Эд Макбейн - Learning to Kill - Stories

She rolled over, trying to make herself comfortable. It wasn’t easy with her hands and feet bound. She settled for her left side, her arms behind her, her legs together.

“Well,” she said, “ buenos noches, Jeff.”

I didn’t answer.

I was watching the rocks across the clearing. Carrera may have planned on sleeping the night, but I wasn’t counting on it.

She woke up about two A.M. She pushed herself to a sitting position and stared into the darkness.

“Jeff,” she whispered. Her accent made my name sound like “Jaif.” I pulled the .45 from my waistband and walked over to her.

“What is it?”

“My hands. They’re... I can’t feel anything. I think the blood has stopped.”

I knelt down beside her and reached for her hands. The strap didn’t seem too tight. “You’ll be all right,” I said.

“But... they feel numb. It’s like... like there is nothing below my wrists, Jeff.”

Her voice broke, and I wondered if she were telling the truth. I held the .45 in my right hand and tugged at the strap with my left. I loosened it, and she pulled her hands free and began massaging the wrists, breathing deeply.

“That’s much better,” she said.

I kept the .45 pointed at her. She looked at the open muzzle and sighed, as if she were being patient with a precocious little boy. She leaned back on her arms then, tilting her head to the sky, her black hair streaming down her back.

“It’s a beautiful night,” she said.

“Yeah.”

“Just look at the moon, Jeff.”

I glanced up at the moon, taking my eyes off her for a second.

That was all the time she needed.

She sprang with the speed of a mountain lion, pushing herself up with her bound feet, her fingernails raking down the length of my arm, clawing at my gun hand. I yanked the gun back and she dove at me again, the nails slashing across my face. She threw herself onto my chest, her hands seeking the wrist of my gun hand, tightening there, the nails digging deep into my flesh. I rolled over, slapping the muzzle of the .45 against her shoulder.

She fell backward and then pushed herself up from the ground, murder in her eyes. She hopped forward, and I backed away from her. She kept hopping, her feet close together, the material from her skirt keeping her in check. And then she toppled forward, and she would have kissed the ground if I hadn’t caught her in my arms.

She kissed me instead.

Or I kissed her.

It was hard to tell which. She was falling, and I reached for her, and she was suddenly in my arms. There was a question in her eyes for a single instant, and then the question seemed to haze over. She closed her eyes and lifted her mouth to mine.

Sunlight spilled over the twisted ground, pushing at the shadows, chasing the night.

She was still in my arms when I woke up. I stared down at her, not wanting to move, afraid to wake her.

And then her eyes popped open suddenly, and a sleepy smile tilted the corners of her mouth.

“Good morning,” she said.

“Hello.”

She yawned, stretching her arms over her head. She took a deep breath and then smiled, and I looked deep into her eyes, trying to read whatever was hidden in their brown depths.

“Your boyfriend,” I said. “Carrera.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

Her face was serious, so serious that it startled me.

“No?”

“No.”

“He’s still got my ten thousand,” I said.

“I know.”

“I want it back.”

“I know.”

“I want you to help me get it.”

She was silent for a long while.

When she spoke, her voice was a whisper.

“Why?”

“Why? Holy Jesus, that’s ten thousand bucks! You know how much work I did to get that money?”

“Why not forget it?”

“Forget it? No.”

“Carrera will kill you. I know him. Would you rather be dead without your money... or would you rather be alive without it? Alive and... with me?”

“If you help me, we can have both,” I said.

She considered this for a moment and then asked, “What do you want me to do?”

“You’ll help?”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I want to set a trap for him.”

“What kind of a trap?”

“Will you help?”

She moved closer to me and buried her head against my shoulder.

“I’ll do whatever you say,” she said.

We crouched behind the rocks, our heads close together. The sun bore down ferociously, baking the earth, spreading heat over the surface of the land. The sky was streaked with spidery white clouds that trailed across a wide wash of blue. It was the Mexico of the picture books, bright and clear, warm, alive, and it should have been pulsating with the throb of laughter and music, wine and song, fiesta.

Instead, a funeral was being planned.

Carrera’s.

There was a sheer wall behind him, rising like a giant tombstone for some hundred feet, terminating there in a jumble of twisted branches and fallen rock. A few feet in front of the wall was the outcropping behind which Carrera squatted with his .45 and my ten G’s.

My watch read 12:40.

Linda screamed.

“Shut up!” I shouted.

“José!” she bellowed, her head turned toward where Carrera lay crouched behind the rocks. There was no sound from across the clearing. I wondered if he was listening.

“Hey!” I yelled. And then, “Let go the gun!”

I pointed the .45 over my head and fired two quick shots. I screamed as loud as I could, and then I dropped my voice into a trailing moan, and at last fell silent.

It was quiet for a long time.

Linda and I crouched behind the rocks, waiting, looking at each other, the sweat pouring from our bodies. There was still no sound from the other side of the clearing.

And then, softly, cautiously, in a whisper that reached across the pebble-strewn clearing and climbed the rock barrier, Carrera called, “Linda?”

I put my finger to my lips.

“Linda?” he called again.

I nodded this time, and she answered, “It’s all right, José. It’s all right.”

Carrera was quiet again. I could picture him behind his rock barrier, his ears straining, his fat face flushed.

“The American?” he called.

“He is dead,” Linda answered.

“Tell him to come over,” I prompted.

She hesitated for a moment and then said, “Come here, José. Come.”

I waited, my chest heaving, the .45 heavy in my hand.

“Throw out the American’s gun,” Carrera said. His voice was cold and calculating. He wasn’t buying it. He suspected a trick, and he wanted to make sure I wasn’t forcing his woman to play along with me.

“Give me the gun,” Linda whispered.

“What for? What good would that...?”

“I’ll stand up. When he sees me with the gun, he will no longer suspect. Give it to me.”

“Throw out the gun, Linda,” Carrera called again.

“Quick,” she said, “give me the gun.”

I hesitated for a moment, and then I passed the gun to her, holding it by the barrel, fitting the stock into her fingers.

She took the gun gently, and then pointed it at my belly. A small smile tilted the corners of her mouth as she stood up. My eyes popped wide in astonishment.

“It’s all right now, José,” she called. “I’ve got his gun.”

“ Bueno, ” Carrera said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. I’d been suckered, taken like a schoolboy, hook, line, and sinker.

“So that’s the way it is,” I said.

“That’s the way it is, señor, ” she answered. The gun didn’t waver. It kept pointing at my belt buckle.

“And it’s señor now,” I added. “Last night, it was Jeff.”

“Last night was last night,” she said. “Now is now.”