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than a cart track. The limousine was gone.
    A flight of yellow and green finches swept past ahead of him, dipped low over the road. Garson quickened his pace, seeking shade. The cart road narrowed, became a wide trail crowded by jungle growth—now shady, now baked in sun glare. A vulture flapped into the air as he approached, settled behind him, waddled off the road. Garson sniffed at the smell of carrion, slapped at the gnats buzzing around his moist neck. He stopped, listened for the limousine, for the sound of danger. Nothing but insect noises.
    Loneliness crowded in upon him. He stared into the underbrush.
    The vultures would pick a body clean in a day. No one would ever find it. Is Choco pushing me into a trap?
    Garson paused, looked back the way he had come, then again up the road.
    But then—Antone Luac—and my name on the story!
    He shifted his coat to his left arm to conceal the pistol at his belt, continued up the road, moving more slowly, oppressed by the heat, wishing for a breath of wind. Now and again he paused, listening. Only insect sounds.
    The road topped a rise, angled downward. It dipped into a heavily wooded area lush with a hothouse smell. He forded a small stream still muddy with the tracks of the limousine, glimpsed an expanse of water through the trees ahead.
    The lake?
    He rounded a corner, came full into a yucca-walled barrio with the lake beyond. The limousine was parked under an open shed. There was no sign of Anita Luac or El Grillo.
    Two hollow-flanked dogs came yapping out at him. A skinny Indian woman in a brown skirt and heavy red blouse ran out of a mud hut in the barrio, kicked the dogs aside, cursed at them.
    Garson walked up to her, said, “El Grillo?”
    She spoke in a burst of Spanish too fast for Garson to follow.
    Running footsteps sounded from Garson’s right. El Grillo trotted around a corner of the barrio, slowed to a walk when he saw Garson, nodded. “ Buenas tardes, Señor. ”
    Garson glanced up, noted that the sun was past the meridian. He said, “ Buenas tardes. ” He was struck by the gaunt look of El Grillo. The man wore a white shirt, rope-belted white trousers with ragged cuffs, open huaraches on heavily calloused feet. His face was shaded under a wide-brimmed straw sombrero.
    The Indian woman spoke to El Grillo in a high whine.
    He cursed at her in Spanish, kicked one of the snuffling dogs, smiled at Garson, and spoke in English with only the slightest trace of an accent. “You made good time.”
    “I didn’t have any reason to loiter.” Garson looked at the lake, saw buildings on a point of land across the water. “Is that the hacienda?”
    El Grillo spoke without turning. “ Sí, Señor. ”
    Garson looked down at El Grillo. “You’re the uncle of Eduardo Gomez, aren’t you?”
    El Grillo blinked. Garson had the feeling that the man tensed.
    “There is no one by the name of Eduardo Gomez around here, Señor .” He shook his head. “There is no such person.”
    Garson recalled his premonition at the hotel.
    “I go with God.”
    He said, “What happened to Eduardo? Did somebody drop something on him?”
    “You ask too many questions, Señor Garson.” El Grillo turned to the Indian woman, spoke in a harsh voice. She went into the hut.
    “Is anybody likely to see me here?” asked Garson.
    “You must wait until dark,” said El Grillo. “The hacienda, as you can see, is on a little peninsula. There is a dangerous swamp behind it. We will go in a canoe.”
    The sound of a galloping horse came from beyond the barrio. El Grillo took Garson’s arm, hurried him into the hut past the Indian woman working at a charcoal fire. They entered a dark sleeping room. The place smelled heavily of perspiration, urine, charcoal smoke, rotting things. A narrow, glassless window opened on thick green leaves. Beneath it was an ancient iron bedstead covered by grimy serapes. Two reed chairs stood against the wall beside the bed.
    “You must wait quietly until dark,