Blood Forest (Suspense thriller) (13 page)

“That doesn’t sound like ghost stories I’ve heard,” Alfred reasoned. “Usually it is apparitions, voices, small objects being moved—”

“These are no mere dead,” Marcel interrupted. “These are spirits, demons. They are brutal and cruel. They are true evil. To speak of them is to invite a curse. No one has come from this forest alive.”

“Then how do you know about the ghosts?” Ike reasoned. “If no one leaves alive, who tells you about them?”

Marcel paused, mouth open, realizing the small snag in his logic. “Well there are rumors.”

“Perhaps one or two have come out,” Ike suggested.

“Perhaps.”

“We’d love to speak with one of them,” Alfred said.

“Well, I don’t know of one specifically,” Marcel’s voice trailed off. “You could try talking to Sam.”

Sam. An unusual name among the Bantu, Ike thought.

“Is he here in the village?” Alfred asked.

The village chief nodded. “
She
arrived with her husband yesterday. They are guests of Monsieur Devereaux.”

“And she’s been in this forest?”

“
Oui.
She believes she saw the ghost, but you are better off asking her about it.”

“She
saw
it?”

“She said she saw a man. You are better off asking her about it.”

“A man?” Ike said. “A man and a spirit are two different things.”

Nessa gave Ike a dirty look. He flashed his crocodile grin.

After dinner, a Bantu woman brought out a tray of roasted plantains. Dessert was not an African custom, but Marcel was a gracious host and knew how to cater to European guests. After his first few bites, Ike decided that the cooked fruit would easily sate any sweet tooth. But not one for sweets, he excused himself. Delani did as well, and they walked out to the Jeep together.

Delani lifted their bedrolls from the backseat and, under the guidance of one of Marcel’s cousins, carried them toward a thatched hut. The small hut near Marcel’s was being cleared for guests.

Ike remained by the Jeep. He gazed up and saw dark clouds slipping slowly over the stars. The temperature had dropped and wind rustled the trees.

Does it ever not rain? Ike wondered.

He realized he was not alone when he heard Nessa clear her throat. She stood only a few feet away. Her face looked blue in the dim light.

“Can I help you with something?” Ike asked.

Nessa nodded and stepped forward. Ike could feel the lesson coming.

“I think you might be a little confused about your role here.” Nessa stepped close, speaking in low tones. Their difference in height forced her to look up at him.

“My role? And what’s that?” Ike asked, not hiding his amusement.

She locked her brown eyes on his. The sudden connection took Ike by surprise. He was not used to her staring him down. If this was a contest of wills, she would lose to a hardened soldier.

“Yes. You work for Delani. You do
not
work for H. Hurley.”

“You’re right about that.”

“You’re here for our protection and nothing else.”

Ike felt her body heating the air around him. The winds were distant and far away.

“You’re not here to talk. We didn’t hire you for your negotiation skills, understand?”

“I hear you. Shut up and look pretty, right?”

Nessa glanced away. “Just know your role. That’s all I’m asking.”

“Right,” he spat. He took a step closer, reveling that he towered over her. “Was that all you needed?”

She shrank from him and slid her palm along the crook of her neck.

He gripped her side with his hand, leaned forward and kissed her hard on the lips. Her back stiffened. Her lips tasted sweet and sugary—like the plantains. They softened slightly under pressure. She didn’t push him away but neither did she reciprocate.

As he was about to end it and apologize, her lips parted and she tilted her head, deepening the kiss. The tip of her ponytail brushed his fingers.

A small cough startled them. Nessa quickly wrested herself out of Ike’s strong grip. She wiped her lips and fell back into her frosty pose. Gilles stood off to the side, an amused smile on his face.

“Mister Tabibu wishes to speak to you,” he told Nessa.

She nodded curtly and walked away. Ike followed her with his gaze until she disappeared into Marcel’s hut.

“Do all BaMbuti use bows like that?” Sam asked.

She had begun the evening referring to Temba as a pygmy, but the young man had politely corrected her. She hadn’t uttered the word “pygmy” again.

He shook his head, rocking back in his chair as he picked up his bow. “The proper way to hunt is with nets and spears,” he explained. “But you need a lot of people to hunt that way. I am usually alone.”

Sam reached down, scratching her leg through her skirt. The numbness had turned to fierce itching, and the once taut skin was dry and scaly.

“You don’t stay with your tribe at all?” Brandon asked.

Although speaking English left Raoul out of the loop, the Frenchman didn’t seem to mind. He sat to the side humming quietly and sipping palm wine.

“I have too many friends to stay in one place,” he bragged, grinning widely.

Raindrops pattered on the roof, rolling off the shingles and falling in long spears outside the windows. The wind felt good as it blew cool air into the house. The lamps flickered in the swirling breeze.

“How did you come here, into the forest?” Temba asked. “Not many Americans walk through here.”

“It’s sort of a long story,” Sam replied.

“Ah.”

“We were flying over in our plane—”

“A plane?”

“We were shot down by a militia, we think.”

His eyes widened.

“Actually, we were going to ask Raoul if he knew anyone who could help us fix it.”

“Raoul can, of course,” Temba exclaimed.

“He can?” Brandon asked in surprise.

“Yes,” he replied proudly. “He can fix anything.”

“An airplane’s a highly specialized piece of equipment. Are you sure?”

“If he cannot fix airplanes, then why would he keep a ru—?”

Raoul called out to Temba suddenly. “Did I hear someone say ‘militia’?”

“
Oui, mon Français,
” he replied. “Poor Sam and Brandon were shot at by a group of them near here.” He switched to English again. “Do you think they followed you?”

Brandon shook his head. “We don’t think so. Even if they saw where the plane crashed down, we left the area so quickly that they couldn’t have followed us. “

Temba nodded and turned to Raoul, asking if he could fix the plane.

Raoul became hesitant. After much deliberation he said that he would have to see the damage to know for sure and, even then, the plane was probably in militia hands anyway.

“We would really like to try,” Sam insisted, “if we can. It’s our only way out of here, and we still haven’t finished the survey.”

Raoul shook his head. Temba muttered in French, “Frenchmen are even lazier than pygmies.”

That caused Raoul to burst out laughing. He got up and circled the table, filling everyone’s glasses.

Ike couldn’t shake Nessa from his mind. It had been so long since he had kissed a woman, every thought was of her sugary, wet lips. The rain poured down outside the thatched hut. Ike, Gilles, Delani, and Alfred slept in the main area with a corner sectioned off in bright fabric for Nessa. He climbed from his bedroll, feeling restless. He wondered if Nessa was still awake. She hadn’t spoken to him since the kiss.

For Christ’s sake, Ike told himself. She’s engaged to another man. Promised. The poor bloke is sitting off in England somewhere, waiting for her to come home to him.

Despite his thoughts, Ike crossed to the corner and pulled aside the fabric. Nessa lay, curled in her bedroll, staring blankly at the wall. Her brown hair was down and lay crinkled behind her head. She still wore her blouse, her lower half concealed by her bedroll.

He knelt down beside her, feeling the soft leaves under his knees. She turned to look at him. Shadows cloaked her face so he couldn’t read her expression. He almost muttered a greeting, but he found himself at a loss for words. What should he say? She stared back at him, waiting. The silence thickened.

Ike crawled forward, climbing over her. As he got closer he saw her blink, nervous. She didn’t yell at him, she didn’t push him away. He lowered his lips and kissed her again. She responded more quickly this time. The sweetness had gone from her lips, but the soft warmth remained.

She lay wrapped in her bedroll, so he teased it open, slipping his hand inside. Soon he was fully on top of her. She didn’t resist as he slid his hand under her tank top, brushing over her cotton sports bra and small breasts. He rested on her, searching her body with his hands. She remained motionless. He began to feel guilt-stricken. Why wasn’t she responding? Why did she just let him do what he wanted, without argument but without endorsement?

As his hand slipped down through the covers, he found she had removed her khaki trousers. She let out a sudden sharp gasp, breaking the silence of the hut. Ike winced at the sound, all too aware that the other mercenaries slept nearby, but his hand never slowed its movement.

Nessa’s face, normally so hard and plastic, became soft and yielding. Her eyes closed and her head tilted back. As he drew another gasp from her, Ike realized how addictive this newfound power over her was. The ice queen was melting, he thought with a grin. His hand moved in circles across her skin, teasing her beneath the blanket. Her eyes opened suddenly, soft and doe-like. They caught his gaze and held him there as his hand plunged deep, leaving her open and vulnerable. Ike realized he was holding his breath as much drawn into his effect over her as she was. He felt his need growing with every deep breath she made.

And then she shuddered, her body trembling as she bit back a scream. Her eyes closed again, her hand lifting to grip his forearm. He felt a pinch as her nails dug into his flesh.

Her pleasure subsided, her body becoming limp. Her head turned to the side, gazing at the wall of the hut, effectively breaking the moment that had passed between the two of them; although she refused to meet his gaze again.

Movement from elsewhere in the hut brought Ike to attention. One of his fellow mercenaries was moving. He took one last look at Nessa, but her quiet disposition and inability to make eye contact told him little.

He sighed and returned to his bedroll.

12

T
he girl collapsed heavily onto all fours, her fingers sinking into the mud. Wet dirt flew up, spattering her bare legs and arms. All around her, the boys laughed, closing in. As she climbed to her feet, her hand brushed a branch caught in the mud.

The closest boy sprinted, meaning to tackle her. As she got up, she swung. She caught the boy by surprise, the branch cracking him under the chin. His feet slipped on the wet earth, and he fell hard on his back. The other boys laughed hysterically as their fallen friend rolled in pain.

The girl stood, grunting out harsh gasps of air. She gritted her teeth in an excited grin.

The boys circled her, crouched and ready to pounce. She flailed the branch menacingly in the air a few times, causing some of them to fall back. Then, when she thought she saw an opening, she cried out and began running for it. Her stick dropped into the mud. She bolted into a full sprint, but one of the boys moved to close the gap. He leapt, landing on top of her and pushing her roughly back down to the ground.

The girl screamed in terror.

The boy began to tickle her violently as his friends closed in. Her screams turned to shrill laughter, and she rolled away, wiping clumps of mud off her body. Once on her feet, she walked off casually, gasping for breath. The boys no longer chased her. The game was over.

“The girls pretend to be the antelope and the boys pretend to be the hunter,” Temba explained. “Are you ready to play?”

Sam had asked for this. She had been trying to get the Bantu boys to let her join in a game of soccer. But when they had refused, Temba slyly suggested she try an Mbuti game.

Temba had taken her and Brandon to the stretch of ground that served as a temporary camp, with tiny leaf and branch huts and several blazing fire pits. The BaMbuti were suspicious of the Americans at first, but with Temba’s, and subsequently Kuntolo’s endorsements, they warmed up to the strangers.

Brandon grinned at her and said, “Try not to like it too much.”

She checked her hair to make sure it was tied tightly, and rolled her makeshift skirt so it didn’t hang so low that she’d trip over it.

“You better run fast,” Temba warned her with a grin.

“I’ll run so fast you won’t be able to see me.”

The boys eyed her, already beginning to fan out. One of the boys sprinted at her. She reacted a moment too late, and he pounced. He grabbed onto her leg and tried to pull her to the ground. The boy was young, and with her height and weight she easily overpowered him. She pushed him off, watching him fall into the mud. In the next second, she bolted. She twisted her body, pumping her legs fast. Her sandaled feet connected with the mud, suctioning up clumps and tossing them into the air. She could feel the boys not far behind and that drove her faster.

She had plotted her escape from the very beginning. Boughs of green maize closed in around her, providing concealment. She spun on her foot as she ran, twisting between the stalks. She heard cries of protest from her pursuers. Maybe this was considered cheating, she thought. The sun was hot and the air felt hotter in her gasping lungs.

She ran until her calves and thighs burned, the skirt brushing about her legs. She felt the itch of her rash only distantly. Confident she had lost them, she slowed to a walk, moving through the geometrical forest. Tall stalks stood in even rows allowing clear views at right angles but obscuring everything in between. Her eyes searched for movement in the boughs and she listened for footsteps. Had they given up the chase already?

She had to keep moving or someone would pass parallel to her and she would be discovered. She caught motion out of the corner of her eyes. Kuntolo closed fast, the dark skin of his chest standing out in the green maize. He was shorter than Sam, but packed with tense muscle.

She took off running in the opposite direction, a shrill scream escaping her chest as the hunter closed on her heels. Adrenaline pushed her forward, her feet slamming hard in the mud. She could barely draw breath. Wind and maize smacked her face and chest.

But still he closed. He was too fast. She looked back as Kuntolo’s feet lifted off the ground, his arms stretched out grasping at her. She tried to outrun his pounce, but she felt something tug her skirt. For a moment, she feared it would rip right off, but instead she stumbled. Her knees struck the soft ground with a slap. She felt Kuntolo grip her ankle tightly.

As she struggled, she let out an instinctual scream. Blood pumped through her body. She felt numb to the rocks scraping her legs and the throbbing in her knees. She kicked out with her free foot and felt the sandal connect hard. Kuntolo cried out, gripping his nose in pain. He let go of Sam and she staggered to her feet. She didn’t stop to see if he was okay; she just ran. She ran directly away from him—and that was her mistake.

She should have known. The BaMbuti hunted with nets, Temba had explained. The hunters would drive their prey through the forest—into the waiting nets of their friends.

And so Temba was waiting for her. Like an antelope, she succumbed to their trap.

Temba leapt from the maize. His arms wrapped around her waist, pushing hard on her diaphragm and knocking the wind out of her. Her legs slid forward as her top half fell backward. She landed hard on her back, pain spiraling out from her shoulder blade. She groaned in sudden agony.

Temba crouched victoriously over her, shouting out to Kuntolo. Sam struggled to catch her breath. Her lungs ached, her muscles burned, and she still heard her blood pumping in her ears.

“How do you like our game?” Temba asked with a grin. He extended a hand down to help her up.

“It’s much better than tag,” she said with a laugh. Her chest heaved from the excitement and exertion.

Temba lifted her to her feet. Without hesitating, she slipped her heel behind his and pushed on his chest. Temba fell hard on his back, taken by surprise. He looked up at her curiously, but when she extended her hand to help him up, he smiled and took it.

“You are a sore loser,” he accused her.

“Yes, I am.”

Kuntolo walked out from behind the maize stalks. He cradled his nose in his palm, wiping blood from it.

“I’m so sorry,” Sam cried when she saw him. “Does it hurt?”

Kuntolo muttered a phrase that drew a laugh from Temba. “What did he say?” Sam asked Temba.

He shook his head and held up a hand. “Never mind that.”

“Tell me,” she insisted.

He seemed to be weighing something in his head. “He said that he feels bad for your husband. He says you’re not worth it.”

She turned a playful scowl on Kuntolo, who glared at Temba. BaMbuti had a fun sense of humor, Sam decided.

“I want to show you something,” Temba said. He turned away, gesturing for her to follow. She ran after him through the maize. The green plants rustled around them. At times, he got so far ahead that she saw only patches of color from his clothes. Kuntolo hadn’t followed; Sam and Temba were alone in the fields.

Temba burst into an open area, Sam following close behind. She halted quickly, nearly tripping in a thick tangle of plants. How had she missed the clearing? The maize crops towered on each side, but the opening formed a wide path, stretching from one side of the village to the other. Broken stalks lay in a green carpet across the ground. It was so dense that her feet didn’t break through when she walked.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“It’s the secret runway,” he explained matter-of-fact.

“A runway?”

“Raoul uses it to bring special things to the village. He covers it like this so it is hidden from the sky.”

Her mind raced at the possibilities. Why hadn’t Raoul mentioned this before?

“You could use it if your plane is fixed,” he went on. “You could fly away from here. But you cannot tell anybody. It’s a secret.”

She nodded in understanding, shocked that Temba might defy Raoul to show her this. “Thank you, Temba.”

He nodded and smiled.

When they finally walked out of the maize fields, Brandon was sitting in the middle of the BaMbuti encampment. Two girls sat to either side of him, smiling and giggling. Sam felt a twinge of jealousy. The girls were mainly naked and they looked half his age.

As she walked over, Brandon stood up. She still felt the excitement of the chase throughout her body. She barely registered the pain in her shoulder. She would likely have a nasty bruise.

She explained what Temba had shown her. Brandon listened, curious and interested.

“Now if we can just find a way to get our plane fixed,” he said.

The encampment hushed around them as a man with glasses and a hook arm approached. Sam could tell by his clothing that he was not Bantu.

He spoke with a clear English accent: “Hello, Temba. Kuntolo.”

Temba returned the greeting.

“You must be Brandon and Sam,” the man guessed. “My name is Alfred Tabibu.” Alfred extended his good hand to Brandon. “I’m here with H. Hurley International on a research expedition.”

She asked, “H. Hurley International?”

“It’s a pharmaceutical company, based primarily out of London. I must say, it’s interesting to find Americans in such a remote place.”

“We got here by accident.”

“So I’ve heard. We’d like to talk to you. Marcel told us you’ve seen the swamps near here. We have a lot of questions about that.”

Ike watched Nessa from a distance. She sat by herself at the Jeep as she often did, her legs dangling over the side. She bit into a chocolate bar—one that she and Alfred kept in reserve. Cadbury. Exposure to high temperatures had stuck the chocolate to the wrapping and she struggled to pull the messy pieces out.

She hadn’t spoken to him since the night before. She ignored him, treating him as icily as she had always done, as if the previous night had never happened. Half of him thought he should never have gone in there; the other half insisted he should have gone all the way. She had liked it. He was positive of that. For those minutes, her icy exterior had melted away, as if he was looking at a warmer, softer Nessa.

He remembered the way her hips moved under his palm.

Ike felt a firm hand on his shoulder and turned to see Delani beside him. The South African looked like he had just swallowed a bad batch of palm wine.

“Stay focused,” Delani ordered. “Don’t forget who you work for.”

“It’s funny you say that, mate,” Ike replied. “What do you mean?”

“When this is done, she’s going back to her husband. And we’ll still be here in the jungle.”

“You didn’t hear anything, did you?”

“I heard her last night. Just remember who you work for.”

“Know my role, is that right?”

“I don’t trust her, not at all.”

H. Hurley International, as Alfred called them, made camp in a Bantu hut in the center of the village. Temba remained firmly next to Sam and Brandon, showing everyone whose side he was on.

“They call it
Uya Kivali,
” Alfred explained. “The name means ‘shadow flower.’ It grows deep under the canopy in the darkest, wettest areas of the rain forest. I’ve been looking for this plant for three years. I thought I found it once, but I was wrong. Now I hope we’ll find it in the swamps near here—the swamps your plane landed in.”

“What’s so special about this flower?” Brandon asked, sipping tea from a cup.

“It has curative properties. I have reason to suspect that it contains a phytochemical which may prevent viral protease from—”

“It’s complicated,” Nessa interrupted.

“Why don’t you tell them what it looks like?” the Australian suggested. “Maybe they’ve seen it.”

Nessa looked at the Australian, and Sam sensed the air thicken with tension. The two regarded each other with contempt.

Alfred described the flower: a species of orchid, ten overlapping petals, each of them white with a blue star. Sam didn’t recognize it. For her, flowers were beautiful things, but she didn’t trust herself to recall one in every detail.

“Actually, I have a picture of the one I found two years ago. It’s not the same exact species, but I believe it’s a close cousin.” Alfred pulled a glossy photograph out of his pocket and handed it to Brandon. Brandon glanced at it, and then handed it to Sam.

The vine-like flower matched Alfred’s description except this one had solid white stars on its petals instead of tiny blue ones.

Sam shook her head and handed the photograph back to Alfred.

“You haven’t seen it?” he asked.

Brandon shrugged. “It’s hard to say. We saw a lot of new things out there. We weren’t exactly admiring the plant life.”

Alfred nodded, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “Maybe as you were flying over, you noticed a particularly dense region; a thick area of canopy over a depression in the floor. Maybe somewhere the flower might grow.”

Sam remembered the rapidly passing foliage as the plane dropped toward the black river. “Actually . . .”

Alfred’s eyes lit up.

“Now that you mention it, I might’ve seen something. It was near the river, near where we came down.”

Alfred leaned forward in rapt attention.

“I can’t really say for sure,” she warned. “I was trying to land a plane deadstick in the middle of a forest. I didn’t have a lot of time to look around.”

“Granted,” he agreed with an easy smile. “Still, if there’s a possibility. There might be some drainage into it, but the floor wouldn’t be submerged entirely.”