grew clearer: men in a mix of military and jungle fatigues. They had weapons of every ilk pointed at his friends.

Nate aimed down the barrel of his shotgun. A useless weapon against these odds, these numbers. He needed another plan. But for now, he only had stealth and shadows.

His teammates were drawn to a stop by their guards.

A man dressed all in white lifted a small bullhorn to his lips. "Nathan hand!" he bellowed, aiming for the Yagga's treetop. "Show yourself! Come out freely or your friends will pay for your absence. I will give you two minutes!"

His teammates and the Indian were forced to their knees.

Nate lowered himself further into hiding. Without a doubt, the man out there was the leader of these mercenaries, a Frenchman judging from his accent. The man glanced at his watch, then back up to the treetop, tapping a toe impatiently. He clearly thought Nate was still in the upper bowers, relying on the last bit of intelligence from his dead spy.

Nate wavered. Show himself or flee? Should he take his chances in the woods? Perhaps try to get around behind the soldiers? Nate mentally shook his head. He was no guerrilla warrior.

"Thirty seconds, Nathan!" the man roared through the bullhorn.

A tiny voice echoed down from above. "Nate's not up here! He left!"

It was Kelly!

The Frenchman lowered his bullhorn. "Lies," he muttered under his breath.

Kouwe spoke up from where he knelt. "Dr. Favre . . . a word with you, please:"

Nate found his fingers tightening on his shotgun, instantly recognizing the name. He had heard tales from his father about the atrocities attributed to Louis Favre. He was the bogeyman of the Amazon, a devil whispered about among the tribes, a monster banished from the region by his own father. But now here again.

"What is it, Professor?" Favre asked with irritation.

"That was Kelly O'Brien. She's with her injured brother. If she says Nate's not up there, then he's not:"

Favre frowned and checked his watch. "We'll see:" He raised his bullhorn. "Ten seconds!" He then held out a palm, and a wicked weapon was handed to him: a curved machete as long as a scythe. Even in the smoky sunshine, it shone brightly-freshly sharpened.

Favre leaned and placed the curve of the blade under Anna Fong's neck, then lifted the bullhorn. "Time is running out, Nathan! I've been generous giving you an initial two minutes. From here on out, every minute will cost a friend's life. Come out now, and all will be spared! This I swear as a gentleman and a Frenchman:" Favre counted the last seconds. "Five . . . four. . ."

Nathan struggled for some plan . . . anything. He knew Louis Favre's sworn word was worthless.

Three . . . two. . .

He had seconds to come up with an alternative to submission.

"One. . ."

He found none.

"Zero!"

Nathan rose out of his hiding place. He stepped out with his shotgun over his head. "You win!" he called back.

Favre straightened from his crouch over Anna, one eyebrow raised. "Oh, mon pent homme, how you startled me! What were you doing down here all along?"

Tears flowed down Anna's stricken face.

Nate threw his shotgun away. "You win," he said again. Soldiers trotted around to circle him.

Favre smiled. "So I always do:" His lips turned from amused to feral.

Before anyone could react, Favre twisted from the hip and swung the machete with all the force of his arm and back.

Blood flumed upward.

His victim's head was shorn clean off at the neck.

"Manny!" Nate cried out, falling to his knees, then his hands.

His friend's body collapsed backward.

Anna screamed, swooning into Kouwe's side.

With his back to Nate, Favre faced the shock and dismay of the other prisoners. "Please, did any of you truly think I'd let Monsieur Azevedo strike my love without recourse? Mon Dieu! Where's your chivalry?"

Beyond the kneeling line, Nate saw the Indian woman touch a gash on her cheek.

Favre then turned back around to face Nate. His white outfit was now decorated with a crimson sash of Manny's blood. The monster tapped his wristwatch and waggled a finger at him. "And, Nathan, the count did reach zero. You were late. Fair is fair."

Nathan hung his head, sagging toward the ground. "Manny. . :'

Somewhere in the distance, a feline howl pierced the morning, echoing over the valley.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Cure

AUGUST 1 7, 4:1 6 PM.

AMAZON JUNGLE

Louis surveyed the final preparations in the valley. He carried his soiled field jacket over one arm, his shirtsleeves rolled up. The afternoon turned out to be a scorcher-but it would get hotter here, much hotter. He smiled grimly, satisfied, as he stared over the ruins of the village.

A Colombian soldier named Mask snapped to attention at his approach. The fellow, standing well over six feet, was as lethal as he was tall. A former bodyguard for the captain of a drug cartel, the swarthy man had taken a face full of acid protecting his boss. His skin was a boiled mass of scar tissue on one side. He had been fired afterward by his ungrateful ward, too ugly and too awful a reminder of how close death had come. Louis, on the other hand, respected the man's show of stalwart loyalty. He made an excellent replacement for Brail.

"Mask," Louis said, acknowledging the man, "how much longer until all the charges are set in the valley?"

"Half an hour," his new lieutenant answered sharply.

Louis nodded and glanced at his watch. Time was critical, but everything was on schedule. If that Russian hadn't gotten that damned GPS working and a signal transmitted, Louis would have had more time to enjoy his victory here.

Sighing, Louis surveyed the field before him. There were eighteen prisoners in all, on their knees, hog-tied with their hands behind their backs and secured to their crossed ankles behind them. A loop of rope ran from the bindings and encircled their necks. A strangler's wrap. Struggle against your knots and the noose tightened around your neck.

He watched a few of the prisoners already gasping as the ropes dug deep. The others sat sweating and bleeding under the hot sun.

Louis noticed Mask still standing at his side. "And the village has been scoured?" he asked. "There are no more of the Ban-ali?"

"None living, sir."

The village had numbered over a hundred. Now they were just one more lost tribe.

"How about the valley? Has it been thoroughly scouted?"

"Yes, Sir. The only way onto or off this plateau is the chasm:"

"Very good," Louis said. He had already known this from torturing the Ban-ali scout last night, but he had wanted to be sure. "Do one last sweep through all stations. I want to be out of here no later than five o'clock:"

Mask nodded and turned smartly away. He strode swiftly toward the giant central tree.

Louis followed him with his eyes. At the tree, two small steel drums were being rolled out of the trunk's tunnel. After the valley had been secured, men with axes and awls had hiked up inside the tree, set deep taps into the trunk, and drained large quantities of the priceless sap. As the men pushed the drums into the field, Louis studied another team laboring around the base of the giant Yagga tree. His eyes narrowed.

Everything was running with a clockwork precision. Louis would have it no other way.

Satisfied, he strode over to the line of segregated prisoners, the survivors of the Ranger team, baking and burning under the sun. They sat slightly apart from the remaining members of the Ban-ali tribe.

Louis stared at his catch, slightly disappointed that they hadn't offered more of a challenge. The two Rangers glared back at him murderously. The small Asian anthropologist had calmed significantly, eyes closed, lips moving in prayer, resigned. Kouwe sat stoically. Louis stopped in front of the last prisoner in the lineup.

Nathan Rand's gaze was as hard as the Rangers; but there was a glint of something more. A vein of icy determination.

Louis had a hard time maintaining eye contact with the man, but he refused to look away. In Nathan's face, he saw a shadow of the man's father: the sandy hair, the planes of the cheek, the shape of his nose. But this was not Carl Rand. And to Louis's surprise, this disappointed him. The satisfaction he had expected to feel at having Carl's son kneeling at his feet was hollow.

In fact, he found himself somewhat respecting the young man. Throughout the journey here, Nathan had demonstrated both ingenuity and a stout heart, even dispatching Louis's spy. And finally, here at the end, he had proven his loyalty, with a willingness to sacrifice his own life for his team. Admirable qualities, even if they were directed at cross purposes to Louis's own.

But finally, it was those eyes, as hard as polished stone. He had clearly known inconsolable grief and somehow survived. Louis remembered his elderly friend from the bar back at his hotel in French Guiana, the survivor of the Devil's Island penal system. Louis pictured the old man sipping his neat bourbons. The chap had the same eyes. These were not Carl Rand's eyes, his father's eyes. Here was a different man.

"What are you going to do with us?" Nate said. It was not a plea, but a simple question.

Louis removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. "I swore as a gentleman that I wouldn't kill you or your friends. And I will honor my word:'

Nate's eyes narrowed.

"I'll leave your deaths to the U.S. military," he said sadly, the emotion surprisingly unfeigned.

"What do you mean?" Nate asked suspiciously.

Louis shook his head and took two steps to reach Sergeant Kostos. "I think that question should be answered by your companion here:"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Kostos said with a glower.

Louis bent down at the waist and stared into the sergeant's face. "Really . . , are you saying Captain Waxman didn't confide in his staff sergeant?"

Kostos glanced away.

"What is he talking about?" Nate asked, directing the question to the sergeant. "We're well past secrets now, Kostos. If you know something . . :"

The sergeant finally spoke, awkward with shame. "The napalm mini-bombs. We were under orders to find the source of the miraculous compound. Once a sample was secured, we were to destroy the source. Total annihilation:'

Louis straightened, enjoying the shocked expressions on the others' faces. Even the female Ranger looked surprised. It seemed the military liked to keep its secrets to only a select few.

Raising an arm, Louis pointed back to the small group of men gathered around the giant tree. They were his own demolitions team. Against the white bark of the trunk, the Rangers' remaining nine minibombs appeared like flat black eyes peering toward them. "Thanks to the U.S. government, there's enough firepower here to wipe out even a giant monster of a tree like this one:"

Kostos hung his head, as well he should.

"So you see," Louis said, "our two missions are not so different. Only who benefits-the U.S. military complex or a French pharmaceutical company. Which in turn raises the question, who would do the greater good with the knowledge?" He shrugged. "Who can say? But conversely, we might ask-who would do the greater harm?" Louis eyed the sergeant. "And I think we can all answer that one:"

A distinct quiet settled over the group.

Nate finally spoke. "What about Kelly and Frank?"

Ali, the missing members of the group . . . Louis was not surprised it was Nate who brought up the question. "Don't worry about their health. They'll be coming with my party," Louis explained. "I've been in contact with my financiers. Monsieur O'Brien will prove an ideal guinea pig to investigate this regenerative process. The scientists at St. Savin are itching to get their hands and instruments on him:"

"And Kelly?"

"Mademoiselle O'Brien will be coming along to make sure her brother cooperates:"

Nathan paled.

During the discourse, Louis had noticed Nate's gaze flick toward the tree. He waved an arm back to the giant. "The timers are set for three hours from now. Eight o'clock, to be precise," Louis said. He knew everyone here had seen the force of a single napalm bomb. Multiplied by nine, he watched the hopelessness settle into their faces.

Louis continued, "We've also seeded other incendiary bombs throughout the canyon, including the chasm leading up here, which we'll explode as soon as we vacate the area. We couldn't risk the possibility that we missed an Indian hidden up here who might free you. And I'm afraid, tied up or not, there's no escape. This entire isolated valley will become one mighty firestorm-destroying all remnants of the miracle sap and acting as a bonfire in the night to attract any helicopters winging this way. A fiery diversion to cover our flight:"

The utter defeat in their eyes shone dully.

Louis smiled. "As you can see, it's all well planned:"

Behind him, Louis's lieutenant approached briskly and stopped at his shoulder. The Colombian ignored the prisoners as if they were mere sheep.

"Yes, Mask?"

"All is in order. We can evacuate at your word:'

"You have it:" Louis glanced again at the line of men and women. "I'm afraid duty calls. I must bid you all a fond adieu:'

Turning away, Louis felt a twinge of satisfaction, knowing that it was ultimately the young man's father, Carl Rand, who had truly brought his proud son to his doom. Following in his father's footsteps . . .

He hoped the old man was watching from hell.

4:55 PM.

Nate knelt with the others, beaten and crushed by the news. He watched dully as the camp organized for their departure.

Kouwe spoke at his shoulder. "Favre has placed all this faith in the Yagga's sap:"

Nate turned his head, careful of the noose around his neck. "What does it matter now?"

"He expects it to cure the contagion, like it does physical wounds, but we've no proof it can:"

Nate shrugged. "What do you want us to do?"

"Tell him," Kouwe said.

"And help him? Why?"

"It's not him I'm trying to help. It's all those out in the world dying of the disease. The cure to the contagion lies here. I feel it. And he's going to destroy it, wiping out any chance to stop the curse of the Ban-ali. We must try to warn him:'

Nate frowned. In his mind, he saw Manny's murder . . . his friend's body falling to the dirt. He understood in his mind what Kouwe was suggesting, but he just couldn't get his heart to go along with it.

"He won't listen anyway," Nate said, seeking some compromise between heart and mind, some justification for remaining silent. "Favre's operating under a strict timetable. He has another six to eight hours at the most before a military response is mustered. All he can do is plunder what he can and run:"

"We must make him listen," Kouwe insisted.

Raised voices echoed to them from the Yagga. Both men glanced toward the tunnel in the trunk. A pair of mercenaries strode out with a stretcher between them. Nate recognized their own makeshift travois and Frank tied on top. He was bound like a trussed pig, ready for the spit.

Next came Kelly, walking on her own, her hands tied behind her back. She shuffled beside Favre and his naked Indian mistress. They were all trailed by additional gunmen.

"You don't know what you're doing!" Kelly argued loudly. "We don't know if the sap can cure anything!"

Nate heard their own argument from a moment ago.

Louis shrugged. "St. Savin will have paid me long before it's ever discovered if you're right or not. They'll look at your brother's legs-or what's left of them-and shovel the contracted millions into my account:"

"What about all those dying? The children, the elderly."

"What do I care? My grandparents are already dead. And I have no children."

Kelly blustered hotly, then her eyes fell on the group of her friends. Her face crinkled in confusion. She glanced ahead to the trail of thirty or so men marching out of the valley, then back at the group of prisoners.

"What's going on?" she asked.

"Oh, your friends . . . they'll be staying here."

Kelly stared at the ring of explosives set around the tree, then over to them, her eyes settling on Nate. "You . . . You can't just leave them here:"

"I can;" Louis said. "I certainly can:'

She stumbled to a stop, her voice soft with tears. "At least, let me say good-bye:"

Louis sighed with dramatic exasperation. "Fine. But make it quick." He took Kelly by the upper arm and guided her out of line, accompanied by his mistress and four armed guards.

Louis shoved her in front of them.

Nate's heart ached at seeing her. It would've been better if she had simply continued past them.

Tears rolled down her face. Kelly shuffled before each of them and said how sorry she was-as if all this were her fault. Nate barely listened, drinking up the sight of her with his eyes, knowing this would be the last time he ever saw her. She bent and placed her cheek against Professor Kouwe's, then moved to Nate at the end of the line.

She stared down at him, then dropped to her knees. "Nate. . :'

"Hush," he said with a sad smile, the word a secret reminder of their night together. "Hush:"

Fresh tears flowed. "I heard about Manny," she said. "I'm so sorry."

Nate closed his eyes and bowed his head. "If you get a chance," he said under his breath, "kill that French bastard:"

She leaned into him, sliding her cheek next to his. "I promise," she whispered at his ear, like a lover sharing a secret.

He turned his face and met her lips, not caring who saw. He kissed her one last time. She met his kiss, gasping between their joined lips.

Then she was torn away, yanked to her feet by Favre. He had a hand clenched around her arm. "It would seem you two have been sharing more than just a professional relationship," he said with a sneer.

Favre whipped Kelly around and kissed her hard on the mouth. She cried out in surprise and shock. Louis released her, throwing her back toward the Indian woman. Blood dripped from his lip.

Kelly had bitten him.

He wiped his chin. "Don't worry, Nathan. I'll take good care of your woman:" He glanced back to Kelly and his mistress. "Tshui and I will make sure her stay with us is an enjoyable one. Won't we, Tshui?"

The Indian witch leaned closer to their prisoner and fingered a curl o' Kelly's auburn hair, sniffing at it.

"See, Nathan. Tshui is already intrigued:'

375

Nate struggled to lunge at the man, fighting his bonds. "You bastard," he hissed, choking as the strangle noose tightened.

"Calm yourself, my boy." Louis stepped back, putting an arm around Kelly. "She's in good hands:"

Tears of frustration rolled down his face. His breath was a ragged gasp as the noose dug into the flesh of his neck. Still he struggled. He would die anyway. What did it matter if he strangled or burned?

Louis glanced down at him sadly, then dragged Kelly away. The man mumbled as he left, "A shame . . . such a nice boy, but so much tragedy in his life:"

Nate began to see stars dancing at the edges of his blackening vision.

Kouwe hissed at Nate. "Stop struggling, Nate."

"Why?" he gasped.

"Where there is life, there is hope:"

Nate sagged in his bonds, not so much finding significance in the professor's words as simple defeat. His breathing became incrementally easier. He stared after the retreating mercenary band, but his eyes stayed focused on Kelly. She glanced back one time, just before disappearing into the jungle fringe. Then she was gone.

The group remained silent, except for a mumbled prayer from Anna. Behind them, a few of the Indian prisoners had begun to sing a mournful melody, while others simply cried. They continued to sit, with no hope, baking under the sun as it trailed toward the western horizon. With each breath or sob, their deaths drew nearer.

"Why didn't he just shoot us?" Sergeant Kostos mumbled.

"It's not Favre's way;" Professor Kouwe answered. "He wants us to appreciate our deaths. A slow torture. It excites the bastard."

Nate closed his eyes, defeated.

After an hour, a huge explosion shattered off to the south. Nate opened his eyes and watched a thick column of smoke and rock dust blast into the sky.

"They blew the chasm," Camera said at the other end of the line.

Nate turned away. The explosion echoed for a few seconds, then died away. All of them now waited for one last explosion, the one that would take their lives and burn through the valley.

As silence again descended over them, Nate heard a distinctive cough from the forest's edge. A Jaguar's cough.

Kouwe glanced over to Nate.

"Tor-tor?" Nate asked, experiencing a twinge of hope.

From the jungle's edge, a jaguar pushed into the open glade. But it was not the spotted face of their friend's pet.

The huge black jaguar slunk into the open, sniffing, lips pulled back in a silent and hungry snarl.

5:35 1?M.

Kelly walked beside Frank's stretcher. The two bearers seemed tireless, marching through the jungles of the lower canyon like muscled robots. Kelly, with no burden except for her heavy heart, found her feet stumbling over every root and branch.

Favre had set a hard pace for the group. He wanted to reach the swamp lake and disappear into the forests south of it before the fiery explosion ripped through the upper canyon.

"After that, the military will be flocking there like flies on shit," Favre had warned. "We must be well gone:"

Kelly had also eavesdropped on the chatter among the mercenary grunts, spoken in a patois of Portuguese and Spanish. Favre had radioed ahead and arranged for motor boats to meet them at a river only a day's march from here. Once there, they would quickly speed away.

But first they had to get to the rendezvous spot without getting caught-and that meant speed was essential. Favre would brook no laggers, including Kelly. The monster had confiscated Manny's bullwhip, snapping it periodically as he moved through the line, like a slavemaster overseeing his crew. Kelly already had a taste of its stinging touch, when she had fallen to her knees as the chasm had exploded behind them. She had been so wrung with hopelessness, she had not been able to move. Then fire had lit her shoulder. The whip had split her shirt and stung her skin. She knew better than to falter from that point on.

Frank spoke from his stretcher. "Kelly. . :'

She leaned down toward him.

"We'll get out of this," he said, slurring. Despite her brother's earlier protests, she had given him a jolt of Demerol before being transported from the Yagga's healing ward. She hadn't wanted him to suffer by their manhandling. "We'll make it:"

Kelly nodded, wishing her arms were untied so she could hold her brother's hand. But under the blanket, even Frank's limbs were secured by ropes to the stretcher.

Frank continued with his bleary attempt at consoling her. "Nate . . . and the others . . . they'll find a way to break free . . . rescue. . :"His words drifted into a morphine haze.

Kelly glanced behind them. The sky was mostly blocked by the canopy overhead, but she could still spot the smudge of smoke from the explosion, closing off the upper valley from the lower. She hadn't told her brother about the incendiary devices set throughout the primitive forest. They could expect no help from their old teammates.

Kelly eyed Favre's back as he marched ahead.

Her only hope now was for revenge.

She intended to keep her promise to Nate.

She would kill Louis Favre . . . or die trying.

5:58 PM.

Nate watched the giant black jaguar stalk into the open glade. It was alone. Nate recognized it as the leader of the pack, the sly female. She must have somehow survived Louis's mass poisoning and instinctively returned to the valley of her birth.

Sergeant Kostos groaned under his breath, "This day just gets better and better."

The great beast eyed the bound prisoners, ready-packed meals. Without the repellent black powder, even the Ban-ali were at risk. The black feline god, created by the Yagga to protect them, had just turned feral.

The beast crept toward them, low to the ground, tail flicking.

Then a flash of fire drew Nate's attention over the cat's muscled shoulder. Tor-tor loped out of the jungle in its shadow. Showing no sign of fear, Tor-tor raced past the larger cat and rushed at Nate and the others.

Nate was knocked on his side by the cat's show of exuberance. With his master dead, Tor-tor was clearly relieved to rejoin them, seeking consolation, reassurance.

Nate choked on his tightening noose. "Th . . . That's a good boy, Tor-tor:"

The large black cat hung back, watching the strange display.

Tor-tor rolled against him, wanting a pet, something to let him know all was okay. Nate, tied up, couldn't comply-but an idea formed.

Nate rolled around, earning a further twist of his noose, and held the ropes out toward the jaguar. Tor-tor sniffed at his bindings. "Bite through them," Nate urged, shaking his bound wrists. "Then I'll pet you, you big furry lug:"

Tor-tor licked Nate's hand, then nosed him in the shoulder.

Nate groaned with frustration. Nate glanced over his shoulder. The giant black cat padded over to him and nudged Tor-tor aside with a small growl.

Nate froze.

The monster sniffed at the hand that Tor-tor had licked, then gazed up at Nate with those penetrating black eyes. He was sure it could smell the abject fear in the man curled at its feet.

Nate remembered how it had torn Frank's limbs off in a single swooping attack.

The jaguar lowered its head to Nate's arms and legs. A rumble sounded through it. Nate felt a fierce tug and was lifted off the ground, strangling in the noose. For a momentary flash, Nate wondered if he would be strangled before being eaten. He prayed for the former.

Instead, Nate found himself dropped back to the ground. He cringed a moment, then realized his arms were loose. Taking advantage of the opportunity, Nate rolled away with a kick and a twist. He sat up, glancing to the severed ropes dangling from his wrists. The cat had freed him.

Nate yanked at the constricting noose.

The large black jaguar watched him. Tor-tor brushed the giant cap flank, a clear display of affection, and crossed to Nate.

After working free the noose, Nate tossed it aside. His ankles were still bound, but before he could free his legs, he had a friend to thank.

Tor-tor shoved into him, bowing his furry head into Nate's chest.

He scratched that special spot behind both ears, earning a rumbled purr of satisfaction. "That's a good boy . . . you did good:"

A small sad whine flowed from the cat.

Nate pulled Tor-tor's head up and stared into those golden eyes. "I loved Manny, too," Nate whispered.

Tor-tor nuzzled his face, snuffling.

Nate endured it, making small soothing sounds to the cat. Eventually Tor-tor backed a step away. Nate was able to free his ankles.

Beyond Tor-tor, the giant black jaguar sat on its haunches. Tor-tor must have run into the female after Manny's death. He must have directed her here. Manny had been proven right a couple nights back. Some bond must have developed between the two young cats. Perhaps the ties had grown even deeper by their shared grief. Tor-tor for his master, the female for her pack.

Nate stood and freed Kouwe. Together they unbound the others. Nate found himself untying the ropes from Dakii's limbs. Here was the Indian scout who had been principally responsible for sending the piranhas and locusts upon their party. But Nate could no longer touch his old anger. The Indian had only been protecting his people-and as it turned out, rightly so. Nate helped Dakii up, staring at the smoky ruins of the village. Who were the true monsters of the jungle?

Dakii hugged Nate tightly.

"Don't thank me yet;" Nate said. Around the glade, the other Indians were being untied, but Nate focused on the booby-trapped tree with its nine napalm bombs chained around its trunk.

Sergeant Kostos passed by, rubbing his chafed wrists. "I'm going to see about disarming the charges. Camera's off to see if she can find the weapon she hid:"

Nate nodded. Nearby, the freed Ban-ali gathered around the two jaguars. Both cats were now lounging in the shade, seemingly oblivious to the audience. But Nate noticed the larger female watching everything through slitted eyes. The cat was not letting its guard down.

Anna and Kouwe stepped over to join him. "We're free, but what now?" the professor asked.

Note shook his head.

Anna crossed her arms.

"What's wrong?" Nate asked, noticing her deeply furrowed brow.

"Richard Zane. If we ever get out of this mess, I'm quitting Tellux."

Note smiled despite their situation. "I'll be right behind you with my own letter of resignation."

After a bit, Sergeant Kostos strode back to them, wearing his usual scowl. "The bombs are all hardwired and booby-trapped. I can't stop the detonation sequence or remove the devices:'

"There's nothing you can do?" Kouwe asked.

The Ranger shook his head. "I have to give that French bastard's team some credit. They did a great job, damn them:'

"How much time?" Anna asked.

"Just under two hours. The digital timers are set to blow at eight o'clock:"

Note frowned at the tree. "Then we'll either have to find another way out of this valley or seek some type of shelter:'

"Forget shelter," Kostos said. "We need to be as fucking far from here as possible when those babies blow. Even without the additional incendiaries placed by Favre's men, those nine napalmers are enough to fry this entire plateau:"

Note took him at his word. "Where's Dakii? Maybe he knows another way out of here:"

Kouwe pointed to the entrance to the Yagga. "He went to check on the status of his shaman:"

Note nodded, remembering the poor man who had been shot in the gut by Zane. "Let's go see if Dakii knows anything helpful:"

Kouwe and Anna followed him.

Sergeant Kostos waved them on. "I'll keep examining the bombs. See if I can come up with anything:"

Once inside the tree's entrance, Nate again was struck by the scent, musky and sweet. They followed the blue handprints up the tunnel.

Kouwe marched at Note's side. "I know escape is foremost on everyone's mind, but what about the contagious disease?"

"If there's a way out," Nate said, "we'll collect as many plant specimens as time allows. That's all we can do. We'll have to hope we stumble on the correct one:"

Kouwe looked pensive, not satisfied with Nate's answer, but had no other rebuttal. A cure discovered here would do the world no good if they themselves didn't survive.

As they continued to wend their way up the tree, the sound of footfalls echoed down to them. Nate glanced to Kouwe. Someone was coming.

Dakii suddenly appeared around the corner, winded and wide-eyed. He was startled to find them in front of him. He spoke rapidly in his own tongue. Even Kouwe couldn't entirely follow it.

"Slow down," Nate said.

Dakii grabbed Nate's arm. "Son of wishwa, you come:" He tugged Nate toward the upper tunnel.

"Is your shaman okay?"

Dakii bobbed his head. "He live. But sick . . . very big sick."

"Take us to him," Nate said.

The Indian was clearly relieved. They hurried up at a half trot. In a short time, the group entered the healing ward at the top.

Nate spotted the shaman in one of the hammocks. He was alive but did not look well. His skin was yellowish and shone with fever sweat. Very big sick, indeed.

As they approached, the prone man sat up, though clearly it pained him immensely to do so. The shaman waved to Dakii, ordering him across the room on an errand, then stared at Nate. He was glassy-eyed but lucid.

Nate noticed the ropes lying on the floor under the hammock. Even gravely injured, the man had been bound by Favre.

The shaman pointed at Nate. "You wishwa . . . like father:"

Nate opened his mouth to say no. He was certainly no shaman. But Kouwe interrupted. "Tell him yes," the professor urged.

Nate slowly nodded, obeying Kouwe's instinct.

The response clearly relieved the suffering man. "Good," the shaman said.

Dakii returned, burdened with a leather satchel and a pair of footlong lengths of reed. He held the gear out to his leader, but the shaman was too weak. He directed Dakii from his hammock.

Obeying, Dakii lifted the pouch.

"A dried jaguar scrotum," Kouwe said, pointing to the pouch.

"All the rage in Paris," Nate grumbled.

Dakii fingered open the pouch. Inside was a crimson powder. The shaman spoke from the bed, instructing.

Kouwe translated, though Nate caught a word here and there. "He describes the powder as all ne Yagga:"

Nate understood. "Blood of the Mother."

Kouwe glanced at Nate as Dakii tamped some of the powder into the tips of the two straws. "You know what's about to happen, don't you?"

Nate could certainly guess. "It's like the Yanomamo drug epena." Over the years, he had worked with various Yanomamo tribes and been invited to participate in epena ceremonies. Epena, translated as "semen of the sun," was a hallucinogenic drug Yanomamo shamans used to enter the spirit world. It was strong stuff, fabled to bring the hekura, or little men of the forest, to teach medicine to a shaman. When Nate had tried the stuff, all he had ever experienced was a severe headache followed by swirls of color. Furthermore, he was not particularly fond of the drug's delivery system. It was snuffed up the nose.

Dakii handed one of the loaded straws to Nate and one to the shaman. The Ban-ali leader waved Nate to kneel beside the hammock.

Nate obeyed.

Kouwe cautioned him, "The shaman knows he's about to die. What he is offering is more than a casual ritual. I think he's passing the mantle of his responsibility to you, for the tribe, for the village, for the tree:"

"I can't take that on," Nate said, glancing back at Kouwe.

"You must. Once you're shaman, the tribe's secrets will be open to you. Do you understand what that means?"

Nate took a deep breath and nodded. "The cure:"

"Exactly."

Nate stepped to the hammock and knelt.

The shaman showed Nate what to do, but it was similar to the Yanomamos' ritual. The small man positioned the drug-loaded end of his reed straw to his own nose. Then motioned for Nate to bring his lips to the other end. Nate's job was to blow the drug up the other's nose. He, in turn, positioned his own straw to his left nostril. The shaman brought the other end to his mouth. Through the straws, the two men would simultaneously blow the drug into each other's sinuses.

The shaman lifted an arm. They both took a deep breath.

Here we go . . .

The Indian brought his arm down.

Nate exhaled sharply through the reed, while bracing for the jolt to his own sinuses. Before he even finished blowing on his end of the straw, the drug hit him.

Nate fell backward. A burning flame seared into his skull, followed by a blinding explosion of pain. It felt as if someone had blown the back of his head off. He gasped as the room spun. The sense of vertigo overwhelmed him. A pit opened in his mind, and he was falling. He tumbled, spinning away into a darkness that was somehow bright at the same time.

Distantly he heard his name called, but he couldn't find his mouth to speak.

Suddenly his falling body shattered through something solid in this otherworld. The darkness fragmented around him like broken glass. Midnight shards fell away and disappeared. What was left was a shadow shaped into a stylized tree. It appeared to be rising from a dark hill.

Nate hovered before it. As he stared, details emerged. The tree developed three-dimensional conformations, tiny midnight leaves, tiered branches, clustered nut pods.

The Yagga.

Then, from beyond the hill's edge, small figures marched into view, all in a line, heading up the slope to the tree.

The hekura, Nate guessed dreamily.

But like the tree, the figures grew in detail as Nate floated nearby, and he realized he was mistaken. Instead of little men, the line was a mix of animals of every ilk-monkeys, sloths, rats, crocodiles, jaguars, and some Nate couldn't identify. Interspersed among these darkly silhouetted animals were men and women, but Nate knew these weren't the hekura. The entire party marched up to the tree-and into it. The shadowy figures merged with the black form of the tree.

Where had they gone? Was he supposed to follow?

Then, from the other side of the tree, the figures reemerged. But they had transformed. They were no longer in shadow, but glowing with a brilliant radiance. The shining troupe spread to circle the tree. Man and beast. Protecting the Mother.

As Nate hovered, he sensed the passage of time accelerate. He watched the men and women occasionally wander back to the tree as their radiance dimmed. They would eat the fruit of the tree and shine anew, refreshed to take their place again in the circle of Yagga's children. The ritual repeated over and over again.

Like a worn record, the image began to fade, repeating still, but growing dimmer and dimmer-until there was only darkness again.

"Nate?" a voice called to him.

Who? Nate sought the speaker. But all he found was darkness.

"Nate, can you hear me?"

Yes, but where are you?

"Squeeze my hand if you can hear me."

Nate drew toward the voice, seeking it out of the darkness.

"Good, Nate. Now open your eyes:'

He struggled to obey.

"Don't fight it . . . just open your eyes."

Again the darkness shattered, and Nate was blinded by brilliance and light. He gasped, sucking in huge gulps of air. His head throbbed with pain. Through tears, he saw the face of his friend leaning over him, cradling his head.

"Nate?"

He coughed and nodded.

"How do you feel?"

"How do you think I feel?" Nate wobbled up from the floor.

"What did you experience?" Kouwe asked. "You were mumbling:"

"And drooling," Anna added, kneeling beside him.

Nate wiped his mouth. "Hypersalivation . . . an alkaloid hallucinogen:" "What did you see?" Kouwe asked.

Nate shook his head. A mistake. The headache flared worse. "How long have I been out?"

"About ten minutes," the professor said.

"Ten minutes?" It had felt like hours, if not days.

"What happened?"

"I think I was just shown the cure to the disease," Nate said.

Kouwe's eyes widened. "What?"

Nate explained what he saw. "From the dream, it's clear that the nuts of this tree are vital to the health of the humans in the tribe. The animals don't need it, but people do:"

Kouwe nodded, his eyes narrowed as he digested what was said. "So it's the nut pods:" The professor pondered a bit longer, then spoke slowly. "From your father's research, we know the tree's sap is full of mutating proteins-prions with the ability to enhance each species it encounters, making them better protectors of the tree. But such a boon must come with a high cost. The tree doesn't want its children to abandon it, so it built a fail-safe into its enhancements. Animals are probably given some instinct to remain in the area, something to do with territoriality, something that can be manipulated as needed, like the powders used with the locusts and piranhas. But humans, with our intellect, need firmer bonds to bind us to the tree. The humans must eat from the fruit on a regular basis to keep the mutating prions in check. The milk of the nut must contain some form of an antiprion, something that suppresses the virulent form of the disease:"

Anna looked sick. "So the Ban-ali have not stayed here out of obligation, but enslavement"

Kouwe rubbed his temples. "Ban-yi. Slave. The term was not an exaggeration. Once exposed to the prions, you can't leave or you'll die. Without the fruit, the prion reverts to its virulent form and attacks the immune system, triggering deadly fevers or riotous cancers:"

"Jekyll and Hyde," Nate mumbled.

Kouwe and Anna glanced to him.

Nate explained, "It's like what Kelly reported about the nature of prions. In one form, they're benign, but they can also bend into a new shape and become virulent, like mad cow disease:"

Kouwe nodded. "The nut milk must keep the prion suppressed in the beneficial form . . . but once you stop using the milk, it attacks, killing the host and spreading to everyone the host encounters. This again would serve the tree's end. Clearly the tree wants to keep its privacy. If someone flees, anyone the escapee encounters would sicken and die, leaving a trail of death:"

"With no one left to tell the tale," Nate said.

"Exactly"

Nate felt well enough to try to stand. Kouwe helped him up. "But the bigger question is why I dreamed up the answer in the first place. Was it just my own subconscious working out the problem, unfettered by the hallucinogenic drug? Or did the shaman communicate it to me somehow..

some form of drug-induced telepathy?"

Kouwe's face tightened. "No," he said firmly and pointed to the ham mock. "It wasn't the shaman:"

The Indian lay in his hammock, staring up at the ceiling. Blood dripped from both his nostrils. He was not breathing. Dakii knelt beside his leader, head bowed.

"He died immediately. A massive stroke from the look of it." Kouwe glanced to Nate. "Whatever you experienced didn't come from the shaman:"

Nate found it hard to think. His brain felt two sizes too big for his skull. "Then it must have been my subconscious," he said. "When I first saw the pods, I remember thinking that the nuts looked like the fruiting bodies of Uncaria tomentosa. Better known as cat's claw. Indians use it against viruses, bacteria, and sometimes tumors. But I didn't make the correlation until now. Maybe the drug helped my subconscious make the intuitive leap:"

"You could be right," Kouwe said.

Nate heard the hesitation in the professor's voice. "What else could it be?"

Kouwe frowned. "I talked with Dakii while you were drugged out. The ali ne Yagga powder comes from the root of this tree. Desiccated and powdered root fiber."

So.

"So maybe what you dreamed wasn't your subconscious. Maybe it was some type of prerecorded message from the tree itself. An instruction manual, so to speak: Consume the fruit of the tree and you will stay healthy. A simple message:"

"You can't be serious."

"Considering the setup in this valley-mutated species, regenerating limbs, humans enslaved in service to a plant-I wouldn't put anything beyond this tree's abilities:'

Nate shook his head.

Anna frowned. "The professor may have a point. I can't even imagine how this tree is able to produce prions specific to the DNA of so many different species. That alone is miraculous. How did it learn? Where did the tree even get genetic material to learn from?"

Kouwe waved an arm around the room. "This tree traces its roots back to the Paleozoic era, when the land was just plants. Its ancestors must have been around as land animals first evolved, and rather than competing, it incorporated these new species into its own life cycle, like the Amazon's ant tree does today."

The professor continued with his theories, but Nate found himself tuning him out. He was drawn back to Anna's last question. Where did the tree even get genetic material to learn from? It was a good question, and it nagged at Nate. How had the Yagga learned to produce its wide variety of species-specific prions?

Nate remembered his dream: the line of animals and people disappearing inside the tree. Where had they gone? Was it more than just symbolic? Did they go somewhere? Nate found his eyes on Dakii, kneeling by the hammock. Maybe it was another intuitive leap, or a residual effect of the drug, but Nate began to get a suspicion where that somewhere might be.

All ne rah. Blood of the Yagga. From the root of the tree.

Nate's gaze narrowed on Dakii. He recalled the Indian's description of his father's fate, spoken with gladness. He's gone to feed the root.

Nate found his feet stepping toward the tribesman.

Kouwe stopped his discourse. "Nate . . . ?"

"There's one piece of the puzzle we're still missing:" Nate nodded to Dakii. "And I know who has it:"

He crossed to the kneeling tribesman. Dakii glanced up, tears running down his face. The loss of the leader had struck the man hard. He hauled to his feet as Nate stopped before him.

"Wishwa," he said, bowing his head, acknowledging the passing of power.

"I'm sorry for your loss;" Nate said, "but we must speak:" Kouwe came over and assisted with the translations, but Nate was now becoming skilled at mixing English and Yanomamo words to get his message across. Dakii pointed to the bed, wiping an eye. "He named Dakoo:" The native touched a palm to the dead man's chest. "He father of me:'

Nate bit his lip. He should have guessed. Now that Dakii had mentioned it, he saw the similarities. Nate placed a hand on the man's shoulder. He knew what it was like to lose a father. "I'm truly sorry," he repeated, this time with more feeling.

Dakii nodded. "Thank you:"

"Your father was an amazing man. He will be mourned by all of us, but right now we're in grave danger. We need your help:"

Dakii bowed his head. "You wishwa. You say . . . I do:"

I need you to take me to the root of the tree, to where the tree is fed.

Dakii's head snapped up, his face showing both fear and worry.

"Gently," Kouwe warned him in a whisper. "You are clearly treading on sacred ground:"

Nate waved away the professor's caution and placed a palm to his own chest. "I am wishwa now. I must see the root:"

The tribesman bobbed his head. "I go show you." He glanced to hi~ dead father in the hammock, then turned toward the exit.

They began to wind back down the tunnel. Anna and Kouwe whispered behind Nate, leaving him to his own thoughts. He again remembered his comparison of the Ban-ali symbol to the serpentine tunnel through the Yagga's trunk. But did it represent more? Did it also symbolize the essential molecular shape of the mutating prion, as Kelly had suggested? Was there indeed some communication between plant and human? Some shared memory? After what Nate had experienced under the effect of the drug, he was not so sure he could dismiss this last possibility. Perhaps the symbol did indeed represent both. The true heart of the Yagga.

Nate and the group continued down.

"Someone come," Dakii said, slowing.

Then Nate heard it, too. Footsteps, trotting or running.

From around a corner, a familiar figure appeared.

"Private Camera," Kouwe said.

She nodded, hardly out of breath from the steep run up the tunnel. Nate noticed she had recovered her weapon. "I was sent to fetch you. To see if you found another way off this plateau. Sergeant Kostos had no luck disarming the explosives:'

Nate realized, in all the disturbing revelations, he had failed to ask the most important question. Was there another way out of the valley?

"Dakii," Nate said. "We need to know if there is a secret path to the lower valley. Do you know one?" This communication took much gesturing and Kouwe's help.

While Kouwe translated, Camera glanced at Nate with an eyebrow raised. "You've not already interrogated the man?" she whispered. "What have you been doing?"

"Doing drugs," Nate said, distracted and concentrating on the conversation with the tribesman.

Dakii finally seemed to understand. "Go away? Why? Stay here:" He pointed to his feet.

"We can't," Nate said with exasperation.

Anna spoke at his shoulder, "He doesn't understand about the bombs. He doesn't know the valley is going to be destroyed. Such a concept is beyond him:"

"We'll have to make him understand," Nate said. He turned to Camera. "In the meantime, I need you and the sergeant to gather as many of this tree's nuts as you can into packs:"

"Nuts?"

"I'll explain later. Just do it . . . please:"

She nodded, turning away. "But remember, guys . . . tick-tock:" She glanced significantly at them, then took off.

Note faced Dakii. How to tell the man that his entire homeland was about to be wiped out? It wouldn't be easy. Note sighed. "Let's keep heading to the root:"

As they continued down, Nate and Kouwe flanked the tribesman and slowly communicated the danger here. Dakii's confused expression slowly twisted into horror as he got the message. The scout's feet stumbled as he walked, as if the knowledge were a physical burden.

By now they had reached the tunnel exit, surrounded by a gallery of blue palm prints. Beyond the opening, the light in the glade had taken on a dark honey color, suggesting sunset was at hand. Time was running out.

"Is there another way out of the valley?" Nate asked again.

Dakii pointed to where the tunnel ended at a slightly concave wall covered with the blue prints. "Through the root. We go through the root:"

"Yes, I want to see the root, too, but what about the way out?"

Dakii stared at him. "Through the root," he repeated.

Nate nodded, finally understanding. Their two missions had just become one. "Show us."

Dakii crossed to the wall, glancing over the prints, then he reached out to one near the innermost wall. He placed his palm over it and pushed with arm and shoulder. The entire wall pivoted on a central axis, opening a new section of passage, winding deeper underground.

Nate glanced up, recalling that the flow channels here hadn't exactly matched. A secret door. The answer was before him this entire time. Even the palm prints on the walls-they were like the one on the Ban-ali symbol, guarding the double helix that represented the root.

Anna slipped a flashlight from her field jacket. Nate patted his own jacket, but came up empty. He must have lost his. Anna passed him hers, indicating he should go first.

Nate moved to the door. Wafting out was the musk of the tree, humid and thicker, dank like the breath from an open grave. Nate readied himself and pushed through the opening.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The Last Hour

7:01 PM.

AMAZON JUNGLE

As Louis's band took a rest break, he checked his watch. It was an hour before the explosion would turn the upper valley into a whirling firestorm. He focused his attention on the swamp lake ahead. The setting sun had turned the water a tarnished silver.

They were making good time. Skirting to the south of the swamp, where the jungle was thickest and the river channels many, they would easily slip away through the dense forest. He had no doubt of that.

He sighed contentedly, but with a trace of disappointment. Everything was downhill from here. He always felt this way after a successful mission. Some form of postcoital depression, he imagined. He would return to French Guiana a much richer man, but money didn't buy the excitement of the last couple of days.

"C'est la vie," he said. There will always be other missions.

A small ruckus drew his attention back around.

He saw Kelly being shoved to her knees by two men. A third was on the ground a couple of yards away, rolling, cursing, clutching between his legs.

Louis strode over to them, but Mask was already there.

The scarred lieutenant pulled the moaning guard to his feet.

"What happened?" Louis asked.

Mask thumbed at the man. "Pedro reached a hand down her shirt, and she kneed him in the groin:"

Louis smiled, impressed. One hand settled to the bullwhip trophy at his waist.

He sauntered over to Kelly, now on her knees. One of her two captors had his fist tight in her hair, pulling her head back to expose her long neck. She snarled as the two men taunted her with the vilest innuendoes.

"Let her up," Louis said.

The men knew better than to disobey. Kelly was yanked to her feet.

Louis took off his hat. "I apologize for the rudeness here. It won't happen again, I assure you:"

Other men gathered.

Kelly fumed. "Next time I'll kick the asshole's balls into his belly."

"Indeed:' Louis waved off his men. "But punishment is my department:' He tapped the bullwhip on his side. Earlier he had struck the woman as a lesson. Now it was time for another.

He turned and struck out with the whip, splitting the twilight with a loud crack.

Pedro screamed, covering his left eye. Blood spurted through his fingers.

Louis faced the others. "No one will harm the prisoners. Is that understood?"

There was a general sound of agreement and many nods.

Louis replaced his whip. "Someone see to Pedro's eye:'

He turned back around and saw Tshui standing near Kelly, one palm raised to the woman's cheek.

As he watched, he noticed that Tshui had wrapped her fingers around a curl of fiery auburn hair.

Ah, Louis thought, the red hair. A unique trophy for Tshui's collection.

7:O5 PM.

In the flashlight's glow, Nate noticed that the passage beyond the handprinted door was similar to the main tunnel, but the woody surfaces were of a coarser grain. As he walked, the musk of the tree flowed thick and fetid.

With Dakii at his side, he led Anna and Kouwe down the tunnel. It

narrowed rapidly, twisting tighter and tighter, causing the group to crowd together.

"We must be in the tree's taproot," Nate mumbled.

"Heading underground," Kouwe said.

Nate nodded. Within a few more twisting yards, the tunnel exited the woody root, and stone appeared underfoot, interspersed with patches of loam. The tunnel headed steeply downward. They now ran parallel to the branching root system.

Dakii pointed ahead and continued.

Nate hesitated. Strange lichens grew on the walls, glowing softly. The musk was almost overpowering, now rich with a more fecund odor. Dakii pushed on.

Nate glanced to Kouwe, who shrugged. It was encouragement enough.

As they continued forward, the root branch that ran overhead split and divided, heading out into other passageways. From the ceiling, drapes of root hairs hung, vibrating ever so gently, rhythmically swaying as if a wind blew softly through the passage. But there was no wind.

The top of Nate's head brushed against the ceiling as the tunnel lowered. The tiny root fibrils tangled into his hair, clinging, pulling. Nate wrenched away with a gasp.

He shone his flashlight overhead, wary.

"What is it?" Kouwe asked.

"The root grabbed at me."

Kouwe lifted a palm to the root branch. The smaller hairs wrapped around his fingers in a clinging embrace. With a look of disgust, Kouwe tugged his hand away.

Nate had seen other Amazonian plants demonstrate a response to stimulation: leaves curling if touched, puff pods exploding if brushed, flowers closing if disturbed. But this felt somehow more malignant.

Nate fanned his flashlight across the path. By now, Dakii was waiting several yards down the passage. Nate urged the others to catch up. Once abreast of Dakii, Nate studied the splitting roots that now turned riotous, dividing and cross-splitting in all directions. Small blind cubbyholes dotted the many passages, each choked and clogged with a tangle of roots and waving hairs. The little cubbies reminded Nate of nitrogen bulbs, seen among root balls of many plants, that served as storage fertilizing sites.

Dakii stood before one such alcove. Nate shone his light into the space. Something was tangled deep inside the mass of twining branches and churning root fibrils. Nate bent closer. A few wiggling hairs curled out toward him, questing, waving like small antennae.

He kept back.

Deep in the root pack, wrapped and entwined like a fly in a spider's webbing, was a large fruit bat. Nate straightened in disgust.