Rumors of Savages Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty One

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Chapter Thirty Three

  Chapter Thirty Four

  Chapter Thirty Five

  Chapter Thirty Six

  Chapter Thirty Seven

  Chapter Thirty Eight

  Chapter Thirty Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty One

  Chapter Forty Two

  Chapter Forty Three

  Chapter Forty Four

  Chapter Forty Five

  Chapter Forty Six

  Chapter Forty Seven

  Chapter Forty Eight

  Chapter Forty Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty One

  Chapter Fifty Two

  Chapter Fifty Three

  Chapter Fifty Four

  Chapter Fifty Five

  Chapter Fifty Six

  Epilogue

  RUMORS OF SAVAGES

  Carrie Regan

  Copyright © 2009 by Carrie Regan

  www.carrieregan.com

  Cover design by Brandon Pidala

  Cover stock image © Timhesterphotography | Dreamstime.com

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or any parts thereof in any form.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  PROLOGUE

  He’d finally arrived. After weeks of slashing through the dense, buggy central African jungle, he’d begun to see signs of human life. Just small signs, meaningless to anyone without a well-trained eye, but to Lawrence Julian Thompson, they may as well have been billboards. A bent branch here, a vine with a telltale machete slice there, a slight change in the scent of the morning dew, hinting at cooking fires upwind. And then, his biggest clue yet: a set of stones in the middle of a river, carefully placed to safely guide someone with a short stride across. They were here, nearby, walking the same elephant trails, sipping from the same streams.

  In his career, he’d had plenty of notable firsts and unforgettable encounters, yet he quivered with the nervous anticipation of a schoolboy when he contemplated what lay ahead. Professionally, personally, it marked the culmination of his life’s labors: the discovery of the legendary Bambada people.

  While his heart and mind willed him forward, Thompson’s body, worn by weeks of trekking, cried out for a break, and he reluctantly complied. Swinging his backpack onto the ground, he stretched and settled at the base of a large tree. His pack was relatively small, considering he’d been living out of it for nearly a month. The meager supplies had to suffice, since local porters wouldn’t venture into this part of the jungle for any price. No matter. Years in the field had taught him how to live off the land – which plants he could and couldn’t eat, which would reduce fever or kill a fungus, and which were best for making ropes and shelters. Animal trails led him to watering holes and suggested where to place pitfall traps and snares. His bed was a hammock and mosquito net that fit into his fist, and when rain clouds rumbled overhead, he could quickly fashion a watertight covering of leaves.

  Over a week had passed since he’d experienced any kind of human contact. His only link to the outside world, a satellite phone, had taken an unexpected dip during a clumsy river crossing and couldn’t be resuscitated. He cared little, having spent the bulk of his career trekking solo in regions just as rugged, long before such devices were even invented.

  A nagging feeling, however, told him this place wasn’t like the others. As he plunged deeper into the jungle, he trusted his keen instincts and pure academic motives to protect him from evil elements, human or otherwise. Nevertheless, the hairs on the back of his neck still rose as he sensed that eyes were upon him.

  And they were. When he slept, as he slashed through the jungle, even as he washed in streams, eyes peered at him from behind branches, over boulders, watching, waiting.

  Digging into his pack, Thompson retrieved his GPS — one of his few other concessions to modern technology — and recorded his location. Feeling celebratory, he withdrew half a bar of chocolate he’d been saving for a special occasion, to be enjoyed over a passage from his prized possession: a rare, first edition, centuries-old text, Burton’s Travels in West and Central Africa, 1789-1793.

  Few pages of the weathered volume still clung to the original binding; a sheet of wax paper and rubber band held the book together instead. He removed the book from this protective wrapping, paged through it to a well-marked graph, bit off a piece of chocolate, and read lines he practically knew by heart.

  “In the port of Kimkali I met a very strange man indeed; a European explorer like myself – a German – who’d just emerged from the great swath of jungle to our north. He was feverish and no doubt delusional, but his words – what I could make out, in my remedial German – intrigued me. ‘I’ve seen them,’ he panted. ‘The savages. Don’t be fooled. They’re smaller than the average man, yet their knowledge and power surpass that of all Europe. And their treasure even exceeds that of legend.’ He was trembling, body drenched with sweat and blood, with a raw stench of decay rising from his pores. Still, I clung to his every word, and stayed with him until his dying breath. He was speaking, most certainly, of the Bambada.”

  Thompson popped the last bite of chocolate into his mouth, leaned back against the tree, and savored the moment. The world had only grown smaller since those words were first recorded in the late 18th century. Roads now stretched like tentacles into the center of that great African jungle, and tourists frequented the very trails that proved so perilous to early explorers. Yet despite centuries of exploration and development, the Bambada had remained an enigma. Until now.

  By his calculations, the great Nburu River lay just a day’s journey north. From there, his route to the Bambada kingdom would be clear.

  Thompson lifted his water bottle to his lips and drained it. Tonight, he’d refill it from the clear, rejuvenating waters of the Nburu. With that incentive propelling him, he stood, shouldered his pack, and set off in the direction of those mythical waters.

  CHAPTER 1

  Bill Warner gazed at his view of Manhattan, with the Chrysler Building thrusting prominently skyward before him, and grinned. He spun around in his soft black leather chair, a chair that cost more than his secretary made in a month, and admired his spacious corner office, with its fully stocked bar and private executive washroom. On the far wall, three thirty-two inch flat-panel plasma televisions played continuously, ensuring that he was plugged into world events. Outside his office door, his staff of sixty-thre
e straightened when he passed, quivered at his every glance, and jumped when he spoke. In this city of media empires, his domain was relatively small, but Bill Warner, as president of the Adventure Channel, was still a king.

  He lifted a glass of twenty-two year-old single malt and savored the rich aroma before taking a slow, satisfying sip. Bill wasn’t much of a drinker, but this once-a-week ritual was his little reward, a reminder of the privileged position he’d worked so hard to attain through the years, often at the expense of relationships, a family, and friendships. In a week packed with meetings, screenings, pitches, and power lunches, this Wednesday afternoon indulgence was his regular retreat, a window free of distractions during which he could relax, celebrate his accomplishments, meditate on his Next Big Idea, and psychologically prepare for the phone call he knew was coming. He drew in a deep, calming breath, closed his eyes, and sank into the rich leather.

  “Mr. Warner?” his intercom squawked, snapping him out of the momentary bliss. “Lee’s on line one.” He glared at the phone. Nothing but the very Long Island accent of his assistant Peggy had quite the same ability to chase away any sense of tranquility, except, perhaps, word that Adventure’s CEO was calling. Bill Warner may be king, but Lee Kincaid’s weekly phone calls reminded him who owned the kingdom. He glanced at the clock: 3:00 PM. The bastard was right on time. His stomach tightened, and he made a conscious effort to relax, taking another quick hit of Scotch to settle his nerves.

  With a deep breath, he punched the intercom button and ordered briskly, “Tell him I’m in a meeting.”

  “You were in a meeting last week, Mr. Warner.”

  She could smell his fear, he thought, and it filled him with shame. What was he worried about? He could do this. He made the network. He was Adventure.

  “Put him through.”

  Slipping on his wireless headset, he greeted Lee and attempted to retain his composure as the Texan’s tirade began. The CEO’s calls were always the same: complaints about tumbling ratings and low advertising revenues, followed by outlandish suggestions for improving programming that Bill knew were useless. What did a Texas oilman know about television? The industry was a hobby for Lee, nothing more. It was Bill’s life. He was the one who, years ago, had spotted the growing adventure trend, who’d first pitched the idea of creating a television network catering to adrenaline junkies, weekend warriors, and couch potatoes with fantasies of conquering Everest. Lee, flush with dreams of becoming the next Ted Turner, had merely bankrolled the plan. The Adventure Channel debuted to great fanfare four years earlier, and viewers and advertisers alike flocked to its exclusive coverage of extreme expeditions in far corners of the globe. But after the first year, ratings plummeted faster than a BASE jumper, and had continued to sink ever since. Apparently, there were only so many far corners that still needed exploring, and only so many climbing and kayaking expeditions one could watch before they all started to look the same. All the whisky in the world couldn’t erase the fact that Bill’s empire was in jeopardy.

  Bill knew the channel needed help, but the last thing he wanted to hear was Lee’s bad advice. His programming was still top-notch, and the viewers were still there. They were just momentarily distracted, wooed away by the latest flock of lowbrow reality shows. They’d return. After all, Adventure was an innovator in the genre, around long before anorexic aspiring actresses and buff actors battled it out on deserted islands. Just one big story, one media blitz would bring viewers back. Bill could sense it, the seed of an idea…

  “Where are the gals in bikinis? I told you I want gals in bikinis in those kayaking movies,” Lee cried in his Texas twang, distracting Bill and sending the idea that could potentially save the network careening into an abyss. “And why is that coot Carrington still clutterin’ up my airwaves?!”

  Bill turned his attention to the center television – the one always tuned to the Adventure Channel – and glimpsed Adventure’s star, Max Carrington, in action. A rugged, virile man in his early 60s, perpetually clad in his signature tan safari suit, Max was the embodiment of masculinity—a mountain of a man with broad shoulders and great tufts of gray chest hair sprouting from the V of his neckline. A montage of clips zipped across the screen, showing Max wrestling alligators, seizing snakes, stroking tarantulas, and creeping up to lions as they feasted on a fresh kill. The sequence ended with a low-angle shot of Max gazing into the distance on a mountain peak, hands on hips, wind gently ruffling his thick graying hair, the sky a brilliant palette of reds, oranges, and yellows above a setting sun. The title of the program shot up from the horizon and exploded onto the screen: Adventure!

  In spite of the verbal abuse flowing from the telephone, Bill smiled. He’d always loved that opening. Adventure! was the flagship series of the network, his baby, a show he had created and nurtured with the launch of the channel. He’d wooed Max Carrington away from public broadcasting, where he’d been a well-known host of nature programs, added a dash of danger to his expeditions, quickened the pace of the editing and tripled ratings. After years of hosting staid natural history documentaries, Max reveled in the excitement and danger of the new format, and enthusiastically approved of the new direction his career was taking. It injected him with a renewed zest for life, which he exhibited by divorcing his wife of thirty years and marrying a hard-bodied young yoga instructor.

  Perhaps it was the young wife, perhaps it was the four years of constant travel, but Max had begun to look a little worn lately, and his performance was suffering. Bill dismissed it as a temporary slump, but Lee was less forgiving.

  “Now Bill, I know you feel like you owe him, and I guess you do to a certain degree, but business is business. People don’t want to see a dried up old prune cavorting with zoo animals. They wanna see young, attractive people in pretty places.”

  “I disagree with you there. Max has a large following, and I think he’s still got plenty of good years ahead of him. He’s the face of Adventure. We don’t just owe it to him. We owe it to his public.”

  “His public? If they’re so crazy about Max, where’ve they been?” He had a point, Bill had to admit. “If we don’t start haulin’ in more viewers, the Adventure Channel is gonna turn into the next Home Shopping Network, no doubt about it. The investors have spoken.”

  Bill was about to protest when a news report on another screen caught his eye. “MISSING” read the headline beneath a photo of a man who looked vaguely familiar. Using the remote control panel built into his custom desk, Bill turned up the volume.

  “… confirmed today that famed anthropologist and scholar Dr. Lawrence Julian Thompson is missing. The NYU lecturer began what was supposed to be a two-month expedition into the remote Nburu jungle of central Africa approximately five months ago. Thompson lost contact with colleagues just weeks into his journey, and hasn’t been heard from – or seen – since.”

  Bill cut Lee off mid-lecture. “Listen, Lee, I’ve got to go. Someone just walked in.”

  “I tell you, I wanna see change. We need youth. We need a new face to win this ratings war, or you’ll be selling collector’s plates and cubic zirconium to the masses, you hear?”

  Bill whipped off his telephone headset, punched the receiver, and continued turning up the volume on the television.

  “University authorities deny that Dr. Thompson is considered dead.”

  The screen cut to an interview with a man identified as Harold Keats, chair of the anthropology department at New York University. “Thompson’s knowledge of the region is unmatched,” Keats said, “A man with his experience is capable of living off the land indefinitely. We’re confident that he’s still out there, and that he’ll have quite a story to tell upon his return.”

  The reporter continued:

  “Still, local officials are skeptical that Thompson will emerge from the dense jungle, pointing to unconfirmed reports that his personal belongings were discovered by a team of local hunters.”

  Peggy announced her arrival in the doorway with a snap
of her gum. “Lee’s on the phone. He says you hung up on him?”

  Bill hushed her, and she followed his captive gaze to the television screen.

  “Dr. Thompson was bound for a remote, reportedly dangerous and little-explored jungle in central Africa inhabited—according to legend—by bloodthirsty savages. So far, attempts to organize a search party have proven unsuccessful.”

  Curling a piece of hair around her finger, Peggy snapped her gum again. “Wow. Sounds like he’s screwed, huh?” When Bill didn’t respond, she studied her boss. “Is he a friend of yours or something?”

  “Sort of,” Bill replied.

  CHAPTER 2

  Dr. Lawrence Julian Thompson, famed anthropologist, archaeologist, ethnographer, author of 17 texts, hundreds of professional articles, and recipient of countless awards and honorary degrees, was no friend of Bill Warner. The anthropologist’s journeys into remote parts of the world were legendary. He was intimately familiar with the furthest reaches of Africa, Latin America, and the South Pacific, and had spent more nights in mud huts in the past twenty years than the apartment he kept in Brooklyn. Beyond an explorer and academic, he possessed the skill of born performer, captivating audiences with dramatic accounts of his adventures in far-off lands.

  For a television man like Bill, Lawrence Julian Thompson was a prized subject. What viewer wouldn’t want to ride shotgun with Thompson and join him, from the safety of a sofa, on a journey into a vast, parasite-ridden jungle in search of mysterious tribes and valuable treasure? Women wanted him; men wanted to be him.

  But much to Bill’s dismay, Thompson wanted nothing to do with television. He’d dabbled in the industry once, allowing a handsome, affable, yet dim-witted host of an adventure series to join him on a trek in Papua New Guinea. Thompson could only watch as his expedition was swiftly transformed into a junket and the jungle into a soundstage. His serious academic objective was tossed out the window in favor of a pre-scripted plan of action in which every move was carefully blocked out for the camera, every “spontaneous” line of dialogue rehearsed.