James Chase - Like a Hole in the Head

“Just get him to look like a killer,” I said, and climbing on to the parapet. I swung myself up into the tree. I climbed to the branch where I had sat before and sat astride it.

“Okay?” I called down.

“Yes.” There was a pause, then he said, “Good luck, soldier.”

I sat there. I couldn’t see what was going on below : the foliage was too dense. I heard voices and car doors slam. I recognised Savanto’s voice, but I didn’t understand what he was saying. He was speaking in Spanish. A harsh voice I hadn’t heard before answered him. I guessed this would be Lopez, the witness.

After some minutes, I heard movements on the roof. The conversation was all in Spanish. I listened for Timoteo’s voice, but didn’t hear it. He was still doing his zombie act. Then after more talk, I. heard the scrape of feet on the wooden ladder. I guessed they were going down, leaving Timoteo alone. I looked at my strap watch. The time was now 14.45. In another quarter of an hour Diaz would come out on to the bay… providing he was coming. Sweat was running down my face. I thought of the shot. I thought of lining this man’s head up in the cross wires of the sight. I thought of the flattened sound from the silencer as I squeezed the trigger. I thought of seeing him drop into the sea with a hole in his head.

I sat motionless, listening. I heard nothing. Was someone still up on the roof with Timoteo? I didn’t dare move until I was sure he was alone.

Then I heard his voice, pitched low. It just reached me. “Mr. Benson…”

A child bleating for its mother, I thought savagely, then just as I was about to start my climb down, I froze.

Coiled up on the branch immediately below me was a diamondback rattler snake, its forked tongue flickering at my foot that was within twelve inches of it.

A diamondback rattler, one of the few deadly snakes in Florida, and it looked ready to strike!

“Mr. Benson…?”

Timoteo’s whisper floated up to me.

I couldn’t he sure if the sound of my voice would make the snake strike. I held my leg rigid, feeling the sweat of fear start out on me. I have always had a horror of snakes: even harmless snakes make my flesh creep. I looked down at this coiled horror. The shot, Diaz, Timoteo and even Lucy were washed out of my mind. I just sat astride the branch, motionless and cringing. My guts had gone away like a fist becoming a hand.

“Mr. Benson…”

A little louder… more urgent.

“There’s a snake up here.”

There was no power in my voice : it was a croaking whisper. He couldn’t possibly have heard me, but the snake lifted its spade-shaped head. Its warning rattle, like dried beans shaken in a bag, made me flinch.

I sat there. I could hear voices talking in excited Spanish. I could hear the wind rustling in the palm trees. I stared down at the snake. Cramp was setting in in my legs.

“Mr. Benson…”

I knew the speed of a rattler strike. I hadn’t a chance if I tried to get my legs up on to the branch. Besides, if I made such a wild movement, I could easily overbalance and crash down on the roof of the house.

“Snake,” I said, lifting my voice.

Again came the warning rattle.

Had Timoteo heard? If he had what would he do?

Minutes like hours dragged by. Then another sound came to me : the sound of a motorboat starting up. Even in my panic, half my mind switched to Lucy. My target was coming out on to the bay and here I was, treed by a snake!

Then I saw Timoteo. He was climbing awkwardly and very cautiously. He still had on his sun goggles and still wore the big black hat.

“Watch it !” I whispered. “It’s by my foot.”

Again the warning rattle: a sound that made my heart skip a beat.

About six feet below me, Timoteo paused. He peered up. I could see myself reflected in his sun goggles : a frightened, sweating man, cut down to size by a coiled reptile.

I could see by the way Timoteo stiffened that he had spotted the snake and that the snake had spotted him. It turned its head away from my foot and its forked tongue flickered in Timoteo’s direction.

“Don’t move,” Timoteo said quietly.

I had been about to snatch my leg out of range, but his quiet, confident tone stopped me.

Very slowly, he hoisted himself up to another branch. He was now within four feet of the snake.

I watched him, sweat rolling off me, my heart slamming against my ribs.

Very slowly, his hand began to move towards his hat. The warning rattle sounded again.

His long fingers closed on the brim of his hat and slowly removed it from his head.

Simultaneously two things happened. The snake struck as Timoteo flicked the hat in its direction.

Scarcely breathing, I watched.

The snake’s fangs sank into the felt brim of the hat. Timoteo, with a speed that almost defeated my eyes, had the snake off the branch. His right hand caught the snake at the back of its head. The length of the snake immediately wrapped itself around his arm. He sat astride the branch, just below me, gripping the back of the snake’s head so it couldn’t strike him, then his left hand came down on the spade-shaped head, his long fingers shutting the jaws. He paused. I could see the snake’s body tight around his arm. Then firmly and deliberately, he turned his hands in the opposite direction, breaking the snake’s back.

As he let the thin rope of snake flesh drop out of his hands, he looked up at me.

“It’s dead.”

I sat with my back pressed against the trunk of the tree, looking down at him. I saw myself in the sun goggles and what I saw I didn’t like.

Then the roar of the motor-boat snapped me back to life.

“Get down!” I said. “Fast !”

Even before he began to climb down, I slid around him, dropping from one branch to another until I reached the roof. I grabbed up the rifle, spread myself flat tinder the shade of the shelter I had built and dug the rifle butt into my shoulder.

The motorboat was now in the bay. I could see the negress at the wheel. Nancy and a man were skiing side by side, but he was on her offside and through the telescopic sight, she was shielding him.

When they turned, I thought, he would be on my side and I would have him.

I adjusted the focus. Every so often I caught a glimpse of him in the sight. He was a typical South American male sex symbol : well-built, muscular, handsome with long black hair held in place by a white bandeau.

The boat made a sharp turn and began the return run. She and he were proving to each other how good they were. As the boat turned, he jumped her tow rope, skidding along on one ski and he was again on her off-side.

I waited, following them through the sight. I had the girl’s head between the cross wires more often than Diaz’s. It was an impossible shot. I could more easily kill her than him. They were now holding on to their tow bars with one hand and holding each other’s hand with the other. They were now so close together I couldn’t even see him on her off-side.

I lay there, sweating, but patient. I had been trained to wait. I had once waited three hours before I got a head shot and I remembered that while I waited.

The boat was coming round again. This time he kept to the on-side. They were doing a straight run. I now had his head on the cross wires. I could just see Nancy’s nose and chin on the edge of the sight.

To anyone but an expert this would have been too dangerous. To anyone but an expert this could mean hitting the girl and not the man, but I was an expert.

This is it, I thought, this finishes the nightmare even if it starts another.

I drew in a long, slow breath, moving the sight to keep his head in the centre of the cross wires, then I slowly took up the slack of the trigger.