Contents ( 49)
- PROLOGUE
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- EPILOGUE
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Not caring if anyone was watching, I pulled him in for a long kiss.
“Pretty bad, huh,” he said, slipping his glasses off. “Was that a pity kiss?”
“Don’t be insane. That was incredible. You get an A plus. Are the river otters really that big? Can you really drink from the plants?”
“Yes about the plants, and we call the river otters river wolves. It’s not safe to be in the water with them, but when they play together, there’s nothing more fun to watch.”
“Now, Ohms, I want you to tell me a secret. About you, or the jungle.” His incredible story had only whetted my appetite for more.
He folded his arms, considering me. “Why?”
“Well . . . I’ve told you some things about myself I’ve never told anyone. It’s only fair . . .”
He pushed aside his assignment and we leaned in close to each other. His face grew serious, his voice almost a whisper.
“You promise to keep my secrets?”
“I promise.”
“All right.” He took my hands in his. “There’s a huge grove of mahogany, several hectares, a rare thing because there are very few groves of anything in the jungle. There’s a tribe that lives two days into the jungle from Ayachero, called the Tatinga. Only the Tatinga know where it is. When I was a kid, I hunted with them, and one day we found the grove. If the wrong people find it, like Fat Carlos, everything in that part of the jungle will be destroyed. Roads, machinery, destruction. It’ll be the end of Ayachero, the end of the Tatinga. This is sacred knowledge, Lily, and I’m trusting you with it.”
FIVE
I skipped up the stairs to the raised patio of the cantina where we met each Friday at eight. We loved this place because of the band that played slow songs; we’d dance a few before heading off into the night, drunk with each other. The evening was cool and calm, the sky rang with bright stars. I took off my backpack and had a look around. No Omar. For the first time ever, I had beat him to our usual table.
In minutes a man approached me, open shirted, big gutted, flirting hard until I slapped back with some real nasty fuck-you Spanish Omar had taught me. His face screwed up in a lemon-sucking grimace and I was rid of him. It was 8:23 by the Mickey Mouse watch I’d found on the street.
My mind raced. Maybe he was still at the shop, cranking on a busted engine he’d promised some friend would be fixed by the end of the day; he was always doing that, staying as long as it took to get the job done. Or maybe I got it wrong, and we were supposed to meet at his place first . . .
8:45. Impossible to sit there one more second. I paid for my cerveza and sprinted from the place, bounding down all the shortcuts and alleys, rats snacking on garbage lumbering out of my way as I ran. I flew up the rattling fire escape—his “private” entrance. Knocked hard. No answer. Called his name, my voice wretched in the night. Hands shaking, I got out my key and let myself in, locking the door behind me.