A Game of Authors

by Frank Herbert

  Perhaps hand-kissing is more appropriate, he thought.

  She slipped away into the darkness. He heard a door open, close.

  Medina spoke at Garson’s shoulder. “You like her a little, eh?”

  “I do what’s expected of me, Choco.”

  “Sometime you must try the unexpected. It works especially well with women.” He lowered his voice: “Raul has been watching the two of you. It would be well to tread softly.”

  “Who really gives the orders around here, Choco?”

  “You should not ask that question.”

  “Or I’ll become fish food?”

  “I am sorry to say that it has happened.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  “My pleasure.” He motioned towards the hacienda. “I’ll see you to your room.”

  Garson took a deep breath. So many unanswered questions! “And you’ll see that the door’s securely locked?”

  “A door may be locked from either side.”

  At the door of Garson’s room, Medina pointed to a newly installed bolt lock on the inside. “See what I mean?”

  “Who’s idea was that?”

  “Mine.”

  Garson looked down the hallway, saw no one. Should I tell him what I overheard through the vent? The temptation was strong, but he let the moment pass, said, “Thanks for the thought.”

  “Buenas noches,” said Medina.

  “Good night, Choco.”

  A door may be locked from either side!

  Garson threw the bolt when his door was closed, stared at it. Try the unexpected? What did Choco mean by that? Does he want me to make a serious play for Nita Luac? And why shouldn’t I? Maybe she’s the weak link in this prison.

  In his bed after turning out the light, Garson chewed at his lower lip.

  Could I get a message out to Villazana or the colonel of police? What about El Grillo? Choco said that El Grillo has a price.

  But Luac said they would try to help me escape. Did he say that to lull my suspicions? To keep me from trying to escape? Why would he want me to escape and write the story that makes him out a traitor?

  It doesn’t jell! Damn! What’s Luac doing? Writing? Writing what?

  The reflection of the moonlight through his windows formed a pattern on the ceiling beams as of many crossroads—many choices.

  What choices do I have? If I stay here and wait for them to help me escape—I could rot . . . or get myself killed by that crazy Raul Separdo!

  Across the lake, a nightbird called, its shrill notes echoing like a cry of pain.

  I’ve got to watch for my chance and get out of here, do it on my own. Nita’s the weak link. Luac’s using her to bait me. But two can play that game! God! I can’t really let myself fall for that woman! I’d be finished for sure!

  His eyelids became heavy, closed. Garson fell asleep with the image of the beamed ceiling still in his mind. It was an unsettled sleep, full of turning and searching, as though somewhere he had passed a crossroad and taken the wrong way.

  ***

  Chapter 7

  The door of Garson’s room rattled, then it shook with a violence that brought him immediately awake. He sat upright in bed, looked out his front windows at the pearl grey dawn light on the lake.

  Again the door was shaken and banged.

  “Garson!” It was Raul Separdo’s voice, high-pitched and with a note of frenzy.

  Somewhere in the house, another door slammed. There came the sound of bare feet slapping heavily in the hall.

  “What’s all the commotion?” Medina’s guttural voice.

  “This door’s locked from the inside!” snarled Separdo.

  “Just a minute,” said Garson. He got out of bed, slipped into shirt and pants.

  “What do you want with Garson at this hour?” asked Medina.

  “That is my business!”

  Garson opened the door, saw Medina standing behind Separdo, barefoot and with his revolver in its holster belted over a ridiculous nightshirt.

  Separdo was fully dressed.

  Medina winked at Garson.

  “What’s all the fuss?” asked Garson.

  Separdo pushed his way into the room, examined the bolt on the door. “Who put this here?”

  “I did,” said Medina.

  “Why?”

  “You just found out.”

  Separdo’s lips twitched. He glared at Medina, turned the expression on Garson. “You were asking about the building at the lower end of the lake. I heard Nita telling Antone all about it!”

  The sadistic light in Separdo’s eyes made Garson think of the glassy eyes of a fish—of a caribe.

  “So I was curious!”

  “Is that why we’re having this pleasant conversation so early in the morning?” asked Medina.

  Again, Separdo’s lips twitched. “That is one of the reasons—not that I’m required to answer the questions of a hired gunman!”

  “Fashions in hired gunmen having changed so greatly since your application for membership was rejected,” murmured Medina.

  Separdo grinned. It was like the baring of an animal’s teeth. “There’s another matter I wish to discuss with Mr. Garson.”

  “You called the conference,” said Garson.

  “I saw you holding hands with Nita last night. If it happens again you will feed the fish!”

  “Holding ha . . .”

  “Antone’s throwing you two together!” hissed Separdo. “He doesn’t fool me. He thinks she’s too good for me.”

  “Maybe he’s just concerned about your wife and kiddies,” said Medina.

  “I have asked you not to interfere, Choco!”

  “Several times, Raul.”

  “I was up before dawn today, Choco.”

  “Perhaps your conscience wouldn’t let you sleep.”

  “I brought several of my men, Choco.”

  Medina stepped back into the hallway, dropped his hand to his gun butt. “I doubt that they can get me in their sights here.”

  “The whole day is ahead of us.”

  “Maybe it’s not ahead of you, Raul!”

  Separdo paled, stepped into the room away from Medina.

  “Don’t be a fool, Choco! This Garson is with the American secret service!”

  Garson smiled wryly at Medina, took a deep breath. “How do you know I’m not with the Mexican secret service?”

  The effect on Separdo was startling. He froze into rigid immobility, face ashen. Slowly, he turned, looked at Garson. The look was one of careful—fearful—measuring.

  “How’d you know we haven’t a dozen troops stationed around the hacienda right now—just waiting for my signal . . . or lack of it?” asked Garson.

  Medina was smiling delightedly behind Separdo’s back.

  Separdo wet his lips with his tongue in a nervous darting movement. “Why . . . would . . . the . . . Mexican . . . secret . . . service . . . be . . . interested . . . in . . . me?”

  “Maybe Olaf’s tired of your bumbling,” said Garson.

  Separdo held his breath, mouth open, eyes staring.

  Behind him, Medina’s evil face registered absolute glee.

  “Did Olaf send you to test me?” demanded Separdo.

  Garson smiled, remained silent.

  Separdo shook his head. “He wouldn’t!”

  “How long since you’ve sent patrols beyond the fences?” asked Garson.

  Again Separdo shook his head. “But why would . . . But we have spies to tell . . . Did Olaf send you?”

  “Why don’t you ask Olaf?”

  A weak smile touched Separdo’s mouth. “Olaf knows I’m loyal! I do my best. I always do. I work night and day! I . . .”

  “How long since you’ve sent patrols beyond the fences?”

  “But Olaf never said . . .”

  “Olaf shouldn’t have to say!” Garson warmed to his role. The name “Olaf” was pure magic with Separdo. “If you were paying more attention to your work—instead of worrying ab
out a female, you’d have thought out the possibilities.”

  Separdo swallowed, shrugged.

  “Send those damned vaqueros back across the lake and get about the job that’s expected of you!” said Garson.

  Separdo stiffened, a look of suspicion entering his eyes. “Why should . . .”

  “Now!” gritted Garson. “We had a hunch that you couldn’t see anything else except Nita Luac!”

  Separdo crumbled inside. He turned to Medina. “Did you know?”

  “What do you think?” asked Medina.

  Separdo’s voice went up half an octave. “Did Antone know?”

  “Same song, second verse,” said Medina.

  “While we stand around here whining about ‘who knew’ our perimeter is wide open!” snarled Garson.

  Separdo nodded. “Immediately.” He moved toward the hallway, paused, turned, looked back at Garson with a puzzled expression.

  Garson frowned, glared at him.

  Some of Separdo’s self-assurance seemed to return. “Will you be staying until after I’ve talked to Olaf?”

  “That’s the first sensible reaction you’ve had since I arrived,” said Garson.

  Separdo smiled like a small boy who’s been praised. “Olaf knows I can do the job he . . .”

  “When your mind’s on the job,” said Garson.

  Separdo nodded. “Yes. But I still have questions about your job, Mr. Garson.” He turned, brushed past Medina, hurried away down the hall.

  Medina watched him go, turned to Garson. “Man, I think we underestimated you!”

  “What’ll he do?” asked Garson.

  “He’ll contact Olaf immediately.”

  “And what’ll Olaf tell him?”

  “Olaf won’t give him the time of day. That’s the way he operates: everything mysterious.”

  “Who is this Olaf?”

  “A very powerful man, Mr. Garson.”

  “Come off it, Choco! Who is he?”

  “Why don’t you ask Antone?”

  “I will. What’ll Olaf do?”

  “There’s the rub.” Medina frowned. “You acted correctly here because it threw Raul into confusion. But we’ll have to move fast now. Olaf will go into action just as soon as he’s talked to Raul. And that, my friend, is not good.”

  “What’re we going to do, Choco?”

  “I won’t know until I’ve talked to Antone.”

  “How long will we have?”

  “It’ll take Raul until tomorrow to contact Olaf.”

  “So long?”

  “Maybe longer if Olaf is . . . away.”

  “Will Luac know?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Well, let’s get busy!”

  “Okay!” Medina saluted Garson. “Don’t get carried away with your new success.” He glanced down at his nightshirt. “I’ll go get into some clothes and find Antone. Why don’t you get some breakfast and meet us in the front room?” Medina turned away, trotted down the hall.

  Garson slipped on a pair of shoes, went to the kitchen.

  Maria Gomez was making tortillas, her hands patting the dough in steady rhythm. A blue haze of charcoal smoke filled the kitchen. Maria looked like an ancient witch bent over the coals. She heard Garson, looked up, watched him with the lizard stare while he crossed the room.

  “Fry me a couple of eggs, please,” said Garson.

  “Sí, Señor.” She bobbed her head rapidly, moved with a quick subservience. There seemed to be a new fearfulness in her actions.

  Has Raul been here ahead of me spreading the word?

  “Hurry up about it!” growled Garson.

  “Sí, Señor!” She moved dishes nervously beside the coals. One dish caught in her sleeve, crashed to the floor.

  Maria glanced at Garson, bent quickly to clean up the mess.

  “Who do you think killed Eduardo?” asked Garson.

  The movement of her hands slowed, but still she did not look up.

  “Answer me!” ordered Garson.

  A pitiful shrug lifted the old shoulders.

  I’m being a perfect beast! thought Garson. But I have to act while I can.

  “What did Raul tell you about it?”

  Now, she looked up at Garson, eyes wide open, only the dull waiting apparent in them. “Por Dios, Señor!”

  Garson steeled himself against the pathos of her. “Do you know what will happen if you don’t answer?”

  “Sí, Señor.” She arose slowly, shoulders bent, nodded her head. “Come now. I show.” She turned, went out the rear door into the walled garden.

  Garson followed her. Now, what the devil?

  They crossed the garden by a dirt path. Leaves brushed Garson’s face. A cobweb caught on his chin and neck. The path ended at a wooden gate in the brick wall. Pigs snuffled and grunted on the other side of the wall. The stink of a pigsty was heavy in the damp morning air.

  Maria opened the gate. It creaked dismally.

  They passed a line of concrete stalls, each with one pig. The animals set up an excited grunting, squealing and scrambling.

  Now, the path struck directly into the swamp, became shadowy, smelling of rotten vegetation. A fetid, carrion odor wafted past Garson’s nostrils. Insects leaped, buzzed and clung all around him, filled his hair, crawled under his collar.

  The path ended at a fallen log. They traversed the log to another log, and yet another.

  Where’s she leading me?

  Presently, a log lifted to a low hummock of moist earth thick with brush. He could see no trail. Maria plunged into the brush. Garson shrugged, followed. The brush opened to a narrow clearing atop the hummock, a fresh grave with a rude cross of limbs occupied the center.

  Garson crossed to the grave. “Eduardo?”

  Maria crouched beside the dark earth, bent her head. “Mi hijo. Aieeeeee! Mi hijo!”

  My son!

  Garson swallowed. Why’d she bring me here? So we could talk privately? So I’d sympathize with her?

  “Do you know who I am, Maria?”

  She nodded. “Sí. Un hombre de Olaf.”

  A man from Olaf. So Raul did spread the word!

  “Did Raul say who killed your son?”

  She arose, turned the lidded stare on Garson, spoke with a low, expressionless voice: “El Patron! El hombre mas . . .” Her voice broke.

  Nita was right! Raul did try to pin it on her father!

  Garson shook his head slowly from side to side. “No, Maria. It was Raul!”

  “Raul?”

  He nodded.

  “Raul!” She raised her fists in front of her, opened her eyes wide.

  “Cuidado!” said Garson. Careful!

  And he thought: What if I’m wrong? What if it really was El Patron Luac?

  Garson could almost see Eduardo’s letter before his eyes: “He kill mi!”

  I could have this whole thing turned completely end for end. Luac, his daughter and Choco could be playing me for the prize sucker of the century.

  He said, “You must not let Raul know, Maria. You must wait. Do you understand?”

  Her lids dropped. The lizard stare regarded him. “Sí, Señor.” She put a hand on his arm. “Gracias.”

  He nodded, swallowed.

  They returned to the garden. Maria left Garson by the wall, disappeared in the greenery to his left. He entered the garden alone, brushed through the heavy growth of plants, came to the rear door.

  Raul Separdo stood in front of the door, his eyes narrowed, his manner one of careful waiting.

  “Have you been for a walk in the swamp?” Separdo asked.

  Garson noted dark mud on Separdo’s shoes and trousers. Did he follow us?

  “Why do you ask?”

  Separdo pulled back his coat very slightly to reveal the butt of his Luger. “You understand, Mr. Garson, that if you have fooled me—if you are not from Olaf . . .” His teeth bared in a wolfish grin.

  Garson suppressed his uneasiness, smiled.

  “And about Nita Luac,
” said Separdo. “I would advise you . . .”

  “I don’t take your advice about Nita Luac. I don’t take your advice about anything. Have you sent your men across the lake? And are you doing anything about the hacienda’s perimeter?”

  Separdo tensed, relaxed. “I will take this for now. As to my men—we have sent for the boat from the other side. I am going with them in a few minutes.” He nodded. “I expect to find you here when I return.”

  “I’ll leave when my job’s finished,” said Garson.

  “Of course.” Separdo turned, went around the house.

  Garson watched Separdo leave, then went into the house.

  Antone Luac was standing at the low front windows, watching Separdo and three men with rifles get into a large rowboat. A little runt of a man sat at the oars.

  When Separdo also got into the boat, and they headed across the lake, Antone Luac grunted, turned, saw Garson.

  “So kind of you to join us, Mr. Garson.”

  Anita Luac came in from the hallway wearing an open-necked green blouse, jodhpurs and riding boots. Medina followed her.

  “Choco has told me of your inspired performance this morning,” said Antone Luac. “I’m not sure what inspired you, but presumably it was the patron saint of all idiots!”

  “Sorry you don’t approve,” said Garson.

  “At this moment, Mr. Garson, I would almost enjoy watching you fed to the caribe!”

  “What?”

  “I had it all set!” snapped Luac. “You were to go riding across the lake there this morning and . . .”

  Anita Luac stepped forward. “Father, there’s no sense going . . .”

  “Raul just went across the lake with his men!” said Antone Luac. “You know what that means!”

  Medina said, “I think we should try it anyway.”

  “What have I done?” asked Garson.

  “Today, I had arranged for you to escape,” said Luac. “And you—you descendant of an unbroken line of fatherless imbeciles! You’ve put Raul’s entire guard force on the alert!”

  “Father, he had no way of knowing,” said Anita Luac.

  Garson shrugged. “Maybe the imbecilic action was your failure to take me into your confidence.”

  Antone Luac snorted.

  “Would you like to hear about my morning stroll with Maria Gomez to the grave of her son?” asked Garson.

  Chins came up. They stared at him.