Текст книги "[Magazine 1967-­12] - The Pillars of Salt Affair"

Автор книги: Bill Pronzini

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 8 страниц)

The message said: Teclaxican, Mexico.

A geographical map revealed that Teclaxican was a tiny Indian village several miles inland from the Western Coast of Mexico, in the state of Oaxaca. It also revealed that a lake in the mountains nearby served as the sole source of water for the village, and that there was but a single unpaved road leading up to it.

Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin were aboard an U.N.C.L.E. jet bound for Mexico a little more than an hour later.

TWO

Napoleon Solo decided he had pneumonia.

He sat next to Illya Kuryakin on the rear seat of a battered and chilly gray sedan that rattled and bumped its way across a pitted back road in Southern Mexico. Outside a light drizzle fell on the flat countryside. Ahead of them, in the distance, were low foothills that blended into a mountain range, and the village of Teclaxican.

Solo sat hugging himself. He was miserable. The cold he had contracted in Oregon had grown progressively worse. His eyes were red-rimmed and his nose was running. Naturally, the heater in the sedan did not work. He was in foul humor.

They had arrived in the capital city of Oaxaca late the previous evening, too late for them to leave for Teclaxican. A Section V man from the U.N.C.L.E. office in Acapulco had driven down to meet them at the airport, and had arranged their accommodations for the night.

The driver of the sedan was a short Mexican named Diego Santiago y Vasquez, who sported a thick, brick-red mustache and had heavy wrinkled jowls. He reminded Solo of a tanned walrus. He had informed them that morning when he had called for them at their hotel that he was the finest guide, the safest driver, ad the most dependable man to be found anywhere in Mexico.

During the hour they had been on the road now, he had kept up a constant chatter in passable English, extolling the virtues of the landscape through which they were passing, and accenting his dialogue liberally with anecdotes and obscure historical facts. Solo decided he would very much like to strangle the Section V man from Acapulco who had arranged for Diego Santiago y Vasquez to act as their guide.

"Off to your left, senors," Diego Santiago said from the front seat, "is the famous burial ground of the Zapotec Indian warriors, many of whom were slain by Aztecs who invaded their domain in the year—"

"Excuse my," Illya said, interrupting. "How much further is it to Teclaxican?"

"No more than ten miles now, senor," Diego Santiago said, and continued with his history of the invading Aztec hordes.

Illya sighed and looked across at Solo. A small smile played at the corners of his mouth. "How's your cold, Napoleon?" he asked innocently.

Solo glared at him.

"Have you been taking your pills?" Illya asked.

"Yes." Solo said with obvious effort. "I have taken my red and yellow pill, and I have taken my orange and black pill. Very soon now I am going to take my little pink pill."

Illya clucked his tongue patronizingly. Solo decided he would strangle him instead of the Section V man from Acapulco.

"In the foothills to the north senors," Diego Santiago y Vasquez was telling them "is a waterfall of such full-blown magnificence that your breath will catch in your throat at the very sight of it. You must be sure to take many colored pictures of it for it is rarely that—"

Solo cracked his head against the side window. The front wheel of the sedan had hit a chuck hole in the road, lurching violently, since Diego Santiago had taken his hands off of the wheel to punctuate his description of the waterfall with elaborate gestures.

Solo closed his eyes and wished blackly that some fine miracle would suddenly strike Diego Santiago y Vasquez most welcomingly mute.

THREE

They arrived in Teclaxican a half hour later.

The rain had stopped now, and there were patches of blue sky intermingled with the heavy black clouds overhead. It had already begun to warm noticeably, much to Napoleon Solo's pleasure.

Teclaxican itself was larger than they had expected it to be. It lay at the base of the foothills—several blocks of wooden buildings which included a sprawling, unornamented hotel, several cantinas and a high-steepled little church at the northern end.

The main street was unpaved, packed red adobe. Puddles of water from the rain dotted its expanse. In front of the church lay a grassy square where the street branched to circle back upon itself around the square.

They had passed through a small cluster of huts outside Teclaxican to the west, each having well-tended vegetable gardens and livestock pens. Diego Santiago y Vasquez explained that these were where the Zapotec Indians, indigenous to the region lived.

Off to their right, when they reached the outskirts of Teclaxican was an open market. Dark-skinned Indians hurried about, now that the rain had ended, setting up long and heaping rows of green Mexican lemons the size of American oranges, green zapotes and black chirimoyas, onions, garlic, hemp rope and countless other articles.

They drove along the adobe street, crawling past thick groups of Indians and laden burrows, they stopped before the single hotel.

Solo and Illya got out gratefully. Solo stood in a patch of sunlight, wondering how long you had to spend in the hospital when you had pneumonia. Diego Santiago opened the trunk and began to unload their luggage and the cases of photographic equipment which was part of their cover there and which had been furnished by the Section V man from Acapulco. They were posing as a writer photographer team from Travelogue Magazine, in the area to do a series of pictorial articles.

When everything had been gathered, they went inside. A reservation had been made for them and the clerk at the desk, apparently highly impressed by the presence of such distinguished guests, informed them happily that they had been given the finest room in the hotel. A dwarf-sized Indian who oddly resembled a fiddler crab carried their luggage upstairs after they registered.

The finest room in the hotel turned out to be a two-room affair of dubious Spanish design on the third and top floor, complete with a fine view of two banana palms, above which could be seen the foothills in the distance. It contained several heavy, varnished wood pieces of mis-matched furniture, two unsafe-looking canopied beds and plumbing which was reminiscent of Queen Victoria's idea of the proper bath.

After they had unpacked, Solo debated going to bed to nurse his imagined pneumonia, decided against it for obvious reasons and took two cold capsules of U.N.C.L.E. manufacture instead. The capsules, he had been assured, were absolutely fool-proof. He did not believe it for a minute.

Illya Kuryakin ran water from the tap in the bathroom and tasted it, remembering not to drink any. All drinking water in this part of Mexico had to be boiled first. The tap water tasted singularly bad, but there seemed to be no traces of salt.

"It seems THRUSH haven't begun their experiments here as yet," Illya said to Solo.

Solo nodded glumly. "We better look at the lake this afternoon."

"If the road hasn't been mysteriously blocked by some sort of slide," Illya said.

"The desk clerk would know," Solo said.

They went downstairs. The informed them that the road had indeed bee temporarily blocked by a heavy mud slide, two miles below the lake, apparently caused by the rains they had had in the area for the past few days.

It was curious that they should ask, he said. Illya Kuryakin quickly explained that they had heard conflicting reports of such a slide and since they were planning to photograph the lake they had wanted to confirm the reports.

I suggest we have something to eat," Illya said to Solo then. He smiled. "You would do well to feed that cold, you know."

Solo agreed, although he was not particularly hungry.

The hotel dining room was poorly lit, smelled of garlic and contained several wooden tables so flimsy-looking that they appeared to have been made of lacquered balsa wood. There was an open verandah at the upper end, affording a view of the flat plain and the foothills beyond it. Solo spied a table there, basking in warm sunlight and went directly to it.

A fat Mexican woman in a garish dress gave them a gap-toothed smile. "Senors?"

"Napoleon?" Illya said.

Solo shrugged, looking at the woman.

"I would suggest the pozole," the woman said, smiling. "It is the specialty, as you say."

"Pozole?"

"A very delicious dish," the woman said, "of pig's feet and hominy."

Solo's stomach quivered.

"If you don't mind," Illya said, "we'd rather have a steak. You do have steak, don't you?"

"Sí," the woman said, a little hurt that they did not wish to try the specialty. "Yes."

"Rare," Solo said. "Very rare, please."

The woman nodded. "You would like coffee?"

"Coffee would be fine," Illya said.

The woman moved away. They sat looking out toward the foothills as they waited. Up there lay the lake, perhaps a party of THRUSH scientists and agents and possibly the answer to what THRUSH was planing to do with the chemical they had developed. They would know more that afternoon.

The girl came out onto the verandah while they were waiting. Solo saw her first. He had been looking of to his right at the square, where a group of young boys carrying baskets laden with chewing gum and peanuts were trying to intimidate two elderly tourists, when he caught a glimpse of swirling color out of the corner of his eye. He swiveled slightly in his chair.

She was tall and slender, tiny-waisted and her carriage and figure suggested that of a professional model. She wore a brilliant red and yellow enredo—wrap-around skirt—a white peasant blouse and braided sandals.

She walked to one of the tables where Solo and Illya sat. Solo watched appreciatively as she seated herself, smoothing the skirt. She had black hair, long and falling across her shoulders and in the sunlight slanting down on to the verandah, faint reddish highlights danced in its glossy sheen. Her eyes were a deeper black than her hair and very large and the light pink lipstick she wore contrasted well with her bronzed skin. She appeared to be Mexican, with perhaps traces of North American ancestry.

She caught Solo's admiring glance and lowered her eyes. Solo smiled. "Hello," he said.

The girl cocked her head, raising her eyes. A smile touched her mouth, widening and a soft musical laugh cam from her throat.

"Do you have a cold, senor?"

"Yes," Solo said sadly.

She laughed again. Solo said, "Won't you join us? It always depresses me to see people eating alone, especially very pretty young ladies."

"Well," the girl said hesitantly. Then, "Yes, all right. Thank you very much."

"Not at all," Solo said. Illya said nothing. He was used to Solo's ever-present, wandering eye for the ladies.

Solo stood, holding the chair for the girl as she sat down. He introduced himself and Illya. She told them her name was Estrellita Valdone and then said, "I do not believer I have seen you in Teclaxican before." She paused then. "I am sure that I would have remembered if I had."

"We arrived this morning," Solo said, pleased at the compliment.

"You are Americans, are you not?" Estrellita asked. "Touristas, no."

"Americans, yes," Solo said. "Touristas, no."

"What brings you to Teclaxican, may I ask?"

"An assignment," Solo said.

"Assignment?"

"Travelogue Magazine," Solo said. "We're doing a series of articles on the area."

"You are a writer?" Estrellita said, impressed.

"Not actually," Illya said. "What we're doing is a series of pictorial articles. I take the pictures and he writes the captions."

Solo scowled at him. The girl laughed. "It must be very interesting work," she said.

"Oh, yes," Illya said. "Very."

Solo said, "Do you live in Teclaxican, Estrellita?"

"No," she said. "I am from Mexico City. I have friends here and I come down quite often. You could not have chosen a more beautiful place to photograph."

The fat Indian woman appeared at their table again and Estrellita ordered something in Mexican. The woman moved away again. Estrellita said, "will you be in Teclaxican long?"

"About a week, more or less," Illya said.

"What will you be photographing, do you know as yet?"

"The Zapotec burial grounds, for one," Solo said, remembering Diego Santiago y Vasquez's oratory of that morning. "And we have heard of a waterfall in the mountains which appears promising."

Estrellita nodded. "When will you begin?"

"Tomorrow, probably," Illya said.

"Perhaps I cold accompany you," Estrellita said. "I know of many places which might be of interest to you."

"That could be arranged," Solo said. "On one condition, of course."

"And what is that, senor?"

"That you agree to have dinner with me tonight." Estrellita smiled. "I would like that very much."

The Indian woman returned momentarily with their steaks and a steaming plate of fresh shrimp, lemon and hot sauce. Estrellita explained that the shrimp were freshly caught and brought in daily from the coast. She offered Solo one, dipped in the hot sauce. He declined in deference to his wobbly stomach.

He set about eating his steak. He was surprised to find that it was very good and as a result was equally surprised to find that he was much more hungry than he had previously thought.

When they had finished eating they made small talk over strong but good Mexican coffee. Solo and Illya used the opportunity to test their cover story, mentioning places they had been and photographed.

They learned that Estrellita was indeed a model, showing summer clothing for one of the large Mexico City shops. She was between modeling assignments, now she said and relaxing with her friends for a week or two here in Teclaxican.

Presently, Illya decided that he had had enough banter and reminded Solo that they had several things to do preparatory to embarking on their assignment. Solo knew that Illya was anxious to have a look at the lake in the foothills behind Teclaxican and was in agreement that they best go down to the real work that had brought them there.

They bade goodbye to Estrellita, Solo eliciting her promise to meet him there for supper and returned to their room to change clothes. They wanted to see the lake without the instant travelogue of Diego Santiago, but they needed the use of his car and of his knowledge of the area to guide them. It appeared his company was a necessity, at least part of the way.

They changed into light khakis and Illya Kuryakin strapped on two of the camera cases for sake of appearance. It was possible that THRUSH had implanted some of its number in Teclaxican to act as scouts and they did not want to take any chances.

Solo felt much better now that he had eaten and he no longer had the chills which had been with him on the ride down from Oaxaca. Perhaps, he decided, the capsules the U.N.C.L.E. doctors had given him before he left New York were working after all. To be on the safe side, he would take another one before they left.

Someone in the hotel had brought up a pitcher of drinking water while they had been eating. It was in an earthenware carafe on the nightstand. Solo found a relatively clean glass in the bathroom and poured it full from the carafe. He popped one of the capsules in his mouth, tilted his head back and drank from the glass.

The pill stuck halfway down his throat. He coughed, spitting out the water. He choked the pill down and went into a series of rasping coughs.

"What's that matter?" Illya asked him.

Solo got his breath. "Try some of this," he said, handing Illya the glass.

Illya sipped some of the water. "Well," he said, "it looks as if our bird friends are hard at work again, testing or whatever it is they're doing."

The water in the glass carried the unmistakable taste of salt.

ACT II: DEATH LIVES HERE

They found Diego Santiago Y Vasquez in the El Pomo Cantina. He had, it appeared, been there since he left them when they checked into the hotel that morning. He had, it appeared, been drinking more than just a little of a potent Mexican cognac called aguardiente. He was most liberally drunk. He sat at a table against the rear wall of the cantina, with his chair tilted back precariously, arms folded across his chest. He was snoring loudly.

Solo shook him gently. Diego Santiago opened one bleary eye, closed it again, and then re-pried it open. He gave them a crooked smile.

"Ah, senor Solo," he said. "Como esta?"

"Not particularly well," Solo said. "You seem to be doing rather nicely though."

"We must have a drink," Diego Santiago said, reaching for the nearly empty bottle resting on the table top.

Napoleon Solo moved the bottle out of reach. "No more of that," he said. "We're going for a little ride."

"A ride, senor?"

"To the lake."

"The lake?" Diego Santiago said blankly.

"In the foothill," Solo said. "The lake, you know?"

"Oh, sí, sí," Diego Santiago said. "But the road, she is—"

"We know that," Illya said. "We're going as far as the slide."

"You wish me to drive you there?" Diego Santiago said, squinting at them.

"That was the general idea," Illya said.

"Senor," Diego Santiago said indignantly, drawing himself erect, "I do not drive when I am drinking. I am the safest driver—"

Looking at him, Solo decided that he was right. In Diego Santiago's condition, driving a car on a mountain road would be akin to suicide. "All right," he said. "If you'll give us the loan of your car and directions how to get there, well—"

"My car?" Diego Santiago said. Oh, no, I could not possibly, senor. My car, she is my living, my little child. I do not even allow my wife to drive my car."

Illya Kuryakin stepped forward. He took several bills from his pocket, holding them where Diego Santiago could see the denominations and began to leaf through them slowly. Diego Santiago wet his lips. He tugged at the corner of his mustache. He leaned forward His eyes grew bright.

When Illya Kuryakin had counted off a sufficient number of bills to suit their guide, Diego Santiago cleared his– throat. "Perhaps," he said, "if you were very careful, and were to promise to return by nightfall..."

"We'll be careful, all right," Illya said.

"Then," Diego Santiago said happily, "I consent." He snatched the bills from Illya's hand and tucked them safely away in his shirt pocket. He gave them his crooked smile.

Solo said, "We'll need directions." Diego Santiago explained how they could reach the lake from Teclaxican. Solo asked him if there were another road leading there other than the one that was asked if there were a trail of some sort that they could take on foot. Diego Santiago said there was, and told them where it was located. Satisfied, Napoleon Solo asked for the keys.

Diego Santiago produced them from his trousers. "Remember, senors," he said, "Be very careful. My car is my living, my little child..."

"Don't worry," Illya said. "We get along famously with children." Behind them, Diego Santiago called out to the bartender for another bottle of aguardiente. He was going to put his new-found wealth to good use.

TWO

They turned off the main road on to the one leading up to the mountain lake ten miles to the east of Teclaxican. The main road had led them in straight, perpendicular line to the base of the foothills, and then had veered sharply to the right to parallel them. The secondary road, on which they were now traveling, was little more than a narrow trail, allowing passage of but a single car.

Illya Kuryakin, driving, had been having more than a little difficulty with the sedan. The clutch slipped badly, and the steering was as tight as a diesel truck's. His arms ached from gripping the wheel. He observed dryly to Solo that Diego Santiago y Vasquez's little child had a typical female disposition.

Two miles into the secondary road they began to climb. The road began to wind, gradually at first, and then became a series of sharp turns as they moved upward. On their right were walls of shale and banks of light jungle; on their left a scant few yards off the road was a long, rocky slope that fell away into a valley below.

Illya held the sedan in low gear, hands white on the wheel, and they climbed at a bare crawl. "Nice road," Solo said, looking out at the shale bluff to his right.

Illya glanced cautiously into the open space of the drop and shuddered. "I keep thinking," he said, "how lucky we are Diego Santiago decided to get drunk."

Napoleon Solo grinned. "The slide should be up ahead about a mile," he said. "Do you think they'll have guards posted there?"

"Lookouts, probably," Solo said. "Hidden from sight."

"We'll have to go up to the lake through the jungle," Illya said. "Where did our friend Diego say that path was?"

"Just after the first turn before the slide." Solo said.

"They'll know we're coming."

"Can't be helped," Solo told him. "There's no other access to the lake. And we've got to have a look up there."

"I have the strangest feeling we're walking into something," Illya said.

Solo said nothing. He felt faintly' on edge, as well, a vague uneasiness.

They heard the jeep before they saw it. The sound came from behind them, the whine of an engine being geared down. Solo sat up on the seat, ears straining. "What's that?"

"Sounds like a jeep," Illya said, listening. "Behind us." Solo turned, looking out the rear window.

"I don't see anything." Illya hunched over the wheel, increasing his speed slightly. The road straightened as they came around a turn, dropping into a long dip and then rising steeply on the other side. They were climbing again when the jeep came into view around the turn.

"Jeep, all right," Solo said, still turned on the seat. "Three men. They're coming at a nice clip."

"Could be THRUSH agents, you know."

"Yes."

Illya, fighting the slipping clutch, pressed down on the gas. The sedan shot upward, cresting the rise in the road. Behind them, Solo saw the jeep, raising a cloud of dust, cross the dip and start up after them. The driver apparently knew the road well; his speed indicated that.

On the other side of the rise, the road turned sharply to the right. Illya braked heavily, twisting the wheel. The nose of the sedan pointed briefly towards the shale bank to the right, and then straightened.

The jeep came over the rise, slid into the turn, slowed momentarily, and then came on after them again. It was only a hundred yards behind, and gaining. Solo saw one of the men, the one net to the driver, stand up and rest something across the top of the open windshield, leaning forward. He knew instantly what it was.

"Machine gun!" he yelled. "Keep low!"

The quiet of the mountain road was split open with the roar of the machine gun. The rear window of the sedan shattered, and a bullet tore upward into the headliner, showering them with dust. Another bullet slammed into the seat back and buried itself there.

Illya, hunched over the wheel, threw the sedan into another turn, skidding, fighting for control. The sedan fishtailed, sliding sideways. Illya spun the wheel frantically. The nose, pointed out to the open drop to their left, reversed. The left rear wheel touched nothing but air, but the right caught the road bed, held, and the sedan straightened again.

Illya's heart was thumping wildly in his chest.

"We can't outrun them!" he yelled. "And there's no place to stop! We're trapped!"

"The slide!" Solo yelled back. "If we can get to it we've got a chance!"

The jeep negotiated the turn with no trouble. They were only fifty yards to the rear now, and still gaining. The chattering roar of the machine gun came again, and they heard bullets thunk heavily into the metal of the sedan. A deflected slug screamed past Illya's head, veering to the right, and spider-webbed the right hand side of the windshield.

Illya took the sedan into another curve, and when they came out of it, the road leveled into a long straight stretch. The drop to their left was not as steep now as it had been, but was grown with underbrush and dotted with rocks

A heavy wall of jungle grew down to the road on their right.

Illya peering ahead though the windshield, yelled, "The slide! Up ahead!"

The road was blocked at the far end of the stretch by a thick bank of mud and rocky earth that had been gouged from the jungle slope on the right. Kuryakin began to brake. Gear teeth snapped as he fought the gearshift into low. The sedan's engine protested wildly, but it began to slow.

"Right up to it!" Solo shouted. "Our only chance is to get into the jungle!"

The sedan was slowing rapidly, now. The man in the jeep cut loose with another burst from the ma chine gun. Another fifty yards...

The right rear tire on the sedan exploded.

The jarring impact of the burst tire, hit by one of the machine gun bullets, wrenched the wheel from Illya's grip. The sedan fishtailed again, violently, the back end slur ring to the right and the front end pointed directly at the open drop to the valley floor below.

Desperately, Illya clutched at the wheel, his foot crashing down on the brake, but even as he did so he knew that it was too late.

Solo had just enough time to yell, "look out!"

And then the sedan went off the road, front end lifting, and then crashing down heavily, and they began to slide downward, side ways, with Illya still hanging onto the wheel in a death grip, picking up speed as they crashed across. rocks and through the underbrush.

A large cluster of rocks lay in the path of their downward flight, and when the front bumper of the sedan crashed into the rocks, the rear end lifted, sending them airborne, catapulting the sedan end over end in a spinning, floating arc, like a toy tossed into the air by a child.

Further down, it hit the slope on its top, crushing it, and the sedan began to roll sideways, mutilated into a twisted pile of gray metal, and when it came to rest against a huge boulder a hundred yards from the valley floor below the gas tank exploded, sending huge tongues of flame and billows of black smoke high into the warm Mexican afternoon.

And then it was quiet again.

Three

Solo had been thrown clear. When the careening sedan had hit the first cluster of rocks, catapulting it into the air, the door on the passenger side of the vehicle had been jarred open and the impact had pushed him out.

He had landed in a clump of scrub brush, rolling, his head narrowly missing a large rock there. Dazed, he lay hidden from the road above in the brush and rocks, unable to move. The sound of the explosion below shocked his mind into instant awareness again.

He swiveled his head, looking down the slope. He saw the flames and the billowing smoke, and a numbness came over him. Illya, he thought. Illya's down there.

He started to rise. A sharp pain stabbed at his right leg. Looking at it, he saw that his trousers were torn. A huge gash had been ripped -in his leg from the fall. He lay still again, thinking, He's dead. Illya's dead.

A blind, white-hot rage came over him then. His head pounded. THRUSH was going to pay for this. He lay hidden, waiting. If the men in the jeep had seen him thrown clear, and came down to search... He felt for the U.N.C.L.E. special at his belt, but it was gone, lost in his rolling fall from the sedan.

He moved forward slowly on his stomach to where he could see around one of the rocks. He looked up at the road. He saw the jeep parked up there. The three men were standing at the edge of the slope, peering down. One of the men pointed. Solo saw another man grin, nodding his head. They were apparently satisfied. The three men turned and got back into the jeep.

Solo did not know any of the three, but he knew he would never forget their faces, even from this distance. The jeep moved up the road to the slide. The driver jockeyed, turning it around, and then stated back along the road, the way they had come. It disappeared around the turn.

Solo felt instantly in his pocket for his U.N.C.L.E. communicator. He had to contact Mr. Waverly, tell him what had happened. Waverly would send a team of U.N.C.L.E. agents out immediately. Solo knew there was nothing he could do by himself.

He located the communicator and brought it out. Damaged. The antenna had been snapped in the fall he had taken; there was no way he could fix it. He threw it down in disgust.

Now what? He had to get back to Teclaxican. But he did not know if THRUSH had anyone posted near the slide, though he decided they probably did have. He could not attempt to leave the area now for fear of being seen. If they knew he was still alive, and unarmed, he did not have a chance. There was only the one thing he could do.

He lay waiting for nightfall. Below him, the flames engulfing the sedan dwindled as the fire burned itself out. A thin waft of smoke curled into the sky, and then disappeared altogether. The charred, blackened lump of metal lay like a dark, ugly insect under the sun.

Solo looked away. He made his mind a blank. He did not want to think about Illya Kuryakin.

The sun began to fall into the west, maddeningly slow. Afternoon began to fade away to night. The shadows in the valley below deepened, and the air began to take on a slight chill. Another hour, Solo thought as he lay behind the rocks. It would be dark in another hour.

He was acutely aware of the pain in his right leg. He had inspected it gingerly for broken bones. There were none. The gash was deep, and blood had flowed freely from it, but he did not think it would prevent him from walking. He had tied his handkerchief above the wound, tightly, to act as a tourniquet. It had stopped bleeding finally.

The sun was gone completely now, and the sky had turned from blue to muted black. A faint orange glow of twilight emanated from the west, fading, and then there was no light at all. The hour had passed.

He waited until the darkness was complete before moving.

He stood slowly, then, testing his leg. It seemed to be able to support his weight well enough. He started up the slope, keeping into the cover of the rocks there. The footing was treacherous in the dark, and he stumbled several times, almost falling.

He moved laterally instead of straight up, not wanting to get on to the road until he was out of sight of the slide and any lookouts that might be there. When he had worked his way around the turn at the western end of the straight stretch, he moved up to the road itself. He saw the path through the jungle to his left, the one Diego Santiago had told him led to the lake.