It’s deafening, layers of sound crashing and warring over one another, millions of water droplets hitting fat, broad leaves, mixed in with the grumbling, resonating vibration of thunder overhead.
Natalia doesn’t even hunch over to protect herself from the downpour. She runs with her back straight, her hair soaking wet, water flicking off the ends as it swings from side to side like a pendulum. I can’t see where we’re going anymore. I just follow after her and hope to god I’m not about to tumble face first over a cliff face.
She stops abruptly, pointing upward. “Can you climb?” she gasps.
I look up, and there are small lengths of wood hammered into the trunk of the closest tree—the trunk is huge, and the lengths of wood seem to be spaced evenly enough to be used as hand and foot holds. The most rudimentary ladder ever. I shake my head, trying not to laugh.
“If you can, I sure as hell can.”
“Good.” She bolts up the tree like she’s been climbing the thing her whole life. That could well be the case; as I grab hold of one of the makeshift handholds, I see that it’s worn and scuffed. It’s probably been nailed to the tree for a really long time. We climb ten feet, and then up another five, and I realize I seem to spend a lot of time climbing ladders with this woman: first down into the bunker, and now up into this tree. Another five feet, and suddenly we’re pretty fucking high up in the tree; I scan up ahead, trying to see how much further she’s going to take me, but all I can see is her perfectly shaped ass and I suddenly don’t care anymore. I want her to keep climbing forever, if it means I get to appreciate the view for a little longer.
No such luck, though. Another few feet, and Natalia reaches out, taking hold of a wooden handrail. She hops onto a narrow single plank walkway that’s affixed to the side of the tree, and then she’s turning and smiling at me. “My grandfather built this place for me when he was alive. He never told my father. It was our little secret. We used to come here together when he was still healthy enough to climb.” She hurries across the walkway and onto a large wooden platform, walled in on three sides, with one side left open. Most importantly, a roof covers the tiny tree house, shielding it from the worsening downpour.
The plank creaks loudly as I cross. Seems the walkway was designed to hold someone much smaller and lighter than myself, but it manages okay under my weight. It’s clear something non-human has been living in here; a pile of branches and leaves have been stashed in the corner, and there are pieces of mashed up, dried fruit scattered everywhere. Natalia sits herself down, hugging her knees to her chest. There’s probably enough room up here for three or four grown adults, but it’s definitely not a huge space. She looks around, smiling, as I sit down beside her.
“Well? What do you think? Watertight enough for you, Mr. America?”
I plant a hand against the closest wall, admiring how well built the structure is. Seriously, the place is solid. “I think it’ll do just fine,” I say. I shake my head, spraying her with water from my hair.
She shrieks, screening her face with her hands. “Stop! I’m wet enough already!”
“You can’t get any wetter. It’s too late. No point in trying to prevent something that’s already happened.”
She sobers a little, lowering her hands. “I could say the same to you, no?” She peers over the edge of the wooden platform, considering the drop. “It seems as though your purpose for being here is now over. Laura is gone. She is dead, and nothing can be done to change that. You can’t prevent that.”
“True.”
“Then go. I know I keep saying it, but you will only end up hurt or dead if you stay here. Laura wouldn’t want you sacrificing yourself now, for nothing.”
“It wouldn’t be for nothing. Yes, my initial reason for being here, to take her home, is impossible to fulfil. But I have a new purpose now. I’m determined to complete it before I even consider leaving Ecuador.”
Natalia rests her chin on her arms, which are folded around her legs. She looks down at the toes of her shoes, frowning. “Revenge is not a purpose, Cade. It is a poison. An addiction. A vice that cripples most men.”
I laugh under my breath, stabbing my fingernail into the waterlogged leather of my boots. “I’m afraid you’re wasting your breath. I’ve never been very good at curtailing my vices.”
“Maybe you should try harder.”
“Why would I do that? I like my vices.”