Patrick had received dozens of these emails. News of Daniel’s disappearance had leaked in mid-July when Patrick missed his first Belippa shareholder’s meeting ever. Since then, he’d been getting a steady stream of sympathy emails—“Sorry for your loss,” “Hold out hope,” “Trust in the Lord.” They were from the same people who had reached out after Trisha’s death.

He was set to leave the email unread, but something made him click it.

“Holy shit,” he said as he began to read the words.

Mr. Sewall,

I was backpacking through Europe, and I didn’t check my social media very often. I’m at the airport in New York, and I just checked my Facebook and saw that Daniel is missing. I’m not sure if he told you where he was headed in the Bolivian jungle, but I have the exact coordinates. They are from a golden jaguar image (the same golden jaguar from Martin Lefbrevor’s book, The Last Shaman) I stumbled on while I was working. I’ve attached screenshots of the images and coordinates I sent him.

My plane is boarding. Gotta go.

Jordan Mae

≈

Patrick’s private plane landed on the tarmac in Calgary on August 1.

After talking to Jordan Mae, Patrick told Bill that he was no longer hiring the Israelis. Like all he’d accomplished in his life, Patrick would find Daniel himself.

Patrick was surprised when Bill said he would come with him. Patrick refused at first, telling Bill point-blank he wasn’t in good enough shape to hike through the jungle. But Bill was insistent. He wouldn’t hold them back, and if he did, they could go on without him.

Patrick relented, then quickly began making arrangements for a guide and soldiers to meet them in northwestern Brazil in two days.

But first they needed to make a stop in Canada.

Bill and Patrick exited the plane and stepped into the back of the waiting sedan. The car had been arranged by a third party, who had been paid a healthy advance to keep it off the books.

After a thirty-minute drive, Patrick and Bill jumped from the car and hurried to the front door of a compact two-story house.

After two knocks, the door was pulled open.

“Hey,” said Martin Lefbrevor, “I told you over the phone that I wasn’t interested.”

“And I’ve come to make my plea in person,” Patrick said.

“I’ll never go back. Not for five million dollars. Not even for the cure for cancer.”

After reading Martin’s book, Patrick knew that if he told the ethnobotanist his son was missing and that he suspected Daniel may have been captured by the Nsé-Eja, Martin would tell him that there was no saving his son. Instead, Patrick had told the ethnobotanist that he was searching for the cure for cancer, which, as the owner of a pharmaceutical company, was highly believable.