by Bob Nailor
“I said, return to your village.” Her voice approached a roar. Itotia’s eyes flared wide and the color flamed red; even her canines seemed more apparent. “Do not touch anything!”
“Who is Eduardo Moraes?” Wayne asked. He held a wallet he’d found on the top of a pile. “How did he come to die in your village?”
Itotia’s eyes exploded, glowing like embers. “Leave!” she roared. “This is of our god’s making and none may desecrate his holy workplace.”
The two workers immediately jumped to their feet and grabbed Aaron and Ana. They pulled them toward the path; then pushed them ahead. The pair fell to the ground while the men squared off and blocked their return. A tussle ensued, the team gathering around their leaders. It took a few more shoves before they headed down the path toward the village. The forest canopy was alive and glared at them through glowing crimson eyes.
“What did we just see, Dr. Ana?” Nancy asked. She walked uncharacteristically close to Wayne, his arm loosely around her shoulders. Ana had no quick answer.
It was Wayne who answered. “I may be the junior member of this team, but I know what we didn’t see.”
“That being, Wayne?” Aaron asked.
“As far as I know, that was not a stone-age structure. I saw one nearly exactly like it on Crete last summer,” he said with odd authority. “It was a low-temperature smelting plant. Like for gold or lead.”
“We’ve seen so much gold since we’ve been here.” Nancy shook her head. “It feels normal to make arrowheads or cups from the stuff.”
“Did you see the piles of armor?” Aaron asked. “Much of it was rusted to dust but it all looked Spanish to me.”
“We’re talking El Dorado, aren’t we?” Neville asked. “The legend so many men died for.”
“Well,” Ana added, “it seems we’ve discovered how they died. Their bodies were fuel to refine the stuff they came to find.” Ana’s comment left the group quiet. The rocketing level of danger in the expedition was an unspoken subject between them in a tacit atmosphere of terror.
Aaron pulled Ana behind the rest of the group and asked, “You read the full briefing paper, right?”
“Of course. Why?”
“Then the name Eduardo Moraes is familiar.”
She gave him a sheepish look. “Remind me.”
He pulled the wallet from one of the pockets in his trail shorts.
Ana frowned. “She didn’t see you take that, did she?”
Aaron opened the water-soaked leather. “I hope not.” He held Moraes’ driver’s license for Ana to see. “He was the cattle farmer who disappeared and left his herd to die after carving a pasture out of the forest.” Aaron cocked a questioning eye at Ana. “He’s been missing for over a year.”
Ana scanned the document without touching it. Shivers seized her from the shoulders to the soles of her feet. Aaron’s arm found its way around her shoulders, but it didn’t help. “I guess he’s not missing anymore,” she whispered.
They returned directly to their camp, steering a path to avoid the village. Even though the sun was high, a chill penetrated their bones.
Ana sat at the camp table, staring at the tin cup of water in front of her. Sweat poured from her face and she mopped it up with her bandana. “Is it me, or is it hot under here?” She fanned herself with her hand. “I don’t understand why—” She collapsed and lay sprawled on the ground.
Aaron dropped to his knees beside her. “What is wrong with you, Ana?” He felt her forehead. “Do you think you’ve caught something?”
He brushed back her hair. In doing so he noticed the small scab on her ear. He quickly brushed her hair forward to cover what he had found.
Nancy joined Aaron next to Ana. “She may have something although she should have had all her shots before even coming into Brazil,” she suggested.
Ana’s eyes fluttered then opened. She blinked at the two people bent over her and saw the rest of the anxious group beyond. Marshall approached with his medic case.
“I’m fine, Aaron,” Ana said, looking up. “There is nothing to fret about.” She smiled at Nancy. “And, yes, I’ve had all my shots and boosters, too. It could be I’m allergic to ritual murder.” She forced a laugh and struggled to sit up. “Maybe it’s the heat that’s making me feel this way.”
“Can I ask a question?” Nancy hesitated. “What did we just see?” Her lower lip trembled with the memory.
“We saw a defunct mineral refining operation,” Wayne said with a certain authority. “It could have been copper, silver, or gold, but we’ve only seen one of those metals since we’ve been here.”
Aaron looked to Ana in surprise at his outburst of brilliance. “How is it you know so much about mining and refining, Wayne?” he asked.
“My family is from South Africa,” he replied. “My dad is a mining engineer. I grew up playing in gold and copper mines.” Ana’s admiration for Gianni Rossi grew a notch.
“Or, we saw a crematorium, pure and simple,” Neville suggested. “Almost all aboriginal peoples burn their dead. They only turned to burials after the missionaries arrive, which has never happened here.”
“And, they all build brick crematoria with fifty-foot chimneys?” Ana retorted. “There is absolutely nothing aboriginal about these people, Neville.”
Moema slipped in quietly to serve Ana a piping hot infusion of lemongrass and mint. Just it’s scent drained some of the tension from Ana’s face. “Thank you, Moema,” she said. “And where’s Paulo?”
“I don’t know,” she answered, her eyes nervously fixed on her work.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Ana said, impatiently. “He was here with his men when we ate breakfast. Run over to their camp and bring him and Ibiaci here to me.”
Moema paused, nervously. “They aren’t there,” she finally answered. The group fell into silence with her answer.
“Moema,” Ana snapped. “Where are Paulo and his men?”
Tears welled up in the Indian’s eyes. “I’m so sorry, Dr. Ana, They made me promise not to say anything.” She began to cry.
Ana stood and took her by the shoulders to face her square on. “Tell me, Moema.” Her voice and words slow and kindly. “Where are Paulo and his men?”
“They packed up to return to the Vera Cruz, Dr. Ana,” she said and broke down into tears. “They abandoned us here with these terrible people.” Wayne and Aaron took off at a run toward the crew campsite.
A look of panic flashed across Ana’s face. “When was this?” she asked.
“Just after you left for the village,” Moema replied, her tears subsiding slightly.
“And, he didn’t say anything else?”
“He just said they were leaving before anyone else died. Their camp was all ready packed up when I got up to make breakfast.”
“You knew about this and you didn’t say anything?” Ana snapped.
Moema returned to uncontrollable sobbing. “They made me promise not to say anything, Dr. Ana. Paulo has been like a big brother to me. But, I couldn’t go with him and leave you alone with these terrible people.”
Neville walked around the table to slip an arm around her shoulders. She turned toward him and broke down on his chest. “What will we do now?” she asked. “We’re alone in the forest with mulher morcego and there is no escape.” Neville stroked her hair quietly while Ana stewed.
Aaron and Wayne arrived, winded and desperate. “Their site is picked clean,” Aaron said. “The fire is dead cold. They must have broken camp way before sunrise. Long before Paulo spoke with us.”
“The bastards wanted to sneak out before we noticed,” Wayne added. “Wait’ll I see that jerk, Paulo. He’ll be sorry he ever thought up this little trick.” His fists were clenched, ready for business.
Ana plopped down at the table. Around her flowed the sounds of Aaron’s heavy breathing and the sobs of Moema. Wayne stomped in circles like a bull on the attack. Ana took a deep breath and slowly let it out. Nothing changed.
<
br /> “Where are Marshall and Barbara?” Nancy asked, glancing about the campsite.
Ana barely heard what she said, but added, “And, where’s Megan?”
Chapter Twenty
DEATH IN BOCA
Lieutenant Edson Macedo’s river had been busy. The day the Vera Cruz pulled out, he and his men had rousted a lumbering barge with tons of contraband timber hacked out of the heart of the rainforest. He’d been on the river since midnight, patrolling with the Environmental Police, hot after a boatload of Bolivian poachers. They’d been on their way home with three spotted jaguars, a fifteen-foot anaconda, and dozens of exotic rainforest parrots. The poachers were now manacled below Edson’s deck and their cigarette boat tethered behind.
The sun was barely up and it was Edson’s turn to tie up next to the Vera Cruz at the public dock in Boca do Acre. Paulo’s boat hadn’t been there when he’d left. It’ll be good to see him and find out what he learned about Ana Carvalho, Edson thought. The memory of her walking back to the Vera Cruz that night still traced a path in his mind.
The street market was already going strong. River fish from one to six feet in length were laid out on ice along with fresh milk from a teat. He could see Paulo at the butcher, selecting cuts of beef. Edson surveyed his companion who seemed to direct his every move. You have to give credit to the old rascal, Edson thought. If there is a hottie to pick up, Paulo will find her.
Edson ambled over to the shaded markets for their usual hearty greeting. Paulo’s companion stood several inches taller than he and was unlike any native Edson had ever seen. She wore only uluri, which seemed out-of-place and erotic on such an exotic woman so early in the morning. Black and red feathers hung from long hair tied up on top of her head. Her skin was white, a pale, cold marble white. Her breasts were firm, high, and pointed straight ahead.
The town echoed with murmurs of outrage at her lack of attire.
Paulo stood quietly a step behind, his eyes lowered in silent subservience. Edson couldn’t remember their color but he was sure he’d never seen them so deeply sunken in the face. In fact, Paulo seemed gaunt and pale, to the point of appearing to have lost serious weight since they’d last met.
Father Bora angled his way from the direction of the church. He urgently grabbed Edson’s arm. “I believe we have an agreement, Lieutenant,” he said, nodding toward Paulo’s companion. It wasn’t the first time indigenous people had come into the small community and caused a ruckus among the conservative Catholic citizenry.
“I know, Father. Let’s talk to them together.” Edson knew by including the priest, the town would soon relax. They walked toward Paulo who should have known better.
Paulo stood behind the native, his eyes focused straight ahead at the display of vegetables. The native pointed to items which Paulo purchased. When she walked to another booth in the deep shade, he followed and repeated his actions in a stiff, mechanical fashion.
The woman stepped forward as Edson approached. “We are here to buy supplies for the trip to Manaus.” She spoke in heavily-accented Portuguese before Paulo could speak.
“Good morning, amigo,” Edson said to his friend. “How is everything with you?”
Paulo said nothing but continued to stare at the booth. Father Bora’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“Where are your men?” Edson continued in a formal, investigative tone.
“We left them with the foreigners,” the native answered, brusque and rude.
“Are you sure everything’s fine, Paulo?” Edson asked directly to him.
“Answer him, Paulo,” the native said. “Tell the man everything’s fine.”
“Everything’s fine,” Paulo said, his eyes never deviating from their straight-line stare.
The conversation fell into a strained silence. “We have a tradition here that women wear clothing,” Edson finally said. “Our customs are different. I’m sure you know that.”
“I’m sorry, but we will be here for such a short time,” she answered, as if that were reason enough for her nudity.
The priest looked directly into her red eyes. She flinched. “Kako ti je ime?” he asked.
“I am called Acuã,” she said in their tribal language. “How is it that you speak the tongue of the gods?”
“I am a man of God, as you are a child,” he answered in Serbian. “You are a child of God, are you not?” he asked in a quiet but pointed tone. His gaze never flinched as he watched her.
Her eyes seemed to glow brighter even though they closed to slits. “Is there any other kind?” she asked and turned to walk toward the street market. Paulo followed. He never looked in Edson’s way.
“What did she say? How did you know their language?” Edson asked, agitated.
Father Bora was serious and held up a finger to silence him. He observed her every move as they walked from booth to booth. “I received special training in Rome before I was sent here. I know more about their language than they do.” He never took his eyes off the group. “Lieutenant, there is something I have to do right now but we need to talk, and soon. Can you meet me at the church in an hour?”
“No problem, Father. Perhaps you’ll hear my confession first.” He dropped his eyes remembering two of the sins he’d have to confess. A sly grin curled the edge of his lips.
“I’m sure you have little to say, but of course,” the priest replied and turned to walk back to the rectory. “See you shortly.”
Edson called Paulo but got no response. He walked over, grabbed his friend’s elbow and pulled Paulo to face him. Acuã turned his way with a snarl, almost a hiss. Paulo’s face paled even more and he immediately looked at the gravel beneath his feet.
“Put a t-shirt on the girl, my friend,” Edson said. “And, I mean NOW.”
“Sim,” Paulo replied softly, never looking up to acknowledge his friend.
Acuã motioned with her eyes toward a stand selling inexpensive clothing. Paulo walked directly there to make his purchase. She glared back at Edson, nodded then continued her shopping.
When the simple bells struck midday, Edson sat in the confessional, waiting. He’d buy the priest lunch if his penance was light. When a half-hour passed, he began to wonder what had happened.
Until the scream.
Edson tore out of the sanctuary in the direction of the blood-curdling commotion. The civil police beat him by a few seconds to the circle of townspeople. Most of the women screamed hysterically. One had vomited. Together they moved back and opened the scene to let Edson discover what had kept Father Bora.
The priest lay just inside the gate to the rectory, legs together and arms perpendicular to his sides. An incredible quantity of thick red blood pooled around him and dripped onto the sidewalk from the single step up to the rectory. His eyes were covered by the white strip of his collar. A jagged crimson cross had been scrawled with blood on his white cotton suit, upside-down along his body. It began on his forehead and extended to his groin. The cross piece passed through his navel. Most of his throat was a mangled mess of blood, muscle, tendons, and ligaments. The large wooden crucifix which had jangled up and down the streets of Boca do Acre was stuffed into his mouth, broken in half. The chain carefully dangled from either side of his lips. Everything had been carefully placed.
As Edson looked closer, he made out teeth marks on the jagged edges of the wound. He’d seen men mauled by jaguars and it was nothing like what lay on the ground in front of him now. To one side, a mass of flesh lay in a clump. It had been the Father’s throat and included a three-inch length of his jugular vein. Whatever had attacked the priest had spit a mouthful on the ground.
While the civilian police worked the scene, Edson slipped through the open door of the rectory. As expected, it was spotless. A PC monitor glowing from the study pulled Edson’s attention.
The computer set-up, like a scene from a science fiction film, occupied most of one wall. It was not the typical work area of a clergyman. The rest of the walls were covered with aerial photos
of the geoglyphs and other features to the interior, including many of the smaller rivers he’d explored during the rainy season. Ancient documents lay categorized in plastic folders, all in languages Edson didn’t recognize. The computer monitor, larger than any other in the city, drew Edson’s attention. There was only one active screen, all in Latin, and it was linked to the Vatican. Father Bora had been chatting with someone in Rome.
Edson sat down in Father Bora’s chair, quietly taking in what he had discovered. He pulled open drawer after drawer and found nothing but prayer books and marriage manuals. He got down on his knees and fumbled underneath the desk. He found an aluminum case, the kind a salesmen might use for delicate or valuable samples. The combination was set to “666” and the latch popped right up when he pressed the release.
Inside the case was an ancient Bible in an odd language. To one side were a half-dozen polished wooden stakes along with an inlaid, gold-plated mallet. A large silver crucifix was tucked into a side pocket. A kit for last rights occupied another pocket.
The radio on Edson’s belt erupted with a shrill squelch which seemed obscenely out of place. It was Júlio, one of the military police, and his voice was anything but calm.
“Edson, get over to your launch.” The radio went dead.
Edson left at a sprint in the direction of the port. The Vera Cruz was gone. His patrol boat sat half-submerged, a ragged hole torn in its double aluminum wall. Citizens milled around and stared at him and his craft. His three-man crew floated alongside the dock with pools of blood-stained water radiating from their throats. It seemed the Church had saved him.
Chapter Twenty-One
MEGAN MISSING
“I should have listened to him,” Ana lamented. “He was telling me all along what he was going to do and I was too pig-headed to hear him.”