Midnight Shadows Page 5

  And was that going to be his problem?

  He couldn't afford to let it be, not when he had a job to do.

  Once he was sure she slept soundly, he slipped out of the room and asked directions for the address he had scribbled onto a piece of paper. Following the clerk's verbal map, he found himself burrowed into the seedier side of Lima, a side tourists would shy away from for its lack of charm or appeal. Visitors didn't want to see reality or snap quaint pictures of poverty.

  Cobb paused outside a rundown bar, rechecking his address against the sagging plank hung over the open doors. From inside, the stench of drink and sweat mingled with the loud assault of up-tempoed traditional music and laughter that overpowered his senses the moment he crossed the threshold. He went to the bar and yelled over the aggressive drum beat.

  "I'm looking for Andres and Felipe Mendes. I was told I could find them here."

  "Why should they want to see you, señor?"

  Cobb littered the stained bar top with coins. “Because I have more of that."

  The silver was quickly swept up, and the bartender nodded toward a smoky corner. After making a purchase, Cobb murmured his thanks.

  The Mendes brothers weren't exactly the cream of Lima society. They were dirty, unshaven and smelled like llamas. And they were drunk, getting drunker. Cobb set the bottle he carried upon the cluttered table top. Two pairs of narrowed eyes regarded him as a possible threat.

  "Buenas noches. Habla usted ingles?"

  "Si. What do you want?"

  "I want you to tell me a story. Pretend I'm your priest."

  "And you will forgive us our sins?"

  "Depends upon the sins, mi amigo."

  They laughed and gestured to an empty chair before diving into the fresh bottle of liquor. When they made no offer to fill Cobb's glass, he took care of it himself.

  "Now that we're old friends, tell me about the night your other brother died."

  Both grimy faces closed up tighter than a whore's generosity. The older one crossed himself while the other growled, “It is not a story to tell to strangers."

  Cobb placed an impressive pile of money on the table. “There. Does that get us better acquainted?"

  The two exchanged uncomfortable looks, but the younger raked up the cash, saying, “There is not much to tell, señor."

  "I'm not the law. I don't give a rat's hindend what you were doing. I want to know what you found ... or what found you."

  The younger, more talkative one leaned forward. “We found death, señor. We went looking for treasure and we found death."

  "Where?"

  "We do not remember the way."

  Or were being well paid to forget, Cobb suspected. But by whom?

  "Could you take me there?"

  "No. The SIN has made the area off-limits to those without special passes."

  What interest would the Peruvian intelligence community have in the murder of a tomb robber?

  "Because of what you found?"

  The elder spat on the table top just shy of Cobb's hand. He didn't move it.

  "We tell them nothing but they hear anyway."

  "Hear what?"

  "That my brother, Mano, rest his soul, woke something that should have been left undisturbed."

  "Something? Explain that to me."

  "Our legends are not for your amusement, civilazado."

  "Tell him, Andres. What does it matter now that Mano is dead?"

  The elder Mendes brother considered this then shrugged. “We intruded upon the sleep of the Ancient One. Now he hunts the jungle at night until someone puts him back to rest."

  "How is that done?"

  "First, we apologize by making offerings, and then there will be a sacrifice of—"

  Andres halted his younger brother's words with a cautioning shake of his head. But Cobb was all over the significance of what he didn't say.

  "Sacrifice? What kind of sacrifice? Human?"

  Andres laughed. “You watch too many bad movies, señor. That is not how it's done any more."

  "How is it done?"

  "We have said too much already. You go away now. And leave the bottle."

  "Just one more thing. How was your brother killed?"

  Andres's gaze took on a flat, black glaze. “He was drained of blood, señor. Does that answer your question?"

  Oh, yes. It most certainly did.

  Chapter Four

  Their small plane took off just before dawn. The privately chartered six-seat Cessna would take them to the junction of the Madre de Dios and Manu rivers for an exorbitant price but would cut days off from overland travel. Though there was a government-run air service out of Lima that shuttled passengers to the mission towns of Sepahua and Pucallpa at the gateway to the Amazon's southern jungle, it was extremely unreliable, and Peyton Samuels was anxious enough to get them there to foot the extra bill.

  Sheba stared out the window, watching as the big buildings and boulevards became square-cut fields chopped from the encroaching jungle, and the pindots of light and life went from an electric glow to the fires of shanty towns. Then a thick blanket of clouds swallowed them whole, and she was forced to turn her attention inside the small plane's cabin.

  Her own nervousness abated when she cast a look at her companion. He sat stiff and straight in his seat, his hands curved into white-knuckled talons over the ends of the arm rest, his features granite-set and his eyes closed. She didn't think he was breathing.

  Funny, she wouldn't have thought anything scared Frank Cobb. At least anything so ordinary.

  "We're off the ground. You can exhale now."

  He answered her comment with a shaky gust of breath as his eyes flickered open to regard their surroundings uneasily.

  "Don't like to fly?"

  "I don't mind the flying. I'm just not too fond of unscheduled landings."

  She smiled at his terse reply. “After all the puddle-jumpers I've been on, some of them pre-dating World War II, this is a Cadillac."

  His return smile with thin and unconvincing.

  "I've learned to place my faith in a higher power, Mr. Cobb, and to just relax."

  "God?"

  "The pilot."

  He made a soft sound of disbelief but much of the tension left the harsh angle of his jaw. A sudden curiosity came to her. Frank Cobb, what do you do for fun?

  Would her question startle him? Or would it confirm what she'd already guessed, that she and her traveling partner were sad cases when it came to the extracurriculars of life?

  Why was he really here? She'd had a quick, unauthorized glimpse at his record while visiting a colleague in D.C. She was certain that what it said was a lot shorter than what it didn't say. What it didn't say was that a man like this wouldn't be sent to babysit anybody. Something fishy was going on to bring a man of Frank Cobb's dangerous caliber into the picture. And that made her wonder what kind of trouble Paulo was really in.

  His message had been short and sweet. He'd run into some problems—some political, some practical. Their mutual uncle Peyton Samuels wanted to call in the marines, but Paulo would settle for the ‘security expert’ Harper recommended ... only if she would come along. He needed her to run interference with the locals and with Samuels, who'd always held a soft spot for her.

  Now she was wondering if she was soft in the head for agreeing.

  But she couldn't keep Paulo from getting the protection he needed, nor could she turn away from his almost desperate sounding request. Not after all he'd done to keep her sane.

  Would she even recognize him? It had been, after all, twenty years. Twenty years of letters and phone calls and grainy photos staring out at her from professional periodicals.

  But no amount of passing years could place a wedge between the loyalty and love she felt, not even her fear.

  She could only hope that Frank Cobb was darned good at his job.

  She should have used the flight time to discover what Cobb knew about the situation ahead. In particular, what he
knew about her connection. But a self-avowed coward in this particular arena, she put off such inevitabilities for as long as possible. She didn't want to think about their destination.

  Besides, Cobb might have some uncomfortable questions of his own. Better she not provoke them lest she be forced to come up with a palatable answer.

  Taking a deep, forestalling breath, she slumped back in her seat and tried to unwind. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. What could be worse than the relentless night sweats, than the not knowing? Wasn't it time she faced the truth, if indeed, there was one to find? Maybe after all these years, the jungle had devoured those truths. Maybe if left alone, they would have remained safely covered by time and a tangle of forest green. Until some greedy tomb raiders ripped through that pretense of serenity and distance to expose the horrors of the past. She fingered the shape of the medallion beneath her cotton shirt. Maybe nothing awaited her in the jungle. Maybe it was just a tomb, just a coincidence.

  And maybe pigs could fly.

  She closed her eyes, trying not to appear as small and terrified as she felt inside.

  She must have drifted off into a fitful sleep because a sudden bout of turbulence had her head bouncing against the unyielding curve of Frank's shoulder. She straightened in her seat, slightly embarrassed at the liberty she'd taken, but Cobb seemed unaware of it. His attention was focused ahead, his breath hissing through clenched teeth.

  They were about to land.

  Their plane dipped down through the cloud cover until the impenetrable solid blew into wispy threads of white, finally revealing the jungle below. From the air, the Amazon looked like an unbroken sea of green sponges. The sight of that endless canopy filled Sheba with a confusing mix of welcome and dread. Coming home, Paulo called it.

  Home to face her destiny.

  The plane banked abruptly, angling to slip through what, at their altitude, seemed like a tiny crack in the surface of this jungle planet. The movement tossed Sheba against Frank and had her grabbing at his knee and forearm for balance. As tense as he was, it was like seeking purchase on a rock face. She immediately started to push back, but his hand clapped down over the one she'd placed on his thigh, holding it there at first with a flattening pressure and then within the crushing curl of his fingers. It was all she could do not to yelp in discomfort.

  The hairlike fracture in the green below widened, becoming the twists and turns of a good-sized river and the runway their pilot sought. As they grew close enough to scare up a ripple on that lazy water surface, Sheba could see their destination: a single dock stretching out into the river, its pilings decorated with the gargoyle-like black vultures waiting patiently for the opportunity to scavenge for whatever carrion might be dumped into the still waters. Though ugly while at roost, when provoked by the plane's arrival, the village's sanitary engineers took to the air on long, dark wings, their flight strangely graceful and evoking a sense of tranquility. Odd harbingers of welcome.

  Their plane skimmed along the water's surface with scarcely a bump, bringing them up to cozy against the warped dock. The second the engine was cut, Cobb was out of his seat, grabbing for his bag, unwilling to even wait for the propeller to slow in its rhythmic slicing of air.

  "Ladies and gentleman, thank you for surviving your trip on Fly By Night Air,” he muttered in cynical relief, pausing only long enough to put down a hand to Sheba. She held up the one he hadn't mashed in his fretful and apparently unconscious grip, and let him haul her from the narrow seat to balance on slightly shivery legs. Whether her weak stance was due to the cramped quarters or her anxiety, she was now grateful, nonetheless, for her companion's supportive hand beneath her elbow.

  They ducked through the small door to step into the steamy air of the Amazon.

  Sheba held a hand up to shadow her eyes from the glare of the sun off water so she could scan the shoreline for a familiar face. Behind her, Cobb passed a wad of currency into the pilot's hand with the pronouncement, “Thanks for getting us here alive."

  The pilot grinned and nodded, not understanding the words but recognizing the universal symbol of money.

  Then a joyous cry was heard.

  "Sheba!"

  At the sound of his voice, all Sheba's anxieties melted away in a bittersweet rush. She dropped her suitcase and ran carelessly down the dock's uneven boards. Right into the open arms of her best friend from childhood. After a long, whirling hug, Paulo Lemos held her back for a warm, reacquainting look.

  How tall he'd grown! How handsome! How wonderfully familiar.

  The Paulo she'd left behind in the jungles had been a shy, chubby boy of ten hiding behind a somber demeanor and Coke bottle-thick glasses. At approaching thirty, he was cosmopolitanly gorgeous, with Peruvian-bronze complexion, whipcord physique and eyes like melting chocolate behind contact lenses. But there was the same hint of grateful camaraderie in the blinding flash of his smile.

  "Una regla, how beautiful you are!” he declared, bringing a blush of denying pleasure to her cheeks. “Last time I saw you, you were all ears, elbows and knees, a stick figure girl with pigtails I used to tie in knots."

  "And I've never worn my hair long since then, you awful beast of a boy. Though I am still as flat as a ruler.” She cupped his face between her palms, adoring him with her gaze. “It's been too long."

  His expression grew suddenly serious as he bent to kiss her brow. “Welcome home, little Sheba."

  It was then he glanced over her head to see Cobb regarding the two of them together through inscrutable eyes. Keeping Sheba tucked within the curl of his arm, he confronted the other man with a cool formality.

  "You must be the American mercenary the Center sent down to protect me. I am Paulo Lemos.” He put out his free hand.

  For a long beat, Cobb ignored the outstretched hand as he searched the other's features, reading signs of character and checking for shortcomings. He didn't misread the territorial bristle of one man warning off another, though he hadn't thought of the two scientists’ relationship that way. Sheba had given him to believe that Lemos was an old friend. That's not the impression the Peruvian was telegraphing with his rigid posture and enfolding arm. The attitude was typical possessive male—a threatened male.

  Finally, Cobb clasped his hand for a firm shake. “Frank Cobb. I'll be your shadow from now on."

  "Does that mean you disappear from sight when the limelights go on?"

  Cobb snapped his fingers then opened his hand wide. “Invisible. Unless you need me."

  They exchanged steady, gaging stares, then Paulo broke the contact to gaze fondly upon Sheba once more. “How can I object to you being here? Look what you've brought me."

  Sheba beamed up at him, and Cobb realized that she didn't have the slightest idea that Paulo Lemos was out to change the basis of their relationship from roughhouse to romance.

  Well, it wasn't his job to enlighten her. It was his job to stay out of the way. Invisible. A shadow with no opinions, no input and no reason to get involved. The only way he could perform his duties was to stay objective, and that didn't entail feeling just a wee bit envious of the young scientist for the way Sheba was gazing up at him like he was her moon and stars.

  Dismissing Cobb as if he were transparent already, Paulo exclaimed, “Come, Sheba. I have a surprise for you."

  "Seeing you again is gift enough, Paulo,” she assured him happily but still allowed him to steer her away. Neither of them looked back.

  "I'll just get the bags,” Cobb grumbled to himself. “No, don't thank me. Happy to do it."

  He shouldered his duffle then lifted Sheba's suitcase.

  "Good God, woman, what are you traveling with? The kitchen sink?"

  Amazed that the slender Sheba Reynard that been toting the massively weighty bag about without a word of complaint, he hoisted it manfully and followed the couple to dry land. When she stepped ashore, Sheba looked back over her shoulder to give him a grateful smile. It wasn't much in the way of a tip, but it would do.

  The
village they entered could have been a backdrop for a Tarzan movie or a new Disney theme park. Rustic buildings leaned haphazardly in a drunken line along the main road, which was little more than a dirt two track that would become impassable with the first good rain. To Sheba, the caserios was typical of the countless settlements she'd passed through as a child. Some, like this one, where the residents made their living gathering Brazil nuts, served as a frequent collecting point where ancient trucks would carry the harvest to a processing center and would offer a lift to a traveler for $20 U.S. It was almost frightening the way she slipped so easily back into the pattern of their language and way of life, for it had been hers for only the first third of her accumulated years. No wonder, really, since the time spent in similar circumstances far outweighed her experiences in civilization.

  There was an honesty here that couldn't be found in the American city. True, it was mostly a hand-to-mouth existence, but there was a sense of pride and community to these people she'd never experienced during her visits to the States. She could relax her defenses and be herself with the one person she trusted above all others.

  She smiled as Paulo lingered in the village's small marketplace to inventory the medicinal plants supplied by the local curandero to cure the ills of the Indians. After he had soothed the old vendor's suspicions with his fluent use of their region's dialect, he spent several minutes discussing the properties of each sample, going so far as to peel skin off several of the fruits to suck at their pulp for taste. He ended up bagging two of the specimens then jotting down notes in the battered spiral notebook he carried, including a quick sketch of the sample and a location as to where it could be found.

  Catching Sheba in her indulgent study, he grinned rather sheepishly but didn't apologize for being what he was, first and foremost—a scientist. How well that profession suited the boy she'd once known, whose curiosity had gotten them into trouble on more than one occasion.

  How she'd missed him.

  "Where's my surprise?” she asked as they continued down the rutted road.

  "It comes in this evening with our boat."