This was Rio. While acceptance of just about anything was the general rule, it was still a country where there were the very rich; there were the very poor. It was true that money could matter; that the rich could consider themselves a bit more elite. But when Carnaval neared, there were the very rich everywhere, and the very poor everywhere, and it seemed that then, it didn’t matter so much. There were also the tourists—who did not know the bairros, or neighborhoods, of the city. There were big city buildings, skyscrapers that touched the clouds. And there were farmers on the outskirts still tilling their fields as if the land had never seen the arrival of big business. Rich tourists might go to many of the big balls, but even they knew that the Carnaval was really in the streets.
Carnaval had been celebrated in one way or another since the eighteenth century; first, it was taken from the Portuguese Festa de Entrada, or Shrovetide festivals—always a day to enjoy before the deep thought and abstinence of Lent. In later years, the Rio elite borrowed a page from the Venetian Carnavale and introduced elaborate balls. The majority of the people were not the elite—they had their own festival in the street and it was more fun, and soon, even those who were very rich wanted to play on the street, as well. The bands were magnificent: the samba was done on the walks and boulevards, and performers were everywhere.
There were so many wonders to be seen in Rio. But the greatest wonder of Rio was still to come, and one could feel the pulse of a city that was filled with natural beauty and joy. As in most cities, there were neighborhoods, and if you stayed, if you became part of the people, you knew the little fountains and the mysterious trails into the jungle and the special places where, in the midst of that twelve million people, you could be alone.
He was glad that he hadn’t come just for Carnaval. He had come to explore. To know and understand the people.
Reaching into his pack, he drew out his map of Brazil. He loved to study the map and read the guidebooks on the country. It was huge and he intended to see a great deal of it, beyond Rio, at his leisure. Later, he’d talk to Beluga, and see what Beluga had to say about the wonders to be seen when he started traveling again. He set his finger on the map, circling Rio de Janeiro and S?o Paolo, thinking that he might travel to the Southwest. Or, perhaps, he’d head inland to see the wonders of Brasília, the planned city that now housed the federal capital. The country was massive; there were so many places he could go.
River gathered his belongings, shouldered his knapsack, and headed toward the sound of water. The picture that met his eyes was beautiful and peaceful; wildflowers grew haphazardly next to water that glistened beneath the sun. The sound of children’s laughter drifted from downstream, closer to the city. He splashed cold water on his face, dug in his bag for his toothbrush, and cleaned up.
He was hungry. There was an open-air market just down the hill and he could find all kinds of delicious things to eat there.
The walk, he thought, was as beautiful as all else. He knew that a lot of Americans considered Brazil an exotic place—but one to visit, not a place to stay. It was true that here the middle class was slim; people tended to be very rich or very poor. But it cost nothing to look at the wild profusion of foliage and trees, breathe in the air, and feel the warmth of the sun.
There was a noise up ahead.
Without thinking, River paused. He didn’t know what made him refrain from moving forward, but some instinct kicked in.
Now a splash. On the road ahead where a little bridge crossed the river.
He moved off the path, climbing up the foliage-and tree-laden hill that rose next to the river to see what had given him chills. Carefully, he moved to a jagged crest and looked down.
There was a car on the bridge—a black car like the one that had approached the fountain the day before.
The trunk was open. River had the feeling that something had just been taken from it.
And thrown over the bridge.
Three men were out of the car, looking over the wall of the little cement bridge.
They were all big, muscled, and wearing almost identical blue jackets. All looked to be somewhere in their late thirties or forties, dark-haired, heavy-set.
Paid thugs?
From his vantage point, River could see the water—but not what had been thrown into it. The river was fast-moving, churning in little white waves and bursts.
It seemed the men were looking at something, or for something—and that they were satisfied by what they saw.
A fourth man rose from the backseat of the car; he was about six feet tall with dark wavy hair and a lean, muscled build, dressed in a suit that even at a distance appeared to be designer apparel. He looked strong, impressive, even; but when he turned slightly, River felt there was something in his face that kept him from being attractive when he should have been very handsome with his dark hair and well-honed physique. There was a twist to his mouth and a hardness in his eyes. It seemed like cruelty was stamped into his features.
Tio Amato? he wondered.
The drug lord who ruled much of the city?
He’d never met the man and looks could be deceiving, he knew.
The three thugs approached what appeared to be their leader and spoke in hushed tones that River couldn’t begin to hear. Then they returned to the car, which promptly revved into gear and continued over the bridge.
Carefully, River shuffled back down the hillside and walked to the bridge, to the point where the men had looked over the water. He saw nothing. Nothing but water, white-tipped as it rushed over stones, beautiful beneath the sunlight.
He stepped back, still puzzled, still uneasy. His eyes flickered to where his hands had touched the concrete wall.
There was something there. Tiny droplets of liquid, in a burned crimson color.
Blood?
He didn’t touch it, but he stared at it. He felt something curling inside him.
Was it blood? Could the man who considered himself lord of Rio kill—and dispose of bodies in such a manner?
He debated telling the police what he had seen. But he was an American. For all he knew, the police could be on Tio Amato’s payroll as well. Furthermore, he wasn’t sure what he could really say. These men were on the bridge. I think there are blood spots there now?
Had he seen the man kill anyone? Had he seen a body?
No, and no.
He stood still for a moment, debating.
Maybe someone as bad—or worse—had been killed.
No, that was rationalizing a lack of action.
But would he be believed by the authorities—or by anyone—if he tried to tell them what he had seen?
And even if he was believed, would it matter?
He had no proof. There was no one else here. He had no video. Nothing.
After a moment, he decided that he would tell Beluga what he had seen; Beluga had been born here and had never gone far. He’d know the lay of the land.
Beluga would know what to do.
CHAPTER 2