Michael Palmer - The fifth vial

With the steepness of the hills and the height of the trees, night settled in quite quickly. The small plot of grass to which Father Francisco had led Natalie was beyond and above the stream, not that far from the waterfall. She politely declined his offer to help her set up her tent for fear that he would wonder why it was absolutely unused. Tomorrow, if she continued to be comfortable with him, she would share the real story behind her journey to Dom Angelo.

Meanwhile, she pumped the priest as hard as she could for information regarding Dr. Xavier Santoro. What she learned was little. Francisco suspected that, like so many in this part of the forest, Santoro had a past he would just as soon forget. Eight years ago, when Francisco took up residence in Dom Angelo, the hospital and airstrip were already there, as was Santoro.

"A kind man," he said, "who genuinely seems to care for the forest people."

If that's so, Natalie wanted to scream, how did he end up operating on my lung?

In the gathering gloom, pitching the high-tech tent was a chore that would have been comical had the situation not been so intense. Finally, bathed in perspiration and swathed in insect repellent, but victorious, she sat outside her new home, reflecting on her surprising lack of emotion at having so violently killed a man just a few hours ago. According to Francisco, the group of policemen controlling the mine and the medical center numbered four, with at least one always present at the hospital. It was they who maintained the church and meagerly subsidized him, as much, he suspected, for his skill as a lapidary as his ability to preach and minister.

Tomorrow, Natalie decided, she would probably share with him the news that the number of Military Police managers had been reduced by twenty-five percent. For the moment, though, all she wanted to do was sit still and wonder how she could have found her way from an alley in a favela just outside of Rio to a hospital in the middle of nowhere.

The vantage point from her campsite included a disarming view of the waterfall and pool, and of the town below, but of something else as well. To the south, in a valley visible over the tops of trees, the priest had pointed to a faint cluster of lights.

The hospital.

"That is where tomorrow we shall try and get medical help for your hip," Francisco had said. "I think you will find that Dr. Santoro has the answer to your problem."

Let us hope so, Natalie thought savagely.

It was nearly eleven before the nip of cachaca, sugarcane liquor, kicked in and Natalie retreated to the womblike interior of her tent. She slipped Vargas's gun inside her thin sleeping sack, and allowed herself to drift off, fully expecting the proximity to Dr. Xavier Santoro to trigger yet another flashback. What she heard instead, after just a few minutes, was a soft scuffling from somewhere just outside the tent. Natalie silently slid the gun out, held her breath, and listened.

Nothing.

Astonished at how calm she was feeling, she aimed the barrel at the spot where she placed the sound.

"I hear you and I have a gun," she said in Portuguese. "Go away before I shoot."

"You do not need to do that," a man's harsh whisper responded. "If I wanted you dead, you would already be dead. It is what I do."

"Who are you and what do you want?"

"My name is Luis Fernandes. Dora Cabral is my sister."

With Vargas's gun still at the ready, and a high-intensity flashlight in her other hand, Natalie turned and crawled headfirst from the tent. Luis Fernandes was seated cross-legged, holding his hands palms up to show he was unarmed. He was slightly built, with an Indian's features, but definitely taller — much taller — than those men she had seen in town. A black patch, held in place by elastic, covered his left eye. Overall, he was quite menacing.

"You must speak a little slower," Natalie said, lowering both the gun and the flashlight. "My Portuguese is weak."

"Actually, you are speaking very well. Are you from Lisbon?"

"Massachusetts in the States, but my family is Cape Verdean. Are you really a professional killer?"

"I do what I have to, and some of the time I am paid for doing it. My sister works as a nurse in Rio at Santa Teresa Hospital. Is that the Dora Cabral you seek?"

For a time, Natalie studied the man's narrow, deeply etched face. He might have been anywhere from thirty to fifty, though she suspected early thirties. He was clean-shaven, with sideburns that came down below his ears, and had probably been handsome before the hardness of his life took over. Now, he simply looked rough. Natalie sensed there was no reason to be anything other than direct with the man.

"I am afraid I have some bad news for you," she said finally.

It was time, she decided, to share her story. Tomorrow, it would likely be with Father Francisco, possibly in the form of a confession. Tonight, it would be with this man, who, she strongly felt, was no threat to her. Luis listened intently as she recounted her two trips to his country, and the frantic events since she was approached by his sister at the crosswalk in downtown Rio. Outwardly, he seemed calm, almost detached, but even through the gloom, Natalie could see that his jaw was set, and his lips pressed tightly together.

"Believe it or not, there was a time when I was a teacher," he said when she had finished. "I taught music to schoolchildren. Then, one night, ten, maybe eleven years ago, I rose to the defense of the father of one of my students, who was being beaten by the police. During the struggle, one of the policemen fell and hit his head, and died. After a few years of running, and yes, killing, I ended up in this place. Even though the police run this village and the hospital, there are never any questions asked here."

"I understand," Natalie said.

"So now, after being a wanted man for so long, I am the head of security for the hospital. It is my job to bring people down from the village when there is an operation being done. I learned from some of the nurses how much they were being paid, and I talked my sister into signing up with Dr. Santoro. She only came here twice, and then suddenly decided not to come anymore. She never told me why."

"Perhaps something was going on at the hospital that bothered her. When was the last time she was here?"

"Two months ago, maybe a little less. You are sure it was Vargas who killed her, and Vargas whom you killed?"

"I am sure. This is his gun."

Luis took the weapon, inspected it, then hefted it expertly in his hand.

"It is Vargas's," he said. "He was a very hard man, with little respect for me or anyone else of stature below his own."

"Your sister was extremely frightened of him."

"It is not easy to resign from working at this hospital — maybe impossible. I owe you a great debt for avenging her."

"I believe your sister was killed because she tried to help me. She knew what was done to me at this hospital. Now, I need to know if I was really here, and if so, what happened to me."

Luis thought for a time.

"We are sworn to secrecy regarding the hospital and what is done there. The town depends on the hospital."

"Father Francisco tells me the mine is quite productive and could support the village."

"Perhaps," Luis said. "He would know better than I."

"Tell me, Luis. You know what they do there, don't you?"

The killer stared down at the ground. Natalie knew what he was contemplating. These people demanded loyalty, and were not the sort who allowed second chances. If he turned against them now, if they learned he had shared any of their secrets, there would be no going back for him.

"They do transplants," he said softly, "transplants of body parts. Many times the donors of the organs transplanted do not survive. In those instances, we are told to bury the bags containing their bodies."