Threads: A Thriller

by T. R. Ultra

  I scurried across the lobby to get my Uber. At the revolving door I bumped my face against the cold glass, I shoved it open. On the sidewalk, I wedged the tip of my heels on a ditch running across the floor and when I finally got inside the car, I was panting and sweating and groaning like a miserable beast.

  The Uber driver made an effort to ask me in poor English if I needed any help. Tears welled, I dropped my head into my hands and wept.

  Chapter 7

  There was no reasonable way to tell Joanne what happened since arriving in Rio. I wanted to talk to someone more than anything, but telling her—five thousand miles away—the dreary details of this ridiculous situation would only serve to make two people desperate instead of just one.

  I didn’t consider calling my mom. I didn’t want her to worry or become emotional. “Look, Mom. Yesterday I met a driver who I thought would kidnap me, but later I figured he wasn’t that threatening. But this morning two police officers came to my hotel and asked me some damn snappy questions about that driver. And to make things worse, they acted as though I was a suspect.”

  Not good for Mom’s health.

  “Do you speak English?” I said to the Uber driver, while trying to contain the streams of ink from running down my cheeks.

  The poor fellow looked at me with a worried expression that for a moment I thought he was the one who had just undergone the most miserable hours of his life.

  In response, he only shook his head and said, “no English, sorry, no English.”

  And no English it was.

  Rio streets were piled up with cars and motorcycles by the time we left Praia Palace and headed to Rio Centro, where the Rio Firearms Expo took place.

  On the hour-long commute, the social contrasts of Rio were everywhere. Shoeless and shirtless boys stood at every road sign, willing to sell their treats and water bottles to the people in the most expensive cars money can buy. Luxurious apartment complexes stood opposite of the slums of heaped houses and uncoated brick walls right across the street. That imagery could be captured after emerging from Zuzu Angel tunnel, a blackness combined to the bright spot at a distance might make daydreamers believe they were about to enter another dimension.

  This depressed me further. Atlanta is no paradise, but living conditions are much better there than it seemed to be in Rio, particularly for the poor.

  Did those boys attend school at all?

  A kid knocked at the glass outside my window. He didn’t seem to be a menacing bandit, only a hungry child with curious eyes. Renato told me they’d only take my money if I gave it to them in exchange for their candies and water bottles.

  Not a good time to think about Renato, especially after the visit those two officers paid me. My stomach churned and grunted. Was Renato a criminal? If so, how could I have been so stupid to regard him as a nice, naive man? And what did his “taking risks” mean after all? God, I better not even remember last night.

  I closed my eyes in the back seat of the car. I had a feeling that I might see Renato’s face wherever I looked. Was it safe to assume that I’d never meet Renato again? The thought was like a tranquilizer that also produced a faint sense of sorrow.

  Yes, a small part of me wanted to see Renato. A big part of me wanted to abandon my writing obligations and fly away from Rio as soon as possible. I’d risk losing my spot in Johnson & Brothers Co., but I’d rather be a jobless woman in Atlanta than involved in a criminal investigation in Rio. I had nothing to offer the police.

  When we reached the passenger unloading location inside the Rio Firearms Expo, I retouched the tear smears on my face. I stepped outside the car, thanked my Uber driver with an obrigado—and walked to the end of the exposition check-in line.

  Lots of weaponry banners spread throughout the place. While I gazed at them a great opportunity stood in front of me: the best way to push problems aside is to focus on work. Yes, I should dedicate all of my attention to writing the best reports of my entire career, instead of dumping my brain assets into imaginary problems. Had I been creating my own troubles inside my head? By over analyzing every situation I went through in Rio—like a little, frightened and insecure girl?

  I had no problem answering questions for the police. No matter the terrible first impressions I had of those two officers, I was completely innocent. They had nothing against me.

  My confidence returned. My phone rang, a Brazilian number was calling.

  “I don’t speak Portuguese,” I said on the phone, as if slowly speaking the words would make my English easier to understand.

  “Hello, Senhora Bennett. This is Renato, we need to talk.”

  Chapter 8

  The check-in line at the Rio Firearms Expo flew by. Maybe my brain entered a deep state because once I heard Renato’s voice on the phone my senses halted. All I captured next was the check-in clerk talking to me in Portuguese with what sounded like “next person, please,” while I stood baffled.

  “Are you there, Senhora Bennett?” Renato said.

  Of course I was there. Not only there but also not checking in anymore. Because the shriveling and shaking of my stomach wouldn’t allow my working day to start anytime soon. Facing weapon demonstrations was an activity that by itself required my guts to be perfectly healthy and steady. No stomach, no writing.

  I wandered around the entrance. I stumbled upon a woman wearing horn-rimmed glasses. Her advanced age and lacquered hair replied with a rude Brazilian curse. I bumped on to a young executive man who attempted to take advantage of my lack of attention to feel the softness of my breasts. And, finally, I ran into a polite grandpa who, startled by my hustling through, opened up a space to let me pass and avoided being toppled.

  I struggled to stay sharp under the boiling-hot sun. I had to regain my senses. Hanging up the phone was an option, but Renato might have something of value to tell me, and I’m not talking about his body.

  “Why are you calling me?” I said, trying to conceal the uncertainty in my voice.

  “I don’t want to frighten you, but—”

  I’m sorry, but you have.

  “I’ve had too much for today, Renato. I don’t want to talk to you,” I said, interrupting him.

  My next plan was to get rid of the Sim card he had given me as soon as I could find a replacement. His anxiety came through clearly on the speakers, heavy breathing at the other end of the line.

  “Senhora Bennett, I know that officers Pinto and Rôla had come to your hotel. I want to help.”

  This was getting out of control.

  “You’re spying on me?”

  “No. Of course not. I mean, yes. Actually, not spying, but taking care of you.”

  “I don’t need anyone to take care of me, Renato. I want you to stay away and never call me again. Those two officers were looking for you. You are the suspect of a crime, not me.”

  I convinced myself that my innocence was apparent to officers Pinto and Rôla. Due to this biased perspective, I forgot their eagerness in searching for any speck of doubt in my responses.

  “Senhora Bennett, officer Pinto will come back, and next time he will pretend to have a warrant to arrest you. They’ve done that before. Please, believe me. Let me help.”

  I had a feeling his willingness to help actually meant something else. I know many men who would rely on buying liquor to accomplish that sort of goal, but using the police in their arguments was new.

  “I’m hanging up,” I said.

  I moved the phone away from my ear when he spoke. But I didn’t immediately finish off the call. Even though far from the speakers, I understood his words.

  “Look, please . . . those officers are on the take. They will use anything they can to get you under their claws. You’re a valuable asset, Senhora Bennet. I had a mission when I picked you up at the airport. I just couldn’t stand finishing it. Please. If you see those two officers again, run, leave Rio as fast as—”

  There was just no way I would endure that conversation anymore.

>   After struggling with myself, I cut off the call. My mood didn’t get any better. I was still at the entrance of the Rio Firearms Expo, not doing my job, and feeling like shit. I breathed heavy, staring, bewildered at the screen of my phone. What the hell did Renato mean by a valuable asset? I would have been less startled if he addressed me with a gross valuable ass. But his reference to me as an asset was beyond my comprehension. Or perhaps I was wrong about him. Perhaps he was just that cheap kind of man who objectifies women.

  People crowded around me, trying to get into the exposition. I felt lonelier than ever under the sun. A sense of danger dawned on me, like someone stalked me among the throng, an evil face disguised either as a street sweeper clad in orange uniforms, a candy seller with a white hat, or a stout man wearing a Brazilian soccer t-shirt.

  Were officers Pinto and Rôla trailing behind my path? Or maybe Renato watched for the whole time we spent talking over the phone. Maybe his words were calculated to deliver the right amount of terror, and the right amount of hope, just to get me hooked while he wove a new trap. God, I just couldn’t help considering worst-case scenarios.

  I scrutinised my surroundings but found no one looking at me, which didn’t prove their absence. I had no training on taking masks off of spies unless they wore a face I had already been acquainted with.

  I went through the conversation I had with Renato, rummaging for hidden details in his words, but my panicking mind would never allow such reasoning from memory. It was nonsense attempting to find facts between the lines.

  I decided I ought to be a bit more practical. No mixing up fantasies and sheer facts inside my head anymore. It was time to call the boss, tell her everything, and book the next flight to Atlanta.

  Chapter 9

  Before getting back into a car bound to Praia Palace, I called Joanne and sent her messages, but she didn’t reply. It was around 1:00 p.m. in Rio, and two hours earlier in Atlanta. She must be at swimming practice and wouldn’t be available for an hour.

  Traffic on the roads leading back to Copacabana Palace were clogged. But the entanglement of cars seemed smaller. On my way back to the hotel, I thought my unlucky situation was all in my head. Since breaking up with Marlon, I felt a sense of solitude that I tried to cover up with working overtime. My professional duties could easily round out routines to the point of making me forget a lack of love and of being taken care of. But an unloved human is like a mass of dry twigs wrapped in rags, a warm touch the perfect storm that will break everything apart. And such encounters, on the course of fate, are inevitable.

  Renato was the warm touch, the perfect storm, that my love-thirsty body found impossible to resist. Even when going back to my hotel to pack up my stuff and fly away from Rio, I still felt his touch over my body, his daring stare. There must be a way to solve this whole misunderstanding. Yes, I was probably overreacting to a compound of bad luck and terrible coincidences. But, if so, why the hell would Renato emphasize his willingness to take care of me? Was it a clever way to get me into bed?

  Thank god the major part of myself was still rational. The best thing to do would be to start over. I would head back to Atlanta, chill out a little bit, take some days off, and then go back to attending expositions and writing about weapons. But only in safer, and mild temperate sort of countries.

  I arrived at Praia Palace a few minutes before 2:00 p.m. Joanne would return my call soon. I headed to the reception desk, but before I could ask for my room key the clerk approached me.

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Bennett, but a police officer asked me to deliver this business card to you as soon as you got back to the hotel. I’m also obliged under Brazilian law to let them know of your return,” he said in a robotic way.

  I remembered officer Pinto telling me he would leave his card on the reception desk, and only that.

  “What? Why would you inform them of my return?”

  The clerk pursed his lips and rubbed his hand across his forehead.

  “Mrs. Bennett,” he leaned over the desk and murmured almost as if telling a secret, “I was not even supposed to let you know they are going to be informed of your return. It’s just that . . . well . . . I mean, we have to respect the authorities, otherwise, we might spend a few days in jail. But we also care for our guests, and we don’t ask about their past. So, yeah, use this information however you want, even if it means checking out of our hotel right away.”

  He straightened his body back up to attend another guest. I felt as though the floor had disappeared from below my feet.

  And it was at that downfall moment, while I stared with hopeless, desperate eyes at the reception clerk, that Renato’s warnings over the phone fell onto me with the same strength of a hammer thrust against my temples. “They will pretend to have a warrant to take you under arrest.” Speckles appeared on the edges of my vision as I thought of Renato’s words. I had to prop myself up against the reception desk, in order to avoid a fall.

  Had Renato told the truth? It was clear that officers Pinto and Rôla would come looking for me one more time, otherwise, they wouldn’t have issued an order to be informed of my arrival. But, did they really intend to forge a warrant just to arrest me? If so, for what reason? I had nothing of value to offer those two officers. My only adventure was thinking of kissing Renato in the backseat of his car.

  Either way, I would not take their smirks easily this time, nor would I witness their desire for finding blame on me spilling from the corners of their poisonous lips. I must avoid them at all costs while I found my way out of Rio.

  I took my room key from over the desk and headed toward the elevator. When its doors opened, I looked back at the clerk. He reached for the telephone. Then I walked in.

  My time was running out.

  Once in my room, I packed my stuff up in less than a minute, leaving behind vanity items inside the bathroom, and a couple of blouses hanging on the wardrobe. I was on the edge of crying, fully aware of every penny I had spent on those items. But my urge to escape the now-almost-sure imprisonment was more important.

  The elevator took an eternity to get to the seventh floor. It stopped at the ninth and lingered for more time than I had spent packing my clothes. I hit the elevator door, shouted through its gaps, and then it finally started coming down.

  Inside it, a couple and a child gazed at me, bewildered.

  “I’m sorry, I’m late for a flight,” I said, trying to patch up the curses I had shouted.

  “You should have left earlier, then,” the woman said in a British accent.

  She was right. After that, I remained silent all the way to the lobby.

  The whole process of going up the elevator, packing my things and going down, took barely six minutes. But the moment I stepped out of the elevator I noticed a small suit-and-tie bald man, whose face I knew and already disgusted, coming round the revolving doors into the lobby.

  That man was officer Paulo Pinto, and officer Roberto Rôla came right in his wake.

  They must have been camping at Copacabana Palace since morning. Only this could explain so quick a response to the clerk’s call.

  Officer Pinto ran across the hall to approach the clerk who had made the call. Officer Rôla stood by the door, parsing all faces going in and out the hotel.

  I scurried along the corridor leading to the opposite side of the lobby. That way brought me into the restaurant. I took another corridor that led into a bar, then another one into a room full of poker tables, and, at last, I reached a hall with grand staircases draped by red tapestry and an arched door leading outside to a back street. It appeared to be a special entrance to the hotel used only in gala evenings.

  I tried the doorknob, but the arched door didn’t budge.

  The hall had been filled with boxes, tables, and wooden chairs, piled upon each other in a corner, as though on transit to some royal event. An employee of the hotel that didn’t speak English appeared at the hall and frowned at seeing me. He pointed a finger back to the corridor that brought m
e there, picked up one of the boxes and carried it away.

  Clearly he meant I was in the wrong place.

  Praia Palace had to have a service entrance. But to be able to use it I’d need to find it. Then talk my way through it. Which was out of question, considering that except for those front desk attendants, most employees, including backdoor security guys, didn’t speak English.

  I stood inside the hall with sweat dripping down my forehead, my breathing increased as though expecting a sudden halt. I pricked my ears, eager for hints of the whereabouts of those two officers, probably already sniffing around the hotel after me.

  I huddled next to the boxes in a corner. I lost sight of the corridor leading to it, so anyone eventually approaching the hall ought first to be heard. In that tiny place, squatting on my heels among tables and chairs smelling like years of spilled liquor—I heard my name.

  I heard my name among other Portuguese words. People were having a conversation in the corridor, and Emily Bennett had come out of their mouths at least three times.

  I craned my neck to get a view of the corridor. I saw officers Pinto and Rôla talking to the guy that had just carried the boxes out of the hall.

  It was then that my phone rang the most absurd, obscene and obscure ringtone ever. The ringtone flooded the hall. Specks of dust stirred up from surfaces, staircases shaking from that ridiculous sound. I turned it off before it rang a third time. It was Joanne returning my call.

  Then I heard the steps coming closer.

  They knew I was there. End of the line, if it wasn´t for the click on the arched door. All of a sudden it opened, and a whole crew of workers entered the hall.

  I didn’t think twice. While they looked at me as if I were a scruffy cat prowling among boxes, I darted out the door dragging my pink luggage behind me. Outside, there were two lanes of passers-by on the sidewalk, jammed like traffic on the road. I went left and followed the flow because the best way to disappear is to mingle in a crowd. When I looked back, I saw Pinto’s bald head scouring through the mass of people, but it was already too late for him.