Everything seemed to slow down. Even el Condor's smile as he slowly raised the shotgun to fire again. Then a crazy thing happened. There was a flashing light and the arm that held the gun seemed to fly off from his shoulder and float lazily through the air. I saw el Condor's mouth open and heard his scream as the blood came gushing up. Then the light spun at him again and the scream was cut off.
I heard the shots, and I could count them as I turned my head. Three, four, five, six. There was a horrible look on Fat Cat's face as he walked steadily toward el Condor, the bloody machete held high in his two hands like a woodsman's ax.
Desperately the other bandolero clawed at the gun left in his belt, but it would not obey his frightened fingers. He turned screaming and began to run. He had gone but four paces when Fat Cat threw the machete after him. Abruptly he seemed to break open from the back of his head to his spine. He plunged forward over some small bushes out of sight.
I twisted my head toward Fat Cat. He was walking toward me, then he seemed to stumble and fall. He lay stretched out on the ground only a few feet away.
"Fat Cat!" I called, but my voice was very weak.
At first I thought he did not hear me, then he raised his head and looked over at me. He began agonizingly to crawl slowly toward me, rolling, using his elbows, clawing his way. The blood was streaming from his mouth and the hole in the side of his neck.
I stared at him in shocked surprise. Fat Cat was dying. I couldn't believe it. Not Fat Cat. He could never die, he was indestructible. "Fat Cat, I'm sorry," I wanted to say, but I couldn't get the words out.
Now our faces were almost touching and we hung there together on the spinning earth staring into each other's eyes.
I felt the icy polar cold creeping upward through me. "Fat Cat, I'm cold," I whispered. Even as a child I had hated the cold. I loved the sun.
But the sun coming over the mountains now gave me no warmth. Only a bright dazzling light that hurt my eyes and made it difficult for me to see. I felt the cold getting colder and creeping ever higher.
"Fat Cat, I'm afraid," I whispered. I squinted my eyes against the sun so that I could see his face.
Fat Cat raised his head and into his eyes came a look I had never seen there before. It was all the looks of love in one expression. Of a friend, of a father, of a son. Then he pushed his hand out over mine and covered it. I gripped his fingers tightly.
His voice was hoarse but soft. "Hold my hand, child," he said, "and I will take you safely through the mountains."
POSTSCRIPT
Hildebrandt, his chauffeur, was waiting as he came through the swinging doors from customs. "The car is just outside," he said, taking the valise. "Did you have a good flight, sir?"
Jeremy nodded. "It was a good flight."
They got into the big limousine and it sped rapidly off into the night. There was very little traffic at this hour and almost before he knew it, the car was racing past the multicolored lights of the World's Fair and onto the approaches of the Triborough Bridge.
"I called Mrs. Hadley when I heard your plane would be late."
"Thank you, Artie."
They came off the bridge onto the almost empty East River Drive and, racing downtown, turned off at the Sixty-third Street exit. A few blocks more .and the car pulled to a stop on a quiet tree-lined street just east of Central Park.
She was waiting at the door as he crossed the sidewalk to the steps of the gray town house. He stepped inside and shut the door and took her into his arms. They clung together silently for a tiny quiet moment.
She felt the weariness and the ache of travel in him. And something more than that. A strange stillness of spirit that was somehow foreign to his nature. She kissed him gently, comfortingly. Then she took his hand and led him into the living room.
"It's the staff's day off," she said. "I've made sandwiches and coffee; they're in the kitchen."
"It's all right," Jeremy said. "I'm not really hungry."
She looked up into his face. "How was it?"
"Pretty awful." There were grim lines there she had never seen before. "I never knew there could be anything like that."
She nodded. "Was there anyone else there?"
Jeremy shook his head. "I was the only one."
She was silent, watching him.
"It wouldn't have been so bad if someone else had been there. But I was the only one. And there had always been so many people—"
"No more talk about it now," she said quickly, touching her finger to his lips. "You go wash up. You'll feel better after you eat something."
Jeremy went upstairs and into the bathroom. A few minutes later he peeked into the children's rooms. The girls first Their room was the nearest.
They were fast asleep, their eyes tightly shut against the night. His golden girls. He smiled to himself. They were three and five years old and there was nothing that could wake them. Not even an earthquake.
But the boy was different. He slept lightly, and the slightest sound would waken him. Even now, as he came into the room, the boy stirred, then sat up in the bed. "Dad?" he asked in his nine-year-old voice.
"Yes, Dax."
"What kind of a plane did you come home on this time?"
"A 707," he answered, coming over to the side of the bed. He bent down and kissed the boy's forehead. "Now, go back to sleep."
"Yes, Dad," the boy said, lying down again. "Good night."
"Good night, son," Jeremy said gently, leaving the room.
She was waiting at the foot of the staircase when he came down. Silently he followed her into the breakfast nook just off the kitchen. The table was already set with sandwiches, coffee, and cake.
Unexpectedly he was hungry. He sat down and began to eat. She sat down opposite him and filled his coffee cup. He finished the sandwich and reached for his cup. "I was hungry," he said.
She smiled. He took a sip of the hot coffee. His eyes were somber again. "No one came."
"Very few do," she said, "even under the best of circumstances. Ten years is a long time to be remembering."
"I wonder if we'll ever really know the story of that last day," he mused.
"Never," she said. "Within a few months they were all dead. Except Vasquez." "Do you think he killed them?"
"Yes." Her voice was positive. "With Dax gone he knew the junta would fall apart. Who was there to be its conscience? Vasquez turned out to be no better than el Presidente."
"There is talk of revolution."
"Jeremy, I don't care." A faint edging of nerves came into her voice. "I told you, I don't care. I left it a long time ago because it was sick and all they ever thought about was death and destruction. I don't even want to hear about it any more."
"All right, all right," he said soothingly. "But I still remember sitting in the gallery at the UN when he made that last speech. The way he looked at them as he spoke. As if he was reminding the whole world of its conscience. 'Let there be no man among you to help another make war against his brother.'"
She looked at him without speaking.
Jeremy put his hand into his pocket and took out a ring. "They gave me this," he said, holding it out to her. "That is, I thought they had until I found out I was expected to buy it."
She took it from his hand and looked down at it. "I always wondered about the inscription."
"It's a class ring. He was in Jim's class at Harvard. We gave it to him when he had to leave before graduation."
She studied it.
"Upstairs, when I was in the boy's room, Beatriz, I was thinking. He's so much like his father. He should know."
"The boy knows one father. That's enough."
"He would be very proud of him."
"He's very proud of you," she replied.
"He's growing up," he persisted. "What if he should find out?"
"I'll take that chance," she insisted stubbornly.
"In fairness to his father?"
"No!" she said sharply. "His father is dead and fairness do
esn't matter to him any more." Abruptly she got up and walked into the kitchen. From the table he saw her pull open the incinerator chute and drop the ring into it. He heard it tinkling on its way down.
"Why did you do that?" he asked when she came back to the table.
"Now he is gone," she said tightly, "and there is nothing left of him but a dream we all had when we were young."
Jeremy started to speak but then he saw the tears standing in her emerald eyes. Instead he too got up, taking her into his arms and holding her closely to him. He felt the trembling in her and the salt of her tears against his lips.
She was wrong. And he knew that she knew it.
There was always the boy upstairs.
THE END
The Adventurers Page 82
