He looked down at his hands and saw the nylon rope. He threw it in her lap. The blond Mexican came back with a loaded tray. He left immediately, and the woman mixed two drinks. She offered one to Pete. He shook his head.
“Go on. You picked me up. What happened after that?”
She grinned. “Forgotten? Gallantry’s certainly not your strong point, dear.” Still grinning, she got up and strolled toward him. “This storm will wear itself out by morning. You might as well stay here. Take Andy’s house.” She pressed against him, put her arms around his neck. “He’s moving out.”
“I’m going now.” He pushed her away.
She looked uncertainly into his eyes. For an instant she seemed puzzled. Then she gasped. “Yes,” she said quickly. “You get out of here!”
He turned and walked out of the room.
The young Mexican was standing within two feet of the front door. He made no move to open it. Pete did that himself. Until the door had been firmly closed behind him he felt the servant’s eyes penetratingly on his back.
Rain stung his face as he followed the driveway to the gate. On the boulevard he hailed a taxi. His car was where he had parked it in the afternoon.
He walked past the car and into the cantina where he had been earlier. He had two quick drinks and used the telephone.
16
Karen caught Jack Pascault’s signal. She broke away from the people she was talking to and went toward him.
“It’s that weird friend of yours, Pete Welles.” He indicated the phone.
“Thanks.” Frowning, she crossed to it and picked it up. “Yes?”
“That’s impossible,” she said, a moment later. “I can’t just leave—” She lowered her voice. “That’s an odd way of putting it. Why so melodramatic?” She shrugged, presently. “Oh, all right — if you insist.”
She hung up. No one was looking at her. She got her raincoat, let herself out and waited on the porch. The storm had grown more violent, and she wondered if she were doing the right thing. Right thing or not, she was doing what she had to do. Something in Pete’s voice had told her that he needed help.
The headlights of a car came up the road. She ran out and climbed into the Buick. The windshield was a solid sheet of rain.
“Know someplace where it’s dry?” she asked. “Let’s go there fast.”
He didn’t look at her. “We’re going home.” The Buick jumped ahead. He drove carefully and stopped before a gate. An old man came running to prop it open. Pete drove into a car port.
“Wait here,” he said. He left the car and spoke in an undertone to the servant. Karen moved over on the seat.
“Tell Juanita to bring two breakfasts in the morning,” she heard Pete saying. “You sleep in your own quarters tonight.”
He returned to the car. “Come on.” Karen got out and found herself standing on an open, unprotected porch. The wind had torn the awning into shreds. He guided her to a partly sheltered stairway.
“Up here.”
“Let’s get one thing straight,” she told him. “About those breakfasts—”
He wasn’t listening. “Upstairs, my dear.” He took her by the shoulders, turned her to face the steps.
She climbed reluctantly. She had the feeling that, if she’d refused, he would have forced her to do it anyway. He seemed sober, but there was something wrong. The awning on the upstairs porch was still intact, bulging in like a full sail. Wind and rain spilled through at the corners. He steered her to a door. It banged open when he turned the knob. He steadied her through the doorway and pushed the door shut. She heard him grope along the wall.
Light flashed on, disclosing a bedroom with twin beds. It had the look of a room not currently in use. Karen leaned against the wall, raincoat dripping, hair tumbled over her forehead.
He touched her hair. “You’re wet, Mary. I’ll get a towel.”
“Oh, that’s all right—”
“It’s not. I must take care of you,” he said.
He went into a bathroom, came back with a towel. She let him unzip the raincoat, slip it off. She sat on one of the beds and dried her hair. He stood above her, silent and motionless. She put the towel aside, smiled up at him. The smile faded. Panic gripped her like steel claw when she saw his face.
Before she could speak, a gust of wind tore the awning loose out on the porch. Its wooden frame crashed through a nearby window. There was a tinkling fall of glass.
He said softly, “It was in the other bedroom, Mary. We’re safe. Nothing can hurt us here.”
She was still staring at his face. Something had happened to it. It seemed shrunken and had turned a leaden gray — and it was unnaturally calm, expressionless. She saw all this before she reacted to the name that he had called her.
“Who is Mary?” She got up nervously. “Is this a joke of some kind? I don’t think it’s funny. Frankly, I don’t understand—”
He smiled, but it was less smile than mechanical grimace. “Of course you don’t.” He came toward her slowly. “You’re tired. I’ll explain it later. After you’ve rested for a while.”
“I don’t want to rest! I want to get out of here!” She backed away, between the beds. “I’m not Mary, Pete. I’m Karen. Please don’t touch me. Please—!”
His hands closed on her arms. His lifeless face swooped down on her. It was the only thing that she could see.
“Don’t look at me like that!” he muttered. “For your own sake — don’t!”
“I won’t. I promise.” She looked over his shoulder. She turned her eyes anywhere except straight ahead.
His hands relaxed a little. “You’re shivering, dear.”
“I’m cold. I’m very cold. Get me — get me a blanket.”
He stripped the cover from a bed. Under the cover there was nothing but a mattress. He looked at the mattress as though he didn’t understand. “No blankets here,” he said.
“Then get me one. Get something. Don’t you see how cold I am?”
He studied her. The pupils in his eyes had shrunk to mesmerizing points. “I couldn’t do that.” His voice was high and crafty. “You might go away.”
“Why should I?” She forced a smile. She willed her hand to reach out and touch his.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know why you went away before. Don’t make me look for you again. I’d find you, Mary. You know that.”
She nodded. “Yes. Now please get me a coat.”
“All right.” He raised her hand and kissed it. “There’s nothing to be afraid of any more. You’ve had a hard time, but you’re home.” Again his lips made that mechanical grimace. “I’ll get my bathrobe. It’s in the other room.”
17
Wind plastered him against the wall as he made his way along the porch. He left the door of his bedroom open. Rain came through it and through the broken window. He turned on the light.
The bathrobe was in his closet. There was a bottle of whiskey on the shelf. He got a glass and poured a drink. He was raising the glass when all the lights went out.
The voice spoke to him from the darkness. For why you kill me, boy?
“Go away,” he said aloud.
You talk me pretty. You say we go for ride.
“Go away. Go away!”
I no do nothings, boy. For why I’m dead?
“Mary!” he shouted, and ran out on the porch.
The other bedroom door was open. The lights flashed on for an instant as he ran in. Just long enough for him to see that there was no one in the room. He stumbled down the stairs. He got in the Buick, backed up and raced downhill.