The Dead Man's Brother (25 page)

"At around the same time you were having second feelings about your own situation here?"

"Yes. Everything seems to happen at once, doesn’t it?" he said, rising and moving to his writing table, where he deposited the briefcase.

"Here they are. All the answers you could possibly want," he announced, "and lots more."

"So you believe your brother was killed by Bruno’s people?" I insisted.

"As I said, it is only a guess. But it seems to make some sense," he stated, fumbling to light his pipe once more.

I saw Martinson lying there dead in his villa, and the face of the man I had killed. I remembered lunch with Bruno, and the art leads he had furnished me, calculated to make me a tiny sum. He had seemed suspicious of something. Had this been a bribe, an attempt to satisfy me and steer me away from his business? Was it he who then had me followed to the home of our security officer, followed by men authorized to commit murder if it seemed I was betraying a fancied trust? If so, why should he have assumed I possessed inside information as to his activities? It did not make sense. And then his death. Perhaps because he had failed? Or done the wrong thing?

And what was Maria’s real role in all this, then?

"Are you planning on doing anything about it?" I asked.

"There is not really anything that I can do," he said, "as I’ve no real information to offer the investigators. Besides, he was a religious man, who never advocated vengeance and believed
mors janua vitae
. In other words—"

"
Sod cucullus non facit monachum
," I interrupted, "
et ignoti nulla cupido
. I understand, though. You will do nothing."

"Damn it!" he said. "I am not insensitive to my own brother’s death! It is just that there is nothing that I can do. I doubt that his killer will ever be found. Did you come here just to bait me on that?"

"No," I said. "Sorry. It is just that I had grown very interested in the case. It was near to the point where I came in."

"I see," he said. "Don’t throw any more Latin at me. I’m allergic to it. You have everything that I’m going to give you now."

He glanced out the window. The storm had turned into a light, misty rainfall, and bits of sunlight were beginning to sneak by it.

"You are doubtless somewhat fatigued," he said, "but I would recommend your starting the return trip as quickly as possible. If you travel all day, camp out tonight and hike most of tomorrow, it will get you to a station on the highway other than the one you started from. From there you will be able to get transportation in either direction: Brasilia, or São Paulo or Rio. The tribesmen know the way. Promptness is all. The sooner those papers reach your superiors, the sooner my insurance goes into effect."

"Yes," I said. "I’m anxious to get rid of them already."

"Which way did you plan on heading, toward Disneyland or back to the south?"

"South," I said. "I know my way around a little better down there."

"Good," he said, nodding. "Tell me, do you think you could find your way back here?"

"Yes."

"I had a feeling that you might be able to," he said. "If, after delivering this bundle, you should feel inclined to make a return visit—alone or accompanied—you will find that I no longer reside here and that my whereabouts are unknown."

"Thanks for the advice."

"Just thought I’d save you a possible disappointment. I plan on moving out in a few hours, as a matter of fact."

"That, of course, leaves us with no way of advising you as to the effectuation of your requests."

"I’ll find out for—"

The sound of gunfire, breaking his sentence, dictated my next move also. I had been pacing where I was pacing for a reason.

I swung his rifle down from the peg and had a shell in the chamber before he could draw his pistol. He refrained from doing it then, because I was pointing the rifle at him. Damn Morales anyway! He must have been following closely enough to have us in sight when I ditched the transmitter. I had just lost my lead, not to mention Emil’s confidence—and I had to clear out fast and take the briefcase with me. Time was burning.

"God damn you, you son of a bitch!" he said, preliminary doubtless to other remarks which I did not give him the opportunity to voice.

"Shut up and listen!" I snarled. "It’s a cop named Morales whom I thought I’d shaken. I tried not to lead him here, but—"

"Morales?" he cried, his face livid—and he reached for his pistol.

I had a choice of shooting him or taking a chance.

I lunged and arced the butt of the rifle forward and up.

The blow glanced off his forearm and struck his shoulder. It was sufficient.

I knocked the gun out of his hand then and pushed him backwards as he swung an ineffectual left hook in my direction.

"Damn it! I wasn’t trying to bring him here!" I said. "I tried to ditch him. I thought we had more time than we did. Listen to me. I’m on your side. We’ve got to get away. With Maria and the papers. Will you help?"

He was still in a half-crouch. He shook himself straight and refocused his gaze on me while rubbing his arm.

"Yes," he said softly. "Yes, damn it. How many men does he have?"

"A couple dozen, I’d guess. Pick up the gun and grab the briefcase. Take me to Maria."

The gunfire had increased, but it was still coming from the far end of the village.

I covered him while he retrieved the weapon and reholstered it. He snatched up the briefcase with his left hand, strode to the packing case and lifted down the machete.

"This way," he said, crossing to the far wall after having glanced out the window.

With four swift chops he created an exit.

"They can see the front," he explained, stepping through.

I followed him.

He stuck the machete through the pistol belt at his left hip and drew the pistol.

He gestured toward the far end of the village.

"That way," he said.

We commenced running.

The ground was slippery and occasional drops of rain struck us as we ran. After we had gone about a hundred feet, I glanced back.

A line of khaki-clad men was moving through the village, firing at random. I saw two adults and a child on the ground. I heard screaming, and people were fleeing toward the woods and the stream.

I believe we had covered perhaps a hundred yards more when a determined yell went up and another backward glance showed me we had been discovered. Rifles were now leveled in our direction and slugs tore into trees and huts about us. A man began running toward us.

I drew abreast Emil.

"How much farther?" I shouted.

"Quite a distance," he replied. "I don’t think we can make it, but she should be safe. Look!"

Ahead, I saw that the villagers were fading into the woods, mothers carrying children, young leading old, others just running like hell. It was fortunate for them that the village seemed to sprawl for well over a mile along the watercourse. It made it impossible for the few men involved in the operation to surround the place, requiring that they settle for a sweeping action instead.

I slipped once, recovered my footing, kept going. Something whistled near while I was down. The far end of the village was quickly becoming deserted. I thought I caught a glimpse of Vera leading Maria through the brush, but I could not be positive.

"She’s made it!" Emil yelled back to me. "Head for cover!" and he veered and headed toward a clump of bushes to the left.

I turned also, just as he fell. At first, I thought he had slipped, and then I saw blood. It appeared on his shirt and trousers, left side. He clutched himself about the thigh and middle as I threw myself down beside him and began firing toward our pursuers. I hit one, and another fell with an arrow in his side, shot from somewhere in the jungle.

"How bad is it?" I yelled.

I missed his answer the first time around because of the noise.

"—don’t think it’s fatal!" I caught, as he repeated. "Take the papers and clear out!"

"Can’t leave you!" I said, firing two more rounds.

"They won’t kill me! Clear out! Take the machete!"

He unsnapped the pistol belt and the machete fell free. He pushed the briefcase toward me. Both bore bloodstains.

"Maria’s safe! Run!" he said, making it sound like a curse.

I squeezed off the remaining rounds, dropping two more men, and let the rifle fall to the ground.

"Okay," I said, taking the blade and the case in either hand, "I will."

I scrambled to my feet and headed for the bushes, hating to leave him but having no real choice.

As I ran, there came several bursts of gunfire from close at hand. I ventured one look back before I drove into cover.

He was propped up on his elbow, covering for me with the pistol. He must have guessed wrongly about their intentions, because he slumped just then, the pistol falling from his hand.

Cursing, I crashed on through the brush.

X.

I was drenched within a matter of seconds. I had traveled only a few feet through the clinging green before the moisture had soaked through to my skin. I pressed ahead, hoping for a break, my shoulders tightened against the shot that would kill me.

The break came in a matter of a few dozen heartbeats.

A rift occurred in the foliage, angling off to my left. It was hardly a path. It was simply a lessening of resistance in that direction. I leaned into it, I moved sideways. I bent backwards to avoid low branches, and the undergrowth dragged at my ankles. I pushed myself through a tight space between two trees, thorns tearing at my clothing. The way widened slightly and I was able to sprint for perhaps twelve feet before it closed again and nooses of vine sought to entangle me.

The sounds of gunfire were muffled, grew sporadic, died down for a time. I broke through to an open area, resisted an impulse to dash across it and worked my way around. I could not hear any sounds of pursuit, but the walls of green muffled distant noises and provided sounds of their own to dampen those nearby. I seemed to be moving onto slightly higher ground.

I used the machete sparingly, not wanting to leave gross signs of my passage. After perhaps half an hour, I was gasping and bleeding lightly from numerous nicks and scrapes. This seemed to attract insects, but my constant movement and steady shedding of perspiration and rain brushed off, crushed or washed away all but the most stubborn and ingenious. The goddamn briefcase kept hooking itself onto the flora.

I was not really certain how far I had come, but I was beginning to get the feeling that I had temporarily eluded any pursuers, when I heard the sound of a helicopter. Moments later, a fat military transport-type chopper passed overhead at treetop-sweeping altitude. It was no real trick to conceal myself from it in all that foliage. I dropped low, and it shortly disappeared back in the direction from which I had come.

Further! I suddenly wanted more distance with an even greater urgency. The thought of additional hunters on my trail now caused me to swing the machete wildly, heedless of any signs that it left, to get through the dense stuff as rapidly as possible, to reach some place where I could travel more quickly. I was somewhat surprised that I had encountered none of the villagers thus far. I had half-hoped that if I made it far enough away from their settlement some of them would spot me and give me some assistance. No luck. Either they had seen me and did not want to get involved any further, or they were fleeing in another direction.

The ground took on a slight rise as I proceeded and the undergrowth let up a bit, though I still could not see for more than ten feet in any direction. After a brief while, the going got somewhat easier and I realized that I was indeed heading for higher ground. I chanced dashing across the next small clear space I came to because I realized my strength was failing and I wanted the distance. It was a gamble, but nobody shot at me and I picked up thirty or forty quick feet. The foliage was less dense on the far side.

A minute or two later I heard the sounds of distant gunfire. Perhaps some of the natives had been cornered. I wondered about Maria then, winced, pushed on. There had been nothing I could have done to help her earlier and there was nothing I could do now. Damn Emil and his briefcase, anyway! He no longer had these problems. I wondered what
mors janua vitae
meant to him, then and now.

My feet were aching, but I had the consolation of knowing they would soon grow numb. They always resigned in protest when I marched too much. Poor circulation, I guess, but numbness can be a small blessing at times.

I threw in a curse for Carl Bernini for getting dead where he did and fetching me into this whole mess in the first place. One of my great ambitions, if I lived, would be to find out why. I saved my biggest and best for Collins, though.
Anathema sit!

The angle of the slope increased and I continued to follow it. The forest thinned even more, and for a time I was thankful for this. Where it was clear enough to see for a decent distance ahead, I realized that I was climbing into those hills from which Emil had first observed us. From far behind me and somewhat below there still came the sounds of shooting. I longed once more for an automatic weapon and a place to curl up with it and rest. Throw in a canteen of water while you’re at it.

I did not want to be exposed on the hilltops, but if I gained a little more height I would be able to move much faster to the right or the left. So upward and onward then, the briefcase growing heavier with every step.

The briefcase…I had to get rid of the thing, I decided. Not just because of the fatigue factor. No.

If they spotted me and I did not have it, they would not try to kill me. If they were able to take me, I would still have a small position. Yes, the briefcase had to go.

I began searching for something in the way of a landmark.

About five minutes later, I could see the tops of the nearer hills. A few minutes after that I encountered a large boulder perhaps a hundred yards from a tree which reminded me of a hunchback with a cane when I moved about the stone and lined it up with the second hilltop. I excavated beside, then back under that edge of the boulder.