Джеймс Чейз - So What Happens To Me?

They heard me. The one behind spun around. He held a glittering are in his hand. His lips came of his teeth in a snarl and he rushed at me.

I gave him a short burst with the Thompson and his naked chest turned into a bloody mess. The other Indian dropped Vicky, turned, his hand groping for a knife as I snapshotted him through the head.

I went to her, turned her, saw she was unconscious. I got her up across my shoulder, picked up the Thompson and began the long, plodding, hellish tramp back to the dirt road.

As I staggered along, I heard the sound of the helicopter overhead. I paused under the shade of a tree until the chopper had gone, then I went on.

I was panting, my heart thumping by the time I reached the road Gently I laid her down. Her eyes opened.

‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘We’ll get out of this.’

She stared sightlessly up at me, then her eyes closed.

I sat beside her by the edge of the road, the gun by my hand and I listened and waited.

After more than half an hour, I heard a truck coming. I got up and stood by the roadside. The truck came into sight, driven by a fat Mexican. The truck came roaring along the dirt road, raising a cloud of red dust.

I stepped out onto the road and waved to the driver. He took one look at me and accelerated. If I hadn’t jumped aside, he would have run me down.

The truck disappeared in dust and I cursed after it but I didn’t blame the driver. Looking the way I did, he had every reason not to stop.

I went back into the jungle and found a long, broken tree branch. This I dragged across the road: blocking three quarters of it. The next truck that went by would have to stop.

I returned to where I had left Vicky. She was sitting up, looking dazed.

‘Are you all right?’ I asked, bending over her.

‘What happened? I must have passed out.’

I saw she didn’t know she had been in the hands of two Indians. This was no time to tell her.

‘I’ve blocked the road. The next truck will have to stop. We’ll get a ride.’

‘His face will be something to see when he sees us.’ Vicky forced a giggle. ‘Help me up.’

‘You sit there and take it easy.’

She looked up at me.

‘You’re quite a man,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t have survived without you.’

I lifted my hand.

‘There’s a truck coming now.’ I pulled her to her feet.

‘Can you stand?’

‘Yes.’ She pushed me away and hobbled onto the grass verge.

The truck came into sight, travelling fast. The driver spotted the branch across the road and stood on his brakes. The truck came to a tyre-burning halt.

The driver, lean, middle aged with a tattered sombrero on the back of his head, dressed in dirty whites, climbed down from the cab.

As he began to drag the branch out of the way, I made a move forward, but Vicky stopped me.

‘I’ll handle him. Don’t let him see the gun.’

Before I could stop her, she limped onto the road. The Mexican gaped at her then she began to talk in fluent Spanish and I realised why she had elected to go instead of me.

He stood, listening, then nodded and finally grinned. She turned and beckoned to me. I hesitated for only a moment, then leaving the Thompson. I came out onto the road. The Mexican gaped at me nodded and looked at Vicky as if for assurance, then started to drag the tree branch out of the way.

‘I told him we got lost in the jungle,’ Vicky said quickly. ‘He’s going to Sisal. He’s willing to give us a ride.’

I helped the Mexican to get rid of the branch, then we all climbed into the cab. She sat next to him and as he drove they talked in Spanish.

Around twenty minutes later, I heard the helicopter overhead and I regretted leaving the Thompson, but I knew I would have scared the wits out of the Mexican if he had seen the gun. The chopper flew away.

Vicky turned to me.

‘He owns a coffee plantation,’ she said. ‘He’s taking us there. He has a telephone.’

I sat back and watched the dust road unwind before me. The Mexican who told me by leaning forward and stabbing himself in his chest his name was Pedro, continued to talk to Vicky.

I marvelled at her guts to keep up a conversation with this man, knowing she was practically dead on her feet, but she seemed to draw on a hidden reserve and she kept Pedro enchanted.

Twenty more minutes later, the truck turned of the dirt road and bumped down a narrow lane to a plantation of coffee trees. Pedro pulled up outside a long, narrow building with a tin roof. I could see a number of Indians working on the plantation. A flat piece of ground before the building was covered with raw coffee beans. Two Indians were moving the beans around with rakes.

A fat, beaming Mexican woman came out of the building and into the sun.

‘Maria,’ Pedro said and going to her exploded into Spanish.

I half carried, half helped Vicky from the cab of the truck. As soon as her feet touched the ground, she gave a sharp cry and I picked her up.

The Mexican woman came rushing up, waving her hands and yelling in Spanish. Pedro waved me to the house and I earned Vicky in. Following the Mexican, I carried her into a small, clean room and laid her on the bed.

Maria pushed me out and shut the door.

Pedro, beaming, led me to another room.

I made signs of washing myself.

He nodded, beckoned and I followed him into a primitive bathroom.

It was only after I had changed the bath water twice and was now lying in clean tepid water that I began to think of my immediate future.

If Vicky could make the story stick that we had come down in the sea, that I had rescued her, that Bernie and Harry and the plane had gone forever, then I would be in the clear. But could she make it stick?

There would be an enquiry: the news hounds would be after us: the pressure would be terrific. All the same, as I thought about it, I decided Vicky could swing it with Lane Essex taking of the pressure.

How about Orzoco? He couldn’t squeal without showing his revolutionary hand. As I had registered the Blue Ribbon Air Taxi Service, I could assign the million and a half dollars back to him! Doing that must surely get me of his hook.

Who else did I have to worry about? Kendrick? If he ratted on me, I could rat on him. Wes Jackson? With Vicky behind me, Jackson should be an also ran.

The one weakness I could see was that Vicky and I were going to swear the plane crashed into the sea. We had to do that to make Harry’s last broadcast stand up, but suppose the wreck was found in the jungle? I thought about this. I was fairly sure the Condor had come down within twenty miles of Orzoco’s neck of the woods. If he had any sense, he would have the plane stripped out and destroy what was left. This was something I had to gamble on.

As I got out of the bath and began to dry myself I persuaded myself that my future didn’t look too bad. Thirty thousand dollars a year, a steady job, plus Vicky... no, not bad.

But everything depended on her.

I should have known she could handle it. As soon as she got to the telephone, the power of Lane Essex clicked into action.

Within three hours a helicopter whisked us to the Merida airport. With only another half hour to wait Essex’s plane landed and took us back to Paradise City. The plane was piloted by a beefy, smiling man who told me his name was Hennessey and he was Essex’s new pilot. I remembered poor Olson saying pilots came a dime a dozen.

The news hounds and the T.V. cameras were kept at bay when we landed. Wes Jackson was at the airport, plus an ambulance, plus a doctor to whisk Mrs. Victoria Essex away.

That left me and Jackson.

‘You must feel in need of a rest,’ he said, showing his tiny teeth in what he imagined was a smile, ‘but before you rest, there are a few questions.’