by Ed Miracle
“You bring the fever to poison Kojo.”
Again the crate thumped.
“Choose any syringe,” Philip said. “Vaccinate me. Then the nurse will vaccinate you.”
To his left, a furtive movement. A glint stabbed into his arm, its plunger rammed home, and his tormentor laughed.
“We will see who dies.”
“Come to the plaza,” Philip said. “I will shake your hand on world-wide TV. For releasing Mariela, you will become the Mayor of Cidade Xavier. The world will see us together and they will know you are sincere.”
Philip worked his wrists while Kojo circled him, feral and grinning.
“I took a policeman’s nose last week when he came sniffing. Now he sniffs through two great holes.” He made circles with his fingers, held them to his eyes, and laughed.
Philip swallowed and tried again. “If Kojo commands it, his men will bring Mariela. Then I will reward Kojo with a treasure no one can take from him.”
“Go to hell, Turista. You cannot possess Kojo by putting him in your debt.”
“Mariela is our debt, mine and Kojo’s. We will be judged by her fate. If Kojo wants to survive, he must do two things.”
The blade levitated, hovered beneath Philip’s chin.
“You do not command Kojo. Kojo commands you.”
Philip licked his lips. “Kojo’s empire is gone. His new life begins today. A life based on trust and respect, not violence and fear. A man who shares with his neighbors earns their loyalty. Kojo’s future is to build Cidade Xavier, the new city, at no risk and no cost. Grateful favelados will call Kojo their hero when he gives every household its own Maker.”
A cruel laugh. “We have heard your sermon, holy one.” He spat on Philip’s head.
Philip wiped the spittle. As he did so the machete flicked under his arm, incising a wound that made him gasp.
“People see only the old Kojo,” Philip cried. “Let us show them a new one. I will go with him.”
“This turista cannot save his own worthless carcass. How can he save Kojo?”
Philip held one arm tight against his wound while the machete circled.
“Behold Kojo’s savior.” The blade wiped itself on Philip’s shoulder, trailing a crimson smear. “Kojo takes what he wants, Yankee. Respect comes from power, not gifts. Kojo will teach you.”
Philip shook his head.
“If Kojo does not release Mariela, the Army will hunt him and kill him. It does not have to be that way.”
The crate thumped.
“Show this silly man.”
Philip was seized by the arms, shoved forcefully onto the table. They cut his bindings, pinned him in hardwood stocks that clamped his wrists to the table. Then they backed away.
“The lesson begins with fingers.”
Philip tugged at the stocks, rocked the heavy table.
“If Kojo does not help the favelados, they will betray him. If he refuses to share his Makers, they will kill him. It does not have to be that way.”
“In this favela, all Makers are Kojo’s. Those who challenge him know they will die.”
Raising his voice, Philip said, “Tell Kojo his people will not be denied. Tell Kojo he can survive only by helping his people. In return, they will honor him and protect him. Somos gente.”
“Hold the fool.”
Rough hands seized his arms and shoulders. Philip strained to escape, but the machete flashed.
And Philip screamed.
His terror merged with the thunder booming from his left hand. He raged at the indecent gap between his smallest finger and its quaking, bleeding source. The digit lay askew, curled like a French fry, and Philip raged at the painted man, bellowed like an ox.
Across the table, dust and agitation could not disguise the pleasure gleaming back at him.
“Do we play the game, Turista? Do you like my souvenir?” He plucked his trophy and inspected it. “This one is Kojo’s.” He tapped his blade near Philip’s other hand. “The next one is mine.”
Philip bucked against the stocks. Mucus dripped from his nose and saliva from his mouth. Then four distant crumps heralded a clatter of rotor blades, overhead.
“Exercito! Excercito!” the man called Kojo shouted to his men. The Army, the Army.
With a mighty grunt, Philip heaved the table upward. Kojo’s machete rose to intercept it. The blade chopped and chopped, but Philip hauled the table over himself, hunkered beneath it, and crawled toward the crate.
Across the room, Tanner disappeared backward through a gap in the bleachers, taking two guards with him and smashing their heads. Before the machete could rise again, Tanner bounded from the shadows, wielding a metal rod. He parried Kojo’s blade and boxed his ear. A second blow shattered Kojo’s wrist. A third flung his knife to the dirt. The riflemen fled through the damaged wall, and Kojo scurried rat-like up the chute.
Tanner hurled his rod at Kojo’s back but missed. Then he righted the table and freed Philip from the stocks.
“Sorry I took so long.”
He tore his shirt to wrap Philip’s hand. As he worked, artillery shells whistled overhead and exploded on the ridge above the arena. “How did they know?”
Dazed and trembling, Philip said, “Open the box.”
Tanner pulled him by his uninjured arm. “This way,” he said.
“No.” Philip refused. “Open the crate.”
Tanner released a strap and lifted the top. Inside, on a bed of filthy sawdust lay a dark-eyed young girl, bound and gagged, still in her party dress. Tanner freed her and lifted her out, but she shrieked and struggled.
Philip knelt to make himself small. Tanner placed the girl before him and released her. Philip bowed his head and waited for the helicopters to pass. When the racket subsided, he looked up into a snot-smeared face, smiled, and said her name.
Mariela blinked, wiped her nose, then shuffled tentatively into his open arms. He swept her up and followed Tanner through the hole in the wall.
They emerged into fluttering daylight where three mantis-ugly helicopters hovered, giant leaf-blowers in the sky. On either side of the swaying acacia tree, helmeted teams descended on dangling black ropes.
Tanner chose a downhill path between two shanties away from the noise. They zigzagged from shack to shack, crashed through barriers of rotting trash. Their retreat became a blur of walls and mud, unpainted doors and droopy clotheslines. They rounded a corner where three wooden posts stood out to bark their shins.
Philip squeezed his precious cargo, wondering where Dr. de Beir had gone. He paused for breath, and three dogs appeared, yapping and scattering the chickens. When he looked back, flames were climbing a wall high on the ridge.
“Kojo’s mansion,” Tanner surmised. The shelling had stopped, and there were no gunshots, only the din of helicopters.
They ran until a mesh of rusted wire blocked them. Beyond it lay paved streets with cars and trucks and immaculate buildings. Except for this gap, the fence ran tight against shanty walls in both directions. Tanner attacked it, levered himself from a post, kicked the mesh flat, and jumped onto its springy back.
“This way,” he called.
Philip tripped, staggered until he found his footing. Tanner tried to take Mariela, but she kicked at him and clung fiercely to Philip. The men dropped to the street and crossed it, stamping mud from their boots as they went. A car was coming, a block away, so they hid beneath a stucco balcony. Mariela understood hiding.
They rested while sirens echoed from many directions. After a Volkswagen Beetle rattled by, they headed up a cross street and over a rise where they encountered a clean, well-lighted shop, and ducked inside. Into a hot and stuffy beauty salon, with four stations busy and one customer waiting. Philip slumped against the wall and pressed Mariela’s face to his shoulder, shielding her from the stares and commotion.
Tanner charged through the tiny establishment, searched the back, and returned.
“No way out,” he said.
Ast
onishment doused the ladies’ chatter as nine mouths gaped. Both Americanos dropped to the floor, away from the door.
“Pardon us. Pardon us,” Philip said.
Instead of panicking, the women spoke all at once. Between bouts of alarm and concern and disbelief, they gabbled in Portuguese, arriving finally at a nervous fascination. One of them shut the outer door, which was thick and painted sky blue. Another peered out the front window and drew a gauzy curtain across it. The others whispered, “Senhor Machen.” And, “Mariela.”
Wonder settled onto their faces. The shortest one waved her comb at a television high on the wall while the rest stared openly at the fugitives. One brave woman clasped her hands and approached Philip, masking her trepidation with a crooked smile. Behind her, a henna-rinse customer whipped out her Cambiar and thumbed it earnestly.
To which the Americans called out, “No, no. Por favor.”
The caller hesitated, turned aside, and spoke to the phone.
The brave woman took Mariela, passed her to the others, and offered Philip her hand. He struggled to stand as she took his arm and nodded encouragement. She shooed Henna-rinse out of her chair and seated Philip in it. Tanner joined them while the brave one held Philip’s injured hand. Delicately, she scissored its bloody wrappings.
Whimpers and gasps attended the unveiling, though Philip felt nothing. He gazed up at the video screen, which had split between a yammering announcer and a growling helicopter. He let the beautician work, with Tanner observing, and focused on the screen. For there now appeared the dark head of a painted man, next to a skinny white one, yoked to a table. A blur swept the screen, and Philip yelped. Fresh terror seized him and startled the women.
The guy up on the video screen, seated at a table, screamed. A sharp sting brought Philip back to the beauty parlor. He blinked at the blood-soaked towel, but up there on the wall—how was that done? Had Dr. de Beir sneaked a camera? And how was it not discovered? All along, the authorities must have watched them and known their location.
Half the women tended to Mariela. The others crowded to Philip and whispered. He marveled at their faces, alive with wonder and compassion, and his ears burned with shame. He didn’t deserve their beauty or their kindness. He had failed them as much as he had failed the favelados.
The walls tilted and slowly turned. He panted, blinked to clear his vision. The brave woman tied a snug bandage, and when she was done, he loved her with all his heart. He loved every woman who had ever done him a kindness. To his left and his right, anxious beauties fanned him with movie magazines.
The spinning subsided, replaced by a reek of alcohol. His shirt had vanished, while under his right arm a row of adhesive butterflies arrayed themselves along a thin, red line.
Tanner hove into view speaking on a Cambiar, though they had lost theirs at the arena.
“He’s okay,” Tanner said, “but we gotta get him out of here. I’ll text you when we reach the airport. Yeah, you too. Bye.”
He peered into Philip’s watering eyes.
“Chuck says Otavio is okay, and Dr. de Beir made it out too.”
Philip shook uncontrollably, and the women fretted like mothers at a bicycle crash.
“What about—” He looked around. “Mariela?”
“The ladies are taking care of her.”
But a rap-rap-rap on the sky blue door silenced everyone.
Henna-rinse challenged the knock. A gruff response led her to open the door and pull a worried man inside.
“Taxi,” she said to Philip, gesturing to this off-kilter fellow in a pink shirt. She introduced him as her husband, Carlos, and added with pride, “Motorista taxi.” Then in a flurry of Portuguese, she made Carlos understand he must take the Americanos to the airport.
Carlos eyed the bloody towel, the bandages, and the foreign faces. He shook his head.
Henna-rinse glared. She pointed to the TV and made chopping motions down the length of her arm.
Carlos winced. “Sim,” he said. Yes.
Much jabber accompanied their procession to Carlos’s Chevrolet. Tanner held the door open while the women jostled each other to touch senhor Machen. Philip wanted to see Mariela, to say goodbye, but he kissed the brave woman’s hand, doubling her excitement, then slipped into the back seat, followed by Tanner.
When Carlos drove off, the women waved and called, “Adeus despedida.” Farewell.
Tanner shook his head. “Some guys will do anything for applause.”
Philip closed his eyes and lay back in the seat. Behind his throbbing hand, he let the tears take over.
THIRTY-ONE
At Otavio’s apartment building, Tanner went upstairs to retrieve their uniforms. He returned with the overnight bags and a look of relief.
“No cops,” he said. “The cook is still here, watching a soap opera. She didn’t know about the shooting.”
Carlos drove through the side streets, avoided the avenues and the freeway. His slow progress allowed them to change into their Federal Express uniforms before they reached the airport. Clear for all to see, two American pilots were heading to work.
Tanner urged Carlos away from the passenger venue, toward the cargo ramps, where a lone civilian guard, armed with a portable radio, stopped them. In the shack behind him, a disinterested customs officer poured coffee from a thermos.
“Identificacao,” said the guard.
Tanner pointed to the big, three-engine jet with the purple tail, alone on the ramp. “Federal Express,” he said, and held out their passports.
The guard bent to inspect them.
Philip looked toward the plane. From here, they could run for it, if necessary.
“Rapido,” Tanner said. “Por favor.”
The guard withdrew and waved them through. When they arrived at the ladder Chuck had lowered from the flight deck, Tanner said, “We need to thank our friend.”
Philip agreed. “I have an idea.”
By gestures, they urged Carlos to wait, then climbed the ladder. In two minutes, Tanner returned to him with a surplus NASA space suit, complete with gloves, boots and a silver-visored helmet.
“Obrigado, Carlos.” Tanner heaped the garments in the back seat of the Chevrolet and shook the man’s hand. Carlos scratched his head. Tanner scurried up the ladder and hauled it aboard.
As each fanjet whined toward ignition, Philip stood in the open door and waved. Carlos waved back. The port-side engine added a growl to its whine, and Philip watched the cabbie hurry away. How much kindness could the world devour in one day? Or did compassion float in the air, as immune to cruelty as a Brazilian breeze? He wrestled the door shut and latched it.
Chuck and Tanner guided the cargo jet to a clear runway while Philip retired to a jump seat behind the flight deck. One-handed, he searched his Cambiar for a list Uncle Orin had sent him before going to China. Since the first gold ingots emerged from their Maker prototype seven years ago, they had quietly funded the Machen Foundation. Without fanfare, Orin had built schools, clinics, and hospitals in Leonard Machen’s name in communities around the world. They hoped these seeds of healing and education would prepare those places for Maker communities to come. But until today, Philip had not imagined a need to visit them.
Only three of the foundation’s projects adjoined an airport in countries too weak to hunt him and far enough from his enemies. Only one had a resident surgeon. He copied the foreign name from his list along with its latitude and longitude and texted them to Tanner’s Cambiar.
As the big plane lumbered into a thick gray sky and banked away, Philip looked down upon Sao Paulo. He wished for his Brazilian friends a better outcome than he alone could provide. Obrigado, Carlos and ladies, Otavio, Dr. de Beir. Adeus despedida. Then he wrapped himself in a blanket and tried to rest.
Sweat pooled in the corners of Philip’s eyes. It trickled to his temples and curled toward his ears, which woke him, stiff and achy. Noise and altitude had stuffed his hearing. His left hand throbbed with every beat of his heart.
To quell the pain, he raised it over his head, then looked out the window.
They were descending over dirt roads and a sunlit quilt of green fields. Puddles and ponds gleamed ahead, drawing Philip’s attention to the impending runway. The big plane hung nose-down and wobbled through unstable air. Chuck was using all his tricks to plant the tri-jet on the threshold of a very short runway. At the last moment, he hauled up the nose, and the main gear screeched onto the pavement. Beside him, Tanner levered thrust reversers and shoved full throttles. When the nose slammed down, it pitched everyone into their harnesses. Chuck stood on the brakes. At the final exit, he turned and taxied back to a service ramp, just like always.
“Good work, Chuck.” Tanner unclipped his harness and stretched. “Here comes the welcome wagon.”
Across the tarmac, a topless Jeep and a boxy white ambulance approached, each flying the same flag, a pale blue globe on a field of white. Within the globe, a golden cross and a golden crescent, the merged symbols of Chrislam.
The vehicles disappeared beneath the wing, and Philip rubbed sweat from his neck. The conditioned air flowing from a vent overrode his fever and chilled him. He tried to stand but fell back. Behind him, Tanner opened the outer door and a gush of hothouse moisture condensed into a miniature cloud.
Chuck deployed the ladder, and an African man in a lime-green polo shirt climbed to greet them.
“Welcome, my good friends. Welcome to Ibadan. I am Administrator Joseph. Where is our injured brother? How shall we proceed?”
Tanner lifted Philip from the chair, tucked his shoulder between Philip’s legs, and gripped the opposite wrist. He straightened with a grunt. “Make a hole.”
Administrator Joseph’s thin face swept by as Tanner swiveled and descended the jiggly ladder. At the bottom, he ignored a waiting gurney and dumped Philip instead into the open rear seat of the Jeep.
“There might be a reporter with them,” Tanner whispered. “Sit up, or the bastard will claim you’re dying.”
“Getting there,” Philip said. The heat and the glare made him woozy.