“What’s it all about, Karyn?” Audrey asked, her eyes wide.
“I’m not sure myself,” Karyn said distractedly. She started for the hotel, then turned back. “Thank you, Audrey. Thanks for the message.”
“Heck, that’s all right. Listen, is there anything I can do to help?”
“No. No, there’s nothing. Excuse me now, I have to get going.”
Karyn hurried up the slope toward the hotel. She did not see Audrey’s small, cold smile as the girl watched her go.
There were no other messages for her at the desk. She went to her room and hurriedly changed to outdoor clothes. She prayed that there would be good news when she met Chris at the cabin. That the long nightmare would be over.
Back out in front of the hotel she looked for the taxi of Luis Zarate, but the old Plymouth was not there. She would like to have had Luis, but there was no time to try to find him. Another cab drove up. A middle-aged couple got out, wearing straw sombreros with MAZATLAN lettered across the brims. Karyn hurried up to the driver.
“Do you know a man called Guillermo, the one who keeps the burros for riding in the mountains?”
“I know him.”
“Will you take me there?”
“The road to Guillermo’s place is very bad. I will have to charge extra.”
“I don’t care. Just take me there.”
Karyn did not wait for the driver to open the door for her. She got in and slammed it firmly behind her. The man backed the taxi around and started off toward the highway.
*****
At last the knife was finished. Chris had been eager to take the weapon the moment Santos finished shaping the cutting edge of the blade. It was seven inches of businesslike metal with a thin, bare, four-inch shank for the handle. However, Santos had heatedly refused to turn it over without a proper handle. Angry at first, Chris had cooled down when he saw the practicality of this. For the purpose he intended the knife, a solid grip would be essential.
So he had sweated out another half-hour while Santos dug up a rusted hunting knife from somewhere among the refuse. The craftsman dismantled the old knife, took the carved wooden handle with finger grips and affixed it solidly to the silver blade.
Santos was still not satisfied with the balance of the weapon, but Chris took it away from him and peeled off several bills in payment. Santos gave him the leather sheath with belt loop that had gone with the hunting knife. Chris slipped the silver blade into the sheath, fastened it in, and hurried out into the street.
He had expected to hail a taxi immediately to take him back to the hotel, but the street was deserted. Not only was there no taxi in sight, there were no moving vehicles of any kind. Chris wheeled and ran back into the shop of Tulio Santos.
“Necesitamo un taxi!”
Santos shook his head and smiled sadly. “No taxi aqui. Nunca taxi en Calle Verde.”
Chris swore under his breath. “Hay telefono?”
Again Santos shook his head.
“Damn,” Chris muttered. He went back out to the street. The building fronts were blank, the doors closed, the windows shuttered and forbidding. Shadows were growing longer as night moved in on the city.
Chris slammed a fist into his open palm. By this time Karyn would be wondering what was keeping him. One thing was certain - standing here on this empty, darkening street would gain him nothing.
He started to run. He headed west, because that’s where the city was. There were bound to be taxis, policemen, something. The silver knife in its sheath bounced against his hip. As he ran he made sure he did not lose the weapon. He knew that somewhere tonight he was going to have to use it.
THE TAXI CARRYING Karyn Richter jolted up the rutted road that led into the hills. The driver complained steadily of the damage the trip was inflicting on his automobile. After a drive that seemed like hours to Karyn, they pulled up at the dry arroyo where the road ended and Guillermo had his shack.
“This is where you wanted to go, lady,” said the driver.
“Yes, thank you.” Karyn started to get out of the car.
“That’s ten dollars.”
Karyn gave him a look, but there was no time to argue about the fare. She dug a bill out of her pocket and handed it to the man. She left the car and hurried across the expanse of gravel and bare dirt to the door of the shack. She rapped loudly on the patchwork-lumber door, but heard no response from inside.
“Hello!” she called. “Guillermo! Anybody here?”
Still no sounds from inside the shack. Karyn pushed on the door, but it would not budge. She walked around to the back. Half a dozen burros stood placidly in a rude pen. They looked at her without curiosity. Guillermo was nowhere in sight.
From out in front of the shack came the sudden sound of an engine revving up, followed by the spinning of tires in loose gravel. Karyn ran back around the corner of the building in time to see her taxi bouncing away down the road toward the city.
“Thanks a lot,” she muttered after the disppearing cab.
She drew a deep breath and told herself to be calm and consider her circumstances. A ride back to the city was now out of the question. In the late afternoon, it was doubtful whether she could make it back to the highway and civilization before nightfall. When night came she did not want to be alone.
Riding a burro, she could reach the gypsy’s cabin before dark, barring mishap. Chris would be at the cabin, according to his message, so that seemed the safest way to go.
She walked back around to the rear of the shack where the burros were kept. She found a pile of old blankets, folded one, and placed it over the back of a burro. She opened the gate to the pen, led the animal out, and closed the gate behind her. She climbed on the burro, urged it forward, and with some reluctance the animal started up the trail.
As she rode, the shadow that preceded her up the mountain grew ever longer. It was a constant reminder of the coming night, and of all the horrors that the night could bring.
Karyn pulled her mind away from those thoughts. She thought instead about Chris and herself and what their futures would be. It would not be a future together - they had tried that once and it had been disastrous. Besides, she had a husband and a little boy to go back to when this business was finished. And what about Chris? Would he go back to Audrey? Or a series of Audreys? Somehow Karyn did not think so. She had seen, these past few days, a maturity in Chris which had been lacking in him before. She hoped with all her heart that he would find happiness.
With agonizing slowness the little burro plodded up the trail. They passed the spring where she and Chris had stopped to rest the last time. No time for resting now. She clucked in the burro’s ear and urged it onward.
The shadows closed in fast, and the sun was red and angry on the western horizon when they finally reached the crest where the gypsy Philina had her cabin. The rude log building looked like blessed sanctuary to Karyn. There was no sign of life, but as before, smoke trailed out of the hole in the roof.
Why, she wondered, was Chris not outside to greet her? Maybe he was inside talking to Philina and hadn’t heard the burro come up.
Karyn dismounted and walked toward the door of the cabin. Her steps slowed as she sensed something different here. The doorway was uncovered, that was it. The animal hide that had hung there before was gone. Cautiously, she approached and peered into the cabin. A flickering red-orange light from the firepit danced over the interior walls. She stopped just outside the doorway.
“Chris? Is anybody there?”
All at once she knew it was wrong. It was all wrong. The cabin did not look right. The burro-keeper should have been down below; the message from Chris rang false. Everything was wrong, and she’d realized it too late. She started to back away. One step. Then another.
Before Karyn could take a third step, a slim, strong arm encircled her throat, clamping her windpipe in the crook of the elbow. She fought to scream, but no sound could escape. She clawed at the arm that was cutting off her breath, but she could not move it.
The world began to go dark. Karyn felt the strength ebbing from her like blood from a severed vein. Red flashes of fireworks burst somewhere behind her eyes. A roaring like the wind filled her ears.
Then blackness.
FOR CHRIS HALLORAN, the run through the dreary back streets of Mazatlan began to take on the quality of a nightmare. It was as though all other living things had been snatched from the face of the earth. The only sound was the thud and scuff of his feet on the pavement.
After many blocks he spotted a taxi parked at the curb. The cab was empty, but from a nearby doorway came the sound of recorded music. Chris pushed aside a curtain hanging over the doorway and walked in.
It was a dim, musty cantina, stale with cigarette smoke and old chiles. A thirty-year-old jukebox played a tragic Mexican ballad. Along the bar sat several men in faded, mismatched clothing. Their eyes slid over Chris without expression. At a table in the rear, two women, heavily made up for the approaching evening, sat nursing glasses of tequila. They turned their professional smiles on him, but their eyes were empty of hope.
Chris paid no attention to the customers. He leaned on the unvarnished bar and spoke to the man in shirtsleeves who stood behind it.
“Hay cochero aqui?”
The proprietor did not speak, but looked down the bar. One of the customers, a thin man with moles on his cheek, spoke up. “I am the owner of the taxi.”
“Will you take me to the Palacio del Mar?”
The man turned lazily back to the bar. “Sure. When I finish my drink.”
Chris took a step toward him. His eyes glittered dangerously. “Take me now.”
The unmistakable menace in Chris’s voice got through. “Si, senor,” the driver said automatically. In a gulp he downed what was left in his glass and walked quickly with Chris out to the cab. He drove well and swiftly, and they pulled up in front of the hotel fifteen minutes later.
The crowd at the Palacio del Mar had increased since that morning. Sightseers wandered about snapping pictures and talking in excited voices about “la cabana de la muerte.”
Chris paid off the driver and hurried up the steps, across the veranda, and into the lobby. Senor
Davila, the manager, was at his post behind the desk. He was relating, with dramatic emphasis, the events of the bloody night to a small, attentive group of tourists.
Chris pushed to the front of the group and got Davila’s attention. “Ring Mrs.
Richter’s room,” he said.
Reluctantly the manager turned away from his audience long enough to operate the key that would ring the telephone in Karyn’s room. He rang several times, then turned to Chris with an apologetic shrug.
“Senora Richter does not answer.”
“She must be there,” Chris insisted. “What time did the cruise boat get back?”
“About noon.”
“Have you seen Mrs. Richter since then?”
“I - I don’t remember.”
“Well, think about it.” Chris leaned on the desk and glared at Davila.
The manager chewed his lip nervously. “Ah, yes, I recall now. She did stop by the desk to ask if there were any messages. I told her there were none, and she went up to her room.”
“Did she go out again after that?”
“I could not say. Please understand, senor, this has been a very busy day. I could not see everyone that comes and goes.”
“Yeah, sure,” said Chris. He spun away from the desk and stalked back through the lobby.
Where the devil could she be, he wondered. He walked quickly through the busy bar and the dining room, scanning the faces. Karyn was in neither place.
It did not seem likely she would be on the beach. It was too late in the afternoon for sunbathing. Still, it was a possibility. Chris ran out of the building and down across the crescent of sand to the water’s edge. He jogged along the tideline, checking the few people who were in the water and on the beach. No Karyn.
Chris did not like it. Karyn knew he would come looking for her. If she was not going to be easy to find, she would have left a message for him at the desk. Something was definitely wrong.
He stood at the edge of the beach and tried to think of possibilities. Maybe Audrey knew something. Chris loped back across the beach to his cabana. The blinds were down, the door was locked. Chris banged his fist against the panel until Audrey opened up. Her eyes were not quite in focus, and she swayed slightly as she opened the door. Chris could smell liquor on her breath.
“Nice of you to drop by,” she said with heavy sarcasm.
Chris pushed past her into the room. The air was stale in the gloom. He walked to the window and snapped up the blind, letting in the afternoon sun.
“Have you seen Karyn?” he said.
“Your lady love? Fuck, no. Why would I see her?”
“I don’t have time for bullshit, Audrey. Just give me straight answers.”
“You don’t have time for much of anything these days, do you, lover boy?”
Audrey knew something. Chris could see it in her eyes. “I’m asking you again, have you seen Karyn? Do you know where she is?”
“Find her yourself, lover boy. A bitch in heat like that one, it shouldn’t be hard for you to - “
Chris hit her. A hard, open-handed blow across the side of the face. Audrey staggered backward several steps. She put a hand to her reddening cheek. Tears squeezed out of her eyes.
“Now let’s talk,” Chris said.
Audrey hiccuped and shook her head. Chris moved toward her, and she began to talk.
“I saw her. She - she’s gone.”
“Gone? Gone where?”
“I don’t know. I just gave her a message, then she went out.”
“What message?” Chris said. It was an effort to keep from screaming at her.
“There was a woman here. She said to tell Karyn you wanted her to come and meet you. That’s all.”
“Who was the woman?”
Audrey’s eyes fell away from his, and her voice softened. “I don’t know her name. Very pretty. Tall, green eyes, black hair with a streak of white.”
Chris ground his teeth. With unerring instinct, Marcia Lura had found the weak point in their defenses. Audrey. Speaking very softly, he said, “Where was Karyn supposed to meet me?”