Crawford felt his whole body grow rigid with a palpable jerk. He almost turned his head to see who had spoken. A muffled sound escaped him as he realized it had only been in his mind. The brasada could do that to a man, this way. In bed and in jail we know our friends? Sure. Maybe it was Aforismo. What did it matter.
The hooty owl stopped for a while, and there were only small rustlings in the underbrush. Then the sound again, returning. A sibilant, crushed, snapping sound.
I am a very dangerous man, Crawford.
This time he did not stiffen. It jumped through his brain so vividly he could have sworn it was spoken. Yet he did not stiffen. All right. So maybe it was Whitehead. All right.
Moonlight spilled through his thicket suddenly, and he realized how long he had lain there. The rising moon made skeletal monsters of the chaparral bushes across the yellow river of the game trail, only adding to the haunted tension filling Crawford. Thoughts moved uncontrollably through his head now.
Please, no violence. I was born for laughter and wassail and song—
No. Not Jacinto. Anybody else. Even Wallace Tarant. But not big, fat, grumbling Hyacinth of the River. The gnats had found Crawford again. He dared not move as they buzzed fitfully about his face, stinging, maddening. He closed his eyes, gritting his teeth. Then he opened them again. That would not do.
He thought he would go crazy. His hands twitched with the impulse to slap at them. His body cried out for movement to escape their insane buzzing. Each sting made him jerk spasmodically.
Bueno—
Sure, Bailey. Sure. Crawford could imagine Bailey doing that sort of thing. All right, Bailey. Come on, Bailey. Let's get it over with, Bailey.