'Seven. The reception committee. They're all landowners and each and every one of them thinks the bullets were meant for him.'
'They think the bishop was shot by mistake?'
'What did I just say?'
'Why?'
'Ever hear of the Landless Workers' League?'
'Sure.'
'How about Aurelio Azevedo?'
Hector shook his head. 'Aurelio who?'
'Azevedo. He was their leader around these parts, a real pain-in-the-ass. About a month ago, somebody killed him. His buddies figure it must have been a landowner and they're out for blood.'
'What do you think?'
The colonel took another deep drag on his cigar. 'They're wrong. The bishop was the target.' He expelled the smoke and coughed. He brought up some phlegm and leaned over to spit it into the wastebasket next to his chair.
Someday, Hector thought, those cigars are going to kill him. But not soon enough to suit me. 'What makes you so sure?' he said.
'When the first shot was fired the whole reception committee, all seven of them, stopped dead in their tracks. The closest one, the mayor, was still four meters away, maybe even a little more. The second shot hit the bishop just above the line between his eyes, took off the back of his head. That sound to you like the shooter didn't know what he was doing? No way. He was aiming at Dom Felipe, all right. No doubt about it.'
Ferraz pulled up his cuff and ostentatiously displayed his watch. It was a gold Rolex. 'You've got two minutes left.'
'Tell me more about this guy Azevedo.'
Ferraz took another puff. The smoke was beginning to sting Hector's eyes.
'Azevedo was a field hand out on the Fazenda da Boa Vista,' he said. 'No criminal record. Never made any trouble until those League people got to him. Then he started going to meetings and rallies and the next thing you know he's running around in a red shirt, waving one of those banners and organizing a group to occupy Muniz's land.'
'Muniz? Orlando Muniz? The industrialist?'
'And banker, and God knows what else. He's richer than God. He owns the Boa Vista, and his son, junior, runs it.'
'Tell me more about what happened to Azevedo.'
Ferraz studied the ash on his cigar, twirled it, tapped it gently on the edge of a large brass ashtray, and took another puff. 'Not much more to tell. He turned up one morning nailed to a tree in front of his shack. They'd cut off his cock and stuffed it in his mouth. His wife and kids were inside the house. All of them shot through the back of the head.'
'No suspects?'
Ferraz shrugged. 'The League people got it into their heads that it was junior, accused him of bringing in hired guns from Paraguay to do the job, but they could never prove it. You got one minute left.'
'All right. Let's get back to the bishop. Despite what the mayor and those other six guys on the reception committee think, you're convinced that the bishop was the target and that the Landless Workers' League had nothing to do with it. Is that right?'
'Did I say that?' Ferraz took another puff, but offered nothing more.
'Explain,' Hector said, shortly.
'Dom Felipe was new in the job. The old bishop died about six months ago, and not a minute too soon, if you ask me. Mellor was his name. Dom Augusto Mellor. He was a piece of work, the old bastard, a big supporter of the League. He had his priests out recruiting new members, showing up at their rallies, helping them to plan occupations of fazendas, all that kind of shit. He was no better than a fucking communist. Now, Dom Felipe, he was different.'
A small piece of ash fell off of Ferraz's cigar and onto his gray shirt. He brushed it off with a practiced gesture.
'Different? How?'
Ferraz glanced at his watch and grinned.
'Time's up,' he said.
Chapter Six
By three o'clock in the afternoon the sky over Cascatas do Pontal had turned a pinkish white.
'Dust,' the desk clerk at the Hotel Excelsior told Hector, 'kicked up by all the construction. It's a good thing. It means the town is growing.'
The clerk sounded as if someone had told him to say that to visitors, as if he didn't quite believe it himself. He was a young fellow, probably not more than twenty-one or twentytwo, with the flat nose, jet-black hair, and coppery skin that betokened Indian blood. He and Hector were the only two people in the lobby.
Hector leaned one elbow on the counter. 'Where's the church?'
'Which one?' the Indio said with a touch of pride. 'We have lots of churches, senhor. There's Santa Mari-'
He had his fingers out in front of him, his thumb extended upward, ready to count the rest of them off, but Hector cut him short. 'The one the bishop was coming to consecrate.'
'Ah,' he said, his hands falling to his sides. 'That would be the new one, Nossa Senhora dos Milagres.'
'Who's the priest?'
The clerk looked blank. 'Senhor?'
'The priest at Nossa Senhora dos Milagres. What's his name?'
'That would be Father Gaspar.'
'New in town, is he?'
'Oh, no, senhor. He used to be at Santa Cecilia's on the Rua Governador Quercia, but it's closed now. They're going to tear it down and put up a school.'
'Where do I find this Father Gaspar?'
The clerk reached to one side and pulled a street map of downtown Cascatas from a nearby stack.
'We're here,' he said, circling an intersection with a red ballpoint pen. 'And the church is… here.' He made a cross. 'Father Gaspar lives next door. You can't miss it.'
The clerk was right. You couldn't miss it. The priest's house was three stories tall and had an enclosed garage. It was built of the same red brick as the church, an obvious annex to the much larger building.
The young man who answered the doorbell had tawny skin and reddish-brown hair that hung low over his forehead. He had a single earring, a nose that showed signs of having been broken more than once, and mismatched lips. The upper one was thin and the lower one fleshy. He was wearing white duck pants, an open- necked white shirt, and a white jacket. His black shoes were highly polished. His manners weren't.
'Got an appointment?' he said, before Hector had a chance to utter a word.
'I'm here to see Father Gaspar.'
The young man raised his eyes and sighed. 'I didn't think it was to see me, so I ask you again. Have you got an appointment?'
'No, but-'
'Then call and make one.'
He started to swing the door shut, but not quickly enough.
'Hey,' he said, 'get your foot out of the-'
Hector didn't wait for him to finish. 'Tell Father Gaspar that it's police business.'
The door swung open again, relieving the pressure on Hector's foot.
