Date with Death td-57

by Warren Murphy

  "Hurry!" Consuela hissed.

  With a huge effort, Karen threw one leg through the window. Then, straddling the opening, she reversed the guard's nightstick to the interior wall and pulled the makeshift rope out.

  When Kains and another guard arrived, the only trace of Karen Lockwood was the nightstick jammed horizontally against the slitted window.

  "What's going on here?" Kains demanded, fixing the women with his beast's stare.

  Consuela stepped forward. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she forced herself to smile. "We are pleased you have come, señor," she said. As if by accident, the sleeve of her gown slipped off her left shoulder, revealing a rounded portion of her ample breasts. Kains gaped at her. She could see his breathing coming heavily.

  The moment was broken by the sound of the nightstick clattering to the floor. Behind it flew the stream of rags used to make a rope. Karen had escaped.

  "Hey, what's that?" the guard with Kains asked.

  Kains picked it up, then felt the empty leather loop on his belt. "It's my club," he said, puzzled. "I didn't know it was gone."

  "These bitches did it," the other guard muttered. "He pointed at the crowd of prisoners as he counted. "One short," he said, and pressed a button near the big oak door. A loud, whopping alarm sounded, followed by the stamping of feet as the prison guards systematically searched the area for escapees. "The snotty little blonde got out," the guard said. He grabbed Consuela by the arm. "Where'd she go?"

  Kains pushed him away. "What're you picking on her for?"

  "They're thick as thieves, those two. The Mex bitch knows where the other one went." He turned to Consuela. "Don't you, bitch?" he slapped her hard across the face. "I asked you a question." He slapped her again. A trickle of blood appeared at the comer of her lips.

  Kains raised his nightstick over the other guard. "Cut it out!" he shouted. His eyes were wild.

  "Hey, what's the matter? You got the hots for the broad or what?"

  Kains was about to strike him when the big oak door opened and a double line of uniformed men strode in. Between them marched a man in his forties wearing a crisp black uniform with a major's insignia borrowed from the U.S. Army. He was tough looking and mean, with the kind of clean, humorless face that seemed to be reserved for religious fanatics and professional military officers.

  Kains dropped the club to salute the superior officer.

  "How'd it happen?" the major snapped.

  "Looks like she went through the window, sir," Kains answered. "Made a rope out of scraps of cloth, sir."

  The major took in the information, his face bitter as he surveyed the hint of triumph on the expressions of the prisoners. He jerked his head toward Consuela Madera. "Why is her face bloody?" he demanded.

  The guard with Kains spoke. "She's a friend of the prisoner who escaped, sir. Thought we'd get her to talk."

  "About what?" the major sneered. "They don't even know where they are. Fool. You've bruised her face for nothing."

  "I'm sorry, sir."

  "What's your name, soldier?"

  "Dexter, sir. Corporal Robert T."

  "You're not here to damage the goods, Dexter."

  "No, sir."

  "No matter what kind of trouble they cause, you don't go around hitting a woman in the mouth, is that clear?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "You hit them in the body, like this," the major said, demonstrating with a powerful right hook to Consuela's abdomen. The woman moaned, her head snapping back as she folded forward with the pain.

  Major Deke Bauer brushed his hands together. "That way, they still look good. Understand?"

  "Yes, sir," Dexter said.

  "By the way, were you two on duty during the escape?"

  "Sort of, sir. We were on our lunch break—"

  "That's all right, corporal."

  Dexter's haggard face relaxed. "Thank you, sir."

  Bauer took out his revolver, a Colt Magnum. "Think nothing of it," he said, and fired point blank into the man's face.

  When his body with its still-surprised eyes hit the floor, Bauer kicked it toward Kains. "See that this doesn't happen again," the major said in a quiet voice before he left.

  Kains felt the blood drain from his face. As he followed Bauer and his men out, he stole a glance at Consuela. She was on her hands and knees on the floor beside Dexter's body. Her head sagged as she tried to raise herself up, Kains wished he could help her. But he knew he was no match for Deke Bauer.

  A half-hour later, Bauer sat with his feet propped up on a paper-littered rolltop desk. He took a long pull at his dappled green cigar while, in the distance, the sharp explosive bark of a machine gun punctuated the still afternoon.

  His men hadn't caught up with the Lockwood girl yet, but it wouldn't be long. No unarmed female could hide in these mountains for long. Her escape was a minor slipup, nothing to worry about. He blew a spiral of smoke toward the ceiling. A smile played at the corners of his hard-set mouth. Only a very few things elicited a smile from him. The sound of gunfire was one of them.

  Swinging his legs off the desk, he crossed to where a fire of piñon logs blazed in the fieldstone hearth. He picked up a poker and idly probed the blaze, setting off a shower of sparks. The sight reminded him of artillery flares. The corners of his mouth went up. Artillery flares were another thing that made the major smile.

  On the whole, he felt damn good about having his own command again. True, it was only fifty men, but among them were some of the best combat soldiers to come out of Nam. Bauer himself had whipped them back into shape with an entire month of intensive retraining. They were well armed, well paid, and ready for anything that might come their way.

  So far nothing had. The girl's feeble attempt at escape wasn't even worth a thought, as far as Bauer was concerned. His men would test themselves against real fighting men when the time came. Miles Quantril had promised him that chance, and Bauer trusted him, in a perverse kind of way. Despite Quantril's cruelty, there was something, almost military in the man's bearing and in the way his voice carried the weight of authority.

  Bauer turned away from the fireplace and ran his hand along a shelf of war mementos near his desk. There were his medals, of course. Twelve of them in two neat rows, pinned on a field of deep blue velvet. Next to them was an assortment of newspaper clippings and telegrams, yellowing now in their carefully dusted frames. The clippings were all about the war. He'd thrown out all the stories about his trial, treating them like the garbage they were. Candy-ass civilians, he'd thought. They don't know what war's like.

  Deke Bauer knew. War was excitement. It was challenge. It was the only real test of a man's worth. War was life.

  The last item on the shelf was a fading snapshot of a much younger Bauer, standing in a jungle clearing with three other men, all in uniform. He couldn't remember the occasion for the picture, but it must have been something special, because all three of the men in the photo were enlisted men under him, and he'd never particularly liked any of them. Still, it was the only picture of Bauer from the war that had survived, and so it had taken on a special importance for him.

  "Tabert, Hancock, and Williams," the major muttered to himself. Hancock had bought the farm three days after the picture had been taken. Bauer had no idea what had happened to Tabert. He'd read something about Williams years ago. He'd become a cop or something. Then he went bad and ended up going to the electric chair.

  It came as no surprise to Bauer. There'd always been something not quite right about Williams.

  There was a sharp rap at the door. Like everyone else in Bauer's outfit, the sergeant at the threshold was dressed in black. An Uzi submachine gun was slung over his shoulder.

  "We've spotted the prisoner, sir," he said.

  "Has she been stopped?"

  "No, sir. She's keeping close to rocks and vegetation, sir. But she's headed down the south side of the mountain. It looks like she's going to run right into a carload of intruders, sir."

  "
Intruders?"

  "Three men, sir. One of them's an old Oriental. They're about halfway up the mountain."

  "Campers?"

  "Probably, sir."

  The major nodded thoughtfully. "Take a team of eight men and eliminate them. And the girl. Bring the bodies back here. Understand, Sergeant Brickell?"

  Brickell understood. He understood that if he didn't bring the bodies back, he didn't have to bother to come back himself.

  As he hurried out of the room, Bauer smiled again. Death was one of those things that always made him smile.

  ?CHAPTER SIX

  At 6,000 feet, the juniper and sagebrush of the Sangre de Cristos gave way to towering Douglas firs and thick stands of ponderosa pine.

  Sam Wolfshy gunned the jeep's engine, but the wheels only spun helplessly on the steep, rocky incline.

  "It's no use," Remo said. "We'd better get out and walk."

  "Walk? What'll happen to my jeep if we leave it here?" Wolfshy protested.

  "This is the middle of nowhere. Besides, you said yourself that we'd have to leave it."

  "Not in the middle of nowhere! How'll we ever find it again?"

  "That's your problem," Remo said irritably. "You're supposed to be the great Indian guide."

  "I am," Sam protested. "I am a full-blooded Kanton." His eyes hardened with inner conviction. "These mountains are the hunting grounds of my ancestors. Through my veins—"

  "Oh, bulldookey," Remo said. "Since we left Harry's gas station, we've gotten lost eight times."

  "I can't help if it the moss grows on the wrong side of the trees here."

  "Moss always grows on the north side."

  "Only white man's moss," Wolfshy said with dignity.

  Remo sighed and started up the hill. It was nearly sunset, and the shadows were deepening. The temperature at the high elevation was considerably colder than it had been in the sun-washed foothills.

  Behind him Chiun walked regally through the dense forest, his blue robe fluttering in the breeze. Sam Wolfshy was still back at the car, struggling to strap a knapsack full of provisions onto his back.

  "Which path do we take?" Remo called from a granite outcropping beside a fork in the trail.

  "Uh, left," Sam said. "No, I think we ought to go right. Well, actually there's something to be said for both directions."

  "You're the most indecisive human being I've ever met!" Remo exploded.

  "I'm just open-minded," the Indian said, hurt.

  "Don't you have a map?"

  "I don't need a map. I'm a full-blooded Kanton."

  Remo sputtered, then forced himself to calm down. "All right, Sam. Have it your way. But if we get lost again, I'm going to see to it that you're not a full-blooded anything, got it?"

  "Well, I do happen to have a little map," Wolfshy said, reaching into his coat. "Harry was kind enough to loan it to me."

  Remo snatched it from him. "This is a road map," he yelled. "What good is this going to do us? The nearest road is twenty miles away."

  "There are things on here besides roads. Look." Wolfshy pointed to a pink splotch. "Here are the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. That's where we are."

  "No kidding," Remo said, crumpling the map into a ball and throwing it as far as he could. "It's already getting dark. We'll never find our way to the monastery before tomorrow."

  "Look, why don't we just make the best of things?" Wolfshy suggested. "We're in a kind of clearing here. I'll build a fire and cook up some supper. Then, after a good night's rest, we can make our way to the top of the range tomorrow. We won't have to go up much farther before we can see the mission." He smiled. "How does that sound?"

  "Do you always have to be so damned cheerful?" Remo growled. "It's getting on my nerves."

  "Sorry." Wolfshy arranged some sticks inside a circle of stones for a fire. "Say, could I borrow a match?"

  Without speaking, Remo picked up a small gray stone and spun it toward the unlit fire. The stone first struck one rock, then the second and third, and continued around the circle, sending off shooting sparks each time it struck. The movement was so fast that, to Sam Wolfshy, the fire seemed to ignite spontaneously.

  "Wow, that was really something," he said. "Maybe you're part Indian. Do you think I could learn that? I mean, it must be in my blood, right? I could—"

  Inexplicably, he turned a double back flip, then landed in a sitting position.

  Chiun was standing nearby, slapping his hands together as if to wipe dust from them. The expression on his face was sour. "Keep this person out of my sight," he said.

  "He doesn't mean any harm," Remo whispered. "And we did ask him to be our guide."

  "Guide? Hah. This mushroom-brained fool is incapable of guiding himself across a postage stamp. Also, he talks incessantly. He has no sense of direction. He is a stone around our necks. And today alone, he has asked to borrow sixty-four items from me."

  "Yeah, he's a dipstick," Remo said. He looked past Chiun to the fire, where Wolfshy crouched, stirring the contents of a metal pot with a stick and singing "Old MacDonald," complete with sound effects, at the top of his voice. "But there's something about him I kind of like."

  Wolfshy looked up and smiled. "Chow's ready," he called.

  "At least he can cook," Remo said. With a snort, Chiun padded to the fire.

  "Hope you guys are hungry," Wolfshy said, sniffing the air like some TV-show gourmet. "Doesn't that smell good?"

  "What manner of foulness is that?" Chiun shrieked, pointing to the pot.

  Wolfshy looked into the pot, then at Chiun, then back at the pot. "Beans," he said innocently. "Just baked beans. Very nourishing, if you don't mind a little gas."

  "And those globs of fat?" The old man's long fingers quivered over the bubbling concoction.

  "That's pork. It gives the beans more flavor. Here, have a taste."

  Chiun slapped the stick out of the Indian's hand. "Remo, eliminate him."

  "Calm down, Chiun," Remo said. "He was only—"

  "Not only is he a brainless, worthless fool, but now he seeks to poison the Master of Sinanju by feeding him pork fat."

  "Gosh, I wasn't…"

  Remo silenced him with a gesture. He listened to the forest. There was a sound that did not belong.

  Immediately, Chiun and Remo went to opposite sides of the clearing, and it came again: a faint rustle of leaves and the unmistakable crack of wood beneath a human foot.

  Silently Remo darted into the forest. There was a flutter of activity and a muffled cry. When he reappeared, he was holding a small, dirty, unconscious woman in his arms.

  "Who's that?" Wolfshy asked.

  Remo set her on the ground. "How would I know? She tripped and knocked herself on the head before I could reach her."

  "The garment she is wearing is disgusting," Chiun said, wrinkling his nose. "Perhaps she is a musician."

  The woman groaned as she came to. As soon as she saw their faces, she flailed out with both her fists.

  "Take it easy," Remo said, catching her hands in one of his. "Nobody's going to hurt you."

  She looked around, her eyes wide and frightened. "You're not with them?" she whispered.

  "Whoever 'they' are, we're not. You're safe."

  "Thank God." She buried her face in Remo's chest and sobbed. "I made it. I got away."

  Remo rocked her gently. Wherever she had been, it obviously hadn't been a picnic for her. "Can you tell me about it?"

  "Yes… that's why I'm here," she said, sniffing. "I've got to get help. For the others."

  "Slow down," Remo said. "What others? Where did you come from?"

  The woman clasped her hands together in an effort to calm herself. "My name is Karen Lockwood," she said shakily. She told them about the strange occurrences that had taken place since she'd been picked up by a blue Econoline van off the interstate.

  "The prison's on this mountain?"

  Karen nodded. "I think it used to be a church or something. While I was running away from the place,
I looked back and saw a bell tower."

  "Sounds like the Franciscan monastery," Wolfshy said.

  "Well, there aren't any Franciscans there now. Those soldiers shot at me every step of the way until it got dark."

  Chiun's brow creased. "Then they are nearby."

  "We've all got to get out of here and contact the police," Karen said. "How far is the nearest town?"

  "It's fifty miles or so to Santa Fe. You can take the jeep. We'll stay on here," Remo said.

  "Uh, are you sure about that?" Sam sputtered. "I mean, if they've got guns and everything—"

  "All right, you can go with the girl."

  Sam's pinched face relaxed. "I'll take good care of her, don't you worry. Why, when my ancestors walked this land—"

  "Shhh." Remo nodded toward Karen. She was propped up beside a rock, fast asleep. Her dirty face looked as innocent as a child's.

  "She was exhausted," Chiun said. "Let her sleep. There will be time in the morning to go for the police."

  "And easier to find our way, too," Wolfshy added.

  Remo cast him a withering look.

  "Well, anyone can get lost."

  "Go to sleep," Remo said.

  "What about those soldiers she was talking about?"

  "They've probably given up the search. At least for tonight. I'll wake you if anybody comes."

  "Aren't you going to sleep?"

  "Not if you two continue this offensive chatter," Chiun screeched from the other side of the clearing. He was sitting in full lotus beneath a tree.

  "Sorry," Wolfshy said. "I didn't know you were asleep. Your eyes were open. I guess that's Zen, huh? Like hearing the sound of one hand clapping." Sam grinned, pleased with himself.

  "If you are not utterly silent within five seconds," Chiun said, "you will hear the sound of one hand tearing the tongue from your throat."

  Wolfshy walked wordlessly to his sleeping bag. Remo took it from him. "For the girl," he whispered. The Indian curled near the dying fire as Remo carried the sleeping woman to the warm pallet.

  The night was silent except for the chattering of small woodland animals. Remo lay beside Karen Lockwood, studying her face. It was bruised and cut, and her arms bore marks of beatings. What had she been through? What sort of men ran the prison at the top of the hill, and why?