The Hungry Blade

by Lawrence Dudley

  Eckhardt. He did this. Only him. Eckhardt was here. With his macuahuitl, putting it to use again, quick and silent, like with the Austs.

  Can’t stay, Hawkins knew that instantly. Dangerous. Get out of here! he thought. Eckhardt could come back. Or the policía. Could be a trap. Eckhardt could be lurking here. And no point in staying, now, anyway. It’s gone. Nothing to salvage, including the truck. He turned and ran back to his own truck, loaded with the real paintings, started up and lurched and rumbled between the trees, branches scraping the top of the vehicle, and roared down the main highway.

  His mind raced the truck down the road, thoughts a feverish rush, one tumbling on another. What happened? Someone talked. But who? Corrialles? No, he’d probably shoot Eckhardt on sight.

  But … why would Eckhardt want them destroyed? He had control of them. Could’ve taken them. Emilio dead, drive off with them. He stole three others before. Why not make off with these? Instead, he burned them. What the bloody hell?

  Falkenberg? No, he’d been ordered to kill Eckhardt, they were sick of his embezzling, his foul-ups.

  Emilio. The image of his dismembered body laying in the road sparked a queasy, sick feeling. Am I responsible? All too obvious this was more dangerous than I anticipated. Should I have gone along, armed? But how? We needed to switch the trucks. Emilio had volunteered, he wanted to stop Corrialles, too.

  Would Eckhardt do this out of spite? Maybe. He’s a crazy bugger if there ever was one.

  But … back around again in his mind, to the big question, how did Eckhardt know? One of that goddamn crowd in the street today? Maybe. Worry about that later, he decided, what now?

  There was a plane waiting, he knew.

  One powerful thought now struck him, breaching the surface like a submerged U-boat, an instant obsession invading and filling all corners of his mind.

  What the hell is going on? I don’t know. Not knowing, that’s dangerous. Can’t plan, can’t react when you don’t know, he thought. Why did Eckhardt destroy the paintings? Crazy …

  Then it struck him: the only chance to find out was to send the real ones through. The money will come back. Get back on the money trail, that’s it, trace the money … but if I do that, will there be a coup? What happens here, to these people, to leaders like Cárdenas? Lying in a pool of blood like the decent men and women of Spain? Another civil war? How could that not happen? And an American intervention? All too possible. Bloodshed in the streets? On my hands?

  Or is London still reconsidering? He mentally seized that thought. Nothing is settled, he told himself. I have push on that end. They’re listening. They will listen.

  If I ditch the paintings, they’ll know when they don’t arrive, Hawkins thought. Corrialles is in contact with people abroad. He’ll come looking for them—for me. And he has an army. How, where could I even hide them? Unless I destroy them.

  But if I destroy them, how do I find out what’s going on? No money to trace. No, no alternative to sending the shipment through now. They’re reconsidering. It’ll be all right. He turned around and headed for the airfield.

  -72-

  W and the staff in New York had made an excellent choice: a Western Air Express DC-3. WAE was an official US airmail carrier—a shield on the nose behind an Indian chief’s head boasted that—so the plane came set up for cargo, with wider doors rather than the usual passenger ones. It made for a quick loading, fifteen minutes, no more.

  Alice, one of the clerks with Lilly in Bermuda, had flown out to catch the plane and ride herd on the operation, handle paperwork, and the like. She was going to spend almost a full day in the air, but she seemed cheerful enough about it. She was breezily sorting through the last of the forms, waiting with Hawkins on the tarmac near the plane, puffing a cigarette, busily waving it in the air while the crew strapped their shipment down.

  “Got to make this last,” she said, deeply inhaling and holding the smoke, “won’t get another smoke until we get to New Orleans.”

  “Any news of the war?”

  “We bombed Berlin!”

  “All right. ’Bout time.”

  “There. All done.” She checked the plane. “Ready to go. Oh. Oops. Almost forgot. Supposed to give you this.” She handed Hawkins an envelope. “Maybe it’s a paycheck.” She laughed. The copilot waved at her. They were done loading, the pilot starting the engines. She threw the butt down, “Bye!” sprinting in as the door shut behind her. The plane began rolling the instant it closed.

  Hawkins watched, half absentmindedly, opening the letter with a thumb. A note was inside. From W. He stood in his headlights, reading.

  Roy—Brilliant job, all commendations to you, your service crucial. I have taken pains to ensure London is well aware of your achievements, which are considerable.

  Your memo and the issues you raised were carefully considered. The risks of American involvement in potential Mexican civil war is recognized. However, war staff feels current Mexican situation different from previous Mexican civil war. Regular army forces are better equipped, and they have some light tanks now. It is their judgment that when brought to bear this will ensure control of urban centers, particularly Mexico City, and therefore eventual success of Corrialles likely. Therefore they have recommended proceeding. Awaiting final approval Whitehall. Be assured, your concerns are duly recognized and will be taken into consideration in future deliberations. See you soon in NYC.—W

  A minute later Hawkins watched the silver plane rise and hum into the night, a tourniquet momentarily tightening around his stomach.

  Bloody hell. They’re going to go ahead … of course they’re going to go ahead. Should’ve burned the other truck myself, driven it off a cliff, or something.

  But … was there a logical alternative? No. There simply wasn’t. I don’t know what’s going on, he thought, and there’s only one way to find out. That is the simple, stark fact. Had to send them through. Find a way to make it work, he thought. No alternative.

  Next step, Lilly. He’d told her to wait on a side road near the airport. He quickly drove by, not stopping—that was the plan—flicking his high beams on and off three times. She flicked her high beams twice: all clear and message received. They both hurried off into the night, no waving, no contact, not now, a damn good thing. After what happened he was in no mood for the usual office chat over anything. She’d have a coded confirmation out within the hour.

  As they both drove away the thought again rose: What happened? How did Eckhardt know? Someone must’ve talked. Then it suddenly struck Hawkins, a startling lightning bolt. No one told. Riley was keeping tabs on the galleries, going around regularly and checking them. He must’ve spotted her. Damn! Of course. He tailed her to her studio, saw Emilio. He was probably out there in the dark, in the crowd in the street. Then another lightning bolt hit him. Goddamn it, Riley—that means he knows about her. Hawkins stomped the accelerator to the floor, racing over the darkened streets back to Coyoacán and her studio.

  -73-

  Careful—careful, Hawkins thought, get the jump, this lumbering thing is damn noisy—he’ll hear—if he’s here. He lurched to a stop at the near corner, one wheel over on the curb in haste, drew his Browning and raced up the street, holding the pistol high again in one hand, lightly tapping fingers on the walls, finding his way in the dark. The side door to Riley’s garage studio was slightly open, lit from inside. He carefully edged up to it, peering through, hidden in the dark.

  There he was, Eckhardt, inside, facing away from him in the dead center of the room, his feet spread wide, one hand easily resting on the hilt of his macuahuitl like a lethal cane, a cigar in the other. Where’s Riley? Hawkins thought. Can’t see her. Eckhardt said something in Spanish. From his tone it sounded vaguely complimentary or encouraging, gesturing with his cigar. Hawkins edged closer in. Still can’t see her, he thought, where is she? Then he heard Riley’s voice in the distance, very
nervous.

  “¡Necesito más tiempo, por favor! No esta hecho.” Tiempo was “time,” Hawkins knew. She’s asking for time. At least she’s still alive. Thank god. Here in time.

  “Parece bueno. Trabajo más rápidamente.” Eckhardt said. Bueno meant “good,” the “rapid” part of rápidamente was obvious enough: “hurry up.” He was getting impatient. Eckhardt moved out of sight. In the dark street Hawkins saw a form. He carefully slipped by the door, reaching out with his hand, feeling for it. Metal, a fender! Eckhardt had parked his car next to the wall, Hawkins realized. With a foot he found the bumper, holstered the Hi-Power and quietly, carefully stepped from the bumper to the fender to the hood to the roof of the car, feeling with both hands, moving slowly so not to fall. He reached up, grabbing the edge of the flat garage roof, pulling himself up. Slowly, slowly, he thought, can’t make any noise, the roof’s old and half-assed built. The ancient tar-covered metal crinkled slightly under his weight. Carefully moving on all fours, trying not to make a sound, he inched a few yards across, looking down from the open skylight.

  Riley was slowly, meticulously painting on the blank far wall. Hawkins angled his head to see. It was huge, an image of a blue Aztec deity, vibrant colors, like the one Corrialles had excavated, caparisoned by a spiraling array of brilliant feathers, holding a fire-breathing serpent as a sword. It was a dazzling work, as surely executed as the ancient masterpiece Corrialles had in his church gallery.

  Huitzilopochtli, Hawkins realized, that’s who Eckhardt would choose. The hummingbird god of war and the sun, the ever-hungry deity that had to be fed human hearts without fail to guarantee the return of dawn and the life-giving sun, lest the world be plunged into perpetual darkness by a vengeful god. The hungry deity strode across the white wall, standing on the feathered serpent god Quetzalcoatl.

  Eckhardt vaguely waved the cigar, then clamped it in his mouth. With one hand he dragged Riley’s fake Chacmool across the floor toward Huitzilopochtli’s feet, the vacant cavity in its stomach waiting to be filled with Riley’s sacred heart. He was getting impatient. He was getting ready for another sacrifice, exactly as he had at the Austs’.

  “¡No se hace!” Riley said. She was playing for time, buying time. Smart, Hawkins thought. Very smart. And cool-headed. Amazing. He watched for a few more moments, now feeling calm, on top of things.

  Could simply blow his brains out from up here, Hawkins thought, easy shot. But—that brain contains information I want, need to have. I know why he killed Emilio. Simple. He was in the way, the wrong place at the wrong time. But why did Eckhardt burn those damn fake paintings? And why does he want to kill Riley now? They did both know about the paintings … Could Eckhardt think those were the real ones? Maybe. He couldn’t be in contact with Corrialles after the massacre at the airfield—the general would shoot him on sight. No, Eckhardt probably doesn’t know where the real ones are, or were. But if he thought the fakes were the real ones, why destroy them? Why not help himself? There has to be a greater reason than spite. He wouldn’t take the chance. Eckhardt has to know something I don’t, Hawkins thought, has to have something to hide, to cover up, something important enough he needs to take the chance to come out here and kill Riley.

  Another thought: Can I be sure he’s not in contact with Berlin in some way? No, he suddenly realized, it’s possible he is. They could be leading Eckhardt along while Falkenberg hunted him. If they found out where he was, they could feed that information back to Falkenberg, set Eckhardt up for the kill.

  Eckhardt gestured again: Put the brushes away. That was clear. Riley shook her head, pointed at something in her painting, touching it up. Her paint strokes were still smooth and clear, but the other hand holding her palette was starting to shake and there was a quaver in her voice. Eckhardt shook his head, waved a hand. Enough.

  That’s it, out of time, Hawkins thought. Shoot to wound. Always better to have a prisoner. Could we get him out, interrogate him? Maybe. He lifted up and angled into a better position, got his arm and gun hand above the skylight, shoot through, aiming. Suddenly there was a light snap, the roof bounced slightly, then a slow, groaning, creaking sound, followed by a sinking sensation. Damn it! Damn it! Oh, bloody hell not now, Hawkins thought. The rickety roof beneath him was starting to give way, the corrugated sheets of tarred tin separating, nails popping. Hawkins fired a shot, quick, trying to hit Eckhardt anywhere now, the glass in the pane breaking and tinkling down as he fired through. Between the falling motion as the roof sank and his starting to roll to get out of the way and get off before it collapsed, he missed, hitting the Chacmool instead, shattering a corner, spraying pieces across the floor.

  As he rolled away from the skylight Hawkins caught the briefest glimpse of Eckhardt dropping the cigar, turning, hand thrusting into his pocket, whipping out a pistol, flipping it toward the roof, looking to see where the shot came from. As Hawkins scrambled out of sight and away from the cave-in, Eckhardt fired a pair of shots at the roof, punching lighted holes in the tin. Hawkins kept rolling, Eckhardt fired again, a bullet caught the brim of Hawkins’s hat, flipping it up into the air from the impact. God! Hawkins thought. Actually felt the breeze as it whipped by, his heart now racing.

  Behind him he heard Riley in the street outside, a low shriek finally escaping, winding up into a siren of terror, running away. Perfect, Hawkins thought, more than perfect. Riley was outside, Eckhardt was in. Not getting away, he thought, you’re in the trap now. He angled up on his knees and began firing into the roof, tracing the lighted bullet holes, guessing where Eckhardt was, trying to hit him. His new Hi-Power held thirteen rounds, the longest load of any gun in the world, more than twice what Eckhardt had in his revolver. Another shot up, Eckhardt was following him, too. But I’m on top, Hawkins thought. I’ll get you first. He began blasting away, trying to catch him, laying down a circular pattern the other man couldn’t escape, spraying the roof with bullets until he emptied the clip. A couple more rounds came up, punching out fresh new holes of light. Oh, bugger it all! Missed him, Hawkins thought. He ejected the clip, reached in his jacket, drew a spare, slapped it in and blasted off another six shots. He waited, listening. Nothing.

  A thunderous crash. The old glass door in the skylight exploded in a rain of shards as a white object came flying through, flipping end over end. The heavy Chacmool slammed down on the rattling tin, shaking the whole roof, bouncing it up and down, the tilt of the roof’s angle tipping sharply lower. Eckhardt must be incredibly strong, Hawkins thought. Did he fling it up, trying to hit me? Or is he trying bring the roof down? Hawkins guessed where he had to be from the angle, firing off more rounds. A small crack opened between two sheets of tin. Peering in, Hawkins saw a shadow flick by, followed by another huge shudder of the roof. He fired after the shadow. Another shudder of the roof, another heaving up and down, it tipped in more toward the skylight. Eckhardt’s trying to chop through the saplings holding up the roof with his macuahuitl, trying to bring the roof down! Hawkins realized.

  Why? Of course, he thinks he’ll be waiting at the bottom with that wicked black blade—slice me in half as I tumble down.

  But fine! Hawkins thought. Stand there and wait if you will! He swung around, kicking the Chacmool. It slid down the roof with a scraping sound, bending the tin underneath it, then plummeted through the open skylight with a loud crashing tumble. Hawkins fired around the falling stone, trying to hit Eckhardt as he waited to swing.

  Another crash, another small quake, another blow against the sapling. Damn! Missed again! He’s moving too fast. Hawkins swung back, hands against the tin, trying to hold on to the quivering mess of metal. The roof tipped more, a really dangerous angle now. He squinted through the cracks, watching and firing after the shadow, half guessing where Eckhardt was running back and forth below.

  Wait! No! Hawkins thought. Let it fall! Trap him underneath. Think you’ll slaughter Riley like the Austs? Slice me in half as I plummet down? I think not, you
bloody bastard. I’ll bring it all down, stand on top of you, feel you struggle under the tin, maybe do a little dance, take my time and drill you good, wait for the blood to bubble up through the holes in the black tin …

  He stood, jumped up and landed hard on both feet. With a huge slow groan the roof ripped across through the skylight, tipping almost to the ground. A cry finally echoed up from below. Eckhardt hadn’t expected that. Must’ve hit him at last, Hawkins thought. As it sagged he threw himself at the edge of the parapet to keep from going after it. He half missed in the dark, head flying out, upside down over the street. Damn! Falling! He caught himself with one arm, swinging around in a wild circle over the street, slamming against the outside wall, feet scrambling. He pulled himself up, got the other elbow over the edge of the parapet, then heaved with both arms, rolling back over, getting a knee up, then his butt, pulling both legs through, sitting on the edge, feet down.

  There was a noise below. He instantly fired through the tin, waiting for Eckhardt to fire another shot, sliding sideways, crouching down, carefully watching the far side of the studio through the half-ripped roof. Another crash. He saw an object fly against the second sapling holding the roof. The Chacmool! Eckhardt had flung it against the sapling, breaking it. Hawkins fired down, gauging where Eckhardt had to be, holding on to the parapet with one hand as his half of the roof caved finally all the way down. Hawkins slid downward, holding with one hand.

  Then he heard a slam. A car door. He rolled around on the edge of the roof, turning backward, feet scrambling on the wobbling, rattling tin, pulling himself up, racing back to the edge, reaching his gun arm over in time to catch the shadow of a car flying down the street, barely the glimmer of a chrome bumper, its lights out. He fired a pair of rounds. The car was too far, too fast, ducking back and forth from side to side. It screeched around the corner. Too late, Hawkins realized, Eckhardt’s escaped.