The Amazon

by Bob Nailor

  Sergeant Lucas Costa, the head of the Military Police, ambled over. He wore gray fatigues over a Kevlar vest. His belt carried a .45 caliber semi-automatic pistol and three clips of fifteen rounds. A shot hadn’t been fired in anger in Boca do Acre in seventeen years.

  “Maria said she didn’t see anything.” Lucas sat on the bench next to Edson. “José never speaks.”

  Edson stared straight ahead. “She said she didn’t see a cat,” he replied.

  “Same thing,” the sergeant said and leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest.

  “Did you see the priest’s study?” Edson asked.

  “They’re just finishing in there now.” Lucas stood quietly, an index finger scratching just above the right eyebrow. “I have no idea how he prepared sermons.”

  “What are you talking about?” Edson frowned at the comment.

  “Father Bora didn’t even have a Bible. He must have done everything from memory.”

  “What?” Edson snapped, staring at the sergeant in disbelief.

  “The study was empty,” Lucas said. “Not even a paperclip.”

  Edson took off at a sprint, elbowing his way through the crowd. Inside the rectory, he took the steps to the study in a single bound.

  He stepped inside. The walls were bare except for dark squares where the photos had hung. The computer was gone. The aluminum case. Everything. The floor was swept clean.

  He saw a small blood-red note stuck with tape to the window glass behind a curtain. Written in careful script, he read, “867 Ejup Mikić.”

  It made no sense. But, nothing that day had.

  Edson slowly walked toward the docks. The salvage crane dangled his launch above the long, concrete ramp leading from the river before lowering it. The town was abuzz over the blood-thirsty jaguar that had killed the priest and three PF’s. Edson saw the cat had an appetite for aluminum as well, but nobody else seemed to notice that. The Swedish craft was built with a double hull of welded aluminum plate, both of which were slashed through like a knife through cream cheese. Enough water had flooded the engine compartment to leave him grounded for a month. He tried to beg a boat off his Navy colleagues. They asked for a requisition.

  Edson found four gurneys shoe-horned into the hospital morgue which doubled as an eye exam room and doctors’ lounge. Lined up against the wall like sardines in a can were four men, fit, tanned, and handsome. All four with the same wound. Doctor Fábio was saving time and dictating four autopsies together. He had two expectant mothers ready to pop and a half-dozen cases of dengue waiting on the sidewalk outside the clinic. Sweat dripped off his chin, his thick glasses pushed forward on his nose. All four men had some kind of tattoo. One of his men had prison art he’d never seen. Another had a pierced penis. Their secrets were laid out for all to see.

  “You were friends, weren’t you?” the doctor asked after Edson perched himself on an exam table next to the bodies.

  Edson’s grim face brightened at the question, as if the memory of the priest were enough to cause happiness, even from the grave. “Yeah, I guess we were. He flipped through the preliminary autopsy report and tried to fool himself into thinking it was like any other.

  Father Bora was famous in the town for his prowess on the soccer field and his body bore testimony with cuts, bruises and occasional jagged stitches from the municipal emergency room. But, his tattoos were the most impressive of the four men. Just over his heart, however, was a striking work of art in needle and ink. A flourished cross shone in brilliant red on the graying flesh. At the rounded ends of the cross were tattooed four mirrored and decorated “B’s” in brilliant blue.

  “Bora suffered for this,” Edson commented, pointing at the picture on the wall while remembering the sessions he’d endured for the “Flamengo” soccer team logo on his back. But, his gaze repeatedly returned to the tattoo over the priest’s heart.

  “It’s a Serbian cross,” Fábio said when he noticed Edson’s interest. He handed Edson a blown-up photo he’d shot on his computer screen. “Father Bora was from Belgrade.” Edson peered more closely then walked over to the corpse.

  “How do you know all this shit, Fábio?” Edson asked.

  “Before med school, I was in a seminary.” He paused and cocked an eye at the policeman, knowing full-well the question to come. “They caught me administering special rites to a nun in the sacristy.”

  Edson snickered and shook his head. “They kicked you out?” he said. “What happened to the nun? Where’s she now?”

  Fábio chuckled. “She’s at home, taking care of our children.”

  “When did you take that picture?” Edson asked, his nose mere inches from the father’s chest.

  “Just after he came in.”

  “Come over here. Look at this.” The tattoo was different than the one on the screen. The white background and four letters were much lighter. “Do you see what I see?” he asked. The ornate, almost floral swirl of “betas” had begun to fade away. “Get a bucket of ice.”

  The two men packed ice cubes on the dead priest’s chest. In a matter of minutes, the tattoo had completely changed. Only the center portion of the original design remained, strong, dark and crisp in a deep red over the priest’s still heart.

  “What’s that?” Edson asked. “It looks like a letter t.”

  “Given the other tattoo, I’d bet on the Greek letter tau,” the doctor answered. “The b’s are Greek betas.” He continued to shoot pictures; then cleaned off the ice and replaced it with warm water. The tattoo returned to its original configuration.

  “Puta,” Fábio said. “I’ve seen a lot of crazy tattoo jobs, but this takes the prize. The ink is temperature-sensitive. When the man was alive, it said one thing. When he’s dead, it says another.”

  A gloomy pall fell over the two men, accented by the arrival of the daily rains. Both shivered when Edson spoke. “The second is the message he wanted to carry to the grave.”

  “He knew this day would come.” Fábio backed up the photos to a flash drive. “The second tattoo could be either a tee or a tau. The betas on the first are the clue for us to know which. Put on your detective’s hat, Lieutenant. This dead man’s talking to you.”

  Edson stopped flipping through the draft of the autopsy report to the last page. His face turned dark and angry as he read and re-read the last few paragraphs of what Fábio had written. “This can’t be right,” he finally said. “Father Bora had been working in his study and was on his way to hear confession. When could this have happened?”

  Fábio kept his nose in his work, stitching up Bora’s ugly Y-incision. He was taking his time, as if the priest would care. “You’re the detective,” he finally said. “You figure it out.”

  When he was in Boca do Acre, Edson usually ate dinner with his men at the simple restaurant, The Cabocla, in the small plaza in front of the church. Today he sat alone, his plate piled high with rice, beans, French fries, and fried fish. The smell was overwhelmingly delicious, but he had no interest. Gore and death had long lost their effect on his appetite. The way in which his friend had died rumbled around in his guts from his brain to his belly.

  He pushed the food away and sat drinking his guaraná. Most of what happened on the river passed through the restaurant. Today, it was silent. Stares chilled Edson to the bone. He was supposed to protect the city’s river. He couldn’t even protect his men. The roar of the rotors of a heavy Navy helicopter tore him out of his funk as landing lights danced on the plaza.

  He dashed to the site just in time to watch an elderly ecclesiastic appear at the sliding door. He wore a white cassock with a red skullcap and belt. Behind him, a youngish priest lugged an aluminum satchel identical to the one Edson had seen earlier, and a small suitcase.

  Edson instantly recognized the older cleric. Cardinal Inácio Alves was the archbishop of the regional capital of Manaus and was rumored to be in the line of papal succession. Technically, however, Boca do Acre belonged to the bishopric of Tabatinga, not Manaus.
He should not have been there. Edson walked directly toward him and was greeted with a broad smile, full of energy and life. He kissed the Cardinal’s hand and said, “Your Eminence, are you here for the funeral?” The priest was set to be buried at dawn the next morning.

  “I’m here to accompany Father Bora’s remains back to Rome,” he answered. “He wished to be buried in the Holy See. Is the wake in the sanctuary?” Ignacio headed directly toward the church.

  “No, he’s still in the morgue, your Eminence. He’ll be released shortly.”

  “Nonsense, Lieutenant,” the cardinal snapped. “He’ll be released immediately. Take me to him.”

  Edson led the way to the hospital where the doctor had just flipped off the lights. He flipped them back on when the procession, led by the most powerful cleric in South America, marched in. The four mangled corpses that greeted Cardinal Ignacio were enough to nauseate nearly anyone. He and his assistant marched in. “Leave us in peace,” the cardinal snapped. The door slammed and didn’t re-open for a half hour.

  When they saw Father Bora’s body again, it was draped with a pure white sheet fine enough to be silk, tied in place with red satin sashes. A golden crucifix lay on his chest. A coat of arms was embroidered on the burial cloth. It teemed with red tassels and the same figure as in the tattoo: the Serbian cross with four B’s. Below ran the motto, “Sanguis est vida.”

  “How long has he been in the shameful condition we found him?” the Cardinal snapped as Edson and the doctor were allowed back into the room.

  Doctor Fábio eyes squinted at the prelate. “He’s been with me for seven hours, along with the officers.”

  Two Marines grunted from the door of the emergency room to announce their presence; they carried a wooden casket. At first sight, it was simple; made of a fine, yet light wood. The hardware was gold-plated. The identical coat of arms was painted on the closing lid. When they opened it, the interior gleamed with red silk. Father Bora would spend eternity in style.

  “Only you have disgraced his body with your exam?” the prelate asked while the Marines stuffed Bora in his casket. It closed with golden screws.

  “Yes, only me,” Fábio snapped. “Only I cleaned him and sewed back up his horrific wounds.” The Cardinal was clearly pissing him off.

  The assistant stayed behind while the Cardinal huffed his way to the helicopter. “There’s a Navy jet on the tarmac in Manaus,” the young priest told them. “Father Bora will be in the Holy See by morning. I’m Lúcio Costa. I’ll be filling in for Father Bora until Rome can send a replacement.” He headed off in an air of self-importance, leaving Edson and Fábio wondering what had happened.

  “Why all the fuss over a local priest?” Edson asked.

  “You didn’t get it, did you?” Fábio asked. “Red sash. Gold crucifix. Red silk.”

  “Get what?”

  “The coat of arms was a Cardinal’s, Edson. Bora must have been one of the Pope’s Cardinals in pectore. Secret. Sometimes even they don’t know. Why else would they send another Cardinal to fetch his body?”

  Edson shook his head furiously. “Are you nuts? Here? In Boca do Acre?”

  “Perhaps this forest holds more secrets than even we know,” the doctor replied, waved, and jogged off to his wife and babies.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  THE LONG WALK

  Aaron carried the desecrated body of Megan in his arms through the empty village in silence. The evening stillness was broken only with the occasional screech of parrots and monkeys looking for scraps. There was no more sign of the two macabre workers or the reclusive Queen Itotia. Moema puttered in the kitchen, ostensibly preparing lunch. When she saw Aaron carrying Megan, she began to wail again and rushed over to help.

  “What is wrong with her, Dr. Aaron?” she asked. She reached over to pull his shirt away from Megan’s face.

  “No, Moema,” Neville said. He pulled her away from the body which alarmed her even more. “Megan is dead, and there is nothing we can do for her.”

  “Meu Deus do ceu,” she cried and grabbed the small rosary which suddenly hung from her wrist. She walked to where rice boiled on the camp stove and quietly began her Ave Maria’s.

  “Put her in her tent,” Ana instructed. “Zip and tie everything up tight. I don’t like the looks of that buzzard up in the sky, if that’s what it is.”

  “Shouldn’t we clean her up?” Nancy asked.

  “No, we need to leave her just as we found her,” Ana answered. “Lieutenant Macedo will need as much information as possible to determine the cause of death.”

  “Are you planning to call 911?” Wayne asked, his tongue returning to its acid best.

  “He has a point,” Aaron agreed. “We have no way to call for help. With this heat, her body will only last a day or so.”

  “Maybe we should bury her, temporarily,” Neville suggested. “Ground temperature must be cooler than this air.”

  “Quiet, all of you,” Ana snapped. She clamped her eyes shut and rubbed her forehead, trying to squeeze wisdom out of somewhere. “For the moment, we’re not going to do anything.” She glanced over at Wayne. “Wayne! Make yourself useful. See if you can resuscitate some form of communication with UWF. I don’t give a shit what form, just something, anything.”

  “Sorry, Dr. Ana, but that equipment is totally a waste. We’d all have a better chance to hitchhike the riverbank,” Wayne cracked. “Thumbin’ down the ol’ Amazon.”

  Ana gave him a dirty look and shook her head. “Come here, everyone,” she summoned. “Sit at the table so we can talk this through.”

  “No more tea for me,” Nancy complained. “Earl Grey or otherwise.”

  Neville sat next to the two students, leaving Ana alone on the other side while Aaron tended to Megan.

  “There is no protocol for what is happening here,” Ana began, much more calmly than she had imagined possible. “But, we will need to work together even more closely from here on out.”

  “What killed Megan?” Nancy asked, still profoundly disturbed.

  “It must have been a big cat,” Neville answered. “The word ‘jaguar’ comes directly from the Tupi-Guarani languages. These woods are filled with them.”

  “Then why didn’t it eat her?” Wayne responded. “Animals don’t just kill for fun, like people. They are looking for a meal.”

  “He has a point,” Aaron said on his way back to the group. His clothes stained with Megan’s blood. “Whatever killed her left everything behind.”

  “Or whoever,” Nancy added. “Ever since we arrived here, people have been disappearing and dying. First, one of Paulo’s men, Lúcio, and then the woman in the ceremony. Now, poor Megan. Paulo was sure the natives were to blame. Maybe he was right.”

  “Have you ever seen a human who could rip apart someone like they did to Megan?” Aaron asked.

  “I didn’t say human,” Nancy replied in a low, frightening tone.

  “Enough,” Ana commanded. “We need to find Marshall and Barbara before this so-called beast takes a chunk out of them as well. Perhaps Itotia will be able to shed some light on this whole mess after the ceremony tonight.”

  “You’re not actually thinking of going to another one of these little luaus, are you?” Aaron stared at her.

  “We’re invited,” Ana replied. “And, considering the circumstances, I suggest we not do anything that might raise their hackles.” Her suggestion dropped a heavy blanket of silence on everyone, except for Moema who continued the rosary in the rear of her kitchen.

  Ana paused to let each person’s thoughts settle in a little more with the horrific circumstances. I think I owe Paulo a case of Antártica the next time I see him, she thought.

  “So, to make it quite clear, nobody goes out alone anywhere from this point forward. Is that understood?” For once, there was no disagreement.

  “This may not seem the best time to bring this up,” Neville said, quietly, “but, we must think about whether we should remain here. Nancy’s spot-on abou
t the danger which seems to grow by the minute. We are not on a pilgrimage or attempting a world record for stupidity. I suggest it may be time to consider a graceful retreat.”

  “I’m no chicken ass,” Wayne blurted out. “But, there’s no way I want to end up like Megan. I vote with Doc Hastings.”

  “Now, wait a minute,” Ana snapped. “I don’t recall asking for a vote.”

  “Well, maybe it’s time you thought more carefully about what’s going on around us, Ana,” Aaron said, his eyes drilling holes in hers. “We may not have a Foundation protocol to cover this situation, but we’ve got common sense. And mine tells me to get out.” Aaron stopped speaking suddenly and let a silence overtake them.

  “Look,” Ana finally said, “you all may find me inexperienced, and even a little obsessed with this mission. But, researchers meet horrible ends more often than we would like to believe. We sit in one of the few truly wild places left on the earth. I can see now that each of you was carefully chosen. Not just for your academic qualifications, but also your physical conditions and your life experiences. Megan should never have wandered off on her own. As Paulo warned, we have no reason to believe this forest will forgive our blunders.”

  “All the more reason to hit the road,” Nancy said quickly. “There are waves you just need to let pass. I vote with Wayne, for once.”

  Ana stared back at a team who seemed to have bound themselves together in unanimity, just short of mutiny. “It’s a long swim back to Manaus,” she said quietly. “Paulo and his crew will be long gone by the time we reach the landing.”

  “If we hurry, we can catch them,” Wayne blurted, jumping to his feet.

  “Now, who’s leaping before he looks,” Ana replied. “Panic is as deadly a foe as any jungle cat, Wayne. Whatever we do, we need to think it through carefully. And, there’s one other little problem.” She let her question hang in the air for what seemed an eternity.