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Chapter 7

The door of Garson’s room rattled, then it shook with a violence that brought him immediately awake. He sat upright in bed, looked out his front windows at the pearl grey dawn light on the lake.

Again the door was shaken and banged.

“Garson!” It was Raul Separdo’s voice, high-pitched and with a note of frenzy.

Somewhere in the house, another door slammed. There came the sound of bare feet slapping heavily in the hall.

“What’s all the commotion?” Medina’s guttural voice.

“This door’s locked from the inside!” snarled Separdo.

“Just a minute,” said Garson. He got out of bed, slipped into shirt and pants.

“What do you want with Garson at this hour?” asked Medina.

“That is my business!”

Garson opened the door, saw Medina standing behind Separdo, barefoot and with his revolver in its holster belted over a ridiculous nightshirt.

Separdo was fully dressed.

Medina winked at Garson.

“What’s all the fuss?” asked Garson.

Separdo pushed his way into the room, examined the bolt on the door. “Who put this here?”

“I did,” said Medina.

“Why?”

“You just found out.”

Separdo’s lips twitched. He glared at Medina, turned the expression on Garson. “You were asking about the building at the lower end of the lake. I heard Nita telling Antone all about it!”

The sadistic light in Separdo’s eyes made Garson think of the glassy eyes of a fish—of a caribe.

“So I was curious!”

“Is that why we’re having this pleasant conversation so early in the morning?” asked Medina.

Again, Separdo’s lips twitched. “That is one of the reasons—not that I’m required to answer the questions of a hired gunman!”

“Fashions in hired gunmen having changed so greatly since your application for membership was rejected,” murmured Medina.

Separdo grinned. It was like the baring of an animal’s teeth. “There’s another matter I wish to discuss with Mr. Garson.”

“You called the conference,” said Garson.

“I saw you holding hands with Nita last night. If it happens again you will feed the fish!”

“Holding ha…”

“Antone’s throwing you two together!” hissed Separdo. “He doesn’t fool me. He thinks she’s too good for me.”

“Maybe he’s just concerned about your wife and kiddies,” said Medina.

“I have asked you not to interfere, Choco!”

“Several times, Raul.”

“I was up before dawn today, Choco.”

“Perhaps your conscience wouldn’t let you sleep.”

“I brought several of my men, Choco.”

Medina stepped back into the hallway, dropped his hand to his gun butt. “I doubt that they can get me in their sights here.”

“The whole day is ahead of us.”

“Maybe it’s not ahead of you, Raul!”

Separdo paled, stepped into the room away from Medina.

“Don’t be a fool, Choco! This Garson is with the American secret service!”

Garson smiled wryly at Medina, took a deep breath. “How do you know I’m not with the Mexican secret service?”

The effect on Separdo was startling. He froze into rigid immobility, face ashen. Slowly, he turned, looked at Garson. The look was one of careful—fearful—measuring.

“How’d you know we haven’t a dozen troops stationed around the hacienda right now—just waiting for my signal… or lack of it?” asked Garson.

Medina was smiling delightedly behind Separdo’s back.

Separdo wet his lips with his tongue in a nervous darting movement. “Why… would… the… Mexican… secret… service… be… interested… in… me?”

“Maybe Olaf’s tired of your bumbling,” said Garson.

Separdo held his breath, mouth open, eyes staring.

Behind him, Medina’s evil face registered absolute glee.

“Did Olaf send you to test me?” demanded Separdo.

Garson smiled, remained silent.

Separdo shook his head. “He wouldn’t!”

“How long since you’ve sent patrols beyond the fences?” asked Garson.

Again Separdo shook his head. “But why would… But we have spies to tell… Did Olaf send you?”

“Why don’t you ask Olaf?”

A weak smile touched Separdo’s mouth. “Olaf knows I’m loyal! I do my best. I always do. I work night and day! I…”

“How long since you’ve sent patrols beyond the fences?”

“But Olaf never said…”

“Olaf shouldn’t have to say!” Garson warmed to his role. The name “Olaf” was pure magic with Separdo. “If you were paying more attention to your work—instead of worrying about a female, you’d have thought out the possibilities.”

Separdo swallowed, shrugged.

“Send those damned vaqueros back across the lake and get about the job that’s expected of you!” said Garson.

Separdo stiffened, a look of suspicion entering his eyes. “Why should…”

“Now!” gritted Garson. “We had a hunch that you couldn’t see anything else except Nita Luac!”

Separdo crumbled inside. He turned to Medina. “Did you know?”

“What do you think?” asked Medina.

Separdo’s voice went up half an octave. “Did Antone know?”

“Same song, second verse,” said Medina.

“While we stand around here whining about ‘who knew’ our perimeter is wide open!” snarled Garson.

Separdo nodded. “Immediately.” He moved toward the hallway, paused, turned, looked back at Garson with a puzzled expression.

Garson frowned, glared at him.

Some of Separdo’s self-assurance seemed to return. “Will you be staying until after I’ve talked to Olaf?”

“That’s the first sensible reaction you’ve had since I arrived,” said Garson.

Separdo smiled like a small boy who’s been praised. “Olaf knows I can do the job he…”

“When your mind’s on the job,” said Garson.

Separdo nodded. “Yes. But I still have questions about your job, Mr. Garson.” He turned, brushed past Medina, hurried away down the hall.

Medina watched him go, turned to Garson. “Man, I think we underestimated you!”

“What’ll he do?” asked Garson.

“He’ll contact Olaf immediately.”

“And what’ll Olaf tell him?”

“Olaf won’t give him the time of day. That’s the way he operates: everything mysterious.”

“Who is this Olaf?”

“A very powerful man, Mr. Garson.”

“Come off it, Choco! Who is he?”

“Why don’t you ask Antone?”

“I will. What’ll Olaf do?”

“There’s the rub.” Medina frowned. “You acted correctly here because it threw Raul into confusion. But we’ll have to move fast now. Olaf will go into action just as soon as he’s talked to Raul. And that, my friend, is not good.”

“What’re we going to do, Choco?”

“I won’t know until I’ve talked to Antone.”

“How long will we have?”

“It’ll take Raul until tomorrow to contact Olaf.”

“So long?”

“Maybe longer if Olaf is … away.”

“Will Luac know?”

“Perhaps.”

“Well, let’s get busy!”

“Okay!” Medina saluted Garson. “Don’t get carried away with your new success.” He glanced down at his nightshirt. “I’ll go get into some clothes and find Antone. Why don’t you get some breakfast and meet us in the front room?” Medina turned away, trotted down the hall.

Garson slipped on a pair of shoes, went to the kitchen.

Maria Gomez was making tortillas, her hands patting the dough in steady rhythm. A blue haze of charcoal smoke filled the kitchen. Maria looked like an ancient witch bent over the coals. She heard Garson, looked up, watched him with the lizard stare while he crossed the room.

“Fry me a couple of eggs, please,” said Garson.

“Sí, Señor.” She bobbed her head rapidly, moved with a quick subservience. There seemed to be a new fearfulness in her actions.

Has Raul been here ahead of me spreading the word?

“Hurry up about it!” growled Garson.

“Sí, Señor!” She moved dishes nervously beside the coals. One dish caught in her sleeve, crashed to the floor.

Maria glanced at Garson, bent quickly to clean up the mess.

“Who do you think killed Eduardo?” asked Garson.

The movement of her hands slowed, but still she did not look up.

“Answer me!” ordered Garson.

A pitiful shrug lifted the old shoulders.

I’m being a perfect beast! thought Garson. But I have to act while I can.

“What did Raul tell you about it?”

Now, she looked up at Garson, eyes wide open, only the dull waiting apparent in them. “Por Dios, Señor!”

Garson steeled himself against the pathos of her. “Do you know what will happen if you don’t answer?”

“Sí, Señor.” She arose slowly, shoulders bent, nodded her head. “Come now. I show.” She turned, went out the rear door into the walled garden.

Garson followed her. Now, what the devil?

They crossed the garden by a dirt path. Leaves brushed Garson’s face. A cobweb caught on his chin and neck. The path ended at a wooden gate in the brick wall. Pigs snuffled and grunted on the other side of the wall. The stink of a pigsty was heavy in the damp morning air.

Maria opened the gate. It creaked dismally.

They passed a line of concrete stalls, each with one pig. The animals set up an excited grunting, squealing and scrambling.

Now, the path struck directly into the swamp, became shadowy, smelling of rotten vegetation. A fetid, carrion odor wafted past Garson’s nostrils. Insects leaped, buzzed and clung all around him, filled his hair, crawled under his collar.

The path ended at a fallen log. They traversed the log to another log, and yet another.

Where’s she leading me?

Presently, a log lifted to a low hummock of moist earth thick with brush. He could see no trail. Maria plunged into the brush. Garson shrugged, followed. The brush opened to a narrow clearing atop the hummock, a fresh grave with a rude cross of limbs occupied the center.

Garson crossed to the grave. “Eduardo?”

Maria crouched beside the dark earth, bent her head. “Mi hijo. Aieeeeee! Mi hijo!”

My son!

Garson swallowed. Why’d she bring me here? So we could talk privately? So I’d sympathize with her?

“Do you know who I am, Maria?”

She nodded. “Sí. Un hombre de Olaf.”

A man from Olaf. So Raul did spread the word!

“Did Raul say who killed your son?”

She arose, turned the lidded stare on Garson, spoke with a low, expressionless voice: “El Patron! El hombre mas…” Her voice broke.

Nita was right! Raul did try to pin it on her father!

Garson shook his head slowly from side to side. “No, Maria. It was Raul!”

“Raul?”

He nodded.

“Raul!” She raised her fists in front of her, opened her eyes wide.

“Cuidado!” said Garson. Careful!

And he thought: What if I’m wrong? What if it really was El Patron Luac?

Garson could almost see Eduardo’s letter before his eyes: “He kill mi!”

I could have this whole thing turned completely end for end. Luac, his daughter and Choco could be playing me for the prize sucker of the century.

He said, “You must not let Raul know, Maria. You must wait. Do you understand?”

Her lids dropped. The lizard stare regarded him. “Sí, Señor.” She put a hand on his arm. “Gracias.”

He nodded, swallowed.

They returned to the garden. Maria left Garson by the wall, disappeared in the greenery to his left. He entered the garden alone, brushed through the heavy growth of plants, came to the rear door.

Raul Separdo stood in front of the door, his eyes narrowed, his manner one of careful waiting.

“Have you been for a walk in the swamp?” Separdo asked.

Garson noted dark mud on Separdo’s shoes and trousers. Did he follow us?

“Why do you ask?”

Separdo pulled back his coat very slightly to reveal the butt of his Luger. “You understand, Mr. Garson, that if you have fooled me—if you are not from Olaf…” His teeth bared in a wolfish grin.

Garson suppressed his uneasiness, smiled.

“And about Nita Luac,” said Separdo. “I would advise you…”

“I don’t take your advice about Nita Luac. I don’t take your advice about anything. Have you sent your men across the lake? And are you doing anything about the hacienda’s perimeter?”

Separdo tensed, relaxed. “I will take this for now. As to my men—we have sent for the boat from the other side. I am

going with them in a few minutes.” He nodded. “I expect to find you here when I return.”

“I’ll leave when my job’s finished,” said Garson.

“Of course.” Separdo turned, went around the house.

Garson watched Separdo leave, then went into the house.

Antone Luac was standing at the low front windows, watching Separdo and three men with rifles get into a large rowboat. A little runt of a man sat at the oars.

When Separdo also got into the boat, and they headed across the lake, Antone Luac grunted, turned, saw Garson.

“So kind of you to join us, Mr. Garson.”

Anita Luac came in from the hallway wearing an open-necked green blouse, jodhpurs and riding boots. Medina followed her.

“Choco has told me of your inspired performance this morning,” said Antone Luac. “I’m not sure what inspired you, but presumably it was the patron saint of all idiots!”

“Sorry you don’t approve,” said Garson.

“At this moment, Mr. Garson, I would almost enjoy watching you fed to the caribe!”

“What?”

“I had it all set!” snapped Luac. “You were to go riding across the lake there this morning and …”

Anita Luac stepped forward. “Father, there’s no sense going…”

“Raul just went across the lake with his men!” said Antone Luac. “You know what that means!”

Medina said, “I think we should try it anyway.”

“What have I done?” asked Garson.

“Today, I had arranged for you to escape,” said Luac. “And you—you descendant of an unbroken line of fatherless imbeciles! You’ve put Raul’s entire guard force on the alert!”

“Father, he had no way of knowing,” said Anita Luac.

Garson shrugged. “Maybe the imbecilic action was your failure to take me into your confidence.”

Antone Luac snorted.

“Would you like to hear about my morning stroll with Maria Gomez to the grave of her son?” asked Garson.

Chins came up. They stared at him.

“Raul told her that you murdered Eduardo,” said Garson. “She now knows that it was Raul himself who did it.”

“Hmmmmph!” said Antone Luac. “Another needless complication.”

“Sorry I interfered,” said Garson. “You would no doubt prefer arsenic in your beans!”

“He’s right,” said Anita.

“He’s a bumbling meddler!”

“Shall we go ahead with our original plan?” asked Medina.

“I don’t like it,” snapped Luac. “Raul could have his men knock off you and Garson, then…” he glanced at Anita.

“He won’t dare move until he’s contacted Olaf,” she said.

Medina said, “And with Olaf gone…”

Antone Luac sighed. “I don’t like it, but perhaps it’s worth a try.” He looked at Medina. “But, Choco, I want this understood: You’re not to go ahead unless you make the contact with Pánfil and Roberto. Do you understand?”

“Naturally.”

“And if anything looks strange to you, you are to call it off and return!”

“Yes.”

Luac turned to his daughter. “If it’s possible, I want you to go with them. Go straight to Tucson. You know who to contact.”

“But, Father!”

“Do as I say,” he snapped. “I can take care of myself.”

“I will be here, Señorita.”

She frowned.

Garson looked from father to daughter, sensed the need they felt for each other, the unspoken bitterness of suppressed feelings.

“I will do what I think best at the moment,” said Anita Luac. “And I will not argue more about it!”

Garson cleared his throat. “It would be a good idea to tell me what you’re planning.”

Antone Luac flicked a glance like a whiplash across Garson, looked at Medina. “Choco?”

“I agree.” He looked across the room to the hallway. “Later, when I’m sure it’s safe.”

Luac returned his attention to Garson. “This time you will follow, please. I know it’s difficult for one of your magnificent qualities, but…”

“I, too, will do what I think best at the moment,” said Garson. He fought to conceal his anger. Felt like nothing would be more pleasant than to crash his fist into Luac’s sneering face.

The old man sighed, glanced at Medina, shrugged. “Take food,” he said. “It will be a long day whatever comes.”

Once across the lake, they waited beside the dock while a peon saddled horses. Constraint about the presence of people walking on the trail above them held them in silence. They stared across the lake at the hacienda: a splash of tan and orange against the deep green of the swamp.

Abruptly, Anita Luac picked up a piece of wood from beside the dock—an axe chip about four inches long, three inches wide.

“Choco! Show me!” she shouted. It sounded like the ritual of a child’s game. She hurled the chip into the air above the lake.

Medina’s right hand blurred to his hip, came up with the revolver. There was a single shot. The chip bounced in the air. Another shot. Again the chip bounced. Five times he hit it.

The splintered chip fell to the lake. Something nudged it from beneath, then it was still.

Medina opened his gun, replaced the spent cartridges.

“The horses are ready,” said Anita Luac.

“Now I understand why Raul was so hesitant,” said Garson.

Medina grinned, flicked a finger along his mustache.

They rode out through a narrow trail in jungle growth that thinned as they climbed, opened onto a meadow. Smoky blue haze filled the air, hid the detail of the distant hills.

Anita Luac reined up in the center of the meadow, patted the neck of her brown gelding.

Garson stopped the sorrel mare they had given him, shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. It had been a long time since his last experience on horseback.

“The smoke,” said Anita Luac. “The Indians are burning their milpas. They’ll never learn!”

Medina galloped past them on a big bay, stopped, whirled, returned at a walk.

“Milpas?” asked Garson.

“Their cornfields. It’s the way they clear them.”

“This is a good place to talk,” said Medina. “But keep your voice low.”

Garson nodded.

“The idea is this,” said Medina. “We are out on an inspection tour that will take most of the day. At noon we will stop for lunch…” he gestured to the bundle tied behind his saddle “…at a point about four miles from the Torleon-Ciudad Brockman highway. After lunch we will ride in that direction. Two men will be mending fences along the highway.”

“This is the Pánfil and Roberto that Luac mentioned?”

“Yes. They are men we can trust. They will be in a light pickup truck.”

“And we take the truck?”

“You and the Señorita.”

“What if we’re followed?”

Medina patted his revolver. “The story is that you two are eloping. You will go to Ciudad Brockman where the colonel of police—who is another friend—will provide you with a car and driver to take you to the airport at Guadalajara.”

Garson looked up at the smoke-dimmed hills, a feeling of premonition in his stomach. “Somehow, I don’t like it.”

Anita Luac’s horse snorted, backed away.

“I don’t either,” she said. “But we’ll give it a try.”

Medina reached into his shirt pocket, brought out the papers from Luac’s notebook. “Here. You’ll want these.”

Garson put the papers inside his own shirt.

Medina touched his reins. The big bay reared, turned, and they were off, racing across the meadow.

At noon they stopped where a narrow stream tumbled from rocks in a tree-marked watercourse. The air was cool with spray from the waterfall.

Medina tethered the horses while Garson and Anita Luac clambered down a clay bank to a sandbar beside the stream. Anita Luac waded across. Garson sat down on a log in the shade of the clay bank.

From the other side of the stream, Anita Luac called back: “Choco! Bring firewood. We can have tea.”

Medina answered from above Garson. “Sí, Señorita.”

There came the sound of limbs breaking. A shower of dirt rained onto Garson. He looked up, saw part of the clay bank give way under Medina. The big Mexican fell on his side, began pulling himself upright with the aid of a vine. More earth caved from beneath his feet.

As Garson watched, the revolver slipped out of Medina’s upended holster, slid down the clay bank. Garson picked it up, glanced across the stream at Anita Luac. She held a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide. He looked up at Medina on the clay bank. The Mexican had regained his feet. His pockmarked face carried a strange, set look, and he was staring across the stream to the bank above Anita Luac.

A horse whinnied behind Garson. He turned, still holding the revolver.

Raul Separdo sat astride a giant black stallion, outlined against the sky above Anita Luac. He held a rifle carelessly across the pommel, its muzzle pointing at Medina. Behind Separdo ranged three other riders, all carrying rifles.

They looked like nothing more than a raiding party of bandits. Separdo wore a black sombrero.

Separdo grinned. “What a pleasant surprise!”

Garson nodded.

Separdo looked at Medina. “Buenas tardes, Choco. I see that you have loaned your gun to Mr. Garson. What a pity! I would so enjoy another demonstration such as the one you gave at the lake this morning.”

My God! He means to kill Choco!

Garson cocked the revolver. The sound broke loudly on the tense quiet.

“Ah!” said Separdo. “Perhaps Mr. Garson would like to give us a demonstration with the revolver?” He spoke over his shoulder to one of the riders. “Pánfil! Un pedazo de madera, por favor!”

A piece of wood! Then the name “Pánfil” registered. Have we been betrayed?

One of the riders dismounted, searched the ground, came up with a piece of wood.

“Show us how you can hit the piece of wood, Mr. Garson,” said Separdo. “Pánfil!”

The man on the ground threw the wood into the air.

In that split second, knowing he could not hit the wood, Garson took a desperate gamble. He snapped a shot at Separdo. The Mexican’s hat jerked from his head. His horse reared. He lost his grip on the rifle, which tipped forward, fell over the bank to Anita Luac’s feet.

She snatched it up.

Garson stared at the confusion of milling horses on the streambank. My God! I hit his hat!

Separdo regained control of his mount, reined it up at the edge of the bank. His face was livid with fury.

Anita Luac stood beneath him, the rifle held at the ready. Separdo surveyed the scene.

“You do not like the small target?”

“I choose my own targets, Raul.”

Separdo’s hands tightened on the reins. “But Choco hit his target five times.”

“I thought I might need the other four shots.”

Separdo nodded. His lips trembled. “Did you hit what you aimed at, Mr. Garson?”

“Do you want to see another shot two inches lower?”

Separdo tensed, eyes wide, a wild light in them.

Behind Garson, Medina laughed. “Try him, Raul!”

Slowly, Separdo stilled his trembling. A smile like a nervous grimace touched his mouth and then vanished. “Perhaps we should continue on our separate ways.”

“Perhaps that would be best,” said Garson.

Separdo looked down at Anita Luac. “I will trouble you for the return of my rifle, Nita.”

“I think I’ll borrow it for the rest of the day,” she said. “Maybe I’ll find a target to my liking.”

He stared at her, turned to the man standing behind him on the ground, then looked to another of the riders. “Jorge! Give Pánfil another drink.”

Then Garson realized that the Mexican who had thrown the piece of wood was drunk, swaying, eyes glassy. One of the riders handed a bottle of tequila to the standing man.

“Tómelo!” snapped Separdo.

The man on the ground stared up at Separdo, lifted the bottle to his lips, drained it, threw the bottle to the creekbank.

“Pánfil was mending fences,” said Separdo. “But we have other work for him today.” He motioned for the man to remount his horse.

Pánfil staggered across to his horse, climbed aboard.

Separdo turned to Garson. “Adiosito, Mr. Garson.”

Garson motioned with the revolver.

The four riders wheeled their horses, galloped away.

Medina slid down the clay bank to Garson’s side, took back the revolver. Anita Luac splashed back across the stream, holding the rifle high.

“You were wise not to kill him,” said Medina. He bent over the revolver, replacing the spent cartridge. “His men would’ve slaughtered us.”

“What about your friend, Pánfil?”

“I suspect that his rifle was empty.”

Anita Luac said, “You are a man of many surprises, Hal.”

Medina holstered his revolver, looked at Anita Luac. “Has Pánfil betrayed us?”

“Never!”

“Then I…”

In the distance came the sound of a ragged volley of rifle shots, then the cold clear snap of the Luger.

“That bastard!” gritted Medina. “I’m sorry now you didn’t aim two inches lower!”

“What was that?” asked Garson. But he felt that he knew.

“Pánfil,” said Anita Luac.

“Did they kill him?”

She turned on Garson, her face suffused with rage. “Of course they killed him! The same way they killed poor Eduardo! The same way…” She broke off. Tears filled her eyes.

Garson turned, looked appraisingly at Medina. “Choco, did you know that Maria Gomez calls Raul ‘La Yegua’?”

Medina stared into the distance. “I have suspected the connection for several days. How did you find out?”

Garson explained about the vent.

“Thank you, Mr. Garson,” said Medina.

“For what?”

“For saving my life today… and for saving Raul for me. He’s mine!”

“We’d better go straight back to the hacienda,” said Anita Luac.

When they returned to the hacienda, Anita Luac stepped out of the boat, ran down the dock and across the terrace. Garson climbed to the dock, heard her calling for her father in the house.

Medina chained the boat to the dock, weighed the snap lock in his hand, hurled it into the lake, turned to Garson. “When I was with Villa, my brother loaned me for a time to be a batboy for an observer who came to us from Germany.”

“Oh?”

“The observer’s name was Rommel. He later became a famous general under Hitler.”

Garson studied Medina’s ugly face, wondering at the motive for this conversation. “Rommel of North Africa? The Desert Fox?”

“The same. Rommel was a colonel when I knew him. One day he said to me, he said, ‘Chocito, to win a war is a very simple thing: You must be on the right side, and you must always be ready to surprise the enemy.’”

“To do the unexpected?”

Medina smiled, touched his mustache. “Sí!”

“What brought this up, Choco?”

“Today, you surprised the enemy twice.”

“And he surprised us once.”

Medina shook his head. “No. Nothing that swine does should surprise us! Nothing!”

“Am I also on the right side, Choco?”

Medina grinned. “That is for the Good Lord to decide, my friend. But I think you are.”

Anita Luac and Garson ate dinner alone that night. The crone served them silently, avoiding Garson’s eyes.

“Where are your father and Choco?” asked Garson.

“They are talking in his study.”

“Has Raul returned?”

“No.”

At the mention of Separdo’s name, Maria Gomez looked at Garson. An evil smile touched the old woman’s lips. She nodded once.

Would she poison him? wondered Garson. Then: How much time have we? Has Raul contacted the mysterious Olaf yet?

Garson finished eating, turned, stared out at the garden. He felt tense, uneasy.

Anita Luac put down her fork, got to her feet. “I would like to show you something.”

Garson stood up, looked down at her. “What?”

She held out her hand, took Garson’s. “Come.”

They went out the front, around the house and along a sanded trail that sloped up to a low ridge looking down on the swamp and lake. Garson paused on the ridge, listening. He heard a truck motor laboring, looked down the lake to the mysterious building. It reminded him that he still did not know the basic secret of the hacienda: The role of Luac’s occupation.

The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the lake, and the shadows hid the edges of the mysterious building.

What do they do there?

“This way,” said Anita Luac. She tugged at Garson’s hand. Her palm felt warm and trusting against his.

They went down the opposite side of the ridge into a garden grove of eucalyptus trees. Two rock-bordered graves with stone crosses occupied the far side of the grove.

My day for visiting graves!

“I have a feeling I will never see this place again,” said Anita Luac. She stopped beside the graves. “My mother and my brother. He died when I was very small. Fever.” She disengaged her hand, sat down on the grass beside the grave, spread her skirt. “I used to play here when I was little. This was a separate pretend world all my own.”

Garson had a sudden mental picture of a doe-eyed girl—like an enchanted naiad—playing in the grove by the lake. The thought filled him with sadness.

Bats began swooping about them in the warm evening air.

“Why did you bring me here?” he asked.

She looked up at him, shrugged. “It was a whim.”

“You must have been a lonely child.”

She got to her feet, brushed her skirt. “Yes. But I didn’t realize it at the time.” She smiled. “I had the ghosts here. Do you believe in ghosts?”

“I don’t know what to believe about ghosts.”

“I’ve never made any big decision of my life without consulting these ghosts.”

“Did you come here this time to make a decision?”

Again she shrugged, kept her face averted.

Garson moved closer. She drew away. He followed, touched her shoulder. She turned, stared up at him, a look of total absorption in her large eyes, as though she drew into them everything that she saw.

With a fierce possessiveness, Garson pulled her to him, bent his mouth to hers. She seemed passive at first, then a fluttery response awakened her. The kiss became something explosive, demanding. He was totally aware of every place where their bodies touched. Her left hand went behind his neck. She moved her head softly from side to side, never breaking the kiss.

He dropped his right hand to her waist, bent her back. She yielded, then stiffened. Slowly, she pushed him away, stood before him, breathing rapidly, one hand at her throat.

Garson regained self-control as though it seeped upward from his toes. His breathing slowed, and he became conscious of the look in her eyes, the light of mockery.

“No man ever kissed me like that before,” she said.

He swallowed. “How did it make you feel?”

She drew in a deep breath, shook her head without removing her attention from his face. “It filled me with… with a sense of power!”

She’s making a fool of me! he thought. They’re using me! And she’s the bait!

“Power over me?”

“No. Power over life.”

God help me! I don’t care if I’m being used!

He reached for her, but she pulled away.

And he thought: How would a man like Luac train his daughter? To take and never to give!

Swift tropic darkness settled across the grove.

“Shall we be getting back?” she asked.

The moon sent a faint, ghostly light through the trees. Garson tried to see her face by the glowing, failed. She was a shadow against shadows.

“We should have thought of that earlier,” he said.

“Sorry you came?” She sounded lightly unconcerned.

“Always glad to further my education,” he said.

Garson left her at the rear door of the house, sat down on the rough wood bench beside the door. His leg and thigh muscles were beginning to complain after the day on horseback. There was a dull ache behind his eyes that the soggy warmth of the night did nothing to ease.

For the first time, he began to review the day. It left him with a sense of shaking horror. And the mysterious Olaf loomed over it all like the sinister embodiment of everything evil that could be seen in Raul Separdo.

What are Luac and Medina planning? Why don’t they draw me into their conference?

My God! Why did I have to let myself fall for that woman?

The door beside him opened, closed. Choco Medina joined him on the bench.

“Why is the Señorita crying?” he asked.

Crying?

“I don’t know, Choco. Maybe she’s afraid. The Lord knows I certainly am.”

“Where did you go on your walk?”

“A grove of trees over there. The graves of her mother and brother.”

“Ahh. Perhaps that is it.” Medina nodded. “I came out to tell you how the situation stands.”

“Black?”

“Very black, but perhaps not hopeless.”

“I knew it when Separdo rode up on us that way.”

“There are some things in our favor. For one, Olaf is in Guatemala. He will not return for several days. For another, Raul sent word to Maria Gomez that she should dope our food tonight to make us sleep.”

“What’s he planning?”

“I think he is planning to come across the lake by night and take over control of the hacienda with his men, but thanks to you we are warned.”

“Thanks to me?”

“Maria came to us as soon as she received the message. She wants revenge on Raul.”

“I don’t understand that, Choco. All I had to do was tell her it was Raul who killed her son—and she believed me.”

“She has been with the Luacs for sixteen years, my friend. She needed only to have someone tell her what her instincts already knew.”

“Why didn’t he just take us today, Choco?”

“Raul? I’ve been trying to answer that question. I think it was because the Señorita had the rifle. He knew he’d have to kill her to take it, and he does not want to do that.”

“He’s a fiend!”

“The truth. It is also in the nature of this fiend to toy with his victims. He likes to strike fear into the heart. And today he had poor Pánfil to demonstrate his power of life and death.”

“God! How’d Luac ever get into his power?”

“He had no choice. One day there was Raul—the new watchdog.”

“What’re we going to do tonight, Choco?”

“We have a dozen flares. The moon will give us light for many hours. After that we will use the flares. They cannot cross the lake while we have light to shoot.”

“The door has a lock on both sides, eh?”

Medina chuckled. “Sí, and the caribe in the middle.”

“You’d better give me a gun, Choco.”

“Or course. But please do not lose this one in the lake.”

Garson recalled hiding the other revolver under the log. He told Choco Medina about it.

“You are very wasteful of good firearms, my friend. That one will be useless with rust by this time. But I will go get it tonight.” He put a hand on Garson’s shoulder. “The Señorita likes you.”

“Oh?”

Medina squeezed Garson’s shoulder. “I would die for the Señorita, my friend.”

Garson felt a choking sensation in his throat. “God help me, so would I!” he whispered.

“I suspected that you had hidden the gun,” said Medina. “But now I know that you trust me. I want you to know that I have trust for you—and after today, a special trust in your gun hand.”

Should I tell him the truth about that? wondered Garson. That I was aiming to kill Separdo, and missed by the grace of God?

Medina got to his feet. “I must join Antone. We will be in the front room.”

He entered the house, closing the door softly.

Garson stared into the darkness. How long can we hold out? Separdo has an army across the lake.

Something stirred the leaves in the garden. A twig broke under someone’s foot. Garson tensed.

Anita Luac came into the faint moonglow of the open area beside the door. “I listened to you and Choco,” she said.

“How long can we hold out?” he asked.

“This place is a fortress,” she said.

“What’s your theory on why Raul held off today?”

“He’s afraid you’re really from Olaf.”

“Given time, any fortress can be taken, Nita.”

She moved closer. “Is that your theory about women?” The faint mocking glint in her eyes was very clear to him.

Garson had the feeling of being outmaneuvered, trapped. This is what the old man wants! He wants me to be her slave and thus his slave! Why? What can I do for them?

“What are you thinking?” she asked. “You look so withdrawn.”

“Maybe I was trying to retreat.”

“Are all of your defenses gone?” She slipped her arms around his neck, pressed herself against him, lifted her lips.

Garson stared down into the brown wells of her eyes. They seemed to draw him down… down… down until their lips met. He felt himself melting with desire.

She broke away with a violent push against his shoulders, stepped back.

Bitterness overwhelmed Garson. “Testing your power again?”

She drew in a shaky breath, spoke in a faint voice. “My willpower.”

He took her hands, felt them tremble. “Why were you crying?”

“Perhaps you reminded me of how lonely I’ve been.”

“Nita, do you care for me at all?” The question came out as though torn from him.

She jerked her hands free, whirled away. “Why should I care for you? Because you’ve kissed me?”

He started to put his hands on her shoulders, drew them back. A slave! Begging for favors! Luac knows his man. Here’s the price I can’t refuse.

The bitterness filled his voice. “Maybe you should care for me because that’s what your father has instructed you to do!”

She whirled, slapped his face. He staggered backward.

“You’re a beast!” she hissed.

“That’s right! A beast in love with you!” He grabbed her arms, pinioned them, crushed her mouth beneath his. She bit his lip, kicked at him in blind fury, then relaxed against him, sobbing.

He stroked her hair. “I’m sorry, Nita.”

“No. You have every right to hate me. Please hate me!” She pushed away, ran from him. He heard a door slam.

That ties it!

Garson stormed into the house, down the hall to the front room. Luac and Medina stood by the windows, staring at the moonglow on the lake.

“All right, Luac!” barked Garson. “I want answers!”

Luac turned slowly. “Ahhh. Young Lochinvar!”

“You’re asking me to get myself killed!” said Garson. “For what?”

“Steady,” murmured Medina.

“For what?” demanded Garson.

“Perhaps for the story you were so anxious to get.”

“You’ve never had any intention of letting me do that story!”

“Now there you’re wrong.”

Garson was startled into silence. There had been something flatly convincing about Luac’s quiet reply.

“Why else would I want you to escape?” asked Luac.

“I have only your word for it that you wanted me to escape! The whole thing could’ve been a put up job!”

“Including Raul Separdo?”

Again Garson fell silent. I’m caught in the oldest trap in the world: a prison of my own building! Some of the things that’ve happened I know are real—not make believe.

He studied Luac in the moonlight: dignity and a kind of cynical amusement. The old man began humming, stopped. “Do you know that song, Mr. Garson?”

“Why should I?” His voice revealed his resentment and frustration.

“Because that song is Mexico. Cuatro Caminos! Four roads. There are four roads in a man’s life. Which of the four is best?”

“You’re talking nonsense!”

“Oh, no! For each road there is a different price.”

“Have you offered me the price I can’t refuse? What’s down that road?”

“That is the big joke, my friend. There is only one thing down all of the roads: death! You merely arrive at it by different routes.”

“You haven’t answered my question, Luac.”

“About price? Your question was not clear.”

“Are you offering your daughter?”

“You are a fool!”

“Oh, am I?”

“My daughter makes her own offers.”

“And decisions?”

“Naturally!”

“Can she make the decision to leave here with me tonight?”

A bitter laugh shook the old man. “And how do you propose leaving? By flying out on the wings of love?”

“Maybe I’ll just go over and get Raul Separdo’s permission!”

“Hah!”

“Fighting among ourselves will not help us now,” murmured Medina.

“What about the swamp?” asked Garson.

Medina shook his head. “There’s no escape that way.”

Garson stared at him in the gloom. “Choco! What about El Grillo?”

“What about him?” asked Luac.

“How do you signal him to come for you?”

“Don’t be an utter ass! He thinks I killed Eduardo!”

“All right, Luac! What’s your plan?”

“Choco will try to get out tonight by working along the edge of the lake in the swamp.”

“I think it can be done,” said Medina.

“And what if he does get away?”

“Although it is a very poor solution and will create a situation that will be very bad for me, he will bring the Guardia Civil,” said Luac.

“Why will it be bad for you, Luac?”

“I choose not to answer. If he succeeds, you will learn the answer. If he fails, it will make no difference.”

“I think you’re both being damned stupid,” said Garson. “A whole armada of canoes could work along the shore on both sides of the peninsula and take us by force.”

“That is what they will try,” said Luac. “But they reckon without this.” He motioned to something on the shadowy floor beside him.

Garson moved closer, peering at it.

“A Lewis gun,” said Luac. “Even Raul didn’t know about it! We buried it beneath the files of my study.”

“A little memento from the revolution,” said Medina.

Garson stared at Luac. He hasn’t answered a damned one of my questions! He said,” You’re a bunch of…”

Anita Luac’s perfume wafted past his nostrils.

Her voice came from the darkness behind him. “We’re a bunch of what darling?”

She came up beside him, slipped her arm beneath his. For all that her actions betrayed it, the scene in the garden might never have happened.

“Maybe you’ll tell me, Nita,” said Garson.

“Tell you what?”

“What’s the connection between your father and Raul Separdo?”

She looked at the shadowy figure of her father. “Has he refused to tell you?”

“You know he has!”

“Paz y pan,” murmured Anita Luac.

“Nita!” her father snapped.

“I make my own decisions, Father, remember?”

Luac snorted.

“Paz y pan,” she repeated. “Peace and bread.”

Garson recalled seeing the slogan stenciled across a hammer and sickle design on the mud walls of a slum quarter in Guadalajara.

“But now it’s death and blood!” she said.

“What’s the communist slogan have to do with this?” asked Garson.

“My beloved father’s supposed to be one of their head propaganda writers for the Western Hemisphere.”

Luac turned away from them, stared out at the lake.

Garson absorbed this thought for a moment. He still could not fit the idea to Luac’s personality. “Supposed to be?” he asked. “Is he or isn’t he?”

“Oh, I think he was once. And he trained others, too. We had a regular school. But that was before mother died.”

“You’re handling this very badly, Nita!” barked Luac.

“But I’m doing it my own way, Father.”

“A propaganda school,” prompted Garson.

“My father’s so very clever,” she whispered. “His stories are always published. And then they carry subtle little twists for the American market: a sympathetic Russian here—a little race prejudice there—a dirty capitalist or two—a brutal American soldier—an atrocity story with a Yankee setting—stories to make the U.S. Government look bumbling and stupid.”

“I’ve read them.”

“Millions of people have, Mr. Garson.” She sighed. “The organization is very far reaching. We have agents in the U.S. who send the stories as their own—write a few themselves.”

Garson felt the paper under his shirt, recalled the list of names and addresses.

“What’s he really doing?”

“I’m not really sure. He says that the surest way to expose a sham and stupidity is to do a caricature of it. He says that fools like Raul can’t understand this.”

“But Olaf does!” snapped Luac. “That’s really why we’re in this mess.” He sounded petulantly defensive.

“Nita is explaining this,” said Garson.

Luac snorted.

She said, “He means, I believe, that if you overmake a point—lay it on too thickly—then people see through to the weaknesses.”

“Oh. So he’s really been a double agent—working secretly against his masters.”

“That’s what he says.”

“Are you quite finished, Nita?” asked Luac.

“No, I don’t believe I am, Father.”

“Was your mother a communist?” asked Garson.

“Leave her out of this!” barked Luac.

“Yes, she was a communist,” said Anita Luac.

Garson felt the dryness of his mouth, swallowed. “And what’re you?”

“I’m my father’s little joke on our jailers. He taught me to hate them.”

“You’re a secret salesman for democracy.”

“Hah!” said Luac.

“How did they keep you in this jail?”

“We were never permitted off the hacienda together. Always one as hostage for the other.”

“What do the trucks bring?”

“Paper. The mysterious building is a printing plant. They print pamphlets for distribution all over Latin America.”

“Are any of the people across the lake loyal to your father?”

“A few of them. But they’re afraid of Raul. You saw what happened to poor Pánfil.”

Garson looked at the dark figure of Medina in the shadows by the windows. “What about you, Choco?”

“What do you mean?” He spoke without turning.

“How do you fit into all this?”

“Oh, the Patron and I have been together for years.”

“Father saved Choco’s life during the revolution,” said Anita Luac.

“Why hasn’t Raul just forced his hand with you, Nita?”

“Because he had to answer to Olaf for what father writes.”

“And Raul is afraid of Olaf. One more question: Who’s Olaf?”

“Latin American director for the Communist International. He was mother’s half-brother.”

Garson looked at Luac’s back. “You know, Luac. It appears to me that you let your emotions trap you just as securely as I did.”

“Hah!”

“Stalemate,” said Garson.

Anita Luac said, “I believe I’ve told him the essentials, Father.”

Luac turned, looked to Garson. “Which only proves that one’s own blood is not immune from idiocy!”

“Perhaps an immunity like that is passed down from the parents,” said Garson.

“Idiocy compounds idiocy,” said Luac. “And there you have the history of the world.”

“I still find it hard to believe you’re a communist.”

“There may be hope for you yet, Mr. Garson. I could answer the famous congressional question with all honesty: I am not now, nor have I ever been a communist.”

“You’ve been writing their propaganda.”

Antone Luac chuckled. “My little joke.”

“I’m hysterical!”

“Hah! Democracy! A legion of fools pushing each other over the edge of nowhere. Good government died with the absolute monarchs.”

“Long live King Luac!”

“The government of the United States has a few saving graces,” said Luac. “Vestiges of aristocracy. They’re moving away from it, though, toward…”

“Toward your pals in Red?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. And there we have the ultimate idiocy: the gigantic conglomeration of fools—asses—in full control of their own short destiny. That’s my capsule definition of communism.”

“But you’ve been helping the…”

“The world of fools is demanding this change, Mr. Garson. I think it is the greatest cosmic joke possible to give them a little peek into their own demise! And the really choice part of the joke is this: All the time I’m pushing, I am telling them precisely what’s wrong with the prison!”

A silent laugh shook him.

“For this you put yourself and your daughter into… into…” Garson waved a hand around him.

“There were other considerations at the time. Anita’s mother played the game seriously. Communism was a toy to her: a wonderful diversion. It pleased me to let her play with her toy.”

Anita Luac said, “Father, stop it!”

“No, my dear. When you opened the conversation with our young friend here, you made my present comments inevitable. When one pulls the stopper out of the tub, one cannot merely wish the water back into it.”

Garson said, “But you’re trapped here!”

“Oh, quite.”

“A blind moron would’ve seen that this situation would become impossible.”

“I was a blind moron.”

“You know what’ll happen to Nita if Raul takes her!”

“He won’t take her… alive.”

“Patron!” said Medina. “They are assembling canoes and boats along the opposite shore.” Luac turned away from Garson, bent over the Lewis gun, pushed it forward into a patch of moonlight. The fins of the machine gun’s air-cooled barrel cast weird shadows on the floor.

“Smash the window there to give me a better traverse,” said Luac.

Medina took up a rifle, swung it by the barrel to shatter the glass.

Garson crossed to Medina’s side, found a row of rifles across the arms of a chair, took one.

“Don’t fire until the order is given,” said Luac. “Choco! Give us a little light.”

Medina fumbled on the seat of the chair, crossed to the door, opened it, stood in the protection of the wall while he aimed something out across the lake.

A rocket arched from his hand, exploded into brilliance above the lake, drifted down slowly swinging from its tiny parachute.

In the sudden light, they could see masses of canoes and a scattering of rowboats along the far shore. Men ran from them, scrambled into the shadows of the trees.

“Shall I sink their navy?” asked Luac.

“It would be a better object lesson to wait until…”

A rifle bullet splatted into the door beside Medina. He dropped to his knees.

“That came from this side of the lake!”

“Where?” asked Luac.

“The little ridge up there above the graves.”

“Are the doors all locked in back?” asked Luac.

“Sí!”

“Where’s Maria?”

“Aqui, Patron!” The old woman’s voice came from the darkness behind them.

“Get down!” ordered Luac. “They will be shooting from the other side in a moment.”

Medina slipped away from the door, padded away into the darkness at the rear of the house. Presently, he returned. “All bolted down tight. We’d hear anyone before they could get in.”

Garson was staring to the right, down the lake toward El Grillo’s barrio. In the glare of the flare he could see the entire curve of shoreline. He looked to the left, saw that the ridge hid a short piece of the shore.

“They will come from the left,” said Garson. “They will try to get into the protection of the ridge, come up the other side until they can infiltrate the whole area.”

“He’s right,” said Medina. “I believe I’ll go out and discourage them as soon as the flare dies.”

“Antone!” It was a long, hallooing call from the ridge.

“Raul!” said Luac. “Don’t answer him!”

“We know you’re in there, Antone! Come out with your hands up.”

The flare sizzled to darkness in the lake.

Medina slipped out the door, faded into the darkness.

“Come out with your hands in the air!” called Separdo.

Luac said, “I feel something in the wind. I will give odds that Olaf has arrived.”

Garson felt a shudder pass over his body, jumped as Anita Luac brushed against his arm, lifted one of the rifles from the chair.

“A one-man picket line!” snapped Garson.

“Ahhh, but he was with Villa,” said Luac.

“And I was with the Marines. This situation stinks!”

“What do you suggest, Mr. Garson?”

“Is there a chance that El Grillo will help us?”

Luac turned his head slightly without taking his attention from the lake. “Maria? What about that? He’s your brother.”

“Quien sabe, Patron?”

“Send Maria for El Grillo,” said Garson. “Maybe in the confusion, we could…”

“El Grillo is also Raul’s cousin,” said Luac. “We cannot be sure of him. And there’s another complication.” He hesitated.

Garson crept up beside Luac. “Yes?”

“Eduardo was a favorite with El Grillo. What’s your guess on the story Raul gave him?”

“We’ve got to find out,” said Garson. “Raul doesn’t know yet that Maria’s with us.”

“But he suspects,” said Luac. “Otherwise, he’d have just walked in, believing all of us in a drugged slumber.”

Maria’s feet slithered up behind them. She spoke in a heavy accent: “Meester Garson?”

“Yes?”

“Why deed Raul keel my sahn?”

“Because Raul found out that your son brought Mr. Garson here to spy on him,” said Luac.

“I weel go,” she said.

“It’s very dangerous,” said Luac.

“Sí. Entiendo, Patron.”

I understand. The words were spoken very softly and simply.

“Well, I’m not ordering her out there,” said Luac. “I refuse to participate in any more idiocy!”

A fusillade of rifle shots rang out along the ridge. Immediately, several probing bullets splatted against the thick adobe of the front walls—all fired from across the lake.

“Stay down low!” hissed Luac. “Nita?”

“I’m all right, Father.” Her voice sounded calm, as though she had come to some understanding with herself.

Presently, Medina scrambled through the front door.

“I could see you coming down most of the way,” said Luac. “Why didn’t they shoot at you?”

“Perhaps because they have retreated back off the ridge and into the grove,” panted Medina. “I am hit in the shoulder. It is just a scratch, but I would appreciate a bandage.”

“What’s it like out there?” asked Garson.

“It is very open, my friend. There is not much cover on this side of the ridge. I went clear back to the swamp before moving up.”

Anita Luac came up beside Medina, moved him into a patch of moonlight. “I got the first-aid kit.”

“Did you get any of them?” asked Luac.

“One, but I do not think it was Raul.”

“How many are there?” asked Garson.

“There is only one canoe on the…” He drew in a sharp breath, “Aieee! Madre de Dios!”

“I’m sorry, Choco,” said Anita Luac. “It’s the only disinfectant we have.”

“Puro fuego!” he said. Pure fire!

She tied a bandage around his upper arm. “I can’t see very well, Choco, but it looks like a clean wound just along the edge of the bone and through the muscle. The bullet went right on through.”

“I have cured such as this with nothing more than a good night’s sleep,” said Medina.

“You’re not going to get that sleep tonight,” said Garson.

Medina chuckled. “Sí. I will stay awake.”

Maria Gomez moved to the door. “Choco! La luz!” she said. The light!

“What’s going on?” asked Medina.

“Mr. Garson had the brilliant idea to send Maria for El Grillo.”

“What could he do?”

Garson said, “He could come to that mudbank on the right over there where he brought me the first night. He could do it as soon as the moon is down.”

“As soon as the moon is down, that lake will be swarming with canoes,” said Medina.

“We could discourage the first swarm with a flare and the Lewis gun,” said Garson.

“And likely discourage El Grillo in the bargain!” snapped Luac.

“Not if Maria explains this to him.”

“I explain,” said Maria Gomez.

“This is a mistake,” said Luac.

“Porque la luz?” asked Medina. Why the light?

“So they see me.”

“They’ll think she’s escaping,” said Garson.

“She’ll be a nice clear target,” said Luac.

“Maybe you shoot at me, too,” she said.

“No!” snapped Garson. “They know we wouldn’t shoot at you. If we did shoot, they know we couldn’t miss. It’d give the whole show away.”

“La luz, Choco,” she said.

“What about it, Patron?” asked Medina.

“I refuse to have any part of this. Make your own decisions!”

“A flare would be a smart move,” said Garson. “If she went out there in the dark, they’d think it was one of us and just open fire.”

“There can be nothing smart about an act of stupidity!” snapped Luac. “They will shoot her anyway.”

“I weel go,” she said.

“Then I’d better give her the light,” said Medina.

“Suit yourself!” said Luac.

Medina found the flare gun, loaded it, turned to Maria Gomez. “Vaya con Dios, Abuelita.”

Go with God, little grandmother. Garson shuddered, almost called out to stop her.

Anita Luac moved up beside him. “I’m afraid!” she whispered.

Again a flare arched over the lake, swung lazily downward.

Immediately, Maria Gomez moved out the door and across the terrace, going rapidly in her curious shambling walk.

They watched her unchain the boat, clamber into it, take up the oars and begin rowing across the lake.

“I told you they wouldn’t shoot!” said Garson.

“You are speaking too soon,” said Luac.

The rowboat reached the halfway mark, crossed it. Suddenly, a bullet fired from the ridge splatted the water beside the boat.

“You see!” barked Luac.

Another bullet smacked into the stern of the boat at the waterline. The old woman redoubled her efforts, rowing frantically.

“You made a mistake,” said Luac. “The boat is sinking!”

“The caribe!” said Garson. “If the boat sinks…”

“She may yet make it,” said Luac. “Nita!”

“Yes, Father.”

“Let Choco out the rear door. Maybe he can silence those men on the ridge.”

They ran across the room, into the darkness of the hall.

“Why’s Raul shooting at her?” asked Garson.

“Because it’s obvious that she’s going for help.”

Garson looked up at the swaying flare—another ten minutes of light. “We should’ve shot the flare out lower!”

Another shot hit the rowboat alongside Maria, showered her with water. They recognized the sharp splat of Raul’s Luger.

Now, they could see that the boat was sinking rapidly.

“Why doesn’t he just kill her and be done with it?” demanded Garson.

“That’s not Raul’s way,” said Luac. “He likes to see the caribe get them alive!”

Anita Luac returned from the rear of the house, stared out at the lake, turned and buried her head against Garson’s chest. “I can’t look!”

Another shot from the Luger smacked into the rowboat at the stern. It was followed immediately by the roar of a rifle, and another fusillade sounded from the ridge.

Less than a hundred yards separated Maria Gomez from the opposite shore.

They could see groups of men along the other dock and on the shore watching her plight. The rowboat showed less than an inch above the water, moved sluggishly in spite of the old woman’s frantic efforts.

“Why don’t those men over there do something?” demanded Garson.

He stared at Maria Gomez struggling beneath the blue-white torment of the flare.

“What can they do?” asked Luac. “They fear that if they go onto the lake, they will become targets.”

Garson’s eyes caught movement to the right, pointed. “El Grillo!”

The gnome figure of the little Mexican bent over a paddle, shooting his dugout toward the sinking rowboat.

“I think he will be too late,” said Luac.

Anita Luac looked up, stared fascinated for a moment, again hid her eyes against Garson.

Something flashed silver and splashed across the foundering gunwale of the rowboat. Maria stood up, struck at it with the oar. She turned, screamed at El Grillo, who redoubled his efforts.

“Why doesn’t Raul shoot at El Grillo, too?” asked Garson.

“Choco may be keeping them occupied.”

Another silver flash leaped the sinking gunwale. Maria tried to climb onto the rowboat’s seat. Her foot slipped, and she fell sideways into the lake. One hand reappeared, vanished.

Even from the peninsula they could see the water boil with caribe.

El Grillo’s canoe shot across the disturbed water. He looked down once, then stared at the peninsula. A flick of his paddle turned the canoe back the way he had come.

The flare came down to the lake, seemed to hover there for a moment, then hissed into the water.

Garson stared into the darkness, a sick feeling in his stomach.

Anita Luac looked up at him, a question in her eye.

Garson shook his head.

She shuddered.

“That’s torn it,” said Luac. “We may all be fish food before morning!”

“I don’t like the quiet on the ridge,” said Garson.

“That fiend,” said Anita Luac.

“Do you have any more brilliant ideas, Mr. Garson?” asked Luac.

“Shut up!” barked Garson.

As long as he lived, Garson knew he would carry that scene in his mind: the old woman struggling, falling, the water boiling with the terrible fish.

“Someone’s coming,” said Luac. “It’s Choco.”

Medina slipped in the door. “I winged Raul!”

“What’re they doing up on the ridge?” asked Luac.

“They’re staying put!”

“Is Raul seriously injured?”

“I don’t know. He fell, but then he crawled away.”

“Did you see the… lake?” asked Garson.

“I saw.”

“If we could only signal El Grillo,” said Garson.

“Ah, hope,” said Luac. “The carrot on the stick leading us into eternity!”

“There may be a way,” said Garson. “El Grillo told me to signal him with a white cloth if I wanted him to come for me.”

“Well, you just go right out there and wave to him now,” said Luac.

Garson ignored the jibe. “He told me to hang the cloth on a limb near that mudbank where he let me out.”

“And you believe this will bring him?”

“Why not?”

“He might do it, Father,” said Anita Luac.

“And the sun may rise tomorrow in the west!”

“Give me a revolver,” said Garson. “I’m going to try to tie a handkerchief on one of those bushes. I’ll want both hands free.”

“I will do it,” said Medina.

“You’re wounded,” said Garson. “This one’s easy. It’s away from the ridge where Raul and his men are.”

“They could be working around behind us right now,” said Medina. “I don’t see why they haven’t already tried.”

“Maybe you discouraged them,” said Garson. “Give me a revolver.”

Medina went into the darkness at one side of the room, returned with a bullet-studded belt, a holster and a gun. “This is my last spare thirty-eight,” he said. “Try not to lose it.”

“I’ll do my best,” said Garson.

“And this time, aim two inches lower,” said Medina.

Anita Luac came up beside Garson. “Be careful,” she whispered.

“This is another stupidity!” said Luac. “El Grillo will not come for us. He may very well think we’re the ones who killed his sister just now.”

“Then does he believe in personal revenge?” asked Garson.

“He’s Mexican!”

“Then he’ll come.”

“But if he thinks I…”

“He’ll come,” repeated Garson. “For one reason or another, he’ll come. Because he has a price, or to get revenge on you—he’ll come.”

“Ahhhhhh,” said Luac. “Now I am relegated to the role of bait! Not yet bait for the worms, but soon enough that, too, eh?”

“Do you think he could stand against four of us?” asked Garson.

“He could stand against a thousand who trusted a fool to guide them!”

“Maybe there’s a better way,” said Anita Luac.

“Oh, let him try,” said Luac.

“Perhaps it will work,” said Medina. He was staring at the shadows of the far shore. “They still are not coming.”

“They’ve just had an object lesson on why they should stay off the lake,” said Luac. He pointed to the moon-silvered hills beyond the lake. “But they will have their darkness soon. See those clouds.”

They all moved closer to the window, looked at a line of black clouds moving in across the hills. “It is early for the rains,” said Luac. “But this is the kind of luck we may expect!”

“What will Raul be doing now?” asked Garson.

“He is like a wounded tiger,” said Medina. “He is waiting for his moment to leap from ambush!”

Garson studied the far shore. We’ll be caught like a nut in the jaws of a nutcracker if we don’t get out of here before Raul’s men come down from the ridge and across the lake! And if they catch us on the lake…

He shuddered.

“The sooner the better,” said Medina.

Garson buckled the cartridge belt around his waist, settled the revolver in its holster.

“As soon as I get back, we can shoot up another flare so El Grillo will see the signal.”

“For luck,” said Anita Luac. She handed him a white scarf. “Tie that to the bush!”

“The knight goes forth!” muttered Luac.

Garson stood by the door for a moment. The moonlight on the terrace suddenly seemed to take on the brightness of a searchlight.

“Stay low and hug the wall,” said Medina.

Garson nodded, slipped outside, crouched and ran to the right, paused in the shadows at the corner of the house. The muggy warmth of the night seemed to hold a special menace. He steeled himself against the fear that tortured his nerves, moved back along the house to the garden wall, paused.

The sounds of the insects came to him amplified out of all proportion by his fear-tuned senses. He crouched, crossed an open space to the shadows of a line of bushes, felt the sand of the trail under his feet.

Stealthily, listening at every step, he worked his way down the trail to the lakeshore. He came to the log where he had hidden the empty revolver, froze as he thought he heard movement behind him. The darkness revealed nothing.

He turned back to the lake. It lay before him smooth as a piece of luminescent oiled silk. The far shore was a bank of grotesque shadows between the lake and the moon-silvered hills.

Garson stepped forward, bent back a limb of a bush at his side and let it whip back into place. He crouched, fearful of the noise his movements had produced. And now, he noticed with an abrupt choking sensation of fear that the sounds of the insects behind him had taken on an irregular pattern. It was like the movement of a zone of silence toward him.

With infinite care, Garson stooped, crawled forward, drew his revolver and stretched out behind the rotten log.

Something grated on the sand of the trail.

Light exploded above the lake.

Garson cursed under his breath, believing in that moment that Luac had betrayed him. Then he saw the pattern of falling sparks from the rocket. They formed a zig-zag tracing back to the ridge above the hacienda.

We’re not the only ones with flares!

The bushes above Garson cast a meager shadow. He tried to move farther back into the obscurity, froze at a low voice from the swamp on his left.

“Ah, Mr. Garson!”

Raul Separdo! Garson tried to probe the blackness of the swamp, saw only twisting shadows and the reflection of the flare from glistening leaves.

“Drop your gun, Mr. Garson.”

The low voice, despite its emotionless flatness, carried the heaviest threat that Garson had ever heard. His fingers seemed to open of their own accord. The revolver plopped into the leaves.

Separdo, dragging his left foot in a twisting limp, came out of the swamp, crossed to a position beside Garson, bent and retrieved the revolver.

“Now, we will wait for Choco to come to the rescue,” said Separdo.

He grinned down at Garson, his face like a hole-pierced mask in the blue-white glare.

Separdo’s alone, thought Garson. One of those dugouts couldn’t hold more than three persons. Choco accounted for one of them. Someone on the ridge fired the flare. That means one against one here if I can trick him off guard!

“Be very cautious about your movements,” whispered Separdo. He backed away from Garson into the shadows of the bushes. Separdo’s left leg dragged heavily. He grimaced at every step.

A wounded tiger!

Garson looked up the sanded line of the trail. Choco will come! He’ll wait for a reasonable length of time, then he’ll come searching. He twisted his head very slowly, looked up at the dazzling brilliance of the flare. It had been fired lower than the others, but there was still five minutes of light. Maybe Choco will wait for the darkness.

Evidently Separdo had the same idea. He whispered from the darkness: “Choco will wait until the light is gone. But I have the ears of a cat, my friend. Do not disturb the leaves around you. And when Choco comes, give no warning, or my first bullets will be for you!”

Garson swallowed in sick impotence, abruptly recalled the empty revolver he had hidden beneath this log. He guessed the position of it to almost where his left hand rested on the leaves. Slowly, Garson moved his hand into the damp earth beneath the log. The leaves rustled.

“What are you doing?” hissed Separdo.

“Something crawling up my sleeve,” whispered Garson.

“Perhaps a scorpion,” said Separdo. “Leave it alone.”

Garson’s questing hand encountered only the earth.

The shadows from the flare crept across the ground, darkness blotted out the scene.

Garson’s heart hammered. He could feel clammy perspiration running down his jaw line, down his neck, along his sides. It felt like so many running insects.

A twig snapped in the darkness.

Separdo’s Luger dug into Garson’s side.

Someone went “Hssssst!” from the swamp side.

The Luger dug deeper.

Garson moved his left hand along under the log, fighting to hide the motion. He had no idea what he would do with the empty gun when he found it, only felt the great need of it in his hand.

Above him, Separdo went “Hssssst!”

An answering sound came from the swamp.

Garson’s hand encountered cold metal.

The Luger was removed from his side. He felt rather than heard Separdo move back.

The revolver came out from under the log with only the faintest rustling of a leaf. It felt crusted under his hand, and he wondered if it would work even if he managed to get bullets from his belt and into the cylinder.

Footsteps grated on the trail beside the log.

The Luger cracked in a blue spurt of flame above Garson’s head, was answered by the roar of Medina’s revolver.

Two bodies collided above Garson. A foot dug into his back, was gone. Garson shook the revolver, broke it open, dug frantically for cartridges, fumbled them into the cylinder, closed it.

A loud sound came from directly ahead of Garson. Medina cursed. There came a moment of silence. The circle of a small penlight dug a hole out of the night, revealed Medina on hands and knees feeling across the ground for his revolver. The dim figure of Separdo stood outlined behind the light, the Luger held in his right hand.

The light flicked once across Garson’s face, back to Medina.

“Do you want it like that, Choco?” asked Separdo. He chuckled. “Or will you try running and give me a moving target?”

Garson said a silent prayer that no earth clogged the revolver. He brought it up, squeezed the trigger. He seemed to feel the kick of the gun in his hand before he heard the shot.

Separdo stumbled backward. The penlight in his hand described a slow arc from the ground up across the bushes. He sprawled sideways off the trail. The light fell, was extinguished.

There came the sound of swift movement from Medina’s position, then his voice: “Garson?”

“Yes?”

“You got him!”

“Is he dead? Check! Are you all right, Choco?”

“Yes. He missed me.” Medina came closer. “Again I owe you a debt, Señor.”

“No, Choco. This was one that took both of us.” He explained what happened, speaking quickly in a low voice.

Medina laughed softly, gripped Garson’s arm. “Now, I will teach you a trick. If one pushes a limb ahead of one along a trail like this where it will make noise, the sound will hide one’s own passing, and never give the true position!”

Garson recalled the grating sound on the trail just before Separdo fired, seemed to hear Luac’s voice saying: “Choco knows many bad tricks!”

At the house, Luac accepted their story with only a grunt when they said Separdo was dead.

Anita Luac dug her fingers into Garson’s arm while he spoke. Her face in the moonlight revealed a wide-eyed elation.

“I shouldn’t be glad,” she whispered. “But I am!”

“There’s still one of them on the ridge,” said Medina.

“Leave him,” said Luac. “The clouds will be across the moon in a few minutes. Get the flare pistol ready.” He bent over the machine gun, smoothed the cartridge belt.

Garson took up a rifle, moved to the window ledge beside Luac, sat down and rested the rifle across the broken glass. Anita Luac took up a position beside him with another rifle.

“There’s movement along the shore,” said Medina.

“Where?” asked Luac.

“Down toward the printing plant. They may be trying to get some more men around the edge.”

“Try a few shots with the rifle, Mr. Garson,” said Luac. “We do not want them to know yet about the Lewis gun.”

Garson brought up his rifle, aimed it into the blackness down the lake, squeezed off one shot. Immediately, a crackling of return fire came from directly across the lake. He got off two more shots before ducking behind the window, heard Anita’s rifle fire once. She crouched down beside him.

Antone Luac’s voice came from the shadows. “Olaf’s force is across there. They are organized and well directed.”

“I fear you’re right, Patron,” said Medina.

“That toad!” said Anita Luac.

Garson watched the moonlight fading from the floor behind the window, lifted his head, stared across the lake. An occasional rifle shot still sparked from the opposite shore. He heard bullets slam into the adobe wall, felt curiously immune to them, as though the darkness were a shield.

The moon became a misty luminescence behind the clouds, grew darker, darker. The lake faded into blackness.

“Now we count off a couple of minutes,” said Luac.

“Give them three minutes,” said Medina. They heard him counting under his breath.

The seconds passed like hours. They could hear a faint whispering of sound on the lake.

“Let there be light!” said Luac.

The rocket arched into the darkness, exploded to hissing brilliance. The light revealed a long line of canoes out from the far shore, paddles frozen for one instant like a great tableau. Then several back-paddled. Others shot their canoes ahead. The heavy cracking of rifles punctuated by spurts of flame winked along the shore behind the canoes.

“Now!” snapped Medina.

The Lewis gun flamed and roared beside Garson. Its bullets started at the far left, swept across the canoes like a deadly scythe.

The rifle fire from the shore stopped as though in shock, then came on with a redoubled crescendo. Bullets smacked all along the wall, around the window, against the back wall of the room.

Garson pushed Anita down below the window ledge, held his own gaze fascinated on the scene across the lake.

The Lewis gun began a second deadly traverse through the shattered canoes, then lifted to the shore.

“Another belt, Choco,” said Luac.

“Sí, Patron.”

Garson could smell paint blistering from the window ledge near the gun barrel as it concentrated on one grouping of rifle flamings.

Again the machine gun traversed the far shore.

Now, there were only sporadic shots from the darkness across the lake.

“I wonder what Olaf is thinking now?” said Luac. He stopped firing.

The lake across from them was a scene of madness: overturned canoes, floundering and screaming men, the deadly boiling of the caribe through the water.

They could see a few men make it to the opposite dock. Others fell back, sank from sight.

“They will not try that again soon,” said Luac.

“It’s horrible!” said Anita.

Garson became conscious that she had straightened, was staring at the lake as fascinated as he.

“Now, I will tell you something,” said Luac. “What we have just done makes it absolutely necessary that none of us is captured alive.

Garson stared at him. “What?”

“Sí,” muttered Medina. He looked down at Anita Luac. “Señorita, you must not let them take you.” He shifted his attention to Garson. “If it becomes necessary, save one bullet for the Señorita and one for yourself, Mr. Garson.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Choco and I have seen the peon legions in action,” said Luac. “We will all keep in mind that it would be a kindness to my daughter and to ourselves if…”

“Stop it, Father!”

“Yes, my dear.” His voice was strangely gentle.

Medina stirred restlessly. “This is not like Queretero, eh, Patron?”

“No, Choco. Then we had Pancho telling us what to do.”

“I do not think we have much time, Patron.”

“I was thinking the same thing, Choco. This is a long gamble. I will spike the machine gun now.”

Garson stared at the shadowy figure of Luac. “Spike the…”

“We must go down to the lake,” said Medina. “If El Grillo comes, we must be there.”

“What if they shoot up a flare?” asked Garson.

“I do not believe they want light,” said Luac. “Eh, Choco?”

“That is my thought, Patron.”

Luac said, “There! They will not use this weapon!” He stood up, turned away into the darkness at the rear of the house. “Excuse me one moment.”

“Listen!” hissed Garson.

They became very still.

The murmuring of many voices came from across the lake.

“How many men over there, Choco?”

“They could muster perhaps three hundred. I think we caught about half of them on the lake.”

Antone Luac returned, his shoulder bent under a heavy suitcase. Medina took it from him.

“Our insurance policy,” said Luac.

The manuscripts! thought Garson.

“Stay close behind me,” said Medina.

Garson hung a bandolier of rifle cartridges over his shoulder, slung a rifle over the bandolier. Anita came up beside him, slipped her hand in his.

“Do you hear something on the lake?” asked Luac.

“I think they are making another try, Patron.”

“So soon!”

“I believe they are angry, Patron. Were I directing them, I would make the rush silently in a body, and detail men to shoot down another flare if we try to light up the lake.”

“This is not good,” whispered Luac. “Garson! Remember what I said about them taking us alive!”

“Let us go,” said Medina.

They slipped out the front door into the thick warmth of the night. Now they could hear faint splashings on the lake.

Garson felt the trail underfoot, saw the ghostly movement of Medina ahead, felt Anita’s palm moist against his own. Her silence was like a resignation, a giving up of hope.

At the lakeshore, they crouched in the bushes. The heavy moisture of the night seemed to close in on them, crawling with the movement of insects.

Antone Luac put his mouth close to Garson’s ear, whispered: “If someone other than El Grillo comes, we must try to take the canoes silently.”

Garson patted the old man’s shoulder to show that he understood.

A soft splash sounded from the lake directly ahead of them. Garson tensed. It could have been a fish, or a piece of dirt dropping from the bank. He put Anita’s hand into her father’s, slipped forward.

Directly beneath him a soft voice whispered: “Señor Garson?”

“Yes.”

Now he could make out a dim movement of white, the darker blot of a log canoe on the lake.

“It is El Grillo,” whispered the voice. “I saw your signal. Are you alone?”

“No. The Luacs and Choco are with me.”

“That was my guess. I brought two canoes.”

Medina whispered in Garson’s ear, voice so low that Garson had to strain to hear it. “I smell a trap. Be very careful!”

Garson tried to ignore the hammering of his heart. He reached back for Anita, drew her forward and passed her down to El Grillo’s canoe.

A door slammed at the hacienda. They froze to waiting stillness.

Medina hissed, “Quickly!” He helped Luac down to the spare canoe, handed him the heavy suitcase of manuscripts.

Garson slipped into the front of El Grillo’s canoe, saw Medina take the stern of the other. Side by side, they pushed into the lake, turned right along the shore.

Louder sounds came from the hacienda. A powerful flashlight speared into the lake along the dock. Someone cursed. The light was extinguished.

The two canoes skimmed into the upper curve of the lake, moving with fewer than six feet between them.

Abruptly, El Grillo whispered, “Wait!”

Paddles dug into the water. The canoes stopped, drifted.

Garson experienced a sudden sense of extreme menace, glanced back at the dim figure of El Grillo in the stern. El Grillo turned to the other canoe.

“Patron,” he said.

“What is it, Grillito?”

“I have some questions, Patron.”

“Later!” hissed Medina.

Garson stared at the other canoe coasting slowly beside them, the darker shadows of the swamp edge behind it.

“This is a shotgun in my lap,” said El Grillo. “It has a hair trigger. It is pointed at you.”

Anita gasped. Their canoe tipped, steadied.

“Who killed my nephew, Eduardo?” demanded El Grillo.

“Raul Separdo, you fool!” said Luac.

Garson slipped his revolver from its holster, slowly moved it around until it pointed past Anita toward El Grillo.

“And who shot the boat from under my sister?” demanded El Grillo.

“Don’t be an idiot!” said Medina. “You know it was Raul!”

“Perhaps you ordered both of them to be killed, Patron!”

“No!” said Anita.

“I have you covered with my gun, El Grillo,” said Garson. “Drop your shotgun over the side!”

“You are a child,” said El Grillo. “I could still sink the other canoe even with your bullet in me. The caribe would do the rest. The recoil of my gun would overturn this canoe unless I was here to prevent it with my paddle.”

Antone Luac said, “Stop this nonsense, Grillito!”

“I do not think it is nonsense, Patron.” Again Garson felt the canoe shift and steady under him. “I give you a choice: You two will swim ashore in the swamp. Your daughter and the foolish gringo I will take to my barrio and help to escape.”

“That’s no choice,” said Garson.

Anita said, “My father’s telling you the truth!”

“You, of course, would say so,” said El Grillo.

Garson glanced back toward the hacienda, saw lights glowing now in the windows, the movement of many people on the lakeshore. He looked across at the other canoe, thought of how quickly the caribe would swarm, attracted by Medina’s wound.

“You know Raul gave the orders around here,” said Luac. “You know we were his prisoners!”

“So you say, Patron.”

“And I have already killed Raul for you,” said Garson. “You should realize that we’re not lying. The shots that sank your sister’s boat came from the ridge beyond the hacienda. You know Raul was up there.”

“Why would Raul kill my nephew?” asked El Grillo.

Garson sensed that the man was weakening, knew that the time they were losing could be fatal. “He found out that Eduardo was responsible for my coming here. Eduardo was working with me to rescue the Luacs.”

“Then why did Raul kill my sister?”

“Because he was afraid that she had discovered who killed Eduardo and was crossing the lake to tell you!”

“Let us waste no more time. If we stay here, we die. I shall take the chance and believe you,” said El Grillo. “Your words ring of truth.” His paddle dipped into the lake. The canoe shot ahead.

Garson felt faint with relief. Anita bent forward, gripped his arm until it hurt.

The canoes approached the log raft at the barrio.

Without warning, they were bathed in the glare of a powerful spotlight. From the darkness at one side came a guttural voice.

“Good evening, Antone.”

Luac grunted, “Olaf!”

Garson lifted one hand to shield his eyes from the light.

A squat, fat man waddled into the field of the light. He wore dark trousers, an orange shirt with a pink bandanna at the throat, a dark beret. His face was dominated by the wide gash of a thick-lipped mouth, slitted eyes. The nose and chin were porcine, but the total effect was—as Anita had said—that of a toad.

“I knew that if you got through you would come for the car,” said Olaf. He turned to the other canoe. “Ah, Nita! As lovely as ever, I see. And this would be the ingenious Mr. Hal Garson.” He nodded. “Quite a cargo you have, Grillo.”

Garson sensed a total cessation of activity across the lake at the hacienda, turned, saw men lining the shore there, rifles raised.

Olaf lifted a hand from his side, revealed a machine pistol. “Such a bitter parting for old friends,” he said.

El Grillo shifted in the stern of the canoe. “Olaf!”

“Yes, Grillo?”

“You may have the gringo here and the girl, but Choco and the old man are mine!”

“Oh? And what makes you think I want those two?”

“You will have questions for Mr. Garson. And I believe you will have other uses for the Señorita.”

“It does seem a shame to waste such beauty on the caribe,” said Olaf. “But you do not appear in a position to bargain, Grillo.”

“I think you want these two,” said El Grillo. “What happens to them if I tip over the canoe?”

Olaf turned his toad face to Antone Luac. “This has become quite interesting, don’t you think, Antone?”

Luac remained silent, breathing heavily.

“Why are Choco and Mr. Luac so important to you, Grillo?”

“They killed Eduardo. They killed Maria!”

“Then why did you bring them across the lake?”

“To bring them so close to what they would lose!”

Olaf guffawed. “How Mexican!”

“I think I will paddle back to the hacienda now,” said El Grillo. “The men over there will know how to treat the gringo and the Señorita.”

“Wait!” Olaf sounded amused.

Garson moved his hand toward his revolver.

“Careful!” said Olaf. The muzzle of the machine pistol came up, stared at him like an unwinking eye.

“Choco and the old man are mine to do with as I please?” asked El Grillo.

Olaf nodded. “Yes.”

El Grillo’s paddle dipped into the water, turned the canoe slightly to the left. The machine pistol still stared at Garson.

A roaring “No!” came from Medina.

Out of the corner of his eye, Garson saw Medina’s hand blur toward his pistol, knew that the big Mexican would be too late even as he saw the machine pistol swing toward the other canoe.

A double roar came from behind Garson, tipping the canoe until the gunwale shipped water. El Grillo raised the shotgun.

Olaf staggered, walked forward on tiptoe, the machine pistol slipping from his hands. He fell face down into the water, a great patch of red across the back of his orange shirt. Silver forms darted in the shallows. One of Olaf’s outstretched hands moved.

“We must hurry!” said El Grillo. He shot the canoe forward to the log raft.

Garson could hear shouts from the lake, turned, saw the canoes nearly halfway across. A rifle barked from one of the forward canoes. A geyser of mud kicked up beside the crude dock. Garson lifted his own rifle from the canoe bottom, leaped to the dock and began firing slowly, picking targets.

Medina’s revolver barked once. The spotlight shattered, plunging the shore into darkness.

The line of canoes halted, retreated. More shots flashed from the canoes and from the far shore. Garson heard bullets strike the ground around them.

The others scrambled onto the raft-dock. They all ran for the limousine.

Garson heard Luac say, “Grillo, take the mountain road! Head for Guadalajara!”

The limousine roared and skidded as El Grillo sent it rushing out of the barrio and down the track that Garson had climbed in the heat.

Once, a horseman come out of the brush behind them, whirled and shot at the fleeing car. Medina leaned precariously out of his window, fired back until the man plunged his horse into the brush.

They stopped once in the night at a sleeping village. Lightning forked the sky around them, and thunder rolled. Somewhere, a horse whinnied in terror.

El Grillo routed out a sleepy woman who filled their gas tank from standing barrels. And again they were off down the road to Guadalajara.

The time passed in a plunging of headlights through the night—between the scaling mud walls of villages, across cobblestones, several times bumping over the railroad tracks that had carried Garson to Ciudad Brockman—and eventually onto a paved highway that speared across the highlands.

Garson took the ride in a kind of somnolent retreat, filled with suspicions and anger, with self-recriminations. He thought he slept at one point, but he was not sure. The events of the day and night seemed to have drained him of the ability to follow his own emotions.

The big limousine bounced across a rutted stretch of highway without slackening speed, splashed through a mudhole. El Grillo drove like a marionette with quick movements of his thin hands. The night rushed past the car.

From his seat in the right rear of the limousine, Garson stared at the back of El Grillo’s neck. Choco Medina, beside El Grillo, turned and spoke to the little driver. The closed glass between the two sections effectively blanked out the conversation.

Ahead, Garson could see the lights of Guadalajara reflected from low lying clouds. There had been rain, but now the air was clear with the fresh washed aftermath of the downpour and the danger.

Anita sat stiffly beside Garson, her father on the other side. All during the ride from Ciudad Brockman she had refused conversation. A mocking light had been strong in her eyes.

Garson felt the sick stirring of anger within him.

I’ve had it! They’ve used me and no longer need me!

“Where’ll we go in Guadalajara?” asked Garson.

Luac glanced at him. “We will take you to the airport and then be on our way.”

“Will I ever see you again?”

“Probably not.”

The events of the past days were beginning to take on a new pattern in Garson’s mind. He said, “Maria Gomez spoke good English.”

“Excellent English,” said Luac.

“So did Eduardo.”

“Of the finest,” said Luac. “He…” He broke off.

“Who wrote that pidgin English letter?” demanded Garson.

“One of my better creations!” said Luac.

“Why did you choose me?” demanded Garson.

“You were recommended by… friends.”

Garson felt the papers under this shirt, the list of names and addresses. “One of the contacts on the list you gave me?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. What do you intend to do with that list, Mr. Garson?”

“I intend to give it to the F.B.I.”

“How noble of you.”

“Why don’t you two be quiet?” said Anita.

“We’re just having a last pleasant conversation,” said Luac.

“Why did you want me to discover you?” asked Garson.

“Well, the original plan was for us to attract you to Ciudad Brockman. Then I was to stumble upon you in the city, give you my story to get rid of you—reluctantly, of course, and…”

“But why?”

“Very simple. We didn’t think we could escape from the hacienda. But we knew if they moved us, we could probably get away—especially with Choco helping. You understand that escape had become necessary? Raul was… well, you saw.”

“Very neat.”

“I thought so at the time. Then you blundered in with your mouth and tipped the whole show. Raul’s spies alerted him. He confined me to the hacienda. He eliminated Eduardo, tried to eliminate you with that chunk of concrete. It became horribly mixed up!”

“Indeed it did. So this whole thing was a scheme to expose your hiding place and force them to move you!”

“Clever, eh?”

“Absolutely! I imagine that Eduardo and Maria Gomez—wherever they are—are just bubbling with admiration!”

“Fortunes of war!”

A strange coughing sound came from Anita. She put a hand to her face.

Garson glanced at her, returned his attention to the shadowy figure of her father. In that moment, Garson felt a complete hate and revulsion toward Luac.

He’s an utter monster!

“Are you still going to write your story?” asked Luac.

“About you?”

“What else?” He chuckled. “It should make an interesting article.”

Garson shook his head. “Not an article. Non-fiction couldn’t do it justice.” The thought captured Garson’s interest. “Yes, I believe I’ll do this one as fiction. It wouldn’t help the general peace of mind to know that a monster like you exists anywhere except in a writer’s fevered imagination.”

This seemed to bother Luac. He said, “But you came to get an article!”

“I was lured here to suit a madman’s whim!”

“Do it!” Luac’s face set into grim lines. He fell silent.

Anita glanced up at Garson, looked away.

God help me! he thought. I still want her! And there is no hope for me. She’s cut in the same terrible pattern as her father.

Luac shifted his position. “I would advise you never to come back to Mexico, Garson.”

“Why?”

“The friends of those we killed on the lake.”

“Won’t they be after your skin, too?”

“Yes, but I have a million places to go. I think you will be safe if you stay away from the border.”

“You think? Won’t there be some big investigation of this? Won’t I be questioned about my part in it?”

“Hah! The authorities will never learn about it—officially, that is. The friends of those we killed will want secrecy as much as we do.”

“What about your friend, the colonel of police at Ciudad Brockman?”

“Bartolomé? He sees no evil, hears no evil, tells no evil! That might involve work. And there’d certainly be no money in it. I will see that Bartolomé gets the job of selling the hacienda. It will mean a tidy profit for him. He will see that a prospective buyer finds nothing to disturb him.”

Garson sat back in a silent rage. What a monster!

El Grillo lifted his right hand, opened the glass partition. “Patron.”

Luac leaned forward.

El Grillo indicated a white sign ahead that pointed left—the airport. Garson could see the flashing lights on signal towers in the distance. The car slowed.

“Ah, yes,” said Luac. He settled back, glanced at his wrist-watch. “One-forty a.m. Excellent time from Ciudad Brockman.”

The limousine turned left toward the towers, presently stopped before a spotlighted stone building with a wide ramp leading up to the front. Garson experienced a sudden feeling of unreality—as though this visible evidence of civilization were false, nowhere near as actual as the hacienda and the lake from which they had escaped.

But he felt also that the events of the night had taken place in another century: long, long ago, and in another country.

And something made him recall the lines from The Jew of Malta: “But that was in another country, and besides the wench is dead.”

He kept his eyes from looking at Anita Luac, got out of the car, heard her follow.

Luac slapped his knees. “Well, here we are!” He slid across the seat, looked up at Garson. “We’ll wait while you check on the next flight. Perhaps you’ll need a ride into Guadalajara. Do you have money?”

“I have checks and a letter of credit.”

Now, he permitted himself to glance at Anita Luac. She stood beside the front door of the limousine, a wan look on her face, staring up at the stone building of the airport. She had never looked more beautiful to Garson—nor more desirable… nor more distant.

Anita turned, avoided his eyes, bent toward her father. “Do you think the coffee shop’s open?”

“It used to stay open all night. Are you hungry?”

“I need some coffee.” She reached in, took a purse from a pocket on the back of the front seat, opened it, glanced inside. “Give me some more money, Father.”

“Why?”

“I’m going to buy Mr. Garson’s ticket.”

Sudden anger flared in Garson. “Don’t put yourself to any trouble!”

She smiled with the open lift of mockery. “This is the least we can do for you.”

“I’ll buy my own ticket and be happily shut of you!”

“Let her have her own way,” said Luac. “I’ve seen this mood before.” He pressed a roll of bills into her purse.

She turned, patted Garson’s cheek. “Don’t try to stop me, darling. I shall make the most dreadful scene if you do.” She went up the ramp and into the airport building.

“I’ll buy you a cup of coffee,” said Luac. He got out of the car, stretched.

“Your sudden generosity overwhelms me.”

Choco Medina opened his door, emerged. The big Mexican’s mustache drooped forlornly. Lines of fatigue were etched into his pockmarked face. He looked like a morose St. Bernard.

“We will not likely see each other again,” he said.

Garson nodded. “That’s one thing I regret.”

“How touching,” murmured Luac.

Garson put out his hand, shook with Medina. “Thanks for everything, Choco.”

“It is I who am indebted to you, Señor.”

“Shall we be going?” snapped Luac. “Choco, you and El Grillo wait here.”

“Sí, Patron.” He saluted Garson. “Adiosito… Hal.”

Garson blinked, experienced a sudden choked feeling. He turned away quickly, followed Luac into the building. They crossed an almost empty lobby, entered the brightly lit coffee shop.

A scattering of airport personnel sat at the tables, several men in business suits looking tired and bored. Large windows at one side gave a view of two spotlighted planes, men working around them.

Garson and Luac took a corner table. A tired-eyed waitress crossed to them.

Luac held up three fingers. “Tres cafes.”

She nodded, went back across the room.

Garson felt the drained-out limpness of fatigue in his muscles, the sick bitterness of frustration.

They used me, by God!

Anita came in looking distantly poised, sat down across from Garson. “Your plane leaves in an hour and half.”

“You two needn’t stay and hold my hand.”

“Oh, but we want to.” She took an envelope from her purse, put it on the table in front of Garson. “Your ticket.”

“Thanks. Thanks loads!” The bitter anger overcame his control. He pushed himself away from the table, surged to his feet. “Why don’t you shove off?”

“Tired of us so soon, darling?” she murmured.

Luac was studying his daughter with a puzzled expression.

Garson stepped around the table, glared down at her. The mockery in her eyes was suddenly washed away by something that seemed to stare out at him from some deep well. She got to her feet, looked up at him.

“What’re you waiting for?” demanded Garson.

“Perhaps I forgot something,” she whispered.

He felt that they were suddenly in a vacuum—the murmurous coffee shop sounds around them did not exist. The curious glances of the other patrons were nothing to him. There were only these two people, Garson and Anita Luac, in a moment frozen out of time.

“Maybe you did forget something.” He reached with savage violence, jerked her to him, crushing his mouth onto hers. She accepted the kiss without resistance, without response.

Garson pushed her away. “Is that what you forgot?”

She shook her head from side to side. The look on her face, the light in her eyes, made him think of a diabolic Madonna.

Her arms went around his neck. She pressed against him, lifted her lips, stared up at his eyes.

Garson found that he could not resist.

The kiss shook him with desire and bitterness. It made him think of the garden behind the hacienda, of all the empty years ahead of him without her.

She pulled away, whispered softly, “That is what I forgot.”

He took a shuddering breath, noted abruptly that Antone Luac had disappeared from the table. “Couldn’t your father stand to look at our parting?”

Anita shook her head, held up her hand. Her fingers grasped an envelope. “He saw what he accomplished.”

“Saw what?”

“My ticket.”

It was like a dash of cold water across the face. “Your tick…”

“Don’t you want me to go with you?”

All he could do was nod. Then: “Why did you do it like this?”

A look of sadness and infinite regret crossed her face. “I didn’t know how to tell him.” She shrugged, and something very like anger replaced the sadness in her face. “I fought this dreadful scheme of his from the first. I knew it would come to no good.” Her eyes seemed to burn into Garson’s. “He destroyed everything I loved. The hacienda—I can never return! And poor old Maria…” She shook her head, shuddered.

“Do you trust me on such short notice, Nita?”

“I trust my instincts about you.” Her mocking smile returned, touched only faintly by something wistful. “I make my own decisions, you know.”

“I love you, Nita.”

“And I love you.” She turned her head away, spoke with a slow distinctness. “I don’t want to be like my father: bitter and unhappy. I want to be like me.” She looked back at Garson. “And I never knew what it was like to be me until that night in the grove when we kissed.”

“Is that when…”

Someone coughed beside them.

They turned. A young man in an attendant’s uniform extended an envelope to Anita, leered at Garson. She took the envelope. The young man saluted, departed.

Her hands made nervous, fumbling motions opening the envelope. She pulled out a note, glanced at it, then read it aloud with a husky sadness in her voice:

“You will never be able to find me. I am going with Choco and El Grillo. The enclosed claim check is for your insurance, which I have prepaid through on your tickets. There should be enough money in what I gave you to see you to the States where it is my belief that your young man will take care of matters. He is a fool, but a dependable one according to all reports. If things turn out badly, cash in some of the insurance. Please do not name any of your little fools after me.”

She folded the note, bent over the table, pushed the paper into her purse.

Garson saw tears slipping down her cheeks. “We can still catch him, Nita.” He turned toward the lobby.

“No!” She caught his arm. “He’s already gone. The ground will swallow them.”

“But, after all, he is your father! Won’t you ever hear…”

“Be calm, darling,” she murmured, and the infinite sadness was plain in her voice. “We will hear from my father when he has found a new place to hide.”

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Framed