Wolf in the Shadows (36 page)

“I don’t know which—”

“Guess. If you get the wrong window, the only other person you’ll disturb is Mourning.”

She moved toward the wing at the right. I followed, covering her. She rounded the corner, began counting windows. Stopped
at the third one, then stepped across a low bed of cacti and knocked. I stopped some five feet away as a man’s voice called
out in inquiry.

Navarro replied swiftly in Spanish. I caught enough of the words to know she hadn’t given us away. The man said something
else; she snapped at him. Then she turned and walked past me, going back to the door.

“Try to get him outside,” I whispered, and followed. There was no sign of Hy, not even a shadow behind the agave. After a
moment a clatter came from inside the house—the guard removing a security bar from the door. It slid open and a short, stocky
man looked out at Navarro.

She stayed where she was, near the pool. Pointed at the water and said something that I took to mean she wanted him to have
a look at something.

He frowned. “
Que?
”

“
Está muerta
.”

The man came through the door, scowling.

Hy’s arm shot from behind the agave and hooked around his neck. The man gagged. Hy dragged him farther outside, applying pressure
on his carotid; the man went limp.

I looked around, spotted a big bin near the wall—the kind that’s used to store swim equipment or lounge cushions. Still covering
Navarro, I went over and opened it. Empty. I motioned to Hy. He dragged the bodyguard over there.

I knelt and searched him for a gun. There was a .44 Magnum in the pocket of his bathrobe. I took it over and dropped it into
the pool. Hy picked the man up and dumped him inside the bin, lowered the lid and secured the latch. At the bottom was a ventilation
screen to prevent mildew; the man wouldn’t suffocate, but when he recovered consciousness, any sound he might make would be
muffled.

Hy went to the door, stepped inside. I motioned to Navarro, and she and I followed.

We stood in a terra-cotta-tiled room with a bar and a pool table where a game had been in progress. A sconce burned faintly
on the far wall. I located its switch and turned it off.

“Now,” Hy whispered, “Mourning’s room.”

We crossed to an archway that opened into the hall. A carpeted stairway rose to the left, and then the hall continued to the
right. Hy grasped Navarro’s forearm. She walked a half step ahead of him, past an open door through which I could see a rumpled
bed, to a closed door. Nodding, she pointed at it.

I went around them and tried the knob. Locked. I looked back at Hy and shook my head. He grimaced. Then I remembered that
Navarro carried the key to her own room. Any given manufacturer’s door locks are guaranteed to be fairly standardized, and
in a house this size there was bound to be some duplication, I said to Navarro, “Give me your room key.”

She fished it out and handed it over.

The key slipped easily into the lock, then stuck. I tried jiggling it, felt a loosening. I forced it and the tumblers started
to turn, then jammed. I twisted harder. The lock popped with a crack.

I pushed the door open and waved Hy and Navarro inside. Shut the door behind us. No sounds from upstairs, no telltale creak
of floorboards.

The room was dark except for a night-light plugged into a socket near the baseboard. Its bulb elongated our shadows, spread
them over the ceiling. At the far side I made out a bedstead—and a figure lying on the bare mattress.

He wore badly rumpled jeans and a shirt, its tail untucked. He wasn’t shackled in any way. He lay curled up in the fetal position,
face pressed into the pillow. I went up to the bed and touched his shoulder. He gave a faint moan of protest.

I stuck my gun in my waistband and turned the man’s face away from the pillow. It was Mourning. An unkempt beard covered his
cheeks; they looked hollowed, his eyes badly underscored. As I moved him, his lips twitched and he mumbled something. I whispered
his name. His eyes came open—dull and unfocused.

“Help me sit him up,” I told Navarro.

She hesitated, then came forward. We got Mourning into a sitting position, his head lolling onto my shoulder. I looked at
the nightstand for evidence of what drugs they’d been giving him. Saw only his glasses, both lenses shattered and one earpiece
ripped off.

“What happened to his glasses?” I asked Navarro.

“Salazar broke them.”

“Deliberately?”

“… Yes. So he couldn’t get away. Tim’s practically blind without them.”

It was the final obscene cruelty. My hands balled into fists. When I glanced up at Hy, I saw my rage reflected in the set
of his jaw.

Mourning mumbled again.

I slid my arm around his slumped shoulders. “Tim,” I said, “it’s going to be okay now.”

He started to raise his head, then let it fall forward.

“Tim, wake up.” I put my hand under his chin, propped it up. “We’re going to take you home.”

More mumbles. Then, “Kill me.”

“Nobody’s going to kill you. You’re safe now.”

“Safe?”

“But you’ve got to help us. Can you walk?”

“Walk?”

“So we can take you home.”

He flinched. Jerked back, sitting up under his own power. “Not home!”

“Ssh!” I glanced at Hy, who was listening at the door now.

“Diane …”

“It’s okay. She can’t hurt you anymore.”

My words made no impression. Mourning shrank back on the mattress. I followed his gaze, saw he was staring at Navarro. “Get
her out of here,” I told Hy.

He grabbed her arm, dragged her over by the door. She pulled away and drew back into a corner between a bureau and the wall.

Mourning’s eyes were wide and panicky now. He struggled to rise, gained a shaky footing. I got up fast and draped his arm
over my shoulder. “You take her,” I told Hy. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

Hy motioned for Navarro to come out of the corner. When she didn’t move, he went over and got her. She struggled and he pinned
her arm behind her back. “Don’t give us trouble now,” he muttered. “We’ve got Mourning; you’re expendable.”

Instantly she stopped struggling and went with him.

Holding tight to Navarro’s arm, Hy looked out into the hallway. Signaled to me and slipped through the door.

Mourning leaned heavily on me. I took a small step. He said, “Can’t.”

“Try.”

He took a small step that almost matched mine.

“Good. Another.”

“Dizzy.”

“I’ve got you.”

We navigated the space between the bed and the door.

Hy waited in the hall, still gripping Navarro by the arm. When we came out, he turned and moved toward the room off the patio.
Navarro went quietly, all the fight gone out of her.

Mourning supported some of his own weight now. We moved as one, lurching from side to side like a large ungainly animal. Partway
to the door he slipped and almost fell. I half carried, half dragged him the rest of the distance.

Through the archway. Past the wet bar. Around the pool table. Hy at the door now, checking outside. Navarro beside him, rubbing
her arm.

Mourning saw her and stiffened. He made a growling sound and his feet churned against the tiles, as if he wanted to get at
her. She shrank back against the wall.

Three feet to the door. Hy moving to help us. Step … drag … stumble. My heart pounding. Mourning’s breath labored. Step …
drag … step … step … Hy reaching out—

Lights flashed on around us.

Mourning stumbled again, pitched forward, his arm slipping off my shoulders. As Hy tried to go for his gun, Mourning reeled
into him. They went down. I whirled, trying to get at my .45.

Too late.

Jaime stood inside the archway, a .357 Magnum leveled at us. His thick lips twisted in a grotesque smile. He said, “Whatta
buncha
payasos
.”

Payasos
: clowns. Of all words, why the hell did I have to understand that one?

He added, “Stick your guns over there on the bar.”

I glanced at Hy, who was getting up from the floor. He didn’t look so much afraid as sheepish. We went to the bar, set our
weapons down. I backed up, watching Jaime, until my buttocks pressed against the edge of the pool table. Hy stood midway between
us.

Mourning lay on the floor, moaning. Navarro was still flattened against the wall, eyes wild. She pushed away from it, started
toward Jaime, arms held out in a placating gesture.

Smiling, Jaime shot her in the head.

As the bullet smashed into Navarro’s skull, I shut my eyes and whipped my head away so fast that pain shot up my neck. My
stomach lurched violently. I opened my eyes and caught a glimpse of Hy’s face—slack-jawed, sick. I leaned farther back against
the table, hands splayed on the felt. Moved them around until I found a billiard ball.

Jaime was still smiling. He swung his gun toward Hy. “Shouldn’t’ve come back here, asshole.”

I straightened with the ball tightly gripped in my fingers. Moved my arm in a smooth, strong arc, and let the ball fly at
Jaime’s head. In the last second I saw it was the eight ball.

Jaime saw me move, but too late. As he started to swing his gun around, the hard ivory ball slammed into his temple with a
resounding crack. His eyes rolled up; he went to his knees, losing his grip on the Magnum, then fell sideways.

Hy leaped for the bar, grabbed one of the guns; I went for the other. He picked up Mourning and slung him over his shoulder.
There was noise in the other part of the house now— running footsteps. Salazar’s voice called out in Spanish.

We plunged through the door, ran across the patio and down the path. Veered off and zigzagged through the agaves toward the
beach.

As we slid down the sandy slope, Hy gasped, “Jesus, McCone, not only’re you playing in the majors but you throw one mean fastball!”

Monday, June 14

12:17
A.M.

When we got to the car, all was quiet except for a dog barking somewhere down the road. Salazar hadn’t followed us, and no
one had come out of any of the other villas. Still, my heart beat fast and I had to fight off nausea every time I pictured
the bullet shattering Navarro’s skull.

Forcing the horrible image from my mind, I opened the door to the backseat of the Seville. As Hy laid Mourning on it, Tim
grunted and then fell silent—in shock, I supposed. I got my jacket out of the trunk and started to hand it to Hy. “Better
wrap this around him.”

He didn’t reach for it, just stood pressing his hand to his wounded arm. When he removed it, it was streaked with blood. “Damned
thing’s opened up,” he said.

“Do you have anything in your bag that you can use as an extra bandage?”

He shook his head. “Don’t worry—it’s not that serious.” He took the jacket from me and arranged it over Mourning. “You better
drive, though.”

I got behind the wheel, adjusted the seat and mirrors, and started the engine. Hy climbed into the passenger seat. Without
lights, I coasted onto the road and turned toward the village. Hy twisted around and looked behind us. “Fontes’s front yard
is all lit up, but the auto gate’s still closed.”

I flicked on the headlights and speeded up. Soon we entered the village. No police in evidence, no other activity. Its sidewalks
were deserted, the lights of the shops muted. Only the stock-brokerage’s sign flashed; trading was up on the London exchange.
I drove slowly, carefully, to the main highway. Turned north and pressed down on the accelerator.

Hy had turned to look at Mourning.

I asked, “How’s he doing?”

“Asleep or passed out. Just as well.”

“For now—but is he going to be able to make the crossing?”

“He’ll make it,” Hy said grimly.

For a while we drove in silence. Then he asked, “So what d’you want to do when this is over?”

“Sleep.”

“No, seriously …”

“Climb into the Citabria and fly away.”

“Where?”

“Anyplace where it’s quiet and relatively deserted. And for a good long time.”

“What about All Souls?”

All Souls! In our catching up, somehow I’d neglected to tell him what was going on there. “It’s not an issue,” I said. “I
don’t work there anymore.”

“
What?
”

“Uh-huh.” I nodded. “They were going to force me into a desk job—a promotion, they called it. I hated the idea, but was considering
it because I didn’t want to leave. Then before I could give them an answer, I took off to look for you. They found out, so
here I am—unemployed.”

“My fault.”

“Why? I knew what I was doing. And maybe it’s not such a bad thing, in the long run. Maybe it’s time for a change.”

“That’s what I said before I went to talk with Renshaw.”

Again we fell silent. The lights of Ensenada appeared, then receded in the rearview mirror. Traffic was light; I kept an eye
out for a tail or a police car. Kept my speed down close to the limit.

Mourning stirred, then struggled to sit up. “Got to puke,” he muttered.

I pulled the car onto the shoulder, and Hy went to help him. After a while they returned, Mourning looking better.

“Tim,” I said as he settled into the backseat, “do you know what kind of drug they’ve been giving you?”

“Barbiturates of some sort.” He massaged his eyes. “I’ve been sleeping so much I don’t even know what day it is. And now I
can’t see more than a few feet in front of me. That Salazar bastard broke my glasses.”

“I know. It’s Sunday, June thirteenth … well, Monday, actually.” I waited for a truck to pass, then pulled onto the highway.

“Christ,” Mourning said. “Almost two weeks.” He paused. “I really owe you people. RKI’s one hell of an outfit.”

I didn’t respond to the latter comment, and neither did Hy, clearly as unwilling to go into the whole story as I was.

Hy asked, “Have the drugs pretty much worn off by now?”

“Yeah, except every move makes me feel winded and gets my heart pounding. And I’ve got a splitting headache.”