Summer of the Dragon, page 23
During all the hours when I had assumed he had been searching for Hank he had been working to remove the treasure. No doubt he had been delayed by the conditions Tom had described, and by the inaccess-ibility of the site; it would take him hours to get here, and his actual working time wouldn’t be very long. He had probably been working when he heard us coming; we had
298 / Elizabeth Peters
not bothered to lower our voices. Scrambling out of the cave into a place of concealment, he had dropped the stone that had alerted Tom to the location of the cave. If we had left well enough alone, and had been satisfied with the mammoth bones, he would have let us go.
“You would have to be so smart,” I said bitterly to Tom.
“My sentiments exactly,” Jesse said. “I’m really sorry, D.J. I did my best to keep you away from this place.
It’s your own fault. If Tom hadn’t put me out of action yesterday, I might have finished my work before you found it.”
“You drugged Jesse?” I turned my head to glare at Tom. His hard grip on my shoulders kept me from moving anything except my head.
“I used his own sleeping pills,” Tom said. “Found them in his room when I searched it a few days ago.
He had all sorts of goodies stashed away.”
“Like the uppers he put in my drink.” Now that I looked back, I could have kicked myself for being so obtuse. So many little things should have told me the truth. Jesse had been the obvious suspect all along.
“I thought if I put him out of the way for a while, we could at least be sure he wasn’t committing any murders,” Tom said.
“Like so many good ideas, it backfired,” Jesse said.
“You’ve been awfully slow about this,” I com Summer of the Dragon / 299
plained. “Why has it taken you so long to get the treasure out?”
“Obviously because I didn’t find it until a few days ago. I followed Hank here on his last trip. I thought maybe he had really found something valuable. Was I disgusted when I saw him drooling over those damned bones! After he left, it struck me that the fanged rock was similar to one that is mentioned in an old legend. The story of the Sinagua turquoise has been dismissed as fiction, like so many of the treasure stories of the Southwest. Most modern students of the subject have forgotten it, but I had come across an old book published in 1746 which referred to it. So I started poking around.”
He went on talking, getting more and more interested in his story, and more and more pleased with his own cleverness. I had noticed that trait of his before.
As I listened, feigning fascinated interest in order to postpone the moment when he would turn his attention to more practical issues, I realized that Tom’s fingers were trying to tell me something, squeezing my shoulders in a slow rhythmic pattern. I hoped it wasn’t Morse code. I do not know Morse code—except for SOS, of course, and while that phrase was appropriate, it wasn’t a particularly pertinent message for Tom to be sending me.
His left hand pressed harder on me than his right. I thought I understood what that meant.
300 / Elizabeth Peters
Maybe it was ESP again, but probably it was just common sense. If Jesse was going to shoot us, there was no reason for us to stand still and make it easy for him. If Tom jumped in one direction and I went the other way…There were lots of rocks to hide behind.
It wasn’t a very good idea, but it was the only chance we had.
I nodded vigorously, to show I understood. That was a mistake; the back of my head hit Tom’s chin, so that he bit his tongue and squawked with pain. Jesse stopped talking about the lost mine of the Sinaguans.
“I am wasting time, aren’t I?” he said. “Thanks for reminding me. I guess you get it first, D.J., unless you want to change places. No use hiding behind a woman’s skirts, Tom; when she falls I’ll have a clear shot at you.”
“I wouldn’t risk it,” Tom said. “If they find our bodies, with bullet holes—”
“They’ll never find your bodies. There are a million ready-made graves around here.” Jesse jumped lightly down off the rock and started toward us. It occurred to me that we ought to make our move before he got any closer, and the same thought must have occurred to Tom. His left hand grabbed my shoulder and shoved.
I staggered off to the side, not trying too hard to keep my balance; it is natural instinct to hug the ground if something is coming at you, such as bullets, and I figured I could crawl as fast as I could run in that terrain. I was vaguely aware of a Summer of the Dragon / 301
moving brown blur—Tom—going fast in the opposite direction. Then the gun went off. My God, what a noise! I almost died of sheer terror, but I kept moving, scuttling like a crab toward the nearest crevice and expecting at any second to feel pain, blood…
Two more shots reverberated, ricocheting back and forth between the narrow walls. I was in my crevice by then, rather wishing I was not, since there didn’t seem to be any way out of it. I wondered if my ears had gone bad. The echoes of the last shot didn’t die away; instead they seemed to be increasing. As they rose in volume, they were challenged by a couple of loud, human cries. One voice sounded like Tom’s. I concluded that he had been hit, and like the fool that I sometimes am, I started to crawl out of my hole. I didn’t get far. A boulder the size of my head bounced and splattered, not three feet from my inquiring nose.
I ducked and closed my eyes. Fragments stung my forehead and grazed my cheek. Then the heavens fell.
I crouched back, my arms folded over my face, my knees bent, trying to retreat into the womb of the rock, while the cliffs rained down.
It seemed an eternity before the echoes finally faded into silence. I lifted my head and looked out over my forearms. Then I heard Tom’s voice. He was whispering. I could see his point; one landslide a day is enough.
“D.J. Where are you? Answer me—darling, it’s 302 / Elizabeth Peters
all right, he’s gone…. For God’s sake, D.J., if you can speak…. Just groan, or curse, or—”
I wasn’t unaware of what he was saying, but I was in no state to be particularly moved by it. I had other things on my mind.
“I’m here,” I said, in a squeak.
“Where?” Tom came trotting into the range of my vision. His shirt was torn to ribbons and blood streamed down his face.
“Here,” I said, not moving. “Hi, there.”
“What an idiotic thing to say.” Tom caught sight of me curled in my shell; he extended a long arm and dragged me out. “There’s blood on your face,” he said.
It was just a trickle, from a cut over my eye, but he made it worse by smearing it with his dirty fingers, mumbling agitatedly as he did so; then he wrapped his arms around me and kissed me.
It wasn’t one of the world’s greatest kisses. Barbara C. wouldn’t have thought it worth mentioning. But I liked it, even if it did taste like mud and smell like bats.
I dissolved into a limp mass of acquiescent protoplasm, and Tom had to shake me a couple of times to start my lungs working again.
“Brace up,” he said briskly. “We’ve got to get the hell out of here.”
I guess it hadn’t been much of an avalanche. I had expected to find the landscape transformed, unrecognizable. It looked pretty much the same except that there were a lot more rocks lying around.
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“Where’s Jesse?” I asked, hoping to see a boot or a hand sticking out from under a pile of rock.
“Gone. The rocks knocked the gun out of his hand; probably damaged him some, he was favoring one arm and limping when he took off. I tried to get to him, but he’s not so stupid; he knew he couldn’t take me barehanded.”
I allowed him the boast; he was entitled to it. No wonder he was so banged up. While I was trying to burrow into the ground, he was charging through a rain of boulders trying to catch a killer. I was very moved. As usual in those situations, my brain and my mouth lost touch with each other, and I said something stupid.
“Is there anything left to eat?”
Tom turned me around and swatted me on the behind. It was a good, solid smack, so I concluded that he didn’t feel as bad as he looked.
“Feeding time for the animals comes later. Jesse’s little scheme has blown up in his face, and God knows what he’ll do now. We’ve got to head him off and find Hank.”
Well, I didn’t see how we could, since we didn’t know where he was going, but I could not argue with Super-Archaeologist, the scourge of criminals. I was so worked up I would have headed straight out of there without even stopping to collect our gear. Tom had better sense. The remnants of the food and drink went into one backpack now. He kicked the empty one aside and started to heave the full one onto his shoulders.
304 / Elizabeth Peters
While he had been working I had gotten a good look at him, and I realized that his version of the avalanche had not been entirely accurate. At some point in the proceedings he must have fallen, because his back looked as if it had passed through a grater. I grabbed the pack from him and slipped into it.
“You don’t need this,” I said. “Get moving. I’ll try to keep up.”
If the journey out had been a nightmare, the return trip was indescribable. It couldn’t have taken nearly as long; Tom had a compass and apparently knew how to use it, so we went by the straightest possible route.
But that word “straight” has no meaning out there, unless it is used in phrases like “straight up and down.”
Twice we had to retrace our steps when we found ourselves in cul de sacs of natural rock, and we did more climbing than I would ordinarily have permitted.
It wouldn’t have been quite so bad if we had not been in such a frantic hurry. Jesse had had several minutes’
start, and he knew the way. He was gaining on us every moment. The need for haste was like a sickness, churning in my stomach, weakening my muscles. Tom must have felt it too, but he moved with a deliberation that made me want to scream with impatience. This was a case of make haste slowly, though, and under my panic, I knew it. A single misstep could have resulted in a fall, broken bones, and further Summer of the Dragon / 305
delay. I don’t ever want to do anything like that again.
By the time we reached the top of the canyon with the stream running through it we had finished all our water, drinking on the run, and my throat felt like one of the dustier arroyos. We stopped just long enough to drink from the stream; then we plunged down the slope, pebbles rolling away from under our boots.
I threw myself across the fender of the jeep and patted the rough, hot surface fondly. All during that awful hike I had been tormented by the fear that it wouldn’t be there. Tom had been suspicious too. He took time to check the tires and look under the hood before he started the engine.
“Brakes?” I suggested, settling myself in the front seat. I have never been able to understand why the heroes in those chase stories don’t notice there is something wrong with the brakes until they hit the steepest part of the mountain road. Don’t they ever stop at stop signs, or before they pull out onto the highway?
The brakes were all right. Evidently Jesse had taken another route out of the canyon. If he had passed this way, he wouldn’t have left us a serviceable vehicle.
At least now we could call the police. Hank had been missing for several days, and Walsh must be getting a little uneasy. He would be in trouble if he interfered with Hank when Hank didn’t need 306 / Elizabeth Peters
help, but he would be in worse trouble if disaster resulted from his failure to take action. Our story should convince him; Jesse had made a flat-out confession, and we had both heard him. Even if Jesse got away this time, they would probably catch up with him sooner or later. He wasn’t the type to turn over a new leaf and hide himself in a life of honest labor.
But we couldn’t let him get away. The crux of the problem was not catching Jesse, it was finding Hank, and we couldn’t do one without the other. I could have cursed myself for letting Jesse ramble on about his treasure hunt, when a carefully aimed question might have prompted him to brag about what he had done with Hank. He had said he hadn’t planned to commit murder. That must mean Hank was still alive. But where? Jesse might just run off and leave him, in which case he wouldn’t be alive long—hidden somewhere, drugged or tied up, without food or water….
Or Jesse might head straight for the place where he had concealed Hank, hoping to use him as a hostage to buy his freedom. Nasty as that situation could be, it was one I hoped would ensue. Otherwise our chances of locating Hank in time were slim indeed.
We could probably talk the sheriff into forming a search party now. Juan and Debbie would help; even Joe and Edna would lend a hand—they couldn’t refuse, not after what had happened. They should be back at the ranch by now. The working day was long over.
The
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sinking sun sent long purple shadows across the ground and lit the eastern mountains with a coppery glow. It would be dark in a few more hours. Getting an official search underway would take time, and you can’t search in the dark…
I turned toward Tom, meaning to ask him if he couldn’t go a little faster. When I saw the way his jaw was set I closed my mouth. He had more devils at his back than I did; I knew he was berating himself for muffing his guard duties, and for failing to get his hands on Jesse this last time. God knows he had done his best on both occasions, but guilt is usually the least logical of all emotions.
When we reached the house he rushed in, leaving the front door open. I set the brake, which he had neglected to do, and followed, more slowly. Now that we had reached our immediate goal, my mind had blanked out. I couldn’t think what to do first. So I followed Tom. His footsteps thundered up the uncar-peted central stairs and along the corridor.
He was in Jesse’s room when I caught up with him.
He glanced at me over his shoulder.
“We did it,” he said. “We beat him back. He hasn’t been here. I’m going to call Walsh. See if you can locate Debbie.”
Still enveloped in a web of fatigue and confusion, I watched him run off. I propped myself against the doorjamb and examined the room. The maids had straightened it; the bed was made, 308 / Elizabeth Peters
the wastepaper baskets were empty. Tom had left the closet door ajar, and I could see rows of shirts and coats hanging. He was probably right; Jesse might not have stopped to pack, but if he had returned to the house, to pick up belongings he felt he couldn’t live without, he’d have left traces.
I couldn’t share Tom’s enthusiasm about this. Maybe I was suffering a reaction, but I felt limp and depressed.
We had no reason to assume Jesse planned to come back here. He might have clothes and money stashed away elsewhere. Unless he chose to communicate with us, bartering Hank’s life for immunity, I didn’t think we had the ghost of a chance of catching up with him now.
Tears of fatigue and frustration filled my eyes. I thought of Hank greeting me that first time, his eyes as blue as the turquoise he wore with such innocent pleasure, and his anxious greeting: “No problems?” I thought of him hiding behind a pillar in the patio, fussed and embarrassed without his pants, and of the way he handled the sick animals. I thought of the bracelet he had tried to give me—one of his treasures.
The tears spilled over and ran down my cheeks.
I didn’t want anyone to catch me snuffling like a baby, so I went into Jesse’s room and closed the door and stood there mopping my face on my sleeve till I got control of myself. My eyes were still tearing from all the sand I had rubbed into them; I went to the bathroom, hoping to remove Summer of the Dragon / 309
the signs of woe so Tom wouldn’t find out what a weakling I was.
The cold water was like a shot in the arm. I splashed it over all the exposed parts of me and toweled myself dry. The towel was a mess by the time I finished, with an impression of my face in brown mud.
My mother did her best to bring me up right. One of the things she tried to teach me was not to put wet towels in hampers. I still do it, though. Everybody does, except mothers. Quite automatically I lifted the lid of Jesse’s hamper. I was about to add my towel to the heap of clothes within when I realized that the stains on the topmost article—a crumpled khaki shirt—were bright red.
I lifted it out and held it up, like in one of those stupid soap commercials. “Greasy dirt….” This wasn’t grease. It was blood, and it was still wet.
So Jesse had been hurt in the landslide—and badly, or he wouldn’t have bled all the way back to the house.
The damage had not been bad enough to slow him up much, however; he had arrived before we did, and he had had sense enough to keep signs of his presence to a minimum.
There were bloodstained towels in the hamper too.
I stood there holding them, my mind racing. He couldn’t have been gone long, the stains were still fresh.
My first impulse was to rush out, shouting for Tom.
My second impulse canceled the first; and I 310 / Elizabeth Peters
still maintain, in spite of what resulted, that it was a rational decision. All our senseless rushing around had led to a series of spectacular near misses. Now, of all times, it behooved me to think sensibly.
Jesse might simply have walked into the house and walked out again; no one had any reason to stop him.
But he couldn’t be sure of that. We might have reached the house before he did, and alerted the others. There must have been something in his room that he needed badly, or he wouldn’t have risked coming. Surely he would minimize that risk by choosing a more inconspicuous route than the front door.
I dropped the towel on the floor and went to the window. It really wasn’t a window, it was a set of French doors; like almost every other room in the house, this one had its own balcony. It was framed in wrought iron; the door handles and hinges were of the same metal. No traces showed against the black, but when I touched the outside handle, it felt sticky.
