'It was too dark. The hoods looked like they were made of jute. You know, like coffee sacks.'
Arnaldo rolled to a stop in front of the fazenda's main house. The new door was still unpainted. Two capangas, cradling shotguns, were seated in chairs on the veranda. Both stood when Silva got out of the car.
'Here to see the boss?' one asked. It was the one who'd stopped to speak to them on the hillside.
'Yes,' Silva said. 'Tell him.'
The capanga turned and knocked. The door opened a crack. Words were exchanged. The door shut again. 'They're letting him know you're here,' the capanga said.
Thirty seconds later Silva heard the chain being slipped.
Inside, a man with a thick neck and biceps the size of Hector's thighs led them through the house and into the living room. Despite the heat outside, there was a roaring fire in the fireplace. Air conditioning kept the temperature so low that Muniz was actually wearing a sweater.
Their host didn't offer a hand or a smile. 'You're not welcome here, priest,' he said to Father Brouwer. 'Go get your people off my property.'
Silva opened his mouth to speak, but the priest beat him to it. 'You've sown the wind, you fool, and now you're going to reap the whirlwind.'
'You dare to threaten me? Get out!'
'It's not a threat, you bastard, it's a prom-'
'Shut up, Father,' Silva said.
The priest turned furious eyes on Silva. Silva ignored him.
'Did you have anything to do with what happened down there?' Silva pointed in the direction of the encampment.
'No,' Muniz said. 'but I'm not sorry it happened.'
'Two little girls died, Senhor Muniz. One of them was only nine.'
'What's that got to do with me? Their damned fool parents shouldn't have brought them here in the first place. It was their fault, not mine.'
'The other little girl was twelve.'
'Why don't you get out of here, too, Silva? And take these other assholes with you.'
Arnaldo grunted, but he didn't move. Hector took a step forward, but Silva closed a hand around his arm.
'All right, Senhor Muniz. You're within your rights. Let's go, senhores.'
'That's it?' Brouwer sputtered. 'You're just going to leave?'
'That's right, Padre. We're just going to leave. And so are you. Come on.'
Silva released his nephew, took Brouwer's elbow, and turned him toward the door. The priest looked back over his shoulder and shot a vengeful glance in Muniz's direction.
But he went.
Ferraz had left the matter of disposing of the two bodies until after his murderous visit to the league encampment.
Vicenza wound up in a culvert. They left the driver in his cab, his empty wallet beside him, as if another robbery had ended in murder.
It was almost 7:00 in the morning when the colonel got home. He'd still had to respond to the voice mail messages left while he'd been 'asleep,' change into a fresh uniform, and put in an appearance at the encampment. He'd called his media spokeswoman, explained how he wanted to spin it, told her to work up a statement, and picked it up on way.
It was past 10:00 when he was finally able to put his head on a pillow, so he was not at all pleased when his telephone rang at quarter to 11:00.
After the clear instructions he'd left with his secretary, no one at the office would have dared to disturb him. It had to be one of those pain-in-the-ass federal cops. But it wasn't. It was Orlando Muniz, and he, unlike the colonel, was in a very good mood.
'Hello, Colonel. How are you this morning?'
Ferraz swallowed his bile. 'Just fine, Senhor Muniz. You?'
'I'm calling to commend you for a job of law enforcement well done.'
'Uhh, what job is that?'
'The way you handled those trespassers.'
'Sorry, Senhor Muniz. I don't know what you're talking about.'
'No, Colonel, of course you don't.'
There was a significant moment of silence. Then Muniz said, 'I've just had some visitors. Those federal policemen that you're getting to know so well-'
'Fucking assholes.'
'Yes. And someone else, too. That radical priest.'
'The young one or the old bastard?'
'The younger one.'
'Brouwer?'
'That's him. Brouwer. He threatened me, Colonel. I think it would behoove us both to keep a sharp eye on the son of a bitch.'
Behoove? What kind of a word is that?
'I've known Brouwer for a long time, Senhor Muniz. A very long time. He's got guts, but he's harmless. He wouldn't hurt a fly.'
'No? So much the better for him, then. If he tries anything with me, I'll kill him. You sound tired. A busy night?'
'I had a stomach bug that kept me up.'
'Really?'
'Yeah. Really.'
'You've got to be careful with stomach bugs, Colonel. They can be dangerous. I've heard they can even kill people.'
Muniz was still laughing when he hung up.
Chapter Thirty-seven
A kid b y the name of Bento Alves, the son of a tractor salesman, found Vicenza's body.
Ferraz called Silva to tell him about it. 'He stuffed her in a culvert that runs under the road to Miracema,' the colonel said in a matter-of-fact voice.
'What makes you so sure the murderer was a `he'?'
'I'm getting to that. She could have been there forever, or at least until the rains came and they started looking for the blockage. As it is, we got lucky. The kid's dog was attracted by the smell, went in there to sniff around and, when the dog wouldn't come out, the kid went in after him. It's a real mess, the corpse is. Scared the shit out of the kid.'
'When was this?'
'A little after four.'
Silva looked at his watch. 'That was more than three hours ago. And you're only telling me now?'
'That's right. I'm only telling you now. It's really none of your fucking business, and I'm only doing it out of professional courtesy. You want to hear the story, or not?'
'Cause of death?' Silva asked. He was damned if he was going to give Ferraz the satisfaction of provoking him into losing his temper.
There was a pause. Ferraz was taking his time in the telling, relishing every second of it. Silva heard the clink of ice cubes on the other end of the line, then the satisfied smack of the colonel's lips.
'Somebody cut her throat,' he said at last. 'Just like those two dykes.'
'And just like Pereira's nine-year-old daughter.'
