Chapter 13

On the rearmost seat of the gleaming Viacão Cometa, slowly grinding its way up the tortuous mountain road, Ricardo Caravelas sat with his head twisted, staring blankly out of the back window. One hand was on top of his head, gripping his short hair tightly; the knuckle of a finger on the other hand was between clamped teeth. His mind was seething with self-denunciation, his heart was beating unnaturally, and his hands were sweating. How and why had he ever gotten involved in the entire, horrible mess? Classes started yesterday; why wasn’t he at the university? What was he doing on this stupid bus?

Behind him the road snaked downward, flanked on one side by the abrupt rise of the mountain and on the other by cliffs that disappeared into the unseen void with stomach-tightening suddenness, covered with thin scrub, a vertical catanduva, strangely out of place in this lush land. A long line of traffic trailed them obediently, like ducklings behind a goose. He turned his head, bringing his damp palms down to press against his knees, staring to the front. Ahead, the road was clear. Beneath them, in the luggage compartment, that damned brown bag.…

His jaw was clenched; how had he ever gotten so involved? And why? He didn’t need the money; he didn’t even need a part of it. And if he spent it in any large quantity, everyone who knew him would know. And how would he spend it? His allowance was more than adequate and would continue throughout his life, increasing as he grew older and other members of the family departed. He had the assurance of an excellent position in the law firm of his godfather when he was graduated, and the income from that endeavor would be apart from his share in the family estate. The girl whom he was engaged to marry was lovely and wealthy in her own right. So why in the devil had he ever gotten involved in the first place?

There was, of course, no answer. It could have been the early hour, that morning at Gavea; or the double gin-tonic—tonics, he silently amended—or it could have been … what? What possible excuse could he offer to himself, let alone the police? What excuse would the police accept? None, and he knew it. None, and if he were in their position lie wouldn’t accept any, either. The old animal-spirit gag wouldn’t help on this one, and he knew that, too. So?

The bus reached the summit, hesitated as if catching its breath while the driver changed gears, and then began rolling. The wide, curved roads here, approaching the cutoff for Piraí, swung along the small reservoirs and past the odd-shaped hillocks that characterized the edge of the plateau; the bus increased in speed, beginning to leave its brood of less majestic vehicles behind. Ricardo forced himself to put aside his feeling of desperation, of negativism. It aided nothing, especially now; now was the time to think, to use his head. There had to be a way out, but what? Forget that attitude, he commanded himself almost viciously; think positively! There are many ways out; which one shall I take?

It seemed to work. For the first time since leaving the terminal in Rio, his mind actually began to concentrate on solutions rather than merely repeating problems. For one thing, he could return the money—except, he realized, that wouldn’t really solve anything. Or absolve anything, either. And it would probably ease the police problem of tracing him. He could, of course, take the brown bag to the delegacia and confess, saving the police the trouble of tracing him. He shook his head; somehow neither of those ideas seemed to be the answer, but at least he was beginning to think.

What other possibility? Well, he could get off the bus near Volta Redonda, at the side road where the car was hidden, and simply leave the brown bag on the bus. Forget about the money. Pretend it didn’t exist, that Alvaro hadn’t left it at the terminal. Ricardo’s eyes narrowed as he considered the idea. Was it possible that Romana had been around the terminal when Alvaro dropped the bag off, watching, checking? Or Humberto? He hadn’t seen them, but that didn’t mean anything; he hadn’t been looking for them. Another thought suddenly came to him, making the matter unimportant. He couldn’t leave the money on the bus and tell them any silly story about Alvaro’s failure to appear. The brown bag would be opened in the unclaimed luggage section of the São Paulo depot, and the news would hit the papers and the radio in about five minutes.

Or—he frowned, considering another idea carefully—he could take the brown bag from the bus, and on his way back to Rio he could pull into one of the recesses on the mountain road reserved for cars in trouble, and when the road was clear in both directions, he could simply drop the bag over a cliff. The chances of its being discovered for some time would be extremely rare; nobody climbed around those barren depths. There was no reason to. And if anyone did stumble on the suitcase, how many people would take a discovery like that to the police? Nobody. And then, of course, he could tell the others that Alvaro failed to leave the bag. It would lead to other problems, it was true, but for now, he thought, let us stick to one problem at a time.

He glanced out of the window at his side and came to with a start. The complicated involutions of his thoughts had taken more time than he realized. They were well past the cutoff to Piraí and were nearing the bottom of the hill leading to the turn for Volta Redonda. It was a good thing he had waked up! He reached up, grasping the bell cord, tugging on it; the opaque sunglassed eyes of the driver rose to the mirror, facing him. Ricardo came to his feet, mumbling an apology to his seat neighbor, squeezing into the aisle. He swayed to the front of the bus and bent down, studying the landscape, and then pointed ahead. He was suddenly calm, assured—or at least resigned—pleased that he had a plan. He recognized it was no true solution, but at the point things had reached there were no true solutions.

He pointed again, silent, and the driver began to apply the brakes.

“This is ridiculous!” Wilson made no attempt to hide his irritation; he tried once more to focus the binoculars. “After Taubaté, fine—the road there is like an arrow. But here? Either you don’t see them at all, or you’re right on top of them and don’t need any binoculars. Not to mention trying to focus these things while you’re bouncing all over the road. If they ever stop short around a curve we’ll probably run right up their exhaust!”

Da Silva had a deaf ear for the complaints. “Just be damned sure it’s a Viacão Cometa we’re following,” he ordered, “and not another bus line. Or a moving van.”

“It’s a Cometa. I’m not sure of anything else, but I’m sure of that.”

“You’re doing just fine.” One would never have known it from the wooden tone. “Just keep watching.”

“Watching what?” Wilson sounded disgusted. “I saw them at the top of the serra, and about twice in the ten miles since. The only thing I’m sure of is that we haven’t passed them.” The nondescript man dropped the glasses and rubbed his eyes. “If you won’t get close enough to see them without this portable observatory, how would you like to do the spyglass bit? While I pilot?”

“We haven’t time to change. Just keep watching!”

“Why in hell don’t they pad these eyepieces?” Wilson muttered. “I’ll have to tell people I walked into a door.” He brought the glasses back into position and suddenly hunched forward excitedly. “Zé! His taillight’s on—I think he’s stopping! Damn! Try to keep this thing steady, will you?” He brought the binoculars down, shaking his head. “They went around a curve, but I’m pretty sure he was stopping. His taillight was on too long just to be slowing down for something.”

Da Silva nodded. “This would be around the logical place. I’m slowing down. Keep watching.”

“Right.” Wilson raised the binoculars again; the cab rounded a curve, traveling slower. Wilson suddenly sat up. “Zé—I see it; it’s stopped.” Da Silva instantly hit the brakes, pulling the car off the road, beneath them the motor pulsed steadily, awaiting further orders. Ahead, faint in the distance, he could see the tiny red pinpoints of the brake lights, and the vague outline of something which, to the naked eye, could be either a bus or a barn.

“Well?”

“I think it could well be our boy.” Wilson sounded amazed by the whole thing. “It’s a young lad, in his twenties, I’d say. Crew cut, moustache, sports clothes … standing alongside the bus waiting for his luggage … driver’s opening the compartment door.…” Wilson’s voice became troubled. “Hey, he’s taking out more than two bags; he’s got about six out already … no, that’s all right, he was taking them out to get at the ones in back. Now we’re all set … two suitcases, one middle-sized, one small; the rest are being loaded back in. I can’t tell the colors, but I like the quantity.” He grinned. “As per schedule.”

“Bingo!” Da Silva sounded profoundly satisfied.

“Plus Jackpot. Unless we’re wrong, of course.” Wilson twisted the knob, sharpening the focus, and nodded in pleased fashion. “There, that’s better. The driver’s climbing back in.…”

“And the boy?”

“He’s taking a bicycle out of one of the bags—”

“What?”

“Just joking; don’t get excited. He’s still standing there. There goes the bus.…”

Da Silva saw the two tiny red pinpoints wink out. Wilson’s voice was like that of an announcer describing an exceptionally slow sports event. “He’s still standing there. Probably waiting to make sure the bus is really on its way and that he hasn’t been followed or watched. Or waiting for someone to pick him up. No; now our boy is finally moving … he’s walking toward us … he—” Wilson frowned. “He disappeared. There must be a roadway of some sort cut into that hummock up there, or behind it. With the glasses it looked like he was swallowed up.”

“That’s where his car is,” Da Silva said with barely concealed triumph. “Keep watching.”

Wilson treated both the statement and the needless advice with the lofty contempt they merited.

“I should hope his car is there,” he said. “It would be a pity after all our brilliant deductions to see him come out of there on a mule. Or not at all. It would—” He paused and leaned forward, his tone admiring. “Wilson and Da Silva, stand and receive the Alcoholics Anonymous accolade with palm for Detectives of the Year! There’s half a car peeking out of the hummock, waiting for traffic to pass. It looks like a red sports car, fire-engine red. Now he’s clear. He’s turning this way.…”

Da Silva had only been waiting to learn the car’s direction. He twisted the steering wheel sharply to the left, paused to let a large truck lumber by, and then swung across the road, heading toward Rio, driving slowly. Wilson had set the glasses down on the seat and was studying him.

“Do you plan to stop him here?”

“And take a chance of being rammed and killed if he doesn’t know how to handle a car?” Da Silva shook his head, his eyes on the rear-view mirror. “No. We’ll follow him and take him down on the flat.”

“We don’t follow him by binocular, I hope,” Wilson said hastily. “Going down the mountain I’ll lose an eye.”

“No,” Da Silva said tightly. “From now on we stay right on his tail. If he knows we’re following him, I couldn’t care less. Let him think about it until we pick him up. Down in the flat the road’s wide enough. We’ll get him there. And then we’re going to examine his luggage!”

“Ah, yes,” Wilson said. “And if we only find some shirts, size fourteen? Or a set of counterfeiter’s plates?”

“Then we apologize.” Da Silva’s eyes were glued on the mirror, watching the traffic. “Where the devil is he? Ah, here we are. Let’s go!”

A low red convertible sports car, top down, went by, its driver—now properly sunglassed—seemingly relaxed at the wheel. In the narrow luggage space behind him, wedged in with the folded hood, two suitcases poked out. Da Silva continued to dawdle impatiently while a second car also passed him, and then pressed down viciously on the accelerator, gaining velocity. He shot by the intervening car, gripping the steering wheel lightly, feeling the vibration of the power beneath them pulse in his hands. Ahead, the red convertible rapidly enlarged as the distance between them dwindled. Da Silva dropped his speed to match that of the sports car and stayed behind, suddenly frowning as he studied the lines of the car ahead. Wilson noticed his change of expression.

“What’s the matter?”

“That’s a Ferrari up there. A racer; a model I didn’t recognize at first.”

“But it can’t beat the taxi, can it?”

“I don’t know. I hope not.”

Wilson sighed helplessly and reached for the glove compartment that he had just finished closing. “Don’t tell me—I know. Back to the glasses.…’

“No,” Da Silva said tightly. “I always wanted to see what I could do against a Ferrari, and this is as good a time as any—”

“Down a mountain?” Wilson was aghast.

Da Silva paid no attention. “Anyway, he looks a little young to even know how fast a car he has, or to know what to do about it. And so far he hasn’t been pushing the speed.”

“Because he doesn’t want to come to the attention of the police,” Wilson suggested.

“Well,” Da Silva said with a touch of sadness in his voice that was belied by his faint smile, “I’m afraid it’s a little late for that.…”

In the car ahead Ricardo Caravelas was feeling better by the minute. It suddenly occurred to him that his panic on the bus before had simply been the result of an overlong period of abstinence, something he had always warned himself against. The brief drink he had taken from the bottle in the car before putting the top down was already furnishing proof of that. What had he been so bothered about? What had frightened him so? The bright sun was warm on his back; here on the planalto the breeze was much cooler and drier than in the valley below; it washed his tanned face almost sensually. What was there to worry about?

It came to him that in addition to its being a beautiful day, he had only to reach behind him to touch half a million dollars. And not a soul in the world to prove he had it. Throw it over a cliff? Why? True, he didn’t need it at the moment, and he couldn’t spend it right away, but who knew what the future held? Throw it over a cliff? Crazy! Share it? Even crazier. It served all of them right for dragging him into their miserable scheme in the first place!

He smiled, pleased with the logic of his rationalization. No; take the suitcase someplace and hide it, and then claim that Alvaro had failed to show up with the money. His eyes narrowed. What if they had been watching at the bus terminal? Not an honorable thing to do, checking on a person, but a man had to recognize the possibility of dishonor in the world. Still, the answer was simple: hide the money someplace and just take the empty suitcase back. Tell them that was what Alvaro had left in the terminal. If they said he should have noticed the light weight of the bag, he could easily deny it. He hadn’t touched the bag until he had gotten off the bus, and it was too late then. Anyway, who knew how much half a million dollars weighed? Actually, the suitcase hadn’t been as heavy as he would have expected from that much money.…

He frowned thoughtfully at the white concrete unwinding before him. He should have checked the suitcase, he supposed, but he hadn’t wanted to waste any time hanging around the spot where the bus had dropped him off. It was deserted, true, but in that rugged country anyone could have been watching him without his knowledge. Much better to get on his way quickly. Once he was down the mountain, in the flat, there were many side roads he could take to a spot isolated enough for an inspection. He relaxed at the thought, picturing that much money, leaning back comfortably in the corner formed by the leather seat and the door, enjoying the day and the reassuring headiness of the whiskey. Another drink would be lovely, but later. Once the money was hidden someplace—anyplace—there would be plenty of time for drinks.

He glanced in the rear-view mirror and noticed with amused condescension the battered vehicle behind him, laboring to maintain the speed of the Ferrari. The minor conceit intrigued him, causing him to smile. For a moment he thought to give the small convertible a burst of power, just to demonstrate to the poor soul behind the potential of a Ferrari racer, but then he changed his mind. Why take the chance of being picked up for speeding when everything was going so well? Let the coitado taxi driver think he had a car as fast as a Ferrari racer; what harm did it do? He glanced back again, and the really terrible condition of the ancient abortion rattling behind was too much for his distorted sense of humor. He had been picked up and given tickets for speeding before, and several times when he had suitcases in the car, on trips, and had the police ever asked to open them? Never. So what chance would there be in teaching that lopsided junk heap behind to show a little respect for its betters? Not too much. With a wink toward the rear-view mirror, Ricardo patted the dash panel’s upholstered shelf and then tramped on the gas.

The sudden burst of speed jammed him back against the spongy cushion; the wheel was alive in his hand, squirming as they flashed around the curves, trembling in anticipation on the straightaway; the whole car was alive, anxious to defend its name, to please him, its owner. The wind whipped at him, tousling his hair, spurring him on. He laughed with the pure joy of speed and life, and glanced in amusement into the mirror. His laugh faded abruptly and then disappeared. The battered taxi was the same distance behind him as before!

All right! A comic, eh? With a souped-up heap, eh? A back-alley-garage Fangio, a poor man’s Stirling Moss, eh? Well, friend, shall we quit playing games? This is called a Ferrari, and not without reason! He bent over, cutting in the superchargers and then leaned back again, smiling, but a grim smile this time. His eyes flickered from the weaving road to the speedometer as his foot slowly pressed down on the gas pedal; the needle trembled as it climbed higher on the dial. One hundred forty kilometers, one hundred fifty, one sixty.… His eye took a split second to check the rear-view mirror, and he suddenly knew. It was as if an ice-cold hand had suddenly gripped his stomach and twisted cruelly.

This was no ordinary taxi. No taxi on earth could go that fast; no new one, let alone a mutilated wreck like that. Nor was it merely an accident that the men in it were following him. This was no friendly race; they were after him, and he knew it for the truth, and not just his panic-induced imagination trying to frighten him. They were after him, and after the suitcase. They knew everything! Who they were was immaterial; whether from Senhor Xavier or the police was unimportant. They were after him, and that’s all that counted. With a taste of bitterness in his mouth, the more acrid for his previous euphoria, he bent to the grim business of escaping. Maybe he didn’t know how to be a criminal, but he knew how to drive a car, and he had a Ferrari racer under him. He’d beat them yet!

One hundred and seventy kilometers per hour, one hundred eighty, one hundred eighty-five.… The buffeting of the wind was no longer playful, its chill no longer refreshing; the sun seemed less bright, more distant. One hundred ninety, one hundred ninety-five.…

His last glimpse of the taxi had shown no gain; now he thrust all thought of his pursuer from his mind, abandoning the mirror, concentrating on the twisting road and on a plan that had edged itself into his consciousness. The rounded hummocks shot past, the road was ingested beneath him and spewed out behind. The suitcase … well, now at least, there was no question of what to do, no choice. It had to be disposed of, thrown from a cliff, but without the action’s being seen. Maybe on the level the taxi could keep up with him, but on the serra it would be impossible. He had the superior air foil, the lower center of gravity, the better weight distribution, the wider racing tires, and he had no doubt at all that he was the better driver. All these would help him take the mountain road downward much faster than the car behind. He nodded, his face rigid with concentration, and moved to the next step.

He would have to find a place on the descent where there was a sufficiently long, straight run that he could see traffic ascending, long enough so he could cut into the upcoming lane, fling the suitcase over, and then get back to his own lane in time. Even without other traffic to see him—and the mountain road carried a constant stream of cars and trucks—he would need at least a lead of a kilometer to be free of observation from his pursuer. The sharp curves and the blind corners on the downgrade would help him gain time, but he would still have to slow down; obviously, neither of the cars would be coming down at the speeds they were now maintaining. The top of the serra was less than ten kilometers away by now, and it would be almost impossible to gain much lead before then. It would have to be done on the dangerous descent.…

He reached behind him with one hand, fumbling for the small bag, working it loose; the car swayed erratically as he attempted to guide it with the one hand on the wheel. He only hoped the men in the car behind could not see what he was doing. The suitcase resisted a moment and then slid free. He dragged it hastily over the back seat and let it fall, instantly bringing his hand back to the wheel. Fooling around at two hundred kilometers an hour! A man had to be crazy! He would have liked to reach up and wipe the sweat from his face, but he did not dare abandon the wheel a second time.

He was all set now, or as set as he would ever be. He realized there was almost no chance of being able to jettison the bag without being seen, but he also knew there was no other chance. Had anyone mentioned his family to him at that moment, or the university, or his fiancée, he would not have known who or what they were. The world was this tiny speeding car; the future a small bag being thrown over a cliff. He did not even remember the crime, or how or why he was here; the nightmare sequence had led to this point, and there was only one way for it to go. He could not help but check the rear-view mirror. His eyes widened; he had gained nearly half a kilometer! And the car behind was swaying recklessly. Ricardo grinned, a painful, half-mad grin. Maybe he could do it yet! The chances were a hundred to one against, but wouldn’t it be something if he made it? What could anyone say if he was caught and he didn’t have the bag? A mistake? What could they do? A summons for speeding? He dropped the dream as being both foolish and dangerous at the moment and leaned forward, coaxing more speed from the Ferrari.

The road curved into the last familiar bend; beyond it the drop at the edge of the plateau began sharply, before easing into a more gradual slope. A truck was just ahead of him, creeping toward the lip of the descent. To pass on the blind side was dangerous, foolhardy, but there was no question in Ricardo’s mind. He braked slightly even as he shot past, rising slightly in his seat and then settling down again, somehow not at all surprised to find no traffic facing him. I’m going to make it, he thought, suddenly sure; I’m actually going to make it! That truck I passed will hold them back unless they’re as desperate as I am, and nobody in this world is as desperate as I am!

He put aside the thought of the men behind him and concentrated on the twisting road he was maneuvering. A sharp corner was coming; he waited until the last moment, braked quickly, released, half-skidding about it, and stared in surprise, his mind automatically encompassing the scene before him as one unit. The road ahead was clear for its full length, a good kilometer to the next bend; some truck or bus below was undoubtedly holding up the traffic. The only vehicle visible was a trailer truck partially jutting from one of the roadside recesses, probably getting water. It was a moment for instant decision, and Ricardo took it instantly; it had to be now or never. One hand reached for the bag’s handle even as the other twisted the wheel of the speeding car slightly to bring it to the outer lane and the edge of the chasm. The driver of the truck would probably see him, but who was going to ask him about it? Anyway, there would never be a better moment. He risked a quick look into the rear-view mirror, saw nothing behind, and brought his eyes back to the road, raising the bag. The hand with the bag froze; the eyes filled with sudden horror.

Ahead, the trailer truck was emerging from the recess, slowly, inexorably, continuing its uphill climb, cutting into the outer lane, completely blocking the road. With a horrified curse, Ricardo dropped the bag, jamming on the brakes, his hands locked to the wheel for control. The Ferrari slewed sharply, pulling back into the inner lane, shuddering violently in its vain attempt to stop. It climbed the low curb, struck the wall of damp ledge on the mountain side, and bounced out of control across the road. The curb there completed the disaster; the left front tire blew and the small convertible skidded across the narrow dirt rim of the cliff, hesitated momentarily as if to admire the wide panoramic view, and then dropped into the void. Ricardo felt himself lifted free, unaccountably light and terrifyingly weightless, and then the Ferrari smashed at him, mercifully killing him and carrying his body with it as it fell. The suitcases seemed to slowly float as they followed. In the air, high above, two urubús began to circle slowly, waiting.…