The Immortal Gene Page 8

  “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

  The cop tilted his head and straightened his belt line. “What do you do? What is your line of work?”

  “I’m a homicide detective.”

  The man’s head righted and his eyes widened. “Ahh, a fellow law enforcement man. And you are here on business? As a professional courtesy, have you let my superiors know that you’re here investigating something?”

  “I’m not working a case here.” Were all Manaus cops this concerned with foreigners? “I’m here with a friend. Tomorrow, we’re doing a rainforest tour. Then flying home in a few days.”

  The cop nodded. “Just watch yourself out here. Danger lurks behind every corner.”

  He touched his earpiece as if someone spoke into it, then started away, but not before hitching his pants up at the waist again. Jake stared after the cop until he stopped at the corner of the building thirty feet away and turned back to face Jake.

  “Remember,” the cop shouted. “Watch yourself out here, Jake Wood. Danger lurks behind every corner.”

  Before Jake could think, he broke into a run toward the cop, but the officer stepped sideways and disappeared behind the building. As Jake ran for the corner, his mind raced. How had the cop known his name? Once he’d registered at the hotel, had it gotten sent to a police database? If so, had he been followed on his walk, or was this man with the man who had watched him at the Toronto airport?

  At the corner, Jake came around, giving it a wide berth, unsure of what was waiting for him, being mindful of the ‘danger lurking behind every corner’ comment.

  The sidewalk was empty. Along the wall, a door led into the building, but it was locked. Wherever the Manaus cop disappeared to, he had planned his exit well.

  Jake turned back the way he had come. How many people were watching him? Were the men who had threatened him after Luke as well? Luke’s claim of being followed didn’t seem so paranoid now.

  Jake started back to the hotel, knowing Luke was okay. He’d made it to Brazil. Otherwise, who left him the note in the room? Who had paid for the room and the tour guides that he was to meet in the morning?

  Thoughts of food forgotten for now, Jake retraced his steps, wanting the security of his room.

  Another thought struck him. If that was in fact a Manaus cop, and he was in league with the man in the overcoat at the Toronto airport, then their reach was far and wide—too wide. It had to be a simple case of Jake’s passport being reported to the authorities when he’d checked into the hotel. Nothing else made sense.

  As he hustled around vendors packing up for the night, another idea came to him. Were they watching him, keeping tabs on his movements so they could access his room? All he had on himself was his ATM card and the cash he’d withdrawn. Everything else was in the room. Everything.

  Jake broke into a run.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Jake ran through the front doors of the lobby of his hotel, slowed to catch his breath, and leaned against the front desk. The clerk from earlier, the one who had given him directions to the bank machine was gone, replaced by a man in his mid-forties.

  “Where’s the ...” Jake panted, “... other clerk from ... half an hour ago?”

  The man looked up from the computer, an expression of boredom on his face.

  “What is problem, sir? I can help, no?”

  Jake shook his head, strode through the lobby, and headed for his room. On his floor, he dabbed sweat out of his eyes and reached for the keycard.

  The door opened to a mess.

  The room had been turned upside down. Every drawer sat open. The bedsheets were ripped from the beds, the mattresses lay askew. The curtains were torn off the rail and thrown to the floor and the closet door that held an extra pillow and a small ironing table, had been wrenched open so hard, it had separated from the wall.

  Jake rushed inside, shoved his back against the wall beside the bathroom door. After two quick breaths, he pivoted into the bathroom, hands up and ready.

  The bathroom was empty. Whoever had ransacked his room was gone.

  The Manaus cop had to be involved. He had followed Jake, letting the ransackers know Jake’s location at all times. When the cop heard they were done with the room through his earpiece, the officer had walked away, then turned back to offer his cryptic warning.

  That had to be it.

  But why ransack his room? What were they looking for? And who were they in the first place?

  He stumbled over the bed sheets and snatched his bag from under them. The zippers were all open, the bag empty. Everything he had brought with him, his change of clothes, ID, and passport were gone—stolen.

  “Shit.”

  He tossed the bag across the room and jumped over a mattress, heading for the door. The lock appeared untouched. Whoever had gained access to the room had a keycard.

  Back in the lobby, he found the desk unmanned. When no one answered, he banged on the bell incessantly.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming,” the mid-forties man said as he emerged from the back room. “What is emergency?”

  “Who has access to my room?”

  “What room are you in, sir?” The clerk turned to the computer and typed something.

  “When someone checks into your hotel, how many keycards are made?”

  “I’m sorry, sir?” The clerk turned maddeningly slow until he met Jake’s eyes. “I’m not sure why you appear so hostile. Please calm down. Everything will be okay, no?”

  “No.” Jake slapped the countertop with both hands, open-palmed. “Everything will not be okay.” He raised his voice, more out of frustration than anger. “My passport has been stolen. My ID is gone.”

  “I’m sure we can figure out what happened. Your embassy will help as well. Please.” The clerk turned back to his computer. “What room number, sir?”

  Jake kept his hands on the top of the desk. He forced himself to breathe slower, easier.

  “I am in room 204.”

  The clerk typed quickly, then frowned. He eased in closer to the computer and guided his eyes with a finger on the screen.

  “Are you Luke Mercer, sir?”

  “No. I’m his friend. I was to meet him here. I checked in earlier. My name is Jake Wood.” He gestured with his right hand. “Check again.”

  The clerk typed something else. “I’m sorry. I only see one guest in room 204—”

  “I’m in room 204,” Jake shouted. He yanked the keycard out of his pocket and held it up. “How did I get this, then?”

  The clerk narrowed his eyes at the card, then laid his palm out flat.

  “Please sir, let me check that card.”

  The clerk swiped it and glanced at his screen. “It is registered to room 204 at the moment—”

  “For fuck’s sake. I’m in room 204. It has just been ransacked. My belongings were stolen. I want to know who has access to my room and I want to know now.”

  The clerk had stepped back at Jake’s outburst, keycard still in hand. His cheeks paled and his lips parted, but he said nothing.

  Jake was getting nowhere with the clerk. It was late. He was tired and there was nothing he could do to get a new passport until after his trip into the Amazon concluded. He needed to calm down before the police were called and he ended up spending the night giving statements that would lead nowhere as he suspected a member of the Manus authorities had a hand in the robbery of his room.

  In a quick gesture, Jake lunged over the top of the front desk, snatched the keycard, and dropped back to his feet.

  “Are there cameras in the lobby? Just tell me that. Cameras in the corridors?”

  The clerk shook his head. “No cameras.”

  “Fine. Forget it. I will report it to the proper authorities myself.”

  He stomped back up to room 204, let himself in, and started to make the bed. Inside the minibar, he found six cans of beer, two small bottles of wine, and several snacks, which he ripped into right away.

  With no passport
, he wasn’t going anywhere fast. Even the front desk didn’t have him down as a registered guest. He had his phone and the money he’d taken from the bank machine. He had a taxi coming in the morning and a trip into the Amazon Rainforest all paid for. He would take that trip, locate Luke, and then decide what to do next.

  In the meantime, he tried to call Cindy with the hotel’s phone, but only got Cindy’s voice mail. He didn’t leave a message. On his second beer, he called Kirk, got his voice mail, and decided to not leave a message. He would try Kirk again before he met the taxi in the morning.

  On his third beer, Jake yanked the ruined curtains out of his way, and plunked down in the chair by the window.

  Feeling sorry for himself, pissed that he’d lost his passport, he decided to have the rest of the booze in the mini fridge. It was past one in the morning when he fell asleep, the alarm set for 5:00 a.m.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  A buzzer sounded from a distance. Jake thought of the siren in his cruiser. He moved to switch it off, the sound splitting his head. The button disengaged, the siren continued unabated.

  He flicked it off again, but then someone pounded on the door.

  His eyes popped opened. He was on the floor of the hotel room at the base of the chair by the window, his neck kinked at an odd angle. A moan escaped his lips as he rolled over and got to his hands and knees.

  Someone pounded on the door again.

  “Mister, your taxi is waiting,” came the muffled voice through the door.

  “Coming,” he managed to say loud enough. The pounding on the door stopped. “Give me a few minutes.”

  He got to his feet, leaned against the wall as the full force of his headache rushed in, then started toward the bathroom. After urinating and splashing water in his face, he felt marginally better.

  The word coffee rolled off his lips as a mumble. Outside the room, Jake headed to where the continental breakfast was set up on the first floor. After stuffing three butter croissants inside a small stack of napkins and loading up two coffee cups, he lumbered outside to the waiting taxi.

  Once he was situated in the back seat, the ride was quick. Within five minutes, the cab had stopped at the pier. The driver stared at him in the rearview mirror, waiting for Jake to exit. He’d kept his eyes closed on the ride over to avoid bolstering his headache as the sun rose in the east. Eyes open now, he looked back at the driver in the mirror.

  “You’re paid already?” he asked.

  The driver nodded.

  Jake shouldered the door open, pivoted on the seat, and dropped his legs out of the car. With his free hand, he pushed off the back of the seat and stood. As soon as he was clear of the car, the small yellow cab shot forward, gravity slamming his door closed for him, and disappeared around a corner a dozen feet away.

  “What the fuck?” Jake mumbled to himself. “What’s the hurry?”

  He examined the area around him. A railing spanned the length of the street on the other side of the sidewalk. Beyond the railing was a drop-off, a small landing area, and then the Negro River where boats were parked tight-knit near the shore. He ambled over to the railing and leaned on it while stuffing one of the croissants in his mouth. If the tour guys didn’t arrive soon, he was going to set off in search of headache meds.

  Jake watched as hundreds of men and women busily loaded and unloaded various sized vessels at this early hour on the ground below. They moved like soldier ants, toting their bounty on their heads and shoulders.

  Jake surveyed the busy crowd, devouring the rest of the croissants and drinking his coffee.

  He asked himself how he could have consumed that much alcohol on the night before he was to take a tour of the Amazon. Looking back on the night, he wondered how he got so drunk on six beers and a couple of small bottles of wine, the size of the ones offered on airplanes. Maybe it had hit him harder because of the jet lag. Perhaps it had something to do with the change in environment, or barometric pressure—something he wasn’t too knowledgeable about. He shrugged, feeling better by the minute, and bit into the last croissant.

  Several minutes later, when he was finished eating and was working on the last bit of coffee two men approached. Each man had a warm, welcoming, expression.

  “Mr. Wood?” the man on the right asked.

  Jake nodded, then stopped moving his head abruptly when a spike of pain shot through it. He whispered, “That’s me.”

  They shook hands. More pain burst in his head.

  “Follow us.”

  The men started toward a stairwell that descended to the pier.

  Jake didn’t move. “And you guys are?”

  The men turned back around. “Oh, sorry. We’re with Tour by Locals. I’m Milton Paulo, your guide, and this is Eduardo, your tracker.” The men looked at each other, then back at Jake. “Sorry, we thought you were informed already.”

  “I’m not feeling well this morning, so go easy on me.” He offered them a sheepish grin. “Long flight yesterday and an extra drink last night.” He paused, swallowed, then added, “Or two.”

  “It’s no problem, sir. We were told to take you to your friend. You should be with him before sundown. Overall, it’s an easy ride and several hours walk—nothing too strenuous.” They started down the stairs. This time, Jake followed them.

  Last night’s break-in, combined with his identification being stolen, weighed on him. When he returned to Manaus with Luke, he’d have to go through the monotonous struggle of identifying himself and getting travel documents made up so he could fly home. It’s not that it would be difficult, but it would certainly be a hassle—one he could do without.

  The men led him to a small boat with an outboard motor. On board, Eduardo fired up the engine and steered them out into the river. Once away from the pier, Eduardo increased their speed. The buffeting wind refreshed Jake. At first, he breathed in deep, closed his eyes, and let the wind caress his cheeks. After several minutes, he leaned sideways and watched the trees race by on the right. Every so often, he checked the boats stern in search of followers, but none were present. The river to the rear was empty. Only the sun glinted off its surface reminding him of the nagging headache’s insistence in sticking around.

  An hour later, the rest of his coffee gone cold, Jake’s bladder about to burst, Eduardo piloted the small craft toward an inlet on shore. After he cut the engine, they drifted up onto the bank. Milton hopped out, grabbed a rope, and secured the front of the boat to a nearby tree. The pungent smell of aquatic life and dead fish wafted up.

  “This is where we start walking,” Milton said. “Your friend came this way as well. Eduardo will show us the route. It’s at least a five-mile walk. You okay for this?”

  Jake nodded. “I can do it.”

  In the distance, emanating from the interior of the foliage, the susurration of hundreds, if not thousands, of creatures’ mating calls came to him all at once in a daunting cacophony. Soon, they would enter the giant canopy of trees and completely immerse themselves within the undulating din.

  Once the men had emptied the boat of their meager supplies, they began an inventory. Jake leaned against a small tree and watched as they organized three backpacks loaded with small foodstuffs, medical supplies, lotions and creams. Eduardo and Milton carried long machetes, wore hiking boots, and bore the signs of years in the sun with dark, leathery brown skin.

  Jake pointed toward what looked like a path into the dense rainforest. “Are we going that way?”

  Milton glanced over his shoulder as he finished packing his backpack. “Yes. That path takes us to our first stop where we’ll have lunch. Then we continue until we hit basecamp where my colleagues took your friend.”

  Milton and Eduardo exchanged a furtive glance, then continued their tasks. He detected there was something they weren’t saying.

  “What?” Jake asked. “What was that look for?”

  “We think they are at the basecamp.”

  “I don’t understand. You think?”

&
nbsp; Milton shouldered his pack and then held one out to Jake. “Our other team had GPS tracking. We use something similar to Find My Phone on your iPhone to locate one another.”

  Jake took the proffered pack and slung it over his shoulder. “Then it won’t be too hard to find them.”

  “That’s where the trouble comes in.”

  Eduardo strode past them, headed for the trail that invaded the vegetation. Milton watched him go for a moment, then said, “We lost their signal last night.” He met Jake’s gaze. “They were supposed to offer us coordinates today, but they didn’t.” He pointed at Eduardo. “That’s why he’s with us. Eduardo is one of the best trackers in Manaus.” Milton arched an eyebrow. “It cost extra to bring him, but my boss is worried about your friend and our team.”

  Jake leaned in close, a knot forming in his stomach. “How worried? Couldn’t it just be an accident? Like the GPS thing got wet and stopped working?”

  Milton shook his head. “Waterproof. Also”—he pointed back toward the bank where their boat was tied to a tree— “where’s their boat? Yesterday at this time, they called in that they were safely ashore. We always tie our boats up here.” Milton started after Eduardo. “Something might be wrong, Mr. Wood. Today we learn what that is.”

  Jake stood alone on the shore, staring out at the large Negro River for another minute. Back home, he’d call in backup, assess the situation better. But here, in Brazil, he was heading into the rainforest unarmed, with a guide and a tracker, both men untrained civilians—at least untrained in law enforcement.

  What are you involved in, Luke?

  Jake turned away from the river and started after Milton, each step heavy with worry, the sun beating down on the back of his neck.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  At lunch, Milton tore a palm leaf off a tree and proceeded to fold it into a sturdy flat surface that would serve as a plate to hold their food. Eduardo gathered small branches and kindling, and then started a fire. Jake watched from the base of a tree where he sat to rest.