Juraci heard footsteps, two sets, hurrying down the stairs. It was the hurrying that frightened her. They’d never done that before.
The hair rose on the back of her neck. She stretched her chain to the limit and wedged herself into one corner of her cell.
But when the door swung open, a wave of relief swept over her. The people standing there weren’t wearing hoods, or blue overalls, or gloves. And she knew them: Samuel Arns, the locksmith, and Vitoria Pitanguy, the woman who managed the pharmacy next door to his shop.
“Thank God,” she said.
But then she saw the pistol in Vitoria’s hand and the expression in Vitoria’s eyes.
“You’re the ones?” she said
She couldn’t believe it.
Vitoria tossed a key onto the floor at her feet.
“Open the padlock,” she said. “And take off the chain.”
“You’re the ones who kidnapped me?”
“We’re the ones. Shut up and open the lock.”
“You’re going to release me?”
“Do it.”
“I won’t. I won’t do it.”
“You will, or Samuel here will kick you in the face. Isn’t that right, Samuel?”
“That’s right,” he said.
Juraci looked from one to the other-and picked up the key.
“Where are you taking me?” she said as the chain slipped from her ankle.
“I told you to shut up. Kneel and face the wall.”
Juraci remembered the moments before they’d rendered her unconscious, remembered the gunshots. Kneel. The significance of the word came to her in a rush. A hand reached into her chest and squeezed her heart.
“Why?” she said. “Why are you doing this? My son-”
“Get on your knees. Now.”
“No. Don’t do this.”
“Then stand there and watch it coming.” Vitoria lifted the pistol and aimed it at her forehead. “Look right here, right in the fucking muzzle.”
The doorbell rang.
Juraci opened her mouth to scream, but then, suddenly, the muzzle of the pistol was in her mouth, the metal rattling against her teeth.
“Don’t,” Samuel said, lowering his voice. “Whoever it is will hear the shot.”
“Duh,” she said. And then, to Juraci: “Not a sound out of you, bitch. You hear me? Not a goddamned sound.”
“Are we going to answer the door?”
“Answer the door? Are you crazy? Just be quiet. They’ll go away.”
And they might have, if there hadn’t been two vehicles in the driveway, one of which fit the description of the vehicle used to transport the pigeons-a white Volkswagen van.
Silva hit the bell button for a second time, and sent Goncalves to check out the back yard. Less than a minute later, he was back.
“You’d better have a look,” he said.
“Stay here,” Silva said to the other two. “Keep ringing.”
He took off in the wake of the younger cop.
“Over there,” Goncalves said as they entered the back yard. “Beyond the roses.”
The trench, two meters long and about half a meter wide, was freshly dug, the pile of soil still damp. Next to it were a dozen rose bushes, their roots wrapped in burlap.
“Damn!” Silva said. “Let’s get inside that house.”
The doorbell rang for a fourth time. Then a fifth. Vitoria, always high strung, was like a steel wire ready to snap.
“Go up there,” she said, “and look through the peephole. Find out who the insistent bastard is.”
“What if it’s the cops?”
“The cops? Are you insane? Why should the cops suspect us?”
“I just-”
“It’s probably some goddamned salesman, or somebody collecting for some charity.”
“Yeah. Yeah, that’s right. That’s what it must be. A salesman.” Arns sounded like he was trying to convince himself.
“Stop talking and get up there.”
“They dug a grave,” Silva said, rejoining his companions. “It’s still empty. We have to get inside. There are French doors around back. They look pretty flimsy.”
“Let’s hope so,” Arnaldo said, “because we’re not gonna get in this way. Look at that door. Solid peroba. We’d need a ram.”
Goncalves, whose ear had been pressed to the wood, held up a hand. Someone was coming. Silently, the other cops moved into positions where they couldn’t be seen through the peephole.
The door was opened by a big man in a dirty T-shirt.
“Samuel Arns?” Goncalves asked.
“Who are you?”
“Are you Samuel Arns?”
“Yeah. I’m Samuel Arns. Who are you?”
Goncalves put a hand inside his coat as if he was groping for his ID. What he brought out was his Glock.
“Step back, Senhor,” he said. “And keep quiet.”
Arns opened his mouth as if to shout. Goncalves raised the pistol and brought it to within ten centimeters of his face.
“Quiet, I said.”
Arns closed his mouth.
Silva and Arnaldo stepped into his field of vision. Arns’s eyes darted from one to the other. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “What is this?” he said.
“I think you know what this is, Senhor Arns,” Silva said. “But just in case you don’t…”
He took out his warrant card and held it in front of Arns’s face.
Arns tried to bluff it out.
“I didn’t do anything,” he said. “What do you want?”
“What’s the hole for?”
“What hole?”
“In the back yard.”
“I’m planting roses.”
“More than a meter deep? Step aside. We’re coming in.”
“You got a search warrant?”
“No. But we’re coming in anyway.”
Arnaldo insinuated himself into the doorway. Arns was big, but Arnaldo was bigger, and Arns stepped aside. All four cops entered the house.
Hector was the last man through the door. “Hey,” Arns said, when he saw him. “I know you.”
Hector didn’t respond.
“Where’s Juraci Santos?” Silva said.
“I don’t-”
“If she’s here, dead or alive, we’re going to find her. Why don’t you save us both some trouble and just tell me?”
Arns crumbled.
“It wasn’t me. I didn’t kill those maids. Vitoria did. Vitoria Pitanguy. She’s the one. The whole thing was her idea. I never-”
“Shut up. You’ll have time later to tell us your side of the story. For now, you just answer questions. Where’s Senhora Santos?”
“Downstairs. In the cellar.”
“Alive?”
“She was when I came upstairs, I swear to God she was. But she’s with Vitoria, and Vitoria has a gun.”
T HEY TOOK Samuel to the top of the stairs and told him what to say:
“Vitoria, they’re federal cops, four of them. They’re in the house.”
“We’re covering Senhor Arns with guns,” Silva said, “and we won’t hesitate to use them on you. Drop your weapon and come out. Now.”
They heard Vitoria emit a string of curses, heard the clatter of something hitting the floor.
Arnaldo and Silva peeked around either side of the doorway. A moment later, Vitoria came into view, her hands in the air.
“You stupid bastard,” she screamed. “You stupid, stupid bastard.”
Arns knew it was meant for him.
“They found the grave you made me dig,” he shouted. “They were going to come in anyway.”
“ I made you dig? So now it’s my fault? You lying bastard! You’re as guilty as I am.”
“That’s enough,” Silva said. “Shut up, both of you. Arnaldo, cuff Samuel. Vitoria, keep your hands in the air and don’t move. Senhora Santos?”
“I’m here.”
“I’m Chief Inspector Silva of the Federal Police. You’re safe now. You can come out.”
“I can?”
“Yes.”
“Got both of the bastards, did you?”
Silva had expected tears of relief, maybe hysteria, but Juraci didn’t sound that way at all. She sounded angry.
“Both,” Silva said.
“Good.”
Juraci stepped out of her cell and into Silva’s line-of-sight. She was holding a little pink-gripped Taurus.
And, without uttering another word, she extended her arm and fired two shots into Vitoria Pitanguy’s back.