Greene's Calling: Seventeen Book Three (A Supernatural Action Adventure Thriller Series 3) (4 page)

The old woman chuckled. Wispy tendrils of tobacco smoke escaped her lips and curved hazily in the warm air. Rocky sniffed at them and wrinkled his nose.

‘What brings you to my doorstep tonight?’ the old woman continued in Portuguese. She cast a glance at the shed behind the house. ‘If it’s moonshine you’re after, you’re a week early.’

Conrad mulled over the words that had been going through his head during the boat ride to the old woman’s house.

Roxanne’s rheumy gaze drifted from him to the treetops. ‘I saw the smoke in the sky and heard the boats go by. Did something happen?’

‘Yes.’ He did not elaborate further. Knowing Roxanne, she would hear all the gory details before the next day’s end. It never ceased to amaze him how much she knew of local affairs, given that she rarely left the hut.

The woman’s wizened stare bore into his face. Although more than half a century had passed since Conrad first met her, she looked almost exactly the same now as she did then. He did not know how old she was and had never asked. Age was irrelevant to someone like him. He studied his neighbor and wondered not for the first time whether
she
was the one who had discovered the Tree of Life.

‘I would invite you in, but I sense you’re in a rush,’ said Roxanne. ‘Say your piece, my friend, for I can see the words pressing to get past your lips.’

Conrad smiled faintly. She knew him all too well. ‘I have a favor to ask of you.’ He hesitated. ‘Can you look after Rocky?’

The dog’s head rose at the mention of his name. His ears pricked forward, as if aware of the somber tone of the conversation.

Roxanne replied with a question. ‘You going on a trip?’ She looked at the rucksack in the canoe. Conrad nodded.

The night crowded in around them while they watched each other. Monkeys chattered in the branches overshadowing the stilt house. Something howled in the distance and crashed through the undergrowth.

‘You planning on coming back?’ said Roxanne finally.

Conrad shrugged. ‘I hope so.’

The woman scrutinized him for a while longer. ‘All right. I’ll look after him for you. But don’t leave it too long. You know he’ll pine after you, and there’s nothing worse than a miserable dog.’

Conrad gave her a grateful smile and turned to Rocky. ‘Come here.’

Rocky darted down the stairs and jumped up to rest his forepaws against Conrad’s chest. He stretched his head and licked the immortal’s face with slobbery enthusiasm.

‘Good boy,’ Conrad praised. He scratched him vigorously behind the ears. The dog whimpered and rolled his eyes in delight. ‘You be good and stay with Roxanne, ’kay? I have to go somewhere.’

Rocky’s expression turned wary. A small whine escaped his throat. Conrad ignored the ache in his chest and turned to walk away. The dog sank to the ground. He glanced anxiously between the hut and the boat, and loped after him.

Conrad stopped in his tracks. ‘Stay,’ he ordered in a hard voice over his shoulder.

Rocky skidded to a halt. He dropped his head, hunched his shoulders, and lowered his body toward the ground, his tail drooping between his hind legs. Large brown eyes gleamed in the faint light oozing through the open doorway of the stilt house.

Conrad sighed and twisted on his heels. He squatted in front of the dog, grabbed him behind the ears, and tugged him forward until their foreheads touched.

‘I need to do this,’ the immortal said softly. ‘Consider it a temporary separation.’ He paused. ‘I
will
come back for you. After all, we are bound, you and I.’ He lowered one hand and touched the dog’s forechest.

Rocky stilled and peered unblinkingly into his eyes. A moment of silent communion passed between man and dog. Then, he huffed and licked Conrad’s face.

The immortal rose reluctantly and headed toward the water. Rocky padded after him and stopped on the landing. The dog watched him climb inside the canoe.

Conrad picked up the oar, looked at the two silent figures on the bank, and dipped the paddle in the inky water. He rowed away into the darkness, his strokes strong and steady.

A howl tore through the night a short time later, the forlorn goodbye piercing his chest with the force of a well-aimed arrow. Unbidden, the immortal’s hand rose to rub a spot over his heart.

Chapter Four

C
onrad reached Alvarães shortly before seven in the evening and hitched a ride in the back of a livestock truck for the five-mile trip to the village of Noguiera, on the north shore of Lake Tefé. By the time he arrived on the outskirts of the small settlement hedging an expanse of pale, sandy beach, Conrad was convinced he smelled worse than the animals he had shared the flatbed with.

Since the motorboats that would have taken him across the water to Tefé town itself only operated during daylight hours, he had to find someone disposed to make the journey at night. It took half an hour and a hundred-dollar bill to hunt down and persuade such a willing subject. By the anxious glances the man cast at the birthmark on Conrad’s arm, the immortal’s reputation had preceded him.

Shortly after landing at the docks in Tefé, Conrad walked inside a small, lean-to liquor store, slid some coins across the serving counter, and asked if he could make a call. The boy behind the till palmed the money and brought out an old rotary dial telephone from underneath the table.

The immortal rang the local airport. He placed the receiver back in its cradle a couple of minutes later, thanked the boy, and walked out of the shack. The first scheduled flight to Manaus was not until the afternoon of the next day. His instincts told him he could not afford to wait that long.

He stood on the dirt road and looked out over the dark waters of the lake. Waves lapped against the wooden pilings of a floating pontoon some thirty feet away. An occasional bark of laughter broke the nighttime chatter rising from his left. He came to a decision, turned, and headed for the town’s main strip.

Several drinks and a number of run-down bars later, Conrad tracked down the owner of a small propeller plane. The middle-aged man knocked back half a beer and spilled as much again as he listened to the immortal’s request. Silence fell between them when Conrad finished talking. The pilot blinked bloodshot eyes and studied him with a glazed expression. Just when the immortal thought he should try and find someone else to broker a deal with, the man leaned across the table, which was nothing more than three stained planks balanced on a couple of empty oil drums, and admitted in a gruff, alcohol-laced breath that he would be open to taking on a private job for a suitable monetary incentive. The right price turned out to be an expensive bottle of whisky and four hundred dollars in cash.

They left the bar minutes after concluding their arrangement and headed for the man’s truck, parked a couple of streets away. Conrad took one look at the way he staggered across the road and went in search of some strong coffee. He swapped the cup for the keys in the mumbling man’s grasp and drove the vintage Ford pickup the short distance to the airport.

The pilot walked into the booking office in a comparatively straight line to file their flight plan to Manaus. Conrad waited outside the red-roofed building, his back against the hood of the vehicle as he gazed at the star-filled night sky. He wondered whether he would ever see it again from this place he had come to call home.

The plane turned out to be a 1965 two-seater Cessna 150F. It was in as good a state as the Ford truck, and a whole lot better condition than its owner. Half an hour after they arrived at Tefé airport, they were in the air. Since there was only one headset for the pilot, Conrad settled back in his seat, closed his eyes, and hoped to God he would get to Manaus in one piece. He really did not want to waste one of his remaining lives crashing in a blaze of fire in the middle of the rainforest. An image of the dead man with the briefcase flashed through his mind at the thought.

It was nearly midnight when they landed at a small aero club some three miles north of the center of the capital. The pilot bade him goodbye and headed off in search of a bar. Conrad walked out of the airport grounds and strolled down the road to a nearby motel. He booked a room for the night, took a long, cold shower, and rang for laundry service. He handed the maid who came to the room his clothes and a large tip, locked the door after her, and put the gilded staff on the nightstand next to the bed. He climbed naked under the thin cotton sheet and lay staring at the dark ceiling while he pondered the events of the day.

He had no doubt something nasty was about to go down. The loaded gun and the cryptic contents of the envelope aside, the dead man’s bare wallet spoke of someone who did not want to be easily identified. He suspected the driving license was a fake. And, in his professional opinion, people engaged in scrupulous activities did not usually walk around with that much hard cash in hand and calluses on their fingers from heavy gun use.

The what, where, and when of the event, however, remained a total mystery. As to the who, the one woman on Earth least likely to be pleased about his involvement in the affair appeared to be right in the middle of it all.

Sleep proved to be an elusive beast. After the nocturnal lullaby of the rainforest, the alien sounds of the city jarred Conrad’s nerves. He lay awake for a good couple of hours and finally dozed off at around three in the morning.

His freshly washed clothes were in a garment bag hanging outside his door when he got up the next day. He checked out of the motel shortly after nine and took a cab to the financial district of the city.

The vehicle’s air con was broken and its driver unseasonably chatty. By the time the car pulled up along a busy road, sweat was running in rivulets down Conrad’s back; not only had he caught up on the recent political scandals that had shaken the city’s administration, he had also been brought up to speed on more local news and TV gossip than he had ever wanted to know.

He paid the cabbie and waited until the car disappeared in the heavy traffic before crossing the road to a sleek, glass and steel building. Beyond the discreet front door of the gleaming tower was the cool, monochrome lobby of a bank. An immaculately dressed young woman sat on a stool behind the reception. She regarded him politely as he crossed the marble floor toward her. Conrad stopped in front of the desk and spoke in a low voice.

The woman’s eyebrows rose fractionally at his words. Her gaze skimmed over the birthmark on his left forearm and darted toward the tellers’ counter behind him. Conrad gave her his best smile. Although he had showered again this morning, he suspected his two-day stubble and shabby clothes did not quite match up with the bold statement he had just made.

He reached inside the rear waistband of his trousers under the receptionist’s increasingly anxious stare. His fingers brushed against the staff weapon tucked in the small of his back before closing on the Ziploc bag. He took out one of the savings bonds and placed it on the desk.

The receptionist paled when she saw the denomination and stamp date on the certificate. She stammered a profuse apology and swiftly dialed an extension.

Forty minutes later, Conrad strolled out of the building with more liquid assets than he had when he walked in. The bank’s senior funds manager, a portly man with a receding hairline and sweaty hands, insisted he made full use of the establishment’s facilities before he left. Conrad had thanked him and politely asked if he could use a phone in private. He was quickly ushered to an empty meeting room with a panoramic view of the city. The funds manager told him to take his time and closed the door on his way out.

Conrad leaned against the glossy, beech and chrome table that dominated the space and picked up the trim, modern phone that sat upon it. He made two calls.

The first was to a number in Rio de Janeiro. It went to voicemail after six rings. He listened to the message that followed, disconnected, and contemplated the glimmering waters of the Rio Negro in the far distance.

He picked up the phone again and dialed the number of a private jet charter company he had used in the past. After confirming the details of his reservation, he arranged the transfer of a substantial sum of money into their accounts.

The receptionist smiled graciously at him when he walked back into the lobby of the bank a couple of minutes later. He smiled back and saw her blush as he exited the building.

A shiny, black executive sedan with tinted windows pulled up at the curb as the door swung shut behind him. A man in a dark suit got out of the driver’s seat and scanned him with a neutral expression.

‘Mr. Greene?’ he said with a hint of a Texan accent.

Conrad inclined his head.

‘I’m the chauffeur from the charter company,’ said the man.

The immortal raised his eyebrows. ‘That was quick.’

‘I was in the area,’ the man explained with a civil smile. He opened the rear door of the vehicle. Conrad climbed inside the air-conditioned space and settled on the pristine, cream leather seat.

Fifteen minutes later, the car rolled to a stop next to a gleaming, white Learjet 31 parked on the tarmac of the private business zone of Manaus’s main international airport. Conrad stepped out into the dazzling sunlight. He gave the Texan a tip and strolled toward the figure waiting at the bottom of the jet’s steps. The man in the pilot’s uniform walked forward and offered his hand.

‘Hello, Mr. Greene,’ he said in a broad Georgian accent. His smile furrowed the pale crow’s feet fanning out from his eyes. ‘This ain’t your usual time of year to be making this trip.’

Conrad smiled and shook the man’s hand. ‘Hi, Bill. Yeah, something came up.’

The pilot observed the rucksack on the immortal’s shoulder. ‘Traveling light again, I see.’

The immortal shrugged noncommittally and followed him up the steps to the cabin. The pilot showed him to a table with a tray of complimentary food and drink, and headed for the cockpit. The jet got under way and lifted off moments later. Weather conditions permitting, their flight to Rio de Janeiro would take just under four hours.

Conrad helped himself to a delicious shrimp salad and a beer before moving to the large sofa at the back of the plane. He put his feet up, made himself comfortable, and opened the dead man’s envelope.

The first sheet occupied his attention for half an hour. He studied the random, enigmatic text until his vision practically blurred and came to the conclusion that all of it was written in code. The first three lines intrigued him the most. Structured in the form of a haiku, a short Japanese poem, they read:

“
On Freda’s Dark Day

For the Rightful Blood to rise

The Falcon must fall
”