policechecking out any and all gringos, there is still a chance Perchek hasn't founda safe way out.
It is nearly six P.M. Long, late-afternoonshadows stretch down the main street, where a small parade is wending its waytoward the plaza. The crowd along the sidewalks is modest — probably in a lullbetween the afternoon and evening festivities. But a number of thosecelebrating are wearing costumes. . and masks. Chances are, Perchek isbehind one of them, possibly in the midst of the parade. Or perhaps he isheaded out of town by now. But policemen are everywhere, knocking on doors,checking alleys, and blocking the main exits from town. There is still achance.
Ray is more wobbly from his ordeal than hewishes to admit. But each step feels more assured than the last. And he knowsthat when and if he does need the strength, it will be there. He starts tofollow the parade. But after a few yards, one of Vargas's men calls to him. Thepoliceman is approaching with a thin, agitated man who is gesticulating wildlyand chattering nonstop. The man is naked save for a pair of red silk bikinibriefs.
'Mr. Santana,' the officer says, 'we foundthis man bound and gagged with adhesive tape in an alley two blocks in thatdirection. He says that not ten minutes ago a gringo put a gun to his head,took his costume, and tied him up. We're looking for a clown with a redpolka-dot suit, mask, and bright orange hair. From this fellow's description, Idoubt he'll be hard to spot. Only ten minutes ago. There's no way he can escapeus. We're closing in on the plaza.'
Ray voices his approval, but he sensessomething is wrong. Anton Perchek had shot Orsino to death without a flicker ofhesitation. An ally of his.
He slips the Smith amp; Wesson beneathhis belt and heads away from the plaza toward the alley where the clown wasfound. A tangled ball of adhesive tape shows him the exact spot. The alley isdeserted. With firecrackers going off every few minutes, there is no way agunshot would ever have been noticed. Yet the man is alive.
Not at all certain what he is searchingfor, Santana makes his way around the tawdry block. Then quickly around thenext one. And the next. Litter from the fiesta is everywhere. A number ofcelebrants lie in doorways or between trash barrels in deep, alcohol-inducedsiesta. One of them, somewhat removed from any others, catches Santana's eye.It is a young woman with a rather pretty face, perhaps in her early twenties.She is sleeping on her side, her back pressed against a building, covered tothe neck with a tattered Mexican blanket. Ray approaches. But five yards beforehe reaches her, he knows she is dead.
He pulls back the blanket. She is dressedonly in a pair of white cotton panties, and she is pregnant — perhaps sevenmonths, perhaps eight. A single bullet hole stares up at him obscenely from aspot just above her engorged left nipple. The blood that has oozed from it hasalready clotted. Santana bets that The Doctor had the woman's clothes hiddenaway even before he took the clown's.
Driven by a jet of adrenaline, his legsare suddenly responsive. He pulls the revolver free as he sprints toward themain street. A juggler in a skeleton's costume and mask is entertaining a crowdof fifty or so. Shielded by the corner of a building, Ray studies the crowd andthen turns his attention to the street. Everyone seems to be involved inconversation, in commerce with one of the street vendors, or watching thejuggler.
Then suddenly he sees her. Across thestreet and a block away. She is walking slowly, unobtrusively, away from thecrowd — away from him. What strikes him, though, is her very unobtrusiveness.Her feet are bare, her head covered by a shawl. An unremarkable pedestrian in avery remarkable scene.
Santana moves ahead, keeping the crowdbetween himself and the woman. If it is Perchek, taking him will not be easy.There are dozens of potential hostages around, and scores of potential victimsshould any sort of shooting erupt.
He remains in the shadows of the buildingfor as long as he can. Then he breaks across the street and dashes toward thewoman from directly behind her. At the last possible moment, she sensesmovement and begins to turn around. But Ray, his gun drawn, is alreadyairborne. His shoulder slams into her back, sending her sprawling on to therutted dirt street. The moment he impacts with her — the instant he feels thebulk and the tightened muscles — Ray knows it is Perchek.
Shrieking in Russian, The Doctor spins tohis back, struggling to free the gun in his right hand. But the loose maternitydress slows him, and Santana is ready for the move. He pins Perchek's wristwith his left hand, and simultaneously thrusts the Smith amp; Wesson up intothe soft flesh beneath his chin.
'Drop it!' he barks. 'Drop it now or it'syour fucking head, Perchek. I mean it!'
The Doctor's ice blue eyes sear him. Hismouth is twisted in a snarling rictus of hate. Then, slowly, ever so slowly,Anton Perchek releases his weapon and lets it drop from his fingertip. .
Harry worked his neck around and realizedhe hadn't moved a muscle for some time. Across from him, Ray Santana saggedvisibly, exhausted from recounting the ordeal that should have killed him.Without speaking, Maura went to the kitchen and returned with coffee. Nobodyspoke until she had poured three cups.
'Can you tell us what happened afterthat?' Harry said.
'Nothing good. Perchek's injection didn'tkill me, but over the last seven years I often wish it had. Somethingirreversible happened to the pain fibers in my nervous system. They fire offwith no cause. Sometimes a little. Sometimes absolute hell.'
'I assume you've seen doctors.'
'Without the chemical Perchek used, theydidn't even know where to begin. Most of them thought I was crazy. You know howdoctors are about things they didn't learn in some textbook. They thought I wasjust after drugs or a government pension. Finally, I took a medical dischargefrom the agency and got one hundred percent disability. I go to AA and NAperiodically, but the pain always wins out. Fortunately, I have a doctor andpharmacist at home in Tennessee who understand. So getting Percodanprescriptions is no problem.'
'And your family?' Maura asked.
Santana shrugged sadly.
'My wife — Eliza — tried to understandwhat had happened to me and what I was going through. But with no encouragementor insight from any of the doctors, she finally gave up. Last year she gotmarried to a teacher from Knoxville.'
'And your son?'
'He's at the university. From time totime, when he can, he calls. I haven't seen him in a while.'
'This is very sad,' Maura said.
'I was managing — at least until a fewweeks ago I was. About a year after Perchek was locked up in the Mexicanfederal penitentiary just outside of Tampico, I got word that he was dead,killed in a helicopter crash during an escape attempt. I didn't trust the report.In Mexico, if you have enough money, you can make just about anything happen — or appear to happen. There had been an explosion over water, I was told. Thechopper blew up, there were several reliable witnesses. What was fished out ofthe Atlantic was identified as Perchek through dental X rays.'
'You sound as if you weren't convinced.'
'Let's just say that what I wanted tobelieve and what I believed in my heart were not the same thing.'
But how did you end up here?' Harry asked.
'I got a call from an old friend inforensics at the bureau in D.C. That expert of yours, Mr. Sims, had sent down anumber of prints for identification. One of them, a thumbprint, matchedPerchek's with about ninety-five percent certainty. I wasn't that surprised — especially when I learned it had been lifted from the room of a woman who hadbeen murdered in a hospital. I came here and began making plans to get close toyou. My friend in D.C. promised to give me a little time before identifying theprint for Sims.'
'But why didn't you tell us who you were?'
'Well, the truth is I wasn't sure whatside you were on. I thought maybe you had hired Perchek to kill your wife. Iwasn't even a hundred percent certain after that night in Central Park.'
Harry groaned.
'That was you. You shot that man.'
'You look upset.'
'I am upset.'
'I saved Maura's life. Maybe yours, too.'
'If you had taken those men in instead ofkilling one, Andy Barlow might still be alive.'
