He did nothing but to shout in Portuguese. Not to me, but to his partner, even though his eyes were riveted at mine.
“Back off. I’ll shoot you if I have to,” I said.
He took a glimpse of the man on the floor and swallowed hard. As if grasping the idea that I was actually able to pull the trigger, he raised his hands and started backing out of the trolley.
Then that ghost came again. The one who had called for me everywhere in the slum, the one who after shouting my name in the wind disappeared without leaving the slightest clue of where it had gone.
“Emily Bennett,” it said.
My hands trembled, the gun barrel quivered. I would not look for the voice anymore. It was just a noise, probably inside my head. Something else that would go away once the stress clogging my throat had been released.
But it called me again, clearer this time.
“Mrs. Emily Bennett.”
The policeman stepped away from the car, hid his body behind the door and through the window I could see him reaching for his gun, but he did not point it at me. Instead, he just tightened his grip, and waited.
I pricked my ears to catch a hint of that voice. Would it come up a third time? I could hear the whirr of the helicopter in the sky, its cameras now focused on the dark blue bandits all over the platform and on my red face inside the car. But instead of hearing my name, I saw that shadow, that ghostly face, burst through the policemen belt and move toward me.
It was officer Paulo Pinto. In his wake, came Roberto Rôla.
Paulo Pinto looked at me and next scanned the car. Roberto Rôla, the body language reader, squinted in my direction from behind Pinto’s back, in a position that concealed his hands.
They remained outside. Instead of going straight for the door, they walked along the platform to stay directly across from me.
“Mrs. Emily Bennett, we’re here to help you. I can only imagine what you’ve been through, but please, put your gun down. It won’t help.”
“The things I’ve been through . . . ” I sighed. “Yes, I know what you mean. You want me to make your job easier, isn’t that so?”
“Yes, Mrs. Bennett. It’s almost noon, we all here have families and kids, and we want to go back to them as soon as possible. Drop your gun and come outside. There’s an ambulance waiting for you.”
“Are you sure?” I asked. My knee failed me. I had been struggling to keep myself straight, leaned against the hull of the car. But my stamina was at its end, my body about to collapse.
“Yes, I’m sure. You’ll be taken care of. The US Embassy will send an attorney to look for you. We just need you to cooperate,” he said.
His words struck me. His deceit had passed all boundaries of reason. An astute way to kidnap me, of course. The moment I lowered the gun, they’d rush into the car, put handcuffs on me and take me to who knows where.
I chuckled.
Paulo Pinto twisted his nose and looked back. Roberto Rôla contorted his face, wrinkled his forehead, and they exchanged looks. Two minds collaborating over the same purpose, complementary to each other in the realm of evil. I couldn’t hate them more than I did.
“I’m not leaving my gun unless a US Embassy representative is brought before me. And a news channel reporter. I know what your real interests are.” My knee throbbed, a sharp pain spreading through my legs, into my groin. My body stiff. I went on, “I won’t be used as a bargaining chip. I’ve learned to fight,” I finished.
I got them by surprise. Paulo Pinto trembled, as though fetching the right words to say. He stopped his body from looking back, from taking a glimpse of his accomplice. Did he notice any twist in my body, any faint glimmer in my eyes that might give the truth away?
Paulo Pinto went on, “Mrs. Bennett, anyone put under such a great pressure as you’ve been is expected to make mistakes. We understand that. You’ll be named a proper attorney, as I said, to help you with all legal actions you might need. But now, I need you to cooperate. Drop your gun off. You’re now safe. We are here to help.”
The strangest part of that situation—inside a blood-splattered trolley, surrounded by police, the helicopter, and stalked by people that crowded the surroundings of the platform—was that it all appeared to be real. That setting was consistent even with Atlanta standards. Put bodies and blood together in a random place—the tighter, the better—and the outcome is the same. Police, cameras, throng.
Would those police officers dare to kidnap me after having so many people see my face? What were the odds of not having someone trustworthy, clean of corruption, among all these people?
Maybe they changed their plans. Everyone knew I was alive in Rio. My face was on the news. There was a high probability that the US Embassy had taken notice of my showing up inside the trolley. Of course Paulo Pinto and Roberto Rôla had changed their plan. They ought to. Instead of putting shackles on my wrists in darkness, where nobody could see, they’d do it in daylight.
It was only a matter of having the right motive. And they surely had it, otherwise, why would they come up with this whole “name you an attorney” thing? They planned to make me liable for a crime. That was their intention. Afterward, once in
