“River!”
He woke suddenly in a blind panic—fighting still.
“River!”
For a moment, he was still too dazed from his nightmare to react.
And then he saw a stranger standing over him.
A stranger in the uniform worn by the police of Rio de Janeiro.
Memory returned.
Panic seized him again. Instinct said that he should fight.
Logic warned him not to. He heard another voice speaking.
“River, calm down, it’s me, Beluga!”
He blinked—and saw that Beluga stood by the officer. And he realized, just as he saw Beluga, that he had reacted by instinct. A soldier’s instinct.
He’d reached into his bag and drawn his gun. A gun he shouldn’t have had as an ex-pat in Brazil.
Again. Again—he’d drawn the gun again!
“He’s all right; he’s all right. Post-war stress—that’s all. The gun isn’t even loaded,” Beluga told the officer. “Right, River?”
It wasn’t right, but River nodded.
The police officer smiled sympathetically. “Olá. Bom dia,” he said. He seemed to struggle searching for words for a minute, seeking English in his mind. “You’re a friend to Beluga. It’s all right. He’s friend, I’m friend. I did not see.”
“Ricardo just stopped by to see me to say hello. And to help me get bums like you up and out so that we can clean for the day,” Beluga said.
River scrambled up, tucking his old service weapon into his backpack, and quickly took the police officer’s hand. “Bom dia,” he said. It was his turn to struggle, trying to remember his Portuguese. “Como está?”
Ricardo was pleased. He shook River’s hand.
River looked at Beluga. “Ah, well, I’ll get Convict and get out of your hair,” he said. “Where is he?”
“Where do you think? In the kitchen with Maria.”
River nodded to the policeman, smiling.
Backpack over his shoulder, he realized that he was almost bowing as he left the two men in the back room.
He hurried out to the kitchen.
“Café?” Maria asked.
He really needed to behave normally. “Sure. Thank you, Maria.”
CHAPTER 14
It was a good thing, River supposed, that Beluga’s police friend Ricardo had been at the hostel—and that River was up and getting on his way.
There was no telling when police who knew about the dead man in the restroom would come around. And if they came around when River was there, it wouldn’t be good.
But he did his best to act normally. Beluga told him he could have a shower and his coffee and have a few minutes, but everyone else was up and gone and River needed to be gone too.
River tried to behave as he always did. He thanked Beluga, grabbed his pack, and he went to accept coffee from Maria.
While he was in the kitchen, Beluga came in. Convict trotted over to his friend, who slipped him a piece of sausage.
“Where’s your friend?” River asked, trying to sound casual.
“Ricardo? He went on to work.” Beluga was quiet for a moment. “I thought about telling him what you told me the other night. About the body. Ricardo—he’s always been a good man. But…”
“You didn’t tell him.”
“No—because you never really know another man.”
“No, you never do,” River agreed.
“Hey,” Beluga said, “you know, the dog doesn’t take up a bed. He can stay.”
River allowed himself to smile at that.
“I’m not sure when I’ll be back,” he warned. He hated leaving Convict, and yet …
It might be best, under his present circumstances. What if he was picked up and thrown in jail? What would happen to Convict? He could be put in a pound—or he could wander the streets and starve or be hit by a car or …
“Doesn’t matter,” Beluga said with a shrug. “Convict is okay. He’ll be here when you come back—and I know you. It won’t be that long.”
It could be forever, River thought.
And if so, wasn’t that best for the dog?
He nodded, squatting down and patting his companion. “You’re the best,” he told Convict. “But Beluga needs company. He talks about a woman, but he hasn’t gotten one for himself yet, so … you keep him company.”
“I can find a woman, you know.”
“One to keep!” River teased.
Beluga waved a hand at him.
He’d tarried too long at the hostel, River thought. He thanked Maria and Beluga and then headed out.
“You’re going to find your woman today, you think?” Beluga called as he was leaving.
“There’s always that dream!” River called back to him.
Natal.
He winced as he hurried down the path from the hostel.
Natal.
Would she miss him?
Would he ever find her again?
He had to believe, he thought. Belief kept a man going.
As he hurried away, he was glad that he hadn’t said anything to Beluga about the previous night—he would hate to ever put Beluga in a bad position. Beluga was probably a lousy liar—and River didn’t want his friend to have to lie for him anyway.
He took the road toward town; he needed to hear what had happened and if the police had or hadn’t found the man and if they were after him—if they had any idea that the act had been carried out by an American drifter.
He wasn’t going to get on a bus and he wasn’t going to hitchhike. Not today.
Nearing the city, he kept a sharp eye out for police. He zigzagged his walk, ever vigilant.
He passed one coffee stand where several policemen were enjoying an espresso. He thought about sprinting quickly to the other side of the street, or into traffic—anywhere—but controlled the impulse.
The policemen didn’t even notice him.
He decided to find an out-of-the-way café where he could buy a large coffee and scan a newspaper. He chose one he knew and ducked into it.
It was a busy place. They had newspapers there that were in Portuguese and English as well as Spanish, Italian, and German.
So many people, of so many nationalities, came to Rio.
And many stayed.
He bought a double espresso and a pastry and almost bought another for the dog—and then remembered that Convict wasn’t with him.
He found an outside table where he could keep his back to the wall and his eyes on the street. As in many areas of the city, he could look up—look up to the Christ the Redeemer statue. When he did so, the sun seemed to be brighter and golden light streamed back down at him. In the light, he could see Natal, see her smiling face, and hear her laughter.
The laughter seemed to change suddenly. It was a child’s laugh—as sweet as only a child’s laugh could be. Natal, he saw, in his golden-sunlit vision, was holding the hand of a little girl.
For a moment the vision was so sweet and beautiful and real that he felt he could almost reach out and touch the two. Something stirred in his memory. Something he should be able to grasp—but just couldn’t. The sun shifted—he was looking at nothing but the distant image of the statue. Everything—the tinkle of laughter, the golden visage—was gone.
He gave himself a mental shake and quickly began to read the paper. There was no mention of a death or a murder the night before.
Tension began to ease from him.