He took the cigarette out of his mouth and looked at Rubio, letting him think about that last illustration.
"Do you know what speeds up the production of histamines by your body, coyote?" He nodded affirmatively as if Rubio had answered. "Yes. This edema. Your body will begin a terrible cycle. At the same time, the water we are pumping into you will swell your stomach against your other organs, especially your lungs, causing them to dump even more histamines into your system. I will inject histamines into your navel, and you will experience immediate hypersensitivity as you begin to suffocate. The pressure against your guts will cause the worst pain you have ever felt, and the rapid production of histamines will make you supersensitive to sensations few people have ever felt."
Negrete regarded Rubio's passive face. "But do not worry, Indian. I will be listening to your heart, and watching your blood pressure." He dropped the cigarette on the floor and put his shoe on it. "Whatever else might happen, you won't die. I think, however, that you will be begging for it before we finish."
He wiped his forehead in the crook of his arm. "Oh, yes. If you decide to tell me what I want to know, simply nod, and this is what I will do ... if I believe you. I will relieve your pain so that you will be in no danger while we go and see if what you say is true. If it is true, I will call an ambulance to come get you. If it is not true, will come get you. Very simple, huh?"span>
Siseno moved around to the side of the bed beside Negrete and picked up the rubber hose. As he bent over Rubio, the Indian suddenly spat without warning, and a huge gob of mucus looped across Siseno's face.
"Puta" Siseno screamed, and struck instantly with all his might. His fist was doubled expertly, and a protruding middle knuckle caught Rubio on the outside corner of his left eye, punching it out of its socket so that it sat high and white on the bridge of his nose, but still attached.span>
Furious, Siseno jumped on the bed, straddled Rubio, and wrenched open his jaws as he rammed the end of the tube into the Indian's throat with such force that it tore his esophagus. He was already bleeding from his mouth when Negrete, standing with the readied syringe, gave the signal to Luis, and the water began to flow.
CHAPTER 53
At the top of the news this hour Houston police and the FBI are looking for two suspects believed, to be involved in the shooting here last Tuesday afternoon in which six people were killed in an assassination-type attack on a limousine at the intersection of West Loop and Richmond Avenue.
The two pictures of Bias Medrano and then the sketch of Rubio Arizpe flashed on the screen, and stayed there while the woman newscaster continued with her story. She said it was not yet known if the two men were tied to the killing of three people in Port Houston on Thursday, or the murder of a University of Houston professor in the early-morning hours today. After recapping the unprecedented series of killings during the last four days, the newscaster said the police and the FBI were urging anyone who might have seen the two men whose pictures were still on the screen to please call the Crime Stoppers number immediately, which was then flashed on the screen below the pictures.
The story was over in less than five minutes, followed by a story about a tanker truck that had overturned on the Gulf Freeway.
Haydon punched the mute button on the remote control and looked at Nina and Celia, who were sitting on the library sofa across from him.
"That's it?" Celia asked, her voice rising.
Haydon nodded. "Their pictures were on the screen for about two minutes. That's a long time. Long enough."
"Well, what happens now?" she persisted. "I mean, is that it? Can't they do something else?"
"We wait. Anything else that can be done is being done," Haydon said. "The paperwork, searching files, running down addresses, questioning people, tracing guns. This will go on a long time."
"But what if the people who've seen them aren't watching tonight?"
"It's supposed to run again in the morning."
Celia pulled her legs up on the sofa and folded her dress over them. She was still wearing Nina's skirt and blouse. Her eyebrows contorted in a frown. She seemed always on the verge of tears now.
"If anyone's going to call in, it should be within the next half hour or so," Haydon said. "That is, people who might have seen them, but who have no other knowledge of them. Like a gas-station attendant, or a store clerk. Those who might have knowledge of them beyond that may wait days or weeks to respond while they weigh the consequences. Or they might not call in at all."
Haydon was drinking French dark-roast coffee. It was strong, and he had already had too much, but he wasn't planning on trying to sleep anytime soon. He was still wearing the suit he had worn to Mooney's memorial service at ten o'clock that morning, exactly twelve hours earlier. He looked at the girl moving her mouth on the screen, and then the camera shifted to a different angle and picked up her co-announcer, a man, who was taking the next story. Back and forth, back and forth. They would do this for half an hour, bringing a third person for the weather and a fourth person for sports. This was the way they had done it when they announced Mooney's death, the same way they would do it to announce chili cook-offs and wars, high school football scores and earthquakes, clear to partly cloudy weather and terrorist bombings. Back and forth, back and forth, with something light and frothy at the end of the half hour.
"Why don't we turn it off, Stuart?" Nina said. "Either that, or turn the volume on so we can hear it."
Haydon didn't hear her. His eyes remained fixed on the voiceless automatons as they swiveled from side to side with choreographed precision to catch the alternating camera angles. He, on the other hand, was motionless, sitting upright in his wing chair with his legs crossed at the knees. He didn't blink. He wasn't even in the room.
Celia looked quizzically at Nina, who kept her eyes on Haydon. When the telephone rang, the two women jumped. Haydon looked at his watch—it was ten twenty-one—laid down the remote-control device, and walked back to his desk.
"Hello," he said.
"Stu," Dystal said. "We got action off that news item." Haydon pulled over a notepad and picked up a pencil.
"Phones haven't stopped ringing," Dystal continued. "Some nut stuff, but some good solid ones too. All right: Two guys in different clothing stores in the Galleria said Medrano was in their places Tuesday night, getting what looked like whole new outfits. Paid in cash, paid extra for rush alterations.
"Calls from agents in five different car rental agencies. Arizpe got one car from each of two; Medrano got one car from each of two and a little S-10 Chevy pickup from a third one. Used credit cards, but the names weren't Arizpe and Medrano.
"Call from a waitress in a little sandwich shop over on Norfolk at Kirby, said both of them were in there Thursday evening about dark. Drinking coffee and looking at a map for about half an hour, forty-five minutes. She said she visited with Medrano some and he was a real nice fella, polite, well-mannered.
"Call from management at that ritzy La Colombe d'Or over on Montrose said a guy who fits Medrano's description but using a credit card with another name checked in there around eleven p.m. Tuesday night, and checked out at six thirty-five this afternoon.
"Call from a waitress at a Steak 'N Egg Kitchen on San Felipe near Post Oak Boulevard said Medrano was in there at eight forty-five tonight. And the gal who works that shift with her said she had seen him in there Thursday night with Arizpe. They were going over some maps together. Then we got another call from another waitress who works the morning shift there—she was at home when she called— and she said she had seen Medrano in there by himself about seven-thirty this morning for breakfast.
"We're still getting calls, but this is a damn good start."
"You've put a general broadcast on all the cars?"
"Sure have."
"What are you going to do about the diner?"
"We're sending somebody over there in an unmarked car to have a sandwich and drill those two gals. We're gonna stake it out— it's in a g
ood location, easy to do—and if he shows up we're gonna send a man in there dressed like a cabby to check it out. We'll see what happens from there."
Haydon had a map spread out on his desk and was circling the addresses. "He's staying in the neighborhood, isn't he?"
"Yeah, he is. Looks like I was wrong, doesn't it? I mean, goddam, he was still hanging around an hour and a half ago."
"Did he eat a meal at the diner?"
"No. Gal said she filled his thermos with coffee. Maybe he was leaving town then. Gonna drive all night."
"Or he was going to spend all night staked out somewhere."
"You think he's just waiting till he catches Gamboa out on the streets so he can bushwhack him?"
"I think that's probable. He and Arizpe were studying maps for some reason. But what about the RDX? How would he use that if he was planning another hit and run?"
"Goddam, who knows where that stuff is? Maybe he's gonna ram the damn limo Middle East-style."
"Why all the rented cars? And why was one a pickup?"
"I don't know," Dystal said. "We're trying to find out the timetable on that, see what was rented when. Maybe that'll suggest something."
"Your people on Inverness haven't seen anything?"
"Not a thing. Some kids were skateboarding up and down there under the streetlights a while ago . . ." Dystal spoke to someone, said "Wait" to them, and then said to Haydon, "I got something coming in here. Get right back to you."
Haydon put down the telephone and stared down at the map on his desk, his eyes going over and over the locations mentioned by Dystal as he tried to envision a pattern, tried to see beyond the known facts to their implications, and to the numerous possibilities.
"Stuart!" Nina's voice was impatient, and Haydon looked up to see both women standing, looking at him. "What was it?"
He started to answer, but the telephone rang again, and he picked it up immediately, hoping Dystal had a breakthrough.
"Mr. Haydon, listen carefully." It was not Dystal, or anyone else he recognized. "Lucas Negrete is about to beat you to Medrano."
Haydon was speechless. He could only listen.
"Negrete has Rubio Arizpe." The voice was calm, deliberate. "They are in room 326 of the Golden Way Motel at Main and the Southwest Freeway, Highway 59. There are two men with Negrete." There was a pause. "Have you got that? Would you like me to repeat anything?"
"No, I've got it," Haydon said, and the other end of the line went dead.
"Nina!" Haydon jerked open the desk drawer and took out his Beretta. Nina had been watching his face and was already on her way over to him as he checked the clip, took an extra clip out of the drawer, made sure it was full, and dropped it in a pocket of his suit coat hanging over the back of the chair.
"Listen," he said, looking at her. "That was an anonymous tip that Negrete is holding Arizpe in the Golden Way Motel. You know it, at Main and the freeway. Room 326." He fixed the Beretta in the small of his back, picked up the telephone, and dialed *66, which automatically called the number that had just called him. "I'm going into the living room to the other line and call Dystal, and have him get someone over there right away. I'm going to try to get a tracer on this call here, so don't hang up the phone until you get a call on the other line saying you can. Okay?"
"Yes, I understand." She also understood where he was going.
She followed him into the living room, bringing his suit coat off the chair. He called Dystal, but his number was busy, so he hung up and dialed 911. When the dispatcher finally got through, Haydon didn't give Dystal time to say anything but hurriedly told him what had happened, told him to get someone over to the motel, told him to get a tracer on the telephone and that he was on his way to the motel himself.
Dystal swore. "Wait a second! All hell's breaking loose. That was Gamboa on the line just then. He's chartered a flight out of the country. It leaves from the Intercontinental Airport in an hour. He's got a helicopter's gonna pick him up and take him out there, and he wants us to escort him to the heliport."
"Which one?"
"The one closest to him, at Post Oak Park over behind the Remington Hotel off San Felipe . . . right across the Loop from that goddam Steak 'N Egg place."
"Stall him."
"No way. I tried; he won't listen. He's scared to death, and what I told him just put gas on his fire. He thinks he's doing what he's got to do to save his life. Got his boy all armed, his driver all armed, and his goddam butler or whatever he calls him."
"Stall him," Haydon said again. "This motel thing could be our break. I'll call from there," Haydon said, and slammed down the telephone. He took his coat from Nina and slipped it on. "When I get out those gates, lock it up, turn on all the outside lights, and turn on the alarm system."
He was out the front door immediately, leaving Nina alone in the lighted doorway.
Chapter 54
HAYDON drove the distance to the Golden Way Motel ignoring everything but his reflexes, taking the tight-steering Jaguar to its handling limits shaving corners, accelerating flat out when he could and breaking into turns, running lights, making the best time traveling the wrong way on one-way streets where the other cars could see him coming and pull over to give him a clean shot.
His mind was working as fast at asking questions as it was at maneuvering the Vanden Plas.
Was the tip genuine?
There didn't seem to be any possibility that he was being set up. The investigation had gone so poorly from the point of view of the police that he certainly was no threat to Negrete's objective, or to Medrano's.
Who was it? And why? And how did he get his information?
Haydon peered into the streaming headlights of the oncoming traffic and realized he had made a mistake. He should have specified a quiet approach. Dystal had his hands full, and wasn't going to think of it. The backup units would come in with sirens blaring—no chance of catching Negrete off guard. If he and his men didn't try to shoot their way out, then they would turn it into a siege. Either way, it wouldn't work to the advantage of what they wanted to achieve: a quick resolution that might gain them information to forestall the assassination. Haydon's only chance of getting that now would be to get to Negrete before he realized that the distant sirens were headed for him.
Braking hard, then jamming the accelerator, Haydon cut in front of traffic and flew into a cross street, then into a one-way street going the right direction for one block, then into another one-way street going the wrong way. He made the block, and entered Main Street one block from the entrance of the Golden Way Motel. Merging with the traffic flow, he went past the motel entrance and turned under the belly of the expressway, cutting his headlamps to parking lights as he jumped the curb and drove along between the cement columns toward the motel on the other side of the derelict chain-link fence.
He cut the parking lights, and the black Vanden Plas melted into the larger darkness as he rolled to a stop. For five seconds he sat in the pitch shadows and listened to the traffic booming overhead as he looked at the end of the motel. He knew the place, knew the numbering system, knew that he was looking at the brick wall of Room 326 through the windshield.
He flipped the central locking system as he got out of the car, slammed the door, and started running toward the twisted chain-link fence, which resembled the barbed concertina wire of a war zone. He cursed as he accidentally kicked a bottle and sent it spinning across the cement, shattering into an expressway pillar. Crouching down to his hands, he scrambled onto the wire, catching a shoe heel in the twisted mesh, finally getting to the other side at the end of the near wing of the motel. He looked up at the walkway of the third floor, where half the lights outside the room doors were burned out, including the one at 326.
Running down the sidewalk, he cut across the grass between the pool and a hedge and barged into the motel office, where a startled night manager held the newspaper-covered bottom of a bird cage in his hands and gaped at Haydon over the counter.
&nbs
p; "Police," Haydon snapped, holding up his shield. "I need a passkey."
The clerk continued to gape, frowning myopically at the shield shaking in front of his face, starting to set down the tray. Haydon yelled, "Passkey, dammit!" The manager flinched, dropping the tray and flipping bird lime and seed hulls into the air, but he was already going after the key.
"Patrol cars are on the way," Haydon said, as the manager fumbled open a drawer under the counter and slapped the key down on a copy of a city map covered with plastic. "Stay down, stay out of the way," he said, grabbing the key.
He cut across the grass the way he had come, sweat suddenly popping out of his pores. Reaching the bottom of the stairs at the soft-drink machines, Haydon pulled his Beretta and started up. He was making the turn on the second-floor landing when he heard thefirst distant sirens and quickened his pace. When he came up on the third-floor walkway, he paused briefly to get his bearings.
Behind him lay the rest of the walkway that formed the shorter, bottom branch of the L-shaped complex; then a corner, and the rest of the L running out past the pool. To his immediate right was a small alcove with an ice machine and two doors on either side, probably supply rooms.
The walkway railing, and the courtyard three floors down, were on his left as he looked toward the doorway of room 326, the last room on the end, three doors away. About twenty feet on the other side of 326 was the steel railing of the expressway, with cars and trucks roaring by at eye level. It occurred to him that anyone driving by could look out his window and see him crouching on the landing with his gun drawn.
But he had more immediate problems:
Would all three of them be in the same room with Arizpe?
Spiral Page 38
