Hell's Gate(23)

Yanni finished up, then nonchalantly flipped the knife toward a tin washbasin, where it stuck into a small block of wood.

“Good with a blade, too,” Thorne piped in, taking the fruit from his wife.

“Yeah, that seems to be a real plus round here,” MacCready replied. “And speaking of which, where do you think my clothes are by now?”

“You need to relax, Mac. At least they are not hangin’ in the square—with you in ’em.”

He’s right about that, MacCready thought, managing a smile.

“Of course I am right,” Thorne replied, reading his friend’s expression once again. “And speaking of which, you need to lighten up before we get to the serious talk, and I am just the man to light you up.”

With that he produced an herbal cigar that seemed as thick as his index finger. “I know you don’t like coffin nails,” he said, referring to MacCready’s odd dislike of cigarettes. He struck a match. “But this is . . . how do I put it? Something unique.”

MacCready waved him off, watching as Thorne drew hard on the dangerous-looking stogie. “Thanks, but I’m on duty, remember?”

After holding his breath for what seemed to be a perilously long time, the botanist released a lungful of blue-gray smoke toward the ceiling. As MacCready watched, several house geckos were momentarily enveloped by fog before disappearing under a wooden beam, presumably compelled to seek out something eight-legged and crunchy.

“So this mission of yours,” Thorne wheezed, “spill it, because I know a little less than jack shit.”

Although the Army had apparently worked out some kind of tit-for-tat deal with the botanist—allowing Thorne to remain in Brazil as long as he functioned as their eyes and ears in the region—it became apparent that much of the information Mac began to relay to his friend was new to him, including everything about the stranded Japanese submarine. Evidently, Army brass hadn’t wanted to provide any more than the barest, “need to know” details to a civilian. Mac learned that Thorne had met with the Rangers on their way in, but they had not told him what they were up to. To Mac, that level of secrecy was foolish given the circumstances. Maybe if the Rangers had relied more on the advice of a local—even one from Brooklyn—they would have made it back out.

Mac finished his tale just as Thorne finished rolling another magic cigarette. “And here I thought I was supposed to pump information from you,” he said to Thorne.

“You want information? Not for nuttin’, Mac, but there is definitely something goin’ on out there near the plateau—strange sounds and such.”

“What type of sounds?”

“Rumbling, like thunder but not really. Starts right before those Rangers passed through here.”

“So what was their response when you told them about this rumbling?”

“‘We got it covered,’ one of them tells me—all smart ass-like. Then in two shakes they are heading off into the valley.”

“These sounds . . . what else can you tell me about them?”

“Well, at first they were like once every few weeks. Now, more like every other day.”

“Artillery?”

“No . . . more sustained. Like thunder . . . but . . .”

“. . . not really.”

“Exactly! Although I will tell you, this shit will get you on edge but it’s not what had Raza and his machete crew so distressed today.”

“Huh?”

“About a month ago, something starts knockin’ off their livestock at night.”

Mac looked puzzled, “Come again?”

“Croaked. You know . . . iced.”

Mac nodded. “And?”

“So the local brain trust decides to tie their mutts out—to keep an eye on these potentially former livestock.”

“Let me guess: The watchdogs ended up dead.”

Thorne gave a funeral laugh. “Without so much as a bark. And Mac, we are talking serious watchdogs here.”

While MacCready’s thoughts drifted back to the dead village in the woods, his friend continued: “Now at first, these guys blame the mess on the Xavante—which is no great surprise since this tribe generally takes the rap for everything from missing laundry to constipated chickens. Now, personally, I find this accusation more ridiculous than slightly—especially since most of the locals would not know a Xavante tribesman from Carmen Miranda. Their ancestors eventually drove these Xavante deep into the forest, and from what I hear they were not pleasant about how they went about it. Anyway, once the Xavante took a powder, it also seems they took on a new role.”

“What’s that?”

“As boogiemen. You know, ‘eat your peas or the Xavante will get you.’”

Always hated peas, Mac thought.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Peas—bad example. So for a while things stayed quiet—until recently, which is when the locals started seeing these boogiemen in the flesh.”

“Is that whose legs were strung up from that archway?”

“No, that was what we call an unlucky stranger. You on the other hand are a lucky stranger. Now, you gonna let me finish or what?”

Mac nodded.

“So now Raza and his boys are thinkin’ these Xavante are being flushed out of the woods by the chupacabra.”