Christy said, “Now fix me up, Doc. That’s a pretty little nurse. You try anything funny with me and I shoot her right in the small of the back.”
“You are a stupid man, señor. I can work easier if you sit down. There.”
“Is it bad?”
“No. It tore the muscle very little. Hit no bone. Hold still.”
Antiseptic burned through the wound. Christy sucked in his breath sharply. The doctor applied folded bandages to the entrance wound and the exit wound and bound them tightly in place with gauze, wrapping it over the shoulder, under the armpit and around the great chest. He anchored the bandages more securely in place with wide strips of adhesive.
“Done,” the doctor said.
“Now have the girl wash out my shirt in that sink over there and wring it as dry as she can get it.” He took the money from the shirt pocket and threw it toward the girl. She did as she was directed. The doctor spoke to the boy and he came timidly over. The doctor began to finish his work on the infected leg, while the boy watched the gun with wide eyes.
Christy put the damp white shirt on, and then the coat. The doctor looked up. “That will be twenty American dollars, señor.”
Christy laughed. “You make good jokes.”
The doctor turned white around the mouth. “This is my profession and I get paid for my profession, señor. Pay me or I shall go to that window and call to the police.” The dark eyes looked at Christy with contempt, without fear.
“Are you completely nuts?”
The doctor turned his back on the gun and walked steadily to the window.
“All right, all right,” Christy shouted. He threw two tens on the floor. The doctor spoke to the nurse. She picked them up and handed them to him.
“Do you want a receipt, señor?” the doctor asked mildly, amusement in his eyes.
“No,” Christy said thickly. He hurried out. In the waiting room he turned and called back, “None of you leave here for a half hour.”
The doctor and the nurse turned and stared at him as though he were already forgotten. The nurse handed the doctor a roll of adhesive tape and he once again bent over the infected leg.
Halfway down the stairway Christy stopped and tried to plan the next move. It would be wise to wait until nightfall. In some bar he could find a tourist. The tourist would have a car. A car would get him to Vera Cruz or Tampico. Somehow he would get on a ship. He wondered if he’d killed the Ranger. The man had slumped with his head at a funny angle.
Soon they’d check up and find he’d crossed the bridge. They’d be looking for him. The Piedras Chicas police would be looking. They’d have his description. He turned down another side street. It was empty. He found a barred wooden door set into a cement wall. He got his thick fingers around the edge of it, braced his feet and wrenched it open, hearing the squeal as the nails tore free. He went inside and pushed the door shut.
He was in a quiet garden patio. He stood and listened. He fitted the nails back into the holes, wrapped a handkerchief around his knuckles and drove them in. Again he listened. A small fountain tinkled in the middle of the patio. Christy crawled back into a place where the shrubbery was dense. He lay down with his back against the wall.
The torn shoulder throbbed. After an hour had passed, a stocky blonde woman with a ravaged face came out to the flagstones near the fountain. Christy watched her from the shadows. She spread a blanket, returned a few minutes later with a tall bottle and a tiny glass, and lay face down under the brute sun.
Chapter Eight
Snowbirds’ Social
It was blue dusk when Lane Sanson awoke. He sat up with a start, feeling for the car keys in his pocket as he turned, feeling the keys at the same instant as he saw the car, as he saw Diana sleeping in the back. He exhaled slowly. There was a tang of burning cedar scrub in the air and he heard the distant tank-tankle of goat bells.
Sleep had ironed out the torment in her face. It was almost the face of a child. She lay on her left side, facing him, both hands with the palms together under her cheek. A thick rope of the blonde hair lay forward across her throat. He lit a cigarette and watched her in the gathering darkness as he smoked, thinking that few things in the world are more beautiful than the line of a sleeping woman.
His watch had stopped at four. The car clock would still be operating. Soon it would be time to turn back to town. He wondered if he had made a mistake by not insisting that they turn back as soon as she had agreed that it was the thing to do. But if they had been picked up on the road, it might have appeared that they were doubling back, still in flight. Darkness would give them a good chance to reach the hotel without being stopped.
He wondered if Diana could go free by giving evidence. He hoped so.
She began to make small crying sounds in her sleep. Her shoulder twitched. He butted his cigarette against his shoe-sole. She awoke with a start and a frightened cry.
“Oh, Lane!” she said. “I was frightened. I was running and running and the ground was going by under my feet, carrying me backwards no matter how hard I ran and Christy was standing and grinning and waiting for me.”
“We’ve got to go, kitten.”
She stood up and smoothed her dress down with the palms of her hands. “Gee, I’m messy,” she said.
“Still think I’m wrong to take you back?” He stood beside her.
She smiled up into his face. “You gave me a chance to make that decision. I watched you while you slept. There was the car and I knew the keys were in your pocket. There was even a rock. See it over there? As big as a baseball. If I hadn’t decided you were right, you’d have a terrible headache by now, Lane.”
“A little trusting of me to go to sleep, wasn’t it?”
“Maybe that’s why I couldn’t hit you.”
“Well, get in the car. Let’s get this over with.”
He turned the lights on and backed the car around, drove slowly down to the highway. She said, “While you were asleep, a plane was cruising around. I think maybe it was looking for us.”
“We’re important people.”
“Aren’t we though! Oh, Lane. This is so silly. I feel excited, as though I were going to my first dance or something. Why is that?”
“Relief. You don’t know how terribly afraid and guilty you’ve felt ever since you found out what you were mixed up in. Now the decision is made and you aren’t afraid any more.”
“Is it that simple?”
“Why not?”
“Maybe part of it is you, Lane.”
He glanced over at her. “How do you mean?”
She looked straight ahead at the road. “Maybe I love you.”
“I don’t think you should. I mean it’s something that I can’t return.”
“Sandy?”
“I guess so. One-woman man.”
“I thought that might be the way it is. I don’t care.” She moved over close to him. Her shoulder touched his arm. “We’ll pretend we’re driving to a dance or something, shall we?”
“They’re having a good band. And a multi-colored tent for refreshments.”
“There won’t be too many of those square dances, will there?”
“We’ll sit those out, kitten.”
She leaned her head against his shoulder. She sang the rest of the way into Baker. Old songs. The good ones. Her voice was husky and true. He had the feeling that she was singing not to him but to the past and that this was, for her, a sort of farewell.