There was a gasp from Wilson. Despite his exhaustion, he opened his eyes wide in amazement. “How last can a resort get?”
Da Silva shook his head. “It wouldn't have helped; that's why I didn't. I know Alameida: he'd sacrifice his mother before he gave up one of his jobs. All we would have done was tell him where Captain Freitas was. This way there's a chance they won't find them. Maybe...” He hesitated.
“Maybe what?”
“Nothing. It's just that he's our last hope.”
A shadow crossed the other's face; his voice was dull. “Zé, we've had a good run, but I think this is the end of it.” He forced a note of lightness into his voice. “I'm just sorry I won't have a chance to try this rope trick on one of those vaudeville escape artists. You throw them into a tank of water all handcuffed and they come up waving their hands. The good ones aren't even damp.”
He leaned back, and for several moments the men remained silent, each with his own thoughts.
Wilson cleared his throat.
“What?”
“Do you think Alameida has any chance of getting away with this crazy scheme of his?”
Da Silva stared at the dirt floor of the hut for several moments before answering. When he did, his face was cast in a bitter mold, but his voice was even.
“As a matter of fact, yes, I do. It isn't as crazy as it sounds. Alameida is just a pawn. The people behind it are the big families and the colonel class of the army. They've always been the ones.”
Talking seemed to ease him. Wilson listened as the voice of the other gained strength.
“Democracy in most South American countries is having a rough struggle right now.” It's caught between economic conditions that lead people to look for solutions in any direction—but mostly to the left—and a military caste tradition that wants to solve these problems by taking us to the right. We try to walk a middle course, and that's not easy. Or popular.
“Brazil has been luckier than most so far: the top military men have been strong for democracy. But the colonel class has never been happy. They can see the handwriting on the wall for their caste tradition, and they don't like it. I'm not surprised they organized this; it's not the first time. Five years ago they tried the same thing, but they had no bombers or any real threat.”
He cleared his throat. “I know Brazil. And Brazilians. The threat of bombing Rio would be all those commanders on the fence would need to go over. And the radio? I can hear it now: ‘Anything is better than civil war; Brazilian must not shed Brazilian blood, etc., etc.’ And the man in the street? Well, anything would be preferable to him to the possibility of his beloved Rio being bombed. After all, a bomb might ruin the beach, or a bomb might destroy his favorite bar or—God forbid!—the football stadium.”
He took a deep breath. “No, the idea is far from crazy. Could it work? Oh, yes!”
Wilson opened his mouth to comment and then paused, listening. There seemed to be some activity in the village street: a cry could be heard, and several Jivaros dashed past the doorway of the hut.
A swift frown crossed Da Silva's face.
“Something seems to be going on.”
Wilson raised his eyebrows. “Well, I'm sure it isn't the U.S. Marines.” A sour grimace crossed his face. “Probably an emissary from the neighbors telling the boys to set a few more places for the execution.”
The monkey-fur cap of the shaman darkened the entrance to their hut for a second, as if checking to be sure they were still there, and then was instantly withdrawn. The two men stared at each other curiously a moment from the corners of their eyes and then, in wordless accord, started to crawl toward the entrance. Their first movement jarred their shoulders into agony. They paused and then slowly began inching themselves along the floor until they reached the opening and could peer into the street. A stubby naked child, toddling close, paused to point a fat finger at them; there was a swoop as a frantic mother snatched the child back and bore it away.
Wilson shook his head. “This is a hard place to make friends.”
They stared down the beaten dirt path that was the village street: the larger of the huts blocked the river from their view, and it seemed that the activity that was drawing the Indians was taking place on the riverbank. The two men crouched in the doorway, waiting. And then the small figure of the shaman appeared beyond the corner of the hut, followed by a procession.
There was a sharp intake of breath from Wilson.
“So much for our last hope.”
Elena and Alameida were closely following the shaman, and behind them, hands bound behind his back, lurched the shambling figure of Captain Freitas. Two men with rifles walked confidently behind, prodding the huge figure forward with cruel jabs from the outstretched weapons. The procession stopped in the center of the village. There was a brief conference and then the crowd, led by the shaman, turned in the direction of the small hut. The large captain stood shamefaced before them, his eyes downcast to avoid the faces of the two men in the entrance. A sudden brutal shove sent him stumbling over the pair in the doorway; he fell heavily and drew himself scrabblingly back into the shadows. Da Silva winced at the pain that shot through his shoulders as the large figure struck him.
Alameida smiled cruelly at the two sprawled before him.
“So you had Elena, eh? And then were so foolish as to leave her in the hands of that incompetent old man!” He grinned savagely. “You've slipped, Da Silva. Maybe it's just as well that the Jivaros will make an end to your career before you brought shame to the honorable name of ‘policeman.'” He threw back his head and laughed.
Elena detached her arm from his and bent forward. Her beautiful eyes showed dancing glints of excitement; they scanned the bearded face before her almost tenderly and then came back to study the watchful eyes.
“I'm afraid this must be goodbye, Captain,” she said softly, and, smiling gently, spat full into his face.
There was a moment's tableau as she remained there, staring into the blank eyes of the swarthy man before her. Then, gracefully, she slowly straightened up, turned to her brother, and murmured something. The two turned and walked away without a backward glance. Da Silva stared after them. In the burning heat of the tropical sun the spittle was already caking on the dirt of his face, hardening into a long, running scar. The Indians clustered about raised a shout of wild laughter. His eyes came around. One look from those sunken orbs and the laughter checked, fading into almost terrified silence. The Indians fell back, the taboo instantly remembered.
Da Silva swung his head back to Wilson, bound to his leg in an implacable embrace. Wilson's face was ashen with disappointment; he stared blindly into the sun and then dropped his eyes hopelessly. Without speaking, the two dragged themselves painfully and clumsily back into the depths of the hut.
In the dimness of the small room the huddled figure of Captain Freitas could be seen, his head sunken on his raised knees, his hands twisted behind him and knotted at his back.
Wilson was swept with despair; he suddenly realized how much he had lived in the hopes generated by having a friend free on the outside. He wet his lips; bitterness sounded in his voice despite his effort to control it.
“So they found you...”
There was a moment's silence. The huge head in the shadows beyond remained in its pose of dejection a moment and then slowly raised itself. It seemed to be listening for something and then swiveled in their direction. Then, to the utter amazement of the other two prisoners, there came the sound of a low chuckle.
“No,” the captain said in a whisper. "I found you."
Their heads came up at his tone of voice. For the moment their pain was forgotten.
“What?”
The captain's voice went on softly. “I knew when you didn't come back that something had happened. I couldn't very well come down here after you, sneaking through the jungle. If you hadn't gotten through, I doubted if I could. I didn't know what to do. And then they came looking...”
There
was disbelief in Wilson's low voice. “You mean you allowed them to capture you?”
The large captain nodded slowly, his blue eyes intent upon the other two. “José is my friend.”
Wilson shook his head in wonder. “But what made you think you'd even find us alive?”
“We had the girl when you were caught,” the captain said slowly. He shrugged. “I didn't think Alameida would let you be killed until he had gotten his sister back.”
Wilson sighed. “That's a good theory,” he said with a touch of bitterness. “Only Zé didn't tell them we had Elena.”
“I know.” The deep voice was noncommittal. “I only found that out in the canoe coming down.”
Da Silva leaned forward. He had been listening to this exchange quietly; now his eyes narrowed. “You came here with an idea. What was it? It certainly wasn't to die with us.”
“It certainly wasn't.” The low chuckle was instantly wiped out of his voice. “How often do they check on you in here?”
“They don't. There's a taboo on us until the planes take off tomorrow.” He studied the big face in the deepening gloom of the hut. “Why?”
The large captain didn't answer the question. His eyes lifted to study the swiftly darkening entrance to the hut. He nodded silently. “In that case...”
One booted foot scraped tightly against the other trouser leg, dragging the stiff cloth upwards. In the dimness of the hut both Da Silva and Wilson saw the thin shape strapped against the bulging, hairy calf.
Captain Freitas grinned.
“There's a lot these types don't know about searching a sailor. Swing around and pull it out of the holster.”
The two scrambled about, presenting their backs to the captain. He bent his knee and dragged his shin across Da Silva's bound hands. The knife holster scraped against the puffy, inert fingers. Veins stood out on the sweaty, pockmarked forehead as Da Silva strained mightily to grasp the knife. Suddenly he slumped in discouragement.
“I can't do it. My fingers are dead.”
Wilson shook his head in misery. “I wouldn't be able to either.”
There was a moment's stunned silence. Slowly Captain Freitas withdrew his leg. The pair bound to each other inched their way around. All three stared at the knife strapped so securely and so hopelessly in the holster. Wilson groaned.
Suddenly Captain Freitas leaned backwards, falling heavily to his shoulders. He raised his leg and began scraping brutally against the snap catch of the holster. There was a tiny click and the leather thong guarding the hilt popped free, dangling. A hard shake of the raised leg sent the knife sliding slowly from the sheath. It hesitated a second, caught on some inner lip of the confining leather; a more violent shake finally freed it and it tumbled down, bouncing from the chest of the captain, coming to rest on the hard-packed-earth floor. Freitas rolled back to a sitting position, panting. The three stared at the sharp weapon, now free but still tauntingly useless.
Da Silva suddenly raised his head. “I can pinch it between my boots,” he said. “If you can lie down and scrape against it.”
Captain Freitas nodded. “We try,” he said softly, and fell to his side.
Da Silva dragged his booted feet against the knife. Three times he managed to raise it, only to have it fall again. Being bound leg-to-leg with Wilson vastly complicated the maneuver. The fourth attempt was successful: the hilt was locked firmly, the blade was erect.
Captain Freitas edged sideways, searching with his elbows for the sharp edge. There was an intake of breath and a muttered curse as the point of the blade bit into the flesh of his arm. His weight dragged momentarily on the knife. Da Silva pressed his feet together more tightly. This is hopeless, he suddenly thought. This is ridiculous. But the large captain was returning to the struggle, pushing himself backwards, wriggling his body to force the cords to saw against the blade. There was a snap and his arms loosened slightly. The motion jerked the knife free from Da Silva's precarious hold and it fell once again to the ground. Da Silva began to scramble for it again when Captain Freitas rolled over and brought himself to a sitting position.
“Ah, to hell with it!” he said softly. “I have enough slack now.”
He took a deep breath and bent forward, laying his head on his knees. His huge shoulders suddenly hunched. While the others stared at his outline in the darkness, the large man began to strain his arms away from each other in an incredible exhibition of sheer strength. The veins stood out on his broad forehead; his eyes were squeezed shut. A tiny explosion of breath was forced through his clenched teeth; his entire body seemed to swell with his tremendous effort. There was a sudden snap as the bonds parted and he fell back, fighting to control his panting.
He brought his hands from behind his back and began to rub them together, twisting his fingers about his great wrists, a grimace of pain on his face. Slowly his panting reduced itself to a series of shuddering breaths.
“That was the first part of the idea.”
The other two stared at him and then at each other in incredulous wonder. With one wordless accord they scrambled about, presenting their backs to the big man. He picked up the knife and reached forward to tackle Wilson's knots first. And then he paused.
“When these come off it's going to hurt. You can't make any noise.”
“I won't make any noise.”
The large man studied the bent head before him a moment and then slipped the edge of the knife through the cords, drawing down sharply. They parted silently and he swiftly began unwinding the ropes. The last cord dropped away; the freed arms fell lifelessly to the ground. Wilson grimaced at the odd feeling and nodded his head. The captain was watching him closely.
And then the pain began, starting at his elbows, spreading in both directions, growing in intensity. Liquid fire seemed to tear through the tortured flesh, agonizing stabs of pain that rolled through him in waves, each greater, each more excruciating, more unbearable. He rolled his eyes up wildly. The captain eased the shuddering body to the floor, dragging the inert arms from beneath him and laying them gently at his side. Wilson stared at the ceiling with almost maddened eyes, fighting to keep his tiny screams from escaping his throat. And then he fainted.
Captain Freitas turned to Da Silva. As his fingers found the cords in the darkness he leaned forward, his beard scraping against the other's cheek, repeating his whispered warning.
“It's going to hurt.”
Da Silva wet his lips. He bent his head, closed his eyes, and gritted his teeth. “I know.” And then he waited with his Indian-like features locked in a rigid mask for the terrible pain to come.
The faint light cast by the flickering of the dying cooking fire down the village street allowed the prisoners to discern the dim outline of the hut entrance. Through the thin woven walls they could hear occasional guttural conversation as the guards along the riverbank met and exchanged grunts. The three huddled near the center of the small hut in a whispered conference. Hours of massage had reduced the pain to a steady ache and brought enough life to the swollen arms for them to consider their next step.
The initial exhilaration brought by his unexpected freedom from the ropes had faded from Wilson's voice; his whisper sounded doubtful. “Outside of sore arms, what do we have? Was your idea simply to get in here to untie us?”
“I thought then we'd get away...” The voice trailed off almost apologetically.
“How? We're still trapped.”
Da Silva was squinting into the darkness, his mind once again alert and hopeful. He disregarded this pessimism. “Don't pay any attention to Wilson, Captain. He was hit on the head.” His mind was racing. “Captain, where's the canoe? Still at that spit?”
“No. They brought it down with all our gear. It's on the beach.” He hesitated, calculating, happy for this support. “I'd say it's just about back of this hut.”
“There isn't a hope,” Wilson said dismally. “They have guards along the beach—armed guards.”
Da Silva leaned past him, speak
ing to the captain. A plan was slowly beginning to form in his mind. “When you came downriver, did you notice how far this beach runs up beyond the clearing? Past this hut?”
“About fifty yards, I think. No more. Why?”
“Is that part of the beach visible from the village?”
The captain tried to remember. “The forest comes right to the side of this hut....” He screwed his eyes shut, attempting to picture his arrival at the village. The picture formed. He opened his eyes to stare, into a darkness just as complete. “There's a slight curve just above here; there's a small stretch up there that should be hidden from the village. But you could always see it from the beach here.”
“And could you drag our canoe up to that part of the beach?”
There was a moment's startled silence.
“If you mean am I strong enough to get it there, the answer is yes.” Captain Freitas stared through the darkness, trying to see the face of the man whose questions seemed so pointed. “As a matter of fact, I could even carry it. But...”
“It's hopeless,” Wilson said dully. “One sound from those guards out there and we'd be back. In worse condition.”
“And if there were no guards?” Da Silva's voice began to sound excited as his idea gripped him, taking form.
“But there are guards!” Wilson tilted his head towards the wall of the hut. “You can hear them.”
“That's now! But in daylight...”
There was a startled gasp from his two listeners.
“You're crazy!” Wilson's voice was almost querulous; it had risen dangerously. “How—?”
Da Silva's hand brushed out desperately in the darkness, found and clamped on the other's knee in silent warning. There was a sudden shuffling sound outside of the small hut. The men within could hear labored breathing through the thin wall and picture the armed guard outside bent to listen just a few feet away. They froze, waiting. After what seemed to be hours to them they heard a muttered exchange and then voices that diminished as the men walked away, returning to their posts along the beach. The men in the hut released pent-up breath.
The Shrunken Head Page 16