The Marchand Woman

He awakened stiff from having lain with his bones on the rock cave floor. The rain had quit. Still daylight; he checked the time: 4:10. So he hadn’t slept that long, really. He glanced at Julio. “Want to get something to eat?”

Julio spoke without looking up from his book. “You have an unca

Cielo picked up his rifle and went to the mouth of the cave. He had brought down two rabbits with the rifle yesterday, for the pot; he was a hell of a marksman and it was one of the things he still took pride in. The rifle wasn’t a military weapon. It was his indulgence: a Mossberg #800 chambered for 6.5mm Magnums—a walnut Monte Carlo stock and a 6X riflescope sight. Sometimes he used its telescope to look at parrots in the treetops. He never shot one.

He stood a while in the shadows at the side of the cave mouth searching the trees. Right after a rain was a good time to spot birds: They came out to clean themselves and scout for food that might have been exposed by the storm.

Broken clouds sailed by overhead but high above them hung a fat roll of cumulonimbus and he knew there would be more rain. He’d had enough rain up here in the past few days to last him the rest of his life. He knew the rest of the men felt the same way. If the radio didn’t terminate their restrictions soon there would be trouble in the camp. The men were already picking at each other.

Something stirred at the corner of his eyeline. He looked that way, casually curious—saw a man lift himself from the ground and move crabwise, jinking from cover to cover.

¡Chingado!

But he didn’t move—didn’t want to alert the man. Over his shoulder and very softly he said, “Julio.”

In a moment, alerted by his tone, Julio was behind his left shoulder. Cielo said, his voice dropping almost out of hearing, “Look half left. See the acacia? Just beneath it. Wait for him to move again—”

“I see him.” Something clicked in Julio’s hands—the Uzzi, probably; it had been near at hand.

“No shooting yet.” Cielo lifted the Mossberg and fitted his eye to the scope socket. The rain forest came right up close and he had to play it around before he found the target. Behind him Julio was sidling away toward the far side of the cave—standard defense posture: Never give the enemy a bunched target.

How did he get in here past the road guard? Who was on the road this shift? Santos, yes. If Santos fell asleep on his post.…

The face of the enemy came into focus and Cielo recognized it and was not surprised. Harry Crobey—submachine gun, grenade belt, backpack.

Crobey was working his way down toward the tents. Cielo took a moment to think it out. It was no good shouting at him to surrender; Crobey would fade into the forest in half a second if he had a chance. On the other hand it was no good killing him cold; there were things Cielo needed to learn from him.

Let him know he’s zeroed in. Harry won’t fight the drop. Deciding, Cielo turned and made a down-pushing motion for Julio’s benefit and Julio nodded, lowering the muzzle of the Uzzi, relaxing. Cielo took aim through the ‘scope and flicked off the thumb safety and fired with casual ease. The racket of the gunshot was earsplitting because of the echoing walls of the cave.

The bullet spanged off the treetrunk against which Harry Crobey had paused. Cielo stepped out into the open jacking another cartridge into the chamber, shouldering the rifle again and training it so that Crobey could see the telescope and measure his chances. Over to one side Julio walked out showing the Uzzi.

Cielo saw Crobey’s eyes move from one to the other. A heavy bleakness hooded Crobey’s lids; he stood up with slow resignation, dropping the submachine gun out to one side.

“Come on up, Harry.”

With Crobey limping between them they went down into camp and ushered him into the radio tent. Since they’d moved the radio up to the cave to protect it from the cloudbursts the tent had fallen into disuse. It was a good place to have a private talk with Crobey.

Some of the others had heard the shot and come outside to have a look. It was starting to rain again—big slow drops; in a few moments it would pour. The men clustered around. Crobey had trained most of them and there were a few hesitant smiles until Cielo said, “Scatter yourselves. Martin, go down the road and see what’s become of Santos, Villasenor—a couple of you scout up through there, find out if he was alone. Look for tracks.”

Vargas loomed. “Harry?”

“Hello, Vargas. Time you went on a diet, i

Cielo pushed him into the radio tent. Julio came in after him and held the Uzzi on him while Cielo stripped him of backpack and grenade belt. Looking through the backpack Cielo discovered a dozen pairs of handcuffs. He used two of them on Crobey and when the prisoner was snugged down Cielo said, “I didn’t think you’d turn against us, Harry.”

“I didn’t think you’d take up murdering i

Cielo made a face; he’d had a feeling that might come back to haunt them. “An accident,” he said, feeling a need to set the record straight. “It wasn’t our doing. An outsider—a mishap.”

“Emil Draga?”

A shrewd guess, Cielo thought, but only a guess. It didn’t surprise him that Crobey knew the name. Crobey had been born a few minutes ahead of the rest of the world. Cielo fixed a dismal stare on him. “You seem calm about this.”

“Well I might throw a fit and tear my hair if I thought it would help any. Is this all you’ve got? Eleven chaps? Hardly seems enough for an invasion of Havana.”

“How many of you out there?”

Crobey said, “That’s for you to find out.” He was smug.

Cielo poked around in the backpack. Chemical Mace. The grenades on the web belt weren’t fragmentation, they were tear gas. The only thing Crobey had been carrying by way of a deadly weapon had been the submachine gun; there were only two thirty-round spare magazines for it in Crobey’s belt.

So he wasn’t prepared for a firefight.

Cielo brooded at his prisoner. Crobey smiled cheerfully back but Cielo wasn’t ready to be fooled by it. Crobey was clever that way and the smile could mean anything.

“May as well give it up,” Crobey said. “You’ve been found, haven’t you?”

“Who told you to look for us here?”

“I found it in a horoscope.”

Julio was nervous. “What shall we do?”

“Man the radio. If there’s a force after us we’ll be told of it. Post a few men in the forest—give them rain slickers. Spread everyone else out. And stay by the radio. Go on—leave me the Uzzi.”

“Shouldn’t we get out of here?”

Cielo watched Crobey’s face. “I don’t think there’s any need, Julio. I think he came alone—I think he’s on his own. Working for the mother of that dead boy.”

Crobey gri

“How can you know this?”

“Look how he came armed. He wanted to wait till we all sat down to supper—then pop a few gas canisters into the tent and put handcuffs on us all. Harry always liked to be a one-man air force, remember? Now he’s a one-man army.” Cielo shook his head in mock disappointment. “We’re all much too old for this, Harry. Five or ten years ago you wouldn’t have exposed yourself that way.”

“You’re probably right about that,” Crobey agreed.

“Go on, Julio. I’ll be all right.”

“But—”

“Am I the leader here?” he demanded.

“But what if you’re wrong?”

“I’m not wrong, am I, Harry?”

Crobey only smiled; finally Julio departed.

Cielo said, “You’d like us to panic and clear out, wouldn’t you. Then you could confiscate our little arms dump and put a stop to our intentions quietly, no fuss, no headlines—the proper way to support the détente between Washington and Havana. Where’s Gle