Westlake, Donald E - Novel 43 (41 page)

           
Vernon
saw the Gurkhas, saw them holding the
machine guns, and moaned as he dropped to his knees, unaware of the journalists
staring at him in astonishment. “No,” he said, too late.

 
          
“The
last one,” Valerie said, tightening the final noose on the final neck.

           
“Good.”

 
          
The
hurried work finished, Valerie for the first time had a chance to actually
look
at these things. She held a small
statue in each hand, the identical little evil creatures capering there with
the nooses around their necks. “These—” she said, and frowned. “Are you sure
these are real?”

 
          
“Van
parked there, in from the blacktop road. See it?”

 
          
She
saw it, partway into the green jungle, white roof gleaming, front of the
vehicle pointed west, away from the road. “This must be it!”

 
          
“And
the visitors are here already.”

 
          
Valerie
clutched tightly to the Zotzilaha Chimalmans as the plane banked and dropped
low to the ground.

  
 
          
The
sound of a passing plane was drowned by the chatter. Nine^ millimeter bullets
stuttered across the clearing, chopping Scottie’s legs out from under him and
punching Vernon’s stomach three times, in a line just above his belt. People
screamed and ran, and three villagers fell bleeding.

 
          
The
plane was louder, not passing after all. Disturbed at their work, the false
Gurkhas looked up as the plane roared through the clearing, sideways, right
wingtip pointing down at them as though to say, “You. I see you.”

  
 
          
“Throw
them!” Kirby yelled. “Throw them!”

 
          
Valerie
was too busy to answer. She was lying on her side, against the side wall of the
plane, elbow on the fixed part of the window. As quickly as she could, she
pushed the little statues one at a time through the window flap.

  
 
          
Zotzilaha
Chimalman. Out of the plane he fell, time after time, swathed in cotton
material, the cloth pulling away in the breeze of his falling. The noose around
his neck was made of four strings, tied to four edges of the cloth; enough of a
parachute for such a little devil.

  
 
          
Two
false Gurkhas lifted their Sterlings, but the plane was already through the
clearing and gone, circling. The people were running into the jungle, the
journalists lay flat in the sunlight. Creatures floated down out of the sky.

  
 
          
Cynthia
made a hard, tight circle through the air, left wing straight up and right wing
straight down, and once more she crashed through the clearing. More demons
plummeted from her side.

  
 
          
A
false Gurkha aimed his
Sterling
at one of the things parachuting toward him. He peered through the
metal arch of the foresight protector, focusing on the gray^brown figure in the
air. He recognized it. A great fright struck him and he stared, forgetting to
shoot.

 
          
Vernon
, curled in a tight ball around the agony in
his stomach, wept, and blamed the Colonel for everything.

  
 
          
A
false Gurkha clutched a statue out of the air, held it in his hand, stared at
it in disbelief. Dirt clung to it, as though it had just come from the grave;
some of the dirt was now on his hand. Suddenly, he flung the thing away. He
thought his hand was burning. Stepping back, his foot rolled on a statue on the
ground; it tried to trip him, bite him, bring him down. He shrieked, threw away
his
Sterling
, and ran.