When Fatima Santo set a glass before him, Gannon noticed her hands were scarred and wrinkled from years of cleaning the houses of the rich. Her eyes were dimmed with tears, her body weighted with sorrow. A gold-framed photograph of her murdered daughter was perched on the shelf above the TV, draped with a rosary.
Please tell them- Gannon turned to Bruna -that I give them my sympathy for the loss of their daughter.
Bruna nodded then translated, softening her voice as she grasped Gannons intentions. That small act, the inflection of Brunas voice, won his immediate respect, for he realized that in Bruna, he had the help of an intelligent young girl.
Gannon began by asking Pedro and Fatima to tell him about the kind of person Maria was. Bruna put the question to Fatima, who buried her face in her hands and spoke in a voice filled with pain.
Bruna translated, She says that Maria was a good girl who went to mass and worked hard at important jobs in big offices. They wanted her to leave the favela for a better life but she insisted on remaining in Ceu sobre Rio. Maria wanted to make life better for everyone, the children of the favela, the whole world.
Pedro spoke in a deep, soft voice to Bruna, who nodded.
He says that is why Maria worked with the human-rights groups, the earth groups, the unions. She was committed to social justice.
A motorcycle thundered by, rattling the door, distracting Gannon momentarily as he resumed taking notes.
I am interested in the kind of work Maria did for these causes. Gannon gestured. Did she keep files, records or notes here?
A motorcycle thundered by, rattling the door, distracting Gannon momentarily as he resumed taking notes.
I am interested in the kind of work Maria did for these causes. Gannon gestured. Did she keep files, records or notes here?
Bruna translated and Pedro led them to a small bedroom, neat and evocative of a monks cell. It smelled of soap and contained a single bed, a dresser with a mirror, a desk, posters from Amnesty and other global and environmental groups. In one corner stood a four-drawer steel file cabinet.
As Pedro spoke to Bruna, there was a burst of shouting outside and the sound of people running near the house. It lasted a few seconds then Bruna turned to Gannon.
He says you can look at anything, but be respectful.
Gannon and Bruna immersed themselves in Marias files, which were all in Portuguese, spreading them out on the desk, floor and bed. Items on the dresser began ticking from the vibrations of loud hip-hop music pounding from someones sound system nearby.
Bruna raised her voice a bit as she translated excerpts of reports, studies and news clippings on human rights, child labor, human smuggling, environmental issues, police corruption, religious and political persecution.
Gannon noticed something: A low side drawer on the desk had a very slender sleeve inside holding a leather-bound notebook. He opened it to pages filled with dates and notes written in longhand in Portuguese.
A diary.
Outside, the musics volume increased, and Gannon never heard the front door latch click over its menacing throb, never heard the living room floor creak as the house filled with people.
Gannon had passed Marias journal to Bruna and she was reading over the entries for the last three days of Marias life.
I have located the documents the law firm thought it had destroyed. It proves what we have suspected. I have copied the thirteen pages and shared them with SK at the center. Bruna paused.
Gannon held up his hand before he reached into his back pocket and unfolded the documents hed found near the bomb scene. He had pages two, five and nine. There were thirteen in all. He needed to see all of them.
Who was SK at the center? What center?
As Gannon nodded for Bruna to resume, We agree we must go to the press with these records- he noticed a flash in the mirror, a diffusion of light -I will contact the WPA and give the documents to a journalist-
Music hammered the air, and in a heartbeat Gannon turned to glimpse Pedro and Fatima held at gunpoint by people-a dozen, maybe more-brandishing automatic guns, their faces covered with bandannas.
Without warning Gannons head was swallowed by a large black hood.
His head exploded into a starburst of sudden pain.
22
Gannon was drowning.
Oh, Christ!
He couldnt breathe. He couldnt see. His head was wrapped in cloth and held underwater. His lungs were splitting, he struggled but his hands were bound behind his back.
God, please!
Mercifully, his head was pulled up. As he choked on air, he was tossed onto a mattress in a darkened room.
Who was doing this? Why? Where was he?
Someone jerked him upright, yanked the cloth hood from his head. Blinding light burned his face and a voice he didnt recognize mocked him in accented English from the darkness.
Jack Gannon, reporter, World Press Alliance, New York.
Gannon coughed.
Your card identifies you as an American reporter. Is this true?
Gannon said nothing, then a fist smashed the side of his head. He tasted blood, gritted his teeth and was pulled to his feet.
Answer! You are an American reporter?
Yes.
You lie. You work for police. Youre here to frame us for the bombing!
No, I dont know who you are. Ive come to learn about Maria Santo.
A knee flattened Gannons groin. Lightning flashed in his eyes, and he doubled over, groaning in agony.
Gannon wheezed, Youre making a mistake.
There is no mistake.
The man barked in Portuguese. A small video player was shoved into Gannons face. He blinked, his eyes adjusting to the light.
It was a TV news report of him talking to Detective Roberto Estralla beyond the yellow tape at the crime scene of the attack on the Cafe Amaldo. The report cut to Gannon close up. The video player vanished, then newspapers were thrust before him, a flashlight haloed on the photograph of him taken with Estralla at the scene.
Did you think you could walk into our turf and plant evidence in the home of Maria Santo?
No. No, you dont understand, Gannon said.
We are going to send a message to your police friends that we had nothing to do with the bombing.
A chrome-plated revolver materialized. Gannons captor spun its cylinder, showing the empty chambers, then he held up a bullet before sliding it into one of the chambers. He spun the cylinder then clicked it into the frame.
Dont. Please.
The barrel was drilled into Gannons mouth, he tasted metal.
Our message will be written on your corpse.
Gannons stomach heaved, a finger squeezed the trigger. As it went back, he shut his eyes.
God help me.
Click.
Empty chamber.
Laughter filled the room.
The gun was removed, Gannons heart nearly burst.
So you live a little longer. Spend the last moments of your life dreaming of your execution.
A sudden blow to his head sent Gannon falling to the mattress and falling back through his life
He is ten years old in the Buffalo Public Library where his big sister Cora is telling him he must read books because hes going to be a writerI see it in your eyes, you dont give uphis mother, the waitress, in her white apronhis father in the rope factory, his blistered handshis mother sobbingtheyve lost Cora to drugsshes run offthey cant find her for yearshe resents Cora for the pain shes causedhe loves Cora for his life follows the course she envisionedhes a news reporter with the Buffalo Sentinelhe meets Lisa Newsome on assignment from the Cleveland Plain DealerLisa wants to get married and have kidshe could be cutting his lawn in suburbia, taking the kids to the mallnot himhe breaks Lisas heartghosts will haunt youhis parents keep looking for Corashe may have childrenshe may have a new lifewhat became of Cora? A New York State Trooper, standing at his apartment, hat in handa pickup driven by a drunk driver has smashed into his parents Ford Taurus, killing them bothhe aches to get out of Buffalo but is afraid to leave ghostsnominated for a Pulitzerfor convincing the brother of the suicidal Russian airline pilot who plunged his jet into Lake Erie to talkthink of the dead, their ghosts will haunt youhe got what he wantedBuffalo behind himworking for the World Press Alliancewasnt that what he wanted? No one to mourn himhe was alone Wasnt that what he wanted? To die in the slums of Rio de Janeiroghosts will haunt youdont ever give up, Jack
Jack
Jack Gannon.
His eyes opened then squinted.
He was on a bed in a bright room with an open window, fresh air. He had been moved. A woman was sitting near, tending to his face. She had a British accent.
Can you hear me, Jack? I only have a few minutes.
He turned to her, a woman in her early thirties with brown hair and dark eyes filled with worry.
My name is Sarah Kirby. Im Marias friend from the Human Rights Center, at the bottom of the favela.
Help me get out of here.
Im trying. You must listen. You were taken by the Blue Brigade, the drug gang that controls the Ceu sobre Rio. They have places to hide people here, but everyone knows them. Bruna came for me.
Did they hurt her? Did they hurt Pedro or Fatima?
No, the narcos protect the people of the favela.
But how did you get in? We have to leave! Untie my hands!
Someone outside shouted to Sarah in Portuguese and she responded, then turned back to Gannon.
No, we have no time, listen-
No! Theyre going to kill me! They think Im a police informant!
I know. Its Dragon, the leader of the Blues, hes psychotic. He fears the Colombians are coming for him because of Cafe Amaldo. Dragon fears police are trying to fuel a drug gang war so that the narcos exterminate each other. He swears the Blue Brigade had no role in the bombing.
Great, lets get out of here!
Jack, we cant leave, you must listen, they trust me, they trusted Maria because of the work we do in the favela.
Well, it was Maria who came to the WPA with documents from her firm for a story.
I know.
Then for Gods sake, untie me and lets get out of here!
No, listen! Theyre waiting outside this door. I have negotiated for you, now listen, please!
Gannon listened.
Maria discovered evidence that the law firm was linked to criminal activity, Sarah said.
I found a few of her pages at the bomb scene. Is it about drugs?