Blood Forest (Suspense thriller) (26 page)

“Ike. Listen to me. I want you to have this.”

Nessa pressed the diamond ring into his palm. She looked very pale and had stopped sweating. No more tears came out. Ike watched her helplessly, fading in and out of sleep himself, his exhaustion too great.

“What’s this about?”

“I don’t need it anymore. It’s worth quite a bit, so I’m giving it to you.”

“Are you proposing to me, Nessa?”

She grinned weakly. “If it’ll make you take the bloody thing, then yes, I’m proposing to you.”

Ike closed his palm. “Well then, I accept.”

She let go and her fingers slipped away to fall back at her side. Her breathing came slow, barely perceptible, even with him pressed against her. She felt like a feather, ready to blow away at any moment.

“I just never pictured it happening quite like this,” he said quietly.

She muttered something indecipherable, and Ike couldn’t be sure whether she had understood his words.

As the sun shifted in the sky, light blazed in through the open flap. He had left it open to keep watch, but the sunlight burned his tired eyes badly. He tugged the tent flap closed.

Only for a moment, so he could rest his eyes.

Temba Ampigana Mchawi

(Temba versus the Magi)

“If darkness exists,
and darkness is of the forest,
then even darkness must be good.”
—BaMbuti proverb

25

I
n his dream, Kuntolo’s spear plunged softly into her heart. The fingers gripping the shaft were his. Sam had been calling out to him in KiSwahili, a language Temba had never heard her speak. Yet they were his hands that dealt the killing blow to her breast.

When Temba finally awakened, he was sweating. Voices lingered on the edge of his brain, calling him to action. Only they didn’t seem to know what they wanted him to do.

Temba lay curled in the crook of a tree, a hastily assembled pile of leaves as his bed. His hand fell to Kuntolo’s spear and squeezed the wood, seeking comfort in its presence, consoled because he had taken it from Kuntolo’s grave. He checked for his bow and arrows, eight newly fletched, and the axe he’d stolen from Polomo’s camp.

He hopped from his perch, landing easily amidst the roots of the tree. He strapped the spear to his back, holding it in place with a strip of cord, and slung his bow over his shoulder. The axe he looped into his belt.

A small puddle of rainwater had gathered in the mud and he looked into it, staring at his reflection. His eyes looked sunken, like the dead. With a tattered pair of khaki pants and no shirt he thought he looked half of the forest and half of the village; of both worlds, but belonging to neither. Such was Temba’s lot.

His belly rumbled, time for breakfast. He ignored it and began walking, slowly at first because he was uncertain of his direction. The power lines stretched overhead, a constant landmark. They would eventually take him back to the baboons and their cursed tree, he realized. It would be better to return to the river and follow that.

Temba.

The Mbuti froze. He stared up at the power lines. Something came back to him then. Something from his dreams remembered—a pulsating rhythm deep within his chest.

Temba.

The rhythm had started again. The forest was coming to life. It hated and it fueled his hatred.

Is this his magic?

It had to be. This was what Kitu spoke of when he described the forest being truly awake. This rhythm flowed through everything. It was what drove the baboons to madness. It was what drove the mercenaries to turn on each other. And maybe, just maybe, it was what had driven Ndola to kill Kuntolo.

If that was the case, then Temba couldn’t give in. To let this thing enrage him was to take sides with this strange magician. Yes, perhaps the magician kept others out of the jungle, but only by disrupting the natural balance of the forest. Animals should not hate, Temba realized. And neither should humans.

“I don’t believe in you!” Temba cried. “I don’t believe in your stupid magic.”

His voice echoed back at him through the trees. At least that meant the forest heard him.

Temba, once again, wondered about this man the others spoke of. Who was he and where did he come from? The houses in the clearing were sturdy like Raoul’s manor, more sophisticated than the Bantu dwellings. The BaMbuti didn’t build power lines in the forest. Yet, they descended right into the center of the camp.

The power lines could be the source of his magic, Temba realized. Why would he need electricity in the middle of the jungle? Whatever he did to trick the others needed the energy from the outside. Temba could end that by cutting off his source of power, by severing the lines.

Temba followed the parallel cables with his eyes. They were so high he would have to find a tall tree to reach them. He remembered the baboon’s tree, but he loathed the thought of returning to it. The memory of all of those eyes sent shivers through his body.

Perhaps that was why the baboons guarded the tree.

Don’t be silly,
he thought.
There is no magic.

Temba stood at the base of a small tree, its trunk a little wider than his body. A tiny gap in the canopy allowed this sapling to grow amidst the giants. As he turned to follow the power lines, a slight rustle from the other side of the trunk caught his attention.

He spun, yanking Kuntolo’s spear out and ready. But the forest around him was still. He heard distant sounds, nothing nearby. A small bush, entwined in the roots of the tree, wavered from side to side. It was as if a wind came through and blew only that plant, leaving the others alone.

Temba took a step to his right, trying to see around the trunk. Nothing stood on the other side. But something had moved the bush!

I’m frightened of nothing. I am imagining things like the mercenaries. There are no ghosts in this forest, only tricks.

A slight stir in the leaves overhead brought his gaze up. A firm branch stuck out from the tree about eight feet up. That branch passed right over Temba’s head, obscuring his view of the canopy above. Had that branch moved?

He needed to get moving and stop imagining things, he decided. But his palms glistened with sweat where they held the shaft of Kuntolo’s spear. Then a faint scent like stale dung assaulted his nostrils. He cringed at the smell and took a step back, closer to the trunk of the tree.

The branch above him moved.

Temba’s heart stuttered until he could barely feel the ground beneath his feet or the spear in his hands. He was being hunted. The invisible predator was a leopard and it had him in its sights. It followed his every movement and in the next seconds it would pounce. To run was to die. To stay still was to die.

He stared at the branch overhead, looking for any sign of movement. He held the spear weakly in both hands, more as a security blanket than as a useful weapon.

The branch shook from the movements of the hidden cat. Temba retreated toward the tree. His eyes watched the branch expectantly for the coming pounce.

His back hit bark and he circled around the trunk, putting it between him and the branch. No sooner had he made it around then a yellow paw, spotted with black, lashed out at him. He ducked and the cat clawed from above, hissing angrily. Its prey had slipped around the other side of the tree.

It locked its maddened feline eyes on him and wedged itself in the crook between branch and trunk, getting as much reach as it could. Sharp claws shredded bark into chips that fell about Temba’s head.

Frustrated, the cat leapt from the tree branch, easily descending the distance to the ground. Its paws came down amidst the roots and wove toward Temba, maneuvering along perfect angles.

Temba raised the spear defensively and turned his head away, just as the animal leapt. The force of the pounce drove him back, but the leopard howled in pain. When Temba looked up he saw a bloody wound in its right shoulder.

With new respect, the leopard backed off and circled him. Temba squared off, keeping the spear between him and it, but already he saw that the creature was outmaneuvering him, as if it meant to corner him against the tree trunk. Temba noticed the way its filthy fur was matted and saw the enraged look in its eyes. Everything told him that this was a very sick animal.

“Stay away,” he cried, a desperate scream. “Leave me alone.”

The leopard roared back, not backing down. It would not pounce again with the spear between it and Temba. Before Temba could react, the cat moved left. Its course took it up the trunk of the tree. Its claws scraped on bark. With incredible agility, it pivoted and leapt toward Temba, catching him off-guard and from the side. Temba tried bringing his spear around but couldn’t get the tip in fast enough. Instead, he blocked with the shaft of the spear. The feline teeth snapped around wood and a paw struck Temba’s shoulder. A single claw connected with flesh and tore a gash along his bicep. Meanwhile, the weight of the beast threw him back, and he stumbled across the roots. Off balance, he realized his vulnerability and ran. He reached the tree that had served as his bed before the leopard closed the distance.

He clambered up the tree and rolled straight through the nook where the trunk split. The spear came through horizontally and wedged itself against both trunks. The force on his arm nearly wrenched it from its socket as the spear locked into place. He dangled on the other side, holding on to Kuntolo’s spear, as the leopard leapt through the nook, not slowing on the steep incline up the tree. The cat’s chest hit the wedged spear like a fence. Both paws squeezed through, grasping at Temba’s arm. The Mbuti let go and fell to the ground, landing on his back.

The leopard remained in the tree, temporarily barred by the wedged spear.

In that instant, Temba pulled his bow from his shoulder and drew the first of his arrows. Normally when hunting, he took considerable time to aim, but he didn’t have time to spare. He pulled back and released.

The cat hissed in pain as the small arrow struck it under one leg. Before it had recovered from the blow, Temba nocked another arrow and fired. This one narrowly nicked the animal’s ear.

The leopard jumped back down the tree, on the opposite side of the trunk from Temba. It growled at him as he unleashed a third arrow, burying it in the creature’s left flank. Angry and hurt, the animal twisted from the impact. It backed away putting space between it and Temba’s painful bow.

Temba held his fourth arrow nocked and ready. He gazed down its shaft at the leopard, crouched at the limit of his range. The creature, male by the look of it, learned fast, as maddened and desperate as it seemed. What Temba could not understand was why the animal still pursued him. Hadn’t he proven himself difficult enough prey?

When he was confident the animal wouldn’t suddenly charge, he approached the tree slowly. The leopard stayed back, maintaining a safe distance. Temba reached up and dislodged Kuntolo’s spear from the tree.

“I am not your enemy,” he called to the leopard.

Not that he expected a response, although who knew what strange things could happen in this insane forest? Temba dared a glance at the canopy and found the power lines again. With one eye on the cat, he walked cautiously in the direction of the power lines. He kept his bow ready and nocked, unsure if the animal recognized it as the source of a threat.

The leopard followed at a distance, waiting for an opening to strike. Temba wished his spear was drawn; with only a bow he was powerless to fight in such close quarters. All he could do was run.

Temba had never run as fast as he did in that moment. His feet came down with reckless abandon instead of the grace his people were known for. Still, even such a wild sprint was not enough to outrun a leopard.

He felt the cat right behind him, striding paw over paw in great leaps, teeth and claws bared.

A wall of brush rose up before him and he pushed through. He didn’t feel the slapping branches or even the thin trunk ripping across his shin, drawing blood. As lightning flashed, the clearing shone bright before him. His eyes fell upon the twisting bark of a great tree, rising high up in the canopy. He barely recognized it in the darkness until a black form rose up to his right.

The leopard stopped at the wall of brush, its hair standing on end, shoulders hunched. Not just one baboon, but three of the beasts encircled the leopard, closing the gap. The animals squared off, angry.

26

I
f you want me to cooperate, you need to take me to see Alfred.”

Sam drank from a bowl of stew. It occurred to her that Guy might try to drug her, but she needed to eat and drink. When she finished the bowl, she placed it on the wooden floor in front of her. She didn’t struggle as Bokenga tied her wrists.

Guy studied her with those same penetrating eyes. “I gain nothing from doing you any favors, Samantha.”

“Please, I just want to talk to him so I know that he’s okay,” she pleaded.

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Guy insisted. “If you want me to do you favors, you’re going to have to show me you’re willing to cooperate first.”

She considered that for a moment. “Okay. I just have one little thing to ask then.”

“What’s that?”

In her sweetest voice, she cajoled, “Please,
please,
call me Sam.”

He smiled. “My apologies, Sam.”

She almost couldn’t believe her own tone. She had done it on purpose in a sudden shift in tactics. Maybe she could sweeten him up into giving her what she wanted. It was hard to tell who was manipulating whom. She barely trusted herself to know the difference.

Still, she needed to get him to trust her. “It’s just that nobody calls me Samantha, except my mother did sometimes, usually when she was mad at me for something.”

“You’re not in touch with your mother?”

She shook her head. “We had a falling out.”

He leaned forward, interested. “What was it about?”

“Well, a lot of things I guess. I think it really reached its peak when I decided to go into modeling.”

Guy paused, looking her over. She could tell from the look in his eyes that this new information surprised him.
Good,
she thought.

“Oh that’s right,” she laughed sheepishly. “I’m not a chemist. I don’t work for Alfred’s company. I’m not any kind of scientist at all.”

Guy’s face darkened at the news and for a moment she feared her sharing would have the opposite effect from what she intended.

“But my sister studied psychology,” she added hopefully. “She stopped after she got her Master’s. She works as a school counselor now.”

Guy smiled condescendingly, his mood changing entirely. Sam got the impression her value had suddenly dropped in his eyes. The fact that he had believed she was a scientist told her a lot about his hopes and expectations. He had liked her, because he thought her pretty, smart, and independent. Now a model instead of a chemist, she was only pretty.

Guy let Sam follow him outside to the cluster of BaMbuti huts. There he spoke with several Mbuti men, many Sam recognized from before. She noticed them looking at her, particularly at her bruised face. Some showed guilt, but others gave nothing away. She wondered if Guy hadn’t purposely set the Mbuti up as villains so he could play into a twisted good cop persona when he came to her rescue the night before. She didn’t doubt it. Everything seemed like a game of manipulation now.

She kept talking. Before she had withheld everything, now she let it all out. The only subject she stayed away from was Brandon. It would make Guy happy, she decided, to think that she had forgotten him, even if her captor was decidedly less interested in her than before.

“You speak their language very well,” Sam noted after watching a brief exchange.

“It is not too different from the local Bantu tongues,” Guy pointed out. “They have a very specific tonal quality to their accent that could throw off an amateur.”

“It sounds like they’re singing.”

“Perhaps a little, yes.”

“Guy.”

He turned to face her again.

“Do you think I could see Alfred today?” she asked. She bit her lip shyly, letting him know that she was truly asking and not demanding. “I really just want to know if he’s okay. I feel so bad thinking about him without his glasses and his arm. I just want to see him once. And then I promise I’ll shut up about it.”

“I should have known you weren’t a scientist before,” Guy said as he unlocked the bolts on the door. Each lock made a metallic clunk as they came open. Sam noted the key he used, memorizing it.

“Why’s that?” she asked, watching as he slipped the key ring into his trouser pocket.

He turned a smile at her and cupped her shoulder with one hand. “The comments you made last night. They were a little . . .”

Not resisting his touch, Sam tilted her head curiously. “A little what?”

“
Naïf.
”

She didn’t know how to respond to the small insult. She knew that her reaction was important if she was going to keep the upper hand with him. She finally decided on feigning mild annoyance. He’d expect that much at least.

“I don’t mean to offend you, Sam. I would expect that sort of reaction from a layman, especially one as young as you.”

She had to bite her retort this time. She saw the way he studied her and wondered if his last statement hadn’t been some sort of test. Guy had to be in his late thirties at the most. After a moment, she forced a smile. “Twenty-six isn’t that young.”

“There was a time when I would have agreed with you,” he replied, finally pulling the heavy door open. “Actually, I’m surprised how young twenty-six seems to me right now.”

He stepped into the dark room, pulling Sam in right behind him. She couldn’t see a thing until he flicked a light switch and a pair of light bulbs on the ceiling sparked to life. Behind them, Kitu followed. As Sam studied the room, Kitu did as well.

The walls were the same stone as outside with no insulation. Thick planks layered the floor. A shoddy wooden table sat in one corner topped with a control panel adorned with dials and gauges. Cords extended into the ceiling and toward the large generator that dominated the room. A few spare jugs of gasoline sat in the corner to her left. She didn’t miss the significance. Guy needed to travel to refill his fuel supply, which meant that he had some way in and out of the jungle.

As Sam wondered about that, movement from the far corner caught her eye. A figure, draped in shadow, shifted and sat up slowly. He raised his good hand over his brow and squinted at them, a heavy chain dangling from his wrist. The chain connected him to the wall, limiting him to the small wooden chair he sat in.

“Alfred,” Sam called.

Practically blind without his glasses, Alfred almost jumped out of the chair at the sound of her voice. “Sam!”

She turned to Guy. “Can I go talk to him?”

He gave a quick nod.

She walked timidly across the room, surprised when Guy waited by the door with Kitu.

Alfred started to stand, but Sam shushed him and pushed him back down into his seat.

“How are you, Sam? Is he treating you okay? Are you hurt?”

She wrapped Alfred in a slow hug, lingering about his shoulders. “I’m okay,” she said quietly.

“He hasn’t . . . hurt you, has he?”

“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” she promised.

The chemist trembled under her touch. “Has he told you what he’s doing here? Has he told you about the experiment?”

“No, he hasn’t. What’s going on?”

“Oh God, he has to be stopped, Sam. He
can’t
be allowed to pursue this technology. His grandfather started these experiments decades ago, when this was the Belgian Congo. Then it was abandoned and left. He found it here, and he’s started the experiments up again.”

“What kind of experiments?”

“
Insane
experiments, it’s what we’ve witnessed the whole time we were here. I should’ve known because of the buzzing. It’s so obvious. Do you remember where you’ve heard that sound before? Maybe not, some people are more attuned to it than others.”

Kitu shifted closer and Alfred’s voice became higher pitched as he spoke faster.

“He can do this anywhere. Not just in a jungle. He could do it to a city block or a whole city. If he perfects it—if he keeps improving it like he has—do you know what we’re dealing with?”

“What?”

“We’re dealing with mind control here. It is sick.”

“Mind control?”

“He uses the river as his sounding board. This power plant is what fuels it.”

“Sam,” Guy called. When she looked over, he gestured for her to come over to him.

“Just a minute,” she answered back, her sweetness gone.

Alfred’s voice fell to far less than a whisper. “I have a lighter I managed to keep with me. I can destroy the generator, but I’ll need time. He comes in and out of here all day and most of the night. I need to be sure he’ll be preoccupied.”

She took a deep breath. “I have an idea how I can do that.”

“Good. When I do it, it’ll be loud. He’ll probably come quickly. Be in a position to escape when it happens.”

An idea formulated in her mind. She remembered the notes that Guy said he kept in his bedroom. She’d have to eliminate those, too.

“Enough, Sam,” Guy ordered. When she didn’t respond, he nodded to Kitu.

The Mbuti warrior nodded and crossed the room.

“One more thing—Temba’s in the forest. I think he’s in trouble.”

“Temba?”

As Kitu grabbed Sam by the shoulders, he paused at the mention of the Mbuti name. He glanced back and forth between Sam and Alfred curiously.

“Tonight,” she whispered. Her mind searched for some way they could both tell time without watches or clocks. “After the rain stops, give me half an hour.”

Alfred nodded.

She stepped away and let Kitu pull her back to Guy. She saw the suspicious look in her captor’s eyes, and without thinking she wrapped him in a hug. He stood shocked for several seconds, before his palm came up to touch her back.

“
Merci beaucoup,
Guy,” she whispered. Still using French, she added: “I needed that.”