Girl in the Water Page 5

She’d missed her mother’s hut over the past months, but now she wanted something different. After living in the house with Senhor Finch, she didn’t want a little hut and the men who’d show up day after day. She wanted to finish learning English. She wanted to be something different from what she had been.

  The sudden hope that Senhor Finch might let her—might even let her keep studying and become a teacher—hit her so hard, she swayed and almost fell from the dock into the black river. She jerked back and was bit in the back of the arm at the same time. She whacked at the insect.

  The night bugs were coming out to feast. She’d waited all day. She hadn’t left. And now that the old dream was reborn in her heart, she couldn’t.

  So she left the docks and snuck back to Senhor Finch’s house to beg him not to send her away, to promise him that she’d never open the door again to any strange man. It was the only thing she’d done differently, so she was certain that was why Senhor Finch was mad at her. Even if he’d said he wasn’t mad at her. At Rosa’s, if a man got mad, it was always the girl’s fault, always. Rosa had beaten that into them.

  Daniela quietly crept into the house, stopped right inside the door. Oh.

  What’s that?

  She squinted to see better. The furniture had been thrown around and now lay scattered on the floor, broken. Her heart had been pounding already, but now it pounded harder.

  Senhor Finch was even angrier than she’d thought. She hesitated. But then she put her bag down and softly padded toward the bedroom, ready to suffer even a hard beating—she would stand it if she had to—just as long as she could stay.

  She didn’t make it halfway when, as she passed the table, she saw Senhor Finch in the kitchen.

  He lay on the floor, a dark pool under him, his eyes staring at the ceiling. One of his ears had been cut off, resting now down by his knee on the floor. And his hands looked… Someone had shoved slivers of bamboo under his fingernails.

  Daniela’s stomach roiled.

  Senhor Finch was dead.

  Chapter Three

  Ian

  Ian hated Rio with a hot, burning passion. Cheerful little fuckers. All tourists and dancing and partying in skimpy clothes, sparkling skyscrapers, fancy cars, then the barely there bikinis on the beaches, Ipanema and Copacabana, the playgrounds of the rich and famous. He preferred the Zona Norte, so he rented a room on the edge, among normal, working people.

  Finding the first trace of Finch ate up two whole weeks. He had a job in security for a while, it seemed, for some big international company, Lavras Sugar and Ethanol, according to the old man the kid had rented from, but then Finch had quit work and left the apartment. Nobody knew what for.

  Another two weeks went by before Ian found a faint trail, indicating that Finch might have gone up to the Amazon. Fucking Amazon. What the hell?

  Ian tracked him to Manaus, then up the Rio Negro, deeper and deeper into the jungle. The farther he got from the beaten path, the easier the tracking got—fewer foreigners. Blond as a love child of a Viking and a honeybee, Finch had stood out, had been noticed.

  Ian tracked him all the way to Santana, a small municipality in the state of Amapá.

  When he finally found the house Finch was supposedly living in, Ian settled in to watch the place. Small house, bamboo walls, steel roof, two bedrooms at the most, a decrepit piece of shit.

  He cursed it, and the legion of bugs, as he waited. Before he barged in, he wanted to make sure he had the right place. He wanted to make sure nobody else was watching it. Finch had said in that call that he was in trouble.

  So Ian did a little general reconnaissance. A soldier who rushed into a situation was a dead soldier.

  He arrived in the morning. Watched the house for two hours. No movement. Nobody went in or came out through the front.

  Time to go a little closer, check out the back.

  The back of the house stood maybe thirty feet from the river, but high up a tall bank that’d protect it from flooding. An empty dock reached into the water. No movement there either.

  A couple of boats had been dragged up on the flat of the riverbank. Nobody around. Ian sat in the shade of the largest boat and pretended to be watching the barges and tugboats going past him.

  He stole a glance at the house, hoping to spot Finch. Nothing there, but something rising out of the water maybe thirty feet from him caught his attention.

  At first, he thought it might be a caiman. Caimans were native to the area, although he had no idea if they lived in this part of this particular river.

  But instead, out of the river, rose a young woman.

  She seemed to be struggling with…an anaconda?

  When the shiny, black, long body wrapped around hers, Ian moved, ready to dive into the water to help her, but she had the upper hand and dragged the wriggling beast toward shore with a triumphant smile. He could see that she had a giant eel.

  He couldn’t take his eyes off the thing. The eel stretched as long as the woman was tall, over five feet. They wrestled in the shallow water, the scene stunningly primal and elemental.

  She had a piece of rag tied around her small breasts, and another around her slim waist, covering only the private parts of her body. She was the most stunning sight he’d ever seen, long dark hair streaming down in wet rivulets. A goddess risen.

  A goddess in mortal struggle.

  His Western sensibilities pushed him to run and help, but the woman and the eel and their battle seemed somehow the spirit of the Amazon itself, and he felt like an interloper. He felt that he couldn’t take the woman’s triumph away from her.

  And she did win, dragging the eel to shore, grabbing a rock the next second and smashing the eel’s head. The eel was still squirming when, with the same, sharp-edged rock, she gutted the thing, dumping the insides back into the river. She was not a peaceful goddess.

  She washed the eel efficiently, then picked up the carcass and carried it, staggering under the weight, up the tall, steep bank, and in through the back door of the house Ian had been watching.

  Ian’s chin might have dropped a little. Or a lot. In fact, he felt as if his chin just hit his lap.

  Who on earth was she?

  Did he have the wrong house, after all that travel?

  He stole back around, back across the street, and watched her leave the house a few minutes later with a beat-up canvas bag, wearing a simple green dress now, the heavy bag over her shoulder, hefting what looked like most of the damned eel.

  She took her catch to the market and sold it to an old woman with a fish stand. She bought rice and fruit with some of the money, saved the rest, didn’t buy any sweets or trinkets.

  When she returned home, Ian followed her once again, and stayed just a little up the street for the rest of the day, watching the house.

  No sign of Finch.

  The idiot had probably moved on. The young woman was probably the next tenant. Finch was running from people, so it made sense that he wouldn’t stay long in any one place.

  He’d been traveling upriver until now. Most likely, he would keep going in that direction. Ian eyed the boats roaring up the Rio Negro. Maybe he needed to hire one to take him up that way. But he decided to check out the house from a little closer first—the very next time its new occupant left the place.

  Unfortunately, she stayed in for the rest of the day.

  Ian spent the night on the street. He had enough bulk and a mean enough face when he chose so that nobody bothered him. And at least, miraculously, it only drizzled a little. The bugs ate him alive, pretty much, but there was no helping that.

  Finch never showed.

  The girl came out in the morning. She wore the same green dress as the day before, with one very significant difference. The dress was cinched with Finch’s lucky belt.

  Ian’s hands fisted. He relaxed them with effort.

  Finch had worn that belt every single day he wasn’t in uniform. Won the buckle in a rodeo in his home state of Texas. He wouldn’t have
traded it for a thousand acres.

  The only way Finch had let that belt go was if he was dead.

  Ian watched the girl and swore under his breath. He waited until she disappeared in the throng of people, then he hurried into the house at long last.

  A pair of combat boots waited just inside the door. Probably Finch’s, but Ian couldn’t tell for sure. Combat boots all looked the same.

  Shirts and cargo pants in the bedroom. Could have been Finch’s. Could have been any other man’s. Roughly Finch’s size, though, so that was something. He was a pretty big guy. Around here, the locals were smaller.

  Ian searched under the mattress, found a Glock G43—the gun Finch liked to carry concealed, less bulky than the SIG Sauer P938, Finch had always claimed. Fully loaded, and one in the chamber. Ian tucked the weapon in the back of his waistband.

  When the bedroom didn’t turn up anything more interesting, he checked the smaller room where the girl kept her things: a few dresses, a few trinkets.

  Why would she be living with Finch?

  Ian backed out, checked the main room and the kitchen. Nothing and nothing. Except, in the kitchen, the bamboo floor had some brown stains he’d missed when he’d come through earlier. Someone had scrubbed those boards regularly, he could tell, but in the grooves, that rusty brown had set in.

  He stilled. He knew what stained like that.

  And then he knew more than he wanted. A large blood stain on the floor. The young woman wearing Finch’s belt. Finch nowhere to be seen—even leaving his weapon behind.

  Acid bubbled up in Ian’s stomach.

  He was very likely standing on the spot where his friend had been killed.

  * * *

  Daniela

  Daniela bought soap at the market, paying with her own money. The eel had been a lucky catch. They didn’t usually come this far down the river.

  She had long ago run out of the money Senhor Finch had given her. She felt guilty for staying in his house. She should have gone back to Rosa like he’d told her.

  But every day, she convinced herself to stay just one day longer.

  She walked back slowly with the soap. She had stopped by the soap maker’s cart yesterday, but he had asked her where Senhor Finch was, and the crowd had overwhelmed her and made her heart beat too fast, so she’d run home without buying soap from the old man.

  She was proud of herself for doing better today.

  And she had food, and she had some money left. She still could barely believe that she’d caught that eel.

  She walked through the door of the house, as happy as she’d ever been.

  But in the middle of the house stood the largest, scariest man she’d ever seen. Senhor Finch had been sunshine, but this foreigner was a night storm. He seemed to fill the house like a dark cloud. He was too big, too strong, his gaze too sharp on her. As she turned to flee, he thundered, “Stop!”

  And the next second, the man had her arm in his grip.

  * * *

  Carmen

  Carmen Barbosa watched the red house over the dark waters of the Içana, her back and arms aching from working at the clinic all day. Her right arm hurt the most, had been hurting since last week. Too much hammering. They’d been installing doors on the examination rooms, a big improvement over curtains.

  The day’s work had been satisfying, yet contentment eluded her.

  “What do you think happened to that girl?”

  “Maybe she escaped on her own.” Phil sat at the kitchen table, writing a letter to his parents back home. No Internet this deep in the rain forest.

  He was an only child. His mother and father worried about him. Sometimes he joked about wishing for at least one brother—a war correspondent or a policeman—so the parental worry would get spread around a little. “Maybe a relative came and got her.”

  “Maybe,” Carmen echoed, but she didn’t believe it.

  After they’d decided to save the girl, they’d never seen her again. The girl hadn’t gone into the river the next morning with the rest. Carmen had swum over anyway and approached the others, but none of them talked to her. They scampered up the ladder to the red house’s deck and hid inside, as if they were scared of her.

  Going to the police station to inquire about the house hadn’t helped either. She’d been told to mind her own business. A police officer with disaffected, reptilian eyes had told her that people around here didn’t like foreigners who caused trouble. He suggested that she’d be more comfortable in Rio or one of the other big cities.

  No way would she leave the clinic before the work was finished. And since she knew the police could make her leave, she stopped going to the police.

  But she hadn’t stopped investigating.

  “I put out the word to the foreign volunteer networks, with as good a description of the girl as I could give. Somebody will see her.” She rolled her right shoulder. Maybe she’d ask the doc at the clinic for some cream for her sore muscles.

  “Marry me.” The words, soft but sure, floated to her on the evening breeze.

  Her heart lurched.

  Now? Oh God. Don’t ask me.

  She turned to look into Phil’s eyes that sparkled with love and hope. She couldn’t speak. She could barely breathe. The air was thick with moisture and the tiny shards of her broken hopes and dreams.

  “Please, say yes.” Phil rose to his feet and padded over to wrap her in his arms. “I want you to be Mrs. Heyerdahl. I want you to belong to me. I want us to belong to each other.”

  Everything inside her thrilled and at the same time panicked. Oh God.

  He kissed her neck. “I want to tell my parents to get ready for grandchildren. The book is almost done. We can go home. The time is right.”

  Grandchildren. At least Carmen had a brother and a sister, so her parents had two other chances. But Phil. God, Phil…

  He acknowledged her hesitation with a nod. “I know it’s sudden. But you’re everything I want. Just think about it.”

  I’m not everything you want. Her heart dropped to her stomach, then through and out of her to fall clattering on the floor at her feet.

  Heart-achingly handsome and heartbreakingly out of her reach, he nuzzled her face. “I want us to get married, and have kids, and live happily ever after together.”

  She pictured children who would look like him, a little blonde girl with Phil’s sparkling blue eyes. She hadn’t known the meaning of longing until that moment.

  She stepped out of his arms, because even letting him hold her seemed a lie. Why hadn’t she told him before? She had been selfish, and now she would hurt him.

  She backed away, drew a long breath, and prepared for her world to collapse. “I need to tell you something…”

  * * *

  Ian

  Ian spoke English, because he sure as shit didn’t speak Portuguese. He hoped the young woman could understand him.

  “Who are you?” He put himself between her and the door. Now she would have to get by him to escape. Which was not going to happen.

  Did she have anything to do with Finch’s death?

  Finch wouldn’t have gone down easily. He’d either met overwhelming force, or the danger had come from somewhere he’d least expected. Such as the young woman. And she’d done a fearsome job on that eel. She certainly knew how to bash somebody’s head in with a rock.

  “Who else lives in this house?” Ian’s gaze flashed to the faded bloodstain on the kitchen floor, then back to her.

  That he’d arrived too late to save Finch about killed him. He was never there when he was needed, dammit. Not with Linda and the twins, not with Finch. But this time… This time, at least he had an enemy to focus on. Whoever had killed Finch was going to answer to Ian.

  “I’m Daniela,” the girl said, wide-eyed and pulling away from him to cower in the corner, her hands half up to cover herself from the blows she clearly expected.

  Someone had beaten her in the past. Not Finch, but somebody. Beaten her enough so tha
t cowering and covering had become a reflex. The thought disgusted Ian, but he didn’t back down with the questioning. He was here for answers.

  “What are you doing here? Did you live here with Finch?”

  Her tan face paled. Her large eyes—a million flecks of different shades of green—filled with tears, but she held them from spilling. “Senhor Finch. He was good man.”

  Ah, hell.

  Was. Was! Dammit.

  Finch was gone. And she knew.

  Ian had been half hoping she’d come after Finch had been dead, was squatting here, stealing his things. If she’d lived here with Finch… What the hell was Finch doing with her, for fuck’s sake? Not that it was unusual around here, but she was too damn young. Too damn scared. Too damn—

  “How old are you?” he asked, then wished he hadn’t, because he didn’t want to think any worse of his dead friend than he already did just now.

  She just looked at him and shook her head.

  Great. She didn’t even know how old she was. Fricking perfect.

  “How long have you lived with Finch?”

  “Since the middle of the dry season,” she said.

  So for a couple of months. Christ, Finch, you freaking asshole. Was it possible to hate a guy you loved like a brother? “How did you meet him?”

  “Rosa brought me.” The way she shrunk said Rosa was a frightful bastard, probably the one who used to beat her.

  Ian watched her—small, defenseless, scared.

  He sank onto the floor across the room from her and leaned his back against the door, his anger draining away as if someone pulled a plug. “I’m Ian Slaney. I’m Finch’s friend.”

  He struggled to see the full picture.

  Finch, on the run from some bad guys, hiding here, sure. If God had ever made a place for disappearing, it was the Amazon, with its swamps and barely accessible tributaries.

  But Finch buying a girl from some pimp? Ian clenched his jaw. He didn’t want to even think about shit like that.

  “Do you go to school?” He was hoping to hear her say that she’d graduated already. She looked about that age. Okay, not really. She looked damn young, except he had a feeling she hadn’t grown up with sufficient nutrition, so she was on the thin side. But her eyes weren’t the eyes of a child. “Did you finish school?”