Then it dawned on me what must’ve happened.
Once Shipton had tricked Mr. Ma and me into entering the Geographic Survey file room, why hadn’t he just disappeared down the hallway, left us searching for him in the dark like a couple of dimwits? Why had he come back and attacked? He must’ve known that I’d be armed-and attacking us for no reason was too big a risk. He’d attacked because he wanted to delay us. Or kill us. When that hadn’t worked, he’d set the fire. It was clear to me now. It was a diversion.
Strange had told me that after the Geographic Survey people completed their final list of possible tunnel sites, they would pass the documents on to the 8th Army Commander. That’s what had happened. When Shipton couldn’t find what he wanted in the Geographic Survey files, he realized the papers must’ve been moved earlier than scheduled.
Shipton had killed Ma-and would’ve killed me too-so he wouldn’t be interrupted while continuing his search. And now he’d set a fire to pull the Honor Guard soldiers away from their posts. The Headquarters building was unguarded.
I started to run.
The men responding to the alarm were too busy, too fascinated with the flames for me to bother asking for their help. It would’ve taken too long to explain what was wrong, what I needed. Shipton would work fast. I couldn’t risk delay.
The corridors of the 8th Army headquarters building were dark. A red lamp glowed in the carpeted foyer.
A few yards in, I stopped and peered down the hallway. Nothing. I stood for a moment, listening. No sound. I crept forward.
The commander’s office was back in the corner of the building, in a position of honor. I’d never been inside, but I’d heard about it. Plush furniture, valuable paintings, an outer office with a gorgeous Korean receptionist, a small conference room next door.
I stopped in front of the big double-door entrance to the commander’s office. A replica of the 8th Army cloverleaf patch, bigger than a basketball, had been carved with loving care into varnished teak.
Everything was quiet. No sign of Shipton. He must be inside.
He had to be.
I stepped forward, grabbed the brass handle of the door, and pulled it open.
In the receptionist’s office, moonlight filtered in through open curtains, glistening off leather chairs and gleaming coffee tables.
I slipped my finger into the trigger housing of the. 38 and took another step forward.
The noise was like a great ripping of wood. I swiveled instinctively but saw nothing. I tried to locate the sound. It seemed to be everywhere and nowhere. I had only a split second to look up but as I did, I realized that the sound I had heard was plywood sliding above me, and the heavy darkness that crashed into me was Shipton.
He had dropped on me from the ceiling.
40
The killer replaced the panel in the plywood ceiling and dragged the tall Mexican into the 8th Army Commander’s office. After leaning the CID agent’s limp body against a file cabinet, he knelt and felt for a pulse. Still strong. This man who’d been hounding him-this Sueno- would regain consciousness soon.
Prying one of the bayonets off the rifles the Honor Guard soldiers had left, the killer ran the sharp tip along the agent’s neck. Flesh rippled beneath the gleaming blade. Waste him now, he decided. Take no chances.
Something made him hesitate.
Angel and Chuy. Two ranch hands from Matamo-ros-perched on the edge of the corral. He could still see them. Watching.
This Sueno had proved to be the same type of Mex. Watching. Always watching.
And the killer remembered the woodshed. The door slamming behind him. The foul reek of cheap rye whiskey. His father turning, slowly, hatred filling his eyes. Unraveling a black leather belt from his emaciated waist. Swinging the huge silver buckle, slapping the weight of it into his palm.
And he remembered the crying, the pleading-the way his little boy whimpers seemed to enrage his father. And most of all he remembered the relentless battering.
After his father had left the shed, the boy who was not yet a killer staggered out, covering his eyes, trying to hide his injuries, into the bright noonday sun. Into the pitiless stares of Angel and Chuy.
It was their eyes he couldn’t stand. Always watching. Always knowing. Their faces showing nothing. Like two vultures feeding off his soul.
When his father died, the killer inherited a pile of debt and a worthless ranch. But he was big now. And strong. After he’d disposed of everything that had ever belonged to his father, he disposed of two more things: Angel and Chuy.
He’d gutted them. Using a hacking blade he found in the toolshed. And left their bodies in a thicket of mesquite.
The killer shook his head, bringing himself back to the business at hand.
He poked gently into the soft flesh below the chin of the CID agent. A bubble of blood rose to the surface, burst, and started to trickle toward the collar of the black shirt.
This agent-this Sueno, this dreamer-had been like Angel and Chuy. Always watching. Always knowing. Waiting patiently to witness the beating that would surely come.
Suddenly, the killer slapped his knees and rose to his feet, his decision made. He’d kill this agent slowly, like he’d killed Angel and Chuy, like he’d killed Whitcomb. He’d watch the silent knowledge in Sueno’s eyes change to surprise at his great prowess. And then to terror.
Always terror.
When I came to, I was no longer in the receptionist’s office but in the 8th Army Commander’s office itself. I finally made it, I thought. The corridors of power.
A green lamp glowed above a work counter. Bo Shipton hunched over it, shuffling through papers, his narrow eyes glancing up occasionally at me. His big paw clasped my. 38.
Muscles rippled through his arms and shoulders as he worked. He wore a plain dark brown poplin shirt and dark khaki work pants. Good camouflage for a thief. With his short haircut and his neatly shaved mug, he could’ve easily passed for a military officer in civvies putting in some late hours.
He must’ve dragged me in here and propped me against this cabinet. I wasn’t tied up, which was a nice touch-but he didn’t have any rope, so maybe he was less generous than I thought.
Neither of us spoke for a while. He was too busy, I was too stunned. Finally, the ringing in my head subsided and I started to lift myself up.
“Don’t move!”
The voice was a low growl. Raspy. As if his throat was lined with gravel. I remembered the field tracheotomy I had read about in his records. The tube of bamboo he’d stuck in his own windpipe. His jawline was jagged and rippled with scars; reconstructed after the wounds he received in Vietnam.
“If you move,” Shipton said. “I’ll shoot you right now.”
Keeping the gun on me, Shipton edged toward the safe. He swirled the combination dial back and forth until the ball bearings clicked. He grabbed the handle, twisted, and swung open the heavy door. He riffled through the papers inside, found a blue folder marked TOP SECRET, and carried it back to the lamp. He pulled a tiny camera from his pocket. When he was finished photographing its contents, he stuffed the folder back into the safe, closed it, and locked it shut.
He stepped toward me.
“Sueno,” he said, lingering on the word. “You’re a Mex. And like all Mexes you hang out in las cantinas and you take money to do low jobs. You and your partner, Bascom, were the only CID agents greedy enough to bring Whitcomb to me.?Entiendes, cabron?”
His Spanish came out in a flat drawl. An Anglo trying to impress somebody.
“Stick to redneck American,” I said, rubbing the cut above my collar. “Your Spanish is for shit.”
Shipton’s big body tensed. “You’re a lowlife,” he said. “On the take.”
“It was a few bucks for a favor. At least I never killed one of my own girlfriends.”
He raised the gun. “I could pull this trigger right now. End it all.”