The trail through the forest was narrow, and Durval kept one hand in front of his face to prevent branches from poking his eyes. The other hand held his cane; he wanted to be extra careful, not wanting to break his other leg in a fall. Dolores was behind him, groaning with irritation and impatience. Occasionally, Durval heard her spit out an insect that had flown into her mouth — the place was infested with mosquitoes. Botelho was in front, stepping with determination and not looking back. Much taller than Durval, he resembled a praying mantis marching toward its prey.
Durval was not at all comfortable with the idea of venturing into the woods with Botelho. Despite knowing the biology professor for over three decades, he was precisely the only suspect in the murder that had occurred in his kitchen a few weeks earlier.
In any case, it was too late for regrets now. The insecurity Durval felt was only overshadowed by the curiosity that grew with each step. Was it possible they were about to find the corpse? And how had the body disappeared from his kitchen only to reappear more than five kilometers away?
— We’re almost there — Botelho said without looking back. — Just a few more meters.
Durval began to hear the sound of running water; they must be near a river. If only he had something to defend himself with. With a broken leg, he couldn’t do much against Botelho, but still, as he walked, he scanned the ground around him, hoping to find at least a fallen branch; who knows, he might be able to hit Botelho if he tried something.
The sound of the water grew louder, and soon Durval saw a rushing river cutting through the forest. It must have been almost five meters wide. Botelho followed the riverbank to a small wooden bridge and stopped, waiting for Durval and Dolores.
— You can trust that the bridge is sturdy — Botelho said. — It’s old, but it holds. Just like us, my friend! — He laughed before crossing, gripping the sides with his long, bony hands.
Durval looked at Dolores.
— I’m not stepping on that — the woman said.
Durval placed his foot on the first planks of the bridge and tapped three times with his heel.
— It’s sturdy, see? You can come.
Dolores sighed and spat out another mosquito wing. She held onto Durval, and the couple crossed the bridge hand in hand.
Upon reaching the other side, they spotted Botelho a few meters ahead, bent over a pile of branches and leaves. Clumsily, he was removing the branches from the pile and tossing them aside. They were still green, seeming to have been cut recently to cover whatever Botelho was about to reveal. And then, from the foliage, a coffin appeared.
Dolores gasped and took a step back from Durval, gripping his hand tightly.
But it was not an ordinary coffin, one of those carved wooden ones used for burials. It appeared to be made of metal. It was rusty, with slime and mud stuck to it. It had two handles on each side, and the lid was slightly domed on top. It also had two locks on the side like a travel suitcase. Botelho skillfully unlocked both and opened the coffin.
JOSÉ GASPARFilmmaker and writerwww.historiasdooutromundo.comjagramos@gmail.com