The only thing to do was take care of the old man as soon as they got to his house, hut, hovel, whatever he lived in. Knock him out, tie him up, so Baron would be able to sleep unworriedly all night.
They walked the rest of the way in silence, each full of his own thoughts, and the last of the evening’s light faded away, leaving a world so dark Baron had only the sound of the old man’s sandals to keep him from straying off the road. He couldn’t see a thing and couldn’t understand how the old man could see. Although it probably wasn’t seeing after all but simply knowing the road for all of his life.
Ahead of them, the smallest of lights flickered, an anaemic yellow. The old man said, ‘My house.’
As they got closer, Baron saw that the light was a candle inside a small dirt hut. The window through which the light gleamed was simply a square hole in the thick dirt wall, with neither frame nor glass.
‘A poor place,’ the old man said, apologizing.
‘No matter,’ Baron said, and it was true. What did it matter where he slept tonight? Tomorrow night he would sleep in the Mexico City Hilton.
The door was made of various grey pieces of wood haphazardly nailed together, the final result hung from cloth hinges embedded in the wall on the left side. The old man pushed this door open cautiously, as though it had fallen apart more than once before, and motioned to Baron to precede him. ‘My house,’ he said again.
Baron went in.
The old man came after him, crowding him in the doorway, saying, ‘I wish you to meet my son.’
The man rising from the wooden table in the middle of the room was not old, not frail, not small. He was huge, and he was smiling beneath his moustache.
Behind Baron, the old man was saying, ‘This gentleman has many valuable things in his suitcase
‘
Baron turned for the doorway, but it was too late.
9
EARLY morning sunlight tugged at Grofield’s eyelids, urging him awake. Reluctantly, mistrustfully, he allowed his eyes to open, he allowed his mind to begin to question where he was.
The boat. He remembered.
What time was it? What day was it? Not yet midnight when he’d left the island, and he could vaguely remember sunlight as he’d lain on the open unmattressed bed, and he could remember even more vaguely crawling from that bed in darkness onto the far more comfortable carpeting of the floor, and now there was sunlight again, and he was still lying on the floor, and he couldn’t begin to work out how much time had passed or what day it was supposed to be.
Or where Baron was. Where was Baron?
He moved, tentatively, and was pleased to find that nearly everything worked fine. Everything but the left arm. That didn’t want to work at all. It felt like the Tin Woodman’s left arm, in need of oiling.
He wondered about himself, how sick or healthy he was, how weak or strong. He kept testing, trying this and venturing that, and the first thing he knew he was on his feet. He felt shaky, a little dizzy, and hungrier than he could ever remember being, but he was on his feet.
He could even walk, if he was careful. Being careful, he moved around the open bed and over to the kitchen area of the cabin, and there he found some food and drink. He ate three cans of soup, cold and undiluted, spooning the stuff straight out of the can, mixing it with crackers and spoonfuls of cheese spread and long swallows of whisky. He sat in the chair by the formica counter and ate everything in reach, and when he was done he felt as though he might survive.
He was feeling good enough now to begin to think, to try to figure out what had happened. The boat was grounded, in close to shore. He was obviously the only one aboard her, so it figured Baron had gone ashore and taken off with the suitcases full of loot. What he couldn’t figure was why Baron had never bothered to look for him, why he’d left this loose string untied behind him.
In any case, the situation was bad. He’d been unconscious at least one day and night, making it probably Monday and maybe even Tuesday. The island had been demolished according to plan, but the plan had been demolished too. Parker and Salsa and Ross were all dead, Baron had the money and the diamonds, and Grofield was stuck God knew where with a bullet in his back.
He shook his head, thinking about how bad the situation was, and then he went slowly and carefully up on deck. The body of Ross was gone, too, he saw, and looked the other way, towards shore.
Bad. Desert type of place, nothing in sight.
Still, Baron must have known what he was doing, must have had some reason to stop here. Maybe just out of sight there was a city. Monterey. Or Corpus Christi. Or Eldorado.
A stray idea occurred to him. Was there any chance he might catch up with Baron, get the handle back? He didn’t know how much of a lead Baron had on him, maybe a full day’s worth, but was there nevertheless a chance it could be done?
The background music began, floating around his head. Arabic, partly, with threads of international intrigue. Foreign Legion, decidedly. A very Gary Cooper sort of role.
He felt his pockets and found a crumpled pack of cigarettes and some matches. It was good the cigarette he lit was rumpled and bent, it added a dash of Humphrey Bogart to the blend. The cigarette in the corner of his mouth, he leaned on the rail at the bow and gazed towards shore.
What the hell, he’d have to go that way in any case. He couldn’t stay here. If he were to get the medical attention he needed, he had to find civilization, and that inevitably meant following in Baron’s footsteps. If, in so doing, he caught up with Baron, so much the better.
He’d have to prepare. He had no idea how far a town or city might be, or how much trouble he’d have reaching it. What might be a simple walk for Baron, hale and healthy, could be rough for Grofield the way he was right now.
