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Señor ,” said El Grillo. He went out the single door, draped a serape in place over it. Garson heard him speak to the Indian woman. Presently, there came the sound of El Grillo talking to a man outside. A horse clop-clopped away.
    The stink of the room clung to Garson’s nostrils. Flies buzzed around his head. He sat down on one of the reed chairs, brought the empty revolver from his belt, wrapped it in his coat and tossed both onto the bed.
    I’m trusting myself to people with hidden motives , he thought. El Grillo isn’t doing this just for fifty pesos. Choco Medina isn’t helping because I hired him to do it. He glanced at his coat on the bed, thought of the revolver. Who took the bullets out of that thing?
    Garson stared around the room, wondered if there could be bullets hidden here. He inspected the tops of the rafters, peered under the bed, found nothing.
    Late in the afternoon, the Indian woman came silently past the serape of the door, handed Garson a plate containing four tortillas wrapped around beans.
    He ate in sudden hunger, surprised at the savor of the food.
    Afterward, he returned to the chair, turned it so that he could watch the march of the shadow across the muddy ledge of the window. He tried to doze, but couldn’t. Several times he stood up, walked to the blanket at the door, hesitated, returned to the window, tried to peer out into the jungle. He decided against stretching out on the bed, reflecting that he would probably share it with too many things that crawled and bit.
    And throughout the afternoon, uncertainty nagged at him—a feeling of menace that rode on the insect sounds, the stirring of the Indian woman in the other room, the occasional noises of horsemen in the barrio.
    There are too many unanswered questions here , he thought.
    Only the promise of breaking the Antone Luac story gave him the courage to stick it out.
    El Grillo came at dusk.
    “The fifty pesos, Señor .”
    Garson gave him the money.
    El Grillo pocketed it. “Now, we go.”
    Garson took his folded coat from the bed, felt the weight of the revolver in it, followed El Grillo outside.
    Why am I hanging onto an empty gun? he wondered. But the knowledge of it reduced his sense of uncertainty.
    It was warm in the dusk outside, with a clinging dampness to the air. Flying insects seemed to be everywhere.
    The Indian woman appeared beside El Grillo, screamed at him. He aimed a kick at her. She dodged, continued to scream. Garson heard the name, Raul .
    “She is afraid Raul will see us and shoot,” said El Grillo. He chuckled. “Raul will not see.”
    “Who’s Raul?”
    El Grillo remained silent. A breeze stirred around them, carrying the heavy odor of jasmine.
    Then: “Raul is a man of much anger, Señor . When he is angry, he is dangerous.”
    El Grillo turned, a ghostly white figure in the gloom, led the way around the barrio and onto a narrow footpath. The trail let out onto the lake—a muddy shore, root clusters dimly visible in the fading light. Swarms of mosquitoes arose from the water. Garson could distinguish the dark shadow of a dock to the right along the shore, the flickering of an open fire among the trees.
    “You must be very quiet,” whispered El Grillo. “The guards at the dock must not hear.” He dropped down to a dark platform, pulled a dugout from the shadows.
    Garson scrambled down beside him, found himself on a log raft that gurgled faintly and tipped with his weight.
    “You must sit very gently,” said El Grillo. He rocked the canoe with a fingertip to demonstrate its delicate balance. “The lake is full of caribe . If we go into the water we will die.”
    “Caribe?”
    “Little fish, Señor . When the caribe dine, a man loses his identity.”
    Caribe? wondered Garson. He looked at the luminous afterglow on the lake, put the thought of dangerous fish from his mind. “Won’t we be sitting ducks out there?”
    “We will follow the shore. No one will see.” He steadied the dugout,