The wolf thumped from the sodden bed to the floor. In a single graceful bound, he was back out the window and running in long fluid strides toward the forest. He was safely into the thick undergrowth by the time the first people reached the cabana.
THE ATMOSPHERE IN Cabana Number 7 was thick with cigarette smoke and hostility. Two of the three tequila glasses sat on the table half-full. Audrey Vance raised the third to her lips and drained it. She set it back down on the table, tipping it over as she did so.
“Lucky it wasn’t full,” she said. She righted the glass and poured more tequila.
“You ought to try it with lime and salt,” Chris said.
“Fuck lime and salt.” Audrey sniffed at the liquor, then held her glass out toward Chris. “Here’s lookin’ up your cucaracha.”
Chris sipped at his own glass, this time forgetting the lime himself. Karyn coughed uncomfortably and lit another cigarette.
She could not remember a more unpleasant evening. She appreciated what Chris was doing for her, and she knew she was probably safer here than in her own room, but the strain of the three-way relationship was wearing her down. She looked at her watch and saw that it was a little after midnight. A long, long time remained until dawn. The hell with this, she decided abruptly. She would go back to her own room, lock herself in, and at least would not have to put up with Audrey any more tonight.
Then there was a crash of glass, followed by screaming.
Chris stopped talking in the middle of a sentence and sat motionless for a moment. Audrey started violently, spilling tequila down the front of her blouse. Karyn stared at the darkened window. Although the screams were directionless, she was deadly certain that they came from Number 12.
“Jesus!” Audrey said. She stood up, ignoring the spilled drink. “What the hell was that?”
Chris got up and walked to the door. He opened it and stood there listening. The screams had stopped now, and there was the sound of other doors opening and questioning voices. People began running from the main building along the path that led past the cabanas. Chris started out the door.
“Don’t go out there,” Karyn said.
He looked back at her briefly. “I’ve got to see what happened.”
“Then I’m coming with you,” Karyn said.
“You’re not going to leave me here alone,” Audrey said. She walked unsteadily over and stood next to Chris, clutching his arm possessively.
For a moment Chris hesitated. They could hear voices shouting from down at the end of the row of cabanas. “All right,” he said, “well all go. But don’t get separated.”
The three of them stepped out and joined the people running from the main building. There was no outside lighting along the path, and the only illumination came from the open doors of the other cabanas and several flashlights. At Number 12 the running people came to an abrupt stop. The door stood open. A man reached cautiously inside and snapped on the lights.
There was a gasp from the onlookers, and the crowd took an involuntary step backward. Audrey turned away from Chris and began to retch.
Through the open doorway Karyn caught a glimpse of the bed. Her bed. She saw what appeared to be a pile of bare human limbs on top of it. Everything was splashed a bright, wet crimson. She looked away as Chris gripped her shoulder.
Senor Davila, the hotel manager, rushed up with his thin, pale legs bare under a flannel nightshirt. He began trying simultaneously to calm the guests in English and give orders to the staff in Spanish.
The only word Karyn picked out was policia. Slowly the people began to move back away from the cabana as Davila selected a pair of unhappy kitchen helpers to guard the door.
Half an hour later Karyn, Chris, Audrey, and most of the other guests were gathered in the lobby of the main building. The initial shock had given way to a sort of desperate camaraderie, as with people who have shared, and survived, a disaster. On orders from Senor Davila hot coffee was being dispensed from the kitchen, and the bar, hastily reopened, was doing a booming business.
The clatter of conversation among the guests eased off as two blue and white cars with the markings of the Mazatlan police wheeled up to the front of the hotel with sirens braying.
A short, neat man in a business suit marched in at the head of several uniformed policemen. He directed the officers to their tasks, then talked quietly with Senor Davila while the guests watched with interest. After a minute he stepped to the archway between the lobby and dining room and held up a hand for attention.
“Good evening. I am Sgt. Fulgencio Vasquez of the Mazatlan Police. As you know, there has been a serious tragedy here tonight. Two employees of this hotel have been killed.” He paused for a moment while the guests took in this information. “Temporary, I will use the office of Senor Davila, the manager, to do interviews. I will ask that any of you who have knowledge of this crime remain and give your name to my officer. The rest of you may return to your rooms. Please do not leave the hotel before speaking to me. Thank you for the cooperation.”
There was a general stirring around among the guests. No one seemed anxious to leave.
Karyn and Chris exchanged a look. Their eyes asked, Shall we tell? and immediately answered, Take care.
There were few volunteers from among the guests to supply information, but most of them stayed around in the lobby and the bar to see what was going to happen. There was a good deal of drinking and nervous laughter as people found their quiet vacation had become an adventure.
A blue city ambulance pulled up outside, and the guests crowded out on the veranda to watch. The bodies of the two victims, strapped onto litters and covered with plastic sheets, were brought up and loaded into the back. The ambulance drove off with lights flashing and siren wailing unnecessarily.
Karyn, Chris, and Audrey sat on a wood and leather sofa on one side of the lobby and watched the others jostle for a look at the departing ambulance.
“They act like it’s a holiday of some kind,” Karyn said.
“It’s a touch of hysteria,” Chris said. “What they’re saying inside is, “Thank God it happened to somebody else and not me.’”
Karyn shivered. Chris reached over and squeezed her hand.
“I’ve got a fucking headache that won’t quit,” Audrey said.
“Do you want to go back to the room?” Chris asked.
“Not by myself, I don’t.”
“I’ll go see if I can get you some aspirin.”
Chris started to rise, but sat back down when he saw Sergeant Vasquez coming toward them across the lobby. The policeman stopped before the sofa and nodded politely. He focused his attention on Karyn.
“Mrs. Richter?”
“Yes?”
“I am told it was in your cabana that this unfortunate tragedy took place.”
“Yes, it was.”
“Will you be good enough to come into the office?”
Karyn looked questioningly at Chris.
He said, “Is it all right if I come along, Sergeant? I’m a friend of Mrs. Richter.”
Vasquez’s cool brown eyes took in the two of them. “A friend, you say?”
“That’s right. We knew each other back in the States.”
“Don’t mind me,” Audrey said. “I’m just passing through.”
Vasquez gave her a chilly smile. To Chris he said, “I have no objection if you wish to come.”
Chris turned to Audrey. “This shouldn’t take too long.”
“What the hell, take all the time you want,” Audrey said. “I’ll be in the bar.”
Chris patted her knee and smiled. She turned away. He shrugged and joined Karyn and Sergeant Vasquez as they crossed the lobby to enter the small office tucked in behind the registration desk.
Vasquez put them into hard-backed chairs facing him as he sat behind a small desk. He offered his pack of Mexican cigarettes and took one for himself when they both declined. He inhaled deeply, then leaned forward across the desk and fixed them with a steady brown gaze.
“The two of you were together this evening?”
“That’s right,” Chris answered. “Miss Vance was with us.”
“Ah, yes, the young lady in the lobby.”
Chris nodded.
Vasquez regarded him for a moment without expression, then he turned to Karyn.
“Mrs. Richter, do you know of anyone who might want to kill you?”
“Me?”
“The young people were murdered in your room. The lights were out. It is possible that the killer was after you and did not see his mistake until it was too late.”
“I just arrived in Mazatlan,” Karyn said carefully. “I don’t know anyone here, except Mr. Halloran.”
“Ah, yes.” The policeman switched his attention to Chris. “And you, sir, have you any opinions about this tragedy?”
“I don’t know any more than Mrs. Richter,” Chris said.
Vasquez held Chris for a long moment with his somber gaze, then turned it on Karyn. When neither of them reacted the sergeant relaxed a little and gave them a cool smile. “It was just a thought. The truth is we are fairly certain who the killer is, but I do not wish to overlook other possibilities.”
“You know who did it?” Chris said.
“In a crime of passion such as this, we look first for the husband. In this case we have no husband, but we do have a former lover of the girl. A man given to violent acts, I am told. He worked here at the hotel and was discharged a month ago.”
Karyn bit her lip. “Are you certain this was done by a man?”
“It is not a woman’s crime, senora,” said Vasquez.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Oh?” The policeman assumed an expression of polite attention.
Karyn felt her face growing warm. She looked to Chris for help, but he gave her only a tiny shake of his head. “I just wondered,” she said, “whether it could have been - an animal.”
“Impossible,” the policeman said at once. “I do not wish to make light of your suggestion, senora, but there is no animal capable of doing what was done to those two young people.”
A uniformed policeman entered the office. He looked quickly at Karyn and Chris, then spoke to Vasquez. “Con perdon …”
“Que?”
The policeman spoke rapidly in Spanish as Vasquez listened and nodded. The man placed an envelope on the desk in front of the sergeant as he spoke. Vasquez opened it and peered inside. From a pocket he produced a pair of tweezers, which he used to withdraw the contents of the envelope. He held it up to the light and examined it, then set it down carefully on the desk. A thick tuft of coarse tan fur. He said something to the man in uniform, who saluted and went out.
“It seems the killer left something behind when he went out the window,” said Vasquez. He picked up the tuft of fur again in the tweezers and displayed it proudly, like it was a rare butterfly. “One of the men found this caught on the torn window screen.”
Karyn and Chris stared at the bit of fur. Neither of them spoke.
Vasquez smiled thinly at Karyn. “I’m sure it is not what you think, senora. Torn from a fur-lined jacket, I would guess. It will be most helpful when we pick up our man.”
Karyn started to speak, but caught a warning glance from Chris, and held back.
“There is something, senora?” said Vasquez.
Karyn shook her head. “No, nothing. Is it all right if we go now?”
“Yes, of course. Thank you both for your time.”
They walked out of the manager’s office and across the lobby. Most of the guests by this time had drifted off to their rooms.
“We can’t let them arrest an innocent man,” Karyn said.
“What do you suggest? Going up to Sergeant Vasquez and saying, ‘Hey, I think those people were killed by a werewolf who used to be my husband’?”
“Please don’t be sarcastic.” Chris passed a hand over his brow. “I’m sorry. Getting tired, I guess. But I don’t think you have to worry about an innocent man being locked up. Despite what you might have read, the Mexican system of criminal justice is reasonably competent.”
“I suppose so,” Karyn said wearily. “And you’re right. There really is nothing we could do.” Without warning she yawned.
“We’d all better get some sleep,” Chris said.
“Let’s find the manager and arrange for a room for you.”
Senor Davila, now fully dressed, but still unshaven, said yes, a room in the main building could be made ready at once for Senora Richter, since a number of guests had suddenly checked out.
As Karyn filled out a new registration card, Chris snapped his fingers.
“Damn, I forgot about Audrey. She’s still waiting in the bar.”
“You’d better go and get her,” Karyn said. “I can handle things from here on.”
“I’ll see you first thing in the morning,” Chris said. He hurried away toward the bar.
Karyn finished signing in for the new room while Senor Davila sent a boy out to see about bringing her things in from Cabana 12. She sat down in a chair in the lobby to wait, and massaged her eyes.
“Senora?”
She looked up, and for a moment could not place the stocky man with the luxuriant moustache who had spoken.
“Luis Zarate?” he said with a rising inflection. “The taxi from the airport yesterday?”
“Oh, yes,” Karyn said. She waited for the man to speak.
“If the senora will permit, I think I can be of assistance.”
“Thank you, but I won’t be needing a taxi tonight.”
“No, senora, not a taxi, but you do need help, maybe, I think.”
“What do you mean?”
“The young Blanca, and her novio, Roberto, they died tonight, I think, in your place.”
“How do you know this?” Karyn asked. She watched the man intently.
“There is much I know. Remember, I told you I have gypsy blood. I know it was no man who killed Roberto and Blanca.”
“Who, then?”
“Not who, senora, what. These killings carry the mark of lobombre. The werewolf.”
IN THE PART OF Mazatlan away from the sparkling beaches and bright new streets was a section of the city called La Ratonera, the rathole. It was a neighborhood where the sightseeing buses never came, and only a foolhardy tourist ventured. The streets were cracked and pitted, the buildings crusted with the filth of decades. Doors were always closed, windows covered. The air was heavy with the smell of human feces and human despair.