The Marchand Woman

She went uphill instead. Pulling herself against the current. Up to the head of the pond where the water foamed over rocks in the shallow streambed. Then she trudged carefully upstream, cautiously placing one foot at a time and testing for solidity.

The stream came burbling down out of a narrow chasm. She climbed doggedly into it, moving from stone to stone, bracing herself with one hand against the wall of the chasm. The water was only a foot deep most places; sometimes she was able to walk on the tops of stepping-stones.

One of them rocked and gave way, overturning. She windmilled her arms crazily and went in up to the knees, thinking in panic that she’d twisted her ankle.

That would be the last sonofabitching straw. She put her weight on it angrily and it was all right and she realized then that there weren’t any last straws—she had come too far for that; nothing was going to stop her short of death.

It started to rain again. Pelting down. Drops so big they hurt when they struck her exposed bruises. You can’t get any wetter than wet, she told herself dismally, and continued stubbornly up the chasm, the water rising to her thighs once and almost pitching her over.

Exhaustion dragged her to a stop and she stood with both palms against the rock face, panting. She looked back down toward the pond but there wasn’t anything to see in the sheeting rain.

Soon, she knew, they would begin searching up this way. She had to get out of the chasm. They are the ones who killed Robert and they’ll damn sure kill me, too, if I let them.

She wasn’t going to let them. Because she still had Harry to think about and she didn’t intend to let him down. Cool dispassion now: This was the time to move fast, get out into the jungle and lose herself in it, because the battering rain would cover her tracks and this squall wasn’t likely to last much longer.

The walls of the chasm fell away above her. She saw a narrow waterfall at the top but it looked as if there might be a way to climb out to one side of it, if the rain hadn’t made the rock too slick. Trees loomed up there; vines and roots dangled thick. There was a rainbow at the top. She gri

As she approached the top she moved through tendrils of mist and realized she was actually inside the cloud. She groped for handholds, tested her weight on corkscrew roots, drew herself up six inches at a time, tearing her sodden clothes on things, planting new bruises on top of the old ones, ignoring all of it.

When she looked over her shoulder she couldn’t see the pond anymore; it was screened by the trees and the curve of the chasm and the rain. She faced upward again. Not far now. They’ll expect me to run for it. They won’t expect me to come for Harry.

Chapter 20

The distributor cap had popped its clips and one of the main battery leads had slipped off its lug; that was the extent of the damage that Anders could see but he didn’t know much about automobile engines and he had little confidence in his repairs until he turned the key and it actually started up.

Then he sat at the wheel engaged in sluggish debate with himself. He could do one of three things. He could follow Carole up the road—they’d been gone only an hour or so and he still might catch up before they reached the camp. Or he could do as she’d asked—remain here and wait for them. If they showed up. Or he could turn the damn thing around and do the sensible sane thing: Head for the nearest telephone and call the cops.

There wasn’t much point in this first option. By the time he got up there with the Bronco they’d be in the thick of it and there wasn’t much assistance he could render; he was unarmed and woozy with infection and his eyesight was going every which way. And as for the second option, it would be a few more hours at least before anything could happen here—even if by some miracle she got Crobey out alive it would take them that long to make their way back to this point. By then Anders could make it to a phone, summon help, and return to meet them. Get the cops in there: Try to rescue Crobey and Carole, and wipe out the nest of Cuban bastards who’d murdered Rosalia. There was more than enough of a case now. The murder of Rosalia and the cache of heavy weapons up there—not even old man Draga’s influence could persuade the Puerto Rican cops to ignore that.

There were some bad dangers in this last possibility though—suppose Carole showed up in fifteen minutes’ time, having changed her mind or having been chased by one of Rodriguez’s scouts? Suppose she ran this far seeking sanctuary and found Anders and the Bronco gone?

In the end he decided that he might as well play it for keeps. By the time help came the outcome would be decided anyway, and he couldn’t risk abandoning Crobey and Carole. He wasn’t that far gone.

They’d been scouring the jungle foot by foot but now some unspoken logic brought everybody together at once, by the bank of the pond. Council of war.

Julio said, “Maybe she fell in the water and got swept over the waterfall.”

Cielo said, “Anything is possible.”

Julio was looking at Cielo, pi

“Then find her,” Cielo snapped. “What do you expect me to do about it, Julio?”

“If she gets away she’ll tell everything.” Julio wheeled toward two men coming in from the jungle. “Santos—Badillo—take one of the Jeeps, take a run down the trail, see if you can find this Anders with the stalled car. Where Emil says they left him.”

Cielo said, “Bring him alive. We must find out how much he knows. He shouldn’t give you trouble—Emil says he’s sick and he hasn’t got any weapons. Santos, I know you. If you kill him I’ll be very angry with you.”

The two men slung their Uzzis and batted away obediently through the trees.

Julio was waving his arms. “The rest of you search the stream, both banks. If she came out she left tracks. If she didn’t you’ll find her body in the water.”

Cielo was bouncing the revolver in his fist. It was the woman’s revolver. He’d found it back up the slope. Suddenly he laughed. “She’s alone, she hasn’t got a weapon, she must be hurt pretty bad—look what we’ve come to, Julio.”

The others were fa

Men moved through the trees, as insubstantial as fog. Cielo felt the tension inside him. His chest was lifting and falling. He cleared his throat and dragged a sleeve across his forehead. “I’m going back to the camp.”

“You ought to help us find her.”

“They’ll find her or they won’t. I’m too tired to play these stupid Boy Scout games. Cristo—this whole stupidity is Emil’s fault. Killing the Lundquist boy, killing the CIA woman. These calamitous delusions. All he wants is killing. Now we must pay for Emil’s sins.”

“It’s not finished.” Julio stayed him with a hand on his sleeve. “Listen to me. We’ll find the woman and we’ll bring Anders up here and find out if he’s told anybody else. Listen, the killing’s hardly started, you’d better recognize that. Anders, the woman—and Crobey’s seen all our faces. We can’t turn him loose, can we.”

“Ah, man, who cares about that anymore? Nobody wants to kill Harry. Nobody except Emil. We’ll pull out, Julio, we’ll leave this place, that’s all. We’ve been here too long anyway.”

“They can identify us!”

“So? What of it? We can steal a boat. They won’t find us in Venezuela or Brazil.”

“And the weapons? Just leave them here? After everything?”

“Julio, the guns will never reach Havana anyway. Forget it. It was a bad dream. The old man’s hallucination, that’s all.”