The Dead Man's Brother

by Zelazny, Roger

  I grew a bit stronger and ordered my muscles to move

  me.

  Protesting, they obeyed. This brought me wide awake, and I sat on the edge of my bed and drank water. It tasted terrible.

  I rose and fetched my wires from behind the baseboard.

  Through the small opening set at eye-level in the door, I could see that the hall was empty. A bulb of low wattage burned in the ceiling a few yards off to my left. I knelt and began working on the lock.

  I was interrupted once by approaching footsteps, and returned to my cot. Whoever it was seemed simply to have taken a stroll up the hall and back again, however. The steps approached, passed, turned, retreated.

  I took up my position again and began fumbling with the too-soft wires. Perspiration collected in my eyebrows and small, flitting things came to bug me. Then the lock moved and clicked softly.

  Shaking, I returned to my cot and waited to see whether the sound had carried and been noted. Somewhere between five and ten minutes later, I decided that it hadn’t.

  I stuffed my shoes as far down into my hip pocket as they would go, then returned to the door and checked the hallway.

  Nobody.

  I removed the leg from the cot, held it in my right hand and edged the door open, slowly and quietly. Stepping through, I closed it behind me and moved up the hall.

  I passed several closed doors with dark eyeslits like my own. I glanced through each as I went by. Two of them contained sleeping forms on cots not unlike mine. I thought the second one was Maria.

  I passed the interrogation room. It was dark and empty, its door open.

  I moved through silence and took it as a good sign. While I had no idea as to the time, it seemed late. I was headed toward the room where they had received me initially. If more than one man were on duty, it would seem there might be some conversation going on. Of course, there could be others—bored, reading, asleep.

  I approached the door. It was open, and light flooded the hall around it. About twenty-five feet beyond was the front door to the building. I edged my way along the wall on that side of the corridor until I stood directly beside the puddle of light. Then I stood still and listened.

  Perhaps ten minutes passed. I heard small movements, a sigh, the scratch of a match, a belch, the rustling of paper, the squeak of a chair. I shifted my weight slowly, preparing to rush in and start bashing.

  I almost gave myself away when the telephone rang.

  It was taken before the second ring. A gruff voice answered, spoke briefly, then said, "It’s for you."

  I heard a grunt, the bang of what might have been a chair leaned against a wall as it came forward, then footsteps.

  I did not stay to eavesdrop. I turned and hurried back in the direction from which I had come. I was not about to try jumping two of them.

  I made it back to the door of my room without being discovered, continued on past it and entered a dark, open room that appeared to be something other than a cell. It was packed with old furniture—dressers, beds, chairs—and smelled of must, dust and urine. I worked my way through it, for there were two unbarred windows in its far wall.

  Neither was nailed shut, but both were stuck. I went to work on the one that had yielded a bit. I managed to raise it a few inches, and stopped short of a major noise when it began to bind again. Cursing, I worked it slowly. There was a mass of unkempt shrubbery beyond it and an incline that looked to descend six or eight feet fairly rapidly.

  I was certain there was a rear entrance farther back. But it would doubtless be locked and possibly guarded. I knew nothing of the layout at that end of the building, so I would be risking too much to try there what I had planned doing up front. I had wanted to take Maria with me, but now I would settle for just getting out myself and bringing our embassies into the picture.

  I eased the window past the tight spot and got it up another eight inches before it stuck again. Then I began working it from side to side, gaining perhaps an eighth of an inch each time. The growing things outside smelled sweet. The night air was cool and delicious.

  When the opening was wide enough I slipped my shoes back on and went through it. I hung a moment by my hands, then dropped a couple of feet to the ground.

  The stuff was thick and a bit thorny, but I worked my way down through it, keeping low. Then I moved a good distance away from the building and headed toward its rear. I wanted to circle the place, to get a better idea what it looked like.

  There was a rear door, but it was boarded shut. I passed on, eventually locating my own window. I drew nearer. It was still dark and silent within. Good. I counted down then and found the one I thought to be Maria’s. It, too, was dark and silent, but I worked my way to a position beneath it and tossed a pebble inside.

  After a long wait, I tossed another.

  Six stones later, I heard soft sounds and a figure appeared behind the bars. I studied it and remained silent until I had satisfied myself.

  "Maria?" I whispered.

  "Ovid?"

  "Yes. Have they hurt you?"

  "Not—much," she said. "But they have made me tell them—things."

  "Don’t worry. Tell them anything that makes them happy."

  "But they ask things we do not know."

  "Keep telling them that—and keep asking to see the Italian ambassador. I’m going to call for help from the first phone I can reach. I’m going to try to steal a car now."

  "Did you get a guard or did you pick the lock?"

  "The lock."

  "Oh."

  "Why?"

  "I was hoping you got the small one with the moustache."

  "I’ll be back," I said. "He’ll get his. You hold tight and stall. Start pretending to faint."

  "I already have. Be careful."

  "Yes. Goodbye, Maria."

  "Goodbye, Ovid."

  I retreated then and moved on toward the front, the metal tube clenched tightly in my fist. I began hoping for someone to hit.

  I still wore my money belt. Strange that they had not thought to check for that. Things would have been so much easier if I’d had my lock picks in it.

  I hated leaving her that way, but it was the only out available.

  I slowed, dropped to the ground and began to crawl as I neared the front of the building.

  There was no one in sight, and two cars were parked beneath the trees. There were two outside lights on the building and one on a pole about a hundred-fifty feet up the driveway. There was also light from the office, coming through the window to the left of the doorway.

  Keeping low in the high weeds, I headed toward the vehicles, frightening myself and a rabbit in unequal proportions.

  I reached the cars, moved between them, trying to decide which one was going to get its ignition jumped. This was quickly settled. Neither was. They were both Fords and the one on my left was newer, but the one to my right had a key in the ignition. I released the air from the tires of the one on the left, using my lock-pick wire.

  Too good, it seemed. But with all the lousy breaks I had been getting recently, I was not about to look a good one in the carburetor. I eased the door open and slid inside, pulling rather than slamming it shut. It was not completely closed, but the latch had caught. That would have to do.

  With a quick glance at the building, I started the engine, backed up, shifted gears and headed for the long, narrow driveway that led to the road. There was a brick retaining wall to my left and a tree-filled gully on the right.

  I switched on the headlights and fed it gas. I entered the driveway, took a turn and passed through a small clump of trees. Something—either a bird or a bat—dislodged itself from a tree and fled by me. Then the world came to an end as I took another turn.

  A pair of headlights was coming straight toward me.

  I wanted to tear out the steering wheel column by the roots and throw it at them. Instead, I gripped the wheel and pushed the gas pedal to the floor.

  There was no place for me to pull off on th
e side. If I stopped, they had me; if I backed up, they had me.

  I stayed as close to the wall as I could, hoping that the driver’s reflexes would cause him to swerve away toward the gully. My hitting him then might help him along in that direction, leaving me room enough to get by.

  It didn’t work that way, of course.

  He leaned on his horn and began slowing as soon as he saw me. I didn’t want it to be a head-on collision, but I was ready for one. I leaned on my own horn and kept going.

  The distance between us narrowed rapidly, and he finally swerved. But it was too late.

  We hit. He was partly off the driveway and I pushed him farther, but not far enough.

  I scraped along the wall, pushed partway past him and came to a halt. I tried plowing through. I tried backing out. But I was wedged in place.

  I seized my cot leg club from where it lay on the seat to my right. A glance at the other car showed me that it contained three occupants. The door on my side was jammed against the wall; the one on their side would only open a few inches before it bound against their vehicle. Without hesitating, I covered my eyes with my left hand and swung my club against the windshield.

  They make them pretty tough these days. Windshields.

  The three of them piled out of their car. All of them held guns. They emerged from the far side, and two approached me from the front while one went around to the rear.

  The two pointed their weapons at me and one of them yelled, "Drop that and raise your hands!" He emphasized his request by shifting the muzzle slightly and putting a bullet through the windshield.

  I dropped the club and raised my hands. I had never liked the idea of dying in an old Ford in Brazil.

  One of them kept me covered—it was Dominic, I just then realized—while the other two tried moving their car out of the way.

  The engine wouldn’t do it. Neither would muscle power. I heard them cursing.

  I began to laugh. Hysterically, I think.

  Then Dominic said, "Come out through the windshield."

  "There’s still a lot of glass."

  "Clear it with whatever you were using—carefully!"

  I did this, then crawled over the dashboard and out onto the hood. He backed off several paces and I climbed down to the ground.

  "Turn around. Lean against the car," he said.

  Then, to one of the others who turned out to be Victor, "Search him!" he ordered.

  This turned up the pieces of wire in the lefthand pocket of my trousers.

  "How did you get out?" he asked me.

  "I opened the door."

  "With what?"

  "Those wires. It was an old lock."

  The driver, a small man whom I had not seen before, approached. "Damn! Damn! Damn!" he chanted. "Look at the cars!"

  He drew back his fist.

  "Stop!" said Dominic. "If you knock him out, you are going to carry him back yourself. I’ve had all I can take tonight. Leave the lights on in this car. Let’s get down to the house."

  The driver nodded curtly and turned away. Then, "Make him get the ignition keys," he said. "This engine is still running."

  I returned and fetched them.

  Flanked and followed, I rounded the massed mess then, cutting down through the gully, and moved back along the driveway. Some awakened birds made grumpy noises in the trees. It had been a good dream while it lasted.

  *

  The questioning continued. In fact, it began as soon as I was taken back inside. This time, though, there were added refinements, such as being beaten across the soles of the feet. There were new questions, too, such as who had sent me to steal whatever I had stolen and how much I had been paid for the job. After each negative reply, a sock full of sand across the belly became the rule. For variety’s sake, I guess. I was tied spread-eagle to a tabletop at this time, and whenever I passed out a bucket of water was sloshed over my head and shoulders. I lost track of time and the number of dousings.

  The next two days came to seem like the product of delirium to me. I won’t say that they filled a tub with water and forced my head under until I could hold my breath no longer, then gave me artificial respiration and resumed questioning me. I won’t say that they finally applied electrical shocks to my testicles until I finally babbled the entire story over and over—from Carl Bernini through the CIA—and that they only laughed at me and said I was telling lies. No, I won’t say any of these things.

  For part of a night and half of a day, I lay naked on my mattress on the floor, shaking and drifting between nightmare and spells of consciousness that were no improvement. They had removed the three-legged cot when they brought me back, and they had not returned my clothing after a subsequent session. I had stopped worrying about internal injuries. Occasionally, I speculated as to how much longer I had to live. Ironically, there was not a mark on me.

  Whenever I found myself wondering when they would come again, I would retreat from the thought by reviewing what I would do to them if I had the chance. I kept pushing everything else out of my mind and dwelling on the details.

  Then, sometime in the afternoon, they came again. They came several times, in fact.

  They brought in a table and a chair, set them by the window and went away. Moments later, they returned and set a hot, decent-looking meal on the end of the table. One of them paused and glanced at me as they were leaving.

  "Lunch," he said.

  I crawled across the room to reach it. My feet were too sore to bear my weight.

  I got into the chair and began eating. Before I was very far along, they were back again. I shuddered, but did not even turn around when I heard the door open. Then I bolted another mouthful, in case they had come to take it all away and laugh.

  But Dominic said, "Excuse me," as he set a basin of water at the other end of the table and laid a towel, a washcloth, a bar of soap and a razor beside it.

  As he walked out, he said, "Your clothing."

  I turned around and saw that my clothes, nearly laundered and pressed, were lying folded upon the mattress.

  I did not allow myself the luxury of thinking. I finished the meal quickly and washed it down with a glass of clean water. There was a small glass of what appeared to be wine that I had saved for last. I sipped it, and it was.

  I scoured myself afterwards, remaining seated as much as possible. They had not provided a mirror, but I managed what afterwards felt like a passable shave.

  I hobbled back to the mattress and dressed myself. I was surprised to find that no one had disturbed the contents of the money belt.

  A large envelope had lain beneath my clothing. Opening it, I discovered everything they had taken from me—passport, wallet, comb, watch, etc. I postponed lighting one of my remaining cigarettes until I had combed my hair and stowed everything where it belonged. I winced at the list of artists Bruno had given me. It had been the subject of numerous queries.

  I left my shoes off and went and sat by the window, using the table as a footrest. I was beginning to feel slightly human again. I even entertained the notion that I might be allowed to live. After my second cigarette, I grew sleepy and dozed off there in the chair.

  About half an hour later I heard the door open and was instantly awake and wary.

  Victor nodded and flashed a smile.

  "If you will come with me, please," he said.

  I nodded back, struggled into my shoes, rose and accompanied him into the hall. We walked along until we came to the front room. He indicated that I should enter, but remained outside himself.

  Inspector Morales sat behind the desk. Before it, to my right, Maria was seated. She appeared to have been the object of a cleanup campaign also. But her face was pinched and her glance furtive, despite the scrubbing, the combing, the makeup. There was a vacant chair to her left and Morales gestured toward it.

  "Please have a seat," he said, "Mister Wiley."

  I did this thing and waited, staring at him.

  "First," he said, "as I ha
ve already told Miss Borsini, I apologize for any discomfort you experienced during your stay here. I understand that several of your questioners exceeded their authority. They have been reprimanded and they will receive departmental discipline."

  I thought of Victor’s smile and said nothing.

  "After further investigation," he went on, "we find your statements quite acceptable. It was an unfortunate coincidence that you happened to appear at the scene of the crime the morning after it had occurred—under what I am certain you will admit were suspicious circumstances."

  He paused, as if expecting us to agree, then shrugged.

  "Such mistakes do sometimes occur," he continued, "and this was one of those times. Again, I am sorry. It is over, though—the inconvenience, the distress…We are releasing you. I am certain that the remainder of your visit in our country will help to erase the memory of—the unpleasantness. You must understand that a policeman’s first duty is to be thorough."

  I continued to stare at him.

  "We had your car returned to the rental agency," he said, "shortly after we took you into custody. Since we had no idea how long you would be with us, it seemed senseless to let the charges accumulate. As it is, you owe nothing on it. We also checked you out of your hotel in Santos, for the same reason. That is your luggage in the corner."

  He gestured, but I did not turn my head.

  "Again, you owe nothing," he added.

  He produced a pack of cigarettes, smiled and offered them around.

  "No," said Maria.

  I shook my head.

  He lit one, snorted smoke around it, leaned back in his chair.

  "Since you lack transportation," he said, "I will have you taken wherever you wish, whether in Santos or in São Paulo."

  I felt Maria’s eyes upon me then.

  "Then take us to the Othon Palace in São Paulo," I said, it being the only one I remembered from the Highly Recommended list in the guidebook, because of its simple name.

  "An excellent choice!" he said. "I recommend it highly. You will find their restaurant quite good."

  I withdrew a cigarette from my pack. He extended his lighter and snapped it on, but I ignored it and used a match.