Vulture is a Patient Bird

He looked down at her. Maybe Fennel had been right about her picking up a bug. She looked very ill and was obviously running a high temperature. As he watched her she slowly opened her eyes. It took her a few moments to get him into focus, then she frowned, moving as if in pain.

"You're hurt," she said huskily.

"It's all right." He took her hot hand in his. "Don't worry about that."

"He's taken the compass and the ring."

"I know. Take it easy. Don't worry about anything."

The sudden crashing of branches overhead startled them and both looked up. One of the vultures had dropped from the upper branch to a lower one and was stretching its mangy neck, peering down at them.

Getting to his feet, Garry picked up the blood-stained rock and heaved it up into the tree. The rock whistled by the vulture. It flew off with a great flapping of wings and rustling of leaves.

"It knows I am dying," Gaye said, her voice breaking. "Garry! I'm so frightened."

"You're not dying! You've caught a bug of some sort. In a day or so, you'll be fine."

She looked at him, and his heart sank at the fear and hopelessness he saw in her eyes.

"There's nothing you can do for me," she said. "Leave me. You must think of yourself, Garry. It won't be long for me. I don't know what it is, but it's as if something is creeping up inside me, killing me piecemeal. My feet are so cold, yet the rest of me burns."

Garry felt her naked feet. They were ice cold.

"Of course I'm not leaving you. Are you thirsty?"

"No. I have no feeling in my throat." She closed her eyes, shivering. "You must go, Garry. If they caught you . . ."

It dawned on him then that she could be dying. With her by his side, the attempt to get through the jungle wouldn't have daunted him, but realizing he might have to do it alone sent a prickle of panic through him.

"Do you believe in God?" she asked.

"Sometimes."

He hesitated.

"For both of us this is really the time to believe, isn't it?"

"You're going to be all right."

"Isn't it?"

"I guess so."

There was a sudden disturbance in the tree above them as the vultures settled again.

She caught hold of his hand.

"You really mean you are going to stay with me?"

"Yes, darling. I'm staying."

"Thank you, Garry, you're sweet. I won't keep you long." She looked up at the vultures who were looking down at her. "Promise me something."

"Anything."

"You won't be able to bury me. You can't dig with your bare hands, darling, can you? Put me in the river, please. I don't mind the crocodiles, but the vultures . . ."

"It's not coming to that. You rest now. By tomorrow, you'll be fine."

"Promise, Garry."

"All right, I promise, but . . ."

She interrupted him.

"You were right when you told me not to pin everything on money. If money hadn't meant so much to me I wouldn't be here now. Garry, have you a piece of paper and a pen? I want to make my will."

"Now, look, Gaye, you've got to stop being morbid."

She began to cry helplessly.

"Garry . . . please . . . you don't know what an effort it is even to talk. I hurt so inside. Please let me make my will."

He went to his rucksack and found a notebook and a biro.

"I must do it myself," she said. "The manager of the Swiss bank knows my handwriting. Prop me up, Garry."

As he raised her and supported her, she caught her breath in a sobbing moan of pain. It took her a long time to write the letter, but finally it was done.

"Everything I have, Garry darling, is for you. There's over $100,000 in securities in my numbered account in Bern. Go and see Dr. Kirst. He's the director there. Tell him what has happened . . . tell him everything and especially tell him about Kahlenberg's museum. He'll know what to do and keep you clear. Give him this will and he will arrange everything for you."

"All right . . . you're going to be all right, Gaye. Rest now," and Garry kissed her.

Three hours later, as the sun, a red burning ball in the sky, sank behind the trees, Gaye drifted out of life into death. With the deadly scratch she hadn't noticed, the Borgia ring claimed yet another victim.

Fennel had been walking fast now for the past two hours. From time to time, swamp land had made him take a wide detour, wasting time and energy. Once he had floundered up to his knees in stinking wet mud when the ground had given under his feet. He had had a desperate struggle to extricate himself: a struggle that left him exhausted.

The silence in the jungle, the loneliness and the heat all bothered him but he kept reassuring himself that he couldn't now be far from the boundary exit and then his troubles would be over.