and skidded around the curve to my right. I braked for the next one to my left. Then I slowed.
I pulled off to the left, at the foot of a bluff, near some shrubbery. I killed the engine and the lights and put on the parking brake. I opened the door quietly and did not close it fully after I’d slipped out. Sounds carry too well in places like this.
I started back, keeping to the darker, righthand side of the road. It was very quiet. I rounded the first turn and headed for the next one. Something flew from one tree - to another. An owl, I think. I moved more slowly than I wanted to, for the sake of silence, as I neared the second turning.
I made my way around that final corner on all fours, taking advantage of the cover provided by rocks and foliage. I halted then and studied the area we had occupied. Nothing in sight. I advanced slowly, cautiously, ready to freeze, drop, dive, or spring up into a run as the situation required.
Nothing stirred, save branches in the wind. No one in sight.
I rose into a crouch and continued, still more slowly; still hugging the cover.
Not there. He had taken off for somewhere. I moved nearer, halted again and listened for at least a minute. No sounds betrayed any moving presences.
I crossed to the place where Martinez had fallen. The body was gone. I paced about the area but could locate nothing to give me any sort of clue as to what might have occurred following my departure. I could think of no reason for calling out, so I didn’t.
I walked back to the car without misadventure, got in and headed for town. I couldn’t even speculate as to what the hell was going on.
I left the wagon in the hotel lot, near to the spot where it had been parked earlier. Then I went inside, walked to Luke’s room, and knocked on the door. I didn’t really expect a response; but it seemed the proper thing to do preparatory to breaking and entering.
I was careful to snap only the lock, leaving the door and the fame intact, because Mr. Brazda had seemed a nice guy. It took a little longer, but there was no one in sight. I reached in and turned on the light, did a quick survey, then slipped inside quickly. I stood listening for a few minutes but heard no sounds of activity from the hall.
Tight ship. Suitcase on luggage rack, empty. Clothing hung in closet-nothing in the pockets except for two matchbooks, and a pen and pencil. A few other garments and some undergarments in a drawer, nothing with them. Toiletries in shaving kit or neatly arrayed on countertop. Nothing peculiar there. A copy of B . H. Liddell Hart’s Strategy lay upon the bedside table, a bookmark about three-quarters of the way into it.
His fatigues had been thrown onto a chair, his dusty boots stood next to it, socks beside them. Nothing inside the boots but a pair of blousing bands. I checked the shirt pockets, which at first seemed empty, but my fingertips then discovered a number of small white paper pellets in one of them. Puzzled, I unfolded a few. Bizarre secret messages? No . . . No sense getting completely paranoid, when a few brown flecks on a paper answered the question. Tobacco. They were pieces of cigarette paper: Obviously he stripped his butts when he was hiking in the wilderness. I recalled a few past hikes with him. He hadn’t always been that neat.
I went through the trousers. There was a damp bandana in one hid pocket and a comb in the other. Nothing in the right front pocket, a single round of ammo in the left. On an impulse, I pocketed the shell, then went on to look beneath the mattress and behind the drawers. I even looked in the toilet’s flush box. Nothing. Nothing to explain his strange behavior.
Leaving the car keys on the bedside table I departed and returned to my own room. I did not care that he’d know I’d broken in. In fact, I rather liked the
I pulled off to the left, at the foot of a bluff, near some shrubbery. I killed the engine and the lights and put on the parking brake. I opened the door quietly and did not close it fully after I’d slipped out. Sounds carry too well in places like this.
I started back, keeping to the darker, righthand side of the road. It was very quiet. I rounded the first turn and headed for the next one. Something flew from one tree - to another. An owl, I think. I moved more slowly than I wanted to, for the sake of silence, as I neared the second turning.
I made my way around that final corner on all fours, taking advantage of the cover provided by rocks and foliage. I halted then and studied the area we had occupied. Nothing in sight. I advanced slowly, cautiously, ready to freeze, drop, dive, or spring up into a run as the situation required.
Nothing stirred, save branches in the wind. No one in sight.
I rose into a crouch and continued, still more slowly; still hugging the cover.
Not there. He had taken off for somewhere. I moved nearer, halted again and listened for at least a minute. No sounds betrayed any moving presences.
I crossed to the place where Martinez had fallen. The body was gone. I paced about the area but could locate nothing to give me any sort of clue as to what might have occurred following my departure. I could think of no reason for calling out, so I didn’t.
I walked back to the car without misadventure, got in and headed for town. I couldn’t even speculate as to what the hell was going on.
I left the wagon in the hotel lot, near to the spot where it had been parked earlier. Then I went inside, walked to Luke’s room, and knocked on the door. I didn’t really expect a response; but it seemed the proper thing to do preparatory to breaking and entering.
I was careful to snap only the lock, leaving the door and the fame intact, because Mr. Brazda had seemed a nice guy. It took a little longer, but there was no one in sight. I reached in and turned on the light, did a quick survey, then slipped inside quickly. I stood listening for a few minutes but heard no sounds of activity from the hall.
Tight ship. Suitcase on luggage rack, empty. Clothing hung in closet-nothing in the pockets except for two matchbooks, and a pen and pencil. A few other garments and some undergarments in a drawer, nothing with them. Toiletries in shaving kit or neatly arrayed on countertop. Nothing peculiar there. A copy of B . H. Liddell Hart’s Strategy lay upon the bedside table, a bookmark about three-quarters of the way into it.
His fatigues had been thrown onto a chair, his dusty boots stood next to it, socks beside them. Nothing inside the boots but a pair of blousing bands. I checked the shirt pockets, which at first seemed empty, but my fingertips then discovered a number of small white paper pellets in one of them. Puzzled, I unfolded a few. Bizarre secret messages? No . . . No sense getting completely paranoid, when a few brown flecks on a paper answered the question. Tobacco. They were pieces of cigarette paper: Obviously he stripped his butts when he was hiking in the wilderness. I recalled a few past hikes with him. He hadn’t always been that neat.
I went through the trousers. There was a damp bandana in one hid pocket and a comb in the other. Nothing in the right front pocket, a single round of ammo in the left. On an impulse, I pocketed the shell, then went on to look beneath the mattress and behind the drawers. I even looked in the toilet’s flush box. Nothing. Nothing to explain his strange behavior.
Leaving the car keys on the bedside table I departed and returned to my own room. I did not care that he’d know I’d broken in. In fact, I rather liked the
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