Disclaimer: Sheesh, I have nothing but admiration for anyone who doesn't get tired of writing these.
A/N: Thank you all, the response has been gratifying! And N, I'll keep in mind that 40 is a lot ;) Oh, and I know there are a few readers from Brazil; I sadly have never had a chance to visit your beautiful country, but I pieced this together as best I could from internet accounts, and it's accurate as far as I know…feel free to let me know if I messed up, though!
Chapter 7
Sara jerked awake from her troubled sleep as her conveyance hit a large pothole, launching her several inches into the air. She landed with a jolt back in her vinyl padded bench seat and swiftly did a head-to-toe check of her person, making sure her backpack strap was still wrapped tightly round her feet, her money wallet was safely under her shirt, and her map of the eastern Brazilian coastline was…where was it? Panicking slightly, she shifted this way and that, peering behind her back, and lifted one buttock and then the other looking for it, in case she'd sat on it during her nap, and then finally located it on the floor at her feet. She must've fallen asleep with the map in her hand, and it had fallen when her grip slackened as she lost her battle with consciousness.
She sighed in relief…the tourist information for this area that she'd downloaded off the web had included stern warnings to keep all belongings firmly attached to her body at all times, stating that theft was a major problem. Now, fully alert, she looked around to see if the scenery had changed since she'd boarded the bus, now…4 hours ago, she realized, checking her watch. The urban jungle that was Rio de Janeiro, consisting of tightly clustered buildings closely bordered by endless ocean on the east, and dense rain forest in the other three directions had swiftly given way to endless green. Now, Sara still noted that green, and wished wistfully that she'd thought to pick up a nature guide to Brazil…she couldn't give names to the majestic trees and intensely colored vegetation that they trundled through, and she wanted to. She did know that it was beautiful.
She settled back against the vinyl seat and rubbed her forehead with two fingers. The bus was, thankfully, air conditioned, but the sheer intensity of the sunlight, whenever the trees gave way to coffee plantations or towns, made her head throb. The chaos inside her head didn't help either. She sighed again, still conflicted. Catherine had seemed so certain that this was the right thing to do, but she still wasn't sure she agreed. Still, everything else over the last few months had demonstrated the efficacy of Catherine's plan; as she'd predicted, Warrick's search of airplane manifests yielded not only the names he was looking for, but also another name; one Grissom, Gilbert I. Grissom's name had appeared on the listing for a flight to Brazil, and so they had their first clue.
Her brow crinkled, as she wondered yet again why Grissom had made no attempt at misdirection when it came to his ultimate destination. Why not take a flight with a layover in Dallas instead of a direct flight? Without a warrant it would have been impossible for them to get flight information leaving Dallas, or any other airport; yet he'd booked a flight for exactly where he intended to end up. It was odd, considering the effort he'd gone to in order to leave no trace. The only possible explanation she could come up with made her immeasurably sad; that he'd made no attempt to mislead simply because he did not expect anyone to really try to find him. She hoped he understood how much he was loved and missed, by everyone on his team, but she had to admit that the possibility fit his self-effacing personality.
Once Sara obtained Grissom's general destination from Warrick, she set to work with a will. She compiled a list of every university, scientific and nature organization in Brazil that was large enough to attract and keep the services of an entomologist of Gil Grissom's stature. Then she created a false e-mail account, using a made up name, one Cassie Jenson. Using this account, she crafted a missive in which she described herself as a graduate student in plant ecology, looking to perform research in a lab, university or nature reserve. In her letter she indicated that she had already obtained sufficient funding for her research (which ought to placate budget-minded bureaucrats), but was looking for a site that also had an on-site entomologist. Her excuse was that she needed a collaborator who could give her insight into the pollinators that took part in the ecosystems she desired to study. Therefore, could they tell her if there was an entomologist on site, or accessible, and give her a name and contact information so she could request that person's assistance?
Sara spent countless hours personalizing each copy of this message so that it looked like she was writing it just for that institution or program, and sent them off one by one, like hundreds of passenger pigeons with vital messages attached to their legs. And, like those self-same birds, the replies came winging home, day after day bearing negative responses or giving up names of entomologists of no interest to her. She completed her work like a robot during those weeks, living only for the time when either shift was over, or she had a moment of downtime in a case. Then, every time, she'd rush to her computer to check her e-mail, only to have her hopes dashed, over and over again.
Three weeks after she'd sent off that first e-mail she'd awoken sweating and shuddering in her bed, recovering from one of her usual assortment of night terrors. Knowing that sleeping any more tonight was a lost cause, she dragged herself out of bed and shuffled into the kitchen to make a fresh pot of coffee. Once the first sip of the miracle liquid had turned her once again from zombie to human, she flipped on her laptop, and took a seat at her desk, waiting for her system to boot up. When the familiar blue horizon of a Windows desktop filled her screen she logged into her e-mail account and began perusing the new messages. As had become usual, there were a handful of replies from Brazilian organizations, so she gathered up her swiftly depleting fortitude and began to scan through each one. Halfway through the third new message, she froze in place. It read:
Dear Ms. Jensen,
Thank you for your interest in taking part in the exciting research opportunities available at Iracambi Atlantic Rainforest Research and Conservation Center. I hope that you will find the following information helpful in making your decision on a site to complete your important research. To answer your primary question, yes, we do have an entomologist on site, a Dr. Gilbert I. Grissom. He is a recent addition to our team, but I think you'll find that he is eminently qualified to assist you in your endeavor. To contact Dr. Grissom, e-mail him at ggrissom iracambi . com. Should you decide that Iracambi is a good match for your research needs, information on research opportunities at Iracambi may be found at http : /www . iracambi . com / english / researcher . shtml. I've also taken the liberty of attaching a copy of our research center's brochure to this message.
Thank you for your interest, and should that interest lead you to join our team, I'll look forward to working with you,
Cordially,
Pippa Alliard
Assistant Director
Iracambi Rainforest Research and Conservation Center
Sara stared at her computer in utter shock for what seemed like hours. The first coherent thought to cross her mind was oddly irrelevant. 'What the heck kind of name is Pippa?' Finally, she gathered her thoughts and became aware of a wave of exultation rising up within her. She grabbed the phone in trembling fingers; it took two tries for her to manage to punch the right combinations of numbers. Finally, when the person on the other end of the line picked up, Sara could no longer contain herself; "Catherine!" she cried, "WE FOUND HIM!"
An unintelligible announcement in Portuguese brought her out of her thoughts. Did she hear "Muriaé" in that jumble of syllables? She knew what her transfers were, but the bus driver made no allowance for non-speakers of Portuguese. She set herself to watch for signs as they pulled up to the bus station in another small city. With relief she noticed a sign reading 'Bem-vindo à Muriaé', so she shoved her map into the spacious pocket in her cargo shorts, slung her backpack over one shoulder, and joined the queue waiting to exit the bus.
Once outside, she pushed up on her toes and stretched her arms above her head until her joints cracked. Groaning in relief, she looked around herself. Muriaé looked much like most South American cities; closely set, medium-high buildings, looking like tan and white children's building blocks with orange tile roofs. The broad river running right through the center of town was unusual, she admitted to herself, but otherwise, nothing stood out. There was a tourist hotel right next to the bus depot, and she had a half an hour until her next bus arrived, so she headed that way, hoping to see if she could reserve a room for tonight. She knew from her research that Iracambi had no guest quarters, so she'd have to return here on the six o'clock bus. That would give her approximately two hours to convince Grissom to come home. 'More than enough time', she though with a shudder, 'or perhaps too much.'
Twenty minutes later she hurried back into the bus depot with a hotel confirmation for that night tucked safely away in her backpack. Only moments later, the 1:30 bus to Limeira pulled up in a cloud of dust and she jogged over to join the line forming outside its doors. When the vehicle pulled away a few minutes later, she was safely ensconced in a middle seat, leaning up against her backpack and closing her eyes to try to catch a few more minutes' sleep.
The members of the nightshift arrived, one by one, and claimed a round booth to the rear of the restaurant. Frank's Diner was their usual choice for these kinds of powwows, because it was open 24 hours, but when, as now, they chose to get together outside of graveyard hours, the pink neon and black glass facade of the Peppermill saw their patronage more often than not. The food was good, as was the music, and, for a restaurant on the Strip, it was remarkably quiet. Once they'd placed their orders, Nick, Greg and Warrick all turned expectantly to Catherine, to find out why she'd called this meeting. Sara stared at her hands, folded in her lap to reflect a calmness she did not actually feel.
"So…Cath…I assume we're here about Grissom?" Nick queried.
"Astute of you to figure that out," Catherine grinned.
"Well…if you wanted to see us for any other reason, we could have done this in the break room at work," Greg pointed out, wryly.
"True. Well, I won't beat around the bush; Sara's found Grissom…" and, bulldozing on through the surprised and happy exclamations from all three men, Cath continued, "and we need to decide exactly what to do with the information."
All three men subsided, considering. "You're right, Cath. We never did get that far when we planned this. Where is he exactly?" Nick inquired.
"Iracambi, a conservation center in Brazil," Sara spoke up for the first time, flicking her eyes up to meet the eyes of her colleagues, briefly.
"Sara got an e-mail addy for him, and we could try e-mailing, but I think this requires a more personal touch," Catherine smirked. "An e-mail he can delete or ignore, but if one of us shows up in person he'd have to hear us out."
At this, everyone gaped at Catherine. Finally, Warrick found his voice. "Cath, you're my boss and a good friend and all, but DAMN, woman! Who of all of us has the time and money to jaunt off to Brazil?"
"Well, as for money, I've come into a bit of money lately," Catherine hedged, obliquely referencing the recent check from Sam Braun. "I can fund this operation. I think only one of us has sufficient leave time accumulated, though…" All eyes turned to focus on the person sitting to Catherine's right.
"What?" Sara said, startled. "Me? You guys are crazy! I'm the last person Griss would listen to!"
"Sar, the boss-lady had a point; you have, what, 12 weeks of leave accumulated? All of the rest of us have taken our allotted vacation time each year. We have zippo, zero, nada. You're the only possible choice." Nick said gently. "Besides, sweetie, you underestimate your influence over him; he's got an enormous soft spot for you, we've all seen it."
Sara snorted in disbelief. "Guys!" she whined, "what if I don't want to do this?"
Four pairs of eyes examined her skeptically for a long moment. Finally, Greg said, curiously, "Sara, do you want Grissom to come back?"
Sara stared down at her hands again. Finally, "Yes," she admitted, without looking up.
"So?" Catherine demanded. Sara looked up and sighed.
"OK, I'll do it"
The name Limeira amidst another indecipherable burst of Portuguese brought Sara out of her wandering thoughts. She hadn't really slept, as this leg of the journey was only just over an hour, but she'd gone over again in her head the day she'd made the decision to come here, wondering if, in the end, there was any other choice she could have made. It had taken six weeks from that day to arrange all the details of this trip; though clearly getting her leave time authorized was no problem, Sara had never been a world traveler, so she had to obtain a passport, tourist visa, and numerous inoculations. All of those things took time that she wasn't sure they had, but she was here, finally. As she stepped down off of the bus and looked around the small town curiously, she hoped that the object of her quest still resided here.
Before she set to her task of finding transportation to the center itself, she gazed around wonderingly at the dense Atlantic rainforest. She'd thought that the greenery was pervasive on the drive here, but she could see now that the countryside through which she'd traveled was a sort of domesticated rainforest. Here, the presence of unspoiled natural habitat was obvious everywhere she looked. The air was filled with the tweets, caws, whistles, and croaks of native birds, and other, vaguely simian sounds overlaid that with trills, clucks and whines. A strange mammal that looked like an otter with porcupine quills waddled across the walkway right in front of her. Here, it was clear that humans were the visitors and the wild things were the proprietors of the land.
Making her way to the bus depot's ticket office, she pulled out her Portuguese phrase book and swiftly looked up the phrase she needed to ask: "Como faço para obter a Iracambi?"
The man looked amused at her pronunciation, and took pity on her obvious gringo inadequacy. In halting English, he replied, "You can take taxi. Is 50 dollars American. Or, can take school bus—is free." He shrugged and pointed to a road sign a few meters away, showing a bus shaped outline and a few words in Portuguese.
Sara approached the sign, warily. She wasn't sure about taking a twenty-minute ride with a bus full of children speaking a foreign language, but her frugal nature revolted at the idea of spending fifty bucks when there was a cheaper option. She decided that she'd give it ten minutes, and if the school bus didn't arrive in that time, she'd try the costlier option.
Within just three or four minutes, however, a stereotypically yellow bus approached. When it pulled up to her and the doors hissed open, she looked up at the squat brown-skinned driver and asked nervously, "Iracambi?"
"Sim, senhora," he smiled and nodded at her. Encouraged, she took the shallow steps up and slid into the first empty seat she saw. She turned to look around her and found that the bus was not very full. There were perhaps ten children scattered around the benches and all were staring shyly at her from under black, brown and even blonde bangs. She smiled slightly and waved her hand in a small hello, and a few of the children found the courage to wave back, while most of them giggled. She heard the word "Americana" and "gringa" several times amongst their ensuing chatter, but understood nothing else, and so she leaned her forehead against the window and watched the rainforest slide by.
In no time at all, the bus driver called out, "Senhora!, chegamos Iracambi!" and she sat up so fast she almost lost her balance. She looked out her window and saw…nothing much. A red dirt path sloped downhill from the road, with wooden posts driven into the earth alongside it, every 10 feet or so. Tall grasses grew in profusion around the path and gate. Blocking access to the path was a wooden gate that would come up to her hip if she were down on the ground.
She looked at the driver uncertainly and he grinned at her and said, in very broken English, "Iracambi, you go!" She sighed, and made her way to the front of the bus and descended to the roadway. The bus churned busily off to continue its dusty journey as she stared at the weathered wooden gate. On the middle bar, the word "Iracambi" was painted in white, curvy letters. Visibly gathering her courage, Sara pulled open the gate and started down the lonely path.