A Game of Authors Page 13

  “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 Gars
on.

  “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 wristwatch. “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.”