Pattern for Panic

by Richard S. Prather

  I made up my mind. “Monique, I'll have to leave you here. If something happens to me, and I don't get back to you, you can thank your friends."

  “You can't leave me here alone."

  “I have to. I can't take you with me. I don't owe you anything now, Monique."

  “My face. Will my face be all right?"

  “Yeah. It was only some gasoline and water, nothing to worry about.” I paused. “It wasn't really acid, Monique; it was enough that you believed it was acid."

  She was quiet for a minute, then she said, “Don't—don't leave me here with that."

  “I'll get rid of it.” I hoisted the dead man to my shoulders, carried him fifty feet away and dumped him. At the Plymouth I rumbled in the trunk again, got the rest of the fine wire, bent one end of it and made a noose, then climbed behind the wheel. Monique called after me. I started the car and drove toward the Center.

  She had told me how to get there and I turned off on a narrow, rutted dirt road angling to the right. As I drove, I tore up the reports Villamantes was to have received and tossed them out into the rain. Lightning still flickered occasionally.

  After almost half a mile I turned off the lights and was forced to crawl along at less than twenty miles an hour. It was nearly seven-fifteen. Villamantes would have been worried when Monique hadn't arrived by seven; he'd be getting frantic now. I still felt weak, but the dizziness, the cold perspiration, were almost gone. Maybe the effects of that whiff of gas I'd gotten at Amador's apartment were wearing off. I hoped to hell they were. The car swerved in muddy ruts lighted once in a while by lightning. I knew I must be close now and slowed the car's speed even more.

  I almost missed the curve in the road, blackness looming ahead of me as the earth slipped downward; how far or how precipitous a drop I didn't know. I jerked the wheel and swung to my right, skidding slightly—and then I saw it, saw the Center.

  At first it was only a dark mass below me at the end of the narrow road, perhaps a hundred yards away. I stopped, the car engine idling, windshield wipers swishing back and forth. Then lightning trembled momentarily, like glowing nerves in the sky, and for that fraction of a moment I saw the building clearly before darkness fell upon it again.

  I knew that evil lived here in this lonely spot, and perhaps that was much of the reason for the chill that touched my spine when I saw the Center clearly. But I think at any time I would have felt some dread seeing that walled building alone, far from any other life. It was crouched in the hollow of the earth beneath me, squat, ugly, a great gray pile of stone enclosed by the high square wall. It made me think of the House of Usher, haunting, brooding, gray and ghostlike in the cold, drizzling rain, like El Greco's View of Toledo or a tomb erected over a buried giant.

  I drove forward another fifty yards, then carefully turned around in the road and left the car parked facing back the way I had come. I took out the car's back seat and carried it with me as I walked toward the building, feet squishing and slipping in the mud. The dead man's .45 and my own .38 were in my coat pockets. I carried the wire noose in one hand. I reached the wall towering four feet above my head. A great wooden gate, closed, was in the wall at the dirt road's end. I walked to my left another twenty yards and stopped. Buff's room should be inside here, across the grounds beyond the wall; the guards somewhere nearby.

  I had seen, during brief lightning flashes, the glitter of reflections on the wall's top where sharp, jagged parts of broken bottles were imbedded in the cement. I put the guns in my hip pockets and took off my trenchcoat, folded it into a two-foot-square bundle, then leaned the car seat on its side against the wall and in a few more seconds I stood on the top of the seat and placed my folded coat across the shards of glass.

  I still couldn't see into the grounds, but my hands easily reached the surface of the wall, now only an inch or two above the top of my head. I felt along the fragments of glass, searching for a level spot, then jumped up, pulling with my hands and arms, and fell forward across the wall's top, my chest against the folded coat.

  Glass sliced the base of my palm, nicked my wrist. I drew up my feet, swung them forward, and dropped, sprawling full length in the mud. I was inside; but the car seat which had helped me over was still outside the wall.

  I hugged the ground, peering toward the old church and waited for the next flash of lightning. In a few seconds it came. I saw two figures, one on the left twenty yards away walking to my right toward the building's other end, the second figure motionless at the side of the building, leaning against its vine-covered wall straight ahead of me. Near him, above his head, light glimmered faintly from a covered window. Behind that window Buff should be, only a few yards away. I counted to twenty, hoping the walking man would keep on going, then started crawling forward toward the place where I had seen the other man.

  I angled to my right, flattened against the mud as lightning flared again when I had covered half the distance; then I started crawling once more. A cigarette glowed in the guard's cupped hand. I wrapped the end of the wire noose around my wrist, the coat sleeve protecting my skin. I reached the side of the building; the glowing cigarette arched through the air and died in the rain.

  I could see his shadowy bulk nearby as I stood up and pressed against the thick vines covering the building's rough stone. I moved toward him, raising the noose in my right hand above my head. He was six feet away, then a yard. I held my breath, staring at the barely visible outline of his face as I lowered my right arm toward him, the circle of the noose, its arc inches from my fist, descending toward his head.

  I moved swiftly, carefully, but as the arc of wire descended over his head I felt it brush his face.

  "Qué—" he started to gasp, but the gasp died forever as I jerked my right arm backward, the noose tightening around his neck and cutting off his breath. He lunged away from me, the wire jerking around my wrist, and as I pulled it toward me he fell. I slammed my foot against his head, pulled upward with both hands tugging at the wire; and there was no sound except a grunting noise that rasped from my throat, the drizzle of the rain, and the soft sound of his heels and hands beating at the mud. Then the only sound was the rain's soft whisper.

  I knew the other man would soon come past. I felt the vines against the wall, touched one as thick as my arm, then unwound the noose's end from my wrist, stooped and lifted the dead guard, straining to hold him up as his legs dangled uselessly beneath him. I held him with one of his arms over my shoulder, managed to loop the wire around the vine above my head, pulled down on it while lifting the man higher, then twisted the wire tight. Finally he hung there against the wall, knees sagging slightly, his head bent awkwardly to one side.

  Above me, a few feet away, I could see the light still shining faintly. I wondered if Buff was in the room, or if she had been taken from it. Or if, perhaps, one or more of Villamantes’ men were inside there now. Monique had told me how Buff had once been whipped, Villamantes watching with twisted pleasure in his eyes as the whip cut her soft bare flesh; and how Buff's father had cried out, then done as Villamantes asked, his former resistance, even to his own pain, completely gone.

  A shadow moved in the darkness; a man came around the corner of the building and walked toward me. I pulled the revolver from my pocket, crowded my body behind the dead man, and wound my fingers in his hair, twisting his head erect. The guard trudged slowly by and I let out my breath.

  The vines held my weight as I climbed the few feet to the window. The two halves of the window met in the middle, thick wood bisecting the small panes crisscrossed with metal ribs. For a moment I hung there, then I raised myself another foot, grasped the vines tightly with both hands and kicked at the wooden casing, kicked again as the window gave and the glass splintered; then I stepped through, brushing the curtains apart.

  Chapter Sixteen

  For a moment I thought the room was empty; then I saw Buff standing in the corner, her back against the intersection of the walls, mouth stretched wide.

  �
��Buff!” I said. “Take it easy."

  She stared at me, not speaking. Then she walked forward, still staring, unbelieving. “Shell?” she said softly, “Shell?"

  She walked up to me, eyes fixed on my face, and then without her expression changing, tears spilled from her eyes and slid down her cheeks. She pressed against me, threw her arms around me. When I put my arms around her I could feel welts across her back beneath the smooth cloth of her dress.

  “Buff, honey,” I said. “Listen to me. Snap out of it; we haven't much time."

  She drew away from me. “What—how did you—"

  “Forget that. What's going on here? Where's your dad?"

  She shook her head. “It's awful."

  “Damn it,” I said sharply, “pull yourself together. There's a dead man, a guard, light outside here. If he's spotted we'll never get out. Now tell me! Where's the Doctor? Can I get to him?"

  “No. He'd be in the room where they make him work. It's clear in the center of this place; they've taken me there to—to make him—"

  “Listen. There must be—” I stopped, hearing footsteps outside, a key in the lock. I grabbed Buff and shoved her roughly toward the door. “Do something,” I hissed. “Fall down, anything, get his attention."

  I jumped over to the wall, grabbing the barrel of the 45, as the door started to open. Buff stared at me. I shook my head frantically, waved my fist at her. The door opened and she looked at it, then moved sideways, her hands at her throat, moving away from me.

  A man came in, eyes following Buff, his head turned toward her. I took one step and slammed the butt of the gun against his skull, reversed the .45 as he fell. There was no one else behind him; I glanced out the door, shut it.

  “O.K., get smart, Buff,” I said roughly. “This does it. We're leaving, trying to anyway."

  “I can't leave Dad—"

  “You're leaving if I have to clip you one. There'll be more here when this one doesn't show up. We probably won't make it now. Use your head!"

  She bit her lip, stared at me, then nodded. She nodded again. “Yes, Shell. I'm sorry."

  She was better, the first shock wearing off. I said, more softly, “If we make it out of here, we'll get help, come back. That's all we can do now. Get over to the window.” I turned off the lights, followed her. “Listen, there's the guard hanging against the wall. Don't get scared, or yell or anything. I'll go out first. Use the vines."

  I drew back the automatic's slide, made sure the gun was cocked and ready to fire, then went out and dropped to the ground. I turned to help Buff. She jumped down beside me, stumbled, and a man shouted something in Spanish, a few feet to my left. I shoved Buff back against the wall, dropping to one knee and bringing the .45 around as a flashlight beam fell on my face.

  I snapped a shot at the light and the .45 roared and bucked in my hand. The light wavered, a gun cracked and flame licked toward me. I fired twice more and heard the hammer blow of slugs slamming into flesh. The flashlight fell to the mud.

  I swore aloud, then yelled at Buff. “Run! Straight to the wall. And run like hell."

  She raced by me. I followed after her, looking over my shoulder. Suddenly lights blazed from the building, flooding the grounds. Buff was almost at the wall. I spotted the pale blur of my trenchcoat still on the wall's top and veered toward it.

  “Buff,” I shouted. “Here! Quick!"

  Her white face swung around and she ran up alongside me. “Listen,” I said. My mind was jumping, racing. “Bend over, baby. I've got to step on you to get up to the top of the wall. Stoop over, brace yourself—and for Pete's sake don't fall on your face till I get up there."

  She was alert now, scared half to death, but she bent over without question, hands braced against her knees. I heard shouts, a gun cracked and the slug smacked against the wall. I planted my right foot just above Buff's shapely bottom and jumped, shoving with the muscles in my leg, hands reaching for the top of the wall. I grabbed at it, clutched it as the glass sliced through my coat and into my arm. I almost dropped the .45, but I clung to it, strained to haul myself up as Buff's body dropped from beneath my foot.

  A gun cracked again, and I heard the bullet sing through the air past my head. I pulled myself to the wall, twisted, bringing up the automatic. I could see Buff flat in the mud below me, just struggling up—and two men running across the grounds, another coming around the corner of the building. I snapped one quick shot at the first running man and he tried to stop, his feet skidding. The other dived to the ground.

  My coat was a foot away and I flopped over on it, stretching my left hand downward inside the wall. “Grab it, Buff. Hurry."

  I kept looking down as she jumped, her hands clutching at my coat sleeve. I grabbed her wrist, fingers biting into her skin, then looked back into the enclosure. A shot blazed from my left and I saw a man kneeling there, I fired twice at him, unable to do more than point the .45 in his general direction as Buff strained against my arm, her feet pressing against the wall.

  I got a knee under me, straightened up with the muscles protesting in my back, my arm quivering. One of her legs slid over the wall and she screamed as the glass cut her. I jerked, roughly, brutally, as a gun cracked and the bullet chipped stone between us and screamed away, the stone chips stinging my face and arm. But that last pull sent Buff tumbling over the wall, down to the ground. I fired the last shot from the .45 at the man still kneeling in the enclosure, then shoved myself backward, landed on my feet.

  “Up the road, Buff. Fifty yards maybe. Car there. Run."

  “My leg."

  “The hell with your leg. Run, crawl, but get there."

  I yanked her to her feet and we stumbled to the road. When we reached it I pushed her toward the car. “Run, baby."

  She didn't say anything, started off. I stood fifteen yards from the big gate, the cocked .38 in my fist. The gate was still closed. Buff had only a few seconds’ start when the door cracked and light from inside spilled through it.

  My gun was on the widening crack from the moment the gate began opening. When I saw me first movement inside I aimed carefully, squeezed the trigger. This was my gun, like an extension of my arm, and as flame spurted from the muzzle I steadied it and squeezed again. A man slumped as other blurred figures moved near him. I snapped two more quick shots, then with one bullet left I turned and ran.

  Buff was just climbing into the car when I reached it. I pushed her over, flopped behind the wheel and switched on the ignition. The starter grated, ground. The noise rasped my nerves, then the engine coughed and roared. The wheels skidded and then caught; we moved forward, accelerating rapidly and swerving in the mud. I flicked on the lights with one hand, then gripped the wheel in both fists and kept the accelerator pressed down. A car's lights flashed in the rearview mirror, one headlight dimmer than the other. I could feel blood seeping from cuts in my arms and legs.

  I slowed down for the bad spot in the road, then speeded up once past it. The lights stayed about the same distance behind. We reached the main highway and I swung left, heading back toward the city, and shoved my foot all the way down. I almost went off the road when I looked at the speedometer and saw the needle hanging at 120, but then I realized the figures were in kilometers. Still, we were hitting over 70 miles an hour. I kept my foot down, peering through the rain-splattered windshield. Neither Buff nor I said a word.

  The same lights were behind us, a hundred yards back at most. No other cars were in sight. We went around a curve. I couldn't get any more speed out of this crate, and the car behind had gained a little.

  “Baby,” I said, “if praying makes you feel better, pray like hell—and hang on.” I took my foot off the accelerator, put it on the brake and eased it down slowly. I pulled as far as I dared to the right of the road, trying not to look at the muddy, steeply sloping embankment. If we skidded down that, it would all be over. The Plymouth slowed and I jammed on the brakes. The steering wheel pressed against my hands as we started skidding—a little to the r
ight at first, almost off the road, and I let it slide, my mind almost blank. Then the front wheels veered slightly to the left and I pushed off the lights with one hand as I whipped the wheel to my left with the other.

  The car spun, slid sideways with the tires screaming on the wet asphalt. For a moment I thought we were going over, but then the rear wheels slid all the way around and we shuddered to a stop clear over on the far side of the road, off the asphalt, the right wheels in mud, but the car facing back the way we'd come, angling slightly toward the road's center.

  The engine died. I swore; I said words I'd never said in front of a woman and words Buff probably hadn't even known existed. I kept on saying them as I cocked the .38 and ground the starter. The lights of the other car swung around the curve, wavered as the car skidded, then straightened out and raced toward us.

  The starter growled but the engine didn't catch. I quit trying. The car was almost upon us now and its one bright and one dim headlight dipped as the driver slammed on the brakes, slowing as he neared us. He must have been hitting at least seventy. I stuck the .38 out the open window, aimed at the spot where the driver would be, pulled the gun around as the other car skidded alongside, then squeezed the trigger when I saw the man at the wheel. The car went on by, the wheels hit the mud at the road's edge; it was still going forty or more miles an hour when the wheels went off the asphalt. The car swerved and pitched down the embankment, crashed over on its side. I ground the starter till the engine caught, put it in gear and slowly turned the Plymouth around.

  There had been at least two men in the car; they'd have a hell of a time chasing us now. I pushed the speedometer needle up to the 120 mark.

  Buff was babbling over in the corner. I felt like babbling back at her. “We're all right,” I said. “Hang on, honey. Don't flip on me now."