The Right Eye of God

by Bacon Thorn

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  Chapter VIII

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  “They’re going to kill us, aren’t they, Thomas? I mean, in a little while it will be all over, completely all over? This is the end of the world for us, isn’t it, as soon as they reach wherever they’re going? Oh God, I’ve never felt so scared. Why? Thomas, why? Please say something. Please God, say something.”

  In a low, even, compelling voice, Navarre bent forward on the metal bench bolted to the inside of the van in which he and Yuma Haynes were prisoners and said with the most sincere conviction he could muster, “Yuma, we’re not going to die. I can’t give you a reason for why I know that’s true, but it is.”

  Navarre reached across the space separating the bench on which he sat from hers and took her hands. He squeezed firmly, as if by the strong pressure of his fingers he could transfer his certainty about their future into her heart.

  The smile he gave her was wide and reassuring, and her lips formed a tentative smile.

  “You really believe we’re going to get out of this mess? Why?” she asked.

  “Because I refuse to have my life or yours end this way,” he said solidly. The certainty in his voice made Yuma lift her chin.

  There were blue half-moons of fatigue under her green eyes, glistening with unshed tears she was holding back. And her face was gaunt with strain. Her deep tan seemed paler against her glossy blond hair, swinging to the motion of the vehicle. She had removed her hands from his, and now they were clenched tightly on the edge of the metal bench on her side of the van. A thick metal partition separated them from Esquivel and the driver in the front seat. The benches on both sides vibrated violently with every shock transmitted from the rear wheels of the empty van when it shuddered over the frequent chuckholes. At the end of the benches on each side of the van were army-style five-gallon gasoline containers held in place against the walls by metal brackets.

  “They made a mistake,” Navarre said, motioning with his head to the armed Mexicans in the front seat. “They shouldn’t have left us alone. We may not be able to get out because the doors are locked from the outside, but we can make plans.”

  “Plans for what? They’ve got guns. We’ve got just ourselves.”

  “Yes, and if we use our heads, that’s enough,” Navarre insisted.

  “Why aren’t they afraid we’ll do something desperate?” Yuma asked. “God, I feel so desperate. Stupid question. What can we do? We’re locked in, helpless. What can we do?”

  “First,” Navarre said, “I’m going to slide along my bench closer to the partition and see if I can hear anything they’re saying. Maybe I can get an idea of where they’re taking us. Anything we can learn will give us an advantage, no matter how small.”

  Flashing a false smile of encouragement at Yuma, Navarre moved quickly along the metal bench and placed his ear against the metal barrier that separated the driver’s compartment from the rear of the van. Above his head was the sliding window that latched on the driver’s side.

  He listened intently, just long enough to catch a few words between Esquivel and the smaller man, whose name was Elidio, which were audible over the bumping noises of the tires on the uneven ground and the growling of the motor. And just as he started to slide back along the bench, he heard a sharp rap on the window and lifted his head to stare into Elidio’s suspicious, scowling face. Banging sharply on the glass with his revolver, he motioned for Navarre to move back from the partition and resume his original position.

  “Did you hear anything?” Yuma asked after Elidio turned forward in the front seat.

  “Not much,” Navarre said. “But enough to know they’re heading for . . . well, a desert graveyard. A place where they’ve buried a lot of people they wanted to get rid of.”

  Navarre fell silent for a moment, deciding not to describe the excitement in Elidio’s voice when he boasted about what he was going to do to the “Anglo bitch” before they buried her. No sense in adding to Yuma’s alarm.

  When he looked again at Yuma’s face, she was staring savagely at the back of Esquivel’s head, visible in the window.

  “Do you know that dirty bastard up front propositioned me? He actually did, when he came to get me from the dirty little room they kept me in. You know what he said?” Her voice was hot with disgust and anger. “He said he’d make it easier for me if I lifted my skirts for him. Isn’t that incredible? A little going-away fuck. He meant it, Thomas. He actually meant it. God, where have I been all my life? They never taught me to expect anything like this.”

  She couldn’t seem to stop talking, flagellating herself bitterly. “Yuma Haynes, chic, lovely, middle-class American female, modern, outspoken, liberated woman, dear, vivacious girl, sun freak, health freak . . . afraid to pry loose from her poor little dream of no consequence and face the emptiness of her life . . .”

  She almost broke down then, but held back her tears and bent forward, wedging her hands between her knees, then grabbed the edge of the bench again as the van swayed.

  “I’m sorry, Thomas. True confessions, huh? You don’t want to hear all that drivel. I can’t seem to think about anything else but me, self-centered me.”

  She sniffed and swung her head, clearing her hair from her eyes. Navarre admired the gesture; it had a touch of defiance in it.

  “Why didn’t they kill us back at that place? That’s what I want to know. Where are they taking us? I know what you said, but isn’t there something we can do?”

  “Maybe,” Navarre said, and looked critically at Yuma as if he were measuring her strength and stability.

  “What? What is it, Thomas? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Do you think Esquivel meant it, about making it easier for you, if you . . . ?”

  “Is that his name, Esquivel? The one with the mustache? You bet the son of a bitch did. What are you getting at?” she asked sharply.

  “I was wondering just how good an actress you are. For what I have in mind, you’d have to be convincing. Our lives would depend on it.”

  Yuma stared into Navarre’s eyes, and comprehension flooded her face. She made a wry, awkward grimace, and then said, “If you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking, I think I can fool him. I don’t think it would have to be a great performance. What exactly do you have in mind?”

  “I don’t need to spell it out for you,” Navarre said gently. “I don’t think you’ll have to go all the way through with it. It all depends how charitable Esquivel may feel about sharing you with the driver. I don’t think he’ll have a choice. His name’s Elidio. The one who rapped on the window. He’s a conceited little ass, and without a gun in his hand I’m sure I can take him.”

  “Okay.” She swallowed consciously. “In for a penny, in for a pound.”

  “Don’t be facetious,” he said. “I want you to understand what you’re letting yourself in for. You may have to go all the way with both of them. I just don’t know. It depends on when I get an opening. It might not happen right away. And when it does, I might not pull it off. But damn it, I’m going to try. I don’t believe in giving in.

  “Esquivel will probably want to take you off into the bushes, or maybe here in the van. He can’t do it without revealing his intentions to Elidio. That’ll leave me alone with him, and he’ll be distracted, I hope, listening to what’s happening and waiting for his turn at you, unless . . .”

  “Unless,” she said, her face and neck flushing darkly, “they decide to have a go at me with you looking on.” She asked seriously, “I don’t think they’ll do that, do you?”

  “No, I don’t think they’d risk that.”

  Navarre took a deep breath and ran on hurriedly; the van had slowed down and then picked up speed again. “Somehow, you’ve got to make Esquivel believe that you think if you give him what he wants, there’s hope for you. You’ve got to make him think that. Otherwise, he’ll suspect something is wrong. I don’t think we can count on either of them being completely off guard.

&nb
sp; “But it’s got to be a lonely place they’re taking us. With no one around to spoil their fun. They won’t pass up an opportunity like you. Oh, no! They’re probably salivating about the idea right now. Better than money from heaven. A hundred times better than any woman they could buy. With no one around they can be greedy and as playful as they please. You can bet they won’t pass up a chance like this, whether or not you pretend to cooperate.”

  Navarre said apologetically, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make everything sound so brutal, but you might as well know the truth—all of it.”

  Yuma’s face was white. She swallowed dryly. “I never thought of it that way.” She shuddered, goose flesh rising on her arms. Then, she smiled grimly. “Nothing’s changed, Thomas. I’m just better prepared. No matter how it turns out, at least we’ll know we didn’t stand around like a couple of dumb sheep waiting for the ax.”

  In a practical voice she asked, “Is there anything I should do while I’m with Esquivel . . . I mean do to him, when he gets me in the bushes? You know, maybe I could kick him in the balls or something and hurt him badly?”

  “No, no! Don’t try anything like that. You’ve got to convince him you’re overwhelmed by his ardor.” Navarre frowned at Yuma. “Oh, hell, I don’t know, Yuma. I can’t coach you. I won’t be there. I don’t know what you can do. Maybe something. That part’s up to you, to distract him.”

  “Right, distract him,” she said woodenly, then, with a small, choking plea in her voice, she cried softly, “The only thing I don’t think I could stand up to is if they killed you and then came after me. I don’t think I could stand that.”

  “I’ve thought about that, Yuma. It could happen, but if it looks that way, I’ll make my move.”

  Navarre fell silent for a moment, then looked into Yuma’s eyes, frowned, and sighed. “Yuma,” he said, “I’m sorry, I’m damned sorry, I got you into this mess. I should have said that before.”

  She smiled and shrugged. “Maybe we’ll get out of it, Thomas.”

  The van lurched again and began to slow down, then shivered and shuddered to a stop. They could hear the doors opening up front. Yuma lifted her chin defiantly and, with a determined, frightened smile, she closed her fists with her thumbs up in a brave victory sign to Navarre.

  Gray clouds cloaked the sun as they clambered out of the back of the van, and the sullen, overcast sky had changed the mood of the desert as if a veil had dropped to hide the secrets in the sand. Esquivel, hard faced, his brown eyes squinting, in an irritable humor from the stuffy ride in the cab of the van, stood well away from the outswung doors and held his .38 police special levelly, pointing at Navarre’s midriff.

  At first glance, the place where they had stopped was an ordinary stretch of desert with hummocks of soapweed and brittlebush clustered in an outcropping of tumbled rock. Then Navarre saw the many shallow depressions in the sand, some marked with faint, discolored patches, and recognized them as sunken graves with persistent, old stains from the blood of victims that defied concealment by the intermittent wind blowing from the west.

  He saw Yuma cringe; her eyes grew wide and the color drained from her face. She too had taken in the brown spots in the sand and, like Navarre, become aware of the watchful desolation of the place, as if the dead, brooding in their sleep, had awakened slowly to observe and listen.

  Impatiently, Esquivel motioned with his gun. “Walk around to your left, yanqui—you too, bitch. Elidio is getting out the shovels. You have some digging to do.” He jabbed the barrel of the pistol sharply in Navarre’s ribs. “Move, you bastard. While you’re digging your own hole in the ground, you can think about what’s going to happen to you. Some men pray, Navarre, some men sweat, some can’t hold their bladder in and make the mierda de miedo, the big fear leak. The woman will be proud of you, won’t she, when she sees the pee running down your trembling knees?”

  Navarre stumbled forward from the poke in his back, and Yuma followed. Despite the quick pain from the jab in his ribs intended to make him react, Navarre pretended to be resigned to his fate. He judged that the time of day was about four o’clock, and it was hot despite the overcast sky. At a distance he could see what appeared to be an arroyo—a ripple in the earth—and beyond were the mountains of the Sierra Madre. They loomed closer, hazy yellow and blue, than when he had seen them from Duelos. Based on their proximity, he knew the van had traveled west.

  Elidio, the manservant, guide, guard, general factotum, budding assassin, and whatever else, stood beside an open panel in the side of the van—a tool compartment—from which he had extracted two sharp-nosed shovels. He had leaned them against the van and stood smirking in the shadow created by the vehicle. His eyes shifted from Navarre to the girl, and when Yuma glanced at him he stiffened with a small air of extravagance and shifted the gun belt and holstered revolver strapped around his slim waist importantly.

  “Give the shovels to them, Elidio, blades first,” Esquivel ordered.

  Navarre, alert for any opportunity to take the advantage, stepped forward reluctantly to take the extended blade. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Yuma arch her eyebrows.

  “Me?” she squealed. “Me? You can’t expect me to poke a hole in the ground with one of those heavy things. He got us into this mess,” she whimpered in a hot, querulous tone. “I don’t even know him. Why should I pay for his mistakes? I don’t want to die. Please, please, señor,” she implored, turning her trembling, frightened face to Esquivel, “don’t you remember what you promised? I can make it good for you.”

  She threw her arms open wide and she stumbled, sinking to her knees, wrapping her arms around Esquivel’s waist, pinning his forearms to his sides. She ground her head into his stomach below his belt, pressing herself more tightly against him, squeezing him convulsively with her encircling arms, whispering hoarsely as she grated her head against his loins and pushed her breasts urgently against his thighs, “Oh, please, señor, take me now, I want you. I promise you won’t be sorry.”

  Esquivel, trapped by surprise and Yuma’s strong, clinging arms, looked up quickly at the staring Elidio, grinning with dawning appreciation of the good fortune in store for him, and at Navarre, whose surprise was genuine, and tried halfheartedly, with mouth-curling amusement, to pull back from Yuma. He tried to extricate his right arm with the gun in his hand from her grasping, moaning embrace, but she scrabbled on her knees after him in motion with his retreat.

  And then, there, at that moment while Elidio was transfixed, the shovel momentarily forgotten in his amazement, Navarre knew there might never be another opportunity. He stooped quickly, grabbed the shaft of the shovel with both hands above the blade, and drove the rounded wooden end viciously—with his shoulders behind the thrust—into Elidio’s groin.

  “Aieee!” the man screamed, his eyes rolling grotesquely in exquisite pain, and he doubled over, falling toward Navarre. And Navarre heard the curse from Esquivel and grappled for the holstered gun of the stricken, moaning Elidio, whose quivering knees were clutching his rigidly clasped hands. He offered no resistance to Navarre as he scooped the revolver from its holster. From the moment Yuma started her act to the moment Navarre grasped the revolver in his right hand, no more than eight seconds had elapsed, but he felt naked with his back exposed to Esquivel. Now, as he swung around, armed and dangerous, he heard the sharp slap, Yuma’s cry of hurt, the grunt and shuffle of Esquivel disengaging himself, and suddenly the man’s startled face, twisted, angry, anxious, swept into full view. His skin blanched and his eyes widened as he took in Navarre, crouched and lethal now with the police special pointing in his hand. And there was Elidio folded like a broken ruler, whimpering and sucking air.

  Esquivel kicked out frantically at Yuma with his knee; she was hanging onto his gun arm and she fell as he ran.

  Navarre was on his feet then; in one awkward, sprawling leap past Yuma he threw himself into the grit on his belly at the rear of the van. He fired twice at Esquivel, missing the erratically plunging, s
hirt-flapping figure that dodged between bushes, and flung himself headlong into the dirt out of sight. Navarre heard the hard, grunting, sliding thud and estimated Esquivel had landed behind a screening rise some fifty feet away.

  Navarre waited, listening, breathing hard, and was certain of the scraping, rustling sounds of the man who was crawling farther away. He turned, looking first at Elidio, who was squatting in the same place, shivering violently, his knees still squeezed against his pleading hands. His face, ghastly white, was a mask of pain. He huddled in a forlorn, suffering, squashed way like the victim of a terrible accident.

  In the open, a target of Esquivel, Yuma was sitting up; when Navarre motioned to her frantically, she crawled quickly into the protection of the van. Then she looked placidly at the helpless Elidio and smiled. There was a red welt on her cheek where Esquivel had slapped her with his hard palm.

  Navarre reached out and wrapped his arms around her and she shivered, burying her head against his chest.

  “It worked, Thomas. We did all right.”

  “All right? My God, I guess so.” He was swept with an overpowering pride in this woman and gently pushed her away so that he could examine her cheek and praise her with his eyes.

  “Does it hurt much?”

  “My face? No.” Her eyes were shining. “He knocked the wind out of me. Did you kill him? I heard the shots, and I saw his legs running, but I missed the rest.”

  Navarre realized he was still holding the gun. He tucked it into his waistband and said, “No, he’s out there, shaken and more dangerous than ever. We’ve got to get going.”

  She didn’t move; she was savoring their triumph, looking admiringly into his face with a lopsided grin. “It all happened so fast. I still can’t believe it. We really did it, didn’t we? By God, we did it. That little bastard over there looks horrible. What did you do to him?”