The Lazarus Drop Read online

  Fortunately, he was a lousy shot with the old, powder and projectile weapon he was carrying, because the first inkling I had of him was when he pulled the trigger and a sound like the end of the world split the air, while at the same instant a shower of rock fragments lacerated my skin.

  I jumped up and sprinted down the ledge, which curved under another rock wall and dwindled into shadowy hillside. Then I stopped and caught my breath. Tomas came pounding after me, not seeming to think that I might have a gun. Now the situation was reversed. I was hidden in the shadows, and he was brilliantly lit. He might as well have been posing for a holovid adventure scene.

  I tucked the saw away and raised the stinger, the fingers of both of my hands laced together for stability. I think Tomas sensed something at the last moment, because he skidded to a stop, a wild, scared look on his face, and tried to point his ancient rifle at me as I pulled the trigger.

  The stinger wasn't as noisy as the old rifle. Just three little phut, phut, phuts, and then three quiet, almost liquid little pops as the flechettes buried themselves in his chest and exploded. Tomas made a strangled noise. He staggered and went to his knees, staring at me and shaking his head, as if he hoped I would tell him it hadn't really happened. Then he fell over on his face.

  I hadn't really been saving Efren until the last on purpose, but it was going to work out that way, partly because he was a coward. He had stayed on the road, waiting, after he sent his partners up the hillside after me. He was still there, waiting, weapon in his hands, as I climbed slowly and silently back down. I could see him, etched in the silver moonlight, his eyes moving jerkily as he tried to see into the woods. He looked scared. I liked that.

  I reached the level of the road and crouched there for a minute, getting my breath, willing my muscles to be calm. Then I crept as close to the edge of the shadow as I dared. I held the little handgun in both hands again, with my arm braced against a tree, and aimed as carefully as I could for his chest, right at the base of his neck, then pulled the trigger three more times.

  Nordeen had been right when he said the gun wasn't very accurate. Two rounds missed Efren altogether. But the third hit him, down low, in the knee. He howled and dropped his weapon.

  I jumped up and sprinted across the roadway toward him while he scrambled around trying to pick up his rifle again. I got there first and kicked it away. Then I stood over him.

  We stared at each other for a long time. Then I very carefully shot him in the crotch.

  He screamed loud enough to be heard all the way back to Toluca. Then, still sobbing and moaning, he looked down at what I had done to him. The flechette had made a mess.

  “Oh, Jesus,” he said, looking back at me. “You've destroyed me. You've taken my manhood away from me. Go ahead and kill me, you filthy pig. Do me that favor, at least."

  “Fuck you,” I said. I turned and started walking away.

  “Please!” He was crying like a little kid. “Please! Don't leave me like this. Finish it! For the mercy of God!"

  I pointed to the bus. “You know a lot about mercy, puto."

  “You're right! You're right! I'm not worth a piece of shit, anyway. But you're not, either, if you leave me like this."

  “Maybe I'll give you what you want, if you tell me who sent you out to do this."

  Efren was curled up, rocking and moaning in pain. “I don't know his name. Some foreigner. We called him the buzzard, because that's what his nose made him look like, a big buzzard. A big, fat guy with a big nose. But he never said his name.” He stared at me, torment in his eyes. “Please."

  He smiled when I pushed the barrel of the handgun against his forehead.

  I found their transportation on the other side of the barricade. It was a roadbat, old-tech hovercraft stuff, open-air seating and scuffed, fabric skirts that looked like home-made replacements. The engine was rough and noisy, but it ran, and it stayed more or less over the roadway once I got the hang of the joy stick.

  I took off down the road, slowly at first, then faster as I got comfortable with the controls, navigating without lights. The moon was still high, and it was bright enough to see by.

  The buzzard, Efren had said. Big, fat, foreign. With a nose like a buzzard. That had to be Chandra Beg. There couldn't be two people that met that description, at least not right now in the state of Michoacan.

  I knew I was going to have the nightmare again, and the knowledge was enough to keep me wide awake all night, along with the cold, mountain air that penetrated my inadequate clothing as I maneuvered the roadbat toward Morelia. I had no idea how far I had to go. I decided I would drive as far as night would allow, ditch the vehicle somewhere along the road before dawn, and walk the rest of the way if I had to. At least walking would keep me warm.

  That plan fell apart about an hour later. For the first couple of hours of lurching and jumping in the roadbat, the road was empty. I passed through a couple of shabby villages without attracting any attention that I could tell. People here seemed to keep their curiosity to themselves, at least after dark. Then I saw headlights in the distance, the beams moving and jerking in a way that said the road was no better ahead of me. I pulled off into the trees and waited, hoping whoever it was would pass and leave me free to continue. The lights drew nearer, and I heard the grunting and roaring of an engine. I tried to pull farther into the pines, but bumped up against a tree trunk. The other vehicle appeared around a curve. In addition to headlights, it carried bright running lights, and I could see that it was a truck with fat wheels like the bus had ridden on. The rear bed of the truck was open, and in it sat half a dozen soldiers in uniform and helmets. I could not see if they were armed. I held my breath and waited. The truck came closer, drew abreast of my skimpy hideout, and began to moan its way past. Suddenly one of the soldiers shouted to the driver.

  “Oye! Veo algo.” Hey, I see something. I looked down and saw that he sure as hell did. The headlight glass of the roadbat sparkled like diamonds in the lights of the truck. The soldiers piled out of the truck and advanced on the roadbat, answering one question—they all carried rifles.

  “Shit,” I muttered. I cranked the engine of the roadbat, which mercifully sprang to life without protest. I slammed the vehicle into forward and drove straight into the soldiers, knocking two of them down and hoping the rest were too startled to shoot.

  They shot, and a hail of bullets rattled off the roadbat, accompanied by one narrow lance of ruby red. One of them had a laser weapon. I cursed again and turned hard to the right, hoping to disappear more effectively into the trees. My own headlights were still off, but in the glow of the truck lights I saw an opening between two large pines. I headed for it, and through it, and suddenly was in the air as the ground dropped away into as close to a cliff as I ever hope to leap off. Then the roadbat hit the ground again and started bouncing its way down the steep slope. I hung on as long as I could, then took a deep breath and jumped. I hit the ground, bounced once, and slammed into a tree hard enough to knock the wind out of me. The roadbat continued to crash through the woods until it finally hit something hard enough to stop it permanently with a metallic crash. Then it burst into flames.

  I lay there, huddled into as small a bundle I could manage, and waited. The soldiers half-heartedly searched an area above me.

  “Pues, que se chingue!” one of them finally shouted. “Screw him!” The climbed back up the hillside, and after a few moments the truck drove off, still headed in the same direction.

  I lay against the tree for a good half an hour, waiting to see if they might return. Then, painfully, with new bruises and cuts layered over the injuries I had received when the bus was attacked, I climbed back to the road and began to walk.

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  Chapter 6

  Dawn, and the city of Morelia filled the broad valley below me, a crowded jumble of buildings, old, red tile roofs in the center giving way farther out to the featureless boxes that sprang up everywhere to handle the populatio
n explosions of the last century, before the great pandemics killed a few billion people and cut us back down to a more reasonable size. A broad river, silver in the early light and bordered by tree-lined boulevards, cut through the middle of the city, and over everything hung a layer of smoke from hundreds of chimneys.

  The chill morning air felt good, and I began to feel some optimism. Things could be worse, I thought. My suitcase, or whatever might be left of it, was back with the burned out bus, so the torn, dirty suit I was wearing was it for clothing. But what the hell. The suitcase was just one thing I hadn't had to carry as I walked, and some other things were still intact. The gun was safely tucked into my boot. Extra ammunition for it, along with some other emergency supplies, were in the belt under my shirt. The transmitter Nordeen had given me had been in the suitcase. I figured I could worry about that when the time came. I still had my passport, permiso, and plenty of currency, so I could walk around legally, and buy more clothes.

  Most of all, I was still alive, which was going to be a big disappointment to somebody. And I was going to stay alive. They had missed their chance on the bus. I suppose I'm as easy to kill as anybody when I don't know you want to kill me. But you only get to try once.

  Now I was warned. I knew somebody wanted me jettisoned out of his orbit, and I was pretty sure who it was. And I had something else going for me. I had all that anger from what had happened on the bus. That was going to keep me alert and alive.

  I'd had my turn being the target. Now I was going to be the hunter.

  A loud crack split the air and something ricocheted with a whine off a rock right at my feet. I sprinted off the road and rolled behind a tree. So much for grand resolutions, I thought. Someone cursed loudly, then another shot rattled the trees, followed by a shout of triumph.

  I crawled to one side of the tree and peeked out. A man in a white shirt and dirty white pants sauntered toward me, a young man, but with the aged, tired look that so many of the people in this part of the world seemed to have. The reddish-brown skin drawn tautly over his high cheekbones and hawk nose was smooth, but it was the smoothness of weathered stone, not youth.

  He cradled a vintage rifle in his arms, one that looked a lot like the weapon Tomas had tried to use on me, and at first I was sure he was looking right at me.

  But then he walked past, a big grin on his face. He didn't even know I was there. He stopped a few meters into the woods, and stood with his back to me. I jumped up, got out my gun, and crept up behind him.

  “Drop the gun or you're dead, cabron,” I said quietly.

  He dropped the gun, and his shoulders sagged.

  “I knew I shouldn't have kept trying after daylight.” His soft, tenor voice sagged a little, too. Then he turned and got a look at me. “You're not policia?”

  I shook my head. “No."

  “So who are you?"

  “I'm a tourist."

  He laughed. “A tourist? And I'm the king of Michoacan. Welcome to my royal kitchen.” He looked down at the small deer which lay dead at his feet. “Breakfast will be ready as soon as the royal cooks arrive."

  “What are you planning to do with that?"

  “Cook it, por cierto. That's the truth. I was going to take it home, first, though."

  “Where's home?"

  “Down there. In the city. Look, if you're not a cop, maybe you're a bandit. So if you are, shoot me and get it over with, why don't you? I don't have any money, though. You'll have to settle for the deer."

  “I'm not a bandit either. I'm a tourist. I'm on a vacation trip to Morelia."

  He gave me a closer look. “You look like a foreigner, surely. But you don't speak Spanish like one."

  I shrugged. “I had a good teacher."

  “Pues, ni modo. If you're really not a cop or a bandit, put that damned pistola away and help me load this deer into my wagon. Then I'll give you a ride into town. My name's Beto. What's yours?"

  “Nathaniel."

  “Hey, that's a good name. My mother's grandfather was called Nathaniel."

  The wagon had the look of hard living and countless repairs—part plastic, part wood and metal, with hard-rimmed, spoked wheels, powered by a single, tired looking horse. We hauled the deer over, lifted it in, and followed it into the wagon. Beto lifted a part of the floor, revealing a cavity beneath.

  “False bottom,” he said with a grin. We rolled the deer into the cavity, and Beto covered it over again. Then we both climbed onto a bench seat at the front of the wagon, and he grabbed the reins. I recognized them from the old movies I watch at the 20th Century Pavilion on the Greenhouse Wall. You use them to control horses, although I've never understood why the horse doesn't just spit the things out and tell you to screw off.

  We moved down the road, the springless axles transmitting every bump and jolt to my aching bones.

  “Why did you think I was a policeman, at first?” I asked.

  “Now I know you're a tourist. You couldn't be so ignorant, otherwise. No offense, you know?” He looked over and gave me a quick grin. “No hunting allowed. No fishing. No hawking. That's the General's laws.

  “The General? Noriega?"

  Beto nodded. “So you know that much, at least. You've heard about our General?"

  “I heard the name somewhere."

  “Pues, the General is convinced that his children—that's us—need to be kept under control. Freedom and modern technology, that's what ruined everything, he says. So in his benevolence, he has returned us to a state of innocence.” He waved at the animals drawing the wagon.

  “No groundcars. No radio or television. No movies. No electricity. No hot running water to bathe in. We have our little homes, and our little gardens, and two buses a week from Toluca, to bring things from the real world, as long as they are things the General approves of. Most assuredly we have been saved from ourselves."

  “I don't understand what that has to do with hunting."

  “Nothing, if you want to know what I think. Absolutely nothing at all. Oh, the General, he says everybody should be vegetarian. Meat's bad for you, takes you out of balance with nature, says the General. What I think is, that's a bunch of shit. I think he just wants the hunting all for himself and his favorecidos, sabes? Just like he manages to have groundcars and electric light at his hacienda."

  He shrugged. “What the shit, life isn't too bad, I guess. I work. I eat well enough. I don't hunt very well, though. Some guys are good at it, but I'm not. That's why I was still at it after daylight, when it's dangerous."

  “Why, if it's dangerous?"

  “Today is a very special day. I wanted to make a feast, a celebration. I'm going to have my friends come and help celebrate, because my family has been away. They come back today."

  “Where were they?"

  “In the big city. In Mexico. My daughter was sick, so they took her to the doctors in Mexico, my father and my wife.” He glanced back at the sun, which had cleared the hills. “I'm lucky they aren't here already. They should have been, but the bus hasn't passed by. Probably broke down on the road again. It's always breaking down."

  I had stopped listening. I felt sick, and dizzy, my stomach churning, a roaring in my ears. I wanted to yell at him to shut up, not to be saying what he was saying. But he chattered on and on, while I stared ahead, not seeing anything.

  “Hey,” he said, all of a sudden. “What's wrong with you, man? You look like you're crying."

  I hadn't realized I was. I stared at him, and he looked back, looked at the awful thing in my eyes.

  “What's wrong?” His voice was suddenly hoarse.

  “Your father, his name was Juan?"

  He nodded.

  “And your daughter, Graciela?"

  He pulled the horse to a stop. His hands were trembling, and his eyes didn't quite look at me.

  “How do you know this?"

  I had to force my jaws apart, physically make myself say the words.

  “They're dead, Beto. They're all dead. Your father.
Your wife. Your little girl."

  “You're talking crazy, gringo. Or maybe you're not a gringo. Maybe you really are one of Noriega's putos. You just want to torture me some before you throw me in jail, no?"

  I gripped his shoulder as hard as I could, hard enough to make it hurt, to make him listen.

  “They're dead. I'm so sorry. I wish I could pull my tongue out and burn it for having to tell you."

  He was silent for a long time. He kept shaking his head, but I could tell it was sinking in.

  “How can you know this?"

  “I was there. I saw them die?"

  “Tell me."

  I told him what had happened, about the bomb, and the three men. I changed a few things. He didn't need to know that his family had burned alive, or about just how Graciela had died. I didn't tell him it wouldn't have happened if I hadn't been on the bus, and I felt ashamed at my own cowardice for that dishonesty. But I told him about being thrown free, and about how the three killers had met their end. He managed a bitter smile when I described what I had done to Efren.

  “You heard their names?” he asked.

  “Jorge. Tomas. Efren."

  He nodded. “I know them. Some of Noriega's pigs."

  We rode most of the rest of the way in silence.

  “I guess I won't need the deer,” he said at one point. “But I have friends who can use it.” He looked at me, dry-eyed, his face a mask. “That's all I have now, is friends, sabes? I have no more family. All I had was on that bus. I should have been on that bus, too, did you know that? But I couldn't leave my work. I thought I needed the work, sabes? To support my family.” He laughed bitterly.

  When we reached a bridge across the river, he pulled the wagon up.

  “All the hotels are on this side,” he said, not looking at me. “I cross here."

  I gripped his shoulder again. “Are you going to be all right? Is there anything I can do?"

  “Only if you're a brujo who can bring the dead to life."

  “I'm sorry, Beto."

  He managed a tight smile. “It's not your fault.” The words wrenched at my guts.