The scuff of feet on wood drew Garcia’s attention back to the door. Henaowe had returned, burdened with the medical kit and a pail of clean water. But he was not alone. At Henaowe’s side stood Kamala, a short, white-haired shapori, the tribal shaman. Henaowe must have run off to fetch the ancient medicine man.
“Haya,” Garcia greeted the fellow. “Grandfather.” It was the typical way to acknowledge a Yanomamo elder.
Kamala did not say a word. He simply strode into the room and crossed to the bed. As he stared down at the man, his eyes narrowed. He turned to Henaowe and waved for the Indian to place the bucket and medical kit down. The shaman then lifted his arms over the bedridden stranger and began to chant. Garcia was fluent in many indigenous dialects, but he could not make out a single word.
Once done, Kamala turned to the padre and spoke in fluent Portuguese. “This nabe has been touched by the shawara, dangerous spirits of the deep forest. He will die this night. His body must be burned before sunrise.” With these words, Kamala turned to leave.
“Wait! Tell me what this symbol means.”
Turning back with a scowl, Kamala said, “It is the mark of the Ban-ali tribe. Blood Jaguars. He belongs to them. None must give help to a ban-yi, the slave of the jaguar. It is death.” The shaman made a gesture to ward against evil spirits, blowing across his fingertips, then left with Henaowe in tow.
Alone in the dim room, Garcia felt a chill in the air that didn’t come from the air-conditioning. He had heard whispers of the Ban-ali, one of the mythic ghost tribes of the deep forest. A frightening people who mated with jaguars and possessed unspeakable powers.
Garcia kissed his crucifix and cast aside these fanciful superstitions. Turning to the bucket and medicines, he soaked a sponge in the tepid water and brought it to the wasted man’s lips.
“Drink,” he whispered. In the jungle, dehydration, more than anything, was often the factor between life and death. He squeezed the sponge and dribbled water across the man’s cracked lips.
Like a babe suckling at his mother’s teat, the stranger responded to the water. He slurped the trickle, gasping and half choking. Garcia helped raise the man’s head so he could drink more easily. After a few minutes, the delirium faded somewhat from the man’s eyes. He scrabbled for the sponge, responding to the life-giving water, but Garcia pulled it away. It was unhealthy to drink too quickly after such severe dehydration.
“Rest, senhor,” he urged the stranger. “Let me clean your wounds and get some antibiotics into you.”
The man did not seem to understand. He struggled to sit up, reaching for the sponge, crying out eerily. As Garcia pushed him by the shoulders to the pillow, the man gasped out, and the padre finally understood why the man could not speak.
He had no tongue. It had been cut away.
Grimacing, Garcia prepared a syringe of ampicillin and prayed to God for the souls of the monsters that could do this to another man. The medicine was past its expiration date, but it was the best he could get out here. He injected the antibiotic into the man’s left buttock, then began to work on his wounds with sponge and salve.
The stranger lapsed between lucidity and delirium. Whenever he was conscious, the man struggled mindlessly for his piled clothes, as if he intended to dress and continue his jungle trek. But Garcia would always push his arms back down and cover him again with blankets.
As the sun set and night swept over the forests, Garcia sat with the Bible in hand and prayed for the man. But in his heart, the padre knew his prayers would not be answered. Kamala, the shaman, was correct in his assessment. The man would not last the night.
As a precaution, in case the man was a child of Christ, he had performed the sacrament of Last Rites an hour earlier. The fellow had stirred as he marked his forehead with oil, but he did not wake. His brow burned feverishly. The antibiotics had failed to break through the blood infections.
Resolved that the man would die, Garcia maintained his vigil. It was the least he could do for the poor soul. But as midnight neared and the jungle awoke with the whining sounds of locusts and the cronking of myriad frogs, Garcia slipped to sleep in his chair, the Bible in his lap.
He woke hours later at a strangled cry from the man. Believing his patient was gasping his last breath, Garcia struggled up, knocking his Bible to the floor. As he bent to pick it up, he found the man staring back at him. His eyes were glassy, but the delirium had faded. The stranger lifted a trembling hand. He pointed again to his discarded clothes.
“You can’t leave,” Garcia said.
The man closed his eyes a moment, shook his head, then with a pleading look, he again pointed to his pants.
Garcia finally relented. How could he refuse this last feverish request? Standing, he crossed to the foot of the bed and retrieved the rumpled pair of pants. He handed them to the dying man.
The stranger grabbed them up and immediately began pawing along the length of one leg of his garment, following the inner seam. Finally, he stopped and fingered a section of the cotton denim.
With shaking arms, he held the pants out to Garcia.
The padre thought the stranger was slipping back into delirium. In fact, the poor man’s breathing had become more ragged and coarse. But Garcia humored his nonsensical actions. He took the pants and felt where the man indicated.
To his surprise, he found something stiffer than denim under his fingers, something hidden under the seam. A secret pocket.
Curious, the padre fished out a pair of scissors from the first-aid kit. Off to the side, the man sank down to his pillow with a sigh, clearly content that his message had finally been understood.
Using the scissors, Garcia trimmed through the seam’s threads and opened the secret pocket. Reaching inside, he tugged out a small bronze coin and held it up to the lamp. A name was engraved on the coin.
“Gerald Wallace Clark,” he read aloud. Was this the stranger? “Is this you, senhor?”
He glanced back to the bed.
“Sweet Jesus in heaven,” the padre mumbled.
Atop the cot, the man stared blindly toward the ceiling, mouth lolled open, chest unmoving. He had let go the ghost, a stranger no longer.
“Rest in peace, Senhor Clark.”
Padre Batista again raised the bronze coin to the lantern and flipped it over. As he saw the words inscribed on the opposite side, his mouth grew dry with dread.
United States Army Special Forces.
AUGUST 1, 10:45 A.M.
CIA HEADQUARTERS
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
George Fielding had been surprised by the call. As deputy director of Central Intelligence, he had often been summoned to urgent meetings by various division heads, but to get a priority one call from Marshall O’Brien, the head of the Directorate Environmental Center, was unusual. The DEC had been established back in 1997, a division of the intelligence community dedicated to environmental issues. So far in his tenure, the DEC had never raised a priority call. Such a response was reserved for matters of immediate national security. What could have rattled the Old Bird—as Marshall O’Brien had been nicknamed—to place such an alert?