"Ai, meu Deus!" She wasn't whispering anymore.
Clementina's father had only recently joined the league, but Rolando, despite his tender years, was an old hand at this. His father, Roberto, was the head of the whole encampment, the leader of the league in all of Cascatas, the best friend of the now-legendary Aurelio Azevedo.
Clementina lifted her head to look. He pushed her nose back down into the dirt. "Don't move," he said, but he snuck a look himself. He was just in time to see his father come out of their tent. One of the attackers shone a light in his face and, recognizing him, called out to the others.
They gathered around him like a pack of mad dogs. He tried to throw a punch, but they overpowered him and forced him to his knees. Two men held him fast by the arms while others went into the tent and returned with Rolando's mother and his little sister, Lourdes.
"Where's the boy?" he heard one of them say.
Boy? That was him! They were looking for him!
"He's not in the tent, Senhor," one of the hooded figures said.
"Merda. All right, let's get it over with." The man who'd been called senhor had a voice hoarse from shouting. He was obviously the leader.
"Right," the figure holding Roland's sister said. He pulled out a knife and drew it across Lourdes's throat. She was so surprised she didn't even scream.
But his mother did: A long drawn-out wail of anguish, cut short by the blast of a shotgun.
They shot his father last, first in each kneecap, then in the abdomen and finally in the head, using a pistol for all four shots. His father didn't say a word, didn't beg them for mercy, didn't even cry out.
And yet all the time it was happening, Rolando heard his father's voice, coming to him from somewhere within his own head. Keep quiet, Rolando. Too late for me, boy. Don't give them a chance at you. Don't die for nothing. Come back when you're older. Avenge me.
The man who'd shot his father was wearing gloves. He bent over the body, pressed something shiny into his father's hand and took it away again.
The other people in the encampment were scattering in all directions, some of them toward the road, others dispersing into the neighboring fields. One group was coming directly toward Clementina and him.
She recognized her parents and both of her sisters. Before he could stop her, Clementina was on her feet and running to meet them.
A second later the hooded figures opened up with automatic weapons, spraying bullets into the dark. Rolando heard shots fly over his head like angry bees, heard one of them strike Clementina with a sound like the one his mother used to make when she beat a rug. Clementina staggered, turned, and looked back toward him. Her eyes were wide, the front of her pink dress dark with blood. Her saw her lips move and thought she spoke his name. But he couldn't be sure. He couldn't be sure of anything except the chattering of the guns.
Chapter Thirty-six
The clock radio next to Silva's hotel bed went off at three minutes past 8:00 in the morning. The voice that faded-in was a man's, and he was reading the news.
… as yet unconfirmed number of dead and injured. The owner of the fazenda, Orlando Muniz, has been unavailable for comment, but a spokesman for the landowner denied any involvement in the massacre. Meanwhile, Emerson Ferraz, local Commandant of the State Police, had this to say…
Silva turned up the volume on the colonel's gravelly voice.
Some people are saying that Orlando Muniz is responsible for this outrage. It might seem to many to be a logical conclusion to draw after what they saw on TV the other night. But anyone who does would be wrong. You have to evaluate Senhor Muniz's previous actions in the context of the situation at the time. He'd just been exposed to the body of his murdered son and he was, understandably, very upset. Now he's had time to consider and I can assure you-
Outrage. Logical conclusion. Evaluate. Context. The voice was Ferraz's, but the words weren't. The colonel made that doubly obvious by stumbling over some of them.
Silva shot out of his bedroom, crossed the suite's living area, and opened Hector's door.
"Hector?"
Hector opened his sleepy eyes and blinked.
"Get up. Ferraz was just on the radio. There's been some kind of a massacre on Muniz's fazenda."
Hector threw off the covers and got out of bed.
"And the son of a bitch didn't call us?"
Silva didn't bother to respond to that.
"Call Arnaldo," he said. "We're all going up to see Muniz."
Less than ten minutes later, Arnaldo was pounding his meaty fist against the door of suite 900.
There was no reply.
He pounded again.
A chambermaid came out of a linen closet at the end of the hall.
"Born dia, senhores. Are you looking for Senhor Muniz?"
"We are," Silva said.
"He checked out."
"Checked out? Where's he gone?"
"I don't know, senhor. All I know is he didn't leave a tip."
The clerk at the front desk, the one who had Indian blood, was more helpfuclass="underline"
"He moved out to his fazenda, senhores. Said something about repairs being completed."
Hector and Silva went for coffee while Arnaldo fetched the car.
They arrived to a beehive of activity. Dr. Ishikawa was squatting next to the body of a young girl. Two state cops were wandering around gathering up cartridge casings and putting them into plastic evidence bags. Father Brouwer, surrounded by a small group of adults of both sexes, was talking to an adolescent male. Ferraz was nowhere in sight.
Arnaldo and Hector each chose one of the cops. Silva walked over to Ishikawa.
"Doctor."
Ishikawa looked up and rose to his feet.
"How many?" Silva said.
"Ten. Six men. Two women. Two girls, one twelve, one nine. Three of them were from the same family, a father, a mother, and their daughter. She was the nine-year-old."
"Nine years old? Nine? That one had to be an accident."
"No. They cut her throat."
"Cut her-"
"Her father was the leader."
"Pereira? Roberto Pereira?"
"Yes. Him."
"Killed the whole family?"
"Not quite. The Pereiras also had a son. Fourteen. That boy over there, the one talking to the priest."
The state policemen were no help. Ferraz had come and gone, and they didn't expect him back. The senior man was Menezes, the fat sergeant they'd met on the day junior's body had been discovered, the one with the lisp.
"You woulda thought they'd have posted guards."
Posted came out like pothded, guards with a long sibilant "s."
"Could anybody identify the shooters?" Silva asked.
"Nah. They were all wearing hoods. Nobody has a clue."
Father Brouwer joined them just in time to hear the sergeant's response. "No clue? What do you mean `no clue,' you fat fool? It was Muniz and those capangas of his. It had to be. Who else would have a motive?"
The sergeant didn't like the "fat fool" remark one bit. "Who the hell's talking to you?" he said. And then, to Silva, "Colonel thinks Muniz would never be that stupid. He's the first person everybody would suspect, right?"
"And so your colonel's conclusion is that Muniz wouldn't do it, just because everybody would suspect that he did?" Father Brouwer interjected.
"Colonel talked to him," the sergeant said, still addressing Silva. "He's got an alibi. Witnesses."
"What? Who?"
"I don't have to talk to you, Padre. Get lost."
"But you do have to talk to me," Silva said. "Answer the priest's questions."
The sergeant tried to stare him down, and lost. "Muniz was sleeping when it happened," he said, truculently. "He was in his bedroom. His bodyguards were at the door and all around the house. They're his witnesses."
"And the witnesses didn't hear any shooting down here? For the love of God-"