Then four hundred... then four thousand...
May 6, 1979, Sunday
Princess,,
Spice Point,
Hit
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
We're conditioned to expect things to happen at a certain rate. to have a certain rhythm. What we did'on San Dominica was to take all of the prevailing rhythms away.
The Rose Diary
May 6, 1979, Coastown, San Dominica
Sunday Morning. The Sixth Day of the Season.
At 7:15 the morning of the sixth day, Peter Macdonald stepped through the latchen door of Brooks Cainpbell's expensive villa in Coastown, shouted, 'Scrambled eggs! ' and knocked the handsome CIA man down with a hard, right-handed punch to his Greco-Roman nose.
'You better stay right down there,' Peter yelled as Campbell tried to push himself to his feet. He took out the Colt.44 and pointed the barrel at an imaginary target, one-half inch in circumference, centered between Campbell's hazel-brown eyes.
'What the hell do you want?' 'Just the truth,' Peter said quietly. 'I'm not going to go into what's happened to me since the last time you fucked me over-how I came to sleep in your garage last night-but I want to know everything you know about the machete murders. I want to know all your so-called state secrets.'
Very slowly, cautiously, Campbell got to his feet. 'There's only one problem with what you're saying, ' he said to Peter. 'I just don't believe you'd shoot me. I know you wouldn't.'
The next thing Brooks Campbell saw was the big steel handle of the Colt.44. It struck him sideways across the cheekbone, and he crashed down on the yellow tile floor again.
'You will believe I'll shoot you in a minute,' he heard dimly. A brown workboot stamped down hard on his chest, then he was pulled up roughly by his hair. Suddenly he felt a hot streak go down the right side of his face.
'Now, dammit, you better talk to me, mister. I know how to do shit like this. Torturing men. Believe me I do.'
Campbell was beginning to focus in on the heat burner of his own kitchen stove. The coil was red hot-a glowing orange-and his hair was starting to smoke. Bacon cooking on another burner was spitting all over the other side of his face.
'I swear to God I'll fry your goddamn ear!' Macdonald yelled at him, army drill instructor style.
'We know the Mafia is involved somehow!' Campbell finally screamed out. 'Let me up. I'm burning, Macdonald!'
Peter loosened his stranglehold, but not so much that Campbell could get up. 'I don't know what that's supposed to mean. The Mafia... the Mafia what?'
'They've been trying to get the assembly here to legalize casino gambling for years.... Now they're going to get what they want-or they say they'll destroy this place. Blow up San Dominica and write it off as a tax loss.... That's all we know. I swear it. Macdonald, I'm on fire!'
Peter finally let go of Campbell. What he'd heard started to make a little sense. It explained some of the things-diat had happened.
'What does Colonel Dred have to do with that? With the Mafia? Casino gambling?'
The CIA man was holding his ear as if it had been bitten into. He was wearing a gold-and-red dragon kimono, and for once in his life Brooks Campbell looked ridiculous.
'We don't know how or even if they got to Dred. ' He continued to tell half-truths with some conviction. 'Apparently, something big is coming up soon. Those letters in the newspapers are actually warnings to the assembly. Some big horror show is coming. What you don't understand is that we're all going wild trying to stop it from happening. '
'I'm getting a feeling that you're lying again,' Peter said. He opened the refrigerator and looked inside. He direw Campbell some ice for the bruise on his face. Then he took a long, sloppy swig of orange juice from an open jug.
'AU right.' He waved the coWhoy pistol at Campbell. 'This has been a little better than our first talk, I guess. I'll be back ff I need to know anything else from you. Just don't ever make the mistake of @ng that I wouldn't shoot you. I'd shoot you. I don't even like you.'
Peter backed out the kitchen door, then ran to the BMW.
Now what kind of horror show could be coming up? he wondered as he eased the motorcycle down palm- lined lanes and backed out toward the rain forest. Would the Mafia get mixed up in something like this? And how does the blond man fit in? A mercenary? to do what?
But, Christ, this was a hell of a lot better than being a bartender for a nutty German storin trooper.... Maybe he should become a cop, or a ftffip Marlowe-type detective or something. Someday soon....
After his success with Campbell, Peter was at least feeling alive again. That was a start.
Coastown, San Dominica
A seagull flapped up Parmenter Street. Dipped to scrutinize natives setting up a brightly colored fruit mart. Angled right shoulder, wing first, and lided like a clever wooden airplane over the exclu- sive cnmson-roofed
