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CHAPTER 051

It had been raining all day in southern Sumatra. The jungle floor was wet. The leaves were wet. Everything was wet. The video crews from around the world had long since gone on to other assignments. Now Hagar was back with only one client: a man named Gorevitch. A famous wildlife photographer who had flown in from Tanzania.

Gorevitch had set up beneath a large ficus tree, unzipped a duffel bag, and removed a nylon mesh sling, like a hammock. He set this on the ground carefully. Then he brought out a metal case, popped it open, and assembled a rifle.

“You know that’s illegal,” Hagar said. “This is a preserve.”

“No shit.”

“If the rangers come through, you better get that stuff out of sight.”

“Not a problem.” Gorevitch charged the compressor, opened the chamber. “How big is this guy?”

“He’s a juvenile, two or three years old. Maybe thirty kilos. Probably less.”

“Okay. Ten cc’s.” Gorevitch pulled a dart out of the case, checked the level, and slipped it into the chamber. Then another. And another. He clicked the chamber closed. He said to Hagar, “When was the last time you saw him?”

“Ten days ago.”

“Where?”

“Near here.”

“He comes back? This is his home range?”

“Seems to be.”

Gorevitch squinted down the telescopic sight. He swung it in an arc, then up to the sky, then back. Satisfied, he put the gun down.

“You got a low enough dose?”

“Don’t worry,” Gorevitch said.

“Also, if he’s high in the canopy, you can’t shoot because-”

“I said, don’t worry.” Gorevitch looked at Hagar. “I know what I’m doing. Dose is just enough to unsteady him. He’ll come down by himself, long before he collapses. We may have to track him on the ground for a while.”

“You’ve done this before?”

Gorevitch nodded.

“With orangs?”

“Chimps.”

“Chimps are different.”

“Really.” Sarcastic.

The two men fell into an uneasy silence. Gorevitch got out a video camera and tripod, and set them up. Then a long-range microphone with a one-foot dish, which he clipped to the top of the camera with a mounting pole. It made an ungainly apparatus, but effective, Hagar thought.

Gorevitch squatted on his haunches and stared out at the jungle. The men listened to the sound of the rain, and waited.

In recent weeks,the talking orangutan had faded from the media. The story had gone the way of other animal reports that didn’t prove out: that Arkansas woodpecker nobody could find again, and the six-foot Congo ape that nobody could locate despite persistent stories by natives, and the giant bat with the twelve-foot wingspan that was supposedly seen in the jungles of New Guinea.

As far as Gorevitch was concerned, the declining interest was ideal. Because when the ape was finally rediscovered, media attention would be ten times greater than it would have been otherwise.

Especially because Gorevitch intended to do more than record the talking ape. He intended to bring it back alive.

He zipped his jacket collar tight against the dripping rain, and he waited.

It was late in the afternoon, and starting to get dark. Gorevitch was dozing off when he heard a low gravelly voice say, “Alors. Merde.”

He opened his eyes. He looked at Hagar, sitting nearby.

Hagar shook his head.

“Alors. Comment?a va?”

Gorevitch looked slowly around.

“Merde. Scumbag. Esp?ce de con.”It was a low sound, throaty, like a drunk at a bar.“Fungele a usted.”

Gorevitch turned on the camera. He couldn’t tell where the voice was coming from, but he could at least record it. He swung the lens in a slow arc, while he watched the microphone levels. Because the mike was directional, he was able to determine that the sound was coming from…the south.

Nine o’clock from where he was. He squinted through the finder, zoomed in. He could see nothing. The jungle was becoming darker every minute.

Hagar stood motionless nearby, just watching.

Now there was a crashing of branches, and Gorevitch glimpsed a shadow as it streaked across the lens. He looked up and saw the shape moving higher and higher, swinging on branches as it went up into the overhead canopy. In a few moments the orang was seventy feet in the air above them.

“Gods vloek het. Asshole wijkje. Vloek.”

He took the camera off the tripod, tried to film. It was black. Nothing. Flicked on night vision. He saw nothing but green streaks as the animal moved in and out of the thick foliage. The orang was moving higher and laterally.

“Vloek het. Moeder fucker.”

“Nice mouth on him.” But the voice was growing fainter.

Gorevitch realized he had a decision to make, and quickly. He set the camera down and reached for the rifle. He swung it up and sighted down the scope. Military night vision, bright green, very clear. He saw the ape, saw the eyes glowing white dots-

Hagar said, “No!”

The orang jumped to another tree, suspended in space for an instant.

Gorevitch fired.

He heard the hiss of gas and thethwack of the dart smacking the leaves.

“Missed him.” He raised the rifle again.

“Don’t do this-”

“Shut up.” Gorevitch sighted, fired.

In the trees above, there was a momentary pause in the thrashing sound.

“You hit him,” Hagar said.

Gorevitch waited.

The crashing of leaves and branches began again. The orang was moving, now almost directly overhead.

“No, I didn’t.” Gorevitch raised the gun once more.

“Yes, you did. If you shoot again-”

Gorevitch fired.

A whoosh of gas near his ear, then silence. Gorevitch lowered the gun and moved to reload it, keeping his eyes on the canopy overhead. He crouched down, flicked open his metal case, and felt for more cartridges. He kept looking upward the whole time.

Silence.

“You hit him,” Hagar said.

“Maybe.”

“I know you hit him.”

“No, you don’t.” Gorevitch popped three more cartridges into the gun. “You don’t know that.”

“He’s not moving. You hit him.”

Gorevitch took his position, raised the rifle, just in time to see a dark shape come plummeting downward. It was the orang, falling straight down from the canopy more than 150 feet above them.

The animal crashed to the ground at Gorevitch’s feet, splattering mud. The orang didn’t move. Hagar swung a flashlight.

Three darts protruded from the body. One in the leg, two in the chest. The orang was not moving. The animal’s eyes were open, staring upward.

“Great,” Hagar said. “Great work.”

Gorevitch dropped to his knees in the mud, put his mouth over the orang’s big lips, and blew air into his lungs, to resuscitate him.