Douglas Preston - Two Graves

53

THE DOCKS OF ALSDORF, SUCH AS THEY WERE, LAY ALONGSIDE the Rio Itajaí-Açu, a broad, brown, odorous river flowing out of the deep forested interior of the southernmost provinces of Brazil. The docks were a busy area, thronging with fishermen unloading their catches in great wooden wheelbarrows, fish dealers shouting and waving wads of money, ice mongers trundling blocks, whores, drunks, and peddlers pushing food carts loaded with soft pretzels, knockwurst, sauerbraten, and—even more strangely—kebabs of tandoori chicken.

Amid these multitudes an odd figure made his way—a stooped man dressed all in khaki, with a salt-and-pepper Van Dyke beard, hair clamped down under a Tilley hat. He was carrying a backpack bristling with butterfly nets, bait-station setups, jars, traps, collecting heads, funnels, and other obscure lepidoptery equipment. The figure was trying to get down to the landing quays, pushing through the heedless crowds, his shrill, querulous voice protesting in broken Portuguese as he shoved his way toward a shack at the far end of the floating quay, which sported a hand-painted sign reading ALUGUEL DE BARCOS.

Belmiro Passos, a skinny man in a T-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops, occupied the shack, eating a large soft pretzel and watching the figure approach. Behind Passos were boats—mostly battered Carolina skiffs with decrepit Yamaha engines—which he would rent to anyone for almost any purpose, legal or otherwise. His customers were primarily travelers going up- or downriver, visiting hard-to-reach villages, or fishermen whose own boats were out of order. Occasionally, Belmiro would rent to the rare adventure tourist, naturalist, or sport fisherman. As he watched the figure draw near, he immediately pegged him as a naturalist, and not only that but a butterfly collector, of which there were not a few who came to Santa Catarina State because of its varied and exotic butterfly population.

The agitated man finally broke free of the throngs of fishermen and came huffing over. Belmiro greeted him with a broad smile.

“ Yo… eu… quero alugar um barco! Alugar um barco! ” the man shouted, stammering over the words and mixing Spanish with Portuguese to create almost a new language.

“We speak English,” said Belmiro quietly.

“Thank God!” The man shucked off his pack and leaned against it, panting. “My goodness, it’s hot. I want to rent a boat.”

“Very well,” said Belmiro. “For how long?”

“Four days, maybe six. And I need a guide. I’m a lepidopterist.”

“Lepidopterist?”

“I collect and study butterflies.”

“Ah, butterflies! And where you go?”

“Nova Godói.”

At this Belmiro paused. “That is very long way up the Rio Itajaí do Sul, deep in the araucaria forest. It is a dangerous journey. And Nova Godói is private. No one go there. No trespass.”

“I won’t bother anybody! And I know how to deal with people like that.” The man rubbed his fingers together to indicate money.

“But why Nova Godói? Why not go to Serra Geral National Park, which has many more rare butterflies?”

“Because the Nova Godói crater is where the last Queen Beatrice butterfly was sighted in 1932. They say it’s extinct. I say it isn’t, and I’m going to prove it!”

Belmiro gazed at the man. Fanaticism shone in his watery eyes. This could be quite profitable if handled correctly, even though he would probably lose a boat and perhaps even become involved in an unpleasant investigation.

“Nova Godói. Very expensive.”

“I have money!” the man said, removing a fat roll of bills. “But, like I said, I need a guide. I don’t know the river.”

A slow nod. A guide to Nova Godói. Another problem. But not impossible. There were those who would do anything for money.

“How about you?” the man asked. “Will you take me?”

Belmiro shook his head. “I have a business to run, doutor .” He didn’t add that he also had a wife and children he’d like to see again. “But I find you a guide. And rent you a boat. I call now.”

“I’ll wait right here,” said the man, fanning himself with his hat.

Belmiro went into the back of his shack, made a call. It took a few minutes of persuasion, but the man in question was one of those whose greed knew no bounds.

He came back out with a large smile. With what he planned to charge on this rental, he could buy two good used boats.

“I found you a guide. His name is Michael Jackson Mendonça.” He paused, observing the man’s unbelieving scowl. “We have many Michael Jacksons in Brazil, many here who loved the singer. It is a common name.”

“Whatever,” said the man. “But before I hire him, I’d like to meet this… ah, Michael Jackson.”

“He come soon. He speak good English. Lived in New York. In the meantime, we finish our business. The cost of the boat is two hundred reals a day, doutor , with a two-thousand-real deposit, which I return when you bring boat back. That does not include Senhor Mendonça’s fee, of course.”

The fanatical naturalist began counting out the bills without even batting an eye.

54

CORRIE SWANSON LEFT THE CABIN AND TOOK THE SHORTCUT over the ridgeline and down the switchback trail to the main road. She had left her father consumed with anxiety, pacing about, issuing a constant stream of unnecessary advice, warnings, and various if-this-then-that predictions. His whole future depended on her and Foote pulling this off—they both knew it.

The woods were cold and barren, the bare branches of the trees knocking against each other in a rising wind. A storm was coming, portending rain or, perhaps, even sleet. She hoped to hell it would hold off until they could go to the police and get them to raid the dealership. She glanced at her watch. Eight o’clock. Two hours.

The trail came out on Old Foundry Road, and she could just make out Frank’s Place about a mile down the road, with its dilapidated sign, the Budweiser Beer neon flickering fitfully. She began walking toward it quickly, along the shoulder of the road. As she drew closer, she could see through the windows the early-morning crowd already ensconced inside, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. She collected herself, then pushed in through the creaking door nonchalantly.

“What can I do for you?” said Frank, straightening up and making a failing attempt to suck in his gut.

“Coffee, please.”

She took one of the small tables and checked her watch again. Eight fifteen. Foote would be here by eight thirty at the latest.

Frank brought over the coffee with half-and-half and sugars. Three sugars and three half-and-halfs made the weak-ass coffee barely palatable. She gulped it down, shoved the mug out for a refill.

“Looks like weather,” said Frank, refilling.

“Yeah.”

“How’re you and your dad getting on up there?”

Corrie tore three more sugars open at once, dumped in the contents, followed by the half-and-half. “Good.” She kept her eyes on the plate-glass window that looked out across the parking area and gas pumps.

“Hunting season starts in a few days,” said Frank, operating in friendly, advice-giving mode. “Lots of hunting up there around Long Pine. Don’t forget to wear orange.”

“Right,” said Corrie.

A car pulled in, moving a little fast, and stopped with a faint screech. An Escalade Hybrid with smoked windows—Foote’s car. She got up abruptly, threw some bills on the table, and went out. Foote opened the muddy passenger door and she slipped into the fragrant leather interior. Foote was dressed in his usual suit, immaculate, but nevertheless looking tense. Even before she could shut the door he was moving, pulling onto Old Foundry Road with a screech of rubber.