The Dead Man's Brother (22 page)

"Most unwise," he observed. "First, knowing the man’s record for violence, I would say there is the possibility of his killing you. On the other hand, if he does not feel so inclined, he will no longer be interested in turning his records over to you. In that case, we both lose. While you would rather they go to your agency than to me, I feel your agency would agree that it is better they go to me than to no one."

"Your logic seems rather inescapable. What of Bretagne himself? Surely you want Saci as a prisoner. Or dead."

"His apprehension would be a welcome bonus. But I do not want you killing the man. He is worth much more to us alive than dead, because of the information he possesses. Right now, our main objective is to obtain his records. If he cannot be taken prisoner, he must be allowed to go free rather than be slain. But except for a minor matter, you are to leave that to us."

"Minor matter? You are going to attempt to arrest him, then?"

"Yes. When he sends for you, you will be followed—at some distance. Those savages are devilish good in the bush, though, so we cannot follow too closely and they may succeed in losing us. You can assist us with this."

He produced a small case from his side pocket, opened it and withdrew a pale object the size and approximate shape of a robin’s egg.

"I want you to take this pill," he said. "It can be gulped more easily than you might think."

"What is it?"

"A small, but surprisingly effective transmitting unit," he replied. "It will make the tracking chore considerably easier."

"Why should I swallow it?"

"He is a suspicious man. He may have you searched."

"And the cyanide hit me perhaps a day from now?"

"You are also a very suspicious man."

"I’ll carry it for you," I said, "but not internally. And at first hint of search, I’ll drop it and grind it into the dirt with my heel."

"All right," he said, passing it to me.

I dropped it into my pocket and glanced at my watch. At this, he checked his own.

"Yes, you had best be getting back now," he said. "Just convince him that you are what you really are and get the records. We may or may not put in an appearance. If not, we will meet you on your way back or at the way station. Good luck. I am glad that you are a reasonable man."

I ignored his extended hand.

"You leave me little choice."

"I am glad that you are a prudent man. Good night."

My shadow accompanied me most of the distance back, vanishing somewhere in the vicinity of the outhouse.

*

Maria did not comment upon my extended absence, but excused herself after inquiring as to the location of the facility. I obtained another cup of coffee when she left and considered my situation as I sipped it.

I did not give a damn about Saci, the revolutionary movement, Bassenrut, the CIA or the government of Brazil. Morales had been mistaken in figuring that I did give a damn about some of these things. I was here primarily to satisfy my curiosity, since I had already seen so much of the show. Also, now that it seemed I might soon come into possession of something Morales wanted, it would be pleasant to find some way of employing it that would screw him up as much as possible. There was definitely that factor, in addition to a growing interest in Emil Bretagne. An academic interest, of course. I didn’t care what became of him, but I was curious as to what he had really done and why.

Maria returned before Vera did, and things were definitely on an upswing again. The woman was bad for my peace of mind as well as my glands, but with each swing of the pendulum I found myself getting more used to it and, what was worse, liking those upswings more and more. I was again the old buddy, the lover, and as we reminisced over coffee and cigarettes I began considering where I could put her. Half-consciously, I redesigned my apartment. Damned insidious, it was.

Over an hour must have passed in this fashion. Save for an old woman dozing at a corner table, Maria and I were the only inhabitants of the rest station. The woman had told us to help ourselves to coffee and fruit. No one seemed curious as to why we were waiting there, but then Vera had spoken to the woman earlier.

Maria had gotten me to talking about the Taurus, and while I realized it was more than just a passing interest I did not care. I was darting closer and closer to the flame when Vera returned and Maria frowned.

She dumped four old shoes onto the table before us and said, "Put these on. For walking."

Both pairs were too large, but if we were going to do any real hiking they were still an improvement over our city footgear. We stuffed wads of paper into significant nooks and crannies. As I donned them, I channeled my thinking back to the issue at hand. Then we followed Vera outside.

She led us up the road away from the station, then switched on a flashlight and located a trail that led into the forest. We proceeded along it.

The blackness was a heavy, damp thing in under the trees. Perspiration formed on my face and little buzzing things orbited my head, trying to get inhaled. The trail grew spongy, yielding with each step, occasionally surrendering a clod of soil to our boots.

"How far are we going, anyway?" I asked.

She turned quickly, raised the torch and held a finger to her lips.

"Quite a distance," she whispered. "Keep your voice low. Better not to talk at all."

Chastised, I fell into step behind her once more as she turned and continued. I thought it damned silly, and then I thought about the tiny transmitter I was carrying and the fact that someone was doubtless tracking us at that moment. I resolved to dispose of the thing before very long and to keep my mouth shut in the meantime.

We departed the trail a while later and began winding our way downhill through a heavy growth of vegetation. We followed no noticeable path. The way grew steeper, and after a time I thought I occasionally heard the sound of running water. It became more rocky, and continuing our descent, we had to hold hands in places.

We finally came upon a small stream, which we crossed by means of rocks, a log and some shallow wading. I had forced the transmitter into the crotch of a partly split stick I had picked up earlier, and it cheered me to see it depart downstream when I released it. The least it could buy us would be more time—unless they were following closely enough to actually have us in sight.

We then proceeded up a rocky incline and into the forest once more. We could not see the sky, and the only sounds were our breathing, the noises of insects and the occasional scraping of our boots on stones or sticks.

After a time, we crossed another stream, rested briefly and moved on. Perhaps twenty minutes later we came to a halt in a small clearing at the foot of a gigantic, twisted tree decorated with snake-like vines and sleeping orchids. Vera flicked her light on and off a number of times, then we waited in darkness. I lit a cigarette.

"He is to meet us here?" Maria inquired.

"No," said Vera, and she repeated the signal.

"Where, then?"

"Farther on. I do not know."

She flashed through the sequence periodically, over the next ten minutes or so.

The last time that she began it, I realized there were two men standing near us, close to the base of the tree. My peripheral vision barely caught them and I froze instantly, not wanting to stir up anyone who could approach me that silently in the brush.

Vera took note of their presence, approached them and began talking. I could not recognize the language. The men wore small loincloths, carried machetes and were very dark. They responded in what seemed to be the same language and occasionally gestured with their blades.

Vera returned to us, smiling.

"They are going to guide us to one of their camps," she said, "where he is now staying. Come."

We followed, and they led us through mazes of trees, ferns, vines and rocks, occasionally disturbing sleeping things of unknown phylum, class, order, family, genus and species, which snorted, barked or screeched, then flew, slithered, ran or climbed away. I was amazed that the men carried no lights themselves.

We received only noncommittal replies when we asked how much farther, how much longer. When we insisted, they paused somewhat grudgingly to let us rest. They did not even seem to be breathing hard.

We went on for hours. My feet grew sore and my legs began to tire. There were two more streams and a rocky ridge. We came upon something like a trail after that, and the going was somewhat easier. Then, gradually, hardly noticeable at first, a faint light made its way into the world, touching the edges of leaves, enhancing outlines, causing dewdrops to sparkle, spiderwebs to shimmer like roadmaps of celestial cities. I was drenched by then, partly from my own juices, partly from droplets from on high.

There was no surprise. It was just an insidious diffusion of light and the slow awareness that we could see where we were going once more. Then our guides called a break in a somewhat open area at the foot of a small range of hills, beside a wide, rapid stream. It was quite light by then and the sky was overcast.

We waited there for about fifteen minutes. I was very thirsty, but I did not trust the stream and none of my companions was carrying a canteen. No further information as to our destination had been volunteered, and I was not about to ask any more questions. Maria and I stood together, smoking and conjecturing. Vera and the two men paced and studied our surroundings, occasionally muttering incomprehensibles to one another.

I heard the chunk as the round struck the bole of the tree before I heard the weapon’s report. Some buried reflex rose again and I pushed Maria to the ground and threw myself across her. Our guides remained standing, however. They were waving in the direction of the hills.

A man stood atop the middle summit. He had reslung his rifle and raised a pair of field glasses. Then, while observing us, he signaled with a handkerchief. The taller of the two men whipped off his loincloth and waved a reply, talking excitedly the while with Vera and the other.

After a final consultation, the man dropped his loincloth to the ground and took off running in the direction of the hills. He was out of sight in a matter of moments. The man on the hilltop continued to regard us, but he did not raise his rifle again.

I climbed slowly to my feet and helped Maria to hers.

"What," I asked Vera, "is going on?"

"He wishes to give us a message at this point," she said. "I do not know what it is yet."

"Who?"

"Mister Bretagne. The man on the hill."

"Oh?" said Maria. "And what is your place in all this? Both Portuguese and the native dialect seem natural to you. You seem comfortable here in the jungle, but you located Ovid in the city. What is your association with Emil?"

"My mother was native here, my father was from Rio," she said. "I have lived in many places. I am a priestess of the Church of the Spirits."

"Isn’t that voodoo?"

She shrugged.

"Voodoo, Candomblé, Macumba, Xangô. All the same," she said. "I have traveled much, and it is all the same. No matter how far I travel, though, I always return here at certain times, for it is my home. As for Emil Bretagne, I have long prayed for another Rondon, and I think that perhaps he has come."

"Rondon?" Maria said. "I’m afraid that I do not understand."

Vera smiled.

"My grandmother knew Rondon," she said, "and he was an old man even then. He was a half-breed like myself, born in Matto Grosso. Long ago, when they were laying the telegraph line from Rio to Matto Grosso’s capital, he was in charge of the work, going through the jungle with his men, digging holes, putting up telegraph poles. One day, they saw an Indian, and Rondon followed him. He came to a place where the tribe was massed, ready to attack his work party. They shot poisoned arrows at him and he fled. The next day he returned, bearing no weapon himself, and walked into their camp. He stood in the center of their village and did not move, waiting. The chief approached him then, with an arrow nocked and his bow drawn, but he never shot it. Instead, he was so impressed by his courage that he lowered his weapon and knelt at Rondon’s feet. They were very primitive people, the Nambiquara, and though they lived on the river they did not know how to make boats. Rondon taught them to build them, and he gave them medicine for their sicknesses. They became good friends. As he moved on, placing the telegraph lines, Rondon made more and more friends among the Indians.

"When then telegraph was installed, settlers came. As in your country, there was much hostility between the settlers and the Indians. It persists to this day. There are killings on both sides, though it is now mainly the Indians who suffer. In those days it was far worse, however, so that the government came to ask Rondon to do something about it—knowing that he had many friends in the jungle. He founded the Indian Protection Service then, and he worked for peace and the betterment of the native peoples. When he died—in 1956, I think it was—he had befriended and aided over 150,000 Indians from well over 100 tribes. He had set up Indian Protection posts all over Brazil. They talked about giving him the Nobel Prize for Peace for his work.

"But despite all that Cândido Rondon did," she went on, "things are still much as they were in the Old West of your country. There are men who earn their living as professional Indian killers, for there are settlers who want their lands, rubber tappers who want their trees, miners who want their minerals. Things are better than they would have been, but still, they are far from being good. Many of the tribes are near to extinction. Civilization offers them nothing but disease, poverty and misery—and the settlers, the rubber tappers, the hunters and the miners threaten the survival of the old ways. They must be protected from Civilization. We still have the Indian Protective Service, with its parks and preserves. But this is of the government. It is not of the people. It is not enough. Another Rondon is needed."

"And you think Emil Bretagne…?" Maria began.

"Yes," Vera said. "Over the years he has helped. Not much, but always some. Then, recently, he came to the people in person. It is difficult to explain, but I was there at the time and I know it must have been like that on the day Rondon went to the chief of the Nambiquaras. There is that about the man which is powerful and honest. I knew that he was a very great man—everyone knew it. And he has already done things for my people. He is very clever. He says that he will be with us for a long while now, and I believe him. You ask my association with him? He has named me his secretary," she concluded.