“What’s your name?” I asked. I knew that that girl spoke some English.
“Camila,” she replied, finishing up the new dressing.
“Thank you for helping us, Camila.”
She offered me water and bread, which I accepted, even though I wasn’t able to eat the whole of it. My stomach, cramped after pulling the trigger, couldn’t handle much.
Camila stood by our side, looking at me with uneasy eyes, as though I were a beast. I could sense an abyss separating our realities.
Would that mean that she’d also give us away to drug dealers or even the police?
“What is happening in Gloria Santa?” I said, willing to gauge how much English she was able to speak. Relying on Renato alone to communicate with the other human beings was not a smart option, especially with him intermittently coming in and out of the real world.
“A little girl is dead,” she said. “Many shots.”
“Where?” I asked. Of course I knew what to expect as a response, but I just couldn’t let go of the chance of exchanging words in English.
“Down the hill,” she said, giving me those beady eyes. “The police looking for you. The gringa . . . on TV.”
Camila got up and turned the TV on, an old-style screen from decades ago.
The tube sizzled, emitted an electrical odor, and after a couple of seconds bowed images of a news program appeared on TV. People had crowded in a street, blocking traffic. They mounted barricades with garbage cans, hammered cookware, tossed wood stumps against the police and set tires ablaze.
It was a riot. When I saw the gas station on the left of the screen, and the cement soccer field down in the bottom-right corner, I figured out where it took place.
Paulo Pinto, hovering on the helicopter, had been at the head of the squads which tried to fetch me up in Gloria Santa, even though now he was gone. The police sprawled over the slum where the stray bullet killed the little girl. Slum dwellers, mourning the death of one of their children, grinded down and burned their the streets in vengeance of yet another tragedy.
That might give us some room to sneak away. A crowd is always a great place to hide, no matter if it had started in a downtown rush hour or because of a tragedy.
How big of an influence did Flávio Beirario need to have over the government to use Paulo Pinto and Roberto Rôla to marshal a whole squad of officers behind me? US authorities must already be aware of my disappearance, but do they know the whole story?
While I watched the images on TV, Camila didn’t take her gaze off me. Only once she looked at Renato, poked at his arm. When he didn’t respond, she leaned in closer to me.
“Why you still here?” she asked.
I turned my face to Camila, baffled.
“I’m trying to protect us. The police want to hand me over to drug dealers Camila. Did you know that?”
She glimpsed at Renato again, as though worried he might wake up.
“He bad. He’ll die. Run and save yourself. Ask help to the police.”
I blinked, trying to get rid of a crust of disbelief. Camilla didn’t fully understand what I had said, otherwise, she wouldn’t have suggested this nonsense.
“Officers Pinto and Rôla are on the take, Camila. They’re working to hand me over to Flávio Beira’s Rio drug faction, so they can use my life to bargain his release from prison. I need a direct line with the US Embassy, nothing else,” I said.
Camila looked at me without uttering a word. Did she understand what I said? Then I asked her what I needed the most. “Do you have a phone or a computer I can use? I need to send an email.”
She nodded, suspicious, and went into another room. When she left, Renato opened his eyes.
“Emily . . .” he muttered.
I leaned over him.
“Renato, are you okay? Camila is going to help us. She patched you up and—”
“She’s working for them. There’s a bounty on your head. Don’t let her touch her phone,” he murmured.
His words struck me with such a force it took my breath away, especially because I was sure he was asleep. He must have been listening this whole time with his eyes shut.
Camila was a nice, helpful girl. Was Rio so thoroughly corrupted that not even a young girl could be spared from its gloomy tentacles?
“Hand me the gun,” he said.
“Why, what are you going to do?”
“Listen... she’s already talking to someone.” Renato gestured with his hand for silence. I heard Camila’s voice coming from the other room. She spoke in a soft, low tone in Portuguese.
“Camila!” Renato shouted, following his words with a cough.
Camila walked back into our room. She held the phone on her hand, as though holding on a call.
“See... she just called the police. They know we’re here.”
Camila eyes widened, along with her mouth.
“No. I talking to Fátima. Asked her come here,” Camila replied, in a docile and sweet tone. How much of a viper she must be to betray us with such a smoothness.
I could not let myself be dragged into another trap. We had to find our way to the US Embassy ourselves. Drug dealers, police, even Camila were after us. Dressing Renato’s wounds had been part of a ploy. Just a way to waste time before they could get to us
She was a coward like all others.
“Why have you done that, Camila? Why do you want to hurt us? You better tell your superiors we can protect ourselves,” I pulled the gun
