Gerrie Nelson - Lab Notes

As she approached him, Colton looked quizzically at her hair (probably a nest of twigs and Spanish moss). Then he grinned broadly and said, “Well, if it isn’t the silk stocking half of our pair o’ docs. But where’s the mismatched mate?”

Diane smirked, indicating his comment didn’t merit a reply, and resumed jogging. Once past him she regretted showing any response at all; it wasn’t his first dig at her husband.

Vincent’s reserved manner made some people believe he was unapproachable. From the beginning it was obvious that Colton Fey felt threatened by him, taking every opportunity to zing him behind his back.

As Raymond Bellfort’s yacht captain and harbormaster, Colton Fey was given carte blanche at BRI. He roamed the hallways, freezing the genial working environment with his malignant wit. “Loosening up the brainiacs” he called it.

Jogging away from the primate house, Diane felt Colton Fey’s leer crawling down her back. With the bend in the trail just ahead, she bolted, running for the main building and its promise of a decontaminating shower.

Diane slammed her phone onto the bed and stepped out on the balcony of her hotel suite. She breathed in the cool, dry air and tried to relax.

Her west-facing luxury suite overlooking Quito basin was one of the perks of being in the Carrera entourage. Earlier, she had watched the creeping shadows as the sun set behind volcanic peaks. Now it was dusk, and the city in the middle of the world twinkled to life under a deep lapis sky.

But being out of synch with Vincent—who was not answering his phone—she couldn’t fully enjoy the view, or even savor that day’s business successes.

Gabriel had arranged the daylong meeting with the Interior Secretary and the head of the Economic Development Council. The government officials listened attentively while Diane presented her plan to visit Ecuadorian tribes to study their native healing.

Late this afternoon they had signed a contract permitting BRI to collect plant specimens in the country’s jungles. In return, Ecuador would participate in any profits the venture brought in. Both sides felt they had reason to celebrate tonight.

Diane took a last look at the dimming sky and stepped back inside her suite. She grabbed her jacket, stuffed her phone into her purse and headed for the first-floor restaurant.

After a sumptuous meal and heavy dessert, the Ecuadorian officials graciously picked up the tab, then excused themselves saying they had an early morning meeting. Diane, Raymond and Gabriel lingered in the opulent dining room sipping coffee.

Diane regarded the men’s wine-glazed eyes and wondered why she hadn’t slipped under the table by then.

The evening had begun with numerous champagne toasts before dinner, then proceeded with a different shade of wine for every course thereafter. She should have been comatose. But the long-distance friction with Vincent had kept her edgy and sober. She dreaded another sleepless night.

Diane said, “Have you ever heard of the Jivaro ceremony of spiritual healing?”

Gabriel and Raymond twitched out of their stupors.

“No,” they murmured.

“The ritual is part of the culture of an Ecuadorian tribe called the Jivaro. I missed their ceremony the last time I was here. Would you like to attend one with me tonight?”

Raymond declined, looking annoyed at her liveliness.

Gabriel suppressed a yawn. “That sounds interesting.”

Diane, Gabriel and Gabriel’s bodyguard, Michael, took a taxi to the edge of the old city. The driver knew exactly where to drop them off—the foot of a steep, cobbled alleyway with dim intermittent lighting showing the way up.

They began their ascent—with Michael several discreet steps behind.

When Diane was first introduced to the diminutive, red-headed Michael a few months earlier, she questioned Gabriel’s choice of a bodyguard who had not only the hair but also the physique of “Carrot Top.”

Gabriel laughed and told her how he had met Michael a decade before on a trip to Venezuela.

He and a business associate were leaving a restaurant in Caracas when they were accosted by a man who aimed a pistol at them and demanded their watches and wallets. Michael, a complete stranger, seemed to descend from the sky, wrestling the man to the ground and divesting him of his weapon.

He refused payment for his trouble. But he gave Gabriel his business card which identified him as a “security consultant” in Miami. Gabriel hired him on the spot, and they’d been together ever since.

Gabriel explained: “Michael’s size is deceptive. People don’t see him as a threat. But he moves like a monkey; strikes like a snake.” It also helped that he was fluent in Spanish.

Tonight, Diane found the bodyguard’s presence reassuring.

Just then, a primal shout erupted from the top of the stairs. Gabriel looked at Diane. “Are you certain about what goes on up there?”

She gave him an impish grin. “If I were, there’d be little reason to go.”

Gabriel smirked and kept climbing. Whistles and chants grew louder with every step.

Gabriel turned to Diane. “You handled the negotiations well, as usual. I have watched you closely. If you can do business in Central and South America, you can do it anywhere.”

Diane felt grateful for the shadows that hid her blush. “Thank you.”

They reached the top where they found a round hut surrounded by torches. Peeking inside, they saw a large circle of fire on the dirt floor and an assortment of shrunken heads suspended from the ceiling.

Diane and Gabriel looked at each other, shrugged and stepped inside. In the center, a robed shaman sipped from a cup, then rolled his head and passed the drink into a small audience sitting on the dirt floor. Someone motioned for Diane and Gabriel to sit. The whistles and chants resumed.

Diane watched the healer and listened to his songs. She had seen many such rituals on her jungle treks. The cup of natema was passed to her. Without hesitation, she sipped, hoping it wasn’t made with saliva, as many primitive libations were. Gabriel bravely followed suit.

Almost immediately, the fire blurred, then broke up into small torches that floated about and whistled. Diane turned to Gabriel. He had morphed into a fanged creature with soft eyes. The surroundings became frenzied with rushing forms and circling chants, causing a sort of motion sickness. But, unaccountably, all the strangeness combined to make Diane feel quite happy. Gradually the merry-go-round came to a stop. But the happiness remained.

Diane and Gabriel looked at each other and laughed, almost hysterically.

“You were a loveable creature,” she said. “What was I?”

He looked at her, confused, as if seeing her for the first time. He seemed to grope for words. Then he said, “You had no form. You were a power that effected many outcomes.” Then he shook his head as if clearing it from an unpleasant vision.

Though most of the audience seemed to be staying for another round of happiness, Gabriel and Diane helped each other to stand up, and they staggered from the hut arm in arm. Giggling, they tripped down the alleyway.

Inhibitions submerged by the natema, Diane turned to Gabriel and said with a teasing tone, “I heard a rumor that you killed your wife. That can’t be true.”

Gabriel exploded with laughter. “I have never had a wife. But if I had, I might have killed her.”

Diane, confused but smiling, said, “But your son—I saw him at the BRI Christmas party.”

“He is my father’s son,” Gabriel’s voice remained pleasant.

“He’s your brother?”

Now Gabriel spoke slowly, as if explaining to a child, “Eduardo is my father’s son.”