John had no doubt, and he knew there was a real possibility that his children could die as a result of what he did or did not do at that moment. Peters’ threat was viable, and it would have to be taken into consideration, weighed.
If Peters could get out of San Sierra immediately, John thought, it would be a race between the assassin’s ability to find the children at his sister’s house and his own ability to get the Sierrans to listen to him, believe him, and then request appropriate action from the FBI and New York City police.
If he went down to fight, he just might be able to kill Peters. The nightmare would be over …
Or his children could end up orphans. If he were killed, there would be no one left to stop Peters from killing Alexandra along with Salva …
If he did not go down to fight, Peters would hunt his children …
His willingness to risk his and Alexandra’s life in a duel, against the possibility that Peters could track down and kill his children if he chose not to.
John slowly turned his head and looked toward the area of the balcony where Peters’ belt lay in the darkness. A hammer and a belt with a razor-sharp buckle against an unarmed man, John thought. It appeared that he had all the advantages, including superior height and weight. He was in good condition too. Why, then, did he hesitate? Was he a coward?
No. The man waiting for him in the ring was a professional who had already offered ample proof that he knew his business well. Peters had not been able to mask his confidence and a kind of electric anticipation in his voice. It was obvious, John thought, that Peters had no doubt about the outcome of such a duel. The other man badly wanted him to come down—and nothing that Peters wanted him to do could possibly be in his or his family’s interest.
John remained silent.
Peters waited almost five minutes, but he did not speak again. Finally he abruptly snatched up his clothes, climbed down out of the ring, and walked quickly back the way he had come, disappearing into the darkness.
John remained very still, considering the dimensions of his new dilemma as he stared into the sector of night where Peters had gone. If the man were doubling back, or even just waiting and listening, John did not want to betray his position or movements with any sound. On the other hand, Peters could be hurrying back to the hotel to kill Alexandra before escaping from San Sierra, and John knew that he had to find a telephone inside the castle so that he could call the hotel and warn his wife.
He slowly counted to one hundred, then moved as quietly as he could to the spot where Peters’ belt had landed. He picked up the belt, then held his breath and strained to hear any sound in the darkness. There was nothing. There were probably a dozen telephones within a hundred yards of where he was standing, John thought, if only he knew where they were. If he could find a telephone, he should have no difficulty making the operator understand that he wanted the Angeles Blanca Libre.
The problem was that even at that moment Peters could be close by, stalking him. Still, John knew that he could wait no longer. He had to assume that Peters was going for Alexandra, which meant that he had to move.
Of necessity, John tried to dismiss from his mind the ominous threat of Peters remaining in the castle to hunt him. He began to walk at a fairly rapid pace around the balcony looking for some kind of office. There was none, and he began to feel panic rising in him; if Peters were on his way back to the hotel in a car, John thought, he would almost be there by now.
He decided to risk heading back toward the main entrance to the castle. However, not wanting to cross the potential killing ground of the open arena itself, he began to search for a stairway leading down to the ground level.
Groping his way along the wall, John felt a stone entrance way. There was a sign on a heavy chain strung across the opening, but John could not read the Spanish. He ducked under the chain, descended a few steps, then abruptly stopped when his face was brushed by cobwebs. He lit a match from the book in his pocket. The stairwell was all pitted, cobwebbed stone, apparently a part of the original structure; the passageway was very narrow and winding, and obviously unused. John doubted it led anywhere. He started to turn, and in the flickering light from the match caught a movement of stocking feet out of the corner of his eye.
He ducked just as the crowbar, swung like a club, whistled over his head and slammed into the stone wall with a loud crack.
Deep in a primitive part of himself, John was exultant. He wanted to fight. He had wanted to fight before, but he had realized that his and Alexandra’s best chance for survival lay in his using his intelligence. But now he had no choice, and the terrible yearning of his rage and hatred was unleashed. He wanted to kill the other man, and that savage part of him was grateful that Peters had waited and found him.
He flattened himself against the rough, curved wall, flipped the belt buckle back behind him, then yanked hard on the tongue, bringing the sharp metal at the end of the leather singing through the air over his head. He clenched his teeth in joyful anticipation of the tug of the metal biting into flesh, the sound of the other man’s screams. Instead, the buckle smacked against stone, firing off sparks. John fell on his belly as the notched crowbar once again sailed through the air over his head, hit the wall and showered sharp chips of stone over the left side of his face.
He rolled on his left side, cocked his arm and flung the hammer into the night above him. This time there was the dull thud of heavy metal striking flesh, then a sharp cry of pain and surprise.
John again snaked the belt buckle behind him, then lunged forward, extending his body and whipping the sharp metal piece back over his head. This time the buckle did not strike flesh, nor did it smash into stone. There was a sudden, sharp tug, and John realized that Peters had managed to snag the belt with the crowbar. John tried to twist away to his right, but he was too slow; Peters’ heel smashed into the center of his forehead.
He was going to die, John thought as he tumbled backward down the spiral staircase and came up hard against a wooden barrier that might have been a door but felt soft and rotten. He had to get up, but he couldn’t make his muscles work. Instead of darkness there was light, but John knew that it was a false light smoldering somewhere behind his eyes and in his mind, a sick phosphorescence sparked from nerve endings that screamed in pain, robbing him of strength and consciousness.
He did not pass out completely. As if from a great distance, he heard Peters coming toward him down the stairs. Time and consciousness seemed to flicker like candles in a candelabra of eternity; then the other man was kneeling over him; searching his pockets; lighting a match; taking the barrette.
Don’t do that!
He would beg, John thought.
Don’t kill Alexandra! Please please please don’t kill Alexandra!
But then he realized that his words were trapped in his mind, with no more focus or force than his fragmented thoughts. He could not speak any more than he could move.
The match flickered out; there was a blue-green flash of light as another was lit.
Floating in a nether world of semiconsciousness, totally unable to defend himself, John found that he suddenly felt nothing but mild curiosity as to how Peters would choose to kill him. The edge of the belt buckle across his throat or the back of his neck? A sharp blow? He was vaguely surprised when nothing happened.
A third match was lit, and he heard the door behind him creak open.
Peters seemed to be talking to him, but John could not tell what the other man was saying; he could hear hatred in the voice, but he could not understand the words. He wanted to talk back, fight, kill. But he was too tired and hurt.
He felt Peters grab his wrist, and the next moment he was being dragged along a cold, flat stone surface. He wanted to sleep, just for a few seconds. He was so tired. He wanted the false lights behind his eyes to go out so that he could rest for a few moments, then get up and fight.
Perhaps he had fallen asleep, John thought. Or passed out for a few seconds. The next thing h
e experienced was a sensation of plummeting through space.
This was not in his mind, John thought; he was falling.
He instinctively rolled his body up into a ball, clutching his knees to his chest. He winced as he anticipated a final, searing flash of pain at the moment he was crushed on stone or earth.
7:30 A.M.
Alexandra
Where are they?! John? Rick?
Alexandra sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, both feet flat on the floor and hands folded tightly in her lap, feeling very small and confused. Her thigh and vagina burned where Rick Peters had stroked her, as though his fingers had left behind an ineradicable film of acid on her flesh.
She should not have allowed him to touch her like that, Alexandra thought. If she had immediately pushed his hand away, she would not now be lacerated by guilt and uncertainty; she would be able to handle her present situation better. As it was, all she could do was sit and concentrate on keeping her features rigid. It was permissible to show concern, but not fear. Never fear.
She felt the need to move. She rose and began to undo her hair, removing the barrette and leaving it on the night-stand beside her bed. The she picked up a brush and began to work it over and through her shoulder-length hair.
“Would you like me to leave now so that you can sleep, Mrs. Finway?”
For God’s sake, yes! Alexandra thought. But she knew that she could not afford to appear too anxious.
She turned around to face Raul, who was slumped wearily in a chair by the window. The Sierran’s eyes were red-rimmed, and he kept nervously running the fingers of both hands over the stubble on his face and through hair that had grown greasy and matted.
“I won’t be able to sleep until I find out what’s happened to Rick. But you should go now, Raul. You’re exhausted, and you’ve got the rest of the group to worry about. I can always sleep, but you’ve got a big day and night ahead of you.”
Raul stood up and shook his head stubbornly. “No. It is my job to find out what has happened. There is so much trouble on this trip; more trouble than I have ever had before. First there is this business of your husband and his craziness; now Mr. Peters has disappeared, and your room has been broken into. There are clothes with blood on them. So much trouble. If you don’t mind, I will wait a little longer.”
Alexandra waited two beats, then said carefully, “Well, now that you mention it, I think I would like to lie down for—”
“We do not have crime in San Sierra,” Raul said angrily. “Manuel does not allow it. This is a Communist society; there is no need to steal. I do not understand this burglary!”
“Raul—”
“What did you say was stolen, Mrs. Finway?”
“A camera and some cheap costume jewelry,” Alexandra replied with a shrug. “It’s not important, Raul. These things happen. Rick and I didn’t have anything of real value to steal.”
“What kind of camera was it, Mrs. Finway?”
“I don’t know,” Alexandra said impatiently. “A Minolta, I think.”
Raul’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t remember seeing either you or Mr. Peters carrying a camera.”
“Come off it, Raul!” Alexandra snapped, deciding that it was an appropriate time to display a touch of anger. “We’re both tired, and there’s no sense in arguing! Do you think I’m lying to you? Rick and I were more interested in seeing your country and talking to people than in taking pictures. I don’t give a damn about the camera, and the jewelry wasn’t worth anything. I’m concerned about Rick—and John, even though John’s a stupid ass. So forget this break-in, okay?”
“I am sorry,” Raul said stiffly. “You are right, of course. It’s not your fault that your room was broken into, and we should not have sharp words.” He shook his head. “Much, much trouble on this trip. It makes me very nervous and unhappy.”
Alexandra stretched, yawned loudly. “Would you leave me alone now, Raul? I really would like to lie down for a little while.”
Raul nervously glanced at his watch. “Perhaps if I wait just another twenty minutes. I cannot understand what has happened to Mr. Peters.”
Alexandra was about to protest when she was startled by the sudden, raucous blare of Latin music cutting through the morning stillness. The music grew even louder in volume, building in an approaching crescendo that reached a pounding, clamorous peak just outside the door. There was a rattling sound as someone fumbled with the knob. A few seconds later the door crashed open and a drunk Rick Peters staggered into the room.
“Hey, hey, folks,” Peters mumbled thickly, his eyes rolling in his head. His voice was a dull, slurred mumble barely audible above and between the clangor of cymbals and snapping beats of a conga drum. “Raul, you ol’ rascal, what’re you doin’ here with my lady?”
“Rick?” Alexandra walked quickly across the room to Peters but she was too late to catch him. The blond-haired man staggered backward until he came up hard against the wall, then slowly slid down the plaster to end up sitting splay-legged on the floor. Alexandra bent down and turned off the radio.
“Whatsa’ matter with the fuckin’ door? Somebody busted the fuckin’ door, Raul. I want the bastard who did it hung and shot. Godit, kid? There’s some fuckin’ capitalist, imperialist, Zionist burglar loosh in this Communist wonderland!”
Peters fumbled with the radio dial as he tried to turn it back on. Alexandra reached down and pushed the radio away, then gripped Peters under the right arm and tried to pull him to his feet. She got him halfway up the wall before he slipped out of her grasp and crumpled back down to the floor.
Alexandra was suddenly conscious of Raul standing behind her, and she turned to face him. “My God, he’s drunk,” she said with a sigh, shaking her head in disgust. “Raul, I’m so sorry you had to stay up all night just because this idiot felt like getting drunk.”
“Where have you been, Mr. Peters?” Raul asked tightly, his own voice blurred by exhaustion.
“Havin’ a nip or ten of your rum, Raul, ol’ buddy. Man, you gotta’ drink an awful lot of that stuff to get a buzz on. Do you know how much I—”
“Why did you leave the group?”
Peters, glassy-eyed, stared drunkenly back at Raul, then suddenly reached out and gripped Alexandra’s wrist. “I love you, Alexandra,” he moaned, his voice cracking. “Sh’not fair, John comin’ around and meshin’ with us.” His head bobbed, lolled forward on his chest, but he managed to turn his attention to the Sierran. “I love her, Raul.”
“Yes, Mr. Peters,” Raul said stiffly, “but—”
“You love me, Alexandra?”
“I love you, Rick,” Alexandra said wearily, watching Raul out of the corner of her eye. The Sierran seemed angry and confused.
“Sh’not fair, baby,” Peters whined. “Why’d he have to come here and try to make you love him again? Sh’not fair.”
“It didn’t work, Rick. It doesn’t matter what John does or doesn’t do. I love you.”
“Thank you, baby.”
“Where have you been, darling?! I’ve been going out of my mind worrying that something had happened to you, and poor Raul’s been up all night waiting with me.”
“Got … upsh—upset when Raul came and said John was lookin’ for you. Made me mad! I wanted to beat him up. I went out lookin’ for him, kept drinkin’. I got drunk and fell down out there in the woods sh-someplace. Couldn’t get up.” Peters hiccupped, then threw back his head and laughed shrilly. After a few moments the laughter trickled off, punctuated by another sharp hiccup. “By the time I woke up, the buses had gone without me. Pissed me off. I show ’em. I took a coupla’ bottles from the bar and walked back here. Show ’em. Whaddya’ think of that, huh?”
Alexandra glanced quickly, furtively at Raul. The Sierra-tour guide had backed up a few paces and was shaking his head in annoyance; his lips moved as he mumbled a silent litany of anger.
“Rick,” Alexandra said, feigning breathless astonishment, “that’s miles!”
Peters
again laughed drunkenly. “Good exercise. And I had my bottles to keep me company. Took ’em from the bar, but I left some money.” He rolled his bloodshot eyes toward Raul, slowly blinked. “You gonna’ ’rest me, ol buddy?”
Raul grunted with disgust, then marched woodenly, his back stiff with anger, out of the room, trying unsuccessfully to slam the broken door behind him.
Alexandra waited, unconsciously holding her breath as she listened to the sound of Raul’s receding footsteps. She slowly exhaled as she heard the elevator doors down the corridor sigh open, then close.
“God, Rick, you really are drunk,” she said quietly, grabbing Peters’ outstretched hand and helping him to his feet.
Peters grunted, nodded sluggishly. “It was the only excuse I could think of for mish-missing the bus. When did they s-start to miss me?”
“Not until we got back here. The police have been searching for you, you know. I hope Raul believes your story about getting lost.”
“He believes it.”
Alexandra swallowed drily, put a hand to her throat. “Did you find John?” she asked in a low, hoarse voice.
“Yeah. He’s okay. I’ve got him stashed away in a safe place.”
“Well, tell me what happened!”
“First things first,” Peters murmured, stumbling toward the bathroom.
“Rick, what’s the matter with your side?”
“I’ll tell you all about it later,” Peters said. “I’d appreciate it if you’d call the desk and try to rustle up a roll of adhesive tape.” He went into the bathroom and closed the door behind him.
Peters
He braced himself with his left hand on the wash basin and poked the index finger of his right down his throat. His stomach violently purged itself of the rum he had drunk out of a bottle stolen from the hotel bar an hour and a half earlier. The stomach contractions wrenched his body, and he gritted his teeth against the grinding pain in his side. He judged that his ribs were cracked, but not broken. He could live with the pain, he thought; he had suffered far worse.
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