The Damsel

by Richard Stark

  But everything was all right now. They hadn’t discussed the finances yet, but there was no hurry about that. Juan already knew how it would go; at first Uncle Luke would insist on paying for everything himself, making a gift of it, but as Juan would persist, Uncle Luke would finally accept the fact that it was a loan.

  There was no hurry, though. That conversation could wait a week or a month or even more. He would give it better timing than the first half. Patience, like sleeping in airplanes, was a mark of maturity, and it was about time he started developing some of those marks.

  “Juan!”

  He opened his eyes, rolled lazily in the water. Uncle Luke was standing up by the side of the pool, grinning down at him. Juan called, “What’s up?”

  “Going to give you a diving lesson,” Uncle Luke said. “Watch carefully, now. See how it’s done.”

  Juan, treading water, watched Uncle Luke with fond pleasure. If he could look half that good at Uncle Luke’s age he’d be well pleased. There was a man who kept himself in top condition both physically and mentally, and Juan, looking up at him, realized just how lucky he was to have been brought up by such a man. “Okay, Tarzan,” he called. “Show me.”

  Uncle Luke sliced into the water with hardly a ripple, curved to the bottom and up like a long, sleek tan fish, broke the surface with a shout of pleasure and turned to call, “That’s how it’s done!”

  “Oh, you go in on your stomach. I didn’t know that.”

  Uncle Luke snorted. “Stomach my foot!”

  Juan, laughing, recited, “You are old, Father William—”

  “Be off,” shouted Uncle Luke, “or I’ll throw you downstairs!”

  “I’ll show you a dive,” Juan promised, and glided to the edge of the pool. He lifted himself up out of the water, stood on the pink cement, and shook water out of his ears.

  “This way to the Olympics!” called Uncle Luke.

  Juan stood at stiff attention by the edge, hands at his sides. “Ze vay ve dife in Chermany,” he said, “is shtraight up und den shtraight down.”

  “Like a stone,” commented Uncle Luke, and across the pool Uncle Edgar was smiling at them both.

  Juan changed his stance, making his body loose and sinuous. “In India,” he said, “we dive like a sssssnake, rrrrrippling srough se water.”

  “In Mexico,” Uncle Luke called, “we mostly stand beside the pool and talk big.”

  “There are times—”

  Uncle Edgar shouted, “Look out!”

  Juan saw Uncle Edgar half out of his chair, staring at something behind Juan, his face distorted by shock. Juan turned to see what it was, and couldn’t believe his eyes.

  Running toward him was a half-naked man dressed only in dirty khaki pants. He was the ugliest man Juan had ever seen, his body ridged and corroded by scars. He was running downhill over the boulders, far from any of the slate paths, and held rigid in his right hand was a gleaming knife.

  10

  DOCTOR FITZGERALD couldn’t move.

  He was half-in, half-out of his chair, most of his weight supported by his arms, his hands clutching the chair arms. Suspended that way, as though time had frozen with him in the process of getting to his feet, he watched the drama on the other side of the swimming pool.

  The man with the knife had apparently circled most of the hotel buildings in order to come down from above, and had managed to come very close without being observed, actually running across the open only in the last ten yards or so. He seemed unaware of the existence of anyone but Juan, rushing straight at him, ignoring the doctor’s shouts or the shouts of Luke Harrison, still down there in the pool.

  Luke, too, was frozen, standing chest-deep in the water near the shallow end, one arm raised up out of the water in a half-completed gesture, as though he’d been about to ask the others to give him their attention. Like Edgar, he watched, without moving, the contest between Juan and the man with the knife.

  The contest. Juan had had just enough warning to evade that first headlong rush, jumping to one side, leaping over a lounge chair and then kicking the chair into the other man’s path.

  The whole thing had almost turned farcical at that point, when for just an instant the assailant teetered off balance and it seemed as though his only choice lay between falling over the lounge chair or tumbling into the pool. His arms flailed, the knife glinted in helpless malevolence in the sunlight, and then the instant was gone, he had his balance again, and he was turning to find Juan once more and finish the job he’d started.

  Juan had backed away, but for some reason he didn’t turn and run. Instead he stood there, perhaps ten feet from the other man, watching and waiting, poised like a cat. Doctor Fitzgerald heard him say, “What’s the matter? I don’t know you.”

  The other man moved forward, half-crouching, the knife held out to one side. He weaved back and forth as he came on, almost as though trying to hypnotize Juan, and Juan watched him as closely as a child watching a magician, trying to see by what trickery the rabbit is being made to come out of the hat.

  The distance between them narrowed, to eight feet, six feet, and again the other man leaped forward. Again Juan jumped backward, this time almost falling over a lounge chair himself, but getting his balance back, grabbing a white towel off the seat of the chair, dancing away out of range of the knife.

  Juan spoke again, this time in Spanish. The other one, standing by the chair that Juan hadn’t quite tripped over, rested his free hand on the chair back, as though this were a brief time-out they were taking, and answered in harsh, guttural Spanish, spitting the words out. Juan’s face twisted, in pity or disgust, and the timeout was over.

  The man went to his left around the chair, and Juan went the other way, circling the chair. The man, with an angry shout, kicked the chair out of the way. Juan ran nimbly past him, and now they were moving in the opposite direction, back toward where they had started.

  There was a terrible fascination in watching the two of them, so violently contrasted, the boy so fresh, smooth, handsome, the other so twisted and scarred. Both moved with fine grace, the boy light as a deer, the man with the heavy grace of a panther.

  Whatever the man had said, Juan seemed slowed now, just slightly unsure of himself. As though in some strange way he found merit in the other’s case, a justification for murder that he could not himself entirely rebut. He seemed not to be looking for a way to escape, nor for a way to beat the other, but for an answer, as though somewhere in his head he had to find words to use against the knife.

  Why doesn’t he run? the doctor asked himself. Why doesn’t Luke do something, say something? It didn’t occur to him to wonder at his own silence; he knew he could neither move nor speak, and he accepted the knowledge without question.

  Over on the other side of the pool, it was like a dance, like modern ballet. Juan moved only when the other man did, and only enough to keep clear of the knife. As for the other one, his movements had grown smaller, more controlled, as though he was afraid of lunging too carelessly, losing his advantage. Or perhaps he was simply like the cat with the mouse, prolonging the chase for his own pleasure, though his expression seemed too grim and humorless and intent for that.

  “Juan!”

  It was Luke, finally coming out of it, calling from the water. Juan half-turned his head when his name was called, the man with the knife darted forward, Juan jumped back. He flicked the towel at the man’s face, but missed.

  Luke shouted, “Get away from him, Juan! Run down the hill! Run down the hill!”

  The man seemed to think Juan would do as Luke wanted; in any case, he all at once rushed forward, flailing with the knife. Juan, running backward, flicked the towel again, this time at the knife, once, twice—and the knife went flashing through the air, spun away by the towel. It fell clear of the tile, landed point down in the earth, the handle quivering there.

  The man stood flatfooted an instant in astonishment, gaping at his empty hand. Then, with a roar of humiliation a
nd rage, he rushed Juan bare-handed, his fingers reaching out for Juan’s throat.

  Juan caught him by the wrists, and they staggered back and forth, clamped together, hands to wrists, the muscles straining in their arms and across their shoulders. Even their bellies were tight and rippled with the strain, and on Juan’s bare legs the thigh muscles were bunched and knotted. They bent this way, that way, both showing their teeth in wide grimaces, their eyes unblinking as they stared at one another.

  Until with a sudden movement the other man twisted free, stumbled back, and rushed forward again. This time Juan side-stepped him, grabbing him by the upper arm, using his own movement against him, pushing him around in a floundering half-circle. Juan’s foot came out, the other tripped, hit the tile hard on his left shoulder, and rolled despairingly over the edge into the pool.

  Luke was on him like a bull, holding him down, pressing him, mashing him down into the water.

  Doctor Fitzgerald, released from tension, sank back into the chair. He inhaled, a long, shuddering, painful breath that seared the inside of his chest, making him wonder how long it had been since he’d breathed. “Thank God!” he whispered. Shooting pains were running up and down his arms; he let them dangle over the sides of the chair, and gave himself over to catching his breath.

  Across the way, Juan had fallen to the tile, was sitting there spraddle-legged like a rag doll, like a puppet whose strings have been cut. And in the pool Luke was hulked in chest-deep water, grim and intent, holding, holding. Beneath him the water thrashed in violence.

  Slowly Juan seemed to come aware of the world again, and then of Luke and of what was happening. His face twisted with pain, Juan leaned toward the pool, calling, “Uncle Luke, don’t!”

  But Luke paid no attention to the boy, and beneath him the agitation in the water was lessening.

  Juan slid forward to hands and knees, crawled to the edge of the pool, cried, “Uncle Luke! Stop it!”

  Doctor Fitzgerald, watching and listening, finally roused himself, sat up, and called, “Let him go, boy. He knows what he’s doing, let him go.” And then realized, in some astonishment, that he’d only whispered, that no one could have heard him, and that he hadn’t really expected to be heard.

  Juan, his exhaustion showing in every movement, lumbered clumsily into the pool, falling more than diving, and struggled over to Luke. Then a strange silent struggle went on, the two fighting like tired sharks for the thing in the water. Luke muttered something that Doctor Fitzgerald couldn’t hear, and to which the boy made no answer, then all at once turned his back, leaving it all to Juan. Luke came slowly over to this side of the pool, arms held up out of the water, and stopped with his forearms resting on the tile. He looked up at the doctor with expressionless eyes and said, “Call the police, Edgar.” His voice was quiet, calm.

  Across the way, Juan was dragging the man—unconscious, or dead—out of the water. The doctor said, “Of course,” and got to his feet. His entire body was stiff, the nerves jumping, as though he’d been beaten all over with blackjacks. Shaking, his body unaware that it was all over, he hobbled toward the cottage to make the call.

  11

  GOVERNOR HARRISON SAT panting in a deck chair and watched Juan, across the pool, giving the son of a bitch artificial respiration. He wanted to tell the boy to quit it, let the son of a bitch die, but he didn’t have the strength to raise his voice, and when all was said and done, it really didn’t matter.

  Juan was still alive.

  While it was going on, the Governor had been too frozen with horror to do anything but watch that goddamn moron try to stick a knife into everything he’d been working for. Now that it was over, his anger at the failed assassin was mostly reflexive; he was feeling too much relief at Juan’s being alive to have much emotion to spare for imbeciles.

  And what could the man be but an imbecile? In broad daylight, he comes running out of nowhere, barefoot, naked to the waist, ugly as sin, brandishing a knife, trying to murder a perfect stranger right in front of two witnesses.

  An escapee from an insane asylum, more than likely. A candidate for an asylum, at any rate.

  Across the way, Juan was straddling the lunatic, pumping away at his back, just as though it were important that maniacs go on breathing. But if it made the boy feel any better, let him go to it.

  Edgar came back out of the cottage, walking like a man with broken kneecaps. His face was as white as wax. He said, “They’re sending for the police. And two men will come up to hold him till the police get here.”

  “Good.”

  From across the pool, Juan called, “Uncle Edgar! Will you take a look?”

  “Oh,” said Edgar, like a sleepwalker. “Of course.”

  The Governor watched him walk around the pool, legs as shaky as a foal’s, and he found it impossible to believe that such a man would be able to accomplish what must be done. How to put steel in that back?

  If only Pozos were responsible for Ellen Marie’s death. Of course, in a way he was; if it hadn’t been for the existence of Pozos, Ellen Marie would still be alive, but that was reasoning of too subtle a sort to try on a man just bereft of a daughter.

  Was there any way? Somehow make Pozos to blame, that would do the trick. Edgar would perform like a machine, absolutely without emotion, given such an emotional reason.

  Juan was coming around the pool now, leaving Edgar on his knees beside the lunatic. Juan smiled shakily and dropped into the chaise beside the Governor, saying, “Uncle Edgar says he’s all right.”

  “Tomorrow I’ll be glad,” the Governor said. “Right now I’m sorry I didn’t do the whole job.”

  Juan reached out and pressed his hand on the Governor’s knee. “I appreciate that, Uncle Luke,” he said, “I appreciate what it means you feel about me, but you don’t understand about that man.”

  “Understand what? He’s a lunatic, that’s all.”

  “He was in one of my father’s prisons. That’s where he got all those scars.”

  The Governor glanced across the pool, then back at Juan. “Is that what he told you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why try to kill you? Why not go after your father?” And save me, the Governor thought, all this trouble.

  Juan shrugged. “I don’t know. I suppose my father’s too well guarded. And I guess he thought this would be a good revenge, kill the General’s only son.” Juan laughed without humor, “If he only knew.”

  “Knew what?”

  “I’m hardly General Pozos’ son,” Juan said. “You know that. He doesn’t care about me and I can’t bring myself to care about him.”

  Two men came up then, employees of the hotel. The Governor gestured across the pool, saying, “Over there, that’s him.”

  The assassin—attempted assassin, thank God—was sitting up now, groggily. Edgar had been speaking to him, softly, but now he straightened and backed away as the two hotel employees came over. They stood uneasily on either side of the sitting man, looking at him or at the pool or at each other, obviously not entirely sure what was called for from them in such a situation.

  Edgar came around the pool and sat down in the chaise on the Governor’s other side. “He’ll be all right,” he said. “He swallowed some water, but Juan got most of it up.”

  “I almost want to let him go,” said Juan. When Edgar looked at him in surprise, the boy explained again what the assault had been all about.

  The Governor was thinking again, and it seemed to him there might be a way to turn this assault to advantage after all. First, to begin convincing Juan of the necessity of his taking over the responsibility of Guerrero on his father’s death. And second, to put that needed steel in Edgar’s spine. So he said, “When the day comes, Juan, that you take over your country, the conditions that create men like that one there can come to an end.”

  Juan, frowning, looked over at the man sitting hopelessly on the tile, and the Governor could see the comprehension of responsibility growing in the boy’s mi
nd. Juan was learning to accept that responsibility; reluctantly but surely.

  Juan said, dully, “I don’t suppose anyone could say anything to my father.”

  “To make him change his ways? Hardly.”

  “Hardly,” Juan echoed, and closed his eyes.

  The Governor turned to Edgar, saying, “When that day comes, there’ll be no more assassins. No more need of assassins.”

  Edgar understood. He nodded and said, “Amen.”

  Opening his eyes again, looking across at the failed assassin, Juan said, “We won’t tell my father what happened. Or the police. He’s just a burglar, that’s all.”

  The Governor frowned. “Why?”

  Juan turned and met the Governor’s eyes. “I don’t want him to go back into my father’s prison. Let him go to a Mexican prison.”

  The Governor smiled, suddenly feeling very good. Everything would work out, and by God the boy had the stuff to be a fine leader, a fine leader. The Governor said, “That’s all right. Just so he doesn’t start making any speeches.”

  “I’ll talk to him,” Juan said, and got to his feet.

  When the brown-uniformed policemen came trudging up the slope a few minutes later, Juan was hunkered down in front of the prisoner, talking to him in Spanish. He straightened, and came back over by the Governor, and answered the policemen’s questions in English.

  12

  GENERAL POZOS MOVED slowly down the swaying stairway to the launch, where two sailors took his arms and helped him aboard. This was the only thing he disliked about traveling by yacht, the boarding and the leaving.

  Bob Harrison came down after him, and then some other staff members. They all sat, Harrison beside the General, and the launch moved away from the yacht and turned itself toward shore.