The Damned

by John D. MacDonald

Genres: Hard-Boiled; Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

The Damned, one of many classic novels from crime writer John D. MacDonald, the beloved author of Cape Fear and the Travis McGee series, is now available as an eBook.
 
At a ferry stop along the Rio Conchos, the line of cars waiting to cross stretches to the horizon. Because of a bureaucratic blunder, the boat has been stalled, with no relief in sight for the drivers—many of them American, many growing impatient to reach the border. That kind of tension can do funny things to a person's head . . . to a trembling killer looking over his shoulder . . . to a married man escorting a beautiful stranger on an ill-advised sabbatical . . . to a honeymooner determined to have her love returned. Many others are waiting, too. Some are desperate for a second chance. And it's only a matter of time until someone snaps—especially when they've all been pushed too far under the scorching Mexican sun.
 
Features a new Introduction by Dean Koontz
 
Praise for John D. MacDonald
 
“The great entertainer of our age, and a mesmerizing storyteller.”—Stephen King
 
“My favorite novelist of all time.”—Dean Koontz
 
“To diggers a thousand years from now, the works of John D. MacDonald would be a treasure on the order of the tomb of Tutankhamen.”—Kurt Vonnegut
 
“A master storyteller, a masterful suspense writer . . . John D. MacDonald is a shining example for all of us in the field. Talk about the best.”—Mary Higgins Clark

Release date: June 11, 2013

Publisher: Random House

Print pages: 176

Sample

Prologue
 
The air had a clean, new, morning smell. Manuel Forno paused for a moment on top of the ridge near his adobe home, to inhale more deeply, to enjoy the morning more thoroughly.
 
It was, indeed, one of the very best mornings. A good morning for Manuel Forno, public servant. Off to the right were the distant cream and white and yellow buildings of San Fernando, village of his birth. And down the long slope to the left he could see the muddy ribbon of the Río Conchos, pleasantly gilded by the early sun.
 
Manuel began to trudge down the slope, humming snatches of Augustín Lara’s bullfight music, “Silverio.” Ai, it would be good to save much money and one day go to the capital, to the Plaza México, perhaps to see Silverio Pérez himself.
 
If one were very careful … He shrugged. There would never be enough pesos. Face it, Manuel. They pay you a tiny quantity of pesos for pulling hard on a wire cable. This effort causes a ferry to swim across the Río Conchos. Free ferry, courtesy of the Estados Unidos de México. And once the far shore is reached, why, you turn around and cause the beast of a ferryboat to swim back again, carrying, at the most, two cars or one large truck on each voyage.
 
Face it, Manuel, he told himself. Should you ever save enough pesos, Rosalita will use them to take a camión that will carry her, in three hours, north to the bridge between Matamoros and Brownsville, Texas, and there she will arrange to cross the bridge and spend those pesos on americano merchandise of fabulous prices.
 
He sighed heavily, feeling almost sorry for himself. Back and forth across the river all day. A burro, serving the arrogant turistas.
 
And then, as he turned left down the shoulder of the road toward the ferry landing, he cheered up as he remembered the sparkling new ferry that had been provided just recently so that el presidente could ride across the Río Conchos in style.
 
How splendid to be at last rid of that ancient ferry, that grotesque waddling old lady of a ferry, that hideous gray scabbed old beast! The new ferry had paint that would shine in the sun.
 
And a larger crew. Four men on the catwalk. Manuel felt the sun on his shoulders and knew that it would be a hot day. On such a hot day one should not work too hard. It was bad for the health. Through long practice he had learned that it is possible to appear to be pulling on the pinch bar that grasps the cable without, in reality, using any force at all. It was merely necessary to keep the arms rigid so that the muscles of the back would not appear to be slack. It would be a useful trick on such a day as this.
 
The road turned and slanted down a steep place in the river bank and he saw the clean shine of new paint. It could make a man proud, rather than ashamed, to cause such a splendid creature to swim back and forth across the river. It was fitting that the Río Conchos should have a new ferry. Once one considered it carefully, it became obvious that this was a most important crossing of a most important river. There was but this one way to go, by vehicle, from the city of Victoria, drive an incredible distance north to Laredo, Texas, and then travel through Texas east to Brownsville.
 
He glanced across the river and stopped suddenly, appalled. Cars were lined up on the far side of the river. What a grotesque start for the day, just when one expected a few pleasant hours of leisure, without too many interruptions for the purpose of hauling the craft across the river!
 
When he came around the bend, he saw that the ferry was not on the near shore. It was, for some reason, about fifteen feet from the shore. And his fellow workers stood hip-deep in the muddy water in front of the ferry, grubbing with shovels.
 
He stopped again, and a small interior voice advised him that this might be an excellent day to disappear.
 
But Vascos turned and saw him. “Come here, Manuel Forno!” he bellowed.
 
Manuel adjusted his face into an expression of amiable idiocy and marched down to stop in front of his diminutive boss, the jefe of the ferry, the one who labored only with the tongue.
 
“What, Vascos, are they doing?”
 
“Those curious implements are shovels. Perhaps you have heard of them. A shovel is a utensil with which one digs. And there is one for you. Kindly dig.”
 
Manuel stared blankly at him. “Why?”
 
Vascos’ face darkened ominously. “Because you are told to dig, señor. I shall explain. I shall use the little words. Kindly note the river. What do you see?”
 
“It is smaller than yesterday, Vascos.”
 
“Much smaller, and growing smaller each moment Perhaps it will disappear entirely. Perhaps you will disappear entirely. Poof! That is too much to hope for.”
 
Manuel eyed the shovel and backed tentatively away. “I shall be glad …”
 
“Come back here. The river has dropped so that it is no longer possible to bring the ferry close enough to shore to either load or unload the vehicles. Thus it becomes necessary to dig with the shovels to create a channel to get the ferry close enough so that large timbers can be used as a ramp rather than the steel one on the ferry. Have I confused you?”
 
“But the old ferry …” Manuel said weakly.
 
“The old ferry did not need so much river. We have a new ferry. It is, perhaps, too big for the Río Conchos. On each trip it is necessary to dig with the shovels.”
 
“I do not feel well, Vascos.”
 
“Either use the shovel or it shall be used against your head.”
 
“Vascos, listen to me. I do not have your intelligence. That is certain. However, could we not wait until the river ceases to drop? Then it would only be necessary to dig one time at each bank. Most of those who wait are only tourists. They have no place to go, and they travel with great speed. Let them wait.”
 
Vascos stuck out his chesk. “It is my position to keep the ferry in service.”
 
“Such an attitude can be overdone, Vascos.”
 
“Perhaps. But it has been said that Atahualpa will cross sometime today.” Vascos took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. The mention of the name made the shovels fly faster in the hands of Manuel’s fellow workers.
 
“Ah,” said Manuel, “the politico. When that time comes, strength will come to you, Vascos, out of fear. And you shall pick up the ferry on your back and run lightly across the river.”
 
Vascos stared at Manuel for a moment. Then Vascos went over, picked up the shovel, brought it back, and handed it to Manuel with a bow, saying, “If you would be so kind, señor …”
 
“I wish it were possible for me to say that this is a pleasure,” Manuel replied. He went slowly over to the small shack that served as Vascos’ office and began, with the slowest motions, to take off his clean white shirt. The men in the river yelled angrily at Manuel, telling him to hurry. Manuel rewarded them with a sad, tired smile. This splendid day had soured itself with startling speed. Three vehicles on this side and many on the other side. He picked up the shovel, examined it inch by inch, and set it down again. He removed his sandals and placed them near the neatly folded shirt.
 
He picked up the shovel again and walked slowly into the warm muddy water. The mud spread up through his toes. The others made room for him, gladly.
 
“This,” said Manuel, as he made the first thrust with the shovel, “might become a long and discouraging day.”
 
He began to dig, doggedly, all chance of escape gone. Perspiration oiled his brown shoulders.
 
I, he told himself, am a picturesque mexicano, and the turistas with their bright empty faces will be clicking their little black boxes at me as I swing this hijo of a shovel.
 
When work is inescapable, one must perform it. From work comes pesos. From pesos comes food. With food you are able to work. It is a trap. But food keeps Rosalita warm and round, and gives one the necessary strength to do what is necessary and proper to that warm, round brownness. The bait in the trap, perhaps.
 
He labored, but made certain that he kept an ample amount of energy in reserve. When Atahualpa crossed the river, it would be necessary to work like a madman, beating the brown water to a creamy froth. He debated the results that would come from greeting Atahualpa with a shovelful of mud. No doubt, in three days, the body of one Manuel Forno would rise to the top of the river.
 
Each time he straightened up, Vascos was watching him. Manuel experimented until he found that precise working speed which would keep Vascos annoyed, yet not give him cause to bellow.