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Boca de la Serpiente, or Serpent s Mouth, which separated the southern tip of
Trinidad from the Venezuelan mainland. On the map, McKendry thought, the
island s southern peninsula looked like the head of an adder set to strike the
giant body of South America.
The snake analogy was not appealing. For all of his daredeviltry, there were
two things McKendry preferred not to face: snakes and sharks. There was little
he could do about the latter except avoid them, to which end he confined his
swimming to lakes and pools. As far as the former were concerned, he
habitually wore heavy boots and always carried a fresh snakebite kit in his
backpack.
Pausing in his review, he checked to make sure the kit was there.
Deciding that the scenery held no further interest to him, he leaned back,
closed his eyes, and napped for the remainder of the trip.
Upon landing, McKendry and Keene hired a truck and a driver to take them from
Maturín across the Tonoro River to the Mánamo, on the western edge of the
delta.
They kept to the lowlands, to the less-inhabited villages, where they
considered it most likely Selene Trujold had gone to ground. They paid with
worn bolivar notes to take guided boats up and down some of the delta
riverlets calledcaños by the locals. In U.S. terms, the money they spent
amounted to little, but McKendry was aware that their frequent hiring of the
poor boat pilots helped the local economy a great deal.
Everywhere they went, Keene and McKendry asked about Green Impact, trying to
uncover secret support for the environmental group. They moved in a
drunkard s walk pattern across the coast, one day heading up a caño into the
interior, the next doubling back down another, tending in an easterly
direction, but occasionally circling around to see if their earlier questions
had raised any alarms behind them.
They met with no success. Oilstar s work was the salvation of the local
economy. The local Warao Indians did not seem to have much of a global
perspective, and it was clear they would not have joined Green Impact s cause.
The same was true of most of the villagers who lived in thatched huts atop
stilts in the muddy marshes. They cared little or nothing about protecting the
ecology. In fact, many of the taro and yucca farmers were in the process of
hacking down rain forests and slashing and burning the land so they could
plant crops.
Time trickled by like the water in the languid river, but just like the river,
the current of days was deceptive. McKendry, perhaps because he understood the
people less, was growing impatient. It annoyed him that his partner seemed
perfectly content to go on sitting in dockside cantinas, looking out toward
the ocean, or sometimes just under overhanging foliage beneath an awning on a
dock beside the river, drinkingmicheladas and asking questions. While they
both understood the language, McKendry freely admitted that his partner seemed
far more comfortable with the culture.
Eventually, they began to pick up word of a group of radicals headquartered in
some unnamed village farther south, a group led by a young woman.
Unfortunately, no one seemed to know exactly how to find them.
More likely, nobody gave a damn.
Damn bugs, McKendry said as they sat in yet one more cantina eating yet one
more plateful of black beans and spicy empanadas filled with an unknown meat
from the jungle.
To them, you re a necessary part of the food chain, Keene said, grinning.
Terris pushed the rest of his meal aside and reached for his beer. He was
about to make some rude comment when two newcomers entered the cantina.
The owner sat in a chair behind the bar and paid no attention to the
strangers, but instinct born of long experience told McKendry to take note of
the young white man and his companion. The man marched into the restaurant as
if he belonged there. He wore his hair in a long ponytail, a floppy leather
hat, and a plaid shirt, and had a guitar in a case slung over his shoulder.
Hisindia girlfriend, a short dark-haired beauty, held a tambourine, and spoke
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not a word.
The young man slipped his guitar case off his shoulder, opened the case on the
floor, and eyed McKendry and Keene the way a con man eyes his marks.
McKendry did not change his expression, but Keene sat forward and stared with
intense interest. With a preliminary strum of the strings, the young man
played and sang, though not particularly well, a Beatles song followed by an
old Bob Dylan tune.
Hey, Keene called out to him. Why don t you play one of those old activist
songs, like how the oil companies are wrecking the environment?
He raised his eyebrows and looked over at his partner. McKendry cleared his
throat and nodded.
How bout The Wreck of theExxon Valdez, sung to that old Gordon Lightfoot
tune?
The young man laughed and strummed his guitar. Well, I d have to make up the
words.
That s all right, McKendry said.
Joshua Keene fidgeted, but could not contain his impatience. After the young
man struggled through half a song, Keene clapped loudly. He tossed a handful
of coins into the guitar box. Say, you wouldn t know anything about Green
Impact, would you?
The young man stiffened. That s a terrorist group, and they re not terribly
welcome around here. Why would I know anything about them?
Not saying you do, amigo, Keene said carefully. It s just that we re
looking for Selene Trujold. She s supposedly one of their members, maybe even
their leader.
I know of Selene, the young man said, equally carefully.
We were friends of her father s, McKendry said. He died a little while
ago.
Didn t Selene s father work for Oilstar, the one with that big faulty rig off
the coast between here and Trinidad?
The big rig in the Serpent s Mouth? McKendry played dumb. Oh, yeah,
theValhalla . What s wrong with it? I heard that it s at the top of its form.
It The young man caught himself. Well, I hear Green Impact has been
claiming the rig is a monstrosity, unstable, a disaster waiting to happen. He
shrugged, flashing an embarrassed smile; his india girlfriend still said
nothing.
Selene s father was killed by the oil company, McKendry said. Paul Trujold
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