Mac climbed the steps to the church, shrugged off an odd feeling that he’d been through this sort of thing before, and stepped inside. The daylight streaming through the glassless windows fell obliquely onto wooden pews. There was no one inside—the only movement was from the dust that swirled into and out of the light—a shaft of motes. MacCready turned to leave but stopped, after one of the statues caught his eye. It was Joseph, his face appropriately benevolent. Oddly, though, the carpenter from Nazareth was wearing a pair of heavy modern work boots.
Suddenly there were voices calling from the courtyard and MacCready quickly moved toward the door and peered outside. A group of about ten serious-looking locals strode purposefully in his direction, followed by the two squirts he’d seen earlier. What alarmed him most, initially, were the children, who seemed too hyperactively gleeful as they danced behind the advancing adults. Simultaneously his eyes were drawn to the glint of finely honed metal being carried by some of the members of what was apparently his welcoming party.
While the sympathetic division of R. J. MacCready’s autonomic nervous system had already begun the chemical preparations for “fight or flight,” the tiny sliver of his brain that dealt with concepts related to “optimism” valiantly tried to offer up alternatives: Maybe all these guys just happened to be working with machetes when they got word of a visitor—in which case, in their haste to greet their guest, they’ve simply forgotten to put their tools away. MacCready’s decidedly reptilian midbrain responded with the electrochemical equivalent of Not fucking likely! The response was so definitive in fact that all other positive alternatives (Maybe they always bring machetes to church?) were neurochemically circumvented. As adrenaline and tunnel vision began to hold sway, MacCready could sense something else about these men—from their body language and from the way they kept themselves bunched together. These guys aren’t just pissed-off—they’re scared shitless. And fear made them even more dangerous. Especially, MacCready thought, if you happened to be a stranger attached to a fresh set of legs.
“Bom dia. Meu nome é MacCready. Alguem fala ingles?” MacCready repeated, stepping into open daylight, moving slowly and showing both empty hands.
“Vá embora!” one of men shouted angrily.
“Nao entendo,” MacCready replied. I have no idea what you just said.
“Vá embora!” the man repeated.
Oh, right: This time I understand, MacCready thought, as he shook his head and raised his palms upward in what he hoped was the universal sign for “peaceful guy.” But as MacCready again saw the metallic flash of sharpened steel, he started thinking less about peace and more about the .45-caliber Colt strapped to his right hip.
Damn, I’m gonna have to shoot somebody.
“This mook is requesting, and with no little emphasis, that you make tracks immediately.”
The Brooklyn accent was unmistakable. Bob Thorne. He seemed to have stepped out of nowhere, between MacCready and the arriving mob. His hair was longer—a lot longer, and even though the killing might start at any second, MacCready could not help laughing at his friend’s hair. A ponytail!
Thorne spoke in rapid-fire Portuguese to the one who looked like the point man. Although this particular local seemed to be vibrating at a slightly lower frequency than the other members of what MacCready would later refer to as the Chapada Dismemberment Commission, it was apparent, through the language barrier, that the only decisions left to be made at the moment of Thorne’s arrival were where they were going to hang MacCready’s carcass and who was going to do the prep work.
MacCready tried to make out what Thorne was saying but he could only register a phrase or two—“Todo bom!” (Everything’s fine!) and something else that either meant “I’d like another pillow” or “He’s a scientist, not a chupacabra.”
I’ve been called a lot of things in my life, Mac thought. But not goat-sucker.
The arm-waving and loud discussion went on for three long minutes, during which MacCready smiled and tried to appear as nonthreatening as possible. Pay no attention to the Russian submachine gun slung across my back, he thought.
Finally the jefe shot MacCready a look of disgust, then mumbled something to Thorne before turning away. As the group dispersed, MacCready could sense their disappointment as easily as they could sense his relief.
Thorne watched the group warily—as if not quite convinced that they had at least postponed hacking his friend into easy-to-string pieces. “Now, Mac, you have put the kibosh on this mook Raza’s entire day. So in that regard it appears that you ain’t changed a bit.”
“You call that a ruined day? I almost kneecapped Se?or Raza. Now that is what I call a ruined day.”
Thorne gave a grudging nod of agreement. “Granted, but you still have a way with people.”
“I’ve got a way with people?” MacCready jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “What’s with the legs? And what are you doing alive? I spoke at your funeral.”
“Yeah, well, I’m glad I missed that one.”