Dying Gasp (4 page)

Chapter Seven

MANAUS

M
ARTA AWOKE TO FIND her door ajar, a crack of light spilling in from the corridor. At first, she was too wary to approach it. What if they were toying with her, what if someone, maybe The Goat, was standing on the other side?

She sat up, legs together, fighting the urge to urinate. After a while she could stand it no more. She stood, reached for the knob and drew the door toward her.

No Goat.

She stuck her head into the corridor.

Nobody.

She went to the bucket and used it.

No one disturbed her.

She pulled up her panties, washed her hands at the sink, and resumed her seat on the bed.

Reason told her the open door was no accident, no mistake. But it
might
have been, and so she’d be foolish not to take advantage of it.

When they’d brought her in, there’d been a dusty burlap sack over her head. She hadn’t seen anything of the building, and had little idea of its floor plan, except for the location of the shower. That was about ten meters down the corridor to the right. Rosélia took her there every other day in the small hours of the morning when the rest of the house was asleep. The soap was brown and smelled like medicine. The water was lukewarm, never hot. She only got two minutes, and she was expected to dry herself with a rough fragment of terrycloth; but after the grinding monotony of her prison, every shower felt like a holiday.

When it was over, Rosélia would throw some clean clothing at her and push her back to her cell where she was permitted to dress.

But it wasn’t the bathroom she was thinking of at the moment. She was thinking about another door she’d seen in the corridor, bigger and heavier than all the others. She just
knew
it led to the outside.

Gingerly, she stepped through the doorway. To her left, she could hear voices. Except for the choice of words, they could have been coming from the playground of an all-girls’ school

One girl said, “I told her she could kiss my ass.”

Another was saying she didn’t care about how many other girls he’d done it to, there was no way she was going to let him do it to her.

Still another exclaimed “. . . three hundred Reais. Can you imagine? Three hundred Reais?” As if that was a fortune, when it wasn’t even
half
of what Marta used to pay for one of her dresses.

The whores. It had to be them.

Marta turned the other way, to the right, toward the bathroom, toward the door that led to freedom. As she scurried along, a random thought popped into her head: her uncle had once given her a pair of hamsters for Christmas. By Easter, they were dead, but she remembered how there’d been a maze inside their cage. They’d scurry back and forth along the corridors of that maze. They’d gone on scurrying, every waking hour, until they died.

Her heart gave a leap. She’d been right about the door. It
did
lead to the outside. She could see daylight shining through a gap at the bottom.

Cautiously, she reached out a hand and turned the knob. The door didn’t budge, but a loud bell began ringing with an ear-splitting clang.

She ran back to her cell and sat on the bed. A moment later, she heard a door open and a woman’s unhurried steps coming along the corridor to her left. The steps paused. The ringing stopped. The girls, too, had fallen silent.

Rosélia appeared in the doorway.

“Tomorrow,” she said, with a triumphant grin, “try going the other way.”

She slammed the door, and Marta heard the key turning in the lock.

Chapter Eight

BRASILIA

T
HE DAY AFTER HER delivery, Irene Silva’s obstetrician came into her hospital room, sat down in the chair next to her bed and gently told her she’d have no more children. She and Mario had planned on two. They were disappointed, but not devastated. Their newborn son got a clean bill of health from the pediatrician. They knew couples who didn’t have any children at all. One baby was surely enough to make their happiness complete. And he did, for the next eight years.

There was a photograph from that happy time: all of them crowded together on a couch. On the far left was Irene, radiant and smiling with her arm around little Mario. Next to her was the youngster himself, proud of his new school uniform, pointing at the crest on his white shirt. Next to him, leaning against his shoulder, Clara’s son Hector, five years older than little Mario, his face serious, as if he could look into the future and see the trouble lurking there. Lastly, on the far right, Mario Silva himself, his hair and moustache still black, without a sign of gray.

In the photo his son had a grin from ear to ear. He looked robust and healthy, but the sickness had been in him even then. Four months later he was dead, struck down by leukemia thirteen days before his ninth birthday. He died on the eighth of May, 1989.

The next day Silva put the photo into his desk drawer, and there it sat.

When he’d become a chief inspector, they’d offered him a modern glass desk, with an accompanying credenza, and no drawers. He’d turned it down, just so he could have the photo close to him, but in a place where no one could see it.

And what he did with the photo, he did with his memories: locked them away, never discussed them with anyone.

It hurt too much when he did.

Irene handled her grief in a different way.

She drank.

Most days she’d sleep until noon. Then she’d get up and spend a few hours working at the orphanage to which Silva sent twenty percent of his salary. That, too, was something he never discussed.

Sometimes the children at the orphanage could coax a smile from Irene’s lips, just a smile, never a deep, full-throated laugh like the ones that bubbled out of her in the old days. When he could, Silva would take an afternoon off and stop by, just to see her like that, smiling, with the kids, before she went home and got drunk.

She usually started at five o’clock in the afternoon. Five o’clock exactly, trying to prove to him that she wasn’t really an alcoholic, just a woman having a cocktail at the end of the day. She’d insist that alcoholics drank in the morning. She didn’t drink in the morning, only at night.

But it was every night. And it was always to excess.

When Silva was on a trip, he’d try to ring home before eight P.M. If he called much later he’d hear Irene’s slurred speech and know she wasn’t absorbing half of what he said. But he’d call anyway, because he knew she needed to hear his voice, even if they weren’t going to have a coherent conversation. He worried about what would happen to her if someone were to kill him. He’d taken to being more cautious. For her sake.

AND NOW, here it was, the eighth of May come around again. On the night before the anniversary of her son’s death, Irene Silva hadn’t gone to bed at all.

At seven-thirty A.M., her husband found her on the couch in the living room, an empty vodka bottle on the coffee table in front of her, clutching little Mario’s teddy bear in her arms. She didn’t wake when he carried her into the bedroom and tucked her in.

At ten, Hector called from Amsterdam. It was five hours later there, and Hector sounded more awake than Silva felt.

“Today’s the day,” were the first words Hector said.

“Yes,” Silva said.

“How’s
Tia
Irene?”

“Sleeping. I hope.”

“But she didn’t sleep last night?”

“No. Not last night. How was the drug conference?”

Hector knew the signs. His uncle wanted to talk about something else, anything else. “Like being inside a bag full of cats,” he said.

“The Americans blaming the Bolivians and Colombians for growing it; the Bolivians and Colombians telling them that it’s their own damned fault for creating a market?”

“And the other Europeans all ganging up on the Dutch because they think they’re too soft. It didn’t help, either, that the Dutch have cornered the world’s Ecstasy market. These days, they’ve got more labs than windmills.”

“And we import more of it than their cheese and their chocolate. You pick up any promising leads?”

“Not as far as drugs are concerned, but there’s something else. I have to see you.”

“Personally?”

“Personally. My flight from Amsterdam arrives in São Paulo tomorrow morning at seven. I’ll catch a connecting flight and come right to Brasilia.”

“It’s that serious?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’d better bring Arnaldo.”

Agente
Arnaldo Nunes was about Silva’s age and had been a cop for almost as long. The fact that he hadn’t achieved a lofty position in the hierarchy had nothing to do with being irreverent and sarcastic, which he was, nor to do with his abilities and competence, both of which were considerable. But he’d come from a poor family, married young, and had never been able to raise the money to go to law school. Without a law degree, the statutes governing the federal police blocked him from becoming a
delegado
, which was the first step to every other position of major responsibility. So on paper, Arnaldo remained a lowly agente. In practice, he wielded far more power and influence.

“What do you mean, bring Arnaldo?” Hector asked. “Isn’t he there with you?”

“He’s in São Paulo at the moment. I’ll call him and tell him to meet your flight.”

“It’s Air France.”

“Not KLM?”

“No. I connect in Paris.”

“Number?”

“AF 0454.”

“Consider it done. Now, tell me.”

Hector gave his uncle a rough overview of the situation, and then described his conversation with Montsma and Kuipers. He finished by saying, “There are tapes from Russia and Thailand, too, but the Brazilian ones are the most disturbing. They made me sick, Tio, physically sick. They all have titles in English. One is called
Killing the Vampire.
The killer uses a sledgehammer to drive a sharp stake through the woman’s chest.”

“Ouch,” Silva said.

“All of them cover the murder in one shot. And they all end with either dismemberment or severe mutilation of the victim. Kuipers thinks that’s to prove to the buyers that what they’re seeing is real, not faked. That it’s proof of death. Another one was entitled
The Lumberjack’s Revenge.
The killer takes a chain saw and—”

“That’s enough. I get the picture. How can they tell which ones came from here?”

“They’ve all got live sound. It appears that the . . . clients like hearing what’s going on.”

“Sick bastards. Any luck following the money?”

“None. They were using a bank in Riga.”

“Riga?”

“Capital of Latvia. Apparently, Latvian banks are much tougher to deal with than the Swiss. Montsma says they won’t violate their security for anyone.”

“How about the master tapes? Any fingerprints?”

“Only Schubski’s and Oosterbaan’s. But I got a list of their clients. It was password protected and encrypted, but Oosterbaan gave it up.”

“Any Brazilians?”

“A few.”

“Addresses?”

“Mostly post office boxes and E-mail addresses so they can be advised about new releases.”

“Send them to me. I’ll have Arnaldo lean on the Internet service providers, get us names and addresses for the account holders.”

“The Dutch don’t have a law that makes it illegal to buy the stuff, only to sell it. They can’t prosecute the customers in their own country. It’s got them hopping mad.”

“I’m not sure we can prosecute either. I’ll have to check. How about the killers? More than one?”

“Different in every DVD.”

“You get frame blowups?”

“Being made as we speak. But there’s something more. There’s a Brazilian woman whose phone call was taped. She seems to have been a supplier.”

“The woman. Is her voice in the background on any of the DVDs?”

“The last one. She spoke English with Smit, and Portuguese on the DVD, but they did a voiceprint analysis. Same person.”

“What did she say?”

“It sounded to me like she was operating the camera and directing the action at the same time. She tells the murderer to hold the victim still, because there’s too much movement to zoom in and get a tight close-up of her eyes. Later, she tells him to get out the ax and do what she told him to do.”

“And he did it? Just like that?”

“No. Not just like that. He looks at the camera and shakes his head. He tells her it isn’t worth the trouble, that the woman is already dead.”

Hector paused. His uncle could hear him swallow as he remembered.

“And?” he prompted.

“She told him he was a cretin and to do it anyway.”

Chapter Nine

MANAUS

W
ITH CONSCIOUSNESS CAME FEAR.

Marta turned her head and looked at the door.

Ajar.

She toyed with the idea of not playing Rosélia’s game, but the alternative, another day of being alone, caused her throat to constrict and made it hard for her to breathe.

She inhaled deeply, kept on inhaling until her heartbeat settled down. Then she stuck her head into the corridor.

Empty.

She crossed the threshold and turned left. The sound of high-pitched voices got louder, the smell of frying onions and garlic stronger, as she approached the green door at the end of the corridor.

She turned the knob and pushed.

A head turned in her direction, then another. Conversation stopped dead. Marta found herself in a bar filled with girls. Several wore T-shirts, others nightgowns. The youngest, a brunette with big eyes, looked to be no more than twelve. A
mulata
, taller than the others by half a head, and with dirty blond hair the texture of steel wool, opened her mouth to say something.

But then she froze like a nocturnal animal caught in a searchlight.

Marta spun around. The Goat, a menacing figure almost six-foot-two in height and an obese two hundred and sixty pounds, was less than a foot behind her. She flinched.

He smiled at her reaction, brushed her aside and headed for a raised platform in the center of the room. Like dogs with their master, the girls’ eyes followed him every step of the way.

Light on his feet for such a big man, he mounted the platform. Muscular biceps stretched the sleeves of his T-shirt. His blue eyes were set close together and seemed out of place in a face as dark as any Indian’s.

“Good morning, my children,” he said.

One and all, except for Marta, they murmured a response. “You girls over by the bar,” he said, “come closer. This is important.”

He waited until they’d rearranged themselves, until he could see the entire group. Then he pointed a stubby finger. “This,” he said, “is Marta. She’s eating my food, she’s sleeping in one of my beds and she hasn’t done a damned thing to work off her debt. What do you think about that? You, Topaz?”

Topaz, the girl with the steel wool hair flinched. “
Senhor?
” “You think that’s fair, Topaz? You think it’s fair she’s eating my food and sleeping under my roof, and she isn’t doing a damned thing to earn her keep?”

The mulata looked down at her bare feet.

The Goat cupped a hand behind an ear. “I can’t hear you.” “No, Senhor,” the mulata said, almost inaudibly.

“You’re goddamned right it’s not.” The Goat’s voice was a whip, but when he spoke again his tone was almost gentle. “I’m a reasonable man. You know that, don’t you girls? You know I’m a reasonable man?”

No one said a word.

“I’ll take silence as agreement,” he said. “So, as a reasonable man, here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to leave her here all afternoon. You girls are going to reason with her and get her to change her attitude.”

Marta shook her head. “I’m not—”

“Shut up,” The Goat snapped. “I’m not talking to you; I’m talking to them.”

Marta glared at him.

He ignored her and let his gaze sweep over the other girls. “If you’re not successful,” he said, “I’m gonna be unhappy, and all of you know what happens when I’m unhappy.”

He walked back through the green door and slammed it behind him.

Topaz was still shaken. She’d risen to her feet when addressed, but now she sank back into her chair and put her head in her hands. The other girls turned, as one, to stare at Marta.

Marta braved it out. She swallowed and said, “I came here with another girl. Her name is Andrea. Has anyone seen her? Anyone heard anything about a girl named Andrea?”

No one had.

They had lunch right there in the
boate
: rice, beans, and fried fish, cooked and served by an old woman the girls called
Dona
Ana. No one invited Marta to share a table, so she ate standing at the bar, keeping to herself, knowing they’d be at her before long. Under the circumstances, it was no use to try to make friends. She wasn’t about to give in, and they’d hate her for that. Not only because they feared The Goat, but also because they were all
putas
and she wasn’t about to become one. They’d take that to mean she thought she was better than they were. And they’d be right.

She was still eating when the door opened again, and a man with a broken nose stuck his head into the room. He beckoned to the little brunette with the big eyes. She went to him, still chewing a mouthful of rice and beans. There was a rustle of relief from the other girls as soon as the door had closed behind them.

Lunch over, the girls turned their backs on Marta, drew their chairs into a circle and started talking in hushed tones. Every now and then one would turn her head to make sure Marta was keeping her distance. While they were at it, Marta took one of the vacated chairs on the far side of the room.

The talking was still going on when the big-eyed girl came back, a cigarette dangling from her lower lip. She looked longingly at the group. A few girls saw her, but no one invited her to join. She took another puff on her cigarette and sat down across from Marta.

“This girl you mentioned,” she said.

“Andrea?”

“Yes, Andrea. How old is she?”

“How old are you?”

The little girl took another drag on her cigarette.

“Ten,” she said, exhaling smoke.

Marta didn’t know how to respond. After a moment, she said, “Andrea is eighteen.”

“Oh,” the little girl said. “Well, then, it’s plain.”

“What do you mean by ‘plain’?”

“The Goat doesn’t keep anybody as old as that unless they look younger, or they have lots of regular customers. Your friend, Andrea, does she look younger?”

Marta thought before answering. “No,” she said.

“See? That’s why we never met her. When they’re old like that, and haven’t been brought up in his house, The Goat gets rid of them. Sometimes he lets them work the street, but then they have to give him money until they pay back what they owe.”

“Owe? What do you mean,
owe
?”

“Well, he brought you here, didn’t he?”

“He didn’t. Rosélia did.”

The little girl sighed at the need to explain something so obvious.

“Rosélia works for him, but The Goat has all the money. So it’s him you owe, not her.”

“Rosélia told us she had modeling jobs for us.”

When she’d finished laughing, the little girl said, “You fell for that? I’m only ten, and I wouldn’t have fallen for that. Where did you come from?”

“Recife.”

The girl looked surprised.

“All the way from Recife? How long did that take?”

“Not long. We flew.”

“In an airplane?”

“In an airplane. Of course.”

“I always wanted to fly in an airplane. Tell me what it’s like to fly in an airplane.”

“Later. Does the Goat think I owe him money?”

“Of course, you do,” the little girl said impatiently. “You owe him for the airplane, and for the food you ate, and for anything he gives you, like perfume. Did he give you any perfume?”

“No. He didn’t give me any perfume. The only thing he gave me was a beating. I’d love to pay
that
back.”

The girl put one of her little fingers on Marta’s lips.

“Don’t say things like that,” she said. “If you say things like that, and he hears you, he’ll do it again.”

“Why does he get rid of the older girls?”

The little girl shrugged. “They aren’t chosen. If you don’t get chosen, you don’t earn him any money. The Goat doesn’t keep you unless you earn him money.”

The girl had smoked her cigarette almost down to the filter. She contemplated the ash for a moment and then ground it out in the empty margarine can she’d been using as an ashtray.

“How did you get here?” Marta asked.

“I tried living on the street, but it’s hard, you know. When you’re little, like me, they fuck you, but they don’t pay you. They say they’re going to, but when they’re finished they don’t care. I started asking for the money first, but then they’d pay me and take it back afterwards.”

“Why didn’t you go to the police?”

“Why? So they could fuck me too?”

“Why do you have to . . . fuck anybody? Are you an orphan?”

A cloud passed over the little girl’s face. “No, but we never had any money. When you’re really hungry, and you only have one thing to sell, you sell it. And it wasn’t like I was a virgin any more. My stepfather took care of that.”

“Don’t you just hate it? Being here?”

The girl shook her head. “It’s not so bad. There’s always food, and the men who come here, they like me.”

“
Like
you?”

The little girl looked hurt. “It’s true,” she said, defensively. “You saw Osvaldo just now.”

“Osvaldo?”

“Osvaldo.” She pointed to her face. “The one with the broken nose. He chose me. He could have had any of the other girls, but he chose me.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean I didn’t believe you, I just meant—”

“What?”

“Well, that you’re so . . . young.”

“That’s what the other girls say, that I’m too young, too young to be their friend. You don’t want to be my friend either, do you?”

“I
do
want to be your friend. I didn’t mean too young for me. I meant for the men.”

The little girl shook her head.

“But that’s just it,” she said. “I’ve got something the other girls don’t have. Guess what it is.”

Marta looked at her. She wore a T-shirt that was so big on her, it served as a dress. She wasn’t particularly pretty, not even particularly clean. The stench of the man she’d been with still clung to her.

“I have no idea,” Marta said. “What?”

“This,” the girl said, lifting her T-shirt to expose her bare chest.

For a moment, Marta didn’t understand. Then she did.

The little girl’s breasts hadn’t yet begun to bud.