Girl in the Water Read online

  Even here in Brazil, with his head in the book he was writing, he missed things. While Carmen…

  Carmen watched the swimming girls in the river. The strongest-looking jumped on the newcomer, and for a moment, it looked as if she was holding the poor girl under water. Too long. Alarm shot through Carmen, but before she could say something, the skinny girl came up, sputtering.

  Had they just been playing? They were too far away to tell.

  Carmen shuddered. “There’s something sinister about all this black water.”

  “The water is dark from the decomposing organic matter in the swamps. Think of it as dark compost tea. Same reason why the Rio Negro is black,” Phil said with patience.

  “I want to talk to one of the girls.”

  “How?”

  “When they come out tomorrow morning, I’ll swim over.”

  She was a strong swimmer, and the Içana wasn’t that fast or wide, just a small tributary of the Rio Negro. She could more than handle the current.

  Phil closed the laptop and came to stand behind her, then enfolded her in his arms. “You want to help everyone you meet. You have a beautiful heart, you know that?”

  He turned her in his arms and kissed her. And she kissed him back. He had a beautiful heart too. She loved him so much, more than she’d ever thought it was possible to love another person.

  She didn’t resist when he tugged her toward the bed, tugged the rubber band from her hair so the dark waves spilled onto her shoulders, or when he laid her down, or when he unwrapped her sarong-style skirt.

  They were young and healthy, full of hormones and full of love, so within a minute, they were naked, their limbs entangled. Phil could make her body sing as quickly as he could make her heart sigh.

  “I love you,” she whispered as she floated off into pure bliss, her body contracting around his.

  “I love you too,” he said, rolling them so she was lying on top of him. He ran a gentle hand down her back.

  They kissed, then soon they were making love again.

  They didn’t use protection. When she’d been a teenager, she had bone cancer and received chemotherapy, which resulted in infertility.

  Phil didn’t know. She couldn’t tell him. Phil wanted a bushel of children. But she wouldn’t be the woman to have them. Eventually, she would have to let him go.

  She would let him go.

  But not yet. Not yet.

  Later, when she lay in his arms, glowing and spent, she said, “I want to do more than talk to those girls. I want to save them.”

  And he said what she knew he would say. “I’ll help.”

  She couldn’t stand thinking about the girls in misery just across the river, when here she was, happier than she’d ever been. The girls’ fate seemed incredibly unfair and, more than that, tragic.

  Carmen kissed Phil’s cheek and sat up in the bed next to him. “I want to talk to the girl the fat man brought down the river two months ago. I see her standing in her window sometimes, looking upriver. There’s something in the way she stands, in the set of her shoulders, that’s just heartbreaking.”

  The skinny, tall girl was definitely the most vulnerable of the bunch.

  Phil sat up against the headboard and took Carmen’s hands. “All right. You talk to her. If she says that she’s there against her will, we’ll bring her across the river and hide her. I can take her down to Manaus, find her shelter and maybe a small job at one of the international charities.”

  Carmen squeezed his fingers.

  They knew another American in Manaus, an older woman, Mrs. Frieseke, who worked for See-Love-Aid. They’d met her at the airport in Rio when they’d arrived in Brazil, had a good chat while they’d all waited for their connecting flight.

  “How about the others?” Carmen asked.

  She wanted children, desperately, but since she couldn’t have any, she at least wanted to help the needy children of the world. She couldn’t stand seeing a child harmed.

  Phil drew her into his arms. “First things first. One saved is better than none saved.”

  She nodded against his chest. She was the more impulsive one, the more emotional one, in the relationship. He tended to be the voice of reason. They complemented each other well. They made a strong couple. Under different circumstances, they might have had a strong marriage.

  “I’m going to swim over tomorrow morning. And if the girl says she needs help, I’m going to bring her over with me right then.”

  If the old witch, Mrs. Rosa, saw Carmen talking with the girls, she might not let them out again. Carmen had to be prepared to act at first contact.

  She said a silent prayer for the skinny girl with the sad eyes. And then she said firmly, “Tomorrow morning.”

  * * *

  Daniela

  Daniela woke at dawn to Senhora Rosa’s bony hand shaking her shoulder. The old woman’s fingernails were so sharp, they felt as if they’d cut through Daniela’s skin.

  “Up,” Rosa snapped, her voice gravelly this early in the morning. She sounded like a gurgling caiman.

  The house slept around them, the other girls still resting, each in her own tiny room that held little more than a bed.

  The old woman dragged Daniela out of the house, then shoved her into a boat tied off the dock. For a startled, fearful moment, Daniela thought Rosa would take her to the cove with the piranhas, but instead, the old woman maneuvered the boat into the middle of the water, where the current ran fastest, and they went downriver.

  They floated farther down the Içana than Daniela had ever been, past villages, past where the Içana poured into the much larger Rio Negro, far, far away from home, until they reached a sprawling town and Rosa angled the boat toward shore once again.

  A sign in the harbor said they were welcome in Santana.

  Daniela had never seen so many dwellings before, or buildings so large. In the giant harbor sat a ship so big, it could never go up the Içana to her village, not even in the middle where the river was the deepest.

  Rosa led her to a house near the water, nearly as large as the one they’d come from, but instead of many girls, only a foreign man lived there, an American.

  “This is Senhor Finch,” Rosa said.

  Senhor Finch was almost as pale as the missionary but younger, and as tall but not nearly as round. He looked as strong as the loggers. He had boots and pants like the soldiers Daniela had once seen come up the river with the naval patrol. Except for his yellow hair, everything about him was drab, including his tan T-shirt. He had a big smile, and he had all his teeth, as white as cane sugar.

  Rosa let go of Daniela’s arm. She pulled a plastic bag of little white pills from her pocket that she had every girl take to make sure they didn’t end up pregnant. She handed the bag to Daniela. “You will cook for him, clean for him, and do whatever he says. You will stay with him until he sends you back.”

  Then Rosa took a large handful of money from the man and left.

  The water rushed behind the house, almost as loud as the street noises. The smell of fish blew from the Rio Negro, nearly overpowered by the smell of sewer mixing with the smell of engine exhaust that drifted from the town. For a moment, the new, strange mixture made Daniela dizzy.

  She tried to stand very straight as she waited to be told what to do, even while her stomach cramped with hunger.

  Her missed breakfast was the least of her worries.

  But Senhor Finch didn’t reach for her clothes, or for his own.

  Daniela didn’t know what to make of him.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked in a funny accent that sounded like the missionary’s. Then he showed her into the kitchen where he had piles of food: fruit, vegetables, rice and flour, even a gutted fish.

  Her stomach growled. She wasn’t sure what she was allowed to touch. Rosa had said she was to cook. So she cautiously picked up a coconut.

  The man smiled again.

  Buoyed by relief, Daniela smiled back.

  The house ha
d a stove with a propane tank next to it like at Rosa’s, only bigger and newer. What luck that I know how to use it, Daniela thought. If she didn’t, the man would probably beat her.

  She cooked quickly—fish with mandioca frita—then put the food on the table and went to sit on the floor in the corner. But the man told her to sit at the table with him. And he put food on two plates, giving her one, filling it completely.

  She remembered the missionary’s sermons in her village and thought, maybe this man is a saint.

  After the meal, Senhor Finch showed her a small bedroom off his larger one. He had a big bed. She had a hammock. But they both had mosquito nets, which was the most important thing.

  “Good?” he asked. “Bom?”

  “Very good, senhor. Obrigada.”

  A pleased smile showed off his perfect white teeth again. “You settle in. I need to go out for a while, but I’ll be back.”

  He didn’t lock the door when he left.

  Daniela hurried to the front window and peeked out from behind the curtain. This had to be a trap. He was probably waiting outside, so if she tried to leave, he would catch her and beat her. Rosa had done that.

  But Senhor Finch was walking down the street, going and going until he disappeared in a swarm of other people.

  Daniela’s heart beat fast, then faster as she walked to the door and opened it a crack. Nothing happened.

  A soft, warm rain drizzled outside.

  She eased down the steps, holding her breath.

  Nobody paid her any attention.

  Still no sign of Senhor Finch rushing back.

  Daniela moved forward. Before she knew, she was standing in the middle of the street, her heart racing. Shouldn’t have left the house. Now she’d be caught, and she’d have to go to sleep with her whole body aching from the beating she’d get.

  But since she’d come this far… Her legs trembling, she began walking down the street.

  The crowd was large and loud. People brushed against her. Too many people. After her small village, then the confines of Rosa’s house, Daniela felt as if she was drowning.

  One tentative step at a time, she walked all the way to the end of the street before she stopped. She didn’t know where to go from there. The street opened into a large square with a church, shops, and stalls right on the sidewalk, and even more people.

  She couldn’t see Senhor Finch anywhere.

  * * *

  Ian

  The latest pop hit pulsed through Orpen, an upscale nightclub in Washington DC, flashes of an overhead laser show illuminating the crowded dance floor. Everyone was focused either on their next drink or on their next lay. Except Ian Slaney, who headed across the room, keeping an eye on the party. He didn’t drink at work, and he didn’t mix with the women here either. You don’t shit where you eat had always been his policy.

  He was one of the bouncers. Didn’t mind the hours. He couldn’t sleep anyway.

  A young guy at the entrance caught his eyes. Six foot even, hair buzz cut, nothing but spikes of gold. For a moment, Ian thought, Finch. Then the lights flashed brighter, and for a second a beam fully illuminated the guy’s face. A stranger.

  Too damn bad.

  Finch hadn’t called again. The thought that the kid had met with more trouble in Rio than he could handle had been like a sharp tack under the sheets, digging into Ian at night, making sleep even less likely.

  He’d finally gotten his passport renewed and a visa to Brazil, intending to go to Rio, although he hadn’t made definite plans yet.

  The guy at the door moved forward, deeper into the crowd, stepping around the small party that was leaving, a young woman escorted by two men.

  The woman was around twenty, one asshole on each side of her, tugging her toward the exit to Constitution Ave, toward the dark night outside.

  On the surface, they looked all right, but instinct pushed Ian forward, and as he reached within a few feet, he could hear the woman say, “I have to get up early for work. I’ll just call a cab,” to one of the men.

  But he overruled her with “We’ll just pop up to my place for five minutes. You don’t want Joey to think you don’t like him, do you?”

  He was too smooth, his dark hair had more gunk in it than hers, the kind of guy who was probably manscaped under his slick suit. His buddy was the same, their fancy suits nearly identical. The girl had on a modest little black dress. She wasn’t dressed to seduce, but to impress.

  Ian had a fair feeling for what was going on. Jerk took his new girl out, told her she was going to meet his best friend. Now he was pressuring her to go home with them, where they wanted to share her. She was smart enough to have caught the vibe, but between the two of them, they would railroad her into their car before anyone noticed something was up.

  He stepped up to the threesome as they reached the door. “Everything okay, miss?”

  “She had a little too much to drink.” The boyfriend flashed a half-embarrassed, what-can-you-do smile. “We’ll help her get home safely.”

  Ian pulled his phone from his pocket. “Why don’t I just call her a cab?”

  The boyfriend leaned closer to him and slipped him a twenty. “I wined her, I dined her, I’m entitled to a little fun. Don’t be a cock blocker, man.”

  The guy wasn’t lying about the wine-and-dine part. The dance club had a pricey restaurant upstairs. Ian had seen the three of them come down earlier. But he didn’t think the two dickless idiots had a right to the woman’s body for the price of the garden salad she’d likely had.

  They pushed for the exit, and he walked out with them, shoving the twenty into his pocket as the summer heat hit him.

  “Would you like me to call you a cab, or would you like to go home with your friends, miss?” he addressed the woman directly.

  She moved toward him, but the boyfriend hung on to her elbow, so she didn’t get far. She looked between them, hesitating only a second before she said, “Could you, please?”

  “No problem.” Ian pushed the cabbie on the speed dial, didn’t say anything. Hung up. Afiz would see the call and come. That was their deal.

  “Listen, jerk.” The boyfriend shoved the girl behind him and stepped forward, no longer smiling. “How about you mind your own business?”

  “The safety of our customers is my business, sir.” Ian kept his tone polite.

  The man glared at him for a second, then backed away, dragging the girl. “Come on, Madison. Screw this guy.”

  “Madison will be staying,” Ian said, still very civilized. “Her cab is on the way.”

  And then the two guys turned and really looked at him.

  They weren’t built like gym rats, but weren’t wimps either—the kind of preppy guys who might have been on the rowing team at college.

  From the way they exchanged a glance, Ian knew the exact moment they realized they weren’t going to get Madison without a fight. Then he knew the exact moment when they decided that, hey, what the hell, between the two of them, they could take Ian. They thought of him as nothing but a dumbass bouncer, their inferior in every way. And older. Like Madison, they were in their early twenties. Close to thirty, Ian probably seemed halfway to ancient to them.

  Boyfriend shoved Madison aside. And then the punches started flying.

  Ian let them get in a few, let them get going. He didn’t mind the pain; it woke him up. Made him feel.

  When he let loose on them at last, the release of his deep, endless anger felt like physical pleasure. He knocked them back, knocked them down, until they were a single bloody heap on the ground, the girl screaming.

  A horn blared. Ian pulled back, barely breathing hard. Hey, the cab was here. Too damn fast. But he put the whimpering girl in the backseat.

  She couldn’t get away from him fast enough.

  He filled his lungs. Hadn’t meant to scare her. “Stay safe. All right?”

  He gave the twenty to Afiz, then went back inside, let the dickwads crawl off at their leisure. He washed off hi
s bloody, throbbing knuckles in the bathroom, straightened his tie, then returned to work.

  When the bar closed at two a.m., he checked around outside to see if the pricks had waited for him. Not that he wanted another round, but hey, free entertainment. If he was tired enough, sometimes he could actually sleep when he went to bed.

  But no more fights tonight.

  The walk home was quiet.

  Sharon wasn’t on the corner.

  Ian was content not to run into anyone, but his new neighbor, a redhead with impossibly pillowy breasts, waited for him with a bottle of Jameson in the hallway outside his apartment. Skimpy tank top. Short skirt.

  The whiskey had potential.

  “Hey, Ian.” She flashed a smile that said the bottle was his, along with anything else, for the asking.

  “Hey…” He tried to remember her name. She’d introduced herself twice already this past week.

  “Nicole,” she said. “Wanna have a drink?”

  She was maybe a year or two younger than Ian. She was a big girl. Safe to assume she knew what she was doing. He unlocked his door and opened it for her.

  She sashayed into the kitchen like she lived there, and grabbed two glasses from the counter, rinsed them in the sink, all very domestic.

  His eyes strayed to her breasts. “You came to do dishes?”

  “I came to come.” She winked, smiling from ear to ear.

  “Gotta appreciate a straight-talking woman.” He walked up behind her and caught her around the waist, pressed himself against her round ass, rubbed a little while his hands snuck around for the girls.

  She giggled and poured them each a glass.

  He let her go long enough to knock the whiskey back. Then he knocked back another. Then a third. A comfortable buzz began to build in his brain. About time. He’d been dry all night.

  She walked her fingers up his chest, her voice breathy as she said, “Hey, handsome.”

  He lifted her onto the Formica counter. Her short skirt was flouncy enough to slide up without trouble when the time came. She’d been thinking ahead. He had a feeling they were going to make great neighbors.

  “You got a boyfriend?” He hadn’t seen one around. Didn’t care either, just wanted to know if he should keep an eye out for a pissed-off dude kicking the door open behind him.