Rio—beneath the benign blessing of the Christ the Redeemer statue and the mountains—was mostly coastline, and beaches abounded. He was glad that Natal had chosen the beautiful Copacabana Palace. The hotel had opened its doors in 1923; before that, the beach had pretty much been deserted except for locals who might come and bathe and swim at times. But the hotel had been an immediate hit—as planned by Octávio Guinle when he hired a French architect to design the place. Guinle had wanted a grand hotel—similar to the likes of those to be found in Paris and Nice and Cannes. Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers had put the hotel on the map—and increased the fame of Rio itself—in the movie Flying Down to Rio.
Looking up at the magnificent fa?ade, River smiled. He’d studied Brazil and Rio, and he knew that Astaire and Rogers had never danced at the Copacabana Palace at all—the movie had been filmed miles and miles away—and that only the magic of the movie industry had placed them at the Palace. That didn’t matter; the movie had made the place famous, and Rio had suddenly been known here, there, and everywhere. If Fred and Ginger had danced there, it was a fabulous place, filled with sun and fun and wonders.
And, of course, in River’s mind, it was.
And Natal was one of its wonders.
Except, as he idly cruised the sidewalk in front of the Copacabana Palace, he didn’t see her.
Time meant little here, he knew. Especially to Natal. They hadn’t set a time; she had just said that he could find her there.
There were wonderful restaurants in the hotel, and he considered waiting in one. She probably loved little cafés and charming little shops. But what if she missed him? No, better to wait until he found her.
He walked and looked into shops idly, pausing to examine an English-language book that covered the breadth of the country of Brazil and its history.
Then he walked back and began to pace in front of the Copacabana Palace again. A few little street urchins found him there; they were begging. He smiled at them and found a few bills to give them from his backpack.
The kids were delighted and disbelieving as they ran off with the money. River’s knowledge of the language was enough to buy food and find the men’s room—or an appropriate clearing in the rainforest. But he thought that he understood what they were saying and was angry with himself—even as he felt badly for the three little boys.
They were the forgotten children—little scamps, just as Theo had once been. But Thiago had not hurt others; he had learned that people were wasteful, and he had learned that another’s man leftovers were treasures to him.
Did River have a right to judge?
These kids had gone in a different direction. They weren’t begging for themselves; they brought their money back to someone who offered them minimal care—and possibly abused them—for whatever they could bring in.
He should have followed them; he should have risked arrest to pound some sense into whoever could be so cruel.
He would never catch them.
There was nowhere in the world where such men didn’t exist, he told himself.
But the incident made him think of Tio Amato again. At least the children hadn’t looked abused or beaten; they had even appeared to be happy.
Tio Amato hurt people.
Killed them.
He gave himself a mental shake. He could not solve the evil that existed everywhere. He was only one man—a drifter, no less. There were also people out there—law enforcers—who were decent. It was their problem.
And he was waiting for Natal.
He looked up and down the street. As he did so, he caught sight of a man just slipping into the front of the hotel.
Tio Amato?
Maybe he just had the man on his mind; there was no reason to believe that Tio Amato and he were following all the same paths in Brazil.
But, as he peered closer at the entrance, he thought he saw someone else—the other man who had been at the race track. Amato’s henchman, his enforcer—or so River believed.
No. It couldn’t be—or it was extremely unlikely.
He almost went in to look. But what then? Stare at Tio Amato and his big henchman and then walk away? He couldn’t just start a brawl in the hotel.
And he might have imagined that Tio Amato and part of his posse were there. Tio Amato was way too big in his world to have a workforce of begging children.
Maybe he was an overseer, taking money from the man who used the children.
And maybe, River thought, I am making all this up in my head because I despise Tio Amato—and despise the fact that it seems I can do nothing about the man being a killer.
He walked on, telling himself to shake it off; he was waiting for Natal. She was everything bright and beautiful in the world while Tio Amato was everything dark and evil.
But still she didn’t come.
As the afternoon dragged on, he began to fear that something had stopped her. They should have arranged a time. She wasn’t going to come.
The sun beat down with a fervor that demanded reprieve. When at last the heat and sweat had become too much, River yielded and made for the water. Only for a little while, he promised himself. A few minutes to cool off and come back—and pace some more.
He’d pace until it was late, until the sun began to wane, and probably beyond that.
Heading to the sand, he stopped to purchase a canga—or towel-like, almost-sarong—to bring with him. The nearly toothless vendor tried to strike up a conversation, but River found it difficult to concentrate on anything the man was saying. A feeling of hopelessness had begun to overwhelm him. He couldn’t stop Tio Amato. He couldn’t find the woman who intrigued him so. What was he good for anymore?
A flash of violence in his mind. Guns and bombs and shouting and death.
No. River was more than a killer. He had to be.
The vendor looked at him strangely, and River wondered if he’d spoken without realizing it. He thanked the old man and slung the canga over his shoulder.
Dark images still stalked the edges of his mind, but he forced himself to focus instead on the sight of the ocean, the sound of the waves crashing down. The sight of bikinis and swimming trunks and unbridled joy. He thought about Theo, who could find comfort in anything. He’d come to this beach with Theo before; he’d taken his friend to Cipriani—one of the nice restaurants in the Copacabana Palace. Theo had been in awe. Since River was with Theo, he’d easily been able to say, “It’s just money, Theo. If we don’t spend it for a nice night, what is it for?”
“Lucky dog!” Theo had told him.
He wasn’t feeling lucky. He was feeling lonely.
He spread his newly purchased canga and set his backpack on it, half covering it with sand.
He sat for a minute, watching children play and build sand castles. Sandcastles were a common art form here and the children were often very good at it.
Boats were out in large numbers, close to the shore, many with music blaring and passengers dancing away before they jumped into the water or jumped out.
River remembered that he had come to the beach because he was hot. He pulled his shirt over his head and went running into the surf. It felt good. The water was cooling. He couldn’t really swim; there were too many people splashing and playing around him.
It was while he was in the water, though, that he remembered the children he had given bills to—and how he had heard them talking about the “prize” they had gotten from the silly American and how pleased “Uncle Juan” would be.