"God damn you, you son of a bitch!" he said, preliminary doubtless to other remarks which I did not give him the opportunity to voice.
"Shut up and listen!" I snarled. "It’s a cop named Morales whom I thought I’d shaken. I tried not to lead him here, but—"
"Morales?" he cried, his face livid—and he reached for his pistol.
I had a choice of shooting him or taking a chance.
I lunged and arced the butt of the rifle forward and up.
The blow glanced off his forearm and struck his shoulder. It was sufficient.
I knocked the gun out of his hand then and pushed him backwards as he swung an ineffectual left hook in my direction.
"Damn it! I wasn’t trying to bring him here!" I said. "I tried to ditch him. I thought we had more time than we did. Listen to me. I’m on your side. We’ve got to get away. With Maria and the papers. Will you help?"
He was still in a half-crouch. He shook himself straight and refocused his gaze on me while rubbing his arm.
"Yes," he said softly. "Yes, damn it. How many men does he have?"
"A couple dozen, I’d guess. Pick up the gun and grab the briefcase. Take me to Maria."
The gunfire had increased, but it was still coming from the far end of the village.
I covered him while he retrieved the weapon and reholstered it. He snatched up the briefcase with his left hand, strode to the packing case and lifted down the machete.
"This way," he said, crossing to the far wall after having glanced out the window.
With four swift chops he created an exit.
"They can see the front," he explained, stepping through.
I followed him.
He stuck the machete through the pistol belt at his left hip and drew the pistol.
He gestured toward the far end of the village.
"That way," he said.
We commenced running.
The ground was slippery and occasional drops of rain struck us as we ran. After we had gone about a hundred feet, I glanced back.
A line of khaki-clad men was moving through the village, firing at random. I saw two adults and a child on the ground. I heard screaming, and people were fleeing toward the woods and the stream.
I believe we had covered perhaps a hundred yards more when a determined yell went up and another backward glance showed me we had been discovered. Rifles were now leveled in our direction and slugs tore into trees and huts about us. A man began running toward us.
I drew abreast Emil.
"How much farther?" I shouted.
"Quite a distance," he replied. "I don’t think we can make it, but she should be safe. Look!"
Ahead, I saw that the villagers were fading into the woods, mothers carrying children, young leading old, others just running like hell. It was fortunate for them that the village seemed to sprawl for well over a mile along the watercourse. It made it impossible for the few men involved in the operation to surround the place, requiring that they settle for a sweeping action instead.
I slipped once, recovered my footing, kept going. Something whistled near while I was down. The far end of the village was quickly becoming deserted. I thought I caught a glimpse of Vera leading Maria through the brush, but I could not be positive.
"She’s made it!" Emil yelled back to me. "Head for cover!" and he veered and headed toward a clump of bushes to the left.
I turned also, just as he fell. At first, I thought he had slipped, and then I saw blood. It appeared on his shirt and trousers, left side. He clutched himself about the thigh and middle as I threw myself down beside him and began firing toward our pursuers. I hit one, and another fell with an arrow in his side, shot from somewhere in the jungle.
"How bad is it?" I yelled.
I missed his answer the first time around because of the noise.
"—don’t think it’s fatal!" I caught, as he repeated. "Take the papers and clear out!"
"Can’t leave you!" I said, firing two more rounds.
"They won’t kill me! Clear out! Take the machete!"
He unsnapped the pistol belt and the machete fell free. He pushed the briefcase toward me. Both bore bloodstains.
"Maria’s safe! Run!" he said, making it sound like a curse.
I squeezed off the remaining rounds, dropping two more men, and let the rifle fall to the ground.
"Okay," I said, taking the blade and the case in either hand, "I will."
I scrambled to my feet and headed for the bushes, hating to leave him but having no real choice.
As I ran, there came several bursts of gunfire from close at hand. I ventured one look back before I drove into cover.
He was propped up on his elbow, covering for me with the pistol. He must have guessed wrongly about their intentions, because he slumped just then, the pistol falling from his hand.
Cursing, I crashed on through the brush.
X.
I was drenched within a matter of seconds. I had traveled only a few feet through the clinging green before the moisture had soaked through to my skin. I pressed ahead, hoping for a break, my shoulders tightened against the shot that would kill me.
The break came in a matter of a few dozen heartbeats.
A rift occurred in the foliage, angling off to my left. It was hardly a path. It was simply a lessening of resistance in that direction. I leaned into it, I moved sideways. I bent backwards to avoid low branches, and the undergrowth dragged at my ankles. I pushed myself through a tight space between two trees, thorns tearing at my clothing. The way widened slightly and I was able to sprint for perhaps twelve feet before it closed again and nooses of vine sought to entangle me.
The sounds of gunfire were muffled, grew sporadic, died down for a time. I broke through to an open area, resisted an impulse to dash across it and worked my way around. I could not hear any sounds of pursuit, but the walls of green muffled distant noises and provided sounds of their own to dampen those nearby. I seemed to be moving onto slightly higher ground.
I used the machete sparingly, not wanting to leave gross signs of my passage. After perhaps half an hour, I was gasping and bleeding lightly from numerous nicks and scrapes. This seemed to attract insects, but my constant movement and steady shedding of perspiration and rain brushed off, crushed or washed away all but the most stubborn and ingenious. The goddamn briefcase kept hooking itself onto the flora.
I was not really certain how far I had come, but I was beginning to get the feeling that I had temporarily eluded any pursuers, when I heard the sound of a helicopter. Moments later, a fat military transport-type chopper passed overhead at treetop-sweeping altitude. It was no real trick to conceal myself from it in all that foliage. I dropped low, and it shortly disappeared back in the direction from which I had come.
Further! I suddenly wanted more distance with an even greater urgency. The thought of additional hunters on my trail now caused me to swing the machete wildly, heedless of any signs that it left, to get through the dense stuff as rapidly as possible, to reach some place where I could travel more quickly. I was somewhat surprised that I had encountered none of the villagers thus far. I had half-hoped that if I made it far enough away from their settlement some of them would spot me and give me some assistance. No luck. Either they had seen me and did not want to get involved any further, or they were fleeing in another direction.
The ground took on a slight rise as I proceeded and the undergrowth let up a bit, though I still could not see for more than ten feet in any direction. After a brief while, the going got somewhat easier and I realized that I was indeed heading for higher ground. I chanced dashing across the next small clear space I came to because I realized my strength was failing and I wanted the distance. It was a gamble, but nobody shot at me and I picked up thirty or forty quick feet. The foliage was less dense on the far side.
A minute or two later I heard the sounds of distant gunfire. Perhaps some of the natives had been cornered. I wondered about Maria then, winced, pushed on. There had
been nothing I could have done to help her earlier and there was nothing I could do now. Damn Emil and his briefcase, anyway! He no longer had these problems. I wondered what mors janua vitae meant to him, then and now.
My feet were aching, but I had the consolation of knowing they would soon grow numb. They always resigned in protest when I marched too much. Poor circulation, I guess, but numbness can be a small blessing at times.
I threw in a curse for Carl Bernini for getting dead where he did and fetching me into this whole mess in the first place. One of my great ambitions, if I lived, would be to find out why. I saved my biggest and best for Collins, though. Anathema sit!
The angle of the slope increased and I continued to follow it. The forest thinned even more, and for a time I was thankful for this. Where it was clear enough to see for a decent distance ahead, I realized that I was climbing into those hills from which Emil had first observed us. From far behind me and somewhat below there still came the sounds of shooting. I longed once more for an automatic weapon and a place to curl up with it and rest. Throw in a canteen of water while you’re at it.
I did not want to be exposed on the hilltops, but if I gained a little more height I would be able to move much faster to the right or the left. So upward and onward then, the briefcase growing heavier with every step.
The briefcase…I had to get rid of the thing, I decided. Not just because of the fatigue factor. No.
If they spotted me and I did not have it, they would not try to kill me. If they were able to take me, I would still have a small position. Yes, the briefcase had to go.
I began searching for something in the way of a landmark.
About five minutes later, I could see the tops of the nearer hills. A few minutes after that I encountered a large boulder perhaps a hundred yards from a tree which reminded me of a hunchback with a cane when I moved about the stone and lined it up with the second hilltop. I excavated beside, then back under that edge of the boulder.
I deposited the briefcase there, covered it over, stamped down the earth, raked it lightly with a branch, strewed leaves, twigs and pebbles all over.
Then I moved out of the area, bearing to my left.
Within fifteen minutes I came to a brush-filled ravine which looked as if it passed through the hills. I took it. I had a strong desire to put the hills between myself and the scene of the action. I was practically sleepwalking by then, the adrenaline all used up and a soft, foggy ache in my limbs. I had to use both hands whenever I swung the machete, and it was like chopping at telephone poles. The rest of the time, I just let it trail beside me, heedless now of any marks that it left. I dropped it several times, almost losing it once. I had to go back twenty-two paces to retrieve it.
On the other side of the hills the sun was shining and the land sloped downward, heading into heavy green once more. It helped that the way was downhill.
I trudged off in search of a place to rest.
Half an hour later, maybe, in a damp hollow beside a rotten log, I covered myself with branches, and heedless of the insects about me or the orchids above me, clutched my machete like a teddy bear and went to a far, far better place.
*
It was well into the afternoon when I was awakened. The thing that caused it was the sound of gunfire. How long it had been going on, I could not say. The reports slowly filtered down to that central sensory clearing house that handles matters such as this. The place hummed and buzzed a while, then began jolting me back toward wakefulness.
I lay there wishing I weren’t. I was thirsty and drenched with perspiration. I ached all over. I did not move. I just lay there and listened.
There was silence for a time, then another burst of gunfire, then silence. There had been a few shouts during the shooting, but I had been unable to distinguish any of the words. It had all sounded to be on my side of the hills.
All of my senses finally came alive. Which was somewhat unfortunate, for I dared not move. I had given up on the notion of comfort a long while before, however. I cultivated stoicism and wondered what was going on.
It did not make particular sense for them to be hunting down the natives and slaughtering them. To indulge in such brutality was also to lose time during which a reprisal might be readied. An altogether stupid act, considering the villagers’ knowledge of the area. They must have had more in mind than that, I decided. Perhaps they were under the impression that one of the natives had the records.
I shifted my position only slightly, trying to relax as much as possible. I waited.
After an hour, I was still waiting. I had heard nothing more than the normal sounds of the forest.
It was well into the second hour before anything changed.
The birds grew silent. I had listened to them for so long that they had become a thing ignored, but when their sounds ceased abruptly it was more startling than any noise.
I was afraid even to turn my head at that point. There was no way of telling how near the intruder was until he betrayed himself. I began tensing and relaxing my muscles, tensing them and relaxing them, to make certain all systems were set for "go" and to let them know I was still in the driver’s seat.
It was another long while before I heard them.
The sounds of their movements through the brush reached me, halted, continued, halted again, continued. Occasionally, I heard a voice, though I could not distinguish words. I could not tell how distant they were, but I was beginning to get an idea as to their direction.
They were moving quite slowly, passing me widely and heading toward what seemed to be the northeast. Gradually, the sounds of their passage diminished.
It was then that I moved.
Slowly, painfully, I drew my knees to my chest and rolled onto my side.
Then over onto all fours, machete extended…
Then forward, clearing the way before me with my hand before I moved my knee to it…
Gently, slowly, quietly…
Then the other…
I began to gain on them. Finally, I obtained a position to the left and in the rear of the party. I paced them, straining my ears, ready to drop or dash in an instant.
When they halted, I did the same. When they moved, I moved…
Finally, they were still for an unusually long while, and I ventured to draw nearer.
There were three of them and they were talking. I still could not distinguish the words, but I recognized Morales’ voice.
Lying flat on my belly, I peered at them through a dense green wall. They were over forty feet away, resting in a narrow glade—two of them standing, one seated on the ground—and my vision was a partial thing, shifting with their movements and currents of air that eddied among the branches.
Gradually, I came to realize that the other two men were Victor and Dominic. Victor was the one seated with his back against a tree trunk. He was breathing heavily. He moaned once. Dominic and Morales were standing apart, apparently conversing softly. This went on for a long while, with considerable gesturing on both sides.
Finally, Dominic went over to Victor and helped him drink some water from a canteen. I licked my lips and lusted after the liquid. Dominic lit a cigarette then and held it for him. Morales remained apart.
After a few moments, Dominic’s right hand moved quickly, and it took me a few moments to realize what had occurred. He had drawn a knife from a sheath at his hip and with one rapid movement cut the other man’s throat.
He moved methodically then, grinding out the cigarette butt and removing the other’s pistol belt, which contained a canteen, knife and handgun. This he slung over his shoulder. Then he went through the man’s pockets, appropriating items that I could not see from where I lay. After that, he stretched him out and folded his arms across his chest. Morales called him a fool, loudly enough for me to hear, but ignoring this Dominic proceeded to cut fronds and lay them across the body. Then he stood beside it for a few moments with his head bowed, crossed himself and picked up the other’s rifle.
Morales, who had moved to his side by then, muttered something and the two of them turned and continued on in the direction they had been heading, moving more quickly now.
I lay where I was for a long while, considering what had happened.
You do not normally kill your wounded when you are being pursued unless they can tell the enemy something damaging. What could Victor have told to a group of illiterate natives that would be detrimental to Morales? Little, if anything, I decided. Therefore, considering the fact that there had been gunfire and Morales was obviously on the run, I could only conclude that he was being pursued by someone other than the locals. Who?
While I could not even venture a guess, I was cautioned thereby. Apparently the woods were full of fleeing Indians, Morales’ men and nameless pursuers of the latter. Whatever the grand total of everything involved might come to, it all seemed to go back to one basic thing: the Bretagne papers. As the only person who knew where they were, I felt as conspicuous as a good painting in the John and Mable Ringling Museum of Art. I would have to be wary behind as well as before, not to mention right, left and above.
These thoughts in mind, I advanced slowly.
From a distance of only a few yards, I surveyed the clearing. I could see nothing to be gained by entering it, so I skirted the thing and took off after Morales and Dominic.
There were no traps and I could detect no pursuit. Within an hour, I had closed the distance and was dogging them once again, from behind and far to the right.
It was perhaps two hours before they paused to rest, and I was thankful for the break myself. I lay on my belly once again and watched them, seated on a fallen tree, smoking, rifles at ready. I ventured nearer this time, as it was beginning to grow dark.
Morales, Morales… To have you so close without a rifle in my hands was indeed a pity.
But right then we seemed alone, the only two rafts on a great, green ocean and you not aware of mine yet, as we drifted closer and closer together. Patience? Not only did I possess it, I could enjoy its exercise because of that thing known as anticipation. If you and Dominic were to separate, but for even a small while, it would make things so much easier. If not…The night would be long and very dark.
The Dead Man's Brother Page 20
