by Rick Mofina
She nodded for the lid to be secured.
Now at the cemetery, as Reverend Fitzgerald finished reading, Abner Fenlon gestured to Emma and she kissed Joe’s casket and placed a white rose upon it. As it was lowered into the ground, Emma, standing in shock, glanced at Tyler’s tiny casket. Abner Fenlon invited her to say goodbye to Tyler before his casket was lowered. Emma did not respond.
“Mrs. Lane,” Fenlon whispered again, “you may come forward.”
Emma did not move.
Abner Fenlon had five decades of experience in the funeral business and reasoned that Emma, paralyzed with grief, was likely not going to do anything without help. He wanted her to have the opportunity to say goodbye to her dead baby, so he offered it a second time, shooting glances at Emma’s aunt and uncle, who whispered in her ear.
“Say goodbye to Tyler, Emma.”
Emma did not respond.
Fenlon stepped up to Emma.
“Mrs. Lane, do you wish to say goodbye to your son?”
Emma was numb.
“I understand, Mrs. Lane.” Fenlon nodded to his staff.
At the funeral home, Emma had been invited to place Tyler’s stuffed bear inside his casket, alongside his little charred shoes. She had refused to part with the toy bear.
There’s nothing in there. I saw someone rescue my baby.
Now, as she watched the casket disappear into the earth, she pressed the stuffed toy to her face.
I know you’re not dead. Mommy’s going to find you.
16
Rio de Janeiro, Brazil
“Got it! Rio Sol Employment Agency, in the financial district.”
Luiz had looked it up online for Gannon as soon as he had returned to the WPA bureau from the law firm. Luiz called and pleaded in Portuguese for a meeting on Gannon’s behalf before hanging up.
“They will help us.”
Minutes later they were in a taxi weaving through traffic in Rio de Janeiro’s financial district. Gannon didn’t have much time to pursue this angle before the others would return from the funerals. He had to find out what role the documents from the law firm played in Maria Santo’s meeting with Gabriela. He needed to get to someone who knew Maria Santo.
Someone she trusted.
A few blocks after they’d passed by the Petrobras building with its sugar-cube architecture, the taxi stopped at the complex where the Rio Sol Employment Agency was located.
They were directed to the north wing, phase two, and the office of Francisco Viana, a small, officious man with a neatly trimmed beard. “Francisco’s English is not so good,” they were told. But Gannon was encouraged when he saw Maria Santo’s file on Viana’s desk.
After introductions, Viana offered his guests seats.
“The tragedy of the Café Amaldo was such a terrible act, my sympathies, Mr. Gannon.”
“Thank you, and our condolences, as well.”
“On the call, Luiz said that you wanted to pay tribute to Maria Santo.”
Viana’s English was stronger than Gannon had expected.
“Yes.” Gannon withdrew his notebook. “We’re profiling all the victims.”
“I see,” Viana said. “You cannot use my name, or the company’s name in any news report. We have client confidentiality agreements.”
“How about I take notes for background? And if the agency decides to make a formal statement of condolence, I will use that for my report?”
“Very well, on background as you say, not for publication.”
“Did you know Maria well?”
“She had been my client for three years. She was a very determined young woman.”
“How so?”
“She came from a very tough favela. Like the papers say, her father was a factory worker, her mother was a maid for wealthy people around Gávea and Leblon. Maria’s parents wanted a better life for her and sent her to school outside the slum.”
“What kind of a student was she?”
“Excellent.” Viana tapped her file. “She became very committed to human rights, social justice. She was a community activist and a conscientious worker. She was taking courses to be an administrator.”
“How would you rate her honesty, her integrity?”
“She was beyond reproach. She was one of our best workers.”
“Were there any problems with her work at Worldwide Rio Advogados?”
“None. Wherever she went, she was praised. At Worldwide Rio Advogados Maria was filling in for a worker on maternity leave. It was one of her longer assignments.” Viana stroked his beard as if coaxing a memory. “There is one odd thing about the firm and Maria.”
“What’s that?”
“She was always interested in postings at that specific firm.”
“Why?”
“Again, I must emphasize that this is not for publication?”
“Certainly.”
“There were rumors that Worldwide Rio Advogados represented the interests of big narco networks,” Viana said. “Some said they set up shell companies for the CIA, or numbered companies operating child labor sweat shops in contravention of UN treaties. All of it rumor, nothing ever surfaced. If it had, we would never send our people there.”
“Yes, but would Maria be the kind of person who would want to expose such activities if she’d found evidence, say documented evidence?”
“Perhaps. She was passionate about human rights, but really—” Viana shook his head as if to downplay the subject “—I don’t know. Those are only rumors and my speculation is not for publication, please.”
“Where did Maria live?”
“In the favela with her parents, Pedro and Fatima Santo.”
“She never moved out?”
“No, she wanted to make life better in her neighborhood.”
“Which favela?”
“Céu sobre Rio. Loosely translated, it means, heaven over Rio,” Viana said.
“Do you have a specific address? I’d like to go there and talk to her family and friends.”
“That’s not advisable,” Viana said.
“As a journalist, I must go. Luiz here can be my guide.”
“No, I could not,” Luiz said. “It would not be safe for either of us. Céu sobre Rio is one of the most dangerous favelas in all of Rio de Janeiro,”
“The drug gangs live there and control it,” Viana said. “As you may know, they control many favelas. In exchange for loyalty, they protect the residents and provide them with the things governments don’t,” Viana said. “If you enter as a stranger without permission, you could be robbed or beaten, taken hostage for ransom, or worse.”
“I understand it can be dangerous.”
“Especially for people like you, Mr. Gannon,” Viana said. “A year ago, a Brazilian TV crew doing interviews in the favelas was taken hostage after the narco chiefs accused them of being police sympathizers. They were tortured for days, their agony recorded with their own TV cameras.”
“I recall reading about that case. They were killed?”
“Executed,” Viana said. “No one was arrested. Then just last month, a reporter and photographer from Spain went into Céu sobre Rio. No one heard from them for five days—that is when their bodies were found in a Dumpster behind a Zona Sul police station. The drug bosses had suspected them to be undercover international police posing as foreign journalists. They were tortured, their torment recorded on a disk left on their bodies. It shows their killers, their faces hidden under bandannas, warning other ‘foreign police rats’ to stay away. It was on the TV news.”
“I understand,” Gannon said, taking a few moments to ponder Viana’s advice. Then he asked a few minor questions before closing his notebook and thanking him.
The taxi trip back to Centro was a long, silent one until the cab neared the bureau and Luiz turned to Gannon.
“You did some good digging, Jack, finding out Maria Santo was Gabriela’s source and everything else we learned today.”
“We got lucky there
.”
“I guess we’ve reached a dead end at the favelas.”
“I’m not sure where we go on this story next,” Gannon said.
“The others are due back the day after tomorrow. It doesn’t leave you much time.”
The taxi had stopped in front of their building.
“It’s been a long day, Luiz, thanks for your help. Send a news status update to New York, say that follow-up stories to the bombing are in development, then go home. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Okay, thank you.”
After Luiz entered the building’s lobby Gannon said to his driver, “Do you speak English?”
“A little.”
“Take me to a restaurant that is as close as possible to the entrance for Céu sobre Rio.”
“Céu sobre Rio?” The driver raised his eyebrows, shifted his transmission and eased into traffic. “Okay.”
After negotiating heavy late-day traffic, the driver came to a collection of boutiques and shops bordered by rising hills. The taxi stopped at a small restaurant called the Real American Diner, where Gannon got a table outside on the patio and ordered a burger made with beef from Argentina. In making awkward small talk with his waiter, Gannon confirmed that ascending beside him was the favela, Céu sobre Rio, an explosion of clustered shacks, jutting at all angles, piled on top of each other as they clung in defiance to the steep hill. While the sun sank behind the hill, Gannon asked his waiter if any of the staff lived there, or if he knew anyone who lived there.
After several minutes, Gannon was invited into the darkened restaurant, to the end of the bar where some of the staff had gathered. A man in his thirties, who bore a friendly face and spoke English, nodded to the youngest in the group, a teenager wearing an apron over jeans and a white T-shirt.
“Alfonso, our dishwasher, lives in the favela.”
“I am a journalist from New York City.” Gannon showed them his laminated WPA ID, then the clipping about the bombing victims. “I need to find the family of this woman.” He tapped Maria Santo’s picture. “Pedro and Fatima Santo. I need to visit them in the favela and talk about Maria.”
The older man translated and Alfonso began nodding.
“He knows Maria’s family.”
“Will he take me to them? Will he be my guide? I will tip him.”
The older man asked the boy, who spoke for a moment.
“Yes, he says. Meet him out front of this restaurant tomorrow at noon.”
“Can’t we go now?”
The man asked the boy.
“No, it is almost night, tomorrow is Sunday, it will be safer to take you then.”
“Good.”
Energized by the break and the meal, Gannon tipped the staff, who called a cab for him. As he waited, twilight fell and he gazed up at the Céu sobre Rio. The echo of traffic, shouting and throbbing hip-hop music rolled down in the evening air.
Every now and then, Gannon heard the sporadic pop of gunfire.
17
Big Cloud, Wyoming
After the funeral, time floated by Emma like fog.
She’d lost track of it as she grappled with the emptiness.
She’d sit alone in Tyler’s room for hours, rocking in the chair where she had nursed him. Joe had made the chair for her from Canadian maple. Its rhythmic squeak comforted her as she held Tyler’s teddy bear while images of the crash whirled around her.
Each time Emma replayed the tragedy, she saw Tyler being saved.
Was she crazy?
Oh, Joe, tell me what to do. Please, tell me!
Emma could feel Joe pulling her back to that day.
“You’re one of the most fearless people I know. Woe to anyone or anything that comes between you and Tyler.”
That was her answer.
Emma could not allow a lie to come between her and their baby. Emma needed proof, evidence that what she saw, that what she felt with all her heart, was wrong. And until she had it, she would never ever let go of her belief that Tyler was alive.
Never.
She found the binder holding papers from the funeral director and snapped through it, coming to the documents she needed.
“What is it, dear?” Aunt Marsha asked.
“I need to go out, to see to matters.”
Emma showered, dressed, made phone calls from the bedroom, then collected her purse and files.
“Are you sure you’re up to going out alone?” her uncle asked. “What matters are you talking about? Maybe we can see to them for you?”
“Thank you, Uncle Ned, but this is something I have to do myself.”
Emma got into her Chevrolet Cobalt and caught her breath.
Tyler’s car seat and some of his toys were in the back. Joe had insisted on getting a car seat for each vehicle so they weren’t constantly moving one from the Cobalt to the SUV.
Emma touched it, then turned the ignition and headed to Deer Creek Road and the office of the chief deputy coroner.
“Emma Lane. I called,” she told the woman at the desk.
The receptionist’s eyes went briefly to the scrapes on her face, a subtle verification that this was the woman who’d lost her husband and baby in the crash. “Hold on, I think Henry’s free.”
Henry Sanders, M.D., was in his forties. He was wearing a white smock with a pen in his breast pocket. His thick, dark-framed glasses had slid to the end of his nose when he came out from behind his desk to greet her.
“I’m deeply sorry for your loss, Mrs. Lane. I’ll try to answer your questions.” Sanders shook her hand. “May I get you a glass of water, coffee, maybe some tea?”
“No thank you. Dr. Sanders, what proof do you have that my baby died in the crash?”
Sanders’s face dimmed and he nudged his glasses.
“It was a terrible accident,” he said.
“Dr. Sanders, I was there. Now, according to my documents from the funeral director, you signed the death certificates for Joe and Tyler.”
“That’s correct.”
“And I understand that you filed them with the state.”
“Yes, with the local registrar.”
“I would like copies, please.”
“You can order them through vital statistics, but we’ll get you copies.”
“What did you list as the cause of Tyler’s death?”
“In Joe’s case, cause was attributed to a broken neck. In Tyler’s case, given the circumstances, I concluded fire was the cause of death.”
“But how can you say that without evidence? You didn’t find any of his remains.” Emma stifled an anguished groan. Keep going, she told herself. Keep moving. “No teeth, no bones. Just his shoes, which I had removed during the trip and put in the front seat with me.”
“Mrs. Lane, I know this is a traumatic time when people cannot conceive of the reality of what has happened.”
Emma noticed the framed degrees and certificates displayed on the wall behind Sanders.
“Did you find any remains belonging to my son? Any bones or teeth because—” Emma’s chin crumpled “—I understand teeth can survive fire?”
“No, Mrs. Lane, no remains belonging to your son were found.”
“Well then, how can you say—”
Sanders removed his glasses.
“The impact of the crash situated the baby’s seat upon the fuel tank, so that at the point of ignition it was akin to being at the hypocenter of a powerful explosion where the heat and gasses are the most intense. I am so sorry, but Tyler was incinerated. And under the regulations of this state, I am authorized to reasonably conclude that death occurred as a result of this event. Again, my condolences, Mrs. Lane.”
“But I saw someone rescue him.”
Sanders blinked sadly.
“Mrs. Lane, I understand the monumental loss you’re facing. Acceptance is difficult, denying the tragedy is understandable. Perhaps—”
“I’m not denying it. I know my husband is dead, I just—”
“Perhaps,” Sand
ers continued, “if you haven’t done so already, you should consider seeking counseling. There’s someone in Cheyenne I could recommend, if you like.”
Emma cupped her hands to her face and shook her head slowly.
“No, thank you.”
After leaving the coroner’s office, Emma drove across town to Blue Willow Park, where she used to bring Tyler. She stared at her copies of the death certificates until deciding to drive to the Big Cloud County Sheriff’s Office on Center Street, to see Darnell Horn, the deputy who’d brought Tyler’s burnt shoes to her in the hospital.
Horn had been the first officer on the scene.
“Is there something I can help you with, Emma?” Reed Cobb, Darnell’s supervisor, asked at the front counter, concern rising in his eyes. “Darnell’s out. But I expect him back any minute.”
“I want to see the reports, pictures, everything on the crash.”
“Emma, geez, I don’t know. It’s a terrible shame what happened, but it was a bad crash. One of the worst we’ve—I don’t think you want to look.”
“I want to see them.”
Glancing at her bruises, Cobb reasoned she had a right to see the file.
“Come around this way.”
He led her to a small room, left, then returned with a folder.
“Everything we have is in there, and we shared it with the Wyoming Highway Patrol.”
Emma took a breath, opening the folder to a collection of reports and photographs. There were color prints of charred metal, the contorted remnants of their family SUV on its roof. This was the car Emma used to load with their groceries, the car she’d dreamed in, the car she’d taken on class trips; the car Joe had driven when they went to the County Hospital where Tyler was born.
Now it was twisted metal and melted plastic, a grotesque headstone to her life. Emma’s vision blurred as she searched for proof that her son had survived.
She found none.
The reports were clinical. Phrases leaped out at her.
Single Vehicle Fatal Accident
Fatalities: Lane, Joseph, Age 34. Lane, Tyler, Age 1.
Injured: Lane, Emma, Age 31.
“…survivor Emma Lane, front-seat passenger, re ported that her husband swerved to miss an oncoming car. However, investigation of the scene deter mined no evidence of a second vehicle…no indication of mechanical failure…