and Connie still backed against the wall next to her bed, eyes wide, hands to her mouth. And on the floor, the knife clutched in one lifeless hand, the shirtless Indian.
Then, with a sudden release from tension, Connie ran to Hooker. Without hesitation, he took her in his arms. He held her and stroked her hair, sharply aware of how fresh it smelled. Her body was warm and smooth under the slippery blue silk.
For Christ sake, Hooker thought, I’m getting a hard-on.
Connie pulled her head back a little and looked at him. He started to say something, but her eyes told him to save it. They moved apart almost casually, each reluctant to let go.
Hooker turned to Klaus Heinemann. He held a Luger pistol straight down at his side. A curl of blue smoke rose from the muzzle.
“I thought you didn’t like guns.”
CHAPTER 14
Capt. Luis Delgado of the Campeche Policía was a self-important man with a belly that threatened to explode the buttons off his brown uniform shirt. He sat on the cushioned swivel chair in his office and sternly regarded the three gringos seated across from him. Hooker, Heinemann, and Connie Braithwaite perched on their hard wooden chairs and waited.
Gradually, Delgado allowed his heavy features to relax into a smile of creamy benevolence.
“I am pleased to say there will be no charges filed in the unfortunate incident last night regarding the late José Chacón.”
“That is good news, captain,” Heinemann said.
Hooker glanced up at the flyspecked face of the clock on the office wall. It was three in the afternoon. The message must have finally come through from the Banco de Mexico that Mrs. Nolan Braithwaite’s draft was valid. It was remarkable how swiftly criminal charges could vanish there if the
mordida
were generous enough.
“The Chacón person had a long history as a lawbreaker,” Delgado continued. “Even now he is being sought by the Federales to answer a charge of murder. A thoroughly bad man. Mexican.”
Delgado, like his fellow Yucatecans, considered themselves separate from the rest of the country. There were, in fact, considerable differences. Where Mexico, at least in the larger cities, was striving to be modern, Yucatan clung to nineteenth-century ways. The revolutionary fervor that burned throughout Mexico was not evident on the peninsula. There life was slow and relaxed. The people felt a closer bond to Old World Europe than they did to modern Mexico City.
“Can we go?” Hooker said. He was anxious to get out of the stuffy office and away from the oily police captain.
Delgado’s eyes narrowed, but his smile stayed in place. “Of course. There is no reason for me to hold you now…. Is there?”
• • •
He allowed the question to hang for a moment, then shifted his gaze across Heinemann to Connie Braithwaite. “Allow me to wish you a pleasant stay in our city.” After a moment, he added, “May I ask how long that stay will be?”
“Not long,” Connie said. “We have other business.”
The captain’s smile faded. “Ah, yes, your planned expedition into Quintana Roo. For your sake, I hope you stay in your airplane. The jungle from above has a certain beauty, but below, Quintana Roo is a savage land, untouched by our civilization.”
“The maps show cities there,” Connie said. “And roads.”
“The maps lie,” Delgado said. “Most of those roads and cities do not exist except in the mind of the appointed governor. He has to show some form of progress to justify the federal money he spends while never leaving his mansion in Puerto Morelos.”
“There must be trails,” Hooker said, “leading in from the state of Campeche.”
“Yes, there are trails used by the Mayas. But be warned that the Mayas of Quintana Roo are not the same peaceful Indians you see here in Campeche. We call them
Indios sublevados
. They are rebellious. Untamed. You will meet dangers there you cannot imagine.”
“Not the
muerateros
again,” Hooker said.
Delgado looked at
Then, with a sudden release from tension, Connie ran to Hooker. Without hesitation, he took her in his arms. He held her and stroked her hair, sharply aware of how fresh it smelled. Her body was warm and smooth under the slippery blue silk.
For Christ sake, Hooker thought, I’m getting a hard-on.
Connie pulled her head back a little and looked at him. He started to say something, but her eyes told him to save it. They moved apart almost casually, each reluctant to let go.
Hooker turned to Klaus Heinemann. He held a Luger pistol straight down at his side. A curl of blue smoke rose from the muzzle.
“I thought you didn’t like guns.”
CHAPTER 14
Capt. Luis Delgado of the Campeche Policía was a self-important man with a belly that threatened to explode the buttons off his brown uniform shirt. He sat on the cushioned swivel chair in his office and sternly regarded the three gringos seated across from him. Hooker, Heinemann, and Connie Braithwaite perched on their hard wooden chairs and waited.
Gradually, Delgado allowed his heavy features to relax into a smile of creamy benevolence.
“I am pleased to say there will be no charges filed in the unfortunate incident last night regarding the late José Chacón.”
“That is good news, captain,” Heinemann said.
Hooker glanced up at the flyspecked face of the clock on the office wall. It was three in the afternoon. The message must have finally come through from the Banco de Mexico that Mrs. Nolan Braithwaite’s draft was valid. It was remarkable how swiftly criminal charges could vanish there if the
mordida
were generous enough.
“The Chacón person had a long history as a lawbreaker,” Delgado continued. “Even now he is being sought by the Federales to answer a charge of murder. A thoroughly bad man. Mexican.”
Delgado, like his fellow Yucatecans, considered themselves separate from the rest of the country. There were, in fact, considerable differences. Where Mexico, at least in the larger cities, was striving to be modern, Yucatan clung to nineteenth-century ways. The revolutionary fervor that burned throughout Mexico was not evident on the peninsula. There life was slow and relaxed. The people felt a closer bond to Old World Europe than they did to modern Mexico City.
“Can we go?” Hooker said. He was anxious to get out of the stuffy office and away from the oily police captain.
Delgado’s eyes narrowed, but his smile stayed in place. “Of course. There is no reason for me to hold you now…. Is there?”
• • •
He allowed the question to hang for a moment, then shifted his gaze across Heinemann to Connie Braithwaite. “Allow me to wish you a pleasant stay in our city.” After a moment, he added, “May I ask how long that stay will be?”
“Not long,” Connie said. “We have other business.”
The captain’s smile faded. “Ah, yes, your planned expedition into Quintana Roo. For your sake, I hope you stay in your airplane. The jungle from above has a certain beauty, but below, Quintana Roo is a savage land, untouched by our civilization.”
“The maps show cities there,” Connie said. “And roads.”
“The maps lie,” Delgado said. “Most of those roads and cities do not exist except in the mind of the appointed governor. He has to show some form of progress to justify the federal money he spends while never leaving his mansion in Puerto Morelos.”
“There must be trails,” Hooker said, “leading in from the state of Campeche.”
“Yes, there are trails used by the Mayas. But be warned that the Mayas of Quintana Roo are not the same peaceful Indians you see here in Campeche. We call them
Indios sublevados
. They are rebellious. Untamed. You will meet dangers there you cannot imagine.”
“Not the
muerateros
again,” Hooker said.
Delgado looked at
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