'. . After Garvey left the cellar,Orsino, one of the drug lord's lieutenants, told Perchek about an escape tunnelleading to a house across the street. With the festival going on in Nogales,and crowds of people all over the city, they would have a perfect chance toslip away from the Mexican police. Poor Orsino obviously didn't appreciate whohe was dealing with. It wasn't by accident that no pictures or reliable descriptionsof The Doctor existed. Perchek pulled a pistol from his medical bag and just ascalmly as you please, shot him through the mouth. Then he pointed the gun atme. But he was furious with me because I hadn't broken. It was the ultimateinsult to him. He wanted me to die, but not a quick death. Instead of shootingme, he emptied the whole syringeful of hyconidol into me.'
'Oh, God,' Maura said.
Santana shuddered.
'It was horrible. Indescribably horrible.But it was also a mistake. I didn't die…'
Fascinated, Harry studied the man as hecontinued. Santana's voice was animated enough, but there was a blankness inhis eyes — a strange, detached distance. Outwardly, he was telling his story,but in his mind, Harry realized, he was living it.
'. . Ray. . for God's sake, Ray. Comeon.'
A man's urgent voice pries into Santana'sconsciousness. Ray fights to stay within the darkness. Finally, though, hegroans, opens his eyes a bit, and strains to focus on the face behind thewords. His body feels as if it has been worked over with a baseball bat. He ison his back on the grimy cellar floor, a makeshift pillow beneath his head.
'Ray, it's me, Vargas. Ray, where is he?Where's Perchek? Come on, Ray. We've lost a lot of time.'
The face comes into focus. Joaquin Vargas.One of Alacante's most trusted lieutenants. One of the men Ray was preparing tohave arrested. Vargas — Mexican undercover all the time!
'Vargas … I never thought you-'
'Never mind that. Where's Perchek?'
With great effort, Ray pushed himself up.His head is clearing rapidly. Apparently, The Doctor does not know his reveredpain drug as intimately as he thinks. Or maybe he just doesn't know RaySantana.
'How long have you been here with me?'Santana asks.
'Half an hour. Maybe a little more. You'vebeen out like a fish on ice. At first, we thought you were dead.'
'He went out a tunnel somewhere overthere. It goes to the house across the street.'
'The tunnel.' Vargas orders.
Immediately, three uniformed policemenrace that way.
'They don't know what he looks like,' Raysays. 'I do. I need a gun.'
'Ray, you're too-'
'I'm fine. Joaquin, you have no idea whatthe bastard did to me. Please. Give me your gun.'
Reluctantly, Vargas hands over hisrevolver — a nine millimeter Smith amp; Wesson. Ray cradles the gun and patsthe Mexican on the arm.
'You sure as hell had me fooled,' he says.
Without waiting for a reply, Ray hurriesup the stairs. If the streets are as Garvey has warned, crawling with policechecking out any and all gringos, there is still a chance Perchek hasn't founda safe way out.
It is nearly six P.M. Long, late-afternoonshadows stretch down the main street, where a small parade is wending its waytoward the plaza. The crowd along the sidewalks is modest — probably in a lullbetween the afternoon and evening festivities. But a number of thosecelebrating are wearing costumes. . and masks. Chances are, Perchek isbehind one of them, possibly in the midst of the parade. Or perhaps he isheaded out of town by now. But policemen are everywhere, knocking on doors,checking alleys, and blocking the main exits from town. There is still achance.
Ray is more wobbly from his ordeal than hewishes to admit. But each step feels more assured than the last. And he knowsthat when and if he does need the strength, it will be there. He starts tofollow the parade. But after a few yards, one of Vargas's men calls to him. Thepoliceman is approaching with a thin, agitated man who is gesticulating wildlyand chattering nonstop. The man is naked save for a pair of red silk bikinibriefs.
'Mr. Santana,' the officer says, 'we foundthis man bound and gagged with adhesive tape in an alley two blocks in thatdirection. He says that not ten minutes ago a gringo put a gun to his head,took his costume, and tied him up. We're looking for a clown with a redpolka-dot suit, mask, and bright orange hair. From this fellow's description, Idoubt he'll be hard to spot. Only ten minutes ago. There's no way he can escapeus. We're closing in on the plaza.'
Ray voices his approval, but he sensessomething is wrong. Anton Perchek had shot Orsino to death without a flicker ofhesitation. An ally of his. Why allow the man in the clown suit, who hasalso seen his face, to live?
He slips the Smith amp; Wesson beneathhis belt and heads away from the plaza toward the alley where the clown wasfound. A tangled ball of adhesive tape shows him the exact spot. The alley isdeserted. With firecrackers going off every few minutes, there is no way agunshot would ever have been noticed. Yet the man is alive.
Not at all certain what he is searchingfor, Santana makes his way around the tawdry block. Then quickly around thenext one. And the next. Litter from the fiesta is everywhere. A number ofcelebrants lie in doorways or between trash barrels in deep, alcohol-inducedsiesta. One of them, somewhat removed from any others, catches Santana's eye.It is a young woman with a rather pretty face, perhaps in her early twenties.She is sleeping on her side, her back pressed against a building, covered tothe neck with a tattered Mexican blanket. Ray approaches. But five yards beforehe reaches her, he knows she is dead.
He pulls back the blanket. She is dressedonly in a pair of white cotton panties, and she is pregnant — perhaps sevenmonths, perhaps eight. A single bullet hole stares up at him obscenely from aspot just above her engorged left nipple. The blood that has oozed from it hasalready clotted. Santana bets that The Doctor had the woman's clothes hiddenaway even before he took the clown's.
Driven by a jet of adrenaline, his legsare suddenly responsive. He pulls the revolver free as he sprints toward themain street. A juggler in a skeleton's costume and mask is entertaining a crowdof fifty or so. Shielded by the corner of a building, Ray studies the crowd andthen turns his attention to the street. Everyone seems to be involved inconversation, in commerce with one of the street vendors, or watching thejuggler.
Then suddenly he sees her. Across thestreet and a block away. She is walking slowly, unobtrusively, away from thecrowd — away from him. What strikes him, though, is her very unobtrusiveness.Her feet are bare, her head covered by a shawl. An unremarkable pedestrian in avery remarkable scene. Unremarkable. The Doctor's most valuable attribute.
Santana moves ahead, keeping the crowdbetween himself and the woman. If it is Perchek, taking him will not be easy.There are dozens of potential hostages around, and scores of potential victimsshould any sort of shooting erupt. One move. That is all he has. If heis wrong, there will be one shocked, bruised woman. But nearly fifteen years asa cop tell him he isn't wrong. One move.
He remains in the shadows of the buildingfor as long as he can. Then he breaks across the street and dashes toward thewoman from directly behind her. At the last possible moment, she sensesmovement and begins to turn around. But Ray, his gun drawn, is alreadyairborne. His shoulder slams into her back, sending her sprawling on to therutted dirt street. The moment he impacts with her — the instant he feels thebulk and the tightened muscles — Ray knows it is Perchek.
Shrieking in Russian, The Doctor spins tohis back, struggling to free the gun in his right hand. But the loose maternitydress slows him, and Santana is ready for the move. He pins Perchek's wristwith his left hand, and simultaneously thrusts the Smith amp; Wesson up intothe soft flesh beneath his chin.