Read Online The Fifth Harmonic by F. Paul Wilson - Free Book Online

moment of indecision: Will felt he needed to see a familiar face in this alien place.
    “Come,” Ambrosio said. “We must go. Where is your bag?”
    Will didn't budge. “How do you know Maya?”
    “She is Ambrosio's kinswoman,” the little man said.
    Time to make a decision: stay or go. What would the Duke do in this situation?
    Pushing aside his growing anxiety about all the uncertainties he was facing if he stepped out of this plane, Will sucked in a breath and decided to plunge ahead. He wrestled his large duffel bag from behind the seats and jumped to the ground.
    Uncertainty was what an adventure was all about; remove the unpredictables and it became a guided tour.
    And yet . . .
    As he watched Diego wheel his Cessna about and gun it back down the clearing, Will could not escape the terrifying feeling that he was being marooned in the jungle. He waved, but Diego didn't wave back.
    Ambrosio took the duffel bag and swung it onto his back. “We go now. Yes?”
    “Yes.”
    At least he had a man Friday of sorts with him.
    As he started walking he looked around at the green wilderness and thought, I'm either a very brave man, or a very foolish one. But either way, I'm a man who hasn't much to lose.
    Had that been Maya's purpose in “unburdening” him of his assets? To make him reckless?
    It seemed to be working.
    He realized he was bathed in sweat. Some of it nervous sweat, no doubt, but the rest because it was hot . And wet. He'd thought the heat had been stifling back in New York, but that had been nothing compared to this. He bet he could grab a handful of air and wring a shot glass of water out of it.
    Maya had warned him to dress light and in white. Will was glad he'd listened. Glad too that he'd bought waterproof hiking boots for the trip as he sloshed behind Ambrosio toward the Jeep. Small samples of the vehicle's original dark green finish, and swatches of its canvas top were visible through the thick coat of red mud that encased it. The twin arcs of clean glass on the windshield looked like watchful eyes.
    “We have many, many rains,” Ambrosio said. His English was good, and Will was glad for that.
    “Does it ever stop?”
    Ambrosio sniffed the air. “Chac sends us two more storms, Ambrosio thinks, and then he leave us alone.”
    “Chac?”
    “The god of rain and storms.”
    Will winced as Ambrosio tossed the duffel into the Jeep's rear compartment. “I have a computer in there.”
    “A computer?” he said, flashing his gold-lined teeth. “We have no electricity here, señor.”
    “I have batteries,” Will said. He'd brought extra lithium ion packs. “And I can always plug into your cigarette lighter.”
    Ambrosio shrugged and climbed in behind the wheel. “You will not need a computer where we are going.”
    Will figured he'd be the judge of that, but didn't challenge the little man.
    “Is Maya far?” he said.
    “She is miles away, on the other side of the valley. This is the closest a plane can land.”
    “And just where is this?”
    “In the jungle.”
    “I know that. But what country?”
    “Maya country. This is where Ambrosio was born.”
    Maya country . . . did that mean Maya the woman, or Maya the people? Will assumed he meant the people.
    “But Maya country could mean Mexico, Belize, or Guatemala.”
    “Si.” He started the engine. “You are thirsty?”
    Will couldn't tell if Ambrosio was being evasive or merely obtuse. But he was thirsty. The bottle of Poland Spring he'd bought at JFK had run out long ago.
    He nodded. “I could use a drink.”
    “Bueno.”
    Ambrosio worked the shift and the Jeep leaped backward— directly into the long ungainly trunk of a palm tree. Will cried out in alarm as something heavy landed on the canvas top and bounced off.
    Next thing he knew, Ambrosio was hopping out of the Jeep and pulling his machete from his belt. He picked up a pale green coconut from the ground, hefted it in his hand, did whack-whack-whack! with the blade against its top,