My eyes were riveted on the head. Its sightless eyes, flaring nostrils and blackened skin were horrible, but it was the grinning mouth, sewn shut with strands of coarse thread that dangled from the thin lips, that pulled the scream from my throat. I’d seen it a hundred times, of course, and every time I had to quell a surge of fear. I knew there was a vengeful spirit in there, dying to get out.
Its nickname was Ignacio and it was a gift from Aloycious Underwood, who was now smiling at me as he ever so casually spun around in the chair, even as the forefinger of his right hand moved to the mouse. The computer screen blinked and a triple-tiered Amazonian waterfall began to flow. A flute sounded a long warbling note. Bastard. What was he up to?
To say that Aloycious Underwood is an evil genius is like saying that Nero was a naughty boy. He was the most brilliant and ruthless of Richard Schultes’ students at Harvard, that intergalactic crew that included Andrew Weil and all the daredevil plant explorers. Max Pallman was one of them. He made a fortune in drugs—the medicinal kind—and started the institute as a plush home base for the ethnobotany gang when they weren’t off imbibing hallucinogenic potions and dancing with shamans in the Amazon.
Schultes started it all, of course. Starting in the 1940’s, he spent decades in Columbia researching the way indigenous tribes used medicinal plants. More than 120 plant species and two million acres of rain forest are named after him. But the thing I really liked about Schultes was that the only food he carried were cans of Boston baked beans and instant coffee. I imagined him feasting on beans and insect grubs with the local shaman, then washing it all down with some magic potion.
Well, Schultes is gone, Max is losing his mind, and guess who’s in charge? We had disliked each other from the moment we’d met. It took a while but I finally realized that I had intruded into sacred territory, a strange land inhabited by mentor and mentee, advisor and former student. It had its own coded language and unspoken rituals of shared experience. Girls were not invited, especially girls who write cookbooks and prefer hot showers and 600 thread count sheets to poisonous toads and cups of ayahuasca.
“Claire! Darling! Come in,” he purred. 'You look like you’ve seen the walking dead.”
That’s you, buster. I smiled sweetly. “You surprised me, Al. I didn’t think anyone was here.”
“Oh?” Al raised a skeptical eyebrow and his eyes lazily took me in. “You look…well, ravishing. If I didn’t know better I’d think you had an…assignation.” He smiled, but there was no warmth in his cold green eyes. Those little pauses are like twists of the knife in your back.
“Oh, right. An assignation--with Ignacio.” I tried to laugh, but as the tequila began to wear off, so did the bravado I’d felt earlier. I could see my reflection in the window behind him. I had dressed carefully before going to Lala’s, on the premise that a pretense of sartorial togetherness would cover my fractured psyche. But there was my red hair sticking up, pale skin shiny, white silk shirt—was it unbuttoned? I couldn’t tell—black leather jacket hanging open, jeans. I looked down at my Emma Hope pumps—was that a silk thread unraveling from the embroidered lily? Just great.
Al laughed too, but his gaze was cool and level. “Well if not meeting Ignacio, what are you doing here?”
The lie came smoothly out of my mouth. “Oh, Marco asked me to pick up some files. He’s trying to finish that report he’s been working on. ”
One eyebrow arched. ‘Is he indeed?” I was struck suddenly by how much Al looked like a cat. Blond hair slicked back, his face is oddly triangular, with wide cheekbones tapering to a narrow pointed chin. His eyes are large and heavy-lidded. Was it a trick of the light or were his pupils severely contracted, mere vertical slits behind his horn rimmed glasses?
“So, actually Al, what are you doing here?”
“Oh, nothing really. Just looking for that paper he gave at the conference last year. I can’t find my copy and I’m working on a lecture.” Very smooth, Al. The Institute had only printed a thousand copies of Marco’s study of the Jivaro and their death rituals. The likelihood of not being able to find a copy was slim.
We sat for a moment, each willing the other to leave. Then he yawned a fake yawn and stood up.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it, Claire.” He walked to the door and turned. “Oh, and have Marco call me tomorrow.” He smiled mockingly and slipped into the hall.
It was clear that he didn’t believe my little lie, but I didn’t care. That bastard knows something, I thought as I bent over the computer. I clicked on the waterfall and a list of documents appeared. I was searching for one file, the one he kept under the secret name. I moved the cursor down the list. It wasn’t there.
So what had happened to it? Marco must have moved it—or was it Al? Who else knew about the file?
At that moment my cell phone warbled. I looked at the screen. The number was familiar, but I couldn’t place it.
“Hello?” I realized I was practically shouting.
“Claire? This is Linda Marks. I’ve been trying to reach you all afternoon.”
Linda lives in the dilapidated white farmhouse down the road. She’s with the police.
“The thing is, there’s a car in the Ennis, outside Hillwood. We need to talk.”