Blood of the Wicked (20 page)

Chapter Thirty-five

Clementina was only two months past her twelfth birthday, narrow-hipped, small breasted and possessed of a flat posterior. If her charms had ended there, Rolando might not have given her a second look, but God had given Clementina other attributes to make up for what she lacked in voluptuousness. She had high cheekbones, café au lait skin, bee-stung lips, a small but exquisite nose, and the largest and most lustrous brown eyes that Rolando had ever seen.

Her charms saved his life.

They were lying in a field, some one hundred meters from the nearest tent, when Rolando heard the engine noises. Seconds later, there was a screech of tires followed by a spatter of gravel.

He disengaged himself from Clementina and looked anxiously toward his father’s tent. Someone inside lit a lantern. Car doors slammed. Voices shouted obscenities. Armed and hooded men were spilling out of a van.

“My dress,” Clementina said, in a whine Rolando hadn’t heard before and didn’t particularly like. “Where is it?”

He felt around in the dark, located the dress, and handed it to her. Then he started pulling up his pants. If the men had arrived just a minute later he would have had an easier time fitting into them.

The men had powerful flashlights. They were walking from tent to tent, using machetes to cut the plastic sheeting, shining the beams inside, obviously looking for someone.

There was a shot and a woman’s scream. Clementina got up to run, but he grabbed her by the ankle and pulled her down.

“Let me go,” she said in a loud whisper. “I have to get home before my father finds out.”

“Too late. Everyone’s up, but they’ve all got their hands full. Let’s just hope nobody notices we’re gone.”

Another shot. More screams.

“What is it?” she said. “Who are they?”

“
The rancher’s capangas
,
” Rolando said, “come to run us off.”

“Ai, meu Deus!”
She wasn’t whispering anymore.

Clementina’s father had only recently joined the league, but Rolando, despite his tender years, was an old hand at this.
His
father, Roberto, was the head of the whole encampment, the leader of the league in all of Cascatas, the best friend of the now-legendary Aurelio Azevedo.

Clementina lifted her head to look. He pushed her nose back down into the dirt. “Don’t move,” he said, but he snuck a look himself. He was just in time to see his father come out of their tent. One of the attackers shone a light in his face and, recognizing him, called out to the others.

They gathered around him like a pack of mad dogs. He tried to throw a punch, but they overpowered him and forced him to his knees. Two men held him fast by the arms while others went into the tent and returned with Rolando’s mother and his little sister, Lourdes.

“Where’s the boy?” he heard one of them say.

Boy? That was him! They were looking for him!

“He’s not in the tent, Senhor,” one of the hooded figures said.

“Merda
.
All right, let’s get it over with.” The man who’d been called senhor had a voice hoarse from shouting. He was obviously the leader.

“Right,” the figure holding Roland’s sister said. He pulled out a knife and drew it across Lourdes’s throat. She was so surprised she didn’t even scream.

But his mother did: A long drawn-out wail of anguish, cut short by the blast of a shotgun.

They shot his father last, first in each kneecap, then in the abdomen and finally in the head, using a pistol for all four shots. His father didn’t say a word, didn’t beg them for mercy, didn’t even cry out.

And yet all the time it was happening, Rolando heard his father’s voice, coming to him from somewhere within his own head.
Keep quiet, Rolando. Too late for me, boy. Don’t give them
a chance at you. Don’t die for nothing. Come back when you’re
older. Avenge me.

The man who’d shot his father was wearing gloves. He bent over the body, pressed something shiny into his father’s hand and took it away again.

The other people in the encampment were scattering in all directions, some of them toward the road, others dispersing into the neighboring fields. One group was coming directly toward Clementina and him.

She recognized her parents and both of her sisters. Before he could stop her, Clementina was on her feet and running to meet them.

A second later the hooded figures opened up with automatic weapons, spraying bullets into the dark. Rolando heard shots fly over his head like angry bees, heard one of them strike Clementina with a sound like the one his mother used to make when she beat a rug. Clementina staggered, turned, and looked back toward him. Her eyes were wide, the front of her pink dress dark with blood. Her saw her lips move and thought she spoke his name. But he couldn’t be sure. He couldn’t be sure of anything except the chattering of the guns.

Chapter Thirty-six

. . . as yet unconfirmed number of dead and injured. The owner of the fazenda, Orlando Muniz, has been unavailable for comment, but a spokesman for the landowner denied any involvement in the massacre. Meanwhile, Emerson Ferraz, local Commandant of the State Police, had this to say . . .

Silva turned up the volume on the colonel’s gravelly voice.

Some people are saying that Orlando Muniz is responsible for this outrage. It might seem to many to be a logical conclusion to draw after what they saw on TV the other night. But anyone who does would be wrong. You have to evaluate Senhor Muniz’s previous actions in the context of the situation at the time. He’d just been exposed to the body of his murdered son and he was, understandably, very upset. Now he’s had time to consider and I can assure you—

Outrage. Logical conclusion. Evaluate. Context.
The voice was Ferraz’s, but the words weren’t. The colonel made that doubly obvious by stumbling over some of them.

Silva shot out of his bedroom, crossed the suite’s living area, and opened Hector’s door.

“Hector?”

Hector opened his sleepy eyes and blinked.

“Get up. Ferraz was just on the radio. There’s been some kind of a massacre on Muniz’s fazenda
.
”

Hector threw off the covers and got out of bed.

“And the son of a bitch didn’t call us?”

Silva didn’t bother to respond to that.

“Call Arnaldo,” he said. “We’re all going up to see Muniz.”

LESS THAN TEN minutes later, Arnaldo was pounding his meaty fist against the door of suite 900.

There was no reply.

He pounded again.

A chambermaid came out of a linen closet at the end of the hall.

“Bom dia
,
senhores
.
Are you looking for Senhor Muniz?”

“We are,” Silva said.

“He checked out.”

“Checked out? Where’s he gone?”

“I don’t know, senhor. All I know is he didn’t leave a tip.”

THE CLERK at the front desk, the one who had Indian blood, was more helpful:

“He moved out to his fazenda
,
senhores
.
Said something about repairs being completed.”

Hector and Silva went for coffee while Arnaldo fetched the car.

Arnaldo and Hector each chose one of the cops. Silva walked over to Ishikawa.

“Doctor.”

Ishikawa looked up and rose to his feet.

“How many?” Silva said.

“Ten. Six men. Two women. Two girls, one twelve, one nine. Three of them were from the same family, a father, a mother, and their daughter. She was the nine-year-old.”

“Nine years old?
Nine?
That one had to be an accident.”

“No. They cut her throat.”

“Cut her—”

“Her father was the leader.”

“Pereira? Roberto Pereira?”

“Yes. Him.”

“Killed the whole family?”

“Not quite. The Pereiras also had a son. Fourteen. That boy over there, the one talking to the priest.”

“You woulda thought they’d have posted guards.”

Posted came out like
pothded,
guards with a long sibilant “s.”

“Could anybody identify the shooters?” Silva asked.

“Nah. They were all wearing hoods. Nobody has a clue.”

Father Brouwer joined them just in time to hear the sergeant’s response. “No clue? What do you mean ‘no clue,’ you fat fool? It was Muniz and those capangas of his. It had to be. Who else would have a motive?”

The sergeant didn’t like the “fat fool” remark one bit. “Who the hell’s talking to you?” he said. And then, to Silva, “Colonel thinks Muniz would never be that stupid. He’s the first person everybody would suspect, right?”

“And so your colonel’s conclusion is that Muniz wouldn’t do it, just because everybody would suspect that he did?” Father Brouwer interjected.

“Colonel talked to him,” the sergeant said, still addressing Silva. “He’s got an alibi. Witnesses.”

“What? Who?”

“I don’t have to talk to you, Padre. Get lost.”

“But you
do
have to talk to me,” Silva said. “Answer the priest’s questions.”

The sergeant tried to stare him down, and lost. “Muniz was sleeping when it happened,” he said, truculently. “He was in his bedroom. His bodyguards were at the door and all around the house. They’re his witnesses.”

“And the witnesses didn’t hear any shooting down here? For the love of God—”

“Leave it to me, Father,” Silva said. Then, to the sergeant, “It’s less than a kilometer from here to the house.”

“So?”

“And you’re saying nobody heard a thing?”

“Uh-huh.”

The sergeant looked from one to the other, not offering anything more. Silva turned on his heel and started walking toward their car. Arnaldo, Hector, and Father Brouwer tagged along behind. Silva didn’t object when the priest climbed into the back seat.

“The house, right?” Arnaldo asked, starting the engine.

“Right,” Silva said and turned around to address Brouwer. “I saw you talking to the boy.”

Brouwer nodded. “He saw it all. He was in a nearby field, talking with his girlfriend. She’s dead. Twelve years old. He blames himself for not holding her down. A stray bullet took her.”

“What did he see?”

“As that fat idiot back there just told you, the men were hooded. They arrived in a van. No markings. No license plate. They had flashlights; cut into the tents with machetes; were obviously looking for Pereira and his family. When they found them, they cut the little girl’s throat.”

“Did you see her body?”

“Yes.”

“Did the wound look like the one that killed Diana Poli?”

The priest reflected for a moment. “As a matter of fact, it did. It looked exactly like that.”

“All right. Go on.”

“Then they killed his mother with a shotgun. The father was last. They did it with a pistol. His kneecaps, his stomach, his head.” As Brouwer described Pereira’s wounds, he illustrated by pointing to the appropriate parts of his own anatomy. “They wanted him to suffer.”

“And the boy saw it all?”

“Everything. After they killed his family, the man who’d cut his sister’s throat leaned over and did something with his father’s hand.”

“Did
what
with his father’s hand?”

“The boy has no idea. He just saw one of them bend over with something shiny. Later he looked, but there was nothing there and no wound.”

“I’ll want to talk to him.”

“I was sure you would. I doubt he has anything useful to add.”

“The voices? Anyone have an accent? A speech defect?”

“No. I asked.”

“Clothing?”

“It was too dark. The hoods looked like they were made of jute. You know, like coffee sacks.”

Arnaldo rolled to a stop in front of the fazenda
’s
main house. The new door was still unpainted. Two capangas, cradling shotguns, were seated in chairs on the veranda. Both stood when Silva got out of the car.

“Here to see the boss?” one asked. It was the one who’d stopped to speak to them on the hillside.

“Yes,” Silva said. “Tell him.”

The capanga turned and knocked. The door opened a crack. Words were exchanged. The door shut again. “They’re letting him know you’re here,” the capanga said.

Thirty seconds later Silva heard the chain being slipped.

Inside, a man with a thick neck and biceps the size of Hector’s thighs led them through the house and into the living room. Despite the heat outside, there was a roaring fire in the fireplace. Air conditioning kept the temperature so low that Muniz was actually wearing a sweater.

Their host didn’t offer a hand or a smile. “You’re not welcome here, priest,” he said to Father Brouwer. “Go get your people off my property.”

Silva opened his mouth to speak, but the priest beat him to it. “You’ve sown the wind, you fool, and now you’re going to reap the whirlwind.”

“You dare to threaten me? Get out!”

“It’s not a threat, you bastard, it’s a prom—”

“Shut up, Father,” Silva said.

The priest turned furious eyes on Silva. Silva ignored him.

“Did you have anything to do with what happened down there?” Silva pointed in the direction of the encampment.

“No,” Muniz said. “but I’m not sorry it happened.”

“Two little girls died, Senhor Muniz. One of them was only nine.”

“What’s that got to do with me? Their damned fool parents shouldn’t have brought them here in the first place. It was their fault, not mine.”

“The other little girl was twelve.”

“Why don’t you get out of here, too, Silva? And take these other assholes with you.”

Arnaldo grunted, but he didn’t move. Hector took a step forward, but Silva closed a hand around his arm.

“All right, Senhor Muniz. You’re within your rights. Let’s go, senhores.”

“That’s it?” Brouwer sputtered. “You’re just going to leave?”

“That’s right, Padre. We’re just going to leave. And so are you. Come on.”

Silva released his nephew, took Brouwer’s elbow, and turned him toward the door. The priest looked back over his shoulder and shot a vengeful glance in Muniz’s direction.

But he went.

FERRAZ HAD left the matter of disposing of the two bodies until after his murderous visit to the league encampment.

Vicenza wound up in a culvert. They left the driver in his cab, his empty wallet beside him, as if another robbery had ended in murder.

It was almost 7:00 in the morning when the colonel got home. He’d still had to respond to the voice mail messages left while he’d been “asleep,” change into a fresh uniform, and put in an appearance at the encampment. He’d called his media spokeswoman, explained how he wanted to spin it, told her to work up a statement, and picked it up on way.

It was past 10:00 when he was finally able to put his head on a pillow, so he was not at all pleased when his telephone rang at quarter to 11:00.

After the clear instructions he’d left with his secretary, no one at the office would have dared to disturb him. It had to be one of those pain-in-the-ass federal cops. But it wasn’t. It was Orlando Muniz, and he, unlike the colonel, was in a very good mood.

“Hello, Colonel. How are you this morning?”

Ferraz swallowed his bile. “Just fine, Senhor Muniz. You?”

“I’m calling to commend you for a job of law enforcement well done.”

“Uhh, what job is that?”

“The way you handled those trespassers.”

“Sorry, Senhor Muniz. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No, Colonel, of course you don’t.”

There was a significant moment of silence. Then Muniz said, “I’ve just had some visitors. Those federal policemen that you’re getting to know so well—”

“Fucking assholes.”

“Yes. And someone else, too. That radical priest.”

“The young one or the old bastard?”

“The younger one.”

“Brouwer?”

“That’s him. Brouwer. He threatened me, Colonel. I think it would behoove us both to keep a sharp eye on the son of a bitch.”

Behoove? What kind of a word is that?

“I’ve known Brouwer for a long time, Senhor Muniz. A
very
long time. He’s got guts, but he’s harmless. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“No? So much the better for him, then. If he tries anything with me, I’ll kill him. You sound tired. A busy night?”

“I had a stomach bug that kept me up.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Really.”

“You’ve got to be careful with stomach bugs, Colonel. They can be dangerous. I’ve heard they can even kill people.”

Muniz was still laughing when he hung up.