And the enemy could be a child—yes, a child carrying an Uzi.
And it was so very wrong. He knew, and he was afraid. He knew, and his heart seemed to bleed even as he feared, because children should be innocents; they shouldn’t face war, they shouldn’t face evil.
He felt the heat, the weight of his pack, and his military-issue rifle. The air tasted like grit. He dropped down, turning—praying that the noise behind him was one of his fellow soldiers. He heard gunfire, a spate of automatic gunfire. Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat. He searched for the source.
He breathed in smoky, acrid air and dirt. The dry dust of the country was everywhere, constantly, and now it was joined with the awful smell of burning and gunfire and …
Pancakes.
Yes … pancakes and bacon, delicious things cooking, and he wanted the dirt and the black powder and all the horror to go away.
But the war was the reality. The gunfire … raging again.
Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat!
Muscles clenched, he dropped lower to the ground. He looked everywhere, all around him.
The enemy could be anywhere.
“River!”
He woke, instantly ready, digging into his pack for the military weapon he kept in his bag along with his clothing, money, and sketchpad.
“River! Whoa, it’s Beluga!”
River froze, his fingers curled around the gun. He winced. Maybe he shouldn’t carry the damned thing. The nightmares should have been receding; they weren’t.
No, he was all right. In Brazil, he might need to defend himself, especially since he considered himself to be on an adventure—and he traveled roads less taken.
“Sorry, Beluga.”
“Sorry!” Beluga roared. “You’d better be sorry!”
“I wouldn’t have shot you, Beluga,” River said. “Honestly—I know how to use a weapon. I’d have never shot you.”
“How do you know what you would do?” Beluga demanded. He waved a hand in the air. “You were half asleep!”
“You’re one of my best friends,” River said quietly.
“And there’s a sadness,” Beluga said, shaking his head. “All right, then. You wouldn’t have shot me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know you are. Now it’s time to be up. Everyone is out and gone.” Beluga was angry. River couldn’t say that he blamed him.
“Everyone?” River asked.
“Everyone.”
He’d blown it. He should have just stayed awake through the dawn. He would have met the beautiful young woman.
He wouldn’t have had the nightmare—again.
River was startled by the depth of disappointment he felt. He glanced quickly to the cot at the far end of the room, near the back door. But, of course, Beluga was right—everyone was gone.
Including the beautiful young woman with the eloquent almond eyes and the stunning face.
“I’m getting up, Beluga. Who was the young woman you had here last night?”
“What young woman?” Beluga was clearly annoyed. “You want me to know about a particular young woman? The place was full; there were a dozen young women.”
“But this one was special.”
“All women are special. Now, you get up and out so that we can clean up this room in case we need it for tonight.”
“Okay, okay!” River rose, gathering his belongings quickly. “Hey, I’m sorry. Really sorry, Beluga.”
“I know,” Beluga said, softening for a moment before shaking his head impatiently. “You should go do something for yourself today. Hey—meditate! Did you know—I meditate. Makes me a nicer man, yes? Take some time and sit on the beach, feel the breeze, feel the strength of the mountains behind you. You forget how much Rio has to offer. Carnaval is coming—watch the jugglers or the stick walkers—or the women in costumes and feathers or costumes that are feathers. No, I know what you’d love! You should go to the Christ the Redeemer statue and meditate there. Ride the cable car and see the strength and beauty of the mountains while you look down at the valley and the city. Yes, that’s what you need to do—these dreams of yours are not good for you. Or me—when you brandish a gun.”
“Beluga—”
“Yeah, yeah, you wouldn’t have shot me. I should take it away from you!”
“If that’s what you feel,” River conceded.
His friend sighed. “No, I won’t take it. With the way you live, you hold on to it—but don’t wag it at me again, friend.” He reached down and tossed River his backpack. “Theo came by; he said to tell you he was going to the track. Maria is going into town; she’ll drop you there if you wish. It will be good for you to see Theo—but then you find somewhere that makes you happy and find yourself some peace. Me, I sit—I watch the mountains. They give me peace.”
“May I at least use the bathroom?” River asked.
Beluga waved a massive hand at him impatiently. “Yes, yes. Then you meet Maria outside!”
“Yes, sir!”
“I will see you when I see you.” He hesitated, looking at Convict.
“The dog can’t go to the track,” River said. “Hey, maybe I’ll just—”
“Just go to the track and meet your friend. You spend too much time alone. I will watch out for the dog.”
“Wait!” River said, digging into his backpack for money to hand to Beluga. Beluga looked at him, arching a brow.
“For Convict; I’m sure you told Maria to buy him dog food.”
Beluga hesitated, then took the money. “The dog is all right. I don’t mind buying him food.”
“Yes, but I brought him here and you’re watching him for me.”
Beluga shrugged. “All right. I will take this. He’s a big dog. We’ll buy a lot of food.”
“Beluga—”
“Get ready; Maria will go soon.”
There was no sense asking Beluga about the young woman right now; he was in a mood and River didn’t really blame him. Anyway, she was obviously gone. And he was glad—glad that she hadn’t witnessed the way he had awakened from yet another nightmare.
Beluga turned and left, and River glanced at the empty cot at the rear of the room again. He didn’t remember being so fascinated in a very long time.
Ten minutes later he headed out the front door. While he waited there for Maria, his eyes wandered to the steel rack of free local papers; they were there for the tourist trade to know what was going on and they contained editorials as well—all in English. He glanced at the top of the paper in the rack … and his heart stopped.
There she was!
There was an editorial in the paper. It began on page one with a small picture of the writer and continued onto the next page, placed among advertisements for a samba school and a Venetian-style ball and a picture of one of the parades that offered scantily clad women with great feather headdresses throwing kisses to the crowd.
He quickly picked up the paper, ignoring the pictures and ads.
The name under the picture was Natal—no surname, just the first name. The article was titled “The American Dream—is it truly freedom?”
So she was a writer!
There was going to be a way to find her.