James Rollins - Amazonia

Lauren felt like a brick had been dropped in her gut. "How could that be?"

"I don't know. We've been trying to raise them on the satellite link all day, but with no luck. Whatever problem they were having with their equipment yesterday must still be going on:'

"Are they continuing the air search?"

He shook his head. "The helicopter had to turn back. Limited fuel."

"Marshall. . :" Her voice cracked.

He reached out to her and took her hand. "Once they've refueled, they're sending it back out for a night flight. To see if they can spot campfires from the air using infrared scopes. Then tomorrow, another three helicopters are joining the search, including our own Comanche." He squeezed her hand, tight. "We'll find them:"

Lauren felt numb all over. All her children . . . all of them . . .

Jessie spoke up from the bed, pointing an arm that trailed an IV line toward the video. "Bobo's funny!"

1:05 1PM.

AMAZON JUNGLE

Nate climbed down the fifty-foot ladder from the treetop dwelling. The three-story structure rested in the branches of a nightcap oak, a species from the Cretaceous period. Earlier, just after Kelly and the professor had left with Frank, a pair of Ban-all women had appeared and led the party to the edge of the glade, gesturing and indicating that the dwelling above had been assigned to their group.

Sergeant Kostos had resisted at first, until Private Camera had made an astute observation. "Up there, it'll be more defensible. We're sitting targets on the ground. If those giant cats should come up during the night-"

Kostos had cut her off, needing no more convincing. "Right, right Let's move our supplies up there, then set up a defensive perimeter."

Nate thought such caution was unnecessary. Since arriving, the Indians had remained curious about them but kept a wary distance, peering from the jungle edges and windows. No hostility was shown. Still, Nate had a hard time balancing these quiet people with the murderous savages who had wiped out half their team by unleashing all manner of beasts upon them. But then again, such duality was the way of many indigenous tribes: hostile and brutal by outside appearances, but once you were accepted, they were found to be a peaceful and open people.

Still, so many of their teammates had died horribly at the indirect hands of this tribe. A burning seed of anger smoldered in Nate's chest. And then there were Clark and maybe others of his father's group, held hostage for all these years. At the moment, Nate found it hard to achieve professional detachment. As an anthropologist, he could understand these strange people, but as a son, resentment and fury colored all he saw.

Still, they were helping Frank. Professor Kouwe had returned briefly from the white-barked tree to announce that the tribal shaman and Kelly were able to stabilize their teammate. It was a rare bit of good news. Kouwe had not stayed long, anxious to return to the giant tree. The professor's eyes had flicked toward Nate. Despite the tribe's cooperation at the moment, Kouwe was clearly worried. Nate had tried to inquire, but the professor had waved him off as he left. "Later" was all he had said.

Reaching the last rung of the vine ladder, Nate jumped off. Clustered around the base of the tree were the two Rangers and Manny. Tor-tor stood at his master's side. The other members of their dwindling group Zane, Anna, and Olin-remained secure in their treetop loft, working on their communication equipment.

Manny nodded to Nate as he crossed toward them.

"I'll keep guard here;" Kostos instructed Camera. "You and Manny do a sweep of the immediate area. See what you can discover about the lay of the land:"

The private nodded and turned away.

Manny followed at her side. "C'mon, Tor-tor."

Kostos noted Nate's arrival. "What are you doing down here, Rand?"

"Trying to make myself useful:" He nodded to the cabin a hundred yards away. "While the sun's still up and the solar cells are still juicing, I'm going to see if I can discover any information in my father's computer records:"

Kostos frowned at the cabin but nodded. Nate could read his eyes, weighing and calculating. Right now every bit of Intel could be vital. "Be careful," the sergeant said.

Nate hiked his shotgun higher on his shoulder. "Always:" He began the walk across the open glade.

In the distance, near the clearing's edge, a handful of children had gathered. Several pointed at him, gesturing to one another. A small group trailed behind Manny and Camera, keeping a cautious distance from Tor-tor. The curiosity of youth. Among the trees, the timid tribe began to reawaken to their usual activities. Several women carried water from the stream that flowed through the glade and around the giant tree in the center. In the treetop abodes, people began to clamber. Small fires flared atop stone hearths on patios, readying for dinner. In one dwelling, an old woman sat cross-legged, playing a flute made out of a deer bone, a bright but haunting sound. Nearby, a pair of men, armed with hunting bows, wandered past, giving Nate the barest acknowledgment.

The casualness of their manner reminded Nate that, though these folks were isolated, they had lived with white men and women before. The survivors of his father's expedition.

He reached the cabin, seeing again his father's walking stick by the door. As he stared at it, the rest of the world and its mysteries dissolved away. For the moment, only one question remained in Nate's heart: What truly happened to my father?

With a final glance to his team's temporary treetop home, Nate ducked through the door flap of the cabin. The musty smell struck him again, like entering a lost tomb. Inside, he found the laptop still open on the workstation, just as he had left it. Its glow was a beacon in the dark.

As he neared the computer, Nate saw the screen saver playing across the monitor, a tiny set of pictures that slowly floated and bounced around the screen. Tears rose in his eyes. They were photos of his mother. Another ghost from his past. He stared at the smiling face. In one, she was kneeling beside a small Indian boy. In another, a capuchin monkey perched on her shoulder. In yet another, she was hugging a short youngster, a white boy dressed in typical Baniwa garb. It was Nate. He had been six years old. He smiled at the memory, his heart close to bursting. Though his father wasn't in any of the pictures, Nate sensed his presence, a ghost standing over his shoulder, watching with him. At this moment, Nate had never felt closer to his lost family.

After a long time, he reached for the mouse pad. The screen saver vanished, replaced with a typical computer screen. Small titled icons lined the screen. Nate read through the files. Plant Classification, Tribal Customs, Cellular Statistics. . . so much information. It would take days to sift through them all. But one file caught his eye. The icon was of a small book. Below it was the word journal.

Nate clicked the icon. A file opened:

Amazonian Journal-Dr. Carl Rand

It was his father's diary. He noted the first date. September 24. The day the expedition had headed into the jungle. As Nate scrolled down, he saw that each day had a typed entry. Sometimes no more than a sentence or two, but something was noted. His father was meticulous. As he once quoted to Nate, `An unexamined life is not worth living:'

Nate skimmed through the entries, searching for one specific date. He found it. December 16. The day his father's team had vanished.

December 16

The storms continued today, bogging us down in camp. But the day was

not a total wash. An Arawak Indian, traveling down the river, shared our

soggy camp and told us stories of a strange tribe . . . frightening stories.

The Ban-ali, he named them, which translates roughly to "Blood Jaguar." I've heard snatches in the past concerning this ghost tribe, but few Indians were willing to speak openly of them.