Robert L. Fish
The Bridge That Went Nowhere
This book is dedicated with much love
And pride to my grandson
JEFFREY HOWARD STILLSON
Book One
1
The full moon, impersonal and serene, shepherded its scattered flock of lamb’s-wool clouds as they slowly munched their way eastward; beneath its cool eye the jungle fretted through its usual uneasy rest, still steaming from the torrential rains that had swept through at midnight. From the raised plateau where the twin-engined plane huddled on the now-abandoned airstrip, the roof of the jungle stretched beyond sight, a sea of shadowed green with taller stands of striated palm and giant white cetigo rising like eerie islands, standing guard above the ruffled surface.
A deeper band of black curved through the darkness at the western edge of the cleared space, marking the sheer chasm where the river ran far below, twisting its way over jagged rocks; the high canyon walls held its sound to a murmur, scarcely heard over the usual night noises of the restless selva. In the moonlight the pale reflection of the bridge glimmered faintly, as if aware, somehow, of its strangeness in this primeval wilderness, and even more aware that its majestic architecture deserved something more impressive than the rough dirt trails that twisted their way from its approaches to disappear into the brush. It spanned the depths below gracefully, a monolithic monument to modernity in a jungle as ancient as time; the jungle had withdrawn from its roadway as if to calculate some means of absorbing it, as it had all other attempts at intrusion into its domain.
The younger of the two men squatting beneath the wing of the plane completed packing his attaché case; he snapped it shut and came to his feet, ducking his head around the leading edge of the wing. Beside the nosewheel of the plane a Coleman lantern hissed steadily, furnishing a cone of light that attracted thousands of insects; the young man slapped half-heartedly at one, as if aware that the gesture was useless in that flood of stinging life, and grinned down at his companion. It was a pleasant grin, friendly and unenvious, which made his freckled face seem even younger.
“Well,” he said with open admiration, “I don’t think there’s any doubt. Your hunch was right.”
“You’re quite sure?”
“As sure as I can be with what I brought. Of course, once we’re back in civilization, I’ll verify it.” He shook his head. “It’s really remarkable. I’ve never seen anything like it. You know, you’re a lucky man.”
The second man stared at him thoughtfully. “Lucky?” He seemed to consider the statement a moment and then nodded slowly. “I suppose you’re right.” He pulled himself heavily to his feet, tugging his gun belt to a more comfortable position, sighed, and then shook his head almost sadly.
The younger man smiled at him quizzically. “What’s the matter? You should be happy as a lark. Why the long face?”
The older man sighed once again. “Because not everyone is as lucky as I am.” He shrugged. “You, for example.”
“Me?” The younger man had turned to place his attaché case on the wing, ready for loading into the plane. He swung about to seek an explanation for this cryptic statement and stopped short, his eyes widening. His companion was holding a revolver in one hand; his attitude was negligent, his expression almost apologetic, but the hand holding the revolver was as steady as rock. The light from the lantern winked along the barrel, emphasizing the black cavity of the muzzle. The eyebrows of the armed man were slightly raised, the eyes sardonic. The younger man’s jaw tightened dangerously.
“What is this — a joke? What’s that for?”
“I’ve been trying to tell you. You’re just not lucky,” the older man said quietly, and fired.
The black wall of trees surrounding the field returned the echo of the shot as if rejecting any responsibility for the deed; there was the crashing of brush, and a third man came running across the field. He pulled up, panting, staring incredulously at the body on the ground; the man with the gun straightened up a bit reluctantly. His arm had been extended rigidly, preparatory to administering a coup de grâce; instead he tucked the revolver back into his holster. The newcomer stared at him with wide, black eyes, tipped his stained chapeu back with one thumb and then used it automatically to wipe sweat from his swarthy forehead.
“Deus me livre! Quê que há?”
“An accident,” the older man said sadly, and shrugged. “An unfortunate accident.”
The small swarthy man frowned at him unbelievingly and then moved forward, bending over the body, but the other’s hand shot out, gripping him roughly by the arm, dragging him back. The deep voice became hard, threatening; the heavy fingers bit into his arm.
“I said it was an accident! And in any event, you weren’t hired on this trip as a male nurse.” He shook the smaller man slightly, as if to both demonstrate his greater strength and also to get his attention. “Now — what about the bridge?”
The swarthy man pulled free, looking sullen. “You didn’t say anything about murder.”
“Nobody ever says anything about murder.” The tone indicated that this was so obvious as scarcely to require explanation. “And what could I say about accidents, since by definition they always are unpredictable?” The heavyset man studied the shocked expression on the face before him thoughtfully for several moments and then continued, calmly, logically. “Besides, we didn’t want a lot of witnesses, did we?”
“No...” The furrowed brow cleared slightly. “That’s true. But even so—”
“And don’t forget that he weighs — weighed — over eighty kilos.” This statement was made flatly, finishing the discussion. “Now — what about the bridge?”
“The bridge?” The shorter man shook his head as if to clear it and then took a deep breath. Everything the patrão had said was true; they obviously did not want witnesses, and the fact was that the plane now had eighty kilos more capacity. And of course, there was nothing to be done about the other’s death now and nothing to be gained by even thinking about it. He brought his mind back to business. “There’s no problem with the bridge.”
“Good,” said the heavyset man, satisfied, and nodded. “Then suppose we get on with it, eh?”
He stepped over the body casually, moving to the side of the plane, swinging the narrow door open to lean over and rummage on the floorboards within. Two boxes were withdrawn, and a skein of wire tightly looped; a flashlight was removed from its clip near the pilot’s seat and slung from his belt. The heavier of the boxes was handed to his partner; he made one last inspection to be sure he had not forgotten anything and then closed the door against any animal intruders during their absence. The lantern was retrieved from its position near the nose wheel and held high, its beam steadily piercing the darkness, as the two men moved in the direction of the bridge.
At the edge of the chasm they paused. The heavier man directed the shaft of light into the gorge, studying the twisting path leading down past the bridge piers to disappear into the depths. The light was raised, traveling up the white columns to the concrete girders holding the roadway, and then brought down again to the base cut in rock. He nodded and set his burden on the ground.
“You take the lantern; you’ll need it.” He handed it to his companion and unhooked the flashlight from his belt, flicking the switch and laying it down beside the black box. He squatted down in the glow of light, fumbling with the brass terminals that studded the surface of the box. A knife was withdrawn from a pocket, opened, and used to skin the wires protruding from the skein. The other watched him in silence. Suddenly the squatting man paused, looking up with a dark frown.