The Gift! The old woman made a rattling sound in her throat. The Curse would be closer to the truth. The Curse of Prophecy. When it became known that she could read what was in the hands, girlhood was over for Philina. The people either clamored after her, begging for a reading, or they shunned her to avoid one. She no longer had friends. And the young men who courted her wanted only to use her terrible power.
In the end she had fled from all of them and crossed the ocean to live by herself. She chose the mountains above Mazatlán because it reminded her of her home in Spain, where she had known her only happiness, for such a short time.
But of course she could not forever conceal The Gift. There were gypsies here, too, and they knew at once. Philina never went into the city, and she discouraged all who would come to her cabin, but still they sought her out. There were not so many now as in the early years, but still some came, like the two young Americans today. They would be the last.
The Gift. In how many hands over the years had she read the future? Happiness, grief, riches, pain, births, illness, and death. She had seen it all. To Philina the gypsy, all hands were windows to the future. All hands, save her own. Some merciful power withheld from those cursed with The Gift that one ability that might drive them mad––the ability to read their own futures.
And yet now Philina knew what lay ahead for her. She knew how short was the time she had left. Minutes. She had read it in the hands of the two young strangers. They had brought her death. They had done so innocently, but they had brought death as surely as though they had plunged a knife into her heart.
The old woman sighed. She was ready. She had lived a long time, and there was nothing left undone.
She heard death coming outside. It moved softly through the grass of the clearing before her cabin. Over the years Philina’s sight had dimmed, but her ears were as keen as ever. She heard the snuffling sound as death approached. It stopped just outside her doorway, and she could hear the air rush in and out of its powerful lungs. Still the gypsy made no move.
The hide that covered the doorway was torn away as the wolf burst through. It hesitated a moment, snarling, feet braced on the hard dirt floor. Then it sprang.
Philina made no attempt to protect herself from the murderous teeth. It would have been no use anyway. She had lived a long time, and she was ready.
25
By the following morning the news of the double murder had been widely reported, and the Palacio del Mar Hotel had become famous. Sightseers streamed in from Mazatlán, Culiacán, Durango, and even La Paz across the Gulf of California, for a look at the ‘cabana de muerte,’ as the newspapers were calling Number 12. Taxis came and left in a steady procession and at least one tour bus had been rerouted to include the Palacio.
There were still police on the scene, and along with the reporters and curiosity seekers, they gave a sense of great excitement to the normally quiet hotel. Señor Davila, the manager, apologized profusely to the regular guests for the inconvenience, but he was enterprising enough to hire extra help for the bar and double the size of the souvenir stand in the lobby.
The dining room that morning was the only part of the hotel that was relatively uncrowded. It was there that Karyn and Chris sat at a small table, talking in low, tense voices.
Chris leaned forward, ignoring the muddy coffee cooling in a cup before him. “If anybody had told me three years ago that one day I would be making plans based on the ravings of a gypsy fortuneteller, I’d have laughed in his face.”
“But it’s different now,” Karyn said.
“A lot of things are different now.”
“So what’s our next move?”
“The gypsy said we had a chance if we arm ourselves as we did before.”
“How can we do that, Chris? You don’t have a gun here, do you?”
“No. And for a foreigner, it’s just about impossible to get one. Let alone silver bullets. But the only things we have to fight them with is fire and silver. We can’t control fire, so it will have to be a silver weapon of some kind. A knife, maybe.”
“Can you get a silver knife?”
“I’ve got to. There’s not much time. Did you check the calendar?”
“Yes. Tonight is the full moon.”
“If the gypsy woman was right, and we might as well assume she was, then tonight it all comes to an end.”
“One way or another,” Karyn said.
“Right. One way or another.”
There was an awkward pause. Chris looked at his watch. “I’d better get into town and see about the knife. While I’m gone, it might be best if you stayed in your room.”
“No,” Karyn said.
Chris looked up sharply. “What?”
“I’m not going to lock myself in like some frightened child. Let me go with you.”
Chris shook his head. “I can move faster alone.”
“All right, but I have to do something besides sit here.”
He saw the look in her eye and relented. “At least don’t go off anywhere by yourself.”
“Maybe I’ll take the cruise in the glass-bottomed boat. How would that be?”
“I’d feel a lot easier if you stayed locked in your room.”
“There’s nothing to worry about. I’ll be with twenty other people. The boat leaves before noon and doesn’t stay out more than an hour or so. That will get me back well before dark.”
“I hope I’m back well before dark too,” Chris said. “I’ll make it as fast as I can. We’ll stay together tonight and hope that the gypsy was right––that this will be the end of it.”
“What about Audrey?”
“I don’t have time to worry about Audrey’s hurt feelings anymore. She’ll just have to do the best she can.” He pushed away from the table and stood up. “I’ve got to get started. See you.”
“See you, Chris. Take care of yourself.”
“You too.” He squeezed her shoulder and went out, quickly disappearing in the crowd of people in the lobby.
* * *
Audrey was still in bed when Chris returned to the cabana. She lay on her stomach with her head turned to one side. Her skin was pale, and there was a film of perspiration on her forehead. The flesh under her eyes was faintly purple.
“How do you feel?” Chris asked as he crossed to the closet.
“Like death. What the hell is that Mexican booze made out of, anyway?”
“Cactus.”
“I believe it.” Groaning, she sat up in bed and watched Chris pull on a jacket. “Where are you going?”
“Into town.”
“What do we have to do in town?”
“Not ‘we,’ me.”
“You’re going to leave me here alone again?”
“That’s right.”
Audrey threw back the sheet and got out of bed. She was still wearing the blue bikini panties she hadn’t taken off the night before. She stood before Chris swaying slightly. The color surged back into her face.
“What the hell is going on, anyway?” she demanded. “You invite me to spend a couple of weeks in Mexico with you then you let me sit around this fucking room drinking this foul Mexican booze while you cozy it up with your old lady friend and go off on mysterious trips and––” Anger rose in her throat and choked off the words.
“Go back to bed,” Chris said without looking at her. “The rest will do you good.”
“Like hell it will. I’m not going to take this shit from you anymore.”
Chris turned to face her squarely. “Audrey, you don’t have to take anything. Our return tickets to Los Angeles are in the top of my suitcase. You can use yours any time you want to.”
Audrey caught her breath. She moved in quickly and wrapped her arms around him.
“I’m sorry, Chris. I didn’t mean all that. I’m just hung over. I miss you, that’s all. I want to be with you.”
He held her for a moment. “I’m sorry, too. I didn’t intend it to be this way. Things have come up that I d
on’t have any control over.”
“Can’t you tell me about it?”
“Not now.” He pulled away from her gently. “I’ve got to go.”
Audrey released him. He kissed her lightly and went out.
Chris walked along in front of the hotel, where the driveway was crowded with vehicles bringing sightseers from Mazatlán. Halfway down the line he spotted the battered Plymouth of Luis Zarate. He hurried over and leaned down at the open window on the driver’s side.
“Luis, can you take me into town?”
The cab driver looked up, startled. “Oh, Señor, buenas dias. I was, ah, waiting for a passenger.”
“I’m a passenger.” Chris opened the back door and got in. “Let’s go.”
Luis sighed heavily and started the noisy engine. He turned the Plymouth around with some difficulty and headed back toward Mazatlán. Chris noted the stiff set of his shoulders.
“Is anything the matter, Luis?”
“Matter, Señor?”
“You seem, well, uncomfortable.”
“I have my worries.”
“Yes, well, I guess we all do.”
“Where do you want to go, Señor?”
“I want someone who deals in silver?”
Luis swung around in the seat and looked at him. “Silver?”
“Yes. I think you know what I need it for.”
“Mazatlán is not a good place for silver. Taxco is much better.”
Chris began to lose patience. “Well, I’m not in Taxco, I’m in Mazatlán. I need a knife made of silver, and I need it now. So take me to a silversmith, or let me get out and I’ll find somebody who will.”
Luis turned back to the road. His heavy shoulders rose and fell with another sigh. “Si, Señor.”
They drove on into the city of Mazatlán and along Olas Altas Boulevard, where most of the big hotels and expensive restaurants were built. Luis pulled off on a side street, made another turn, and rolled slowly along a narrow avenue of crowded tourist shops and street vendors. There were art stores with bright bullfight paintings stacked out in front, guitar stores, shops stacked to the roof with wickerware, souvenir stands with red plaster bulls and painted maracas. Along the sidewalk, men and women displayed trays of turquoise jewelry and watches, stacks of sombreros and armloads of serapes.
Chris muttered to himself as he searched the storefronts for a likely looking sign.
“You see, Señor,” said Luis, “In Mazatlán it is not easy to find somebody to make you something of silver.”
“I can’t believe that,” Chris said. “Keep driving. In the next block he spotted a narrow shop with a neatly lettered sign in the window that read: JEWELRY MADE TO ORDER. “Stop here,” he said.
Luis double-parked in front of the shop and Chris got out.
“Wait for me,” he said.
On the sidewalk in front of the shop two little boys rushed up to Chris offering to sell him gum or plastic flowers. An old woman huddled under blankets shuffled along the pavement carrying a basket of withered fruit. She held out a blackened banana toward Chris. He brushed past the old woman and the boys and entered the jewelry store.
A salesman dressed in a neat dark suit hurried forward to greet him. “Good morning, sir. May I help you?”
“Possibly.” Chris glanced down at the display case. It contained pieces of jewelry that looked to be of good quality. “Do you do work in silver?”
“Yes, sir. We have a fine craftsman here who will make up any piece to your order. Is it for a gentleman or a lady?”
“I’m not looking for jewelry,” Chris said.
“Oh?”
“What I want is a knife. A knife with a blade of silver.”
The man’s eyes clouded. The smile gradually faded away. “A knife,” he repeated flatly.
“That’s right. I don’t care what kind of a handle it has, but I want the blade to be silver, and I want it about six inches long.”
“That is impossible.”
“Why? If your man is as good as you say working with jewelry, surely he can make a knife blade and fit it to a handle.”
“I am sorry, he does not do that kind of work.”
“Can I talk to him myself?”
“He is not here. He is sick. He will not be in today. Probably not the rest of the week.”
Chris looked into the eyes of the jewelry salesman. The man’s gaze slid away and darted around the room.
“I’m sure you can buy a knife in any of the souvenir stores along this street.”
“Not the kind I want,” Chris said.
The salesman moved back behind the display case. “I’m sorry. There is nothing I can do for you.”
Chris hesitated for a moment, then turned on his heel and strode out of the store. He marched across the sidewalk to Luis’ taxi, and did not see how closely the old woman fruit-vendor watched him. He started to get into the car, but Luis reached out and placed a hand on his arm.
“I am sorry, Señor, I can no longer drive you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have other business.”
Chris started to protest, but Luis started the engine, and the taxi began to edge away. The stocky driver looked back once with a strange sadness in his eyes. “I am sorry, Señor. Adiós.”
Luis stepped on the accelerator and the old Plymouth roared up the street. Puzzled, Chris stood looking after the car. Behind him the old lady in the blankets moved with surprising vigor as she entered the jewelry store.
Chris began to walk down the crowded street. He had a feeling that eyes were following him from all sides, but whenever he turned to look no one was watching him. The difference in Luis Zarate today troubled him. He also wondered about the strange actions of the jewelry salesman. A sense of growing urgency prickled the hair at the back of his neck.
He had walked not quite a block when a hand dropped on his shoulder from behind. He spun around and was surprised to see the salesman from the jewelry store. The man pushed a folded piece of paper into Chris’s hand.
“Here you will find what you are looking for,” he said. “I cannot say more.” With a nervous glance at the people passing them on the sidewalk, the man turned and hurried back toward the store.
Chris unfolded the paper and read: Tulio Santos, 48 Calle Verde. The man from the store was out of sight when he looked up.
The thought came to him at once that it might be some kind of trap. People were acting much too strangely today. And yet, what else did he have? Time was passing, and tonight was the full moon.
He hailed a passing taxi, this one a red Ford, somewhat newer than Luis Zarate’s Plymouth. He showed the handwritten note to the driver.
“Calle Verde? You sure you want to go there, man?”
“Why not?”
“It’s a bad street for tourists. It’s a bad street for anybody.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Chris said, getting in, “Let’s go.”
26
The street called Calle Verde was still another side of Mazatlán. It bore no resemblance to the moneyed boulevard that curved along the shore, nor the gaudy tourist streets just inland. Calle Verde was a narrow, grubby passage, between rows of weather stained buildings which gave no evidence of life within. The few people visible on the street moved furtively, as though they expected to be stopped and searched at any moment. A quarter of a mile away was the blighted section called La Ratonera. Some of its human refuse spilled over into Calle Verde.
The cab driver pulled to a stop. “This is it, man, if you still want it.”
“Where?” Chris said. “I don’t see any numbers.”
“There.” The driver pointed to a scabrous wooden building with a blind doorway, where a hollow-cheeked little boy sat playing with a piece of string.
Chris got out of the cab and paid the driver. The child watched him, his young eyes already narrow with suspicion. Chris stepped past the silent boy and pushed through the door into a dark, musty room that looked like
the overflow from a junkyard. There was a long workbench along one wall. Both the bench and the floor were littered with blackened pots and pans, dented kettles, tarnished, mismatched pieces of silverware, tools, nails, bits of wire, and odd chunks of metal.
“Anybody here?” Chris called.
After a minute a bald, monkey-faced man appeared from somewhere in the rear.
“Tulio Santos?”
“Si.”
“Habla usted inglès?”
“No.”
Chris switched to his laborious high-school Spanish. “Quiero comprar un cuchillo. Un cuchillo de plata.”
The bald-headed man came closer and peered into Chris’s face. “A knife of silver,” he repeated, speaking Spanish very slowly for the benefit of the gringo.
“Yes.”
“For what?”
“That is of no matter. I will pay your price.”
Santos pursed his lips, which made him look more than ever like a monkey. “Ah. Well. A knife of silver. A moment.” He vanished again into the gloom at the back of the big room. In a little while he came back carrying a tiny, flat butter knife. He displayed it proudly for Chris. “Here. A knife of silver.”
The Howling Trilogy Page 33
