And if we needed any more corroboration, Diego said the trail-crossing fit with the eastbound path we had previously elected not to follow from the drug lab.

Confident we were once again hot on Gina’s trail, though with no idea who had abducted her, we spent four hours trudging through the forest before stopping to make camp. We had woken early this morning, and after seven straight hours of hiking, I was exhausted beyond words.

In addition to my exhaustion, my ant bites were burning like hell. Not to mention the uncontrollable itching of the eighty to ninety mosquito bites covering my face, neck, and arms. Plus, after six days of sweating through my shirt, I was greasy and dirty and just so sticky. Then there was the beard. I had a few days of stubble going when I’d first heard Gina’s voicemail, but now I had nearly ten days of growth, which if you’ve ever grown a beard, is when it starts to itch.

Needless to say, I was not a happy camper.

I took the leaves from Juan Pablo and smelled them. They were pungent but not unpleasant. Juan Pablo instructed me how to chew the leaves and keep them in my cheek.

A moment later, Vern, Carlos, and Diego returned, and we started back up. Within five minutes, I was wide awake. I felt like I had drunk four Red Bulls. I could hike another five hours. Shoot, I could hike to Vancouver.

I sidled up to Vern and said, “You have to try these leaves Juan Pablo gave me. They give you a nice pep in your step.”

Vern’s eyebrows furrowed. “What leaves?”

I opened my mouth and showed him the ball of leaves in my cheek.

He let loose a loud laugh. “What do you think those leaves are, buddy?”

“I don’t know, some herbal caffeine thing.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be some famous detective?”

“I’m the Justin Bieber of detectives.”

The reference was lost on him, and I decided Bieber Fever must have missed Bolivia.

“Where were we two days ago?” he asked, leaning in, waiting for the anvil to drop.

“Coca leaves?”

“Yep,” Vern said with a smile.

I had experimented with a few different drugs in my youth. I’d smoked a little pot, I did mushrooms twice—one time was a blast, and one time I thought I was Smurfette and Gargamel was chasing me—but I’d never tried cocaine. This was probably because when I was just a kid, I walked into my father’s office when he was doing a line of coke off his desk. He said he only did it when he had a lot of work to do, and if he ever caught me doing it, he’d send me to boarding school.