I will die here, Nate said to himself. I'll either drown, starve, or be eaten, but it is here, in this immense swamp, that I will breathe my last.

To their surprise, they heard a shout. The voice was high, like that of a young girl. The sputtering of the motor had attracted the attention of another human. The voice came from a weedy marsh along the bank of a converging stream. Jevy yelled and a few seconds later the voice yelled back.

A kid of no more than fifteen came through the weeds in a tiny canoe, hand-carved from the trunk of a tree. With a homemade paddle he cut through the water with amazing ease and speed. “Bom dia,” he said with a wide smile. The little face was brown and square, and probably the most beautiful Nate had seen in years. He threw a rope and the two boats were attached.

A long lazy conversation ensued, and after a while Nate was agitated. “What's he saying?” he snapped at Jevy.

The kid looked at Nate, and Jevy said, “Americana.”

“He says we're a great distance from the Cabixa River,” Jevy said.

“I could've told you that.”

“He says the Paraguay is a half a day to the east.”

“By canoe, right?”

“No, by plane.”

“Funny. How long will it take us?”

“Four hours, more or less.”

Five, maybe six hours. And that was with a properly running motor. It would take a week if they were forced to paddle.

The Portuguese resumed, in no particular hurry. The canoe was empty except for a roll of fishing line wrapped around a tin can, and a jar of mud which Nate assumed contained worms or some type of bait. What did he know about fishing? He scratched his mosquito bites.

A year ago he'd been skiing in Utah with the boys. The drink of the day had been some type of tequila concoction, which, typically, Nate consumed with gusto until he passed out. The hangover had lasted for two days.

There was a flourish in the chatter, and suddenly they were pointing. Jevy looked at him as he spoke.

“What is it?” Nate asked.

“The Indians are not far away.”

“How far?”

“One hour, maybe two.”

“Can he take us there?”

“I know the way.”

“I'm sure you do. But I'd feel better if he'd tag along.”

It was a slight affront to Jevy's pride, but under the circumstances he could not argue. “He may want a little money.”

“Whatever.” If the kid only knew. The Phelan estate on one side of the table, and this skinny little pantaneiro on the other. Nate smiled at the mental picture. How about a fleet of canoes, with rods and reels and depth finders? Just name it, son, and it's yours.

“Ten reals,” Jevy said, after brief negotiations.

“Fine.” For about ten bucks, they would be delivered to Rachel Lane.

A plan was devised. Jevy tilted the outboard so that the prop was out of the water, and they began paddling. They followed the boy in the canoe for twenty minutes until they entered a small shallow stream with rapid currents. Nate withdrew his paddle, caught his breath, and wiped sweat from his face. His heart was pounding and his muscles were already tired. The clouds were breaking up, so the sun was bearing down.

Jevy went to work on the motor. Luckily it started, and kept running, and they followed the boy, his canoe easily outpacing them and their sputtering outboard.

IT WAS ALMOST ONE when they found the higher ground. The floodwaters gradually disappeared, so that the rivers were lined with thick brush and the trees were dense. The kid was somber and, oddly, concerned with the position of the sun.

Just up there, he told Jevy. Just around the bend. He seemed afraid to go further.

I'll stop here, he said. I need to return home.

Nate handed him the money, and they thanked him. He headed back with the current and disappeared quickly. They plowed ahead, the outboard halting and struggling at half-speed, but getting them there nonetheless.

The river ran into a forest where the trees hung low over the water, so low that they weaved together above and formed a tunnel that blocked out light. It was dark, and the uneven hum of their motor resounded from the banks. Nate had the eerie suspicion that they were being watched. He could almost feel the arrows being aimed at him. He braced for an attack of deadly blow darts by savages dressed in war paint and trained to kill anyone with a white face.

But they saw children first, happy little brown bodies splashing in the water. The tunnel ended near a settlement.

The mothers were bathing too, just as completely naked as their children, and thoroughly unconcerned about it. At first, they retreated to the bank when they saw the johnboat. Jevy killed the engine and began talking and smiling as they drifted in. An older girl ran away, in the direction of the settlement.

“Fala portugues?” Jevy asked the crowd of four women and seven children. They just stared. The smaller ones hid behind their mothers. The women were short, with thick bodies and small breasts.

“Are they friendly?” Nate asked.

“The men will tell us.”

The men arrived within minutes, three of them, also short, thick, and muscular. Thankfully, their privates were covered with small leather pouches.

The oldest one claimed to speak Jevy's language, but his Portuguese was rudimentary at best. Nate stayed in the boat, where things appeared to be safe, while Jevy leaned on a tree near the water and tried to make himself understood. The Indians crowded around Jevy, who was a foot taller than the men.

After a few minutes of repetition and hand gestures, Nate said, “Translation please.”

The Indians looked at Nate.

“Americana,” Jevy explained, and another conversation ensued.

“What about the woman?” Nate asked.

“We haven't got that far yet. I'm still trying to convince them not to burn you alive.”

“Try harder.”

More Indians arrived. Their huts were visible a hundred yards away, near the edge of a forest. Upriver, a half-dozen canoes were tied to the bank. The children became bored. They slowly left their mothers and waded close to the boat to inspect it. They were also intrigued by the man with the white face. Nate smiled and winked and before long got a grin. If Welly hadn't been so damned cheap with the cookies, Nate would've had something to share with them.

The conversation poked along. The Indian doing the talking would periodically turn to his pals and make a report, and inevitably his words caused great concern. Their language was a series of primal grunts and strains, all delivered with as little lip movement as possible.

“What's he saying?” Nate growled.

“I don't know,” Jevy replied.

A little boy placed his hand on the edge of the boat, and studied Nate with black pupils as big as quarters. Very softly he said, “Hello.” Nate knew they were in the right place.

No one heard the boy but Nate. He leaned forward, and softly said, “Hello.”

“Good— bye,” the boy said, without moving. Rachel had taught him at least two English words.

“What is your name?” Nate asked, his voice a whisper.

“Hello,” he repeated.

Under the tree, the translating was making the same progress. The male Indians were huddling in animated conversation while the women said nothing.

“What about the woman?” Nate repeated.

“I asked. They have no answer.”

“What does that mean?”

“I'm not sure. I think she's here, but they are reluctant for some reason.”

“Why would they be reluctant?”

Jevy frowned and looked away. How was he supposed to know? “

They talked some more, then the Indians left en masse-men first, then the women, then the children. They trooped single file to the settlement, disappearing from view.

“Did you make them mad?”

“No. They want to have a meeting of some kind.”

“Do you think she's here?”

“I think so.” Jevy took his seat in the boat and prepared himself for a nap. It was almost one, in whatever time zone they happened to be in. Lunch was over and done with without so much as a soggy saltine.

THE HIKE BEGAN around three. They were led by a small group of young men away from the river, along the dirt path to the village, through the huts where everyone stood still and watched, then away again, along another path into the woods.

It's a death march, thought Nate. They're taking us into the jungle for some Stone Age blood ritual. He followed Jevy, who loped along in a confident gait. “Where the hell are we going?” he hissed, like a prisoner of war afraid to offend his captors.

“Relax.”

The woods opened to a clearing, and they were near the river again. The leader suddenly stopped, and pointed. At the edge of the water, an anaconda stretched in the sun. He was black with yellow markings on his underside. His girth was at least a foot at its widest. “How long is he?” Nate asked.

“Six or seven meters. Finally, you see an anaconda,” Jevy said.

Nate's knees buckled and his mouth was dry. He had been joking about the snakes. The sight of a real one, long and massive, was truly amazing.

“Some Indians worship snakes,” Jevy said.

Then what are our missionaries doing? Nate thought. He would ask Rachel about this practice.

The mosquitoes seemed to bother only him. The Indians were immune. Jevy never swatted. Nate slapped his | own flesh and scratched until he drew blood. His repellent was in the boat, along with his tent and machete and everything else he owned at the moment, no doubt being examined by the children.

The hike was adventurous for the first half hour, then the heat and the insects made things monotonous. “How far are we going?” Nate asked, not really expecting an answer with any accuracy.

Jevy said something to the point man, who said something in return. “Not far,” came the reply. They crossed another trail, then a wider one. There was traffic in the area. Soon they saw the first hut, then smelled smoke.

When they were two hundred yards away, the leader pointed to a shaded area near the river. Nate and Jevy were led to a bench made of hollow cane poles lashed together with string. They were left there with two guards while the others reported to the village.

As time passed, the two guards grew weary and decided to take a nap. They leaned against the trunk of a tree, and were soon asleep.

“I guess we could escape,” Nate said.

“To where?”

“Are you hungry?”

“Sort of. Are you?”

“No, I'm stuffed,” Nate said. “I ate seven thin cookies nine hours ago. Remind me to slap Welly when I see him.”

“I hope he is okay.”

“Why shouldn't he be? He's swinging in my hammock, drinking fresh coffee, safe and dry and well fed.”

They wouldn't have brought them this far if Rachel wasn't nearby. As Nate rested on the bench and stared at the tops of the huts in the distance, he had many questions about her. He was curious about her appearance— her mother was supposed to have been a beautiful woman. Troy Phelan had a good eye for women. What kind of clothes would she wear? The Ipicas she ministered to were naked. How long since she'd seen civilization? Was he the first American to ever visit the village?

How would she react to his presence? And to the money?

As time dragged along, Nate became more anxious about meeting her.

BOTH OF THE GUARDS were asleep when there was movement from the settlement. Jevy tossed a pebble at them and whistled quietly. They jumped to their feet and resumed their positions.

The weeds along the trail were knee-high, and from the distance they could see a patrol moving their way, along the path. Rachel was with them; she was coming. There was a light yellow shirt in the midst of the brown-skinned chests, and a lighter face under a straw hat. From a hundred yards, Nate could see her.

“We've found our girl,” he said.

“Yes, I think we have.”

They took their time. Three young men were in front, and three behind. She was slightly taller than the Indians, and carried herself with an easy elegance. She could've been out for a walk among the flowers. There was no hurry.

Nate watched every step. She was very slender, with wide bony shoulders. She began looking in their direction as they grew closer. Nate and Jevy stood to meet her.

The Indians stopped at the edge of the shade, but Rachel kept walking. She removed her hat. Her hair was brown and half-gray, and very short. She stopped a few feet from Jevy and Nate.

“Boa tarde, senhor,” she said to Jevy, then looked at Nate. Her eyes were dark blue, almost indigo. No wrinkles, no makeup. She was forty-two years old and aging quite well, with the soft glow of one who knew little stress.

“Boa tarde.”

She didn't offer to shake hands, nor did she give her name. The next move belonged to them.

“My name is Nate O'Riley. I'm an attorney from Washington.”

“And you?” she said to Jevy.

“I'm Jevy Cardozo, from Corumba. I'm his guide.”

She looked them up and down with a slight grin. The moment was not at all unpleasant for her. She was enjoying the encounter.

“What brings you here?” she asked. It was American English with no accent, no trace of Louisiana or Montana, just the flat, precise, inflectionless English from Sacramento or St. Louis.

“We heard the fishing was good,” Nate said.

No response. “He makes bad jokes,” Jevy said, apologizing.

“Sorry. I'm looking for Rachel Lane. I have reason to believe you and she are one and the same.”

She absorbed this without changing expressions. “Why do you want to find Rachel Lane?”

“Because I'm a lawyer, and my firm has an important legal matter with Rachel Lane.”

“What kind of legal matter?”

“I can tell no one but her.”

“I'm not Rachel Lane. I'm sorry.”

Jevy sighed and Nate's shoulders slumped. She saw every movement, every reaction, every twitch. “Are you hungry?” she asked them.

They both nodded. She called the Indians and gave them instructions. “Jevy,” she said, “go with these men into the village. They will feed you, and give you enough food for Mr. O'Riley here.”

They sat on the bench, in the darkening shade, watching in silence as the Indians took Jevy to the village. He turned around once, just to make sure Nate was okay.

TWENTY-SEVEN.

SHE DIDN'T SEEM as tall away from the Indians. And she had avoided whatever the women ate that made them thick. Her legs were thin and long. She wore leather sandals, which seemed odd in a culture where no one had shoes. Where did she get them? And where did she get her yellow short-sleeved shirt and khaki shorts? Oh, the questions he had.

Her clothing was simple and well worn. If she wasn't Rachel Lane, then surely she knew where Rachel was.

Their knees almost touched. “Rachel Lane ceased to exist many years ago,” she said, gazing at the village in the distance. “I kept the name Rachel, but dropped the Lane. It must be serious or you wouldn't be here.” She spoke softly and slowly, no syllable missed and each carefully weighed.

“Troy's dead. He killed himself three weeks ago.”

She lowered her head slightly, closed her eyes, and appeared to be praying. It was a brief prayer, followed by a long pause. Silence didn't bother her. “Did you know him?” she finally asked.

“I met him once, years ago. Our firm has many lawyers, and I personally never worked on Troy's business. No, I didn't know him.”

“Neither did I. He was my earthly father, and I've spent many hours praying for him, but he was always a stranger.”

“When did you last see him?” Nate's words too were softer and slower. She had a soothing effect.

“Many years ago. Before I went to college… How much do you know about me?”

“Not much. You don't leave much of a trail.”

“Then how did you find me?”

“Troy helped. He tried to find you before he died, but couldn't. He knew you were a missionary with World Tribes, and that you were in this general part of the world. The rest was up to me.”

“How could he have known that?”

“He had an awful lot of money.”

“And that's why you're here.”

“Yes, that's why I'm here. We need to talk business.”

“Troy must've left me something in his will.”

“You could say that.”

“I don't want to talk business. I want to chat. Do you know how often I hear English?”

“Rarely, I would imagine.”

“I go to Corumba once a year for supplies. I phone the home office, and for about ten minutes I speak English. It's always frightening.”

“Why?”

“I'm nervous. My hands shake as I hold the phone. I know the people I'm talking to, but I'm afraid I will use the wrong words. Sometimes I even stutter. Ten minutes a year.”

“You're doing a fine job now.”

“I'm very nervous.”

“Relax. I'm a swell guy.”

“But you've found me. I was seeing a patient just an hour ago when the boys came to tell me that an American was here. I ran to my hut and started praying. God gave me strength.”

“I come in peace for all mankind.”

“You seem like a nice man.”