around the viewing platform, most seemed more concerned about making sure visitors had paid the twenty-five-dollar fee to visit the site; if anything, they were worried about people sneaking over the wall into the Wonder of the World, not out. Then again, looking up at a small break in the mist, up the steep, white curve of Christ’s spine to the base of his vast, slightly bent head—Jack couldn’t have asked for a better distraction.
Even so, Andy looked nervous as he retrieved a heavy coil of climbing rope from the duffel, placing it next to Jack’s feet. When he carefully lifted a second object—a miniature dish wrapped in aluminum, similar in shape and size to the sort of dish one might install on a roof to get satellite television—out of the bag, he looked guilty enough to need a visit to the nearby chapel.
“Relax, kid,” Jack said as he took the dish from Andy and attached it by a Velcro strap to a hook on the side of his tan safari jacket. Then he grabbed the coil of rope and shifted it over his right shoulder. If anything, in faded jeans and a safari jacket, with the dish hanging from the strap and the ropecoiled around his deltoid, he looked like a high-tech repairman. Certainly not an anthropologist. Although as usual, he did have a couple tools of his trade hidden under his clothes.
“I’ll hit you up when I’m in position. If anyone gives you any trouble, we’ll meet at the base of the mountain. Should be about a two-hour hike down, if I move fast.”
Andy was peering over the railing at the cliff behind the bank of spotlights.
“More like an eight-minute fall,” he said. “I sure hope we brought enough rope, Doc.”
“When have we ever brought enough rope?” Jack grinned.
And then he put both hands on the railing, gave one last look behind him to make sure none of the tourists were watching, and hoisted himself over the wall.
• • •
The brush was thick, but no worse than he’d experienced in Venezuela with the Yanomami, or, for that matter, with the Penan tribe in Borneo during his first year of graduate study, or in the Visayan Islands where he’d spent a month with his dad when he was just nineteen, living with a group of Aboriginal Pinoy while still a college sophomore. It was on that early trip that his father had given him the first of his indispensable tools of the trade, which he now unsheathed from the concealed holster strapped down the small of his back.
The muscles in his forearm tightened as his palm felt the familiar grip, made of perfectly carved guava wood. It took almost no effort to swing the two-foot blade in a wide arc, cutting into the brush with each expert stroke. The iták —or bolo, as it was more widely known—had been designedspecifically for work like this; the metal blade curved slightly outward and widened at the tip, putting most of the momentum at the end of each arc. Jack barely broke a sweat as he worked his way closer to the high iron frame of the platform of spotlights. In some places, he could crawl beneath the gnarled tree limbs or hanging vine, but where it became impassable, a few strokes of the iták gave him enough room to angle through. In a pinch, he also knew from experience that the weighted blade also made a hell of a weapon; a longer version, known as a Pinuti , was a standard armament of the natives of the Visayan Islands. Of course, when the tribal natives went to war, they usually tipped the end of the blade in snake or spider venom. Which was one of the many reasons that Jack’s father had taught him to always keep a packet of antivenom vials in another pocket in his safari jacket, next to the chemical flares he brought with him everywhere as well, which he restocked before every trip.
As Jack reached the bank of spotlights, then cut a narrow path through the brush beyond the metal frame, he was much less concerned about venom than he was about the length of the coiled rope around his shoulder. Reaching the edge of the drop
Even so, Andy looked nervous as he retrieved a heavy coil of climbing rope from the duffel, placing it next to Jack’s feet. When he carefully lifted a second object—a miniature dish wrapped in aluminum, similar in shape and size to the sort of dish one might install on a roof to get satellite television—out of the bag, he looked guilty enough to need a visit to the nearby chapel.
“Relax, kid,” Jack said as he took the dish from Andy and attached it by a Velcro strap to a hook on the side of his tan safari jacket. Then he grabbed the coil of rope and shifted it over his right shoulder. If anything, in faded jeans and a safari jacket, with the dish hanging from the strap and the ropecoiled around his deltoid, he looked like a high-tech repairman. Certainly not an anthropologist. Although as usual, he did have a couple tools of his trade hidden under his clothes.
“I’ll hit you up when I’m in position. If anyone gives you any trouble, we’ll meet at the base of the mountain. Should be about a two-hour hike down, if I move fast.”
Andy was peering over the railing at the cliff behind the bank of spotlights.
“More like an eight-minute fall,” he said. “I sure hope we brought enough rope, Doc.”
“When have we ever brought enough rope?” Jack grinned.
And then he put both hands on the railing, gave one last look behind him to make sure none of the tourists were watching, and hoisted himself over the wall.
• • •
The brush was thick, but no worse than he’d experienced in Venezuela with the Yanomami, or, for that matter, with the Penan tribe in Borneo during his first year of graduate study, or in the Visayan Islands where he’d spent a month with his dad when he was just nineteen, living with a group of Aboriginal Pinoy while still a college sophomore. It was on that early trip that his father had given him the first of his indispensable tools of the trade, which he now unsheathed from the concealed holster strapped down the small of his back.
The muscles in his forearm tightened as his palm felt the familiar grip, made of perfectly carved guava wood. It took almost no effort to swing the two-foot blade in a wide arc, cutting into the brush with each expert stroke. The iták —or bolo, as it was more widely known—had been designedspecifically for work like this; the metal blade curved slightly outward and widened at the tip, putting most of the momentum at the end of each arc. Jack barely broke a sweat as he worked his way closer to the high iron frame of the platform of spotlights. In some places, he could crawl beneath the gnarled tree limbs or hanging vine, but where it became impassable, a few strokes of the iták gave him enough room to angle through. In a pinch, he also knew from experience that the weighted blade also made a hell of a weapon; a longer version, known as a Pinuti , was a standard armament of the natives of the Visayan Islands. Of course, when the tribal natives went to war, they usually tipped the end of the blade in snake or spider venom. Which was one of the many reasons that Jack’s father had taught him to always keep a packet of antivenom vials in another pocket in his safari jacket, next to the chemical flares he brought with him everywhere as well, which he restocked before every trip.
As Jack reached the bank of spotlights, then cut a narrow path through the brush beyond the metal frame, he was much less concerned about venom than he was about the length of the coiled rope around his shoulder. Reaching the edge of the drop
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