Blood Forest Part 21

They reached the river. The small path twisted alongside and carried them west. Sam wondered if they'd reach the pond or had pa.s.sed it already. She could no longer see the power lines in the canopy.

Alfred groaned and nearly collapsed, but the two men on either side of him made sure he stayed on his feet and kept walking. Sam felt in danger of collapsing as well. Dehydrated and exhausted, her head swam.

Strangely, she felt a sense of peace. For the first time, she no longer cared what dangers the jungle shadows held. She convinced herself that the forest was only that. No strange cries rose in the darkness, just a chorus of insects and birds. The madness seemed to have left for the time being.

Maybe the forest's blood l.u.s.t had been sated.

The pygmies grew more cheerful with each step. And then the forest fell away from the river. A small dirt field sat on the edge, free of trees except for the tallest branches. Morning rays lit a series of huts, BaMbuti in design, and a few st.u.r.dy buildings of firm timber but lacking foundations. A few pygmies gathered in the center of the village by a blazing fire pit.

Ma.s.sive sun-bleached bones lay half-submerged in the dirt, the remains of some great animal. But the skeleton was too cracked and worn for Sam to identify it.

Her captors pushed her forward, and they soon left the corpse behind. A set of power lines streaked down from the treetops toward the only building made of stone and mortar. Then she heard the thrumming. Something beat inside that structure like the heart of a beast. A generator of some kind, she guessed.

Odd.

A bone tip against her back reminded her of her status as a prisoner. Alfred was similarly prodded.

The BaMbuti greeted each other. A few of the pygmies moved toward Sam.

"Sam," Alfred called as the pygmies guided him away. "Don't let them take your watch. Hide it."

She furrowed her brow. Why was her watch so important? She glanced down at the a.n.a.log face on her wrist.

They pulled Alfred away, leading him to a separate part of the village.

One grabbed her from behind, gripping both of her wrists tightly. He wrenched them behind her back and slipped a leather thong around them, tying them fast. The fabric sliced into her skin painfully. Then he grabbed her by the shoulder and tugged her past the stone building.

She tried to catch a quick glance as she pa.s.sed. Vines twisted between the gaps in the stone as if this building alone had sat there for decades. A tiny hole served as a window on one side. He led her to a wooden structure on the other side, an open baraza at the front. And hanging over that baraza was a sight that unnerved her. A skull, larger than her body, rested like a trophy on a mantel piece. Giant eye sockets and the largest nasal cavity Sam had ever seen glared down at her. An elephant, she realized. Probably matching the bones she had seen earlier.

The BaMbuti led her up to the doorway, the dead elephant looming over her. Only then did Sam remember Alfred's warning. She twisted her wrist discreetly, fighting against the leather cord. Her fingers stretched at a difficult angle until she felt the band of her watch. She fought to unclasp it, working the tiny metal prod out of the little holes. The band snapped free and the watch fell. She caught it deftly in her palm and balled up her fist.

With her fist closed, she felt something in her hand far more valuable than a watch.

Surely, if the Mbuti meant to steal her watch they'd swipe her diamond ring as well. As they led her inside the building, only one room with almost no decoration aside from a few mats on the floor, she twisted the ring until it slipped off her finger into her palm with the watch.

Two beams supported the roof and the Mbuti led her right up to one of the posts. He held her roughly as he untwisted the cord, pulled her against the beam, and then tied her wrists around it so her arms hugged the wood. She felt a sweaty hand slip over her wrist, checking for a watch. Alfred was right after all. She just hoped he wouldn't notice the objects balled in her fist.

His hand slid into her pocket next and she cringed from the feeling of his fingers squirming against her hip. He checked the opposite pocket and found her wallet and cell phone there. He yanked them out and slid his hand back inside to check for more. His hands moved to her back pockets with little respect to her privacy, fingers pressing along her b.u.t.tocks.

Finding the pockets empty, the pygmy turned away, satisfied. He told her to wait there in his lilting French and then he and the others turned and left. They stepped out into the night, chattering.

Exhausted, defeated, and thirsty, she slumped to the floor to relieve the strain on her feet. She wiggled her bloodstained toes.

Lavender beams stretched along the knotted planks of the floor. Sam watched their slow movements impatiently. With both arms, she hugged the post, the wood damp and warped from constant humidity. Shards of reflected light, cut by half-closed blinds on the windows, curled across her scratched and beaten feet.

The tie around her wrists refused to loosen. She had given up trying to wriggle out when a pair of pygmies took up positions on the porch. They conversed quietly, but glanced in her direction often enough to let her know they were watching. Their spears rested against their sides.

The coming morning seemed to take forever. Sam had thought hours had pa.s.sed, until she glanced at her watch and saw she'd been sitting there for only a few minutes. She now understood why Alfred had told her to hide her watch. They weren't taking it for its monetary value. They wanted time to stretch for her, creating a form of torture to soften her up.

The waiting felt unbearable, but at least with her watch she could keep a rational eye on things.

This would be a psychological war, she realized. For what purpose, she didn't know. She wouldn't let it get to her. She would give her captors nothing.

That only lasted for an hour.

The sky outside brightened into daylight and her thirst and hunger became too much. The exhaustion weakened her will until she wanted to cry. It got harder to breathe.

Finally, she cracked. Anything was better than the waiting.

"h.e.l.lo?" she called. The rasp in her voice surprised her. Maybe the dehydration was worse than she thought. That would explain the headache, that and the blows to the face.

The Mbuti guards on the porch turned to look at her, but said nothing. A moment later, they returned to their conversation.

"Please," she cried. "Can I have some food? Or some water?"

When they didn't respond, she tried the same in French. Still nothing.

Sam slumped. She wanted to cry, but didn't have any tears. Instead she leaned her head against the post and, in an instant, exhaustion took hold.

She realized she'd fallen asleep when a knock on wood woke her. Her head came up and she opened groggy eyes. A dark silhouette stood in the open doorway surrounded by bright morning light. The masculine form rested a hand on the doorframe. Behind him, the porch was empty, the pygmies gone.

"How was your nap?" a throaty voice asked. The accent sounded French.

She squinted against the bright light. A loose white shirt hung untucked over a pair of dirty white slacks. Tousled blonde hair dropped to his temples and blue eyes peered out from a sun-beaten face. He was definitely white. European, she guessed. French or Belgian.

Sam's eyes drifted to a rifle, leaning against the inside of the doorframe.

"I suppose you'd like some food and water, wouldn't you?" the man asked. He studied her, head tilted to one side.

At that moment, Sam decided not to be cooperative. With the waiting apparently over, her resolve and patience returned to her. She could go much longer without food or water, she decided. She would show as much resistance as she could rather than play into his sympathies.

"Tell me your name?"

She stared at the floor, resilient.

"Hm. You refuse to answer my questions."

He walked forward, leaving the rifle at the door, and crouched in front of her, hands folded across his knees. His shirt opened as he stooped so she could see his finely-chiseled chest muscles. His eyes looked right into her as much as she tried to look away. She was too curious. She couldn't help but look back.

"Your silence is pointless," he a.s.sured her. "I already have the answers to my questions. I was only being polite. Your name is Samantha Summers. You're twenty-six years old and you live in San Diego, California, in the United States. Am I right so far?"

For a moment, his knowledge caught her by surprise. Then she remembered her stolen wallet and set her jaw firm.

"I also know you're married. To the tall man with the curly hair," he continued. "Now I wonder what happened to your lovely wedding ring. You wouldn't be hiding that, now would you, Samantha?"

Sam cringed reflexively. She caught it a moment later and wiped the expression from her face, hoping he hadn't seen it.

"Hold out your hands for me, Samantha."

The word "Samantha" grated her nerves. No one called her that. It was on her driver's license and birth certificate. Nowhere else.

"Hold out your hands," he repeated.

When she still didn't respond, he reached out and pulled her fingers toward him with surprising gentleness. She didn't resist, not seeing the point. He turned her palms over and studied both sides.

"They really did a number on you, didn't they? Where is the beautiful woman I saw in those photographs?" He brushed her cheek with his fingers. She turned away reflexively, but he collected some of her dried blood on his fingertips.

"You're strong willed." He grinned wide, his teeth white. "And educated. Very attractive qualities. Your husband is a lucky man, Samantha. What is his name?"

His hands fell to her sides and groped her hips. For several moments, he prodded and squeezed, until one hand settled on her right pocket. She felt her ring and watch press into her flesh from the pressure. He felt it to, because he slipped his fingers inside and pulled the items out.

He shook his head in disgust. "They didn't even check your pockets?" He held ring and watch out in either hand and studied them appraisingly. Then he slipped them into his own pockets. "I suppose it doesn't matter. No one will find you out here."

He stood up slowly, bringing her eye-level with his dirt-stained knees. "You're still feeling uncooperative. I am disappointed, Samantha. I'll come back later."

With that, he turned as if to leave. Sam felt the sudden dread of being alone. Her patience and resilience slipped. "What do you want with me?" she asked.

He spun back around with a wide grin and crouched in front of her again, his elation obvious. "That's much better. What I want from you is simple. I want you to observe. You already know much about what is going on here, I'm sure. Wouldn't you like to know why?"

She shrugged, not speaking. Although she didn't want him to leave, she also didn't want to give too much away. Or show much interest. She had already allowed him the victory of hearing her voice.

"There isn't a lot I don't already know. Your father, the brown-haired man, is he dead? I can tell by the age of the photograph. No picture of a mother. Did you know her at all? I'm guessing you did, but you were much, much closer to your father. I also saw a picture with two of your siblings. You're a middle child I'm guessing. A sister and a brother, both with dark hair. But you insist on coloring your own hair. A habit I hope you'll grow out of. Your hair is soft and strong now. I would hate to see it stripped by chemicals. It seems to me that you go through great lengths to keep it that way. You tell everyone it is natural, don't you?"

She saw his amused grin and frowned.

"Tell me this, Samantha. Why does a woman like you dedicate herself so much to her profession? Perhaps there is an emptiness inside you're trying to fill."

My profession?

"Where did you study?" he pushed. "In the United States? How did you end up with H. Hurley International? They are Britain-based, correct? I see why Alfred would take you as an a.s.sistant. It has to do with more than your knowledge of pharmaceuticals, doesn't it? Maybe you weren't hiding your ring at all. Maybe you don't even bother wearing it."

Sam couldn't control the blood rushing to her face. She furrowed her brow in anger. She wanted him to know that his statement was dead wrong.

"Samantha. Does your husband know-?"

"Sam. My name is Sam."

He didn't finish his question. Instead, he grinned widely and stood up. "You may call me Guy."

Guy walked toward the doorway and leaned outside, calling in another language. Footsteps thumped on the porch and then an Mbuti man stepped inside, his hair frosted white, his face gaunt. Sam spotted a scar along the side of his naked abdomen. An old gunshot wound since healed. In his hands, he carried a wooden bowl and a cup. Sam could see the steam rising off the bowl and her stomach rumbled in response.

"This is Bokenga," Guy introduced as he led the Mbuti man over to her.

On Guy's insistence, Bokenga crouched down next to Sam. She got a good look at his black eyes, tired and sad. He held the cup out to her first and, after a wary glance up at Guy, she took it between her palms. The water inside sparkled crystal clear. She tilted the cup back and savored the liquid as it slid down her throat. Fearful of being drugged, she tried to taste anything unusual, but the water matched the flavor of the wooden cup.

She finished the water quickly and Bokenga held up the bowl next. A brown stew with tiny chunks of vegetables and meat steamed up at her. She took the bowl and drank at the hot broth eagerly. They didn't provide her a spoon, but she was content to sip straight from the dish.

Bokenga grinned slightly as he watched her eat.

"I'm glad to see you like your dinner," Guy said. "You're making me hungry just watching you." He dismissed Bokenga and Guy once again crouched beside Sam.

"You look tired as well. I am sure you'd like a soft bed to sleep on. There is only one bed in this whole village. You are welcome to it of course. All you need to do is ask."

Sam heard the subtle suggestion in his voice. "I'm fine right here," she said between gulps of stew.

As he watched her, it occurred to her that she was at his mercy. If he wanted her, he could do as he pleased.

"Where is Brandon now?"

She looked up, surprised at hearing her husband's name. "That's none of your business."

"Well then, Sam. I suggest you start answering my questions so I'm not forced to guess. How long have you worked with Alfred?"

She paused and looked at the half-empty bowl of stew. "Four months."

"Really? Alfred seems to think you've been working together for years."

Why would Alfred say something like that? Obviously he had lied and identified her as his partner. Was it to protect Nessa, or to protect her? Whatever the case, Alfred was her ally in this, so it was better to play along.

She shook her head. "We've known each other for that long, but I've only been his a.s.sistant for four months."

Guy nodded. His eyes always held the same distant look. She couldn't tell if he believed her or not.

"Why do those Mbuti listen to you?" she asked. Better to ask the questions than to answer them.

"BaMbuti have no chieftains or leaders," Guy explained simply. "They only have one master. The Forest."

She raised an eyebrow, earning a look of satisfaction from her captor.

"Je parle francais," she said after a moment.

"I speak English," he replied.

"Your English is miserable."

"English is a miserable language."

Sam noted with frustration how her attempt at hostility only seemed to amuse him. He leaned closer.

"At some point I might trust you enough to unbind your wrists," he said. "For now I don't."

"I'll only run away."

"Into the jungle? You'll die."

"I can handle the jungle."

"Can you handle it naked?"