Date with Death (Destroyer 57)

Chapter One

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The shack was made out of bits and pieces. Cardboard mostly, plus the remains of several packing crates and a couple of dented tin signs stolen from a nearby construction site. The floor was hard-packed earth covered with a patchwork of fraying straw mats. There were no windows. Just an opening that served as a door, and a fist-sized hole in the roof to ventilate the smoke from the kerosene lamp.

Inside the tiny shack, seven people were sitting cross-legged around a makeshift table. Six of them were members of the Madera family. The seventh, the one nearest the door, was their honored guest. The guest's name was Wally Donner, and at the moment he wasn't feeling well. In fact, if he didn't get some fresh air soon, he was going to be sick, violently, eruptively sick, and that didn't fit into his plans at all.

Donner's face glistened under a sheen of sweat, and his sopping stay-press shirt was permanently glued to his back and shoulders. Along with the heat, his legs were starting to cramp up from sitting so long on the floor. But the worst of it was the smell, the almost indescribable odor of six unwashed bodies packed into a space not much bigger than his walk-in closet back home.

Donner took a deep breath, forcing himself to ignore his surroundings. He had to concentrate on the job, the only thing that really mattered. He was here to sell a dream, a vision of a distant, glittering place. It wasn't nearly so easy as he'd first thought it would be. Sometimes you had to make people imagine that place, to see it clearly in their minds. And like all good dream merchants, Donner tried to remember the first and only rule of the game: Keep your mind on the dream.

"Everyone get enough to eat?" he asked with a big, friendly grin. His voice was deep and soothing. In the sputtering lamp light his damp blond hair looked like burnished gold. His pale blue eyes were bright with feverish excitement.

"It was truly a feast," Consuela Madera murmured politely. She was the oldest of three sisters, and the best-looking. Donner had met her just a few minutes after he'd parked the van under a dusty pinon tree in the village square. From the moment he saw her, he knew she was exactly what his employer was looking for. The two younger Madera girls were acceptable, too. Both ebony-haired beauties in their own right, they had turned out to be an unexpected but welcome bonus.

"It's nothing," Donner said, gesturing expansively over the litter of torn Cheese Doodles wrappers and bags that had once contained Ring Dings and Devil Dogs. "In America, this would be no more than a snack." Just looking at the chocolate-smeared cellophane made Donner's stomach turn, but he kept smiling.

"Such things are easily bought in America?" Miguel Madera asked hopefully. He was the family's only son, a fat, wheezing lump with dull, lusterless brown eyes and near-terminal cases of bad breath and acne. He'd eaten almost as much as the rest of the family put together. For a while, Donner thought he was going to have to go back to the van for another armload of goodies.

"You can get them just about anywhere north of the border," Donner assured them. "And with the kind of money we're offering, you could fill whole rooms with the stuff."

The announcement set off a burst of excited chatter among the Maderas. They lapsed into the local dialect, a weird blend of Spanish and some guttural-sounding Indian language. Donner spoke fluent Spanish, but he could only understand every fourth or fifth word of what they were saying. It irritated him.

He felt a faint breeze and turned his head quickly toward the flow of fresh air. His stomach settled down a little, but the stench remained. It was the thick, clinging smell of poverty, as unmistakable in its own way as the scent of $50-an-ounce perfume.

"Tell us again about the dwelling places," Consuela requested with a smile.

"Each of you will have a room of your own," he explained. "A room ten times the size of this place. There will be thick carpets, wall to wall, air conditioning, and hot water. And of course, as I promised, a color television in each and every room."

"It all sounds so fantastic," Consuela murmured. She tilted her head in contemplation. The dim, wavering light emphasized the bold curve of her high cheekbones and the coppery glow of her skin. Her black hair shimmered with gold highlights.

She was a beauty, all right, Donner thought. No matter that in twenty years she'd look like every other potato-bodied broad in Mexico. For now, she was just right. She would serve his purpose well.

"What exactly would we have to do in return for all this?" she asked.

He flashed his most charming smile. "Why, whatever you'd like," he crooned. "Arrange flowers, decorate, shop. Anything that's fun." He gave her hand a pat.

Consuela nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She knew such things were possible, even true. She'd crossed the border herself last year, wading across the muddy Rio Grande by night with a dozen others, carrying a few things wrapped in cloth on her head. The border patrol had been waiting for them on the American side. When the aliens were spotted, men in trucks chased them, cutting great holes in the darkness with their glaring searchlights. But Consuela had managed to evade them long enough to spend three whole days with her cousin, who worked as a housekeeper in El Paso. The border patrol caught up with her there. After a night in a detention center, they'd sent her back home on a bus. But she'd seen the wonders by then and knew them to be true.

"A few months ago," she said slowly, "another man offered to take us across the border. But he wanted us to pay him a hundred dollars apiece, in advance, and to hide in the trunk of his car, all of us together." She still shuddered at the memory of the grinning entrepreneur, with his pockmarked face and single gold tooth that gleamed like an evil eye.

Donner laughed. "A coyote."

"Pardon?"

"A coyote," Donner said. "A professional smuggler of aliens. Well, I'm not one of them. I don't want any money from you people. My employer is covering all the expenses. We'll be crossing the border in style." He gestured toward the shiny new Econoline parked outside the door. "No hiding in trunks with me."

"But the border guards--"

"Arrangements have been made with the authorities for you to cross over without any of the usual bother."

It all sounded so impossibly wonderful to Consuela, and yet she found herself hesitating over the offer. She didn't have the slightest idea why. "What about the carta verde?" she asked. "My cousin said that you must have one to be able to work in America."

"No problem," Donner replied. He smiled to cover his growing irritation while he reached into the pocket of his wilted shirt and slipped out a slender stack of "green cards," the necessary document for aliens working stateside. "We'll fill them in later," he said, fanning them out like a conjurer about to perform a trick. When everyone had gotten a good look at them, he tucked them safely away again.

"Well?" he prompted Consuela. He knew she was the one to convince. If she went for it, the others would follow along.

"But why?" she asked. Her forehead wrinkled in confusion. 'Why us? We have done nothing special to merit this good fortune."

Donner leaned forward conspiratorially. "Well, I'm not supposed to tell, but..." He let his words trail off into enigmatic silence. The Maderas leaned toward him in anticipation.

"We don't say nothing," Miguel said finally, asserting his authority over the family. "What you say, it don't go no farther than this room, okay?"

Donner made a point of staring at the Mexican for a moment, as if trying to decide. Then, once the tension was unbearable, he nodded. "All right," he sighed. "You're a tough negotiator, you know that?"

Miguel grinned proudly. The women looked at their brother with adoration.

"It began in the early days of television with an American show called 'The Millionaire,'" Donner said.

One of Consuela's sisters clapped her hands together. "Oh, yes! Our uncle's friend in America wrote to him about it before he died. A rich man gave away money to strangers."

"Is that what this is?" Consuela asked. "A gift from a millionaire?"

Donner shrugged. "I can say no more. Just bear in mind that there are many, many wealthy people in the Untied States."

"It is the land of opportunity," Miguel said stolidly. "In America, it is every man's right to be rich. Even if a man does not work, the government gives him a hundred times more money than we make here, just so he can be rich. It is called welfare."

"You'll do even better than the folks on welfare do if you come with me," Donner said.

The family went into a huddle again, switching back to the local dialect. Donner's stomach pitched and heaved. He really was going to have to get some fresh air soon. The bullcrap he'd been handing out was piling up so thick and fast, he could barely see his way through it. "The Millionaire," for God's sake, he thought. These dodos would believe anything.

A hovering jijene landed on his arm. Donner crushed the sand fly with a slap and then flicked the miniature corpse away with a snap of his fingers. What in hell was taking them so long? As if to make the waiting less tolerable still, the family dog sauntered in, hoisted a leg, and decorated the wall with an aromatic yellow stream. Donner suppressed an almost overpowering urge to reach out and snap its scrawny neck.

He shifted his attention back to the family. Consuela and her mother were talking in a barely audible whisper. The old woman's face remained expressionless. She looked more Indian than Mexican, with angular features and hooded eyes that never stopped looking at Donner. It gave him an uneasy feeling. The old lady almost looked as if she knew what he was up to. Maybe there was something in the blood, he thought, something passed on from that long-ago time when the first conquistador slipped the short end of the stick to one of her ancestors.

Out of long habit, Donner slid his hand beneath the table just to make sure that the Ruger Blackhawk was still nestled comfortably in his ankle holster. He liked to play things safe, to always have an edge, even though he rarely had to use it. Donner gave his Rolex a meaningful tap. "It's getting late," he said good-naturedly. "I don't want to rush you, but..." He grinned and spread his arms. "If you're not interested, I'll have to get some other family. The rules, you understand."

"We're coming with you," Consuela said firmly. Her mother continued to eye Donner suspiciously, but the old man squeezed Donner's shoulder and exposed two yellowing teeth in a smile. The two younger daughters started giggling. Miguel's eyes brightened at the prospect of unlimited Ring Dings. Even the dog looked pleased.

"I applaud your good sense," Donner said. "You're really going to love it in America. I'll be waiting outside." He rose unsteadily to his feet. "Don't take too long packing. And no saying good-bye to the neighbors," he warned them. "They would only be envious of your good fortune and might tell the wrong people." With that final cautionary note, he groped his way out of the shack, gulping down air to quell his heaving stomach.

He leaned against the van, smoking a cigarette while he kept a watchful eye on the Maderas' shack. Three in one, he congratulated himself. Consuela was perfect, just what his employer demanded. The face of a queen, and the body of a harlot. It was a damn shame she was Mexican.

For as long as he could remember, Donner had hated all things even remotely Mexican. Just looking at a bag of Doritos nauseated him. He cringed every time he drove by a Taco John's. Mexicans were, as far as he was concerned, the scum of the earth. This negative national bias was particularly unpleasant for Wally Donner because he was, in fact, half-Mexican himself. Even his real name was half-Mexican. Jose Donner. He hated it.

He had no real memory of his father, a gaunt, smiling blond man who disappeared one night a few months after Donner's birth. For years the man's silver-framed portrait sat on top of the TV. Jose's mother began each morning by dusting the portrait, after which she started on her ironing-- shirt after shirt after shirt, all belonging to the wealthy men who lived up on the hill. While she ironed, Donner's mother spoke to her infant son in a constant flow of softly accented Spanish. She told him stories and legends, bits of folklore and gossip, anything to relieve the tedious repetition of her work.

Young Donner never played with the neighborhood kids. Few visitors came to the family's peeling stucco bungalow. It was rarer still that mother and son ventured outside. As a result, Donner was a full five years old before he found out that English wasn't just a language spoken on TV. He learned the lesson the hard way-- on his very first day at school. He looked so American, with his blond hair, blue eyes, and rosy complexion, but all that came out of his mouth was "beaner" talk.

The white kids hated him. The Mexican kids hated him. The handful of blacks and Chinese just thought he was too funny for words. Young Donner spent the whole day fighting one kid after another. At the end of the day, he dragged himself home determined to learn American even if it meant that he never spoke to his mother again.

His teacher was the television set. In a way, it became his home, too. Every evening he escaped into the ordered, happy world of "The Donna Reed Show," "Father Knows Best," and a dozen other similar shows. People had whole families on TV. They lived on pretty, tree-lined streets and washed their hands before dinner. The mother, regardless of the show, always wore earrings and high heels. Best of all, nothing really bad ever happened on TV sitcoms. Sure, the characters had their problems, but no matter how dire they were, everything seemed to turn out all right before the last commercial.

Donner's favorite was "Leave It to Beaver." No one on earth was more wholesomely American than Wally Cleaver. Wally was a charmed soul. Donner could remember thinking that Wally Cleaver could have beaten an old lady over the head with an ice axe, and everything would still have been all right as long as he shuffled over to his father, hands in pockets and looking toothy and cute, and said, "Gee, Dad."

So Donner watched, and learned. The years passed quickly, undistinguished by their sameness. Young Donner continued to fight by day and watch television by night, tuning out his mother's incessant babbling as he concentrated on the tiny flickering screen. It didn't take him long to learn American. He knew even then that the language had always been inside him. It was just a matter of getting his tongue to shape the words. He tried desperately to forget Spanish at the same time, but he just couldn't force it out of his mind. He finally had to admit defeat. It was with him for life, like some hideous birthmark that only he could see in the mirror.

At fifteen he left home, slipping quietly away one Sunday morning while his mother was at church. It wasn't anything he'd planned. He just woke up that morning knowing that it was time to go. He packed a few things in his gym bag and headed up the street, not bothering to close the door behind him. He didn't bother with a note, either. His mother would know he was gone for good when she saw the shattered picture frame on the TV and the smiling blond man's face torn and distorted under the shards of broken glass. And if she was dumb enough to think that was an accident, she only had to check the old Whitman's candy box where she kept the household money. Once she looked inside it, she'd know the truth for sure.

That very first night on his own, Donner got a lift from a lady in a Cadillac Eldorado. He remembered her even now, that bright and brittle blond hair, the folds of tanned, wrinkled skin around her neck, the way her carmine-tipped fingers drummed a nervous tattoo on the steering wheel.

She asked him what his name was. His lips started to form the sound, "Jose," but what came out instead was "Wally."

"Wally. That's cute."

"Gee, Ma'am, thanks," Donner had said.

It was the beginning.

She told him she felt sorry for him, a big, healthy-looking boy like himself all alone in the world like that. Her sympathy took the form of an invitation. She thought it might be nice if Donner stayed with her for a few days.

The few days turned into a month, and Donner spent it learning some new and interesting things about his body, things he'd only just suspected before. In retrospect, he figured the old hag had gotten more than her money's worth. The three grand that Donner fled with worked out to a hundred a day. He knew he was worth that and a whole lot more besides.

He kept moving from town to town. He found there was always someone willing to help him out, to put a little folding green in his jeans for the right kind of services rendered. Still, there were those rare times when the pickings got lean. So, like any good businessman, Donner branched out into another line of work. Armed robbery was what they called it in most places.

He killed for the first time in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, when a liquor store clerk made the fatal mistake of going for the sawed-off under the counter. The memory was still vivid, like some cherished instant replay. The thunderous sound of the gun, the funny pattern the blood made as it spread across the clerk's faded plaid shirt, and the look of surprise on his face before he pitched over backward into a display of discount wines.

"We're ready," Consuela called out, interrupting Donner's thoughts. He forced a smile. "Then what are we waiting for?" He tossed away his cigarette and slid open the Econoline's passenger door. The interior looked comfortable and inviting, with shag carpet on the floor and plush-covered captain's chairs instead of the usual seats. All the side and rear windows had amber-tinted glass. If any of the Maderas thought that was a little odd, no one mentioned it.

"Let's go," Donner said, beckoning them. "It's a long way to the border."

With one fleeting backward glance at the shack, Consuela led her family across the litter-strewn yard. They carried their few possessions in cloth-wrapped bundles. Miguel had made an unsuccessful attempt to hide the family dog in the voluminous folds of his shirt, but the animal's slat-ribbed body kept squirming while its pink tongue lapped playfully at the Mexican's pudgy face. Donner decided to let it go. Why make a fuss now, when he could just as easily take care of it after they cleared the border? The Maderas filed into the van in respectful silence. When everyone was seated, Donner slid the door shut and turned the key in the lock.

He concentrated on his driving as he eased the van down the narrow, winding mountain road. There weren't many street lights or signs in this part of Chihuahua. Some of the out-of-the-way villages he'd been in didn't have so much as a single paved road. It was amazing how out of touch these people were, he thought, as if the twentieth century had passed them by without even bothering to wave. Still, it made his job easier. He'd tried the border towns when he'd first started. But they were too Americanized, too wary and hard-assed, too used to running their own cons with little time left over to listen to his. Donner quickly realized that if you wanted to peddle a dream, you had to go where people still believed in them.

When he finally nosed the van onto the highway, Donner pulled out a bottle of tequila from beneath the seat. Behind him the Maderas were singing like a bunch of kids on a camping trip. They sang songs about love, revolution, death, and the Blessed Virgin. The constant rise and fall of their voices was beginning to grate on his nerves.

"Here's something to shorten the road a bit," he said, passing a straw-wrapped bottle back to the old man. Donner grinned as he heard the cork pop. "Let's drink a toast," he suggested, "to a new and better life in America."

"I'm sorry," Consuela said apologetically, "but spirits disagree with me. And my sisters are not yet old enough for such things."

"But you must," Donner insisted. "Surely your stomach is not as delicate as that. After all, this is a toast, an occasion of great honor and seriousness. Of course, if it means nothing to you..." He fell silent, as if he were suddenly overwhelmed by disappointment.

"All right," the girl conceded. "Just this once, in honor of the occasion."

Donner watched them pass the bottle in the rear-view mirror. It worked every time. All you had to do was appeal to a Mexican's sense of pride, and you could get him to do anything. By the time the tequila had gone full circle, the old man's head had slumped to his chest. The rest of the Maderas passed out a few seconds later. Donner heard the bottle hit the carpeted floor with a thud. The skinny yellow dog rose off his haunches and lapped up the last few drops before they soaked into the rug. A moment later he toppled over, too, his big brown eyes glazed and shining.

"Potent stuff," Donner chuckled. "Didn't anyone ever teach you shitheads not to drink with strangers?" Laughing, he goosed the van up to sixty. He was on the main highway now, only about an hour and a quarter shy of the border. Considering how much chloral hydrate he'd put in the tequila, it looked like the Maderas were going to miss their arrival in America.

Donner leaned back in his seat. It felt good to have the wind on his face and nothing but the clear, empty road up ahead. He teased a Winston out of the pack, lit up, and took a long, satisfying drag. His life had really changed a lot in the past few months. He could still remember how surprised he'd been when the first letter came. The way the thick wad of bills had spilled out of the envelope to form a ragged green pile across his threadbare living room rug. It was more money than he'd ever seen at one time, and the letter promised a great deal more.

The letter itself was short, simple, and businesslike. In return for all this sudden wealth, all he had to do was supply his anonymous employer with women. 242 women, to be exact. Specifications were given as to age and general physical attributes, but the type required would be very hard to find. Basically the guy wanted pretty women. That wasn't too difficult to understand.

There was only one catch to the deal. Donner couldn't take women whose sudden disappearance would cause a big stir. In the letter his would-be employer suggested that he do most of his recruiting in Mexico, as they tended to be a bit more lax down there in the matter of missing persons. He informed Donner that arrangements had been made for him to cross and recross the border without the hassle of having his vehicle inspected. The final page of the letter gave detailed instructions on crossing points, times, even what lane to get in so that he could always be sure of connecting with a simpatico border patrolman. Obviously, a great deal of money and time had already been spent on smoothing the way for this cross-border commute. Donner was even more impressed when he found the keys to a brand-new twelve-passenger van taped inside the envelope, along with a registration and a bill of sale, both in his name.

Donner had gone to the window and lifted the curtain slightly to peer outside. The van was parked right out front. He checked the license number against the registration. That was it, all right. What made these people so damned sure of themselves? Why had they picked him out of the thousands of people who lived in Santa Fe?

Another thought occurred to him. What was to prevent him from taking the money and the van and splitting for parts unknown'? The thought gave him a warm feeling. Why not'? Anyone trusting enough to give a stranger wheels deserved to be ripped off.

The whirlwind of ideas in his brain was interrupted by the shrill ringing of the telephone. Donner hesitated for a moment, annoyed, then lifted the receiver.

"You've read the letter?" the caller asked. The voice was dipped and cool, devoid of emotion.

"I read it," Donner said.

"Good. Now you have two choices," the caller continued smoothly. "One, you may enter my employ and partake of its numerous benefits. Or secondly, you may choose to turn down my generous terms. In that case, all you need do is place the envelope and its contents under the sun visor on the driver's side of the van. Someone will come by within the hour to drive the vehicle away. On the other hand, if you do accept my offer, I'll expect you to start work today."

"I really haven't thought..."

"Then think now," the cool voice said. "By the way, if you've been contemplating another alternative of your own devising, I suggest you put it out of your mind. The world is a big place, Mr. Donner, but not nearly big enough." With that final cautionary note, the line went dead.

Donner drew a deep breath and gently cradled the receiver. He was surprised to find that his hands were shaking. Any thoughts he'd had about disappearing with the van and money were gone. The man on the phone didn't sound like anyone to mess around with.

It only took a few minutes to decide. He would take the job. It was too damned good for him to pass up. The more Donner thought about it, the more he realized that this was just the kind of work he'd been cut out for from the very start. He had all the qualifications-- the looks, the charm, and his fluent Spanish. And the fact that he killed without hesitation or remorse would help, too. Combine all of that with the way he felt about Mexicans, and it added up to a perfect job for Wally Donner.

He experienced a momentary chill, as if an icy hand had gently reached out to caress him. It had just occurred to him that someone else must know virtually everything about him. And that someone else was the man he'd just decided to work for.

The chill passed. After a few days, Donner found himself caught up in his work, loving the sense of power it gave him, the way he could alter lives and destinies with a few nice words and a convincing smile.

Donner never gave much thought to what might happen to the women after he delivered them or to why his employer needed exactly 242. When it came right down to it, he really didn't care. He had his own future to think about. A future of wealth and respect, as far removed from the shabby wretchedness of his childhood as he could get.

Up ahead Donner could see the bright lights of Juarez. It was a border town like dozens of others, a little bigger than most, but still nothing more than bars, whorehouses, and shops filled with overpriced junk. The glaring pastel neon was an invitation to youthful tourists to lose their cherries and their wallets at the same time, with maybe a dose of clap thrown in as a souvenir of sunny Mexico.

He passed through the border checkpoint without incident. The grinning patrolman just went through the motions and then waved him through. Donner wondered as he often had before just how much those guys at the border were getting for their part in the operation. His anonymous employer really did know how to spread the green stuff around.

Stateside, Donner got caught up in the congested traffic of El Paso. Once he broke free, he sped on into New Mexico. He was in the home stretch now. Forty more miles to the rendezvous point and then back to the motel for a couple of cold ones and eight hours of well-deserved rest.

Donner was going so fast that he almost didn't see the hitchhiker. But a glimpse of wind-blown blond hair and long, tapering legs made him slam on the brakes. He poked his head out the window before backing up, just to make sure she was alone.

"Need a lift?" Donner smiled down at her.

"If you're headed toward Santa Fe, I do." The girl returned his smile. She looked to be eighteen, maybe twenty, with a pretty, dimple-chinned face framed by a tangle of honey-blond hair. She was wearing cutoffs that showed off her smooth, tanned legs and a plain white T-shirt that emphasized the size and shape of her breasts, especially where the fabric clung to them beneath the straps of her backpack.

"Climb aboard," Donner invited her. "I'm driving straight through to Santa Fe." As she circled around toward the passenger door, Donner took a quick look back at the unconscious Mexicans. The rear of the van was too dark to see anything more than indistinct shapes and shadows. Everything would be fine as long as the girl didn't get overly inquisitive about the back of the van.

"Thanks a lot," she said as the van picked up speed again. "I've been out there for hours."

"Guess you're a pretty lucky girl," Dormer said. "What's your name?"

"Karen Lockwood," she said distractedly as the van turned onto a bumpy dirt road. "You... you're sure you're going to Santa Fe?"

"Absolutely," Donner assured her. "This is just a shortcut. It's the best way to avoid all the heavy traffic around Salinas."

The girl nodded tensely. She wanted to believe him, Donner realized. She was tired and lost, and she wanted to believe he was helping her. It worked every time. Give them a dream, and they'll keep on dreaming, even while you're sticking the knife in their ribs.

"This is pretty desolate country," he said casually. "I have to admit I'm a little surprised to find you out here all alone. Not that it's any of my business," he added quickly. "I guess I'm just a natural born worrier."

"Don't waste it on me," the girl said, grinning. Her right hand darted up, and a split second later it was wrapped around the bone handle of a wicked-looking bowie knife. She held it out in front of her, her arm rigid and rock-steady. The curving steel blade gleamed in the moonlight. "Don't get nervous," she told Donner. "I only use it as a means of self-preservation. I like to travel solo. Been all over the Southwest on my own." She slipped the bowie back into its sheath hidden away under her free-flowing curls.

"Ever have to use it?" Donner asked, his jaw clenching.

"Once or twice." She smiled. "Do you think we could stop for a minute once we get back on the interstate? At a gas station or a diner, anywhere I could pick up a Coke. My throat's starting to feel like an empty cactus."

"The first place we see," Donner promised. He eased up on the gas and reached down under his seat. "Try a shot of this," he offered, handing her a straw-wrapped bottle. It was just like the one the Maderas had passed around before the sudden urge to sleep came upon them.

"What is it?" she asked warily.

"Santa Maria tequila. Alvaro grows wild around there, so the locals make their own home brew. It's strong stuff, but you look like you can handle it."

"You'd better believe it," she said, grinning. She pulled the cork and took a long swallow. Less than a minute later, she was slumped against Donner's shoulder. He leaned over and eased the bottle out of her hand. No point in letting good liquor spill all over the place.

Up ahead, he noticed a deep arroyo about twenty yards from the road. Slowing down to twenty, he nosed the Econoline toward it. When he was as close as he could get, he cut the engine and climbed out. It was time for him to lighten his load, and this was as good a place as any. After all, he was only being paid to deliver women.

After removing the razor-edged bowie, Donner picked the girl up and tossed her in the back. "Pleasant dreams, Karen Lockwood," he whispered. Then he dragged out Miguel, the old lady, and the old man. When the three of them were lying in the arroyo, out of sight now from anyone who might drive by, Donner unholstered the Blackhawk and screwed on a homemade silencer. "Welcome to America," he said, smiling. Then slowly, carefully, he put a single shot through each of their heads.

Donner was too busy to notice the dog. It crawled out of the van and scrambled for the shelter of the rocks. There it stayed, quiet and still until the Econoline's taillights disappeared over the horizon. Only then did the dog come out to investigate. It circled the bodies twice, scratched at the ground, and then lifted its muzzle to howl balefully at the moon.