The Daughter of Doctor Moreau(94)

There was another shot.

He assumed he was about to be riddled with bullets. But the second bullet didn’t hit him and neither did a third. Then he blinked and realized that it was Isidro who had shot him, but he now lay slumped by the French doors. The doctor was cradling a pistol against his chest and had shot the man, then been shot in turn.

Montgomery got up, wincing, and walked to the spot where Isidro lay. He checked for a pulse, but the man was dead. By his body there lay the beautiful, ivory handled pistol Lizalde had fancied. Montgomery spun around and went back to the doctor.

“All right, Moreau, let me see.”

“Nothing to see,” the doctor said, pushing his hand away.

“Moreau, I—”

Moreau’s eyes were filled with death, and his chest was a splatter of crimson. Montgomery clutched his hand, seeing as that was the only thing he could do for him.

“My daughter, watch over my daughter.”

“She’ll be fine, doctor.”

“Tell her I loved her. Carlota…”

That was the last thing the doctor said, the girl’s name spilling from his lips. The doctor’s Bible had toppled and fallen onto the floor. Montgomery did not believe in God, so he said no prayer for the man, simply closed his eyes and placed the Bible next to his body. Then he cursed under his breath and looked at his arm.

He discarded the rifle. He couldn’t use his right arm now, so he would have to do with the pistol and his left hand. He also had the knife he’d tucked at his belt. He rushed toward Moreau’s armoire and pulled out a shirt, ripping it and tying it around the wound. It was the best he could manage considering the circumstances. That and pray he didn’t bleed to death that night.

Five, he thought. With luck that means there’re five men left. He didn’t like those odds but they were not going to improve with him standing there, so he held his pistol up and walked out into the hallway.

He decided his best bet was to simply follow Lupe’s path to Carlota’s room and hope the three of them could run away before the other men came at them. But the racket they’d made had clearly been heard, and a door slammed open. A fellow pointed a pistol at him and shot. He was a bad shot and missed, the bullet hitting the wall behind Montgomery. He returned the favor with two quick bullets to the man’s chest.

Montgomery stood at the doorway and looked into the room, pistol at the ready. Hernando Lizalde stood by a bed and stared back at Montgomery in wild-eyed terror. He saw the bandage around the man’s arm and shoulder. There was a rifle on a table, by a window, but Hernando wasn’t anywhere close to it.

“Laughton,” he said, his voice raspy. “You live.”

“As do you.”

“I’m unarmed.”

“Where’s Carlota?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Get on your knees,” Montgomery said, still at the doorway.

“God, Laughton. Don’t shoot an unarmed man.”

“I intend to tie you down, you pig. Kneel!”

Hernando obeyed. “Now, Laughton, think carefully. Why should you be going against me? I have money. I can pay you. Moreau doesn’t have anything. You should be with me.”

“All I want is to take Carlota away from here,” he said and stepped into the room. Just as he did, he noticed Hernando’s eyes shifting to the right of him. On the floor a shadow moved.

Quick as he could, Montgomery tried to slam the door against the wall, attempting to fend off whoever was hiding behind it, but he felt the sharp sting of a knife driving into his injured arm. The man tried to pull the knife out, and Montgomery shot with his left hand, hitting his attacker in the groin. The man let out a terrible scream and collapsed.

When he looked up he saw Hernando Lizalde had rushed toward the table with the rifle and was holding it up, attempting to shoot Montgomery in the belly. Montgomery slammed himself back against the door and took a shot. The bullet struck Hernando’s face and knocked him to the floor.

Montgomery breathed in deeply and stuffed his gun back in the holster, looking at the mess that was his arm with the knife still sticking out of it. He pulled it out with a loud grunt. He stood there with the damn knife at his feet and his arm throbbing. Then he heard footsteps and whirled around to find Eduardo Lizalde looking in confusion at him.

The confusion lasted for a second. Then Lizalde was raising his gun. Montgomery shoved the young man against the door and twisted his hand, the motion knocking the weapon from his fingers.

He should have been able to subdue him, but Eduardo smashed a fist against Montgomery’s head in frustrated fury, and then he went for the injured arm. Pain roared through Montgomery’s body, and he stumbled back, wincing. Eduardo’s fists connected with his jaw, then his stomach. Montgomery, reeling from the agony of his injuries, could not block the blows. Blood was dripping down his forehead, down his face, staining one eye and making it hard to see, and there again came another blow and he had fallen on the floor, belly up.

Eduardo was kicking him now, going for the ribs, and Montgomery felt a fresh sting of pain there. A rib. He’d broken a rib. As he lay on the ground he remembered the time he had faced off against a jaguar and the way the beast had sunk its fangs into his flesh. It was the memory of that terrible confrontation that made him snap out of this swamp of distress into which he was sinking.