Weekend - By Christopher Pike Page 0,8

age guess. He seemed to have come out of nowhere. The uneven ground and dry shrubs at his dusty, sandaled feet did little to slow his floating gait. A hundred feet directly over his head, a blackbird circled. A minute, and he would reach them.

"Who is he?" Park whispered.

"He's Indian, maybe... He has that look. Maybe he's a holy man."

"A what?"

"Not like at church. A sorcerer."

"Like Don Juan?"

"Yes. Treat him with respect. I'll do the talking."

"Good. I don't speak Spanish."

Sol threw away his cigarette. The man was fifty yards away and the next moment he was standing before them. The blackbird had vanished. Their visitor's eyes seemed to focus through them, or rather, they appeared turned inward, as though he saw them from an unusual perspective. Park felt as though he was being subjected to a thorough scrutiny. However, it was not an uncomfortable feeling.

"Puedo ayudarle, senor?" Sol said.

"Has traido ayuda y odio contigo," the man answered. Park had expected a dry rasp but the voice was smooth and melodious. A closer inspection of his face revealed lines from long years, yet his skin retained a surprisingly soft sheen. A flawlessly straight, but at ease, posture contributed to his youthful bearing.

"What's going on?" Park muttered.

"I asked if we could help him," Sol replied. He seemed unable to break away from the man's eyes. They were strangely fascinating.

"And?"

"He said something like, we've brought help and hate with us."

"Great. If only we had Carlos Castaneda with us to figure that one out." But though he spoke in jest, the man's words had sent a cold shiver through his spine; quite a feat in this heat.

"Shut up," Sol said. He spoke to the man: "Hay problema?"

The man gestured south with his covered left hand, which perhaps held something, hidden beneath the folds of his gown. "Paloma petirrojo. Culebra. Culebra. Veneno. Veneno."

Park noted Sol's right hand sliding slowly towards the pocket where he carried his switchblade. Sol had an antenna for danger more sensitive than NORAD's first strike-detection network. Nice voice or not, Park took a step back. Sol said, "No comprendemos. Explique usted!"

In answer, the man jerked free a blackbird, letting it fly in their faces. Sol had his knife in hand and open in an instant, but the bird did not attack them. It screeched loudly as it wheeled into the sky, vanishing south into the glare of the sun. Trying to settle his pounding heart, Park noticed Flynn coming up the road from the direction the bird had disappeared. For a moment he imagined Flynn had grown wings and a beak. The sun must be short-circuiting his brain. Rubbing his eyes, he snapped at Sol. "What the hell was that for?"

"Cuervo. Aguila, Cuelbra veneno. Petirrojo," the man said, undisturbed by the blade pointed his way.

Sol lowered it in measured steps, frowning.

"I asked him if something was wrong. And he rattles on about a dove, an eagle, a robin, and a snake.

You saw what happened when I asked him to explain."

"Don't put your knife away," Park advised, the man smiling faintly at this remark. Despite his fear, he did not feel a danger from the man per se. But that damn bird could have pecked their eyes out. He asked,

"What was that last thing he said?"

"More of the same: raven, eagle, snake, robin."

"Wait a second. Does he mean robin the bird, or Robin the person?"

"Robin the bird. I don't think there is a Robin name in Spanish."

"Ask him anyway."

Sol pressed a button. His blade vanished. But he kept the knife handy. "Tu conoces a Robin Carlton?"

"Hermana," he said, holding up one hand. "Hermano," he added, pointing to where the bird had disappeared.

"Sister... brother," Sol muttered. "He doesn't know her."

"Ask him if she's going to be all right."

"I said, he doesn't know her."

"Ask him if he knows where we can get our flat fixed."

But the old man was already speaking, shaking his head sadly. "Veneno. Culebra. Veneno. Culebra."

"I don't suppose those were directions to a Shell Station."

Sol was wary, puzzled. "He's going on about poison and snakes."

"I wonder why."

He probably shouldn't have asked. An unmistakable rattle started in the dry bush ten feet at his back.

Park looked - and looked again - and found a snake slithering right for his foot. He knew he couldn't outrun a grizzly, but he'd never read about rattlesnakes. It didn't matter, anyway. His trusty, well-educated reflexes had him frozen on the spot. It took a hard shove from Sol to get him out of the fang's crosshairs.