The Lord of Opium(126)
There was a chicken-wire barrier enclosing the elevator shaft, and Matt tried to haul himself up, but the openings were too small. His feet didn’t fit, and he could only cling with his fingers. Cienfuegos tried to boost Listen into a position to climb, but the structure of the barrier was against them. She wasn’t strong enough to hold on. The jefe turned, thrusting Matt and the little girl behind him, and took aim at the soldiers.
He brought two down, but a third one shot him. It was an old-fashioned gun with metal bullets, and the impact threw Cienfuegos against the barrier. He raised his weapon and was struck by several more bullets. He crumpled to the floor. Listen screamed. The soldier took aim at Matt and a voice shouted, “Stop!”
It was Dr. Angel. “Stop! He’s the only one who can open the door! That’s El Patrón’s clone!”
The soldiers halted. They looked back. “We only take orders from our patrón,” one said.
“You don’t have a patrón anymore,” Dr. Angel said. “If you want to survive, join us. If not”—she looked upward—“the Farm Patrol will take care of you.”
Dr. Marcos came up behind her. His head was bleeding, but he seemed to have recovered. “Take the boy,” he ordered. “Leave the girl and the eejit.”
“Stay with him,” Matt whispered, hoping that Listen would, for once, follow orders. She did. She fell over Cienfuegos’s body and clung to his shirt, which was beginning to ooze blood. Matt forced himself to look away. He couldn’t think about it now. He couldn’t fall apart.
“I thought you were on your way to the Scorpion Star,” he said as soldiers shoved him down the hallway.
“We had to turn back at the border,” said Dr. Angel. “Someone reactivated the lockdown, but no matter. There are worse things than becoming the Lady of Opium.”
The door glowed faintly with residual heat, but the mark of the scorpion was still visible. “Let it cool,” Matt said. “If you burn my hand, nothing’s going to happen.” The charred lumps of the two eejits had been kicked aside, and the body of Happy Man was slumped against a wall. The other eejits were waiting for orders. “What happened to Glass Eye?” Matt asked.
“You killed him,” Dr. Marcos said. “The bright light sent his brain into shock. Half of it was nuts and bolts anyway.” He splashed water from a bottle against the door to cool it faster.
“You tried to cut through this wall before,” stated Matt.
“Father did,” said Dr. Angel. “He used up more than a hundred eejits, but that was in the good old days when we had more than we needed. Now, with the border closed, we have to treat them like pampered, pedigreed cats. Good food, new houses, rest periods.” She shook her head over the foolishness of it all. “I suppose we have you to thank for that, Matt.”
“You’re not calling me patrón anymore, I see.”
Dr. Angel laughed. “We’re the patróns now. If you’re good, we’ll let you live, and maybe that foul-mouthed little imp, too. How did you train an eejit to kill? Father was never able to do it.”
“The eejit has to have been a soldier or policeman before,” said Matt, who realized that the doctor hadn’t recognized Cienfuegos.
“Interesting,” said Dr. Angel. Matt could see who the dominant member was in this family. He wouldn’t give much for Dr. Marcos’s chances if he tried to order his sister around. Neither of them seemed to be grieving for their father.
“I think it’s cool enough,” said one of the soldiers. “What happens if one of us touches that scorpion?”
“Try it and see,” said Dr. Angel, but the soldier, who’d seen lightning come out of the wall, was in no mood to experiment.
Matt flexed his hands. He was a little frightened himself of touching that wall. Who knew what changes all that fire power had caused? But the sooner he satisfied the greed of these doctors, the sooner he could get back to Listen. He would not think about Cienfuegos. Not yet. Not if he wanted to stay sane.
He put his hand against the scorpion. Ants crawled over his skin. His heart shuddered with the impact of the scanner. And then the reaction faded. The door in the wall slid back, and he heard a collective gasp behind him. Dr. Angel shone a flashlight inside.
Thousands of gold coins formed a path down a long, dark hallway. They winked and glittered as the flashlight in the doctor’s hand trembled. The soldiers had their own lights, and soon a dozen or more beams were illuminating the walls and discovering side chambers.
On either side of the door were the grim statues of Mayan warriors, not genuine ones, of course, for none had survived the Spanish conquest. These statues were copied from wall paintings. They were beautifully done, their heads long and slightly deformed from the way Mayan infants were bound to their mothers’ carrying boards. Their noses were large and aristocratically curved. Their ears were heavy with turquoise and gold. They wore loincloths of jaguar, and the teeth of jaguars hung about their necks. They were pok-a-tok players.