Pattern for Panic (23 page)

A few blocks ahead the truck had pulled into a cross street, was backing out to turn around. Maybe the maid was just conscientious, wanted to be sure. I was jittery. The truck was on the way back toward me now, picking up speed. I thought about what I'd do. Actually I wouldn't have to go down that dirt road to the Center; it was, I knew, the only road in or out of the place, so I could hide somewhere off the main road and watch its exit. I wanted to stay as far from the evil-looking spot as I could. From here on in I was going to be careful, extremely cagey—the cagiest man in Mexico.

I pulled to the right a little. That big truck was over pretty far toward the center of the road, maybe thirty yards away, burning up the highway. Its lights blinded me. I pulled over almost to the muddy shoulder, but the fathead was still edging over onto the wrong side. My heart started pounding as I squinted at the blinding headlights.

That damn fool was either drunk or—I yanked the wheel hard to the right, those huge headlights growing in front of me as the truck loomed bigger, closer, obviously trying to hit me now. My car went off the road and the front wheels slid in mud as the roar of the truck's motor swelled in my ears and lights blazed in my face, seeming only inches away. I let go of the wheel, jumped for the far side of the car as everything dissolved in the crash and scream of metal and a flash of light, and the world tilted crazily in roaring bedlam. And then there was wrenching pain, and swirling, brilliant light before the sudden blackness.

Chapter Seventeen

I came to before we drove through the wide wooden gates of the Center, but wasn't fully conscious until the men had dragged me across the muddy grounds and through the front door of the old building. My head throbbed continually and the blaze of light as we went inside hurt my eyes, sent sharp pains lancing through my skull.

My hands were tied with rope behind me, but my legs were free. Inside, one of the two men who'd brought me here, neither of whom I'd ever seen before, shoved me forward, sent me stumbling into the room. It was an enormous, high-ceilinged room that must have occupied nearly one-fourth the area of the entire building, and it was cold, the stone walls hard and ugly. There were three doors in the far wall, two of them close together on my right. The men hauled me toward the nearest one, stopped before it and knocked.

And I was meeting Villamantes again. He looked out, saw me, his wide lips curved slightly in a smile. He nodded to the two men, then said to me in excellent English, “I've been anxious about you, Mr. Scott. I've been looking forward with much anticipation to—talking with you."

I'll bet he had. I didn't say anything.

“Bring him in.” He spoke curtly to the two men, then stepped aside. They shoved me from the back, tripping me at the same time and I plunged forward on my face. That gave me an idea of what to expect. Well, I'd known what would happen if this bastard got me.

It's difficult to get on your feet with your hands tied behind you, but I managed it, muscles aching. Villamantes was watching me with interest. It was the same face, clean-shaven, with the wide, full-lipped mouth, the long sideburns and thick black hair. He was dressed in a black suit, neatly pressed. He looked ready to go out on the town, a normal, fairly pleasant-looking Mexican man. Knowing what I did about him, his cruelty, his sadism, that he was a Soviet agent, I looked at his face thinking something revealing must be printed mere, something to give his thoughts away. But there was nothing, nothing even in his brown eyes. He looked normal, jovial, decent. And that made it all the more frightening. The man who thinks he is the Messiah often looks normal, too, until he tells you he is God.

There was only casual interest on Villamantes' face as he said, “You know what I wish to learn, Mr. Scott. So tell me now. You understand."

I understood. I'd said nearly the same words to Emilio, to Monique. I hadn't spoken to him and still didn't.

He went on, a bit angrily, brows pulling downward, “Be sensible, Mr. Scott. I detest speaking to a man who does not answer."

He looked as if he meant it. I knew, too, that he might be able to make me talk one way or another. The strong, silent man who stays strong and silent while his feet are toasted or his eyes poked out is most often found in fairy tales or vivid imaginations. I could make him work for what he got, but it probably would be only a matter of time—and I wouldn't enjoy any of it.

I said, “There's not a hell of a lot I can tell you."

“Where is the girl, the Buffington girl? The lovely Monique? Captain Emilio? Tell me more about your interest in Frontón. Oh, there is much, Mr. Scott. So begin."

The only question that really worried me was the one about Buff. That was one thing I couldn't, wouldn't, tell this bastard; I knew what would happen to her if I did.

“Frontón, I can tell you. But that's about all."

I looked around the room seeing it for the first time. I heard Villamantes saying, “You are foolish to be stubborn,” but I was looking at his room, his office. The only word that popped into my mind right away was “creepy.” It wasn't much at first, just an impression, helped by a few objects in the room. Things an ordinary guy wouldn't have around.

A couple of them were pictures on the stone walls. One, a nude woman on a cross, with spikes in her hands and feet, the mark of knife wounds in her body, one breast slashed nearly off and hanging down on her stomach, blood streaming from it and a dozen other wounds, her mouth stretched wide. The other one I didn't get at first, couldn't figure. It looked like a modern thing, one of those surrealist idiocies, but then I saw the detail, saw what it was. It was scores of tiny figures, dismembered, arms and legs and thighs and heads and breasts and bits of bloody flesh, all thrown together like the Polish corpses buried by their Russian murderers in Katyn Forest. It made my insides crawl to look at it.

He was studying my reaction. I interested him immensely. “That is my favorite,” he said. “And this is pleasant, too."

It was one of the other things I'd seen, a statue no more than four inches high sitting on his desk next to a dial phone that looked out of place here. It was a plaster snake rising in coils to its distended head with the forked tongue flicking out of the red mouth. You had to look closely to see the body crushed in the coils, the hand and leg oozing from the metallic scales like toothpaste from a tube.

And then I saw the real ones, the rattlesnakes, the living ones of which General Lopez once had spoken. They were in a box on a stand against the wall on my left. The box was about three feet wide and deep, and half that high, with one glass-walled side. It was like an aquarium with polished wooden sides and one glass face, but inside the box, curling and writhing behind the glass like eels or maggots, were the ugly snakes, a dozen or more of them. I shut my eyes involuntarily, a chili running up and down my spine, like snake scales crawling there.

He chuckled. “You don't like my pets, Mr. Scott? They have killed eleven men. It is not a nice way to die. But I like this one even better.” He caressed the statue with his hand. The guy was mad, insane. Normal, maybe, in most ways, with sanity in his appearance and his voice, but still insane.

His voice got sharper. “Now perhaps you'll tell me. Quickly, Mr. Scott."

“Well, like I said, I can explain about the Frontón. Perhaps you already know.” Maybe if I gave him a little at a time, I could drag it out. Man, I thought, I've really had it. There wasn't a prayer that I'd get out of here by myself; the solitary hope was that the General's maid was on my side and would get word to the General who could fly over with an atom bomb or something. This was assuming the maid was O.K., and the General still loved me, and enough other things to just about make my position impossible.

“I mean,” Villamantes said, “where is the girl? This Buff?"

“I thought you had her."

Villamantes glanced at the two men who were still behind my back. “You don't have to stay. You may leave Mr. Scott with me.” He smiled. “You see? I am not so bad.” For just a second I thought: maybe this bastard is so nuts he's not going to poke my eyes out. Then he looked again at the men and, still smiling, said, “Of course, I would not wish you to be very active, Mr. Scott.” He said something in Spanish.

Oh, oh, I thought—and that was all I thought. I felt the first blow, maybe the second, but no more than that. When I came to it wasn't with a sense of complete disorientation; I knew where I was. I was on the floor of Villamantes' office. My face was resting on the carpet. The simple way to say it is that I hurt. It wasn't localized; I hurt all over, everywhere. Villamantes must really have gotten some kicks watching his boys work me over.

I must have moved, because Villamantes' voice reached me. “Get up, Mr. Scott. Try it.” And for the first time I noticed something different about his voice, an added tenseness, excitement maybe, even twisted pleasure. Unless I was imagining it. Then he spoke again, and it was there all right.

I moved my head, started to push myself up. I couldn't make it at first. Pain darted through my left shoulder; they must have twisted hell out of it. Finally I got my right hand under me, surprised that I wasn't still bound, pushed a little, rolled over on my side.

I got my knees under me. “You sonofabitch, Villamantes.” I looked around, noticed we were alone in the room. Good. He had a gun, but I'd jump at him and knock him down and kick him, then run out and knock down ten or twelve guys and high-jump over the wall and float off into space strumming my harp. All this after about six weeks in bed. “You insane sonofabitch, Villamantes."

“I thought you knew my name. Now, where is the girl?"

I shook my head as if dazed. I was dazed. “Monique?” I asked thickly. “I dunno. Just a minute.” I shook my head again, got to my feet. My left shoulder hurt like hell. I could still use the arm, even wiggle the fingers, but I wasn't going to be cutting up with any fancy left jabs.

He looked at me for a moment. “No, not Monique. That later, but first the Buffington girl.” He paused. “You are not stupid, Mr. Scott. Observe this. I know that Captain Emilio has not reported at the police station—or to me. Nor has Monique arrived, nor the man who was with her—driving the car in which you so unfortunately were in a collision. Observe only that—and there is much more about which I will let you guess for now. Naturally you know where the girl is—the conclusion would be obvious even for a stupid man. And I speak frankly; I am extremely intelligent.” He paused. “And inventive. I know many ways of persuading you to tell me what is in your brain.” He smiled. “Must I open your skull and tickle your brain to learn what is in it?"

Somehow I didn't think that was just a figure of speech. I thought of little round saw blades buzzing, slicing into my skull.

Suddenly he shrugged and what he said next surprised me. “Well, I shall let you think of that. And rest, Mr. Scott. Perhaps when you have rested you will speak freely.” He walked over and banged on the door. The two guys came in. I thought they were going to beat me up again, but he spoke to them and they led me out. Maybe he really was going to let me rest and think. But he had to have some kind of angle.

The men led me out of the big room, down a narrow hall to a door which they opened and shoved me through. A light burned in the room and I saw another man sit up on a cot in the corner as the door slammed behind me. It was Doctor Buffington.

For a moment neither of us spoke, then he said, “Shell! My God, how did it happen?” He looked older and terribly tired. His eyes were red and his clothing wrinkled, the goatee straggled. He got up from the cot and hobbled toward me, moving painfully.

“Doctor,” I said, but he interrupted.

“My baby, my Buff. Have you seen her? Is she all right? What have they done to her?"

“She's—” I stopped. I thought I'd figured out Villamantes' angle. “I'm sorry. Doctor,” I said quickly. “I don't know. That insane bastard Villamantes asked me the same thing. He's mad.” I looked around the room for pictures, big ashtrays, anything that might hide a mike. Maybe I was dreaming, but Villamantes hadn't put me here for fun.

I hated to see what happened to the Doctor's face, though. When I told him I didn't know how Buff was his face sagged, his shoulders drooped. Then he frowned. “What—what do you mean, he asked you the same thing?"

I shook my head. “He did, that's all. I've been in his hair and he seems to think I know the answers to everything. As a matter of fact, I do know some answers. Did you know Monique was one of the bastards. Doctor?"

He didn't even hear me. He was wringing his hands. “I haven't seen her tonight. They may have killed her. My baby, my baby."

It was ugly to see, but his emotion was real and deep. And he had, I knew, been through his own particular hell here. Then his face twisted and the tears rolled from his eyes. He started crying audibly, sobbing, a broken old man, tired, worried, sick and hurt. “My baby,” he sobbed, “my Buff. Oh, my God, my God.” He put his hands to his bald head and squeezed, his thin face contorted.

I couldn't stand to see the old guy going to pieces right in front of me. “Sit down. Doctor,” I said. I walked to him and put my arm over his shoulder, led him toward the cot. I put my mouth next to his ear and whispered, “She's all right. Keep your mouth shut. They might be listening. She's out of here and O.K."

He straightened suddenly, started to speak, then saw my finger on my lips. “Sit down,” I said. “Don't go to pieces. Talk. Tell me what they've done to you, made you do."

He just stared at me, hope in his moist red eyes. I nodded my head frantically and said, “They made you do their filthy work for them, didn't they, Doc? Did they hurt Buff?"

That snapped him out of it. “Yes. They did.” He started talking steadily.

They left me with him about fifteen minutes. He told me they picked him up outside Monte Cassino, when he got into a too-handy cab. A block away the cab stopped, two other men got in and they'd brought him here. Slick, easy. He told me about the formula, that his work now was to concentrate the stuff, make it more deadly, squeeze more death into smaller quantities—and to simplify the formula if possible—make it more suitable for mass production.