by John Koloen
“Precaution?”
“Yes. He doesn’t want you running away. Not before he’s finished here.”
“Bullshit,” Duncan said. “It’s about the plane, isn’t it?”
The cook shrugged.
“So, he wants to fly out with his gold and you’re fine with it because you think he’s going to take you with him. Is that it?”
Grimaldi smiled, nodding approvingly.
“Is it that obvious?”
“I wonder what your men would say if they knew this?”
The cook snickered.
“The men can fend for themselves. They can take the truck. Now they’ll all fit. Before, well, there wouldn’t be room for all of them.”
“What about us?”
“You found your way here without our help and I’m sure you’ll find your way back without our help. And if you don’t, we’ll never know. People disappear all the time in the jungle.”
Boyd had been watching as Duncan settled cross-legged in the sand, looking up at the cook, having a conversation.
“I wish I knew what they’re saying.”
“It doesn’t look like they’re arguing.”
“I don’t get why they’re doing this,” Harden said.
“Because they can,” Boyd said tersely. “I’m gonna go over and see what’s going on.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Cooper cautioned.
“I’m not gonna do anything,” Boyd insisted. “I just wanna make sure he’s okay.”
Cooper’s resistance weakened as Boyd waved him off and proceeded toward Duncan, which immediately caught Grimaldi’s attention. Duncan twisted his back awkwardly to see his former assistant approach, his hands in the air.
“Can I help you?” Grimaldi asked.
“I just wanna see what’s going on. Why are you doing this? What has he done?”
“It’s a precaution,” the cook said. “He will be released when we’re done. Shouldn’t be long. Couple hours. You should go back to your friends. It won’t be long.”
Boyd glanced down at Duncan, concerned for his safety but not certain what he could do to help him.
“I’m okay,” Duncan said reassuringly.
“Can I talk to him in private?”
The cook shook his head slowly.
“You should go now and make your preparations. It won’t be long now. Your friend will be free and you can go on your way.”
Boyd looked at his former boss and then at the cook, as if he didn’t believe what either man was saying. Then he slowly backed away, returning to his companions, his head down.
“What’s up?” Harden asked.
“Who knows? The cook said it was a precaution.”
“Precaution for what?”
“It’s about the plane, isn’t it?” Harden said dejectedly. “They’re gonna hijack the plane. I think that’s pretty obvious.”
103
Sitting in the sand, his view mostly limited to the riverbed, Duncan wasn’t certain at first what he was seeing but it was alarming and caused him to go to his knees and then, awkward as a fledgling heron, to plant one foot followed by the other until he stood upright, his hands bound tightly behind his back. Almost immediately he recognized that he was agitated, acting instinctively, before his brain had figured out why. He’d sensed movement in the riverbed, grains of sand rearranging themselves with no apparent cause. The more he looked, the more movement he saw but it was of a kind that if you weren’t looking patiently you would miss it. The miners didn’t notice anything. The cook was too busy preparing his escape to notice. Duncan’s colleagues were making their preparations. Nobody else was paying attention. And then, after looking away, when he looked at the riverbed again the motion he thought he’d seen had stopped. Squinting through the smoky haze didn’t help. What he knew was that his senses had alerted him to something but now that there was nothing to be seen he couldn’t be sure. But it was a feeling that he couldn’t simply dismiss. He knew that he’d seen something unusual but he couldn’t quite classify it, something that could only be done by a second observer or a second look.
Grimaldi had been watching the former professor out of the corner of his eye. He’d grown suspicious as soon as the American got to his feet. He didn’t believe he was going to bolt but he noticed him staring at the riverbed and wondered what he was seeing. But when he started to make his way toward his companions, Grimaldi intervened.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“I need to stretch my legs.”
“You can do that here.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Why am I doing what?”
“Why am I tied up?”
Grimaldi shook his head slowly, smiling wryly.
“You know why.”
“But I saw something,” Duncan said, pointing with his head. “Out there.”
“What did you see?”
“I’m not sure.”
Grimaldi coughed.
“Would you like a chair? I don’t think the boss would mind.”
Duncan sighed and nodded.
“I’d rather be with my friends.”
“And I’d rather be in Manaus drinking a cerveja. You should just relax. It won’t be much longer.”
As the cook returned to what he was doing, Duncan scooched his chair so that he faced the riverbed where it paralleled the campsite. His apprehension diminishing with the passing minutes, he watched absently as he thought of what he and his companions would do when Braga decided he had enough gold and shut down his operation. He wished he’d never mentioned the airplane, but there was no way of knowing at the time that it would get back to Braga. If only they could recover Cody’s satellite phone. But that seemed unlikely. Braga was a cautious man, evidenced by Duncan’s status as a hostage, thus preventing his companions from taking action. Perhaps the cook was right. Another hour or two and the uncertainty would be settled. The best they could hope for was a long hike to the Tapajós River but at least it would get them away from the fire and Reptilus. He’d learned a lesson. In a matter of days he’d gone from would-be rescuer to hostage needing to be rescued. No one would be coming for him or his companions. Preoccupied with self-criticism, he watched the riverbed’s riffles and rivulets of moving sand with detachment, as if it were a video. But it wasn’t a video and in a moment he stood, kicking the chair back.
“Hey, Octavio,” he shouted, using his head as a pointer. “Look, there.”
The cook was slow to react. He’d finished packing and was savoring his last cup of heavily sugared coffee.
“Look at what?”
“Out there, in the sand. See it?”
Grimaldi sighed like a man whose friend had become tiresome but couldn’t be ignored. Careful not to spill his coffee, he drew alongside Duncan, blowing softly across his cup.
“Do you see what I’m seeing?”
Grimaldi looked at the riverbed, sipped and shook his head slightly.
“See what? I’m seeing a lot of sand. What are you seeing?”
“Do you see the sand moving?” Duncan said urgently. “Do you see it?”
Staring into the smoky haze, Grimaldi started to shake his head and then stopped. He glanced at Duncan.
“What of it? It’s just the wind.”
“There is no wind.”
“Look at the tree tops,” the cook said. “There’s wind.”
“It’s not reaching the ground.”
“So? Maybe the sand does this all the time. I don’t spend my day watching sand,” the cook said dismissively. “The boss told me you would try to scare us. I may not be a cientista like you, but I was a seaman and I don’t scare easily.”
Duncan looked at Grimaldi as if he were missing the point.
“You see that lump out there,” Duncan said coldly. “There will be more.”
“You see,” Grimaldi said scornfully, “this is why he is doing this to you. You are like a lightning rod.”
10
4
Braga hadn’t felt as nervous as he did when his men were finishing the final clean-out of their sluices. He wanted to stay longer. He believed he was leaving gold behind, but at the same time he couldn’t ignore the increasing smokiness and heat nor the fact that the pump was beginning to suck mud. His men had worked feverishly. They were no longer talking to each other as usual. They were focused entirely on finishing the job and leaving while they still had the chance.
At the same time, learning about the airplane, rather than simplifying his exit, only complicated it. Even a small plane would have enough room for him and the cook. The remaining men would have to find their way out using the truck, assuming any of them could retrace the route from memory, a highly doubtful exercise. Taking the plane meant abandoning the equipment he’d accumulated. He’d have to account for that, perhaps by paying for it off the top from the profits. It would mean less money for the men, but he saw it as the most obvious way of compensating himself for his loss. All the men had put into the operation was their time and muscle, which were useless without the pump, the generator and tools.
But his calculations didn’t stop there. Once he’d determined that he could have his cake and eat it, he saw a windfall. What would stop him from flying straight to Manaus instead of Jacareacanga? The only reason he would go there would be if he was driving the truck. No truck, no Jacareacanga. And what would be the odds that the workers would find their way back, especially if they ended up traveling on foot? They were mostly city boys. His reputation as a hard-ass made it difficult to recruit native workers, but there were always young men seeking adventure and drifters passing through whose financial necessity gave Braga the upper hand.
Who would miss them? he wondered as he considered his options. Grimaldi knew them all. Everyone trusted the cook, who dispensed comfort along with chow, his cook shack bursting with aromas that reminded them of home. Would any of them even survive the return trek to the Tapajós without him to lead them? Would they even be able to outrun the fire? And if they didn’t, who would know? And then what to do with their earnings? He could not only have his cake, he could have theirs as well. But it was a delicate matter. The men would all be watching him after the work ended. They would no longer be focused on lining their pockets but on beating a hasty retreat.
As the fire neared hot ash and embers drifted across the camp like fireflies, increasing their sense of urgency. Braga had to convince them that they would all escape. Grimaldi already knew that to be unlikely. Leaving most of the gear behind, there would be enough room in the cab and bed of the pickup to squeeze everybody in. They knew the drive to be about sixty miles through rugged terrain where road-like strips gave way to stream beds and animal trails. And sand or mud that could bog the wheels and inhibit traction.
All of the men had ridden the truck to the claim but none of them had any idea of how they got there. Some battled motion sickness while others, with no experience of the forest, watched the scenery like tourists. In any case, none of them knew how to make the return trip. Braga ordered the men to pack their gear as soon as the gold had been poured into glass jars, which he swaddled in clothing before carefully packing them into a grungy daypack, which was all that he carried with him as he met Grimaldi at the cook shack.
“Is that all you’re taking?” the cook, who’d collected his belongings into a large, military surplus duffel, asked in Portuguese.
“There’s no room for all that.”
“I wasn’t sure whether we’re taking the truck.”
“Not if we can help it.”
“Can I at least take my knives? I’ve had them for a long time.”
“Of course. Just not anything else. We need to make sure there’s plenty of room for the gold and your fat belly,” Braga said, lifting his pack, pretending that it was nearly too heavy to lift.
Grimaldi smiled in acknowledgment.
As if only now recognizing they weren’t alone, Braga lightly tapped Duncan’s shoulder. He’d been listening to the conversation picking out familiar words.
“When is the plane coming?” Braga asked in Portuguese. Duncan understood but feigned ignorance.
“He says, when is the plane coming?” Grimaldi said in English.
Duncan shrugged.
Braga’s expression turned cold.
“This is not the time to play games,” Braga said.
Duncan looked at Grimaldi for translation.
“I don’t know,” Duncan said. “Sometime this afternoon is all I know, assuming it comes back.”
Braga became agitated listening to the translation. His men were finishing their preparations and he knew they would be eager to load the truck and be on their way. They would expect him to drive. They didn’t know about the airplane and would be suspicious if there was any delay in leaving. Somehow he had to distract them, give them something to do. To buy time for himself until the plane came. He didn’t believe what Duncan was saying. Under such circumstances he might beat the truth out of him but he was aware Duncan’s companions were watching, which complicated matters. Grimaldi urged his boss to restrain himself, that threatening Duncan would only make things worse.
Braga thought for a moment, looked at Duncan’s companions and then waved for them to join him, which they did, bringing their belongings with them.
“I am just looking for an answer to a simple question,” he said forcefully, with Grimaldi translating.
The three Americans looked at Duncan, whose head shook slightly. Suarez and Paulo, standing behind the three, watched as Braga pulled his revolver from his holster and, holding it at arm’s length, aimed it at Harden’s broad forehead.
“He says, when is the plane coming?” the cook said earnestly.
105
Harden smiled uncomfortably, his eyes darting in search of someone to speak on his behalf. Duncan shook his head just as Boyd said, “Wait.” But it was too late. The gun discharged with a deafening blast that tore out the back of the American’s head, killing him before he crumpled to the ground. Everyone looked stunned, including Braga, who looked at his gun as if it had done something unexpected. He now had the attention of the entire camp as the miners sprinted toward him, jockeying for a view of the body, laying face up, eyes wide with surprise, the sand absorbing the blood quickly.
No one was prepared for what had occurred, not even Braga. It was as if time had stopped so that they would be able to make sense of what had just happened. And then the reactions set in. Braga backed away, his pistol in his right hand. The cook turned away momentarily in disbelief. The miners backed off, not knowing what prompted the shooting. Fearing the worsening situation, Grimaldi reached out to his boss, as if for the gun, but Braga was already shifting gears, acutely aware that he had killed the American in front of witnesses even though he hadn’t meant to do it. He refused to give up the revolver, putting distance between him and everyone else, struggling to reorient himself, struggling to absorb what he had done without losing control of the circumstances.
As if waiting for such a moment, Suarez grabbed a fork from a box of utensils the cook had set aside and used it to free Duncan, after which the American coaxed Boyd and Cooper away from Harden’s body. The two could not take their eyes off their fallen colleague.
“Look at me,” Duncan said insistently. “Look at me.”
“I don’t understand,” Cooper whispered hoarsely.
“Why’d he kill Brett?” Boyd asked.
“I don’t think he meant to do it,” Duncan said, who was looking past his colleagues at Braga who was talking animatedly with Grimaldi.
“But he killed him.”
“I know, I know,” Duncan concurred. “There’s nothing we can do about it right now.”
“I don’t know,” Cooper said fearfully, as if talking to himself. “I just don’t know.”
“You don’t know what?”
“I can’t take this,” Cooper said, obviously distressed, glancing behind him at Harden. “My God, I can
’t believe this is happening.”
“Neither can I,” Duncan said, “but we gotta hold it together.”
Duncan worked at calming the men. He could tell by Boyd’s silence that he was angry, that and the way he was balling his fists and furtively glaring at Braga as if spoiling for a fight.
“We gotta maintain,” Duncan said, “both of you.”
“I just wanna tear his throat out,” Boyd snarled as they huddled.
“You need to calm down,” Duncan said firmly. “Right now. Do you hear me, Cody?”
“I hear you,” Boyd sighed. “I know he’s got a gun but if I ever get a chance—”
“I just cannot believe this,” Cooper said, kicking the sand.
“I know,” Duncan said, “but we gotta focus on how we’re gonna save ourselves.”
106
Grimaldi had never seen Braga like this, confused, panicky and waving the gun as if it were an unruly appendage.
“You should put it in your holster,” he said, in Portuguese.
“I am ruined,” Braga said mournfully.
“You are not ruined.”
“I am. It was an accident.”
“Yes, it was an accident.”
“You think so?” Braga said, tentatively.
“Yes, of course. You didn’t intend to shoot him, did you?”
“No, no, never. I was just trying to get one of them to tell us about the plane. I don’t know what to do.”
Grimaldi rubbed his chin sagaciously. Shocked as much as anyone else, he feared things would get worse. He eyed the miners as they stood out of earshot, bunched together as if for protection. The cook was looking ahead to the moment when the miners realized Braga planned to abandon them while he escaped with the gold.
Grimaldi motioned for one of the men to come forward.
“Julio,” the cook said, “What are the men saying?”