She and the pediatrician had just finished examining the child. Charlotte remembered the boy’s bawling last night, his tiny hands clenched into fists as he had cried.
No longer.
“I don’t know . . .” she mumbled.
She scratched at the ant bites on her wrists. She had several other welts on her legs, arms, and neck. She tried to assess her own status. It felt as if a migraine threatened. She recognized the early symptoms: irritability, yawning, difficulty concentrating. She had them all, but she also knew the signs could simply be from exhaustion.
She rubbed her arms, noting both a numbness and a tingling.
I hope it’s just a migraine coming on.
She stared across the medical ward, at the other patients. IVs dripped. Vitals were being checked. Monitors blipped and blinked, measuring EKGs, breath rates, oxygen saturation. Nothing appeared abnormal, but all the patients, a mix of Congolese men and women, lay slack, barely blinking, their chests rising and falling leadenly. A neurological exam was being performed a few beds down. The patient—an older man— had been propped up and remained seated there unaided, as if he were a stiff puppet that could be bent into any position.
She also noted one other detail about all the patients: the youngest among them was a girl in her late teens. Is that why they wanted the boy, someone even younger? Yesterday, when Jameson had radioed for aid, he had mentioned the details of the child’s mysterious condition. Clearly her captors had also heard and had taken advantage of the attack to secure the boy.
Disanka tried again to get her baby to suckle but with no better success. The mother looked despondent, her face sunken with worry. She gazed imploringly at Charlotte, silently begging for help.
Jameson sighed. “Clearly the child has fallen back into a somnolent state. His rousing last night was only temporary. Plainly the shaman’s powder was no cure.”
A voice spoke sharply behind them. “What do you mean?”
She glanced to the foot of the bed.
The ward’s head clinician, Dr. Ngoy, stood there. He had stopped after overhearing them. She had been introduced to the Congolese physician by Draper—and she already detested the doctor. His hair was a crown of gray curls with a matching beard, half-hidden by his mask. During their introductions, he had eyed her with disdain, both for her youth and likely her gender. But worse, he treated his patients roughly, callously, with little regard for their well-being.
“Did I hear you correctly?” Ngoy pressed. “Were you somehow able to stir the child before?”
Jameson waved the inquiry away. “It was nothing. A short-term reaction to some witch doctor’s elixir. Nothing but snake oil.”
Ngoy stepped around to the other side of the bed. He reached out and pinched the boy’s ear, pulling his slack face closer, peering down at the child. “That’s still intriguing. We’ve not been able to get any response from our patients. We’ve tried all manner of pain stimulus with no reaction. Including electroshock. Even breaking a finger.”
Charlotte inwardly cringed.
Ngoy straightened and faced Jameson. “Why didn’t you tell us this before?”
The American stammered, “L-like I said, it was nothing. It’s already worn off.”
“Do you have any of that elixir left?”
Jameson answered, “No. The shaman kept it.”
Charlotte tightened her jaw. She pictured the small vial tossed by Woko Bosh. She had hidden it back with her soiled clothes, trusting that the tiny bottle would not be noted, especially as it was empty, its contents washed away by rain and river water. She had only kept it because of the faint yellowish stain on the inside, the barest residue of powder.
“This shaman,” Ngoy said. “Where was he from?”
Charlotte quickly lied. “I don’t remember. It was hectic. And he was killed.”
Jameson squinted and rubbed a temple with a finger.
Charlotte tried to communicate silently to the pediatrician, glaring her message.
Keep your mouth shut.
Jameson remained oblivious. “He was from Kula . . . no, Kuba. That’s it.”
Charlotte bit back a groan.
“Did he say what the substance was? Where it came from?”
Jameson shook his head. “He kept it in some old box, carved with a man’s face.”
Ngoy stared at the child. Disanka cringed back, protecting her boy, lest the doctor grab his ear again. The clinician then turned and stalked off. Charlotte watched him go, hoping that would be the end of it, but Ngoy reached the ward’s guard and spoke nose to nose with the man, while pointing back at Charlotte and Jameson.
Then the guard left.
Charlotte returned her attention to Disanka. She placed her gloved palm on the woman’s shoulder. “I won’t let anything happen to you or your kitwana.”
Disanka’s eyes remained wide with worry, but she gave a firm nod back.
Charlotte slipped out a penlight and examined the boy’s pupils. They were dilated again and showed no response to the light, not even a slight narrowing against the brightness. She had reviewed his blood work. Lymphocytes and eosinophils were low, while his c-reactive protein levels were elevated through the roof, which further supported a viral etiology.
She glanced at the clinicians working in the lab area. She had asked them earlier if they had identified any inclusion bodies in the patient’s cells, which would be indicative of a virus’s presence. They had ignored her, all but shoving her out of their area.
A commotion at the ward’s entrance drew her attention around. The guard had returned, drawing their earlier escort with him. Ekon spoke with Ngoy, who then barked for her and Jameson to come over.
Charlotte pocketed her penlight. She reached and squeezed Disanka’s forearm, firming her promise to protect the boy at all cost. Disanka gripped her hand in turn, solidifying the pact between them.
Only then did Charlotte cross over to the pair of men.
Ngoy was already yanking off his gown and mask. He stared hard at Jameson. “You must tell Monsieur De Coster. What you told me. He will want to know.”
With no choice but to obey, she and Jameson stripped back down to their scrubs and disposed of their protective gear. Ekon led them out of the Quonset hut and back across the muddy plaza. They returned to the same two-story guesthouse where she had been held. But once inside, Ekon drew them up to the second floor. At the top of the stairs stood a large set of double doors of lacquered zebrawood. An armed soldier in body armor stood guard.
Ekon nodded to the man, who then rapped on the door.
A voice called for them to enter.
Charlotte and Jameson were ushered in, followed by Ngoy and Ekon. Charlotte nearly tripped on the woven rug, taking in the handsome beauty of the office. Artifacts and dusty tomes lined shelves. A set of wood shutters led out to the guesthouse’s second-story balcony, which afforded a view over the forest canopy to the river.
To the right and left, stuffed lion’s heads mounted the walls, captured in midsnarl, baring long yellowed fangs. The beasts both faced the large desk between them. A figure rose from a seat. He wore a khaki linen suit, expertly tailored, with a black tie. His dark-blond hair was salted with gray at the temples. With those blue eyes, he could be mistaken for a middle-aged Chris Hemsworth, playing the role of a colonial magistrate.
“Welcome, Drs. Girard and Jameson. Please be seated. I understand you may have further information regarding the growing crisis in the Congo.”
Jameson quickly took one of the leather club chairs. Charlotte did so, too, but more warily. Her heart hammered in her chest. She wanted to rail against their abduction, the callous murders, but she also wanted more information about the situation, about her captors, about everything, so she remained silent.
Her reticence earned her an immediate prize.