He killed for the first time in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, when a liquor store clerk made the fatal mistake of going for the sawed-off under the counter. The memory was still vivid, like some cherished instant replay. The thunderous sound of the gun, the funny pattern the blood made as it spread across the clerk's faded plaid shirt, and the look of surprise on his face before he pitched over backward into a display of discount wines.
"We're ready," Consuela called out, interrupting Donner's thoughts. He forced a smile. "Then what are we waiting for?" He tossed away his cigarette and slid open the Econoline's passenger door. The interior looked comfortable and inviting, with shag carpet on the floor and plush-covered captain's chairs instead of the usual seats. All the side and rear windows had amber-tinted glass. If any of the Maderas thought that was a little odd, no one mentioned it.
"Let's go," Donner said, beckoning them. "It's a long way to the border."
With one fleeting backward glance at the shack, Consuela led her family across the litter-strewn yard. They carried their few possessions in cloth-wrapped bundles. Miguel had made an unsuccessful attempt to hide the family dog in the voluminous folds of his shirt, but the animal's slat-ribbed body kept squirming while its pink tongue lapped playfully at the Mexican's pudgy face. Donner decided to let it go. Why make a fuss now, when he could just as easily take care of it after they cleared the border? The Maderas filed into the van in respectful silence. When everyone was seated, Donner slid the door shut and turned the key in the lock.
He concentrated on his driving as he eased the van down the narrow, winding mountain road. There weren't many street lights or signs in this part of Chihuahua. Some of the out-of-the-way villages he'd been in didn't have so much as a single paved road. It was amazing how out of touch these people were, he thought, as if the twentieth century had passed them by without even bothering to wave. Still, it made his job easier. He'd tried the border towns when he'd first started. But they were too Americanized, too wary and hard-assed, too used to running their own cons with little time left over to listen to his. Donner quickly realized that if you wanted to peddle a dream, you had to go where people still believed in them.
When he finally nosed the van onto the highway, Donner pulled out a bottle of tequila from beneath the seat. Behind him the Maderas were singing like a bunch of kids on a camping trip. They sang songs about love, revolution, death, and the Blessed Virgin. The constant rise and fall of their voices was beginning to grate on his nerves.
"Here's something to shorten the road a bit," he said, passing a straw-wrapped bottle back to the old man. Donner grinned as he heard the cork pop. "Let's drink a toast," he suggested, "to a new and better life in America."
"I'm sorry," Consuela said apologetically, "but spirits disagree with me. And my sisters are not yet old enough for such things."
"But you must," Donner insisted. "Surely your stomach is not as delicate as that. After all, this is a toast, an occasion of great honor and seriousness. Of course, if it means nothing to you…" He fell silent, as if he were suddenly overwhelmed by disappointment.
"All right," the girl conceded. "Just this once, in honor of the occasion."
Donner watched them pass the bottle in the rear-view mirror. It worked every time. All you had to do was appeal to a Mexican's sense of pride, and you could get him to do anything. By the time the tequila had gone full circle, the old man's head had slumped to his chest. The rest of the Maderas passed out a few seconds later. Donner heard the bottle hit the carpeted floor with a thud. The skinny yellow dog rose off his haunches and lapped up the last few drops before they soaked into the rug. A moment later he toppled over, too, his big brown eyes glazed and shining.
"Potent stuff," Donner chuckled. "Didn't anyone ever teach you shitheads not to drink with strangers?" Laughing, he goosed the van up to sixty. He was on the main highway now, only about an hour and a quarter shy of the border. Considering how much chloral hydrate he'd put in the tequila, it looked like the Maderas were going to miss their arrival in America.
Donner leaned back in his seat. It felt good to have the wind on his face and nothing but the clear, empty road up ahead. He teased a Winston out of the pack, lit up, and took a long, satisfying drag. His life had really changed a lot in the past few months. He could still remember how surprised he'd been when the first letter came. The way the thick wad of bills had spilled out of the envelope to form a ragged green pile across his threadbare living room rug. It was more money than he'd ever seen at one time, and the letter promised a great deal more.
The letter itself was short, simple, and businesslike. In return for all this sudden wealth, all he had to do was supply his anonymous employer with women. 242 women, to be exact. Specifications were given as to age and general physical attributes, but the type required would be very hard to find. Basically the guy wanted pretty women. That wasn't too difficult to understand.
There was only one catch to the deal. Donner couldn't take women whose sudden disappearance would cause a big stir. In the letter his would-be employer suggested that he do most of his recruiting in Mexico, as they tended to be a bit more lax down there in the matter of missing persons. He informed Donner that arrangements had been made for him to cross and recross the border without the hassle of having his vehicle inspected. The final page of the letter gave detailed instructions on crossing points, times, even what lane to get in so that he could always be sure of connecting with a simpático border patrolman. Obviously, a great deal of money and time had already been spent on smoothing the way for this cross-border commute. Donner was even more impressed when he found the keys to a brand-new twelve-passenger van taped inside the envelope, along with a registration and a bill of sale, both in his name.
Donner had gone to the window and lifted the curtain slightly to peer outside. The van was parked right out front. He checked the license number against the registration. That was it, all right. What made these people so damned sure of themselves? Why had they picked him out of the thousands of people who lived in Santa Fe?
Another thought occurred to him. What was to prevent him from taking the money and the van and splitting for parts unknown'? The thought gave him a warm feeling. Why not'? Anyone trusting enough to give a stranger wheels deserved to be ripped off.
The whirlwind of ideas in his brain was interrupted by the shrill ringing of the telephone. Donner hesitated for a moment, annoyed, then lifted the receiver.
"You've read the letter?" the caller asked. The voice was dipped and cool, devoid of emotion.
"I read it," Donner said.
"Good. Now you have two choices," the caller continued smoothly. "One, you may enter my employ and partake of its numerous benefits. Or secondly, you may choose to turn down my generous terms. In that case, all you need do is place the envelope and its contents under the sun visor on the driver's side of the van. Someone will come by within the hour to drive the vehicle away. On the other hand, if you do accept my offer, I'll expect you to start work today."
"I really haven't thought…"
"Then think now," the cool voice said. "By the way, if you've been contemplating another alternative of your own devising, I suggest you put it out of your mind. The world is a big place, Mr. Donner, but not nearly big enough." With that final cautionary note, the line went dead.
Donner drew a deep breath and gently cradled the receiver. He was surprised to find that his hands were shaking. Any thoughts he'd had about disappearing with the van and money were gone. The man on the phone didn't sound like anyone to mess around with.
It only took a few minutes to decide. He would take the job. It was too damned good for him to pass up. The more Donner thought about it, the more he realized that this was just the kind of work he'd been cut out for from the very start. He had all the qualifications— the looks, the charm, and his fluent Spanish. And the fact that he killed without hesitation or remorse would help, too. Combine all of that with the way he felt about Mexicans, and it added up to a per
fect job for Wally Donner.
He experienced a momentary chill, as if an icy hand had gently reached out to caress him. It had just occurred to him that someone else must know virtually everything about him. And that someone else was the man he'd just decided to work for.
The chill passed. After a few days, Donner found himself caught up in his work, loving the sense of power it gave him, the way he could alter lives and destinies with a few nice words and a convincing smile.
Donner never gave much thought to what might happen to the women after he delivered them or to why his employer needed exactly 242. When it came right down to it, he really didn't care. He had his own future to think about. A future of wealth and respect, as far removed from the shabby wretchedness of his childhood as he could get.
Up ahead Donner could see the bright lights of Juárez. It was a border town like dozens of others, a little bigger than most, but still nothing more than bars, whorehouses, and shops filled with overpriced junk. The glaring pastel neon was an invitation to youthful tourists to lose their cherries and their wallets at the same time, with maybe a dose of clap thrown in as a souvenir of sunny Mexico.
He passed through the border checkpoint without incident. The grinning patrolman just went through the motions and then waved him through. Donner wondered as he often had before just how much those guys at the border were getting for their part in the operation. His anonymous employer really did know how to spread the green stuff around.
Stateside, Donner got caught up in the congested traffic of El Paso. Once he broke free, he sped on into New Mexico. He was in the home stretch now. Forty more miles to the rendezvous point and then back to the motel for a couple of cold ones and eight hours of well-deserved rest.
Donner was going so fast that he almost didn't see the hitchhiker. But a glimpse of wind-blown blond hair and long, tapering legs made him slam on the brakes. He poked his head out the window before backing up, just to make sure she was alone.
"Need a lift?" Donner smiled down at her.
"If you're headed toward Santa Fe, I do." The girl returned his smile. She looked to be eighteen, maybe twenty, with a pretty, dimple-chinned face framed by a tangle of honey-blond hair. She was wearing cutoffs that showed off her smooth, tanned legs and a plain white T-shirt that emphasized the size and shape of her breasts, especially where the fabric clung to them beneath the straps of her backpack.
"Climb aboard," Donner invited her. "I'm driving straight through to Santa Fe." As she circled around toward the passenger door, Donner took a quick look back at the unconscious Mexicans. The rear of the van was too dark to see anything more than indistinct shapes and shadows. Everything would be fine as long as the girl didn't get overly inquisitive about the back of the van.
"Thanks a lot," she said as the van picked up speed again. "I've been out there for hours."
"Guess you're a pretty lucky girl," Dormer said. "What's your name?"
"Karen Lockwood," she said distractedly as the van turned onto a bumpy dirt road. "You… you're sure you're going to Santa Fe?"
"Absolutely," Donner assured her. "This is just a shortcut. It's the best way to avoid all the heavy traffic around Salinas."
The girl nodded tensely. She wanted to believe him, Donner realized. She was tired and lost, and she wanted to believe he was helping her. It worked every time. Give them a dream, and they'll keep on dreaming, even while you're sticking the knife in their ribs.
"This is pretty desolate country," he said casually. "I have to admit I'm a little surprised to find you out here all alone. Not that it's any of my business," he added quickly. "I guess I'm just a natural born worrier."
"Don't waste it on me," the girl said, grinning. Her right hand darted up, and a split second later it was wrapped around the bone handle of a wicked-looking bowie knife. She held it out in front of her, her arm rigid and rock-steady. The curving steel blade gleamed in the moonlight. "Don't get nervous," she told Donner. "I only use it as a means of self-preservation. I like to travel solo. Been all over the Southwest on my own." She slipped the bowie back into its sheath hidden away under her free-flowing curls.
"Ever have to use it?" Donner asked, his jaw clenching.
"Once or twice." She smiled. "Do you think we could stop for a minute once we get back on the interstate? At a gas station or a diner, anywhere I could pick up a Coke. My throat's starting to feel like an empty cactus."
"The first place we see," Donner promised. He eased up on the gas and reached down under his seat. "Try a shot of this," he offered, handing her a straw-wrapped bottle. It was just like the one the Maderas had passed around before the sudden urge to sleep came upon them.
"What is it?" she asked warily.
"Santa Maria tequila. Alvaro grows wild around there, so the locals make their own home brew. It's strong stuff, but you look like you can handle it."
"You'd better believe it," she said, grinning. She pulled the cork and took a long swallow. Less than a minute later, she was slumped against Donner's shoulder. He leaned over and eased the bottle out of her hand. No point in letting good liquor spill all over the place.
Up ahead, he noticed a deep arroyo about twenty yards from the road. Slowing down to twenty, he nosed the Econoline toward it. When he was as close as he could get, he cut the engine and climbed out. It was time for him to lighten his load, and this was as good a place as any. After all, he was only being paid to deliver women.
After removing the razor-edged bowie, Donner picked the girl up and tossed her in the back. "Pleasant dreams, Karen Lockwood," he whispered. Then he dragged out Miguel, the old lady, and the old man. When the three of them were lying in the arroyo, out of sight now from anyone who might drive by, Donner unholstered the Blackhawk and screwed on a homemade silencer. "Welcome to America," he said, smiling. Then slowly, carefully, he put a single shot through each of their heads.
Donner was too busy to notice the dog. It crawled out of the van and scrambled for the shelter of the rocks. There it stayed, quiet and still until the Econoline's taillights disappeared over the horizon. Only then did the dog come out to investigate. It circled the bodies twice, scratched at the ground, and then lifted its muzzle to howl balefully at the moon.
?CHAPTER TWO
His name was Remo and he was sticking his finger into the barrel of a Smith & Wesson .38 and thinking they didn't make muggers like they used to.
It all started with Chiun's trunks. As usual, Remo's trainer had packed twenty-seven large lacquer boxes in preparation for a four-mile trip to the airport.
"We're only meeting Smitty for instructions," Remo protested. "If he weren't so paranoid, he'd call on the phone. We don't need all this luggage just to talk to him."
"Imbecile," the old Korean said. "Emperor Smith obviously wishes us to travel. An assassin sitting in a motel room is a useless thing."
"So is an assassin with twenty-seven steamer trunks," Remo said.
"Only if he is fettered by a slothful white pupil who spends his time arguing instead of attending to his duties."
"Funny. I thought my duty was to work for the guy who pays us."
"Only when necessary, O oatmeal-brained one. Your main duty is to tend to the needs of your frail and aging teacher in the twilight of his life. Now, get a taxi."
"A taxi?" Remo grumbled. "Try five. We'll need a caravan to get this stuff moved."
"The Master of Sinanju is not concerned with trivialities," Chiun said, picking an imaginary piece of lint off his green brocade robe. "Take care not to damage my Betamax."
"Which one?" Remo muttered, hoisting two of the trunks onto his shoulders.
"That one. It is the machine on which I view the history of your country."
Remo emitted a small whinny of defeat. What the old man considered a pictorial essay on America was, in fact, a soap opera named "As the Planet Revolves," which had been off the air for the past fifteen years. Chiun had his own sense of reality. People were disposable; characters on television were not.
It was useless to argue.
Remo staggered out of the motel, set down the two trunks, and looked around for a taxi. There were none in sight. While he was looking, a small boy tossed a melting ice cream bar on one of them. A stray dog came over and licked it up, then lifted its leg on the trunks. On the near corner, a youth leaned against the lamp post, methodically picking his teeth with a stiletto while he eyed the gleaming brass clasps. It wasn't the part of town where you left your luggage on the street to hunt a cab.
The clock down the block read 10:49. He was supposed to meet his employer, Smith, at exactly eleven o'clock. The way things were going, he'd be lucky to make it to the airport by sunset.
A ray of hope flickered dimly at the sight of the yellow-clad figure walking toward him. The boy's freshly shaven head glistened in the sunlight. His bare feet made a soft swooshing sound as he padded down the debris-strewn sidewalk. In one hand he carried a brightly colored can while the other clamored away on a pair of finger cymbals.
Okay, Remo thought. The kid's a fruitcake, but these cultist zanies don't steal trunks full of civilian clothes. He smiled as the youth approached.
"Hare Krishna," the young man said in a thin but enthusiastic voice. He held the can under Remo's nose. "I'm collecting for the church of Krishna and his followers. A donation of five or ten dollars would be appreciated."
"I'll do better than that," Remo said, pulling out a roll of hundred-dollar bills. The youth's eyes popped as Remo peeled one off the top. "Look," Remo said. "I've got to go back inside for more of these. If you'll watch the trunks for me and hail a cab when one comes by, the C-note's yours."
The youth straightened up, suddenly indignant. "You want me to do something for it?"
"It didn't really seem like a lot to ask," Remo waffled.
"My work is for Krishna," the youth said witheringly. "We shun the greed of the West. Our lives are spent in contemplation, not in selling our labor for cash."
"Okay. It was only an idea."
"A dependence on money and material gain leads to corruption of the spirit. When the spirit is corrupt, evil takes root. Greed breeds crime. The disintegration of humanity is…"
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