He said, “And the other thing’s your charges there. You’ve got two prisoners to look after and they’ll try every trick they can think of to get loose, especially when they realize they’re being held by a woman alone. Keep them ankle-shackled to water pipes in separate rooms. Spoon-feed them but never undo the handcuffs behind their backs. You listening to me? Keep the revolver cQcked and if you’re even a little bit uncertain of their intentions start shooting. You’ve got five loads and you may as well burn them all up because one of them’s bound to knock the man down if you keep plugging in his direction. Are you going to get gun-shy and not pull the trigger?”
“No.”
“Remember this: If you get humane and one of them gets away, all three of us are dead. There’s not a chance in a thousand that Rodriguez hasn’t got a radio receiver up there on the mountain. If Emil Draga or the watchman gets away from you they’ll head for the nearest phone and we’ll be finished.”
“I understand.”
In a different voice he said, “Do you regret it, ducks?”
“Doing this? No, I don’t think so. I regret that it has to be done.”
“You’re not wrought up anymore. Not the way Glenn is.”
“I haven’t forgotten my son if that’s what you mean.”
He said bluntly, “Your son’s dead whether or not we go through with this.”
“But Rodriguez is free. Until we do it.”
“Which is it then — revenge or justice?”
She shook her head. “God knows. It’s not an obsession — but it’s a compulsion. Does that make any sense?”
“Bet your bottom,” he agreed.
“Harry, tell me something.”
“All right.”
“After this — after it’s done — are we going to be able to make it together?”
“Why, ducks,” he said, “do you know, I expect we will.”
Harry swung the Bronco into the caved-in barn and they got Emil Draga out and took him across to the house and at the door Harry could not resist his moment of wistful comedy: He took a step backward and bowed over his extended leg with a minuet flourish. Then he kicked Emil Draga in the rump and sent him inside asprawl.
Anders, holding the door open, made a face. Glancing at him as she came past into the house, Carole suppressed a shiver. Anders’ eyes had gone peculiar and she was disturbed by it: She said, “Harry, you’d better show me around,” using it as an excuse to get him away from Anders.
Harry took her through the house. It was ramshackle — a bigger and more substantial place than Santana’s but it had the same smell, the same taste. In the kitchen — she was relieved to see running water — she said under her breath, “Glenn’s got a wire down in him, Harry. Don’t trust him.”
“I’m keeping an eye on him. But I want him with me, not with you.”
She clutched him then, squeezed until her arms gave out. “Promise me you’ll come back.”
“I promise, ducks.”
Part Five
Chapter 17
There was rain. In the cave Cielo sat on a crate chewing on a pencil and watching it flood down like a beaded string-curtain. The radio stuttered at him — a lightning bolt not too far away interrupted the message entirely with a burst of static and then the thunder deafened him to another few words but he had the gist of the message and Julio, switching it off at the end of the transmission, sat back against the wheel of the howitzer and said, “I wonder what drew them off?” According to the wireless message “Butch and Sundance and Etta” had vanished. But Butch hadn’t checked out of his hotel. Did that mean Glenn Anders intended to return shortly?
It was unnerving. He felt entrapped, not only by isolation but also by unknowing.
Julio sat absorbed in something on the jacket of which was painted a lurid creature that looked a bit like a feathered octopus with the head of a vulture, its hues running from silver to electric orange.
Cielo was getting hungry but he wasn’t quite ready to brave the downpour across the distance to the chow tent. It would require a change of boots afterward and he wasn’t sure the others had dried out from the morning’s storm. Fifteen years ago he’d have taken such discomforts as a matter of course but the passage of years had taught him that there were all kinds of ways to prove one’s manhood and that in the end nobody cared much anyway. By now dry feet were more important than demonstrating he was unafraid of the squall.
He awakened stiff from having lain with his bones on the rock cave floor. The rain had quit. Still daylight; he checked the time: 4:10. So he hadn’t slept that long, really. He glanced at Julio. “Want to get something to eat?”
Julio spoke without looking up from his book. “You have an uncanny talent for interrupting me right at the crucial point.” He held up the book so that Cielo could see he was within a very few pages of the end.
Cielo picked up his rifle and went to the mouth of the cave. He had brought down two rabbits with the rifle yesterday, for the pot; he was a hell of a marksman and it was one of the things he still took pride in. The rifle wasn’t a military weapon. It was his indulgence: a Mossberg #800 chambered for 6.5mm Magnums — a walnut Monte Carlo stock and a 6X riflescope sight. Sometimes he used its telescope to look at parrots in the treetops. He never shot one.
He stood a while in the shadows at the side of the cave mouth searching the trees. Right after a rain was a good time to spot birds: They came out to clean themselves and scout for food that might have been exposed by the storm.
Broken clouds sailed by overhead but high above them hung a fat roll of cumulonimbus and he knew there would be more rain. He’d had enough rain up here in the past few days to last him the rest of his life. He knew the rest of the men felt the same way. If the radio didn’t terminate their restrictions soon there would be trouble in the camp. The men were already picking at each other.
Something stirred at the corner of his eyeline. He looked that way, casually curious — saw a man lift himself from the ground and move crabwise, jinking from cover to cover.
¡Chingado!
But he didn’t move — didn’t want to alert the man. Over his shoulder and very softly he said, “Julio.”
In a moment, alerted by his tone, Julio was behind his left shoulder. Cielo said, his voice dropping almost out of hearing, “Look half left. See the acacia? Just beneath it. Wait for him to move again—”
“I see him.” Something clicked in Julio’s hands — the Uzzi, probably; it had been near at hand.
“No shooting yet.” Cielo lifted the Mossberg and fitted his eye to the scope socket. The rain forest came right up close and he had to play it around before he found the target. Behind him Julio was sidling away toward the far side of the cave — standard defense posture: Never give the enemy a bunched target.
How did he get in here past the road guard? Who was on the road this shift? Santos, yes. If Santos fell asleep on his post...
The face of the enemy came into focus and Cielo recognized it and was not surprised. Harry Crobey — submachine gun, grenade belt, backpack.
Crobey was working his way down toward the tents. Cielo took a moment to think it out. It was no good shouting at him to surrender; Crobey would fade into the forest in half a second if he had a chance. On the other hand it was no good killing him cold; there were things Cielo needed to learn from him.
Let him know he’s zeroed in. Harry won’t fight the drop. Deciding, Cielo turned and made a down-pushing motion for Julio’s benefit and Julio nodded, lowering the muzzle of the Uzzi, relaxing. Cielo took aim through the ‘scope and flicked off the thumb safety and fired with casual ease. The racket of the gunshot was earsplitting because of the echoing walls of the cave.