Helm - The Menacers Part 7

I didn't look at her too hard. In the business, it's considered impolite to recognize people you know until they've indicated that they're willing to be recognized. I looked just long enough to make quite sure that this bosomy tight-pants chick was really my slim vestal virgin from Mazatlan, the sweet young girl who'd called herself Priscilla Decker.

As I started past her Priscilla looked up and said, clearly, "Well, if it isn't the super-spook himself! What are you doing here-as if I didn't know!"

14.

CARRYING THE suitcases into the unit that had been a.s.signed to us, I was surprised at the icy sharpness of the wind off the gulf. I remembered the sweltering heat of Mazatlan, only a few hundred miles south on the same coastline-well, seven or eight hundred. Apparently the weather had changed drastically during the couple of days I'd been out of Mexico.

I set the bags down and went over to investigate the primitive gas heater set into the wall. The room was just a cinderblock cell, gaudily painted and cheaply furnished; and like any beach house in autumn, it had a damp and clammy feel. I felt Carol come up to stand behind me.

"Matt, what's a spook?"

"I believe the word is a colloquialism for ghost or disembodied spirit, ma'am," I said without looking around.

"But it's also slang for intelligence agent or spy, isn't it?" Carol laughed softly. "She really let your cat out of the bag, didn't she?"

I turned the valve, applied a lighted match to the outrushing gas, and closed the battered cover of the heater. "I've never seen the dame before in my life," I said. "It was a simple case of mistaken ident.i.ty. You heard her admit it."

"Of course, darling. There are so many men six-feet-four running around these days, you just can't tell them all apart."

I got up and turned to face her. She looked at me for a moment, smiling; then her smile died, and she reached out and touched my cheek with her fingertips. "I'm sorry. If you aren't allowed to tell me anything, you aren't, and I shouldn't tease you. Matt, do you love me? Or is that cla.s.sified information, too?"

I made the standard response to that ancient question. I took her into my arms and kissed her hard. Her lips were warm and responsive, and as I held her I couldn't help the thought, that comes to us dangerous gents from time to time, that it would really be pleasant to have an understanding woman to come home to between a.s.signments-particularly if the understanding woman were blonde and lovely and nice to be with like, say, Carol Lujan. After a little, she held me off gently.

"That's not ... not answering my question!" she said, rather shakily.

I grinned. "Why are women always so dead set on having it put into words?"

"Maybe-" She licked her lips, looking up at me. "Maybe because they're afraid. I'm scared, Matt. I've got a funny feeling... . I don't like this place. I don't like that girl on the veranda. It isn't really going to be romantic and exciting, is it? All right, all right, I know you can't tell me anything. But I wish we could just turn around and drive back across the border to that nice motel in Lordsburg and forget the whole thing." She laughed abruptly. "There! I've got it off my chest. Now I'll let you wander over to the bar for a beer, or something, while I rinse the alkali dust off the face and body."

I looked at her suspiciously. "Why the sudden modesty?" I asked. "I'm a big boy now. I've seen girls undress before, present company included."

"You're being stupid, darling." Her voice was a little sharp. "Don't you see that I'm giving you an opportunity to make contact with your fellow-agent without my embarra.s.sing presence? Run along now like a good little spook. Shoo. Scat!"

The late afternoon sunshine struck me as I stepped outside, but so did the wind, making me wish I'd taken time to grab a sweater or jacket. I walked along the low wall separating the motel compound from the beach. Down at the sh.o.r.e, some kids were playing in the breaking waves. I noticed that several of them were wearing those black-rubber wetsuits for warmth. I didn't blame them. It wasn't exactly what I called ideal swimming weather. Other kids were setting off the usual Mexican firecrackers. A couple of beach buggies were racing around on the sand: stripped-down Volkswagens, by the look of them, with little open bodies and big tires.

I turned into the bar, which wasn't crowded, and found myself a stool without really looking around.

"Una cerveza, POT favor," I said in my best Spanish, which isn't very good. I was aware that somebody was taking the seat to my left, and I caught a whiff of cheap, strong perfume. "Make that dos cervezas," I said.

"How do you know I want beer?" Priscilla Decker asked.

"If you don't want it, I'll drink both of them, and you can buy your own d.a.m.n booze," 1 said. "G.o.d, you stink! What is that stuff you've got on, insect repellent or varnish remover? And just what the h.e.l.l are you and that smoothie boss of yours trying to pull now?"

"What do you mean?"

I put some American money on the bar, and tasted my beer judiciously. After the long, dry drive it tasted very good, but then, beer is something they always do very well down here.

"You know what I mean, sweetheart," I said. "Blowing my cover, such as it was, by greeting me like a long-lost friend!" She started to speak, but I went on: "Okay. If that's the way you want to play, that's the way we'll play it. But let me just remind you of the last time you and your clever chief and your smart colleagues tried to get tricky with me. Think hard, doll, and maybe you'll recall a hotel room not so far from here, and a short-haired lady whose costume consisted mainly of a mannish pantsuit and three bullets in the chest. Concentrate, Decker. I'm sure it will all come back to you if you concentrate."

Priscilla's eyes were narrow. "Are you threatening me?"

I grinned without humor. "You're G.o.dd.a.m.n right I'm threatening you! Just take your choice. Either we're working on this job together, or I'm working on it alone and you're working against me. Just so I know. There isn't really room for any stupid interdepartmental feuds, but if you want one, I'll give it to you in spades. If so, just tell me: would you rather have the remains shipped to Leonard in Washington, or is the local cemetery satisfactory?"

She looked at me hard for a moment, with anger burning brightly in her eyes. Then she picked up her gla.s.s and drank. When she looked at me again, the anger was gone-well, gone or skillfully concealed.

"Okay, Matt," she said quietly. "Okay, you've made your point. And of course you're right. We've been instructed not to like you, and to conduct ourselves accordingly."

I said, "Jesus Christ, are you working for your country or just helping some jerk in Washington play musical chairs?"

"I know," she said. "I know how you feel, and I feel the same way. But after all, he is my boss." She shrugged and held out her hand. "But let's call it a truce, just between you and me, Matt."

"Sure."

I took her hand, which was small and firm, and looked into her eyes which were warm and friendly now. They almost made me ashamed of my boorish outburst-which was, of course, exactly what they were supposed to do.

I grinned, and flipped my fingertips lightly across the front of her skimpy jersey. "You can help me decide a bet with myself," I said. "Is it Kleenex or compressed air?"

She laughed. "What makes you think they aren't genuine, sir? Oh, of course, you saw me without them, didn't you? I was really a rather nave and underdeveloped little girl in Mazatlan, wasn't I?"

"What's the theory behind this getup?"

"Don't be obtuse. We'd like the inside track with Seor Solana, naturally. And Mexican gentlemen, even very respectable Mexican gentlemen, make a kind of cult of virility, and seldom turn down an obvious challenge."

I grinned. "Well, you're obvious enough. Is it working?"

"Don't rush me. After all, I just got out of jail, changed my clothes and hairdo, and came racing up to the border to meet Solana and thank him for interceding in my behalf. That was when the news of the latest incident came through. He wasn't really planning to bring along a U.S. observer on this trip, but he did. So I guess you can say it's working pretty well, even though I haven't had time to get myself seduced yet."

"Have you been out to the scene of the interplanetary crime?"

"Of course not. We just drove in a few minutes ahead of you, remember? But Solana's promised to take me as soon as he's gone through some formalities with the local authorities."

I said, "It would be nice if you got me and my camera girl included in the invitation."

"Is that what she is?" Priscilla made a face. "Well, I don't know why I should do your snooty blonde any favors. And I'm not nice, particularly not to large bullying gents who threaten to kill me." She laughed at my expression. "Au right, Matt. I'll see what I can do." She hesitated, and went on: "Don't tell Mr. Leonard, but I'm really kind of glad you're here. This job could get too big for one girl to handle alone. Solana seems to think things are coming to a head fast. Whatever we do, it had better get done in the next day or two."

"Sure," I said. "Well, I'm probably supposed to try to beat you to whatever it is and grab all the credit for my team, but under the circ.u.mstances I think we can work out a compromise if you're willing. Let's first take care of the heavies from heaven, and worry about the characters in Washington later."

"It's a deal," she said. "And I will talk to Solana, I promise."

15.

SHE WAS AS good as her word. I'd barely had time to get back to the room and wash my face and dig a windbreaker out of my suitcase and tell Carol as much as was good for her to know when there was a knock on the door. I opened it, and there was Seor Ramon SolanaRuiz, dressed pretty much as I'd first seen him, in his business suit, white shirt, and tie.

His shoes were polished to a l.u.s.ter that was quite commendable, considering the dusty surroundings. As a concession to the desert, however, he'd added a pair of sungla.s.ses to his outfit-or perhaps he just liked the slightly sinister look the big, dark, curving lenses gave to his handsome Latin face. He bowed ceremoniously when I introduced him to Carol.

"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Lujan."

"You're very kind to let us come along," Carol said. "Will I be allowed to take some pictures, Mr. Solana?"

"By all means. Do you have much equipment? Perhaps you would prefer to follow in your car so you will be less crowded. We will go first to the hotel in town, if you do not mind. I want to question the surviving victim, a Mr. Gregory Henderson, from Los Angeles, California. He came down here to fish over the weekend, I understand."

"Was he badly hurt?"

"No, apparently he just received some minor burns when he tried to rescue his wife, who died in the fire, but of course the experience was a great shock to him. We will talk with him first, and then we will drive out to examine what is left of his vehicle and camper-that is the name given to those housekeeping units designed for mounting on trucks, is it not? Then, if you wish, you may accompany us to view the body, although I am told it is not a pleasant sight."

Carol winced, but said bravely, "I'd better cover everything while I have the chance. You never know what shots those crazy people in New York are going to want. Let me get some things together. I won't be a moment."

Solana watched her move away across the room. In spite of the impenetrable gla.s.ses that masked his face, it was clear that he was favorably impressed-and she did look kind of nice in her crisp safari suit, with a high-necked white sweater replacing, for warmth, the thin blouse she'd worn earlier. When she straightened up, loaded with gear, he hurried forward to help her carry the stuff out to the station wagon.

I followed behind them, and spotted Priscilla Decker waiting by the cars. "Maybe you should have stuck to your nice-girl routine," I said to her with a grin. "Maybe obvious challenges aren't what turn Mr. Solana on."

Priscilla laughed. "That's all right. He can carry her cameras all he wants, just so it's my f.a.n.n.y he pinches." She shivered slightly, and started to put her arms into the sleeves of the quilted jacket she'd been wearing over her shoulders like a cape. "My G.o.d, that wind is like ice! And here I thought I was coming to another tropical paradise like Mazatlan!"

I helped her on with the jacket, which looked like a stray from the ski slopes. It was the same lavender, or orchid, color as her skintight pants.

"And I was congratulating myself on finally having promoted a car with air-conditioning," I said wryly. "Incidentally, thanks."

"You see, I keep my promises," Priscilla said. "I hope you do, too ... . partner."

Puerto Peasco proper turned out to be a much smaller and more primitive community than Mazatlan, with narrow, twisting, unpaved streets fighting their way through cracks between the mud houses. The adults didn't look very prosperous; and dirty, barefoot kids were everywhere. I reminded myself that shoes and baths are not really essential to a child's happiness; as a boy, I'd avoided them myself whenever possible.

The hotel, in the center of town, was a rather impressive stone building. Even the interior walls were stone, so that the hallway down which we were led resembled a tunnel through a mountain of masonry. A man in khakis was waiting for us. He had a holstered automatic pistol at his hip. He ushered us into Gregory Henderson's room, and left us there, returning to his post outside.

The small room, with its heavy stone walls, had the atmosphere of a cave, or a monastic cell, but the occupant was obviously no hermit or monk. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing cheap, gaudy pajamas that had presumably been obtained for him locally. His hands were bandaged, and his face had an odd, pink, staring look: apparently he'd managed to scorch the skin a bit and burn off most of his eyebrows and lashes.

He was a young man in his middle twenties with an unfortunate resemblance to another young man I'd met recently: the streaky-blond beach-boy character calling himself Tony Hartford, who'd got himself shot by Ha.r.s.ek. The young man on the bed didn't really look much like Tony, being bigger and darker, but he did have something of the same self-conscious, hair-combing, mirror-watching good looks, only slightly marred by fire. I was surprised that he'd been brave enough to get himself burned at all, but then I'm prejudiced against the species. After all, Tony had apparently been brave enough to get himself shot. I don't suppose there's any real reason to think a man must lack courage because he fusses with his hair.

Henderson did it now, smoothing down his wavy dark locks automatically as he rose and reached for a cotton robe on a nearby chair, and stuck his feet into a pair of huaraches that looked very stiff and new.

"Maybe you can tell me when I'm going to get some clothes to wear," he said aggressively to Solana. "All my stuff was burned, you know. Your people here keep promising to scrounge me up something, but it's been a typical maana operation so far. Always clothes tomorrow, never clothes today. I'm getting d.a.m.n tired of lying around in pajamas, particularly these pajamas. My G.o.d, they're so loud they keep me awake when I try to take a nap!"

Solana said smoothly, "The haberdashery facilities of Puerto Peasco are rather limited, Seor, but I will see what I can do. I hope you are feeling better."

"I'm all right. What do you want, and who are all those characters? I'm beginning to feel like a monkey in a zoo."

"I apologize for the intrusion. Mrs. Lujan, Miss Decker, Mr. Helm, Mr. Henderson. Mrs. Lujan is a magazine photographer, Seor. She would like some pictures, if you don't mind, but first I would like you to tell us what happened last night."

"I've already told your boys "I have read the report of the local authorities, Seor. However, there were certain language difficulties, were there not? I would prefer to hear it from you, so I can be sure there are no errors of translation. The incident took place in the evening, just after dark, did it not?"

"That's right. We'd been out fishing-we'd trailered our boat down here from L.A.-and we came in late. Edie warmed us up something for dinner...

"That is your wife, Mrs. Edith Henderson?"

"That's right. Except you're using the wrong tense, aren't you?" Henderson's voice was bitter. "Whatever kind of things you've got flying around down here, they fixed Edie, d.a.m.n them! They almost fixed me, too."

"They? You saw more than one flying object?"

Henderson drew a long breath. "No. I guess I was well, hamming it up a bit. There was only the one. That was enough. That was plenty!"

"Please tell us what happened."

"Sure. Edie was doing the dishes. She told me the garbage can was full, would I empty it so we wouldn't have to smell it all night. I said sure, and took it out to where we'd dug a pit, out behind the camper. I dumped the can and was kicking some sand over the stuff when I ... well, I just kind of felt this thing up there. I mean, it wasn't making any noise or anything, but I looked up and there It was, coming in from the east, inland. The sun was down by now, but the sky was still light, and I could see it plainly, kind of in silhouette, if you know what I mean."

Solana said, "Can you give us a description?"

Henderson shrugged. "Like I say, it was just a silhouette, kind of flat and round with a dome thing on top, say like half a marble sitting on a fifty-cent piece. Well, the main hull, if that's what you call it, was thicker than that and kind of tapering towards the edges, but that's the general idea."

"Were there any markings you could see, Seor?"

"No." Henderson shook his head positively. "It just looked black to me, against the sky. I couldn't tell you the color, or markings, or anything like that."

"And it made no sound?"

"That's right. I started back towards the camper to call Edie out so she could see it, and then I realized it was coming straight at me, getting bigger by the second. It was fast as h.e.l.l; it was on top of me before I knew it. I thought it was going to hit me, and I threw myself face down in a little wash or arroyo. I don't mind telling you I was scared. Then there was a kind of whooshing noise, and all the heat in the world, and I scrambled up to see the camper burning. All I could think of was Edie, and I tried to get in to her, but I couldn't make it." He looked down at his bandaged hands. After a moment, he went on: "There was a little explosion inside and it set my clothes on fire. I had to throw myself down again and roll around to put it out, and while I was doing that, the whole thing blew like a bomb. Maybe it was the butane tanks letting go, or something. I don't know. I... . I don't remember much else."

"Then you did not see the actual attack," Solana said after a little pause. "You cannot say what kind of weapon was used."

"No, I told you. I was flat on my face in the arroyo. If I'd thought Edie was in danger... . But it came at me so fast, all I could think of was to duck."

Solana frowned. "Mr. Henderson, can you explain why this object picked your camp to attack?"

"h.e.l.l, no!" Henderson said. "Don't you think I haven't been wondering about that, myself? Of course, we were parked some distance from the rest of the camp. Like Edie used to say, you don't go camping to live in somebody else's pocket. At least we don't ... well, didn't." His face was angry. "And now maybe you can tell me just what the h.e.l.l is going on around here. And just what the h.e.l.l are you doing to stop it? If innocent American tourists can't come to Sonora for a weekend of fishing without being attacked by mysterious gizmos from the sky-"

"Mr. Henderson, we are doing our best to deal with the problem," Solana said smoothly. "And in the meantime I will make sure that you are supplied with suitable clothes as soon as possible. Now, if you are willing, Mrs. Lujan would like to get a few photographs."

We didn't actually have to twist his arm. In fact, despite his shock and grief, we had a hard time getting out of there with some film left unexposed. He wasn't exactly camera-shy, is what I'm trying to say.

Outside again, we followed Solana's eyeless Oldsmobile out of town. It had a big, blunt rear end derived from current racing practice: the two-hundred-mph boys have discovered some aerodynamic reason for sawing their cars off short these days, and Detroit has climbed right on the bandwagon. Well, it beats the fins we had waving behind us a few years back.

The campground was a few miles north of Puerto Peasco. It was reached by an unpaved road through the coastal dunes that gave us no real difficulties; but I had a hunch it was no place to stray from the beaten track without a jeep or beach buggy. The place was called Bahia Choya, and it turned out to be a crowded community of pickup campers and house trailers-excuse me, mobile homes-situated on a blue, sheltered bay diagonally across which, far to the north, could be seen the shimmering white sands of what I guessed to be the real desert, the gran desierto at the head of the Gulf of California.

The bay itself was pretty enough, for that barren coast. The campground was something else again, cluttered and trashy. I have the old-fashioned notion that camping is something you do to get away from the crowd, and I could sympathize with the late Edith Henderson for preferring a location away from this outdoor slum.