| were now under the control of his nerves, the way they were supposed to be. “He’ll be unconscious for a few minutes, until his brain is fully suffused with oxygenated blood,” the anesthesiologist explained. “We’ll let him awaken normally, and then we can talk with him.” “What’s his mental state going to be?” This was Clark asking the question. He’d never seen anything even remotely like this before. “That depends. I suppose it’s possible that he might remain strong and resistive, but I would not expect that. He’s been through a singular and very, very adverse experience. He will not want to repeat it. He’s been through pain that makes childbirth seem like a picnic in Central Park. I can only speculate how dreadful it’s been for him. I don’t know anyone who’s been through this—well, maybe some people who’ve been through massive coronaries, but they don’t usually remember the intensity of the pain. The brain doesn’t work that way. It erases great pain as a defense mechanism. Not this time. He will remember the experience of it, if not the pain itself. If that experience doesn’t frighten him beyond anything he’s ever experienced, well, then we’re talking about John Wayne on amphetamines. People like that do not exist in the real world. There’s the complication of his religious beliefs. Those can be pretty strong. How strong, well, we’ll have to see, but if he resists us from this point on, I will be surprised.” “If he does, can |
the next forty-five minutes. The sun was slipping behind the mountains to the west, casting the slums in golden light. While the Portuguese translation of Rocinha was “Little Ranch,” Dominic and Chavez saw nothing small about it. Covering roughly three-quarters of a mile from north to south and a quarter-mile from east to west, the slums were situated in a shallow, sloping valley bracketed on both sides by thickly forested hills and cliffs. Shaded by crisscrossing clotheslines and makeshift canvas awnings, the narrow streets meandered up slopes of densely packed and pastel-painted saltbox apartments, many so close that their balconies touched and their rooflines merged. Crumbling concrete and brick stairways covered in climbing vines rose up from the streets and disappeared behind buildings. Telephone and power poles festooned with hundreds of feet of exposed wires and cables extended in every direction. Lining every alley were dozens upon dozens of huts made from planks and corrugated tin. Sewage ran down shallow gutters filled with trash. “Unbelievable,” Dominic said. “How many people in this place?” “Hundred thousand at least. Maybe a hundred fifty.” They found a parking spot down the block from the pool hall and got out. “You take the back, I’ll take the front. Gimme fifteen minutes, then come on in.” “Roger.” Dominic headed down the street and turned the corner. Chavez walked across the street, bought a bottle of Coke from a street vendor, then leaned against a wall beneath an awning. Down the block, a lone streetlamp flickered |
