Ramsey's Gold

Chapter Thirty

Morning brought an eerie mist that blanketed the rainforest, and when they set out, visibility had fallen to twenty yards, making the first hours on the trail otherworldly. Spencer seemed especially apprehensive and stopped several times to listen attentively before waving them forward. The fog eventually burned off and they were treated to more of the humid heat that was now their norm, the daily rain that had made it at least somewhat bearable nowhere in evidence.

Just before lunchtime Spencer stopped them again and, after peering through a clump of plants ahead of them, backed away and shook his head.

“Trouble. A few shacks in a clearing. There’s nothing I know of out here, so I’d bet that’s where our friends from the other day were coming from. Meth labs are a big moneymaker these days. Let’s backtrack and give this a wide berth,” he whispered. “There are two men by the larger building. Armed. So stay quiet.”

They retraced their footsteps, and when they found a smaller track that led south, Spencer took the lead again and they made their way through the almost impassible brush, wary of anything more accessible — the last thing they wanted was to meet a returning group of drug traffickers on a heavily traveled route.

An hour later they’d made a half circle around the encampment and found a tributary to one of the larger rivers, which they followed for six miles before it turned south. A thunderclap sounded at two o’clock and the rain came shortly after, torrential but welcome, and it continued until Jack took a bearing on the GPS and announced that they were only a quarter mile from the site.

There was no clearly defined track for the last leg. They had to hack their way through, Spencer in the lead, tirelessly swinging his machete to clear a path. When they finally reached the riverbank, they were all spent, dehydrated in spite of the steady downpour, physically exhausted from the long march.

“This is it? You’re sure?” Drake asked Jack when he set his backpack down on the brown bed of wet leaves of the jungle floor.

“Absolutely. This was our final camp. I still remember it well. That outcropping of stones near the bank. Those trees,” Jack replied.

“Where did you find him?” Drake whispered.

“Over by that grove of palms.”

“Show me.”

Jack nodded. When they arrived at the spot, both men stood staring at the rainforest floor, which looked exactly like all the other ground around it, creeping vines intertwined as they crawled up the sides of the trees, streams of rain runoff trickling from the leaves. “He was lying here. What was left of him. I wound up burying his remains along the river, using my machete to scoop the dirt. There was no way to get his body out of the jungle — you’ve seen what we went through to get here.”

“Where, exactly?”

Jack shook his head. “I don’t know for sure. North along the bank. There was nothing to mark the spot with other than a few small rocks and a cross I made out of two branches — but there’s no way it would still be here. In the end it was just a place. Like any other.” Jack hesitated. “I’m sorry, son. I never thought anyone would be returning to pay their respects. Least of all you and me. But he’s out here, where he chose to spend his final days. That’s the important thing. The exact place doesn’t matter that much. This whole rainforest was his grave, the trees his tomb. He would have approved. He wasn’t big on ceremony.”

“Walk down there with me. Maybe there’s something you’ll recognize — that’ll jog your memory.”

Jack nodded. “Sure, Drake. Why not?”

They plodded to the river and made their way up its bank, wary of snakes, the game track that ran parallel barely passable. After fifty yards Jack slowed. “I don’t think it was any farther than this. So somewhere between the palms and here. That’s about as close as we’re going to get.”

“You don’t see anything that stands out?”

Jack stopped. “Look around you. This is jungle. I doubt anything stays the same for a month, let alone two decades.”

They spent a couple of minutes watching the rain flow in veins to the river, and then Jack turned and began walking back. Drake stayed planted, and Jack stopped and turned to him.

Drake shook his head. “Go ahead. I can find my own way back.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Pretty easy. Follow the river, make a right at the palms. A cinch.”

“All right.” Jack left him alone, understanding Drake’s desire to commune with his departed father, and inspect every bump or irregularity in the bank for a clue as to his final resting place.

Drake took his time, the big knife in his hand, cutting away plants to get a better look at anything he thought promising. After a half hour he came across a lump of blackened leaves that yielded four softball-sized river rocks in a pile. There was no cross, the wood having rotted away, but Drake didn’t need that final marker to know that he’d finally found his father. He stood staring down at the spot for a long time. Then he dropped to his knees, his tears mingling with the rainwater on his face, the salty drops falling onto the stones, the sadness soaking into the silent earth as he sobbed, as sons had been sobbing for their departed fathers since time began.