The Dead Man's Brother (17 page)

They make them pretty tough these days. Windshields.

The three of them piled out of their car. All of them held guns. They emerged from the far side, and two approached me from the front while one went around to the rear.

The two pointed their weapons at me and one of them yelled, "Drop that and raise your hands!" He emphasized his request by shifting the muzzle slightly and putting a bullet through the windshield.

I dropped the club and raised my hands. I had never liked the idea of dying in an old Ford in Brazil.

One of them kept me covered—it was Dominic, I just then realized—while the other two tried moving their car out of the way.

The engine wouldn’t do it. Neither would muscle power. I heard them cursing.

I began to laugh. Hysterically, I think.

Then Dominic said, "Come out through the windshield."

"There’s still a lot of glass."

"Clear it with whatever you were using—carefully!"

I did this, then crawled over the dashboard and out onto the hood. He backed off several paces and I climbed down to the ground.

"Turn around. Lean against the car," he said.

Then, to one of the others who turned out to be Victor, "Search him!" he ordered.

This turned up the pieces of wire in the lefthand pocket of my trousers.

"How did you get out?" he asked me.

"I opened the door."

"With what?"

"Those wires. It was an old lock."

The driver, a small man whom I had not seen before, approached. "Damn! Damn! Damn!" he chanted. "Look at the cars!"

He drew back his fist.

"Stop!" said Dominic. "If you knock him out, you are going to carry him back yourself. I’ve had all I can take tonight. Leave the lights on in this car. Let’s get down to the house."

The driver nodded curtly and turned away. Then, "Make him get the ignition keys," he said. "This engine is still running."

I returned and fetched them.

Flanked and followed, I rounded the massed mess then, cutting down through the gully, and moved back along the driveway. Some awakened birds made grumpy noises in the trees. It had been a good dream while it lasted.

*

The questioning continued. In fact, it began as soon as I was taken back inside. This time, though, there were added refinements, such as being beaten across the soles of the feet. There were new questions, too, such as who had sent me to steal whatever I had stolen and how much I had been paid for the job. After each negative reply, a sock full of sand across the belly became the rule. For variety’s sake, I guess. I was tied spread-eagle to a tabletop at this time, and whenever I passed out a bucket of water was sloshed over my head and shoulders. I lost track of time and the number of dousings.

The next two days came to seem like the product of delirium to me. I won’t say that they filled a tub with water and forced my head under until I could hold my breath no longer, then gave me artificial respiration and resumed questioning me. I won’t say that they finally applied electrical shocks to my testicles until I finally babbled the entire story over and over—from Carl Bernini through the CIA—and that they only laughed at me and said I was telling lies. No, I won’t say any of these things.

For part of a night and half of a day, I lay naked on my mattress on the floor, shaking and drifting between nightmare and spells of consciousness that were no improvement. They had removed the three-legged cot when they brought me back, and they had not returned my clothing after a subsequent session. I had stopped worrying about internal injuries. Occasionally, I speculated as to how much longer I had to live. Ironically, there was not a mark on me.

Whenever I found myself wondering when they would come again, I would retreat from the thought by reviewing what I would do to them if I had the chance. I kept pushing everything else out of my mind and dwelling on the details.

Then, sometime in the afternoon, they came again. They came several times, in fact.

They brought in a table and a chair, set them by the window and went away. Moments later, they returned and set a hot, decent-looking meal on the end of the table. One of them paused and glanced at me as they were leaving.

"Lunch," he said.

I crawled across the room to reach it. My feet were too sore to bear my weight.

I got into the chair and began eating. Before I was very far along, they were back again. I shuddered, but did not even turn around when I heard the door open. Then I bolted another mouthful, in case they had come to take it all away and laugh.

But Dominic said, "Excuse me," as he set a basin of water at the other end of the table and laid a towel, a washcloth, a bar of soap and a razor beside it.

As he walked out, he said, "Your clothing."

I turned around and saw that my clothes, nearly laundered and pressed, were lying folded upon the mattress.

I did not allow myself the luxury of thinking. I finished the meal quickly and washed it down with a glass of clean water. There was a small glass of what appeared to be wine that I had saved for last. I sipped it, and it was.

I scoured myself afterwards, remaining seated as much as possible. They had not provided a mirror, but I managed what afterwards felt like a passable shave.

I hobbled back to the mattress and dressed myself. I was surprised to find that no one had disturbed the contents of the money belt.

A large envelope had lain beneath my clothing. Opening it, I discovered everything they had taken from me—passport, wallet, comb, watch, etc. I postponed lighting one of my remaining cigarettes until I had combed my hair and stowed everything where it belonged. I winced at the list of artists Bruno had given me. It had been the subject of numerous queries.

I left my shoes off and went and sat by the window, using the table as a footrest. I was beginning to feel slightly human again. I even entertained the notion that I might be allowed to live. After my second cigarette, I grew sleepy and dozed off there in the chair.

About half an hour later I heard the door open and was instantly awake and wary.

Victor nodded and flashed a smile.

"If you will come with me, please," he said.

I nodded back, struggled into my shoes, rose and accompanied him into the hall. We walked along until we came to the front room. He indicated that I should enter, but remained outside himself.

Inspector Morales sat behind the desk. Before it, to my right, Maria was seated. She appeared to have been the object of a cleanup campaign also. But her face was pinched and her glance furtive, despite the scrubbing, the combing, the makeup. There was a vacant chair to her left and Morales gestured toward it.

"Please have a seat," he said, "Mister Wiley."

I did this thing and waited, staring at him.

"First," he said, "as I have already told Miss Borsini, I apologize for any discomfort you experienced during your stay here. I understand that several of your questioners exceeded their authority. They have been reprimanded and they will receive departmental discipline."

I thought of Victor’s smile and said nothing.

"After further investigation," he went on, "we find your statements quite acceptable. It was an unfortunate coincidence that you happened to appear at the scene of the crime the morning after it had occurred—under what I am certain you will admit were suspicious circumstances."

He paused, as if expecting us to agree, then shrugged.

"Such mistakes do sometimes occur," he continued, "and this was one of those times. Again, I am sorry. It is over, though—the inconvenience, the distress…We are releasing you. I am certain that the remainder of your visit in our country will help to erase the memory of—the unpleasantness. You must understand that a policeman’s first duty is to be thorough."

I continued to stare at him.

"We had your car returned to the rental agency," he said, "shortly after we took you into custody. Since we had no idea how long you would be with us, it seemed senseless to let the charges accumulate. As it is, you owe nothing on it. We also checked you out of your hotel in Santos, for the same reason. That is your luggage in the corner."

He gestured, but I did not turn my head.

"Again, you owe nothing," he added.

He produced a pack of cigarettes, smiled and offered them around.

"No," said Maria.

I shook my head.

He lit one, snorted smoke around it, leaned back in his chair.

"Since you lack transportation," he said, "I will have you taken wherever you wish, whether in Santos or in São Paulo."

I felt Maria’s eyes upon me then.

"Then take us to the Othon Palace in São Paulo," I said, it being the only one I remembered from the Highly Recommended list in the guidebook, because of its simple name.

"An excellent choice!" he said. "I recommend it highly. You will find their restaurant quite good."

I withdrew a cigarette from my pack. He extended his lighter and snapped it on, but I ignored it and used a match.

"You are of course angry," he said, "and justly so. That is regrettable. I regret having around ill-will even more than I regret having made a mistake. However, what is done cannot be undone. There are many things in this country which will provide you with happy memories. São Paulo is a world in itself, a world of the future. You will see. There is much beauty and power, and the future of all South America is being forged here daily. When you leave, it will be this that you remember. These memories should serve to mitigate your most recent ones. Let us speak of them no more. Have you any questions? Is there anything that you want?"

"Did you find it?" I asked him.

"What?"

"Whatever was taken from Emil Bretagne’s safe."

"No," he replied.

"Did you find Emil Bretagne?"

"Not yet," he said.

I smiled.

"This, however, should come soon," he added.

I permitted my smile to deepen.

He looked away.

"Miss Borsini?" he inquired.

"No. Nothing," she said.

"Very well, then," he said, rising. "I am going into the city now myself. I will drop you at the Othon Palace."

Neither of us said a word, but we rose and followed him. Maria immediately seized my hand, and I realized that she was trembling on the verge of tears. I put my arm about her shoulders and we walked out to the car that way.

Dominic followed with the bags and Victor slid into the driver’s seat. We had the rear of the vehicle to ourselves and she cried silently, all the way to the hotel.

*

On the way in, I committed every twisting and turning of the road to memory, as well as the position and the name of every elevated and ground-level roadway we traversed once we achieved the city proper. The drive lasted well over an hour, but at the end of that time I was certain I could retrace the route.

"It is beautiful, is it not?" said Morales at one point, a concrete-crowded section of the city burning white beneath us.

We did not reply. We had not replied to any of his attempts at neutral conversation on the way in.

He sighed and gave up again.

Relief and continuing fury were my only emotions, mixed with surprise that the ordeal had ended as abruptly and strangely as this. It seemed weeks, rather than days, that they had held us. Now they decided they had made a mistake, said, "Sorry about that," and were acting as if hardly anything had happened. Beyond the fact that it made little sense to me, their attitude almost seemed calculated to infuriate. Pain, humiliation, indifference and dismissal—signifying that our only value in the universe was whatever information we might possess that they wanted. Very well, then. I hoped it would not be too long before they learned the value this had caused me to place upon them. They were quite special to me now.

"…I suppose you will complain to your embassies," Morales was saying as we drew up before the hotel. "This will result only in our explanation and regrets being cast in the form of a letter. I say this only to save you time better spent in viewing our lovely country and enjoying its capital."

We stepped out of the car. Dominic fetched the luggage from the trunk and placed it beside us on the walk. He was smiling.

Morales stood before us.

"Enjoy yourselves," he said, and extended his hand.

I looked at his hand, looked at his face, turned away. I picked up the luggage and took it into the lobby. Neither of us looked back.

I sketched a quick map of the route and jotted the car’s tag number as I waited to check us in. We were given a room several floors up, toward the rear.

When our luggage was on the racks and the door had closed behind the departing bellhop, Maria and I stared at each other for a moment and then she was in my arms. She was shaking and she sobbed aloud now. I held her tightly, rubbing her neck, stroking her hair. It was several moments before I realized that I was also kissing her. I didn’t stop. It was a reflex, a release for both of us.

Things simply progressed without a word being said. We were on the bed within minutes. Then came the wild ride down the best of roads, dream-silent, through a hot landscape of flesh, her hair knotted around my hand, her softness flowing beneath me. For a time there was nothing else that mattered.

Later, as we lay there, I stared at the ceiling and smoked and she clutched my left bicep to her breast. "What are we going to do now?" she finally whispered. "Find out what happened," I said. "It’s too soon to kill Morales. I may have to wait a few months. Possibly even leave the country and come back again. But I’ll get him." Then, after a long while, she asked, "But what of the other matter?"

"It’s all connected," I said, "somehow. I’m certain of that."

Her grip on my arm tightened, then eased.

"How shall we begin?" she asked.

"By reporting what has just occurred to our embassies."

"What good will that do?"

"None. But I think it is expected of us. Let us seem predictable for a time."

I put out my cigarette and stroked her hair. After a while we slept.