Pattern for Panic (22 page)

There had been at least two men in the car; they'd have a hell of a time chasing us now. I pushed the speedometer needle up to the 120 mark.

Buff was babbling over in the corner. I felt like babbling back at her. “We're all right,” I said. “Hang on, honey. Don't flip on me now."

Finally she did calm down, scooted over to me and started telling me a lot of pleasant things about how sweet and brave I was, and how wonderful, and I told her it hadn't been anything much, just suicidal. I glanced at her once in a while, and even with the blonde hair wet and matted against her head, she looked good. She looked even sweeter and lovelier now that I knew what Monique really was.

I told Buff about Monique. She couldn't believe it at first, but I convinced her. I said, “I'll have to do something about her—after we get you stuck away somewhere."

“Shell, what are you going to do? About Dad, I mean."

That was a good question. I only go crazy about once a year and I wasn't about to go back to that miserable Center without an Army. Army—

I said, still feeling a little giddy, “We are going to fix bayonets and attack."

She shrank away from me. I added, “I mean, I'll try to get General Lopez out here with a mess of help."

“Who's General Lopez?"

“I forgot you wouldn't know. But don't worry; we'll figure something."

We were almost at the little village I'd passed through earlier. I asked Buff, “How's your Spanish?"

“Fair."

“Then it's better than mine. Listen, Buff. All hell is probably twirling around back there at the Center. Those guys may even pull up stakes and go somewhere else, so there isn't much time.” She bit her lip and I added, “I honestly don't think they'll hurt the Doc, honey, not while he's working for them. But I can't drive you clear into Mexico City. Can you manage if I dump you in this burg up ahead?"

“Yes. What are you going to do?"

“I'm not sure, yet. Mainly get in touch with the General, if I can. Incidentally, what all went on back there? And, Buff, I'm sorry I didn't stay with you at the del Prado. I couldn't, really, it—ugh."

Right then a stinking thought struck me. I would have a dandy time enlisting the General's aid if I phoned him and he roared, “I'll kill you, I'll kill you.” And if he'd seen that movie he might not be anywhere around; he might be running screeching through the hills, or out in the darkness beating his wife.

Buff was telling me that it was all right, nobody could have known all that was going to happen. She didn't know the half of it. But she went on to tell me details I didn't know. In the beginning, the guys in white coats had knocked, told her it was about the Doc, that he'd been hurt and was at the ABC Hospital; she was to go with them. She had just called the place again and drawn a blank, so she was suspicious. When she attempted to phone once more they grabbed her, and finally sapped her. That explained the blood I'd seen on the floor of her room. She'd come to at the Center. Her dad had refused to work for Villamantes, but after Buff showed up he cooperated. She almost skipped over the treatment she'd gotten.

“He really whipped you?” I asked.

“Yes. They—took my clothes off and whipped me. With a black whip, like a long snake."

I shuddered, not only because of what she must have suffered, but at the thought of a snake curling around her full-curved body.

“Villamantes do it?” I asked.

“No. He just looked, watched me. I never saw such an expression on a man's face before."

I turned right at a road leading off from the highway at the edge of the little village of Tlaxpacin. There was one expression I wanted to see on Villamantes' face. It was the one I'd seen on the
libre
driver's just after I hit him; or the one on Amador's face. We drove a hundred yards and I parked. We spent a couple minutes checking the spots where glass had slashed us. Buff had a long gash on one calf, two or three other small cuts, none serious. She'd twisted her knee and it was hurting a little, but she'd be all right until morning. The cut on my hand had stopped bleeding, but I had a couple of beauts on my fanny and leg, the fingers of my left hand were chewed up a bit, and I needed a new pair of pants. I wasn't kicking.

A few feet to the right of the dirt road was a small hut made of mud bricks and a few pieces of board. The roof was grass.

I said, “If we can rent a corner, can you put up here till I get back? It's not the del Prado."

“That's all right."

We got out and walked to the little one-room house. There was a tallow candle burning inside, and an old lady with a face like wrinkled brown clay was sitting on a homemade stool weaving pieces of straw together. A naked boy sat on the earthen floor, and a black, bristly-haired pig ran out the door squealing as we walked up. An older boy, about sixteen, barefooted and wearing only a discolored rag around his middle, looked out at us.

In a few minutes, mostly with the help of Buff's Spanish-class conversation, which the boy found very humorous, we arranged for her to stay for a while, perhaps overnight. The accommodations weren't the best, but this was no time to be squeamish. It was the best these people had ever had, and they offered it freely, with many apologies, and a polite graciousness that was heartwarming.

Before I left I gave the kid a handful of pesos and a
"mil gracias."
It wasn't much, but his face lit up like a searchlight and he ripped off happy Spanish more rapidly than anybody could possibly talk. Then I said good night, called so long to Buff, and turned to go back to the car.

She called after me, “Shell, wait,” ran up to me and said a little breathlessly, “Where are you going now?"

“Phone. Then keep an eye on that old church, see if anybody leaves."

They wouldn't be sitting still back at the walled building. There was a damned good chance they'd haul the Doc, at least, away from the place. If they did, I wanted to be in a spot where I could see them go, maybe tail them. Some spot not too close. Some spot like a balloon, say. I looked at my watch; it was eight-thirty.

“Be careful, Shell. Please be careful."

“Honey, from here on in I'm going to be the most careful man in Mexico."

“There—aren't any right words, Shell. For saying how I feel. But I can't tell you how much, how awfully much—"

“Don't spill over, honey. The Doc's still back there. Don't worry, I'll come galloping over the hill on a sway-backed horse—"

This time she stopped me. “Idiot,” she said softly. Then her arms went around my neck and she lifted her face up to mine and her lips caressed my lips, clung with perfumed softness to my mouth. She kissed me gently, for a long time, and it was sweet and good and a little sad; then her fingertips glided across my cheeks as her mouth left mine. She turned and went back into the hut.

I waited for the phone to ring in the Pemex gas station on the side of the village opposite from where I'd left Buff. The Plymouth was being gassed, the battery checked, while I waited for the operator to ring me. I'd phoned the General, but it was taking a little time to get the call put through. There was one hell of a lot of noise in the damn station—guys banging on things, yelling back and forth. I was keyed up, still tense, but the dizziness seemed to have left me. I hoped it was for good. I remembered the Doc had said he'd suffered for only a few hours and he'd been O.K. since then.

But there was something troubling me, that feeling I get when I've forgotten something. I thought for a moment of the shock I'd felt when I saw the red scar on the General's hand. That wasn't it, though; that business had been explained completely now that I knew where Villamantes fit in and the kind of sadist he was. I couldn't pin down the troubling thought. I looked at the
libre
out front, attendants moving around it. Even if the two men who'd chased us hadn't been killed in that crash, I was sure they couldn't have seen the Plymouth clearly enough to identify it as the one they'd been chasing. But there was something—the phone rang.

I grabbed it. There were some growls and clinking and twanging sounds, then a feminine voice said,
"Bueno?"

“Hello. Countess?"

"Mande?"

“Is this Señora Lopez?"

“Oh, no, is not here, señor. What is it?"

“She's not there? The General there?"

“No, señor."

“Who's this? Who is speaking?"

“This is Carmelina. I am the maid."

The maid. What the hell had I heard about her? The General had said he trusted his servants, I remembered now; but the maid was relatively new, been with him less than a year. Probably she was a fine maid—but I couldn't take the chance she was more than that. And the longer I thought about it the more likely it seemed that a guy like Villamantes would plant somebody near the General.

“Nothing's happened, no accident or anything? They'll be back soon maybe?"

“No accident,” she said. “One half hour, perhaps. I do not know. Who is calling here, please?"

I tried to think. A guy was yelling something out the door to another man in a car, his voice booming practically in my ear. I couldn't tell the maid the whole story and have her relay it to the General—anxious as I was to get away from here and stake out near the Commie headquarters—because, if Carmelina was chummy with Villamantes, that would be all. But I couldn't just sit by the phone all night, either.

“Listen,” I said, “I've got to get in touch with General Lopez. It is life or death, you understand? Life and death.
Muy importante.
Find out where he is, phone any place he might be, and tell him—tell him Shell Scott phoned, must speak with him. You got that?"

“
Sí.
Shell Scott to speak with the General."

“Yeah, tell him to call—” I looked at the number on the phone. Maybe I was being unnecessarily careful; the maid could well be O.K., probably was. But already too many people had turned up chummy with Villamantes: Monique, Emilio, and God knew who else. Guys kept yelling around me; somebody banged away, straightening out a fender or putting dents in it.

I changed my mind. “Tell General Lopez I'll call back. Very soon. You must get in touch with him. Have him wait by a phone."

“It is well,” she said. “I try."

I hung up. I had to get out of here. At least, if they moved the Doc, it would take a little time—and they'd have to come back for his test tubes and chemicals and whatnot. I called several places I thought the General might be, but nobody knew where he was.

Ten minutes went by like an hour. I couldn't wait any longer. If the maid hadn't gotten in touch with General Lopez it might be hours before he showed up. Hell, he might be dead while I stood here like a dummy at the phone. He might even be screeching through the hills. I groaned. But maybe the maid had found him by now. I dialed again.

"Bueno?"

It was the same voice. “Did you find the General?"

“No, señor, I am sorry. He was not to be found. I called many places."

“Yeah. Thanks.” That did it. I'd have to tell her, let her relay the word when she landed the General. I told myself she'd undoubtedly do exactly that, tried to believe it. “Listen, Carmelina, I want you to take a message for the General. Give it to him when you reach him. All right? I will give you many pesos when I see you. A thousand pesos."

“
Sí, sí, sí,
I tell him very good."

“Write this down.” She was gone a moment, then said she was ready. I told her, “Write this: Villamantes is Culebra. The Center is five kilometers past Tlaxpacin, and right on dirt road. Villamantes and twenty others are there. Get there
pronto.
Bring the whole Mexican Army. That's it; sign it Shell Scott."

She said she had it, and I asked her to read it back to me. Then she said, “I am sorry. I called every place. First I phoned—” She went on telling me some spots she'd called. I listened, wondering why she was telling me all this. “Fine,” I said. “Take care of that. I have to go."

“But wait,” she said. “I read the note again, make sure it is right."

“You already—” I stopped. And suddenly that idea teetering on the edge of my brain fell into place. Now I knew what had been troubling me, the little thing I'd forgotten. The maid's attempt to keep me on the line had pushed the memory into place—but it had nothing to do with her.

I had forgotten the
libre.
My thinking had been all right a few minutes before—as far as it went. Nobody could have recognized the car I'd been driving; but maybe they didn't have to. The thoughts raced through my mind: Monique's pal had been driving the
libre,
headed toward the Commie headquarters; he was of course another Commie, and could often have been at the walled building in
that
car, or the car might even be kept, ordinarily, at the Center. If so, many there would know it by license, color, make, everything. All they'd have to do would be to drive the roads looking for that green-and-black Plymouth. And they would when Monique didn't show.

And that was the part I should have thought of: Villamantes must have known Monique was coming out in that
particular
car and when she failed to arrive he'd have started checking to find out why she hadn't. And naturally Villamantes knew, now that Buff was gone, that somebody had learned the Center's location and raised hell under his nose. Most of it would add up. Enough. There'd be men driving around now looking for that car—the Plymouth ten feet from me under the bright blaze of service station lights. And I was still damned close to the Center.

The maid was talking, had just started to read the note again. “Never mind,” I said.

“But I must! I think I have it wrong. It—"

I hung up and ran to the Plymouth, pushed some pesos into the attendant's hand and wheeled out of the station.

I slammed on the brakes at the edge of the street to let a big truck zoom by, then eased forward. That damned maid, I was thinking. She didn't have anything to do with the car business, but she'd sure seemed to be trying to keep me on the line.