Collins nodded. “If we keep heading in this direction about twenty miles, we’ll reach Chimantá Massif—a huge complex of about a dozen tepuis. Together about the same size as Auyán.”
Brodie nodded. So far the terrain was checking out with Carmen’s testimony.
They flew low and slow over the small muddy river as it snaked its way through the grassland and then entered the jungle, which stretched to the south and east as far as the eye could see. When Brodie thought they’d gone about six or seven miles he said to Collins, “Let’s do a tight circle over this area.”
“Okay.” Collins put the Cessna into a steep right bank and began circling.
Brodie raised his binoculars and looked down at the carpet of jungle below.
Taylor moved to Brodie’s passenger seat and also peered down into the jungle canopy. “Let me take a look.”
Brodie handed her the binoculars and they both looked out through the side windows at the right bank of the unnamed river as Collins kept the Cessna in a tight turn. He asked, “You folks looking for something in particular?”
Brodie replied, “Wouldn’t mind seeing a real native village.”
“Well, they’d be hard to spot from up here.”
“Right.” So would Mercer’s camp. “Maybe we’ll come across a village while we’re bird-watching. Are the natives friendly?”
“Well… it’s situational.”
“Give me a situation.”
“Okay. They used to depend a lot on tourism for a living, but tourism is way down, so they’re a little stressed, and some of them have taken to crime.”
“Sounds like Caracas.”
“Yeah… like the whole country. So if you’re in the wilds with a tour group with Pemón guides, you’re okay. But if you’re alone—like you and Mrs. Bowman—and you run into some Pemón in the jungle, they can be a little intimidating.”
“So can I and Mrs. Bowman.”
Captain Collins glanced at his passengers.
Brodie smiled to show he was not really intimidating, and asked, “Do they eat people?”
“They prefer fish.”
“Good. They got blowguns? Poison darts?”
“I don’t know. But I know they have rifles.” He added, “For hunting. Look, the Pemón are nice people, and I don’t want to—”
“Got it. Okay, if we run into Pemón while we’re bird-watching, I’ll let you make the introductions.”
“I’m staying with my aircraft.”
“Don’t say you weren’t invited.”
Taylor called out from the back, “I see what looks like a village along the bank of the river. Three o’clock, low.”
Brodie peered out the side window and saw a long, thatched-roof structure close to the riverbank.
Collins banked the Cessna and took a look through Brodie’s window. He said, “That’s a native fishing platform. It’s on, like, stilts—poles. They store their nets there, hang out, sleep, fish, and maybe have a beer and chew the fat.”
“Sounds like Tennessee.”
Collins laughed, but Magnolia didn’t.
Brodie was waiting for the right moment to tell Captain Collins about their change of plans—but first, a little prep. He asked Collins, “You ever miss the States?”
“Sure. But I enjoy the pilot’s life. Flying to new places.”
“But always returning to Caracas.”
“Yeah… she doesn’t want to leave.”
“It’s got its charms,” Brodie reminded him.
“Actually, it sucks.”
“Right. I saw that.” He added, “You’re a good guy to stay with her in Caracas.”
Collins didn’t reply for a few seconds, then said, “She’s a former beauty queen.”
More likely a cocktail waitress, thought Brodie. “No offense, Captain, but the world is full of beautiful women who live in nicer places.”
Collins didn’t respond to that, but said, “I own a place in Pensacola. That’s my plan—and it will become her plan too.”
“Good plan.” A better plan would be not to let a woman fuck up your life, and he would have said that to Captain Collins, but Maggie Taylor was in the back seat, probably thinking about how she could fuck up Scott Brodie’s life.
Collins asked, “Still want to circle?”
Brodie called out to Taylor. “What do you think?”
She lowered the binoculars. “I don’t think so…” She snapped a few pictures with her smartphone. “Can’t really see anything through the canopy. But maybe go upriver another mile or so.”
Collins again glanced at his fuel gauge. “These maneuvers burn a lot of fuel. But… okay. Then we need to put it down.”
“You’re the captain.”
Collins came out of his turn and took an easterly heading, farther up the river.
Brodie looked out the front windshield as the unbroken expanse of rain forest passed under their aircraft. He was convinced now that Kyle Mercer was down there—somewhere. Or Mercer was in Kavak, waiting to see who flew in.
Taylor shot pictures of the riverbank and the adjacent jungle,