The Second Saladin

56

It was a strangely quiet night, the strangest, the quietest since he had come north. It was a night for escape, but Ramirez felt so tired. They were putting something in the juice, he figured. His limbs weighed a ton; his vision was blurred, his mind working slowly.

Or maybe Reynoldo Ramirez is slowing down with age. All men must. Why would the dark angel spare you, Reynoldo? You do not even pray except when somebody is shooting bullets at you and in this hospital in the far north among pale, bloodless, calm norteamericanos, nobody would fire bullets at you.

He lay in the shadows, watching and not watching the television through his swollen eyes. The bulky bandage on his nose somewhat obscured his view, but it didn’t matter. He felt almost asleep, but not quite. Certainly there was a drug in his bloodstream. The whores! But he had no energy left to hate them.

He was dreaming of escape and food and women. Mostly women: young women, Indian women, virgins to be exact. He had not done anything with his organ in months. It was worse than prison, where for a price a whore would accommodate you.

Then a blond doctor came in.

Eh? A new one.

He stood silhouetted in the doorway. Ramirez waited. So they had not forgotten him, then. A new doctor even. Should he say something to the man, who just stood there? It was clear the man was not sure whether Ramirez was awake or not, for the Mexican’s bandaged face was hidden in the shadow. Ramirez puzzled over this irregularity of etiquette. Should I say something or not?

But they checked in on him often like this, he knew; he’d caught them at it before: peeking in at strange hours to see how their “guest” was doing. So Ramirez was not surprised and not alarmed and decided to lie quietly until the doctor went away.

Yet the doctor did not go away. He looked quickly up and down the quiet hall, then stepped in, pulling the door softly closed behind him.

Most curious.

Ramirez, lying still, watched the doctor slide along the wall. He came to the television, which was mounted on the wall, and reached up for the knob.

Did he want a different show?

But the doctor did not want a different show at all. He turned up the volume a bit, then a bit more.

Ramirez didn’t like this at all. No doctor had ever done this before. Were they going to get rid of him? He was an embarrassment, after all, was he not? Had he not also been responsible for the death of that stupid young boy on the mountain?

Mother of Jesus, help me.

Holy Virgin, give me strength.

I pray, Holy Catholic Mother, for your forgiveness. I have sinned and am a bad man, many times bad, many times, I’ve killed and whored. Forgive me, oh, Holy Mother. He wished he had some strength. He wished he could move; he wished he didn’t feel so doped, so logy.

The doctor came over to the bed, reaching into his jacket. He pulled out a small pistol.

He came closer, as though he could not see, and reached with one hand as though to find the soft throat that must have been in the shadow.

Ramirez felt the man’s fingers at his skin.

Mother of God, help your sinning son Reynoldo.

The doctor brought over the other hand with the pistol and was going to fire straight down into the throat, but as he brought the thing close, the Virgin, in Her kindness and great forgiving love of the sinning Reynoldo Ramirez, rewarded him with a great spurt of strength which he invested in a short, upward, pistonlike blow into the doctor’s looming chin, knocking the stunned man backward, and Reynoldo rolled to his right, out of bed, all his quickness and cunning restored as if by religious miracle, and as he dropped off the edge of the bed, out of the line of fire, the man sent a shot whistling past to shatter on the linoleum.

Reynoldo hit the floor and bounced off it to shove his shoulder into the bed in almost the same tenth of a second, moving it with growing acceleration until it slammed into the doctor furiously, knocking him against the wall with a yelp of outrage. Ramirez rocketed to his feet, lifting the heavy bedframe as he rose, and flipped it on the pinned man. He heard another of the strange shots. He turned to look for a weapon but could see only the television set with a cowboy firing a gun on its screen, and he plucked it with both hands off the shelf and heaved it across the room to where the doctor struggled to free himself from the mess of bedding. The set hit the wall above and fell to the doctor’s head and again he screamed in pain.

Ramirez did not pause to investigate, only turned and fled. He found himself in an empty green corridor, unlit, and saw the door at one end marked EXIT and ran for it, his gown flapping wildly, his ass and organs bounding in his sprint. He reached the door and found the whore snugly locked and lunged for the door across the hall. It opened, admitting him to a dark, quiet room.

Had the doctor seen him enter?

It didn’t matter. Ramirez looked about, desperately, for a weapon.

Speshnev could see the footprints — the mark of a sweaty foot — leading down the hallway. He followed. His head was bleeding from the blow struck him by the television.

Trust Chardy for the genius of improvisation: television as a weapon. How American.

The blood ran into his eyes. He halted to wipe it away. He’d have to stanch it, and throw this doctor’s coat away before he tried the lobby again. Damn Chardy. He’d grown fat in the years, but not stupid.

I should have fired instantly. Yet sometimes they screamed as the microtoxin froze up their respiratory system, so the precaution had been advised.

Speshnev put the air pistol away. He pulled out the Luger from under his other arm. He snapped the toggle, chambering a shell. The silencer made the pistol a bit front-heavy. He knew he had to hurry — surely sooner or later someone would arrive at this far wing. But to rush stupidly could also prove tragic.

The footprints led to the exit door and then away, to the door opposite.

Chardy had to be in that room. He touched the door, pushed it open. It showed a black crack. He knew where Chardy would be: just inside the doorjamb, left side, crouched low. Chardy would punch for throat or temple. Speshnev moved the Luger to his other hand. He poised — then drew back.

He did not have long to wait. Chardy, driven insane by the tension, was like all men of action without the gift of patience. Speshnev knew he’d come and he did.

The door burst open and savagely the man came at him, low and so fast.

Speshnev caught the plunging head with an upthrust of his stout knee and knew from the solidity of the impact that the blow was a rare masterpiece, perfectly timed, perfectly placed; he sidestepped adroitly — he was still fast himself — and clipped Chardy hard on the back of the skull with the pistol barrel, opening a terrible gash. Blood spurted everywhere. The man was driven to his knees, where for just an instant he fought the concussion until he yielded, collapsing forward with a smack, face down.

I have you at last.

Excitement raced through Speshnev’s widened veins. He leaned over and held the pistol six inches from the back of the head, and Chardy flopped about, twitching, then turned with great sluggishness half over and Speshnev could see for the first time that it was not Chardy at all, but some stranger.

Where was Chardy?

He stood. He felt violated by an immense betrayal.

Where was Chardy?

The answer to his question came as the door at the other end of the corridor opened in a burst and Chardy, among others, spilled into the green corridor, and if someone yelled stop neither he nor Chardy heard or cared to hear it. He raised his pistol, thinking that he still might have a chance, even at this late moment, but as he brought it up he knew he’d never make it, for he saw that Chardy had a machine pistol of some sort and the bullets arrived to cut through his chest and push him down.