The fifth vial

CHAPTER 23

Despite her seat in first class, Natalie's flight back to Rio was not pleasant. Three times, maybe four, the powerful images of the cab ride from the airport to the slums — favelas, her mother said they were called — and the assault against her intruded into her thoughts. It didn't seem to matter whether she was awake or asleep. The reenactment, "re-experience" would be a more appropriate word, continued to be jagged — totally vivid and absorbing one moment, vague and ill-defined the next, more like a bad trip than a bad memory.

Once she woke up gasping and hyperventilating, with a sheen of perspiration across her forehead and lip.

"Are you all right?" the elderly Brazilian man next to her asked.

He was a jovial widower returning home after visiting his children and grandchildren in the States, and as a retired teacher, spoke English quite well.

"I'm fine, fine," she replied. "Just getting over a virus is all."

"Here," said the man, handing her a sheet that was clearly an email printout. "My son in Worcester gave this to me. You may know that we who are from Rio de Janeiro are called Cariocas. Well, this humorous piece, 'Places to Visit in Rio,' was written by a Carioca reporter for this wonderful publication: A Gringo's Guide to Brazil."

The tongue-in-cheek list, though it would have been quite funny if read in the right circumstances, was hardly the cure for Natalie's "virus." There were fourteen items altogether, including,

Downtown the street vendor riots are spectacular, comparable, perhaps, to the salmon runs in the Yukon.

Mangueria Hill by night is for those brave souls who love fireworks displays. Not the kind from Roman candles, but the kind from.38 Specials.

Like to watch violent and shocking movies? None of them can compare to any police station in Rio. As the cops like to say, "This is where a child cries and not even his mother hears."

Sick of your hometown bums and jerks? Try ours. They can be found legislating in the halls of our State Assembly.

The Central Station rest rooms. After 10 p.m. they are no-man's-land — the world's biggest bordello. Just pick a sex.

Natalie smiled palely and passed the sheet back.

"I feel better already," she said.

Before leaving her apartment for Boston's Logan, Natalie had considered and quickly rejected the notion of taking a cab or a bus from the airport in Rio to her hotel. Instead, she went online and reserved a hard-top Jeep. Now, as she pulled out of the Jobim airport and cruised south on the expressway into the city, she tried to keep her breathing even and her pulse in check. Thanks largely to the unremitting flashbacks to her shooting, the two months that had passed since her ill-fated ride into the city might as easily have been six hours.

The customers at the House of Love will adore you. You will be very happy there…

It was mid-morning — cloudless and already warm. From time to time, as she drove, Natalie glanced off to her right, the direction she was fairly certain the cab had taken that night. There were shantytowns packed at the bottom of barren hillsides. Much farther up above them were lawns and palms and, with what must have been spectacular views toward the ocean, mansions. Somewhere, in one of those squalid, overcrowded favelas, she had been pulled from her cab and soon after, shot.

The hotel she had chosen, the Rui Mirador, was given two stars by one of the online travel services, but was presented as quaint, clean, and safe — all words that resonated for her. It was in the Botafogo section of the city, described by the same service as both traditional and exciting. What Na- talkie cared about was that Botafogo was also where Santa Teresa Hospital was located.

Traffic on the expressway was heavy, and the drivers somewhat less than courteous, but it didn't take long for her to appreciate that thanks to years of driving in Boston, she was well prepared. In spite of her persistent edginess, Natalie felt herself drawn to the steep hills, lush vegetation, and spectacular architecture of the area. Botafogo was a fairly narrow corridor between Centro — the downtown — and the beaches of Copacabana and Ipanema. With the help of an excellent map, she found her way through the sometimes narrow streets to the Pasmado Overlook — the one tourist attraction she had promised herself, in addition, possibly, to the magnify cent white-sand beaches. After the stop at Pasmado, it would be strictly business. She had no desire to linger in Rio, and planned to fly home as soon as the mystery of exactly who had cared for her and where was settled. The rest of the city, however spectacular and exciting, would forever remain unknown to her.

Suddenly weary from the long flight, Natalie sank onto a bench at the overlook and gazed out across Guanabara Bay and up to the statue of Christ the Redeemer. Beautiful, she thought, realizing at the same time that she wasn't experiencing the incredible sight in any emotional part of her being.

"So, what do you think of our little statue?"

Startled, Natalie turned to the heavily accented voice. A uniformed policeman stood close by, right hand resting on his short, black rubber nightstick. He was swarthy, well built, and handsome in a matinee idol sort of way, with narrow features and a hawk's dark eyes. The name tag pinned over his breast pocket read VARGAS.

"It's very beautiful, very moving," she said. "How did you know I was American?"

"You look Brazilian, but next to you is a dead giveaway that you are a tourist." The officer gestured to the map on the bench beside her. "A guess that any tourist is American would be right more often than wrong."

Natalie managed a smile.

"My family is from Cape Verde. Are you local police?"

"Military, actually."

"Where did you learn to speak English so well?"

"I am flattered that you would even think so. I spent a year in Missouri when I was in school. Have you been in Rio long?"

Natalie shook her head.

"I haven't even checked into my hotel yet."

"Oh, and where is that?"

Perhaps it was the nightmare with the cab driver, perhaps an eagerness — perceived or actual — in the man's tone, but suddenly Natalie found herself wary. The last thing she needed at the moment was an amorous advance from a cop.

"The Intercontinental," she lied, standing quickly. "Well, I'd better get there and register. Have a good day."

"Do you know the way? Perhaps I could — "

"No, no. Thank you, though. This map and I are becoming the best of friends."

She refused to look the man in the eye for fear of seeing hurt, or worse, anger.

"Very well, then," he said. "May I wish that you have a wonderful time in Rio."

The Rui Mirador, a four-story brownstone, was as described on the travel site, quaint and clean. As for safety, the clerk at the small desk by the entrance assured Natalie that his post was manned 24-7.

"We are each proficient in the use of this," he said in Portuguese, proudly brandishing an ugly, long-barreled pistol, which he produced from a drawer beneath the counter.

Not as confident in the hotel's security system as she might have liked, Natalie registered nevertheless and toted her bag up three flights to a small room that featured little else save for a pair of twin platform beds. Two stars is two stars, she reminded herself, but she also knew sleep was going to be a problem. Unwilling to be placed at the mercy of the city by staying out late, she decided her most prudent move would, at some point, be the purchase of a bottle of fine Brazilian whiskey along with, perhaps, a visit to the pharmacy.

It was just after noon by the time she had showered and changed into a beige linen suit and short-sleeved turquoise blouse. There was a microsized air conditioner in one of the two windows of her room, but at that point, neither the heat nor the humidity demanded its use. The Jeep was parked in a lot a block from the hotel, but her targets for this day, a police station or two and the hospital, could be reached by foot. Dense traffic — pedestrian and cars — also mitigated against driving, but then there was the matter of negotiating the hills. As it had been since the fire, her breathing was seldom natural and unintrusive. Satisfying, deep breaths were incredibly welcome when they occurred, but they were few and far between. She could have used two or three more weeks of pulmonary rehab, but her doctor and therapists had made it clear that even then, nothing at all would have been guaranteed except, perhaps, for a drop in her lung allocation score.

The desk clerk was clearly curious about why she wanted to visit two or three police stations — especially since she seemed to have little idea that there were three completely different police forces — municipal, tourist, and military. With the help of the phone book, he marked one station of each on her map and pointed her in the right direction. In fact, the man's conclusions were incorrect. Following her return home, Natalie had learned as much about the various police forces in Brazil as repeated Internet searches could teach her. What she gleaned did not make her that comfortable in relying on any of them, or in believing that her near-kidnapping in one of the favelas north and west of the downtown area would ever be investigated.

Anxious not to run into the officer from the Pasmado Overlook, and reasoning that he might still be out on patrol, perhaps searching out other female tourists to welcome, she chose to start at the station of the Military Police. It was a modern, single-story brick and glass structure on Rua Sao Clemente, about half the size of an average McDonald's back in Boston, and just as crowded. The officer at the front desk, after she asked him to please speak a little slower, referred her back to a Detective Perreira, short and at least forty pounds overweight, with a pencil-thin mustache and a cold smile. His English was serviceable, though broken and heavily accented, but Natalie decided against telling him that her Portuguese was probably better.

"So, I see that was quite a difficult welcoming to our city," he said after she had told him her story and presented him with one of the hundred copies of a flyer she had made on her computer. The single sheet included a photo of her, and a summary, in her mother's Portuguese, of the events of her attack as she remembered them, or could piece them together.

"I can't fully describe to you how terrible an experience it was to be attacked in such a way," she said. "The taxi driver said he was going to take me to a place called the House of Love."

Perreira reacted not at all, but instead began typing on his computer keyboard while Natalie waited, trying not to stare at the massive pseudochin rolling out from beneath his real one.

"And you say that this crime which occurred on you was reported to the police?" he asked finally.

"I was in a deep coma when I was found, but I was told the police had called the ambulance that brought me to the hospital."

"Santa Teresa Hospital."

"Yes."

"But you telephoned to them and they mentioned that they have no record of you as being a patient there."

"I am going to Santa Teresa's when I leave here to see if I can straighten that confusion out."

"And certain you are the dates you have given to me are correct?"

"I am."

Perreira sighed audibly and tapped his stubby fingertips together.

"Senhorita Reyes," he said, "we Military Police pay very close attention to people who get shot in our cities — especially tourists. We have to uphold to a reputation."

In her more cynical days, Natalie most certainly would have asked for clarification of precisely what reputation he was talking about. Her re search had revealed much about the role of the Military Police in the death squads that were believed to be responsible for the murders of hundreds, if not thousands, of street urchins over the years, including the notorious massacre in 1993 when fifty street children were shot and eight killed in front of the Candelaria church.

"So, what have you learned about my shooting?" she asked, motioning toward the computer.

"The databases of the Military Police I have searched, and also the, how do you say, civil or municipal police, and then also the tourist police."

"Yes?"

"There are in none of them records of anyone of your name to have been shot on the dates you have written here." "But what about — "

"I have checked also for unknown females shot on those dates. Also none."

"That makes no sense."

"Perhaps it does and perhaps it does not. Senhorita Reyes, you say you are student."

"A medical student, yes."

"In our country, students are very often poor. Do you own much money?"

Natalie sensed where the man was headed and began to burn.

"I am older than most students," she said coolly. "I have enough money to take care of myself. Detective Perreira, please get to the point."

"The point…Let me see…I am sure that being as a medical student, you know that in countries such as this, 'Third World countries I have heard you Americans call us, some people in desperate need for money sell on the black market a kidney or part of a liver or even a lung. The payments to them, I have heard, often are quite high."

"So even if I sold my lung on the black market, which I most certainly did not, why would I be here?"

Perreira's mirthless smile was triumphant.

"Guilt," he replied. "Guilt over what have you done, joined with denial that you did actually do it. Pardon me for saying this fact, senhorita, but in a lifetime of working on this job, I have seen stranger things — much stranger."

Natalie had heard enough. She knew there was nothing to be gained by losing her temper at the policeman, and potentially much to lose. The police in Brazil were answerable to few besides themselves, and the Military Police were, from what she could tell, the most dangerously autonomous of all.

"Believe me, Detective Perreira," she said, standing and gathering her things, "I would look a dozen times for a deficiency in your computer system before looking for one in me. If something comes up, I am staying at the Hotel Rui Mirador."

She whirled and marched through the crowd and out of the little station. It wasn't until she was on the street that she realized her brief outburst had left her considerably short of breath.

The next four hours were an exhausting blur. On paper — specifically her map — Santa Teresa's looked to be no more than six or seven blocks from the Military Police station. Had the map been topographical, Natalie might have hailed a cab. The hills were steep and unavoidable, and the walk across Botafogo, however picturesque, was slow going in the mounting afternoon heat. By the time she passed through the main entrance to the hospital, she could feel the perspiration beneath her clothes.

The main structure of the sprawling hospital, four monolithic stories of stone, a block in every direction, looked like it might have been built by Brazilian discoverer Pedro Cabral in the early sixteenth century. To that central core, now modernized inside, wings and towers had been added in a dozen different architectural styles. Natalie chose to visit the administrative offices first, and hit pay dirt immediately — at least in a manner of speaking.

A vice president by the name of Gloria Duarte seemed quite interested in her as an accomplished, intelligent woman, and was sincerely sympathetic with her plight. They conversed in Portuguese, although from a glance at the woman's extensive library, Natalie sensed Duarte, warm, urbane, quick-witted, and insightful, could have communicated in any number of languages, including English.

"What disturbs me most of your story," Duarte said, "is how sure you are, backed by your mentor, Doctor — "

"Berenger. Douglas Berenger."

"Dr. Berenger, that the physician who did the surgery on you was someone named Xavier Santoro. We have no such physician on this staff, and I know of none in the city, although perhaps you should contact the state medical association."

"I did. You are right. There is no physician by that name."

"I see…Well, one step at a time, I suppose."

"One step at a time," Natalie repeated, chagrined that Duarte's enthusiasm might have cooled.

"I would like to say that patients never fall through the cracks of our hospital," the woman went on, "but that is simply not the case. We have all together more than two thousand beds, and they are full much of the time. A simple clerical error and all of your records might exist under a name one letter different from your own. So take heart. I suspect this part of your mystery will be solved quickly, and that the solution will prove to be trivial and mundane."

With that, she sent Natalie to the security office for a visitor's identification badge that would allow her access to any area of the hospital, including the record room and all of the medical and surgical wards. She also had copies of Natalie's flyer made and instructed her secretary to distribute them to all hospital departments with an addendum to notify Duarte herself of any information, however remote the connection might seem.

A quick espresso in a courtyard cafe outside the administrative wing, and Natalie headed for the record room. Reyes, Reyez, Rayes. Seated at a terminal in a carrel with one of the record-room clerks, she tried every per-mutation she could think of without success, and went through records on unknown females as well. Next she headed to the medical, then the surgical intensive care units. She had some recollection of two of her nurses faces, and also of Santoro's, and wistfully hoped she might simply run into one of them.

Even in a city like New York or Rio, an unknown woman found shot and almost naked in an alley, and subsequently losing her lung, would have been a top cluster on the hospital grapevine. Sooner, rather than later, everyone would have heard about it. In fact, none of the nurses in either of the units had.

At five, bewildered and at an absolute loss for explanations, but physically unable to go on this day, Natalie shuffled from the hospital. Six weeks ago she had flown to Brazil, she had been attacked and shot in an alley, and she had lost her lung. Those were the givens. Somehow, some-place, there was an explanation that would tie these truths together. She checked her map, and chose a route back to her hotel that involved the largest and, she assumed, the flattest streets. The late-afternoon sun was somewhat subdued by haze, and the temperature was bearable.

She had flown to Brazil. She had been attacked. She had lost her lung.

The thought, roiling through her brain, kept her from appreciating the incredible beauty of the city, or any of the burgeoning, vibrant, rush hour pedestrians, most probably making their way home. Despite all the guide books descriptions of laid-back Cariocas, the street corners were much like New York — masses of people, shoulder to shoulder, often eight or ten deep, jockeying for position to cross while cars and taxis tried to wring every single moment out of each green light.

Natalie was at a particularly busy intersection, sardined in, perhaps the third or fourth row of bodies, when she heard a woman's voice speaking in Portuguese not far from her ear.

"Please do not turn around, Dr. Reyes. Please do not look at me. Just listen. Dom Angelo has the answers that you seek. Dom Angelo."

At that instant, the light changed and the phalanx moved forward across the street, sweeping Natalie helplessly along. She was on the curb at the far side before she turned, scanning the faces around her, and peering through the crowd toward the corner they had just left. No one seemed the least bit interested in her. She was about to give up and focus on the strange message when she caught sight of a heavyset woman wearing a brightly flowered housedress, walking urgently away from her, moving with a fairly pronounced lurch as if one of her hips were bad. A man's voice, demanding that she move out of the way, diverted Natalie's attention for just a moment. When she turned back, the woman was gone.

Natalie was stuck again toward the center of the pedestrian centipede, and with autos speeding past to clear the intersection, there was no way she could head back until the light changed. When she finally reached the previous block, the woman in the brightly colored dress was nowhere on the street. She hurried up to the next intersection and scanned both ways. Nothing.

Slightly winded by her efforts, Natalie leaned against the facade of a clothing boutique. There was no doubt in her mind that the voice that had spoken to her belonged to the woman with the limp — no doubt because she felt certain the two of them had met earlier in the afternoon, albeit only in passing, in the surgical ICU at Santa Teresa Hospital.