Cradle of Splendor

by Patricia Anthony

  “Who, sir?”

  “Hand me the bottle from the map box.”

  “Perhaps you’ve had enough for today.” Even as he was protesting, Muller obeyed.

  Gentleman Jack, Edson saw with surprise. Had he known that, he would have raided the map compartment sooner. “I have to do it. She won’t push the point. Where did you say he was?”

  “In his bedroom.”

  Edson climbed out of the car, slipped the pint into his pocket. “Go to Palãcio do Planalto. Keep her there in her office.”

  Edson strode into the elevator, exited on the first floor, and took the marble stairs two at a time. On the second floor, a single plainclothes officer was manning the corridor station. Three people dead in São Paulo, one a woman. The guard was watching a game show and drinking a Coca—Cola.

  He looked up. His smile failed. “Sir.”

  The TV’s sound was off. On the screen a swimsuited blonde was bouncing on a trampoline, trying to catch a plastic ring between her knees. She had enormous American breasts, the kind that looked as if they could be used for pillows.

  “Don’t,” Edson ordered as the boy reached out to turn the television off. “Not for my sake. When Ana comes up, it would be best, though, if you weren’t watching that.”

  The guard grinned: boy’s—club camaraderie. “Big, neh? See how they bounce?”

  Edson watched the instant replay. In slow motion, the blonde woman was falling. Falling.

  The guard looked up. “What, sir?”

  The woman disappeared without ever hitting bottom. A Varig commercial blinked on. The guard was waiting for an answer, but Edson couldn’t remember making a sound. “I said she has a fat ass. I’m going to see Pastor Freitas now. See that I’m not disturbed.”

  The fourth door from the end of the hallway—the room next to Ana’s. Edson took another drink, but his hands still shook. There was not enough whiskey in the world.

  He put the bottle in his pocket and opened the door. Freitas was staring out the window into the dusk. Edson halted just behind his chair.

  “I went inside the Door.”

  Their eyes met in the windowpane. It was like stepping over the brink again, walking into the dark.

  Edson folded his arms, cleared his throat. “I heard the voices of the people we sent in. They are right by the entrance, not scattered across your universe as you said. So you can let them go. It would be easy. They can talk to the press. If we are lucky, and use the Disappeareds skillfully, we can defuse this entire situation.”

  Freitas reached out to the window, stroked Edson’s reflected cheek.

  “Listen to reason, my friend. The Americans have issued an ultimatum: Brazil allows U.N. inspectors into Cabeceiras or they will bomb. Your little collection game is over. The Disappeareds must come back.”

  The fingertips squeaked as they moved, leaving a contrail of condensation on the glass. Down Edson’s chest, his belly, following the line of his zipper, to stop at his groin.

  Freitas’s hand dropped. Outside, Brasília’s science—fictional buildings glittered. A jet, red light winking, sailed the wide violet sky.

  Edson said, “If you do not bring them back, the Americans will discover that something else has taken up residence in Henrique Freitas’s body.”

  Three auras of moisture lingered on the glass between Edson’s spread legs. Freitas leaned over, put his mouth to the spot.

  A shudder. Edson brought his legs together fast. Dropped his arms. Stepped away.

  Freitas’s hushed voice: “When you came to me, I had you. Did you feel it? I whispered in your ear. Did you hear? Dark, so dark here. I was a teacher once.” Abruptly Freitas turned, looked him full in the face, and it was as if the air had been snatched from Edson’s lungs. “I don’t know where I am.”

  “Turn around.”

  “They died of thirst, my heart. How could you forget the words?”

  Edson put his hand into his jacket. No matter what he promised Nando, Edson had to shoot while he still could. “Turn around.”

  A sly grin. Freitas looked away. Edson studied the neatly clipped gray hair. That spot. That sweet spot at the bulge of the skull. And if you hit it right, death came so quickly that they never even quivered. How many? Under the rule of generals, he had made chronic thieves slumber. And under the uneasy dominion of civilians, he had tucked murderous children into their beds. Edson had tried to be gentle, and if not gentle, fast. Their faces were serene, their bodies so still.

  “They forgive you.”

  Edson’s fingers lost their grip on the pistol.

  “If you had walked in farther, you would have heard the people you forced inside telling you that. Farther, and you would hear the forgiveness of dead children. You see, when you go all the way into the shadows there is no dark. When you go all the way into emptiness, you’ll find it full. Isn’t that what you came to ask?”

  Edson couldn’t remember.

  “And if you fall far enough,” Freitas said, “I’ll be there.”

  The click of the door latch drew Edson’s attention. Ana stood, clinging to the knob for support. He realized his hand was still in his jacket and from her expression, an expression he had seen countless times, he knew she expected to be shot. He showed her his empty palm. Only then did he realize he was crying.

  “Edson. What are you doing? You know I don’t allow anyone to be alone with him.”

  Freitas ordered: “Come here!”

  Edson was appalled when she obeyed. A step from him, Freitas seized her wrist so roughly that her face went taut. He jerked her near. Kissed the inside of her arm.

  She touched the graying hair—appeasing? or already forgiving? “Let me go, please. I need to talk to Edson.”

  A savage twist. Before she could cry out, Freitas released her. Ana walked quickly to the door, the white imprints of his fingers marring her skin.

  Freitas whispered, “Everything I do, I do for you,” and Edson wondered which one of them the words were meant for.

  Ana led Edson into the hall, shut the door. “Damn you. I have forbidden this. How dare you talk to him alone?”

  “I had a question. I—”

  “If you have a question for him, you go through me. Is that understood?”

  “But—”

  “Answer me. Is that understood?”

  Edson held his breath for a ten—count, looked at the baseboard. In a controlled voice he said, “Yes.”

  “Because it is dangerous. I understand him. I can handle him”

  “No one can handle him, Ana. He reads minds.”

  She laughed. “See how little you know? He asks questions, that’s all. He pries. He’s curious about us.”

  “I walked into the chamber today.”

  “Oh? Did you hear them?”

  So Ana knew. Could she hear the pleas of the Disappeareds when she lay her head on his chest? When Freitas came, did he cry out in other voices? “The Disappeareds—they’re close to the Door. Almost within arm’s reach. Maybe we could call them out. If we do, they could talk to the foreign press. You would not be seen as a—”

  “They won’t come.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Leave them alone, Edson. They are happy.”

  “How can you say that? Freitas lies to us, Ana. He tells us what we want to hear. The other side isn’t like he told us at all.”

  “And how do you know? Because one time you stepped inside and thought you heard something? Those beings in the other universe have our best interests at heart. Otherwise they would not have given us the tech—”

  “Other beings? Are you absolutely sure there are others? When I look at him, I feel something lonely. I sense a hunger. You must have felt it from him, too.”

  Ana was shaking her head as if, by moving fast enough, she could dodge Edson’s
words. “Only one of him? No. How could he have developed the technology alone?”

  “I don’t know. He talks of happy people beyond the Door. All so friendly. All so delighted to meet the people we send in. It sounds like the little animal books I used to read my children. I am not myself a believer in such things, and I know you aren’t either, but ... Ana. Only the devil could be such a liar.”

  “That’s enough!” Her words rang down the quiet hall. The venom surprised him.

  “I sent those people inside, and they sound so afraid.”

  She sighed tiredly, rubbed her arm. “Go home, Edson.” The place Freitas had grabbed her was already purpling. “Everyone’s afraid.”

  CBS News Special: Standoff

  ... here on the deck. Commander Surry? This certainly is impressive, sir; how quickly the Navy has pulled this together.

  Thank you. This is all part of the Rapid Response Force, uh, the capability to move our troops in quickly, aggressively, and then mop up. It’s something we’ve been working very hard at.

  Amazing. Just amazing. Commander, there has been some speculation that certain top—level Brazilian officials may be charged by the U.N. with committing crimes against humanity. Would your command here. be capable of say, bringing in a squad and arresting those officials as well?

  We’re prepared to do whatever the president asks.

  Uh—huh. Just one more ... Thank you. The Brazilians have not fought a war since 1870, except for a handful of soldiers they sent to the Allied side in World War II. Uh, so do you think this will all go down pretty easy?

  They teach us in OCS to never underestimate the enemy. No military engagement is ever easy, sir. Brazil is large, and people tend to fight tooth and toenail to protect their own country. Also, don’t forget that the Brazilians have been major arms manufacturers for decades. We have to assume they know their weapons. And we have to assume their defense will be rigorous.

  Uh—huh. Well, good luck to you, Commander.

  They teach us not to count on luck.

  ROGER RATTLED around the empty house, watched a little news, noticed that the U.N. deadline was fast approaching, and that the demonstrations had spread. Bonfim’s smiling picture flashed on the screen—file footage from happier times.

  By ten—thirty the news was off, and the barometric pressure of the silence grew unbearable. Roger decided it was time for bed. He went into the downstairs bathroom, set the nozzle heater on MEDIUM HIGH, and while his shower warmed he picked up his toothbrush, ran a line of Tartar Control Crest down the bristles, put the brush in his mouth, and looked into the mirror.

  McNatt was behind him.

  Roger bounced as if spring—loaded. Dollops of toothpaste flew. “Je—sus!” He foamed at the mouth.

  “We need to show you something.”

  “Couldn’t you call first?” Roger toweled the mirror free of steam and toothpaste, rinsed the sink free of traumatized spittle.

  McNatt turned off the shower heater and then the water, in that order, leaving Roger wondering if the man lacked a grasp of electricity or if he liked living life on the edge.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  The usual four—door sedan was waiting in the drive. The night air was chill on Roger’s wet shirt; and by the time McNatt climbed into the backseat beside him, Roger was shivering.

  “Hey, guy.” Kinch turned around, regarded him cheerfully from over the top of the seat. “You cold?”

  Roger replied, “Up your rosy red one.”

  The driver inched the car down the driveway.

  “Turn on the heater, Mike,” McNatt said in a quiet voice. He got out a small paper bag, the kind used to carry a lunch. He opened it, took out a cloth and a can of oil, and started cleaning his gun. Kinch paid no attention; Mike, the driver, didn’t either. McNatt cleaned his gun the way some men whittle, and some pick their noses.

  Roger thought that cleaning the gun was completely, totally cool. He thought that it would be sort of great to be a real spy. He’d like to learn how to handle a pistol as nonchalantly as he folded his socks. But Roger was realistic.

  McNatt, now. McNatt probably got off on danger. Probably was an endorphin freak. Stateside, the major’d be into hang gliding. Bungee jumping. Precision skydiving. Roger wondered what the guy’s sex life was like.

  Suddenly McNatt hiked a hip, took some Tums out of his change pocket, bit two tablets off the open roll.

  “Where we going?” Roger asked.

  McNatt went back to cleaning his gun. “Eyes only,”

  “Right. My eyes, right? I mean you said you wanted to show me something.”

  “That is the operative word. Show you.”

  Roger sighed and looked out the window. A half moon sailed the cloudless heavens. He let his eyelids droop, his mind drift. Air from the dashboard heater warmed his face, his chest.

  Then McNatt asked, “Dr. Lintenberg? What religion are you?”

  Oops. Roger stirred and took a long breath. But for the spectral glow of the moon, the desert was dark and bleak. The perfect place to hide a body.

  “Well?”

  “Episcopalian.”

  “Um.”

  Was that a good “um” or a bad one? The slide went back onto the barrel with a precise click. The rag, folded neatly, went back into the paper bag, the oil can with it.

  Maybe McNatt wasn’t a James Bond type. Maybe there was a Mrs. McNatt and two—point—five kids at home. If so, McNatt would be an ideal husband, always cleaning up after himself—trained to leave no clues.

  The major leaned over, stowed the paper bag under the front seat, put the gun into the holster. “That’s good.”

  “What?”

  “Episcopalian.”

  “Does it for me,” Roger said.

  McNatt nodded, not getting it. “So you believe in life after death.”

  Whoa. What was this? A bit of idle conversation to make Roger feel comfortable? He wondered how fast the car was going. Wondered if he’d survive jumping out.

  “In my business you really shouldn’t dwell on religion. But there are times, you know?”

  Roger studied the door handle. “Uh—huh.”

  “I’m not such a bad guy, Dr. Lintenberg.”

  “I’m sure. Not, I mean. I’m sure you’re not.”

  “I’ve enjoyed working with you. Reading your file. You have an agile mind. I would suspect that if one accepts a supernatural occurrence as being valid—UFOs, for example—it’s probably easier to accept another—oh, say channeling. Don’t you think? Take Brazil. Odd mix of what Mama called ‘hoodoo,’ and Catholicism, and Victorian table—rapping. You ever wonder about salvation, Dr. Lintenberg? Or what constitutes evil? To my belief, the unforgivable sin is not murder, but stealing another’s free will. The worst thing I ever saw, however ...” McNatt paused for another Tums.

  Don’t tell me, Roger thought. Please. You don’t need to ...

  “Iraqis down in a foxhole kept plinking away at us. Captain called in the bulldozers. Must have been air pockets, because we could hear them for a long, long time. We laughed about it then. Later I had nightmares. I dreamed for years that we had turned those Iraqis into demons. Fascinating transference symbolism. Your mama raise you to be a good. Episcopalian?”

  Roger began to sweat. “I suppose. Salvation, huh? I don’t, ah ... My church is kind of laid—back. Sort of hard to tell a good Episcopalian from a ...”

  The car slowed. Ahead was an old airstrip, a dilapidated hangar running to seed. And a brand—new helicopter.

  “Oh,” Roger said.

  The car stopped. Kinch and Mike got out. McNatt leaned toward Roger confidentially. “What you’re about to see is beyond Top Secret.”

  “Huh.”

  “I’ve stuck my neck out on this one, Dr. Lintenberg. I told the Company I thought you co
uld be trusted. Truth is, we need you. Few respectable scientists accept the existence of UFOs. Fewer still have actually studied them. And even fewer have your facility for foreign languages. You are a valuable man. Ready?”

  Without waiting for an answer, McNatt got out of the car. Roger followed him across the packed clay field. The air inside the hangar stank of burnt insulation. Plastic tarps trailed from the ceiling like gauzy falls of rain. Rubbernecking mainframes crowded scorched—metal accidents. Roger recognized part of a landing gear.

  “This him?” A lab—coated man with an aging linebacker’s build ran a deft pattern through the machinery. “Dr. Lintenberg?” A hand extended toward Roger. There was a pair of needle—nosed pliers in it. The man looked at the pliers, momentarily disoriented, then shoved them into a pocket. “Sorry. Things have been pretty hectic. Capture was, oh ...” A quick glance at his watch. “Twelve hours, twenty—two minutes ago. The bodies are still in situ. If you’ll come this way.” And he started off across the hangar.

  Roger stayed. “What’s going on here? That’s a plane, right? Isn’t that part of a plane?”

  Lab Coat seemed irked. “Major McNatt? Was this man not told?”

  “You are to tell him, sir.”

  The man sagged so thoroughly that it seemed the white jacket was emptying. He ran a hand across his bald pate. “You were with him in the car ...”

  “Not authorized. Only you, sir, are authorized.”

  “Bodies?” Roger said.

  The pair looked at him.

  “Bodies? Of the guys in the plane, or ...” Roger’s voice went out from under him like those movies where the Indian tears ass across the prairie and—bang—his horse gets shot. Shit. He was going to cry. Right here in front of McNatt, career tough guy. McNatt, who talked salvation, but who laughed as men were buried alive. Aw, jeez. He was going to cry in front of this Ph.D. stranger, a little peer review. “Just what are we talking about here?”

  Lab Coat parked his hands on his hips. “Nothing to worry about: our pilot ejected in time. UFO got off one good defensive shot before it was downed by the wingman. Damage was pretty extensive, I’m afraid.”