Chapter 13 Last Chance to Set Things Right
Last Chance to Set Things Right
When they went back outside, heavy rain had set in. Just as Ramón Docampo had predicted, the concrete track was becoming a full-scale torrent, with the ditches on either side completely overflowing. However, despite the bad weather, no one had gone home.
It was as if the money were a powerful magnet and they were all mere iron filings, for everyone had remained just outside the church, waiting expectantly.
“How did it go?” asked Ramón. “Any problems?”
“It’s all sorted, Dad,” Luis answered, exchanging a knowing glance with him. “Nothing to worry about.”
Roberto looked at them suspiciously. Maybe the plan wasn’t Luis’s. Maybe it was all the old man’s doing. That made a lot more sense, although he still couldn’t be sure.
“Well, Lobeira.” Ramón Docampo threw his hands up theatrically. “Made up your mind? Still thinking about calling the Guardia Civil, or have you come to your senses?”
Roberto took a deep breath. The only sound was the murmur of the falling rain, and all eyes were on the two of them. The atmosphere crackled with tension.
“Perhaps I spoke too soon . . .” he started to say, but just then, the sound of an approaching engine cut him off.
“I’ll be damned,” Luis barked. “What’s with all the people today? It’s not like it’s the high season!”
The roar of the engine grew louder, and a moment later, they saw the mud-spattered snout of the national park SUV coming around the corner. The vehicle kicked up spray as it rolled down the track and pulled up beside them with a screech of its brakes.
“What a filthy day!” shouted the driver as he rolled down the window. “How are we all?”
He was a bald, middle-aged man with a cheerful, olive-skinned face and a light beard, and he was wearing a park ranger’s uniform. In the passenger seat was another, slightly younger, short-haired man who, after nodding to all present, had turned back to his cell phone.
“Good morning, Sobral,” Ramón Docampo greeted him politely. “All fine here. And you?”
“A bit annoyed, to tell the truth.” He jerked his thumb at the younger man absorbed in his phone beside him. “Martín here sprained his ankle just as we were finishing our rounds. I’m taking him to the mainland to get it checked out.”
Martín’s only response was an unintelligible grunt as he continued to stare at his phone.
“You should hurry.” Ramón looked up at the sky and then out to sea. “Looks like a storm’s coming in.”
“Yes, I spotted that,” Sobral said, his elbow resting on the open window. “I need to get the patrol boat off the dock as soon as possible, or we’re gonna get ripped to pieces. Have you seen the forecast?”
“No, why?”
“Oh, there’s a proper squall coming in.” He clicked his tongue. “Hundred-mile-an-hour winds, rain, fifteen-to-twenty-foot waves. The fleet won’t be going anywhere for a couple of days, I reckon.”
“The Freires will have to check that their huts are all properly closed up,” said Ramón. “Wouldn’t want them blowing away, would we?”
“Like in that old movie we saw the other day!” laughed the ranger, nudging his companion. “What was it called, Martín? The one about the girl with the lion and the scarecrow and what all else?”
The younger man sighed and looked up from his cell phone.
“The Wizard of Oz,” he grumbled, “and you fell asleep halfway through it.”
“That’s right, The Wizard of Oz!” The ranger ignored the jibe and leaned over to Ramón to whisper, “He’s pissed because his ankle’s hurting. That’s why we’re a little late on our rounds—you know how persnickety he is about timekeeping.”
“Sure thing.” Ramón Docampo’s smile hadn’t budged. “Not to rush you, Sobral, but you should really get going. You’re in for a bumpy ride.”
“You’re right.” Sobral nodded. Just then, he noticed Roberto, and his eyes widened. “Well, if it isn’t Roberto Lobeira, the writer! So it was you who asked for the winter-access permit. Gosh! I just loved The Fleeting Glance!”
Once again, everyone turned to look at Roberto.
He swallowed hard. The two men in the vehicle were the closest thing to law enforcement on the island, and they were right there, so close he could touch them—the front wheel of their SUV had inadvertently stopped just a few inches from where the ground was stained with the poacher’s blood.
He also instantly realized that if it hadn’t been for Martín’s sprained ankle, they would have shown up earlier, perhaps right when the money was being counted, and certainly in time to prevent Pampín’s catastrophic end.
He cursed inwardly. The urge to just blurt it all out was almost overpowering.
Even now, all he had to do was point to the bloodstain and let events take their course . . .
He opened his mouth to speak, but at that moment he noticed Luis Docampo, who had rested his hand on the hammer, the head of which he’d thrust under his belt to hide the bloodstains. He gave Roberto a meaningful look while his gloved fingers drummed on the tool.
“Hey, Mr. Lobeira.” Sobral was looking at him quizzically. “Are you all right?”
Roberto forced a smile. Tension seemed to be rising up from the very earth, charging the electric atmosphere still further.
“Nothing’s wrong.” He tried to make his voice sound steady. “Everything’s fine.”
And with those few words went his last way out. His peace had been destroyed in a few short hours, and he’d been powerless to prevent it. He had become an accessory to murder and robbery.
“If only I had the book here so you could sign it.” Sobral clapped a frustrated hand on the SUV’s door. “You staying long?”
“A few weeks.” Roberto’s face ached; he was sure his artificial smile must have been obvious, but the ranger seemed not to notice. “Maybe not that long—I don’t know yet.”
“I should be back in a few days, weather permitting.” The ranger glanced warily at the boat bobbing alongside the jetty. “I hope I can get a signature then.”
“It would be my pleasure.” A flash of pain in his head almost made him vomit. “I’ll be here.”
“We’ll make sure he doesn’t go anywhere, don’t worry.” Luis Docampo winked at Roberto, as if sharing a joke. “Mr. Lobeira is settling in well. Turns out we have a lot of interests in common.”
“That’s great news. Tell Antía to pick up the SUV from the jetty and park it in the usual place. I don’t want salt water getting on the bodywork.”
“We will, don’t worry.”
Sobral rolled up the window and started the engine, and black smoke poured from the exhaust pipe.
They watched the SUV driving the final part of the way to the jetty, where Sobral helped his companion hobble aboard the boat, even as the waves tossed it about.
With practiced precision, they untied the moorings, and after less than a minute, the outboard motors roared to life and they were headed for the mainland.
The boat negotiated the growing waves, leaving white foam in its wake. Roberto, with every fiber of his being, wished he was on board. The farther the vessel went from the island, the more trapped and helpless he felt.
When the boat was no more than a speck on the horizon, someone breathed a sigh of relief. The tension, though not entirely gone, at least went down a notch. The air was still thick with menace, but a brief truce seemed to have been declared.
Roberto was surprised at the lump in his throat. The sheer enormity of the crazy situation was quite overwhelming. Ramón Docampo turned to him, no hint of a smile on his face now.
“Well, my friend,” he said simply, “now that we’re all in this together, there’s quite a bit for us to discuss.”