Like A Hole In The Head

     "Just get him to look like a killer," I said, and climbing on to the parapet. I swung myself up into the tree. I climbed to the branch where I had sat before and sat astride it.

     "Okay?" I called down.

     "Yes." There was a pause, then he said, "Good luck, soldier."

     I sat there. I couldn't see what was going on below : the foliage was too dense. I heard voices and car doors slam. I recognised Savanto's voice, but I didn't understand what he was saying. He was speaking in Spanish. A harsh voice I hadn't heard before answered him. I guessed this would be Lopez, the witness.

     After some minutes, I heard movements on the roof. The conversation was all in Spanish. I listened for Timoteo's voice, but didn't hear it. He was still doing his zombie act. Then after more talk, I. heard the scrape of feet on the wooden ladder. I guessed they were going down, leaving Timoteo alone. I looked at my strap watch. The time was now 14.45. In another quarter of an hour Diaz would come out on to the bay . . . providing he was coming. Sweat was running down my face. I thought of the shot. I thought of lining this man's head up in the cross wires of the sight. I thought of the flattened sound from the silencer as I squeezed the trigger. I thought of seeing him drop into the sea with a hole in his head.

     I sat motionless, listening. I heard nothing. Was someone still up on the roof with Timoteo? I didn't dare move until I was sure he was alone.

     Then I heard his voice, pitched low. It just reached me. "Mr. Benson . . ."

     A child bleating for its mother, I thought savagely, then just as I was about to start my climb down, I froze.

     Coiled up on the branch immediately below me was a diamondback rattler snake, its forked tongue flickering at my foot that was within twelve inches of it.

     A diamondback rattler, one of the few deadly snakes in Florida, and it looked ready to strike!

* * *

"Mr. Benson . . .?"

Timoteo's whisper floated up to me.

     I couldn't he sure if the sound of my voice would make the snake strike. I held my leg rigid, feeling the sweat of fear start out on me. I have always had a horror of snakes: even harmless snakes make my flesh creep. I looked down at this coiled horror. The shot, Diaz, Timoteo and even Lucy were washed out of my mind. I just sat astride the branch, motionless and cringing. My guts had gone away like a fist becoming a hand.

     "Mr. Benson . . ."

     A little louder . . . more urgent.

     "There's a snake up here."

     There was no power in my voice : it was a croaking whisper. He couldn't possibly have heard me, but the snake lifted its spade-shaped head. Its warning rattle, like dried beans shaken in a bag, made me flinch.

     I sat there. I could hear voices talking in excited Spanish. I could hear the wind rustling in the palm trees. I stared down at the snake. Cramp was setting in in my legs.

     "Mr. Benson . . ."

     I knew the speed of a rattler strike. I hadn't a chance if I tried to get my legs up on to the branch. Besides, if I made such a wild movement, I could easily overbalance and crash down on the roof of the house.

     "Snake," I said, lifting my voice.

     Again came the warning rattle.

     Had Timoteo heard? If he had what would he do?

     Minutes like hours dragged by. Then another sound came to me : the sound of a motorboat starting up. Even in my panic, half my mind switched to Lucy. My target was coming out on to the bay and here I was, treed by a snake!

     Then I saw Timoteo. He was climbing awkwardly and very cautiously. He still had on his sun goggles and still wore the big black hat.

     "Watch it !" I whispered. "It's by my foot."

     Again the warning rattle: a sound that made my heart skip a beat.

     About six feet below me, Timoteo paused. He peered up. I could see myself reflected in his sun goggles : a frightened, sweating man, cut down to size by a coiled reptile.

     I could see by the way Timoteo stiffened that he had spotted the snake and that the snake had spotted him. It turned its head away from my foot and its forked tongue flickered in Timoteo's direction.

"Don't move," Timoteo said quietly.

     I had been about to snatch my leg out of range, but his quiet, confident tone stopped me.

     Very slowly, he hoisted himself up to another branch. He was now within four feet of the snake.

     I watched him, sweat rolling off me, my heart slamming against my ribs.

     Very slowly, his hand began to move towards his hat. The warning rattle sounded again.

     His long fingers closed on the brim of his hat and slowly removed it from his head.

     Simultaneously two things happened. The snake struck as Timoteo flicked the hat in its direction.

     Scarcely breathing, I watched.