by AD Starrling
He removed the magazine, ejected the bullet from the port, and placed the gun on the ground. He reached for the envelope next. A loose sheaf of papers fell out and scattered across the rich, moist earth as he lifted it.
He scooped it up and examined the short, cryptic lines covering the top sheet. The next two papers were folded maps depicting the areas of a large outside space and the floor plans of an oval-shaped building. Sunlight gleamed on the glossy surfaces of the remaining ten sheets as he slowly thumbed through them.
They were all photographs, each depicting a different, solemn individual dressed in a conservative suit and wearing sunglasses. Although they all had loose-fitting jackets over their shirts, he spotted the strap of a gun holster and the curling wire of an earpiece on several of them. From their poses, they had all been unaware they were being snapped. His fingers froze on the last shot. Rocky huffed and licked the picture.
Coldness gripped Conrad as he stared at the hauntingly familiar features of Laura Hartwell.
Chapter Three
The late afternoon sun was bathing the swamp in red light when Conrad finally departed the clearing where his home once stood. As he suspected, officers from the Alvarães civil police and the local branch of the military firefighter corps arrived by boat barely an hour after the crash.
Rocky’s barks alerted him to their approach. By the time they reached the mouth of the small channel that snaked through the rainforest floodplain from the lake next to Alvarães, the fire had died down and only smoldering parts of his cabin and the larger sections of the Cessna remained. He watched the vessels chug steadily toward the jetty and strolled down to meet them.
‘Olá, Conrad,’ said the olive-skinned man who stepped out of the first motorboat.
‘Matheus,’ Conrad acknowledged with a brief nod.
Matheus Luiz Diaz was a senior officer of the Alvarães District Police. Like his father before him, he had trained and worked extensively in Manaus, the capital city of the state. Now in his late forties and married with three children, he bore the same wiry build Matheus senior had retained until an untimely death from a heart attack half a decade ago.
Conrad became aware of a pair of wary stares. He glanced at the two officers who had accompanied Diaz. The men lowered their eyes hastily and started chatting with the firefighters in the second boat, a hint of anxiety evident in their voices. The immortal swallowed a sigh. He could hardly blame the policemen. He was a legend among the superstitious locals.
Although Diaz used to regard him with the same guarded expression, the police officer appeared to have come to terms with the mystery that was Conrad’s existence, despite the fact that they first met when the man was still in diapers.
There had been many tales and fables concerning Conrad bandied about in the area over the years. The immortal himself had been responsible for several of them. His all-time favorite was the story of how he had discovered the elusive Tree of Life while exploring the jungles of the Amazon sixty years ago, drank from it, and promptly burned it to the ground. The one he took the most offense to was about him being the reincarnation of an ancient demon god who feasted on the flesh of the sacred creatures of the forest, thus gaining longevity and eternal youth from the souls of his damned victims.
Though he was no vegetarian, Conrad humanely slaughtered and cooked the animals he ate. And last time he looked, he had failed to grow any horns, fangs, or claws to justify the first half of that particular myth. His birthmark had not helped matters. As far as the locals were concerned, someone with a black Aesculapian snake on his forearm was not exactly an ode to virtuousness.
‘Well, that’s not something you see everyday,’ said Diaz in Portuguese. He stood next to Conrad on the bank of the swamp and contemplated the wreckage of the Cessna amidst the smoking ruins of the log cabin. ‘What happened?’ He bent and ruffled Rocky’s ears. The dog whined and licked the policeman’s face.
‘A plane fell out of the sky and ruined my fishing day,’ Conrad replied.
Diaz grunted and shook his head. He muttered something under his breath about now having seen it all and gestured to his men.
‘You catch anything?’ said the policeman as his officers lifted boxes of equipment out of the boat.
‘I did,’ said Conrad. ‘It got dumped back in the water when the boat flipped.’
‘That’s tough,’ murmured Diaz. ‘Still, it could have been worse.’
Conrad stared mutely from him to the remains of the cabin.
‘It could have crashed right on top of you is all I’m saying,’ said Diaz with a shrug.
‘Well, it kinda did,’ retorted the immortal.
The officers took his statement and set to work quickly, examining and photographing the scene of the accident while daylight still remained. Forensic help from Manaus would not be dispatched for at least a couple days, and they could not leave the two corpses where they lay. The firefighters declared the area safe and left after half an hour, their vessel churning the waters of the swamp with a whiff of gasoline as it disappeared through the inlet toward Alvarães.
Conrad watched silently as Diaz’s men zipped the two corpses in the body bags that had been brought across by a third boat. He had returned the passenger’s wallet to the inside pocket of his charred suit and taken a close look at the man’s hands minutes before the authorities arrived. The metal briefcase was at the bottom of the swamp.
Diaz and his officers left just after five. Conrad bade them goodbye and waited until the sound of their motorboats faded in the distance before he turned and strode into the forest, Rocky at his heels.
A giant sandbox tree stood some two hundred feet from the swamp. He squatted at the north base of the trunk and pulled at the vegetation on the ground. Concealed beneath the living camouflage he had arranged over the bulging roots was a dirt-colored trapdoor. Rocky nosed at his hands when he opened it and exposed the hollow space underneath.
The cavity measured four by three feet and was nearly half as deep. It contained a large, gray, army metal crate fastened with an industrial-sized padlock. He retrieved the key from a crack inside the sandbox tree and opened the container. Oiled hinges moved silently when he lifted the lid.
The envelope that had been in the dead man’s briefcase lay near the top of the chest. He dropped it inside an empty, worn, military-issue rucksack. Rocky sniffed at the other contents of the container, crossed his eyes, and sneezed.
Conrad scratched the dog behind the ears as he contemplated the collection of firearms laid neatly in narrow compartments at the bottom of the crate. It had been a couple of months since he last cleaned them. He selected a Heckler & Koch P8 semiautomatic pistol and put it in the backpack along with some magazines.
Taped to the lid of the crate were half a dozen waterproof Ziploc bags. He removed the one that contained a passport, a wad of hundred-dollar bills, and some savings bonds, and tucked the whole thing inside his waistband.
Conrad locked the chest, closed the trapdoor, rearranged the green screen, and put the key back in its hiding place. He sniffed at his shirt. His clothes had long since dried in the permanent heat that lingered under the canopy of the rainforest. They now held the stench of smoke, sweat, and death. He wrinkled his nose; he seriously needed to change. Unfortunately, all his earthly belongings had gone up in flames in the explosion that followed the plane crash.
‘Ah well, you’ll just have to live with the smell, boy,’ he told Rocky with a sigh.
The dog huffed and licked his hand. Conrad returned to the swamp, walked over to the jetty, and dropped the backpack in the stern of the canoe. The vessel rocked slightly, the puddles at the bottom gleaming in the crimson light.
Rocky hopped inside the raft, eyes shining and excited huffs leaving his jaws as his tail traced frantic circles in the air; he had been a hardcore fan of boat rides ever si
nce he was a puppy.
Conrad turned and cast a final look at the place that had been his sanctuary for six decades. Although he was loath to leave it and return to the world he had willingly abandoned, he no longer had a choice in the matter. The contents of the dead man’s briefcase had seen to that.
As the evening calls and cries of the rainforest wildlife rang out across the darkening canopy, he stepped inside the canoe, picked up the oar, and headed east into the forest toward the Rio Solimoes.
It was dark by the time they reached Roxanne’s hut. The aroma of cooked cassava, fried green bananas, and grilled fish reached Conrad’s nostrils well before he saw the flickering yellow flames of a fire between the trees. He guided the raft to a narrow landing abutting a bank that held a small house on stilts.
A short, stout shadow appeared in the doorway of the thatch and wood construct as they disembarked. Rocky scampered ahead, a friendly whine escaping his jaws. His claws clattered on worn hardwood as he climbed the steps to the shallow porch. The figure at the top leaned down and patted his head before straightening slowly with a crackle and pop of arthritic bones.
The orange glow of a tobacco roll flared in the gloom. The heady, pungent smell of Roxanne’s homemade mapacho cigarette drifted toward Conrad as he paused at the foot of the stairs.
‘Olá, Deus Demônio,’ said Roxanne in a parchment-dry voice.
‘Olá, Ela Diabo,’ muttered Conrad in response.
The old woman chuckled. Wispy tendrils of tobacco smoke escaped her lips and curved hazily in the warm air. Rocky sniffed at them and wrinkled his nose.
‘What brings you to my doorstep tonight?’ the old woman continued in Portuguese. She cast a glance at the shed behind the house. ‘If it’s moonshine you’re after, you’re a week early.’
Conrad mulled over the words that had been going through his head during the boat ride to the old woman’s house.
Roxanne’s rheumy gaze drifted from him to the treetops. ‘I saw the smoke in the sky and heard the boats go by. Did something happen?’
‘Yes.’ He did not elaborate further. Knowing Roxanne, she would hear all the gory details before the next day’s end. It never ceased to amaze him how much she knew of local affairs, given that she rarely left the hut.
The woman’s wizened stare bore into his face. Although more than half a century had passed since Conrad first met her, she looked almost exactly the same now as she did then. He did not know how old she was and had never asked. Age was irrelevant to someone like him. He studied his neighbor and wondered not for the first time whether she was the one who had discovered the Tree of Life.
‘I would invite you in, but I sense you’re in a rush,’ said Roxanne. ‘Say your piece, my friend, for I can see the words pressing to get past your lips.’
Conrad smiled faintly. She knew him all too well. ‘I have a favor to ask of you.’ He hesitated. ‘Can you look after Rocky?’
The dog’s head rose at the mention of his name. His ears pricked forward, as if aware of the somber tone of the conversation.
Roxanne replied with a question. ‘You going on a trip?’ She looked at the rucksack in the canoe. Conrad nodded.
The night crowded in around them while they watched each other. Monkeys chattered in the branches overshadowing the stilt house. Something howled in the distance and crashed through the undergrowth.
‘You planning on coming back?’ said Roxanne finally.
Conrad shrugged. ‘I hope so.’
The woman scrutinized him for a while longer. ‘All right. I’ll look after him for you. But don’t leave it too long. You know he’ll pine after you, and there’s nothing worse than a miserable dog.’
Conrad gave her a grateful smile and turned to Rocky. ‘Come here.’
Rocky darted down the stairs and jumped up to rest his forepaws against Conrad’s chest. He stretched his head and licked the immortal’s face with slobbery enthusiasm.
‘Good boy,’ Conrad praised. He scratched him vigorously behind the ears. The dog whimpered and rolled his eyes in delight. ‘You be good and stay with Roxanne, ’kay? I have to go somewhere.’
Rocky’s expression turned wary. A small whine escaped his throat. Conrad ignored the ache in his chest and turned to walk away. The dog sank to the ground. He glanced anxiously between the hut and the boat, and loped after him.
Conrad stopped in his tracks. ‘Stay,’ he ordered in a hard voice over his shoulder.
Rocky skidded to a halt. He dropped his head, hunched his shoulders, and lowered his body toward the ground, his tail drooping between his hind legs. Large brown eyes gleamed in the faint light oozing through the open doorway of the stilt house.
Conrad sighed and twisted on his heels. He squatted in front of the dog, grabbed him behind the ears, and tugged him forward until their foreheads touched.
‘I need to do this,’ the immortal said softly. ‘Consider it a temporary separation.’ He paused. ‘I will come back for you. After all, we are bound, you and I.’ He lowered one hand and touched the dog’s forechest.
Rocky stilled and peered unblinkingly into his eyes. A moment of silent communion passed between man and dog. Then, he huffed and licked Conrad’s face.
The immortal rose reluctantly and headed toward the water. Rocky padded after him and stopped on the landing. The dog watched him climb inside the canoe.
Conrad picked up the oar, looked at the two silent figures on the bank, and dipped the paddle in the inky water. He rowed away into the darkness, his strokes strong and steady.
A howl tore through the night a short time later, the forlorn goodbye piercing his chest with the force of a well-aimed arrow. Unbidden, the immortal’s hand rose to rub a spot over his heart.
Chapter Four
Conrad reached Alvarães shortly before seven in the evening and hitched a ride in the back of a livestock truck for the five-mile trip to the village of Noguiera, on the north shore of Lake Tefé. By the time he arrived on the outskirts of the small settlement hedging an expanse of pale, sandy beach, Conrad was convinced he smelled worse than the animals he had shared the flatbed with.
Since the motorboats that would have taken him across the water to Tefé town itself only operated during daylight hours, he had to find someone disposed to make the journey at night. It took half an hour and a hundred-dollar bill to hunt down and persuade such a willing subject. By the anxious glances the man cast at the birthmark on Conrad’s arm, the immortal’s reputation had preceded him.
Shortly after landing at the docks in Tefé, Conrad walked inside a small, lean-to liquor store, slid some coins across the serving counter, and asked if he could make a call. The boy behind the till palmed the money and brought out an old rotary dial telephone from underneath the table.
The immortal rang the local airport. He placed the receiver back in its cradle a couple of minutes later, thanked the boy, and walked out of the shack. The first scheduled flight to Manaus was not until the afternoon of the next day. His instincts told him he could not afford to wait that long.
He stood on the dirt road and looked out over the dark waters of the lake. Waves lapped against the wooden pilings of a floating pontoon some thirty feet away. An occasional bark of laughter broke the nighttime chatter rising from his left. He came to a decision, turned, and headed for the town’s main strip.
Several drinks and a number of run-down bars later, Conrad tracked down the owner of a small propeller plane. The middle-aged man knocked back half a beer and spilled as much again as he listened to the immortal’s request. Silence fell between them when Conrad finished talking. The pilot blinked bloodshot eyes and studied him with a glazed expression. Just when the immortal thought he should try and find someone else to broker a deal with, the man leaned across the table, which was nothing more than three stained planks balanced on a couple of empty
oil drums, and admitted in a gruff, alcohol-laced breath that he would be open to taking on a private job for a suitable monetary incentive. The right price turned out to be an expensive bottle of whisky and four hundred dollars in cash.
They left the bar minutes after concluding their arrangement and headed for the man’s truck, parked a couple of streets away. Conrad took one look at the way he staggered across the road and went in search of some strong coffee. He swapped the cup for the keys in the mumbling man’s grasp and drove the vintage Ford pickup the short distance to the airport.
The pilot walked into the booking office in a comparatively straight line to file their flight plan to Manaus. Conrad waited outside the red-roofed building, his back against the hood of the vehicle as he gazed at the star-filled night sky. He wondered whether he would ever see it again from this place he had come to call home.
The plane turned out to be a 1965 two-seater Cessna 150F. It was in as good a state as the Ford truck, and a whole lot better condition than its owner. Half an hour after they arrived at Tefé airport, they were in the air. Since there was only one headset for the pilot, Conrad settled back in his seat, closed his eyes, and hoped to God he would get to Manaus in one piece. He really did not want to waste one of his remaining lives crashing in a blaze of fire in the middle of the rainforest. An image of the dead man with the briefcase flashed through his mind at the thought.
It was nearly midnight when they landed at a small aero club some three miles north of the center of the capital. The pilot bade him goodbye and headed off in search of a bar. Conrad walked out of the airport grounds and strolled down the road to a nearby motel. He booked a room for the night, took a long, cold shower, and rang for laundry service. He handed the maid who came to the room his clothes and a large tip, locked the door after her, and put the gilded staff on the nightstand next to the bed. He climbed naked under the thin cotton sheet and lay staring at the dark ceiling while he pondered the events of the day.
