Blood Forest (Suspense thriller) Page 11

  They stood around the green Jeep in the center of the muddy village square. A mix of Bantu villagers and the distinctly shorter pygmies gathered among the thatch huts, watching them suspiciously.

  Kuntolo had scurried off and disappeared amongst a sea of giggling pygmy girls and their dark, nubile breasts. So Kuntolo is a ladies’ man, Ike thought.

  “I hate to think we got Temba in trouble,” Alfred lamented.

  “Your flower’s worth a few wounded relationships,” Nessa assured him.

  “I doubt he’s in too much trouble,” Ike guessed. “He doesn’t seem too concerned about this Marcel character.”

  “Maybe Marcel isn’t the true village chief,” Alfred offered. “We know these people are secretive. It could be possible they would disguise their true leader.”

  Ike shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe he just isn’t Temba’s chief.”

  Temba and Marcel walked over, ending their suppositions. From the grin on Temba’s face, Ike guessed that the negotiation had been successful. When Marcel greeted them this time, it was with a wide smile.

  Alfred stepped closer, indicating himself as leader of their party. Nessa was a few steps behind him. Marcel eyed the Israeli woman subtly, no doubt wondering if she was Alfred’s. The way she stood near him but not beside him and appeared to defer to his judgment made her seem that way.

  “Welcome to our village,” the chief greeted in French. “Temba tells me you are passing through here.”

  Alfred nodded. “He is correct. We are heading deeper into the forest on a scientific expedition.”

  He rubbed a hand against his chin in thought. “Were you planning on staying in the village here?”

  Alfred turned to Nessa who spoke quietly to him.

  “We would if we could for a few days,” Alfred offered hopefully. “We’d like to speak to your villagers about the surrounding terrain. We won’t burden you; we have our own supplies.”

  Marcel waved his hand dismissively, acting insulted. Before he could offer his hospitality, Nessa spoke up. “We’d like to offer you a gift. We have two jugs of gasoline for you and some cigarettes to share.”

  His eyes widened, and his face softened. “Merci. That is very kind. You are welcome to dine with me tonight. If you need rice or beans for your journey, I’m sure we can spare a few baskets.”

  The gasoline came in ten gallon bottles. They were clear so everyone could see the yellow fluid inside and inspect its quality. Nessa walked around to the back of the Jeep to get them. Ike followed, anticipating she might need help.

  She reached into the back and grabbed the first one, pulling with all her weight. Ike grabbed the bottle before it tumbled over the side and crashed down on her.

  “Let me give you a hand,” he offered.

  She nodded and together they tugged it out. The thick liquid inside wobbled about. It took all their effort to keep it steady. As he helped her lower it to the ground, he thought he spotted the tips of a smile at the edge of her lips. Her thoughts seemed focused on a distant place.

  “Are you enjoying bribing your way through Africa?” he asked as they went for the next bottle.

  Nessa glared at him.

  “Relax,” Ike told her. “I was just joshing you.” Great. Try to flirt with her and instead you insult her. Real slick.

  That was the way with Nessa Singer. She only reacted when she was antagonized. So Ike did just that. He tried saving the situation. “Doesn’t your boyfriend ever tease you?”

  She lifted the second jug, forcing him to lean over and help. Its weight proved to be more than she was ready for and she staggered back until the crook of her hip and the soft profile of her side collided with him heavily. He caught her and the bottle, feeling her warm body against him for a second before they steadied the jug and lowered it to the ground.

  The brief contact excited him.

  Nessa didn’t offer any reaction. She dragged a jug across the ground. After pulling it a few feet, she said, “I don’t really see him all that much.”

  Ike grinned as she resumed dragging. He stooped and lifted the second jug, carrying it with both hands.

  His eyes found Alfred and Delani. The chemist was trying to hand cigarettes off to the burly mercenary, but Delani adamantly refused to take them. Delani didn’t want to seem charitable to the villagers.

  Alfred finally gave up and placed the box in the mud. He reached into the sack at his hip and pulled out an envelope, thick with bills. He held the envelope out to Temba, who snatched it greedily and tucked it into his pants. The pygmy shouldered his bow and walked over to the Jeep, pulling out the dead pheasant. Without smiling or saying good-bye he turned and walked off, disappearing between the green fronds of a maize field.

  Ungrateful bastard, Ike thought. Take the money and run. No loyalty to the villagers or even Kuntolo.

  Brandon stood in the kitchen with Raoul when a voice echoed from the porch, belting out a phrase in a singsong melody.

  The screen door swung open, and a pygmy male burst into the house. From his outstretched hand swayed the carcass of a bird, hanging grotesquely by its neck. The gruesome sight contrasted with the man’s sky blue polo shirt and dirty white slacks. At the sight of Sam, he froze, only the pheasant swayed slightly. He had dark skin; tiny black curls covered his scalp. His face held the same exotic features that Brandon had noticed in the girls from the day before.

  “Temba!” Raoul called. “Mon pygmée!”

  When the man saw Raoul he cried out in reply. He held up the pheasant proudly. Brandon noticed the bow slung over his shoulder. A small game weapon only, he guessed. It looked far too small to hurt anything much larger than the pheasant.

  Raoul eyed the bird, nodding his approval. Temba glanced at Sam and Brandon and asked a question in an entirely different language. Raoul replied in the same tongue.

  “American?” Temba asked. “You speak English?” Although his voice was heavily accented, those familiar words sounded like music to Brandon’s ears.

  “Yes, yes we do,” he replied. He stepped forward and stretched out his hand. “My name is Brandon. And this is Sam.”

  Temba nodded and repeated his own name. “I hope you like pheasant.”

  Dinner was a mixed dish of beans and rice with Marcel repeating that he wished he had enough corn to give them. That led to Ike asking about the maize fields; which brought up the subject of Monsieur Devereaux.

  The Frenchman had lived in the village for five years, even before they decided to block off the path to protect themselves from the rebels. He claimed Temba as “his” pygmy, which was fine with everyone else since Temba was particularly difficult, and he didn’t fit in with his pygmy friends. The other pygmies belonged to the village, Marcel explained, and unlike other towns, the Bantu villagers went to great lengths to protect them.

  In other places, the pygmy population had begun leaving the settlements to avoid the horrors of war, famine, and disease. Marcel stressed that the village had become a secret place to keep it safe from the outside world.

  “Is that why we hear stories of ghosts in the forest?” Alfred asked, between bites of beans and rice.

  Marcel’s smile faded. “I am sorry, but those are not stories. The forest near here is cursed.”

  “Msitu wa Damu,” Ike echoed.

  Marcel nodded.

  “We’d like to learn more about this if we could,” Alfred told him. “Has anyone in the village been there recently?”

  Marcel ran a palm over his face. “You must not go there. It is a very bad place.”

  “How is it bad?” Alfred pressed. “What do these ghosts do?”

  “They seek to keep men out of their forest. They control the animals there, driving them mad. And it is said they can possess your mind.”

  “That doesn’t so
und like ghost stories I’ve heard,” Alfred reasoned. “Usually it is apparitions, voices, small objects being moved—”

  “These are no mere dead,” Marcel interrupted. “These are spirits, demons. They are brutal and cruel. They are true evil. To speak of them is to invite a curse. No one has come from this forest alive.”

  “Then how do you know about the ghosts?” Ike reasoned. “If no one leaves alive, who tells you about them?”

  Marcel paused, mouth open, realizing the small snag in his logic. “Well there are rumors.”

  “Perhaps one or two have come out,” Ike suggested.

  “Perhaps.”

  “We’d love to speak with one of them,” Alfred said.

  “Well, I don’t know of one specifically,” Marcel’s voice trailed off. “You could try talking to Sam.”

  Sam. An unusual name among the Bantu, Ike thought.

  “Is he here in the village?” Alfred asked.

  The village chief nodded. “She arrived with her husband yesterday. They are guests of Monsieur Devereaux.”

  “And she’s been in this forest?”

  “Oui. She believes she saw the ghost, but you are better off asking her about it.”

  “She saw it?”

  “She said she saw a man. You are better off asking her about it.”

  “A man?” Ike said. “A man and a spirit are two different things.”

  Nessa gave Ike a dirty look. He flashed his crocodile grin.

  After dinner, a Bantu woman brought out a tray of roasted plantains. Dessert was not an African custom, but Marcel was a gracious host and knew how to cater to European guests. After his first few bites, Ike decided that the cooked fruit would easily sate any sweet tooth. But not one for sweets, he excused himself. Delani did as well, and they walked out to the Jeep together.

  Delani lifted their bedrolls from the backseat and, under the guidance of one of Marcel’s cousins, carried them toward a thatched hut. The small hut near Marcel’s was being cleared for guests.

  Ike remained by the Jeep. He gazed up and saw dark clouds slipping slowly over the stars. The temperature had dropped and wind rustled the trees.

  Does it ever not rain? Ike wondered.

  He realized he was not alone when he heard Nessa clear her throat. She stood only a few feet away. Her face looked blue in the dim light.

  “Can I help you with something?” Ike asked.

  Nessa nodded and stepped forward. Ike could feel the lesson coming.

  “I think you might be a little confused about your role here.” Nessa stepped close, speaking in low tones. Their difference in height forced her to look up at him.

  “My role? And what’s that?” Ike asked, not hiding his amusement.

  She locked her brown eyes on his. The sudden connection took Ike by surprise. He was not used to her staring him down. If this was a contest of wills, she would lose to a hardened soldier.

  “Yes. You work for Delani. You do not work for H. Hurley.”

  “You’re right about that.”

  “You’re here for our protection and nothing else.”

  Ike felt her body heating the air around him. The winds were distant and far away.

  “You’re not here to talk. We didn’t hire you for your negotiation skills, understand?”

  “I hear you. Shut up and look pretty, right?”

  Nessa glanced away. “Just know your role. That’s all I’m asking.”

  “Right,” he spat. He took a step closer, reveling that he towered over her. “Was that all you needed?”

  She shrank from him and slid her palm along the crook of her neck.

  He gripped her side with his hand, leaned forward and kissed her hard on the lips. Her back stiffened. Her lips tasted sweet and sugary—like the plantains. They softened slightly under pressure. She didn’t push him away but neither did she reciprocate.

  As he was about to end it and apologize, her lips parted and she tilted her head, deepening the kiss. The tip of her ponytail brushed his fingers.

  A small cough startled them. Nessa quickly wrested herself out of Ike’s strong grip. She wiped her lips and fell back into her frosty pose. Gilles stood off to the side, an amused smile on his face.

  “Mister Tabibu wishes to speak to you,” he told Nessa.

  She nodded curtly and walked away. Ike followed her with his gaze until she disappeared into Marcel’s hut.

  “Do all BaMbuti use bows like that?” Sam asked.

  She had begun the evening referring to Temba as a pygmy, but the young man had politely corrected her. She hadn’t uttered the word “pygmy” again.

  He shook his head, rocking back in his chair as he picked up his bow. “The proper way to hunt is with nets and spears,” he explained. “But you need a lot of people to hunt that way. I am usually alone.”

  Sam reached down, scratching her leg through her skirt. The numbness had turned to fierce itching, and the once taut skin was dry and scaly.

  “You don’t stay with your tribe at all?” Brandon asked.

  Although speaking English left Raoul out of the loop, the Frenchman didn’t seem to mind. He sat to the side humming quietly and sipping palm wine.

  “I have too many friends to stay in one place,” he bragged, grinning widely.

  Raindrops pattered on the roof, rolling off the shingles and falling in long spears outside the windows. The wind felt good as it blew cool air into the house. The lamps flickered in the swirling breeze.

  “How did you come here, into the forest?” Temba asked. “Not many Americans walk through here.”

  “It’s sort of a long story,” Sam replied.

  “Ah.”

  “We were flying over in our plane—”

  “A plane?”

  “We were shot down by a militia, we think.”

  His eyes widened.

  “Actually, we were going to ask Raoul if he knew anyone who could help us fix it.”

  “Raoul can, of course,” Temba exclaimed.

  “He can?” Brandon asked in surprise.

  “Yes,” he replied proudly. “He can fix anything.”

  “An airplane’s a highly specialized piece of equipment. Are you sure?”

  “If he cannot fix airplanes, then why would he keep a ru—?”

  Raoul called out to Temba suddenly. “Did I hear someone say ‘militia’?”

  “Oui, mon Français,” he replied. “Poor Sam and Brandon were shot at by a group of them near here.” He switched to English again. “Do you think they followed you?”

  Brandon shook his head. “We don’t think so. Even if they saw where the plane crashed down, we left the area so quickly that they couldn’t have followed us. “

  Temba nodded and turned to Raoul, asking if he could fix the plane.

  Raoul became hesitant. After much deliberation he said that he would have to see the damage to know for sure and, even then, the plane was probably in militia hands anyway.

  “We would really like to try,” Sam insisted, “if we can. It’s our only way out of here, and we still haven’t finished the survey.”

  Raoul shook his head. Temba muttered in French, “Frenchmen are even lazier than pygmies.”

  That caused Raoul to burst out laughing. He got up and circled the table, filling everyone’s glasses.

  Ike couldn’t shake Nessa from his mind. It had been so long since he had kissed a woman, every thought was of her sugary, wet lips. The rain poured down outside the thatched hut. Ike, Gilles, Delani, and Alfred slept in the main area with a corner sectioned off in bright fabric for Nessa. He climbed from his bedroll, feeling restless. He wondered if Nessa was still awake. She hadn’t spoken to him since the kiss.

  For Christ’s sake, Ike
told himself. She’s engaged to another man. Promised. The poor bloke is sitting off in England somewhere, waiting for her to come home to him.

  Despite his thoughts, Ike crossed to the corner and pulled aside the fabric. Nessa lay, curled in her bedroll, staring blankly at the wall. Her brown hair was down and lay crinkled behind her head. She still wore her blouse, her lower half concealed by her bedroll.

  He knelt down beside her, feeling the soft leaves under his knees. She turned to look at him. Shadows cloaked her face so he couldn’t read her expression. He almost muttered a greeting, but he found himself at a loss for words. What should he say? She stared back at him, waiting. The silence thickened.

  Ike crawled forward, climbing over her. As he got closer he saw her blink, nervous. She didn’t yell at him, she didn’t push him away. He lowered his lips and kissed her again. She responded more quickly this time. The sweetness had gone from her lips, but the soft warmth remained.

  She lay wrapped in her bedroll, so he teased it open, slipping his hand inside. Soon he was fully on top of her. She didn’t resist as he slid his hand under her tank top, brushing over her cotton sports bra and small breasts. He rested on her, searching her body with his hands. She remained motionless. He began to feel guilt-stricken. Why wasn’t she responding? Why did she just let him do what he wanted, without argument but without endorsement?

  As his hand slipped down through the covers, he found she had removed her khaki trousers. She let out a sudden sharp gasp, breaking the silence of the hut. Ike winced at the sound, all too aware that the other mercenaries slept nearby, but his hand never slowed its movement.

  Nessa’s face, normally so hard and plastic, became soft and yielding. Her eyes closed and her head tilted back. As he drew another gasp from her, Ike realized how addictive this newfound power over her was. The ice queen was melting, he thought with a grin. His hand moved in circles across her skin, teasing her beneath the blanket. Her eyes opened suddenly, soft and doe-like. They caught his gaze and held him there as his hand plunged deep, leaving her open and vulnerable. Ike realized he was holding his breath as much drawn into his effect over her as she was. He felt his need growing with every deep breath she made.