Heinemann inclined his head in a slight bow. “Correct.”
“Him?” Connie said. Then, turning to Heinemann, “You?”
He ignored her and continued to talk to Hooker. “You always said you had no interest in politics.”
“I don’t,” Hooker said. “I got pulled into this by circumstances.”
“Too bad. I liked you, Hooker.”
“Thanks. Have you been a Nazi agent ever since you came to Mexico?”
“Of course. This base is very important to us, and we needed money to maintain it. In Mexico, one could make contact with wealthy men who were eager to invest in the future of the world.”
“Men like Nolan Braithwaite.”
“A prize catch, as you would say. But not an easy man to deal with. He insisted on inspecting the site, and also the Panama Canal, where our real work would be done.”
“I don’t suppose it was an accident that his plane crashed on the return trip.”
“We had no further use for him. It was an accident that he lived through the crash. Fortunately, he was picked up by our people.”
“The Mayas,” Hooker said.
“Those under the control of Holchacán. They have been very useful.”
“You may not have as many of them left as you think,” Hooker said.
“It is of little concern. Indians are plentiful in the jungles of Quintana Roo. And there is always a leader who can be bought.”
Connie’s frown deepened as she listened to the men’s conversation. She said, “Did you have Earle Maples killed?”
“Ah, the effeminate one,” Heinemann said. “He saw me at the airfield the morning we were to leave Veracruz and recognized me from the meeting with Braithwaite. He rushed off to tell his friend Hooker, unaware that I had seen him, too. A telephone call sent one of Holchacán’s muerateros after him.”
“Poor little man,” Connie said softly.
“By the way, where is your Jewish friend?”
Before Hooker could answer, the ground shook under their feet and a deafening boom slammed their eardrums. Exploding small-arms ammunition crackled like popcorn. Tracer bullets trailed white smoke streamers through the sky. Another explosion followed, and a black puffball of smoke streaked with red rolled up over the German base. There was a third explosion, followed by the distant clang of falling metal plates.
The three people stood frozen in position alongside the Stinson. Heinemann’s handsome face seemed to crumple, but the Luger was steady in his hand.
“Did you ask where Kaplan is?” Hooker said. “Try your munitions building, your diesel tanks, or your submarine.”
Heinemann’s lips were white with anger. “A small victory for your side, Hooker. Too bad you will have such a short time to enjoy it.”
He raised the Luger to eye level and shot Hooker in the face.
Dying was like the rolling black cloud from the exploding diesel tanks, all shot through with red streaks of pain. Hooker’s head ached something fierce. He tasted sand. And blood.
Tasted? Wait a minute. If he could taste and he could feel, then he probably wasn’t dead. And if he could reason that out, then his brain probably wasn’t blown away.
He opened his eyes. The world was blurred, but it cleared slowly like the reflection in a pool as it quiets after a stone has dropped in. He was not blind, either. Or deaf.
Someone was screaming. It was Connie Braithwaite. She had stumbled back against the airplane and was staring down at him.
Heinemann was still standing in the same spot, the head of a Mayan spear splitting the front of his chest. Blood and lung tissue spread around the wound, and the handsome jaw drooped. For a moment, Heinemann hung there, held erect by the spear through his body. Then he was pitched aside.
Buzz Kaplan limped forward and knelt beside Hooker. Gently, he rolled his friend’s head to one side. Kaplan wore his usual expression. The one that belonged to an angry bear.
“It looks like you won’t have much of an ear left on this side, Hooker, but you weren’t that pretty, anyway. The Kraut was a lousy shot.”
Hooker started to sit up, but things began to spin, and he lay down again. “What are you doing here?” he asked. “I thought you were back at the base blowing things up.”
“I blew it up, all right, but you didn’t think I was going up with it? While the Germans were busy with the zombies, I went through the ordnance building and found a load of dynamite and about a mile of fuse. I had time to hook it up, light it, then beat it over here across their pontoon bridge before the fireworks. Didn’t anybody ever tell you Jews are smart?”
CHAPTER 37
Hooker spilled the necklace of tiny sea shells into the box on top of the skirt with the embroidered roses. He thought about the day he bought it for Alita and how absurdly pleased she had been with the small gift. Then he put the thought away. He knew the memories of Alita would come back frequently for a time. Then only once in a while, and finally, hardly ever. But they would never be completely gone.
In the same way, Alita would never be completely gone from this little apartment. He started to take down the bead curtain that closed off the bed, then changed his mind. He kind of liked the sound of it.
The package of Alita’s things was a small one. Hooker closed the cardboard flap over the top of the box and started to tie it with string. There was a knock at his door.
Connie Braithwaite stood out in the hall. She was wearing a pale blue suit and a little matching hat. Her hair had grown out some since their time in Quintana Roo, and she’d had it waved.
“Hi,” she said. “Glad to be out of the hospital?”
“Yeah. They kept me there a lot longer than they had to.”
“Not according to Dr. Morales. He said your ear was badly infected, and it’s lucky you didn’t lose the whole thing. Let me see.”
Hooker turned his head.
Connie touched his cheek with cool fingers. “It looks a little ragged, but not as bad as it might have been. I’m glad your hair is coming back.”
“It always did grow fast.”
“Can I come in?”
“Oh, sure. I was just packing some things.”
Connie did not look at the box. She sat in one of the wooden chairs.
“Have you thought any more about coming back to the States with me?”
“I have, but the answer is the same. Thanks, but I don’t think so.”
“Is it because of the old trouble you were in there?”
“Partly.”
“The Braithwaite name swings a lot of weight,” she said. “I’ll bet whatever the trouble was, I could get you out of it.”
“Maybe,” he said.
“No strings.”
“Thanks, Connie. I appreciate the offer, but I don’t belong there anymore.”
“It’s your home.”
He shook his head. “Veracruz is my home. As much as any place can be.”
Connie stood up. “I guess I knew you were going to say that. We talked about it enough while you were in the hospital. I just thought I’d give you one more chance.”
“More than I deserve.”
“No, it isn’t.” She reached around his head on the side of the undamaged ear and pulled his face down for a kiss. “So long, Hooker. I’ll be leaving tomorrow morning.”
“Why don’t you come with me tonight?” he said. “I’m having dinner over at the Kaplans’. We’re celebrating his new foot.”
“No, thanks, Hooker. I’ve said my good-bys to Buzz. And like you, I know where I don’t belong.”
She squeezed his hand once, then left without looking back.
Hooker closed the door gently after her. He returned to the box of Alita’s things and tried to get the string tied around it. He couldn’t get the knot right without somebody to put a finger on it.
The hell with it, he decided. He could do that the next day. He would go down to El Poche and drink some tequila. Paco would need somebody to talk to. The Browns were in last
place, and the Yankees were going to the World Series.
Serving as inspiration for contemporary literature, Prologue Books, a division of F+W Media, offers readers a vibrant, living record of crime, science fiction, fantasy, and western genres.
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The Brain Eaters
Doomstalker
Carrion
Floater
The Players
The Boiling Pool
Rot
Offshore
A Rage in Paradise
The Sterling Standard
Walkers
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Copyright © 1984 by Gary Brandner
All rights reserved.
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Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
eISBN 10: 1-4405-5843-4
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-5843-6
Quintana Roo Page 24
