Michael Palmer - The fifth vial

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"Boa noite," she said. Good evening.

"Boa noite," they replied, smiling broadly.

Natalie wandered casually along the hard-packed streets and stopped at a tiny store for some packaged meat, ginger ale, and some sort of small melon. The proprietress, another Indian, shook her head when asked about a woman named Dora Cabral. Several more citizens of the village gave her similar responses, including two miners just finishing a day's work in the hole in the mountain.

The altitude and long day were beginning to take their toll on Natalie's stamina. She was thinking about locating a place in the forest to pitch her tent when she spotted a chapel — whitewashed clay with a red tile roof and a stubby, square-topped steeple with a crude, six-foot cross on top. The canvases forming the top half of the walls and the door were rolled up and tied, exposing two rows of ten rough-hewn pews. The altar was unadorned save for an elaborate ceramic crucifix fixed to the solid wall behind it.

Although she considered herself spiritual in the sense of living in constant awe of the vastness of the universe, the wonders of nature, and the need to treat others with respect and some form of love, Natalie had never been religious in any organized sense. Still, she felt a deep serenity in this simple structure and responded to it by sitting down on one of the benches.

Despite her attempts to relax and clear her mind, the horror of Vargas's attack on her and his violent death, along with the puzzle of Dora Cabral, simply would not let go. She had been in the chapel for, perhaps, fifteen minutes when a man spoke to her from behind in accented, though fluent, Portuguese.

"Welcome to our church."

His voice was gravelly and low, but somehow soothing. Before she even turned, Natalie breathed in the all-too-familiar scent of cigarettes.

Standing behind her was a priest in a plain, black, mud-spattered robe, white collar, and sandals. He was fifty or so, somewhat gaunt, with dark hair cut short, a day or two of gray-black stubble, and striking, electric blue eyes. A heavy silver cross dangled halfway down his chest, suspended on a thick silver chain.

"This is a very lovely place," she replied.

"You are American?" the priest said, in perfect English — or at least as perfect as someone probably raised in Brooklyn or the Bronx could have.

"Boston," Natalie said, switching to English and extending her hand. "Natalie Reyes."

"Reyes. So you are Brazilian?"

"My mother is Cape Verdean."

"I am Father Francisco Nunes — Frank Nunes of the Brooklyn Nuneses."

Natalie smiled as the man took a seat on the pew opposite hers. He had a magnetic presence that immediately drew her to him, but there was also an unmistakable aura of melancholy that she suspected might have something to do with the reason he had migrated so far from New York.

"This is quite a parish," she said.

"Actually, I minister to several villages in the rain forest, but primarily I am here. Call it penance if you wish."

Natalie declined the silent offer to pursue the matter. Father Francisco seemed anxious to talk.

"And here is?"

"Dom Angelo, a mining community — primarily emeralds, but also green tourmaline, topaz, opal, amber, and some sapphire. I have become something of an expert on the purity of these gems. And you?"

"I am a student, taking some time away from my studies to reorder my priorities in life, and to hike the rain forest before it is all gone."

"It still has a ways to go, but I understand."

"I notice that most of the people here are Indians."

The priest laughed.

"Many of our residents are indigenous to these vast forests," he said, "but there are a number of others here who crave the anonymity of a place like this, where all transactions are done in cash, and people only have last names if they wish to."

"Do the Indians own the mine?"

Again an ironic laugh.

"These poor, pure people own next to nothing," he said, "and are probably the better for it. The gems they mine are quite profitable, and in Brazil profit often means involvement of the Military Police. It is they who own this place — at least a small group of them do. Think of them as the sheriffs and Dom Angelo as Tombstone in the once Wild West."

Natalie flashed on Rodrigo Vargas's hideous visage as he lifted his bloodied face up from the mud to attack her. Involuntarily, she shuddered.

"I…I have another reason for seeking out this village," she said after a time. "A relative of my family, a woman named Dora Cabral, originally from Rio, wrote my mother that she was working out here as a nurse. Is that possible?"

"Quite possible, yes," Father Francisco replied. "We have a hospital nearby, and that hospital employs nurses brought in from Rio, but although I know some of them, I know no person named Dora Cabral. I will ask around the village, though."

"I have already asked a few people, but no luck. It's hard to believe you have a hospital out here."

"Quite a modern hospital, in fact. They perform highly specialized forms of surgery, although I have never been privileged to know precisely what."

"Fascinating. So your parishioners go there for care?"

"Not for surgery. Operations are only performed by the nurses and doctors who are flown in or sometimes driven in from Rio, and then only on their patients. If one of our residents needs hospitalization, there is an ambulance we are allowed to use."

"Who runs this hospital?"

"The same people who run Dom Angelo."

"The Military Police?"

"Essentially. When they need help, they bring villagers down as cooks or for housekeeping or sometimes even to assist in the operating room. Once every week or two, a clinic is opened at the hospital so that a nurse or doctor can minister to the people from the villages."

"That's very good of them."

"It is all about control. The care the villagers get they would not be able to get anywhere else. Their gratitude may cause them to think twice should they consider trying to keep a stone for themselves. Not doing so is generally a wise choice. The police have a network of spies and informants, and mete out justice with a very quick and heavy hand. If you have spoken to any of the townspeople, there is a chance the policeman currently residing at the hospital already knows you are here."

"Well, if so, they will soon know that I am only passing through."

Father Francisco tapped a half-smoked cigarette from a crumpled pack and lit it, inhaling gratefully.

"I have decided that I have enough vices I am doing penance for," he said. "The right to enjoy these, I retain."

"It is your right."

The priest hoisted Natalie's backpack on his shoulder.

"Come, I will show you a flat, protected plot overlooking the village where you can pitch your tent."

"That's very kind of you, Father. I wonder if there is any way I could visit the hospital. I fell down an embankment not long ago and injured my hip."

"I can clean and bandage your scrapes and cuts, and tomorrow I can inquire about the status of affairs at the hospital, but I can make no guarantee of treatment."

"That would be very kind of you. Tell me, where is this hospital?"

"A kilometer to the south. No more. I am sure if there is no special surgery scheduled, Dr. Santoro would be happy to care for you."

Natalie felt her blood freeze.

"Who did you say?" she asked, trying desperately to maintain a facade of nonchalance.

"Dr. Santoro," Father Francisco said. "Dr. Xavier Santoro."

CHAPTER 29

Then you will soon observe whether a man is just and gentle, or rude and unsociable; these are the signs which distinguish even in youth the philosophical nature from the unphilosophical.

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