“I’m fine. It’s the general’s blood.” McCall heard her quivering voice as the roaring in his own ears faded away. He saw her throat convulse as she swallowed hard. “I sh-shot him. What about the other one? Is he d-dead?” She kept staring at him, as though she couldn’t bring herself to look at the three men lying helter-skelter on the hotel-room floor. Reaction was setting in, he realized; in another minute she’d be shaking too hard to walk. And he didn’t think he was in any shape to carry her.

“Don’t know,” McCall said. “And I don’t think we ought to waste time finding out, do you?” He was pretty sure the guy he’d clobbered with the rifle butt was only out cold-no way of telling for how long. No way of telling how many more of the general’s men might be waiting for them outside, either. Or who else might have heard the gunshots, and how long it would take for someone to decide to call the cops-or get brave enough and come to investigate themselves. “Like you said-we’d best get the hell out of here.”

He was already pulling on his pants, barely aware of how cold and stiff and wet they were. He glanced at Ellie, who was still standing motionless, staring down at the general’s body. He started to say something, then realized it was her clothes she was looking at, and that the general was sprawled on top of them. He tossed her his shirt. “Here-put this on. Forget the rest.”

If we make it to the Volkswagen we’ll be okay, he thought. It wasn’t far to his friend’s place. Al might be home by now, and if he wasn’t, well…under the circumstances, McCall didn’t think his old diving buddy would mind a little breaking and entering.

His shirt hit Ellie about mid-thigh. He watched her struggle with the buttons for a second or two, then abandon the job and just wrap the two halves of the shirt across herself, ignoring the blood that was smeared over the upper half of her body. He felt the tension in his chest ease a little bit when she did that; it had been a hard thing to look at, even knowing the blood wasn’t hers.

“Let’s go,” she said breathlessly.

He nodded; the VW’s keys were already in his hand. Flattening himself against the wall, he fingered the curtain back from the window and took a cautious peek. Tropical Storm Paulette had moved on; the darkness was thinning, leaving only the brightest stars to wink in and out among the remnants of storm clouds. He couldn’t see anyone moving around in the courtyard, or hear any shouts or running footsteps. But when he stuck his head out the door he could hear hushed and excited voices farther down the way, and see the pale rectangles of opened doors.

“Coast is clear,” he whispered. “For the moment. Hurry-”

“Wait-” One second she was there, pressed against his side, and the next she was gone.

“What the hell are you-” That was all he had time for before she was back.

“Couldn’t very well leave without my chocolate,” she said breathlessly, holding up the beach bag. “Or this,” she added, as with the last word she jammed it onto her head-the hot-pink sun visor with the word Acapulco embroidered across the band in rainbow colors.

He rolled his eyes skyward as he caught a glimpse of her smile-or a feeble memory of it. Then they were running, splashing through puddles, running together through the gray dawn as the Day of the Dead awoke with slamming doors, and cautious whispers rose to shouts behind them.

“I just want to know one thing,” McCall panted when they were in the car and he’d coaxed the VW’s engine to grudging, wheezing life. Hunched over the wheel and still breathing hard, he tore his eyes from the alley’s potholes and puddles long enough to throw her a look. “What in the hell have you got in that thing that’s worth risking your life for?”

Ellie was concentrating on breaking apart the chocolate bar she’d just unwrapped. “Video camera,” she said as he took the half she offered him. She paused to lick her fingers. “I’ve got it all on tape-the whole operation…the general’s part in it.” The look she gave him was bleak and frightened, and he knew suddenly that even though the blood on her body wasn’t hers, she had wounds on her soul. “It’s the only proof we’ve got that I didn’t just kill a Mexican government official in cold blood. If we can just get it to someone… Someone we can trust.”

“I’ll get you there,” McCall said. It felt like a vow to him.

Fifteen minutes later he was wishing with all his heart that the video camera in Ellie’s sun visor was still operational. He’d have given just about anything to have been able to record the look on his diving buddy Al Loman’s face when he opened his front door, just as dawn was breaking in all its rosy tropical splendor, to find the two of them half-naked and bloody on his doorstep.

McCall was avoiding her. Ellie was certain of that, just as certain as she was that he’d deny it if she accused him of such a thing. And it was true that she had no proof at all, other than an uncharacteristic heaviness in her spirit…a deep and mystifying sense of loss.

It had been more than twenty-four hours since they’d arrived at the American consulate in Merida, late in the evening in the midst of the eerie and uniquely Mexican celebration of death known as Dia de los Muertos. Postponed by Tropical Storm Paulette, the annual festival had been in full swing, with church bells tolling, streets and shops decorated with papier-mâché skeletons and grinning skulls, and candlelight processions winding their way to local cemeteries for all-night vigils of respect and remembering. For some, the ancient ritual was a solemn occasion; for others-including most of the tourists-it was simply an excuse for a party.

It had seemed odd to Ellie-almost surreal-to be riding in a taxi through streets awash in a magnificent red-gold sunset and filled with carefree people, all singing and dancing and calling out to one another and consuming enormous quantities of pulque. Death had come too close to her-not the papier-mâché make-believe kind, but the real thing. She could feel it still-warm blood no shower could ever wash away…cold terror and yawning black emptiness. She had shuddered and shuddered, gazing at the chanting celebrants and dancing skeletons through the windows of the taxi, and had longed for McCall to notice and put his arms around her and comfort her. But he’d been lost in his own reflections and hadn’t seemed to notice, and for some reason she hadn’t been able to bring herself to tell him how much she needed him.

It’s been a long and stressful day, she’d thought. We’re both exhausted…probably a little in shock. She realized now that his withdrawal from her had begun long before that, almost from the moment they’d arrived on his friend Al’s doorstep, bloody and barely clothed.

Things had happened so fast after that. She and McCall had been whisked into showers and borrowed clothes and then off to the airstrip and onto a private plane for the long flight across the Yucatan to Merida. During all of that time they’d had no chance whatsoever to talk, no time to be alone together. McCall, of course, had been in constant and friendly company with his friend Al, leaving Ellie with plenty of time to reflect on the fact that she’d just shot two people.

The blur of activity had continued after their arrival at the consulate. There’d been a party in progress there, too, and the sudden appearance of two American citizens in desperate need of assistance hadn’t exactly been a welcome interruption. Once Ellie’s status and the full urgency of their situation had been made clear, she and McCall had been hustled up back stairways and installed in separate rooms and told to “get some rest,” while an endless series of phone calls was begun and the machinery of government agency interaction set in motion.

Morning had brought the news that General Reyes wasn’t dead after all. He and his two lieutenants were said to be in a local hospital, the two gunshot victims in critical condition, the third man suffering from a concussion. Ellie had mixed feelings about that. Based on the videotaped evidence she had provided, the three had been placed under arrest pending further investigation.

Ellie had spoken on the phone with her supervisor and with her partner Ken Burnside, still in Miami and recovering nicely from his emergency surgery. McCall had spoken with some acquaintances who would check in on Inky. They’d been questioned intensively, together and separately, by both American and Mexican government officials. Arrangements had been made to fetch Ellie’s overnighter from the hotel at Lago Bacalar; there was no word, yet, as to whether it or the money she’d hidden in it had been recovered.

It was evening, now, and Ellie hadn’t seen much of McCall since the midday meal, which had been served around two o’clock, according to Mexican custom. She found that she missed him with an intensity that astonished her. She felt depressed and restless, and filled with a strange, indefinable fear. She wanted desperately-needed-to be alone with him, to talk with him. She knew that something had happened to her in the course of the past few days, something that would change her and affect her life forever. Like a child waking up in strange surroundings, she needed to be held and soothed and told that everything was going to be all right.

But before she could allow herself to go in search of him, there was one more thing she had to do. She told herself she’d waited so long to call her parents because she wanted to be sure they were home, all the farm chores finished and both of them snug in the house. It could be cold in Iowa, this late in the fall. She wondered if they’d had snow.

She couldn’t explain why her palms were slippery with sweat when she picked up the phone, or why her fingers shook when she dialed.