The Dead Man's Brother (26 page)

I deposited the briefcase there, covered it over, stamped down the earth, raked it lightly with a branch, strewed leaves, twigs and pebbles all over.

Then I moved out of the area, bearing to my left.

Within fifteen minutes I came to a brush-filled ravine which looked as if it passed through the hills. I took it. I had a strong desire to put the hills between myself and the scene of the action. I was practically sleepwalking by then, the adrenaline all used up and a soft, foggy ache in my limbs. I had to use both hands whenever I swung the machete, and it was like chopping at telephone poles. The rest of the time, I just let it trail beside me, heedless now of any marks that it left. I dropped it several times, almost losing it once. I had to go back twenty-two paces to retrieve it.

On the other side of the hills the sun was shining and the land sloped downward, heading into heavy green once more. It helped that the way was downhill.

I trudged off in search of a place to rest.

Half an hour later, maybe, in a damp hollow beside a rotten log, I covered myself with branches, and heedless of the insects about me or the orchids above me, clutched my machete like a teddy bear and went to a far, far better place.

*

It was well into the afternoon when I was awakened. The thing that caused it was the sound of gunfire. How long it had been going on, I could not say. The reports slowly filtered down to that central sensory clearing house that handles matters such as this. The place hummed and buzzed a while, then began jolting me back toward wakefulness.

I lay there wishing I weren’t. I was thirsty and drenched with perspiration. I ached all over. I did not move. I just lay there and listened.

There was silence for a time, then another burst of gunfire, then silence. There had been a few shouts during the shooting, but I had been unable to distinguish any of the words. It had all sounded to be on my side of the hills.

All of my senses finally came alive. Which was somewhat unfortunate, for I dared not move. I had given up on the notion of comfort a long while before, however. I cultivated stoicism and wondered what was going on.

It did not make particular sense for them to be hunting down the natives and slaughtering them. To indulge in such brutality was also to lose time during which a reprisal might be readied. An altogether stupid act, considering the villagers’ knowledge of the area. They must have had more in mind than that, I decided. Perhaps they were under the impression that one of the natives had the records.

I shifted my position only slightly, trying to relax as much as possible. I waited.

After an hour, I was still waiting. I had heard nothing more than the normal sounds of the forest.

It was well into the second hour before anything changed.

The birds grew silent. I had listened to them for so long that they had become a thing ignored, but when their sounds ceased abruptly it was more startling than any noise.

I was afraid even to turn my head at that point. There was no way of telling how near the intruder was until he betrayed himself. I began tensing and relaxing my muscles, tensing them and relaxing them, to make certain all systems were set for "go" and to let them know I was still in the driver’s seat.

It was another long while before I heard them.

The sounds of their movements through the brush reached me, halted, continued, halted again, continued. Occasionally, I heard a voice, though I could not distinguish words. I could not tell how distant they were, but I was beginning to get an idea as to their direction.

They were moving quite slowly, passing me widely and heading toward what seemed to be the northeast. Gradually, the sounds of their passage diminished.

It was then that I moved.

Slowly, painfully, I drew my knees to my chest and rolled onto my side.

Then over onto all fours, machete extended…

Then forward, clearing the way before me with my hand before I moved my knee to it…

Gently, slowly, quietly…

Then the other…

I began to gain on them. Finally, I obtained a position to the left and in the rear of the party. I paced them, straining my ears, ready to drop or dash in an instant.

When they halted, I did the same. When they moved, I moved…

Finally, they were still for an unusually long while, and I ventured to draw nearer.

There were three of them and they were talking. I still could not distinguish the words, but I recognized Morales’ voice.

Lying flat on my belly, I peered at them through a dense green wall. They were over forty feet away, resting in a narrow glade—two of them standing, one seated on the ground—and my vision was a partial thing, shifting with their movements and currents of air that eddied among the branches.

Gradually, I came to realize that the other two men were Victor and Dominic. Victor was the one seated with his back against a tree trunk. He was breathing heavily. He moaned once. Dominic and Morales were standing apart, apparently conversing softly. This went on for a long while, with considerable gesturing on both sides.

Finally, Dominic went over to Victor and helped him drink some water from a canteen. I licked my lips and lusted after the liquid. Dominic lit a cigarette then and held it for him. Morales remained apart.

After a few moments, Dominic’s right hand moved quickly, and it took me a few moments to realize what had occurred. He had drawn a knife from a sheath at his hip and with one rapid movement cut the other man’s throat.

He moved methodically then, grinding out the cigarette butt and removing the other’s pistol belt, which contained a canteen, knife and handgun. This he slung over his shoulder. Then he went through the man’s pockets, appropriating items that I could not see from where I lay. After that, he stretched him out and folded his arms across his chest. Morales called him a fool, loudly enough for me to hear, but ignoring this Dominic proceeded to cut fronds and lay them across the body. Then he stood beside it for a few moments with his head bowed, crossed himself and picked up the other’s rifle.

Morales, who had moved to his side by then, muttered something and the two of them turned and continued on in the direction they had been heading, moving more quickly now.

I lay where I was for a long while, considering what had happened.

You do not normally kill your wounded when you are being pursued unless they can tell the enemy something damaging. What could Victor have told to a group of illiterate natives that would be detrimental to Morales? Little, if anything, I decided. Therefore, considering the fact that there had been gunfire and Morales was obviously on the run, I could only conclude that he was being pursued by someone other than the locals. Who?

While I could not even venture a guess, I was cautioned thereby. Apparently the woods were full of fleeing Indians, Morales’ men and nameless pursuers of the latter. Whatever the grand total of everything involved might come to, it all seemed to go back to one basic thing: the Bretagne papers. As the only person who knew where they were, I felt as conspicuous as a good painting in the John and Mable Ringling Museum of Art. I would have to be wary behind as well as before, not to mention right, left and above.

These thoughts in mind, I advanced slowly.

From a distance of only a few yards, I surveyed the clearing. I could see nothing to be gained by entering it, so I skirted the thing and took off after Morales and Dominic.

There were no traps and I could detect no pursuit. Within an hour, I had closed the distance and was dogging them once again, from behind and far to the right.

It was perhaps two hours before they paused to rest, and I was thankful for the break myself. I lay on my belly once again and watched them, seated on a fallen tree, smoking, rifles at ready. I ventured nearer this time, as it was beginning to grow dark.

Morales, Morales… To have you so close without a rifle in my hands was indeed a pity.

But right then we seemed alone, the only two rafts on a great, green ocean and you not aware of mine yet, as we drifted closer and closer together. Patience? Not only did I possess it, I could enjoy its exercise because of that thing known as anticipation. If you and Dominic were to separate, but for even a small while, it would make things so much easier. If not…The night would be long and very dark.

They moved again, one more time, however, before the final curtain fell on day. I followed quietly, of course, and found myself a shrub-shrouded spot for lurking when they halted.

They cut fronds for bedding and cursed the jungle frequently, though softly. They did not build a fire. They smoked and drank from their canteens and discussed the possibility of shooting something to eat on the morrow.

I thought back to our incarceration and questioning, to my promise…

No, there would be no hunting for you tomorrow, Morales. As a matter of principle, I would be against your being tried and executed for anything, Morales. But my principles allow for your death by violence, at my hand. I do not believe in capital punishment, for I do not believe the state has the right to deprive a man of his life. However, I am not against murder. I was never party to any social contract and I am, by inclination and belief, an anarchist. Not being responsible for the way the world is set up, I do not feel bound by its rules. As a victim of society, I am willing to coexist with evils greater than myself unless they push me beyond the point of bearability. When this occurs, I either run or hit back, often anonymously, with the weapons I possess rather than the ones I have been assigned. I am happy, of course, that everyone does not feel this way, or I could not exist as I do, somewhere midway between civilization and its discontents—for the former situation might be absent and my
aurea mediocritas
thrown way out of whack. The possibility of this occurring is still sufficiently remote, however, to keep a pragmatist like myself in decent spirit.
Mediocrita firma
, Morales. I do not fight to win, but to maintain a balance. There is no victory, but your death will contribute to my continuing stalemate with existence. Rest a while now. I am. You might as well. There will be no hunting for you tomorrow.

*

They sat and talked for a long while, then stretched out as if to sleep. But they continued to talk. It was quite frustrating. Whenever I thought they had finally drowsed off, one of them would mutter something and they would start in again. Insomnia? Jitters? Probably. I was beginning to grow sleepy myself, though.

It had grown quite dark, with only a bit of starlight to help outline things, when the helicopter passed. It was some distance away, but the sound was unmistakable. I thought I had heard it several times earlier, but was not certain except for the one previous occasion.

Its passage, of course, woke up the camp and set off another bout of conversation. After a time, they lit fresh cigarettes. I was tempted to move closer and see whether I could pick up what was being said. I decided against this. It did not matter that much to me.

Finally, their voices rose and I heard several references to "times," accompanied by a waving of left hands, then a synchronization of their wristwatches.

With a sigh, Dominic rose, walked away, paced a bit, poked at several nearby bushes, then seated himself on a rock with his rifle across his knees. Morales resumed his recumbent position.

How excellent! I had been afraid all along that they might neglect guard duty. It made things easier to have them separated that way.

I rubbed fresh dirt on my hands and face, just in case the old was flaking off. It smelled good, that damp mixture of compost and soil. Then I backed carefully away from my position and scouted to the rear and the flanks. I moved about the camp three times in widening circles, to be certain someone was not doing unto me as I was to my prey. If they were, I decided after a long while, then they were so good that any speculation concerning them belonged in the realms of metaphysics.

I closed upon the camp once more, drawing much nearer than I had previously. Dominic was up and making his rounds again. I watched him for perhaps fifteen minutes as he paced and poked his way around, as he peered into the shadows. My eyes had by then adapted, of course, as far as Purkinje permitted, and the halo of a smothered moon assisted me slightly from on high.

He returned to his rock, and I advanced a few feet after he had seated himself. If I were to charge him right then, I felt that I could take him with the machete. But I was equally certain that he would get off a few yells and possibly fire a couple rounds also, before I dispatched him. Morales would be awake in an instant and I would be dead in an instant and a half. I had to take Dominic in complete silence.

I wormed my way nearer, breathing open-mouthed.

He stood again and looked all around him. I froze.

Then he moved off to his left and halted. This brought him slightly closer to me and twenty to twenty-five feet away from Morales. Though he still wore the pistol, he had left his rifle behind, leaning against the stone. I was at a loss to understand his actions.

…until he tore a handful of leaves from the nearest branch, unfastened his pistol belt and placed it on the ground, then unbuckled his trousers and pushed them down, along with his shorts.

I was moving before he had fully squatted.

I crept up silently behind him.

It is a hell of a way to die, I’ll admit, but I was not going to look this gift horse in the mouth.

He had to die, of course. I could not take a chance at a knockout attempt. If the first blow was off, I could not deal with him and Morales both.

I raised the blade.

He had both hands resting on the ground for balance and his head was far forward.

I rose to my knees, then moved my left leg forward. I pushed the blade high up over my head, then stood.

To err is so human. Pity.

Some damn vine caught at the blade as I began to swing.

He heard it, let out a croak, threw up his arm and toppled, falling onto his left side.