Danielle could see the lengths of crude native rope that ran to each wrist. It was not a good sign and truthfully not something she would have wanted any of the others to see.

But they did see, and like onlookers at a car crash, they rubbernecked for a better view, watching as Verhoven used the oar to try to maneuver the log further. As Verhoven worked, the body twisted and rolled, eventually turning faceup. The onlookers stared in silence. The brown face, with a frame of wet, black hair, appeared relatively untouched by whatever had killed him, but the torso carried scars from a variety of assaults: two great holes in the chest, a pair of long slashes that ran from his left shoulder down across his stomach, and a group of bulbous swellings—spherical blackened blisters the size and shape of half a grapefruit.

Polaski asked the question on everyone’s mind. “What on earth happened to him?”

Danielle stared at the holes in the chest. They were large and circular. “Are those bullet wounds?”

Verhoven shook his head. “Too big. Can’t make a hole like that without blasting a train tunnel out the back side. And I didn’t see any exit wounds.”

Verhoven offered a guess. “Looks like he was impaled on something. A couple of blows from a sharpened stave, maybe.”

Danielle needed a better opinion. She crouched at the edge of the Ocana’s deck and studied the holes in the chest herself. There was damage to the man’s skin that indicated movement both ways. “Something went in and then came back out,” she whispered. “It didn’t go through.”

Behind her the deck became crowded as the others moved in for a better view.

“What about those?” Devers asked, pointing to the blackened swellings. “I mean, please tell us it’s not Ebola or anything.”

Some of the blisters displayed ragged tears, as if they had exploded. Others showed a cleaner cut, as if they’d been lanced on purpose, perhaps to keep them from breaking. At that moment she wished they had brought a doctor along, but another civilian was one too many. The limited medical training the NRI had given her and a degree in biology would have to suffice. “There’s no discharge,” she said, moving in closer and sniffing the air. “No smell of infection either.”

In fact, there wasn’t much odor at all, which led her to believe the man died quite recently, probably within the last twenty-four hours.

“It looks more like a reaction to something,” she told them. “Like a chemical burn or a raised welt from being struck.” She wondered if the skin and tissue had swelled from being in the water. She turned to Devers. “And, besides, Ebola is only in Africa.”

Devers nodded, moving closer. “Good to know. Ebola, permafrost—I’m learning all kinds of things on this trip.”

Uncomfortable with Devers’ crowding presence and his babbling, Danielle stood up, put a hand on him and pushed him back with the rest of the crowd. “Stay,” she said, glaring at him, then turned to Verhoven. “Can I see his legs, please?”

The request was easier asked than answered. Verhoven was using his pole to keep the body from floating away, and each time he released the pressure, the slipstream that had formed on the side of the boat began to move it. He turned to one of his men. “Get another pole.”

Verhoven’s lieutenant grabbed an oar and worked to leverage the dead native’s legs to the surface, but it was a struggle, and it took a minute before they realized why: his legs were tied to a small net full of flat stones.

“Hell of a way to treat a man,” Verhoven said, spitting to emphasize the point. “A buoy to keep him afloat and a weight to keep his legs down. Boy must’ve pissed in the wrong chief’s pot.”

Verhoven’s lieutenant appeared disgusted. “Goddamned natives,” he mumbled.

By this time McCarter had moved up beside Danielle, careful not to invade her space. “That’s right. Civilized men never do anything like this.”

The man started to respond, but a stern glance from Verhoven stopped him, and McCarter knelt beside Danielle to help her examine the body. They studied the twine where it wrapped the wrists; there was some discoloration but little indication of rubbing or friction. “I think he was tied up after death,” he said. “He doesn’t seem to have struggled against the rope.”

“Killed first, then tied up,” Verhoven said. “Seems an odd way of doing things.”

“Well, it looks like he’s been clawed too,” Polaski added, pointing to the long parallel slashes. “Perhaps he was killed and tied up for the animals as some kind of offering.”

McCarter shook his head. “Never heard of anything like that from an Amazonian tribe. Besides, if an animal got to him I’m guessing he’d have been eaten.”

Danielle stayed out of the discussion, trying to think. The traders she and Moore had spoken with often told stories about the different tribes, many too outlandish and absurd to believe. Spice for the foreigners to buy perhaps, but most genuinely feared the Chollokwan. And the stories about them always seemed to involve strange mutilations like this one—bodies burned, impaled and hacked up; men who hunted men in conjunction with the animals of the forest: the Shadow Men of the pestilence.

As she stared at the round face, she thought of Dixon and his missing squad. They were well trained and heavily armed but still missing. She wondered if they’d find those men floating and mutilated farther upriver somewhere. She hoped not, for every reason under the sun.

Even as Danielle considered this, the others were overcoming the initial shock of the discovery and giving way to a morbid curiosity. Various theories began flying back and forth. After several minutes even Hawker came forward. He appraised the body for only a moment.

“Wonderful,” he said sarcastically, and then turned to Devers. “Can you tell what tribe he’s from?”

The dead man was naked, with no identifying marks or jewelry of any kind. “No,” Devers said. “Why?”

Hawker nodded into the distance ahead of them. “Because they seem to be as interested in him as we are.”

Danielle looked up to see a trio of native canoes being rowed frantically toward them. There were two men in each boat, paddling furiously and shouting as they approached. Their pace was almost panicked and their voices were filled with a mad fury, every ounce of it directed toward the Ocana and its spellbound passengers.

CHAPTER 13

Danielle watched the approaching canoes. Six men in small boats were not much of a threat. But they were incensed, and caution dictated that she be prepared. “Start the engine,” she said.

“Should I get us away?” the boat captain asked.

“No. I want to talk to them, but be ready.” She looked to Verhoven, who was still holding the body to the side of the Ocana. “Let it go.”

Verhoven gave the body a shove and it carried slowly out behind the stern of the boat and then on downstream with the peaceful flow of the current. Ahead of them, the canoes were closing in, and neither the intensity of the shouting nor their paddling had diminished.

“Make sure your weapons are handy,” Danielle said.

Verhoven grinned. “They’re always handy.”

She turned to Devers. “Are they Chollokwan?”

Devers hesitated for only a moment. “I don’t think so,” he said. “Some of the words are Portuguese. The Chollokwan only speak Chokawa. Plus, this is Nuree territory.”

Danielle relaxed a bit. The Nuree were not a threat like the Chollokwan could be. They were a tribe in transition, caught halfway between the old world and the new. They still hunted with blow guns and spears, yet at times they would paddle downriver to trade, selling pelts and buying clothing, fish hooks and cigarettes. They weren’t known to be violent. And with the right form of persuasion they might even be helpful.

The canoes slowed as they approached and the shouting ceased, perhaps because the floating body had been released, or more likely because the natives had spotted Verhoven and his men holding rifles.