Chapter 24 Visitors First
“Visitors First”
When he woke up, he struggled to remember where he was. He glanced at his watch and cursed: It was already past midday, although the light filtering in along the edges of the door was only very faint. He had slept far longer than he’d planned to and had lost precious time.
He still felt weak from hunger, but at least his mind was clear again.
He couldn’t say the same of his body, which resented the night spent on a hard floor.
He got up from the sacks, aching all over.
When he’d been in his twenties, he’d slept in far worse places—from a sniper’s dugout to a rickety truck—but that was long ago.
You’re too old for this, Lobeira. When are you going to wise up?
He took a few paces to stretch his muscles and stepped outside. The storm was still raging, but the heavy rain of the previous night had turned to drizzle. Black clouds scudded across the sky.
Checking Erundina’s tomb by the light of day, he was pleased enough. It had turned out much better than he had imagined.
But he needed to hurry. He had no idea what the rest of Ons had been up to during the night, although he imagined that the Docampos would have been busy readying an attack while also keeping vigil over Ricardo’s decapitated body.
He made a mental note of the urgent tasks ahead. He had reached the conclusion that the only way to prevent the massacre that threatened Ons was to create a stalemate. And the only way he could do that was by notifying the authorities.
The cell tower had been destroyed, and there was no way of making a call from the island, but there was another way of informing the mainland about what was happening. At the lighthouse, Ibaibarriaga had shown him a radio. The transmitter could be used to contact the authorities.
He didn’t trust Ibaibarriaga as far as he could throw him, but he thought he could use the man’s ambitions to get him to cooperate. Now that Roberto had sequestered the money, he could offer the keeper a juicy sum in exchange for use of the transmitter.
His plan would mean sharing the money between the families and the lighthouse keepers, but with the authorities notified, at least it would be an end to all the violence.
And what was more, the perfect scapegoat for Pampín’s death had materialized, so both he and Diego would be free of suspicion.
The mysterious killer of Ricardo Docampo would take the rap for all the victims. Let the Guardia Civil go crazy combing the island for the damn psychopath, whether he was the Tangarano or not; Roberto hoped he himself would be a long way away by then.
It was a risky plan, no doubt, and it all depended on Ibaibarriaga’s cooperation, but he was sure the man’s greed would win out. And if Roberto managed to prevent open warfare from breaking out, his newly acquired wealth was more likely to go unobserved.
Satisfied, he left the graveyard, carefully covering his footprints and checking that he hadn’t left any trace of his presence. Ignoring the stabs of pain that accompanied his every step, he headed for the road that led to the lighthouse.
He felt weak, and his clothes were heavy with water, making the ascent slow and torturous. Luckily, he was now more familiar with the topography of Ons, and he had no difficulty in getting his bearings. The paved track was an infallible guide to the colossus that dominated the island.
When he reached the gate, it was closed. A doorbell was fixed to one of the cement posts. Roberto pushed the button and waited patiently as he observed the lighthouse beacon.
The security camera buzzed and swiveled toward him.
He imagined the lighthouse keeper at the other end, observing his unexpected visitor, barely forty-eight hours after their previous encounter.
The gate clicked open, and he went through.
Here at the highest point on the island, the wind was blowing so strongly that he had to hunch over to make progress.
Exhausted and at the limit of his energy, he was about to knock on the door, but it swung open before his hand reached the bronze handle. The lighthouse keeper had come to meet him, his eyes sparkling with curiosity.
“I didn’t expect you back so soon,” he said as he closed the door, and Roberto shook himself and stretched, grateful for the warmth inside the lighthouse. “So, have you got our little enterprise up and running?”
“We need to speak. There have been some developments.”
“I don’t like surprises,” replied Ibaibarriaga, fixing him with a stare. “What’s happened?”
“Could I have something to eat first? I’m famished.”
The lighthouse keeper grumbled, but he gestured to Roberto to follow him to the kitchen.
A short while later, Roberto was sitting down to a juicy steak accompanied by two fried eggs with impossibly yellow yolks. He wolfed down the food with Ibaibarriaga, Varatorta, and Pazos all looking on.
“So, what’s up?” the head lighthouse keeper finally asked. “Or did you just come for some free grub?”
Roberto gave him an inquisitive look and nodded at Varatorta and Pazos.
“You can speak freely,” said Ibaibarriaga. “They already know about our little agreement. I told you it wouldn’t be a problem.”
The youngest of the three crossed his arms defiantly, in what he no doubt thought was the right pose for a merciless hard guy. Varatorta at least had the decency to bow his head in embarrassment.
“There are only so many times you can go into that library without feeling like you’re a prisoner,” Varatorta muttered by way of explanation. “The money’s a way out for us.”
Roberto cursed inwardly. Negotiating with the three of them would be more complicated, but Ibaibarriaga seemed to be the leader.
“The Freires and the Docampos are going to kill each other,” he explained. “We have to stop them.”
“Is it the cocaine?”
Roberto shook his head. “There’s no cocaine,” he said, weighing his words. “There never was.”
“Like hell!” said Ibaibarriaga.
“It’s money. Cash.” Roberto put down his fork and looked straight at him. “Three million euros.”
“Jesus fucking Christ!” exclaimed the lighthouse keeper. “Three million? I’m not surprised they want to kill each other.”
“There’s something else,” Roberto added. “Yesterday evening, somebody murdered one of the Docampos, not far from here.” He shuddered at the memory. “They decapitated him and nailed him to a tree.”
The lighthouse keepers were silent as they absorbed the information.
Finally, Ibaibarriaga gave a low whistle. “Christ, you don’t mess with the Freires,” he said.
“It wasn’t them.” Roberto shook his head. “There’s someone else.”
“Someone else? What do you mean? It’s not as if there are a lot of people on the island.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t explain everything right now,” Roberto interrupted. “We have to stop this before it’s too late. I need to use the radio.”
“The radio? What for?”
“To notify the authorities. I don’t know if you noticed, but the cell tower got taken out in the storm,” Roberto said. “I saw it happen. It was struck by lightning, and fire completely destroyed it.”
“So the radio’s the only way to communicate with the mainland.” Ibaibarriaga gave him his pensive half smile.
“And I have to do it as soon as possible, to stop something terrible from happening.”
“And why would we let you?”
“Because if you do, I’ll give you the money.” He looked from one man to the other. “All three million of it. A million for each of you. And the Freires and the Docampos can explain the dead guy to the Guardia Civil.”
He’d done it. He’d thrown the bait into the water, and now he had to see if the sharks would bite. The lighthouse keepers looked at each other in mute conversation. Finally, Ibaibarriaga shrugged and nodded. “Sounds good to me . . . but there’s something I don’t understand.”
“What?”
“What’s in it for you, Lobeira?”
“Don’t you think that preventing a massacre is enough?” Roberto set his knife and fork noisily down on the table. “That’s more than sufficient for me. And getting off this damn island as soon as possible, obviously.”
“What about the islanders?” asked Pazos, scratching his head. “How are they going to feel about getting nothing?”
“They don’t have much choice,” he said. “I’m the only one who knows where the money is.”
“Cunning.” Pazos looked at him. “And where might that be?”
“Somewhere nice and safe,” replied Roberto.
“And what are you going to tell the authorities when they show up?”
“Nothing about the money, obviously. That’s between us. I’m just going to tell them about the guy who got his head chopped off. That’ll give them more than enough to think about.”
The three lighthouse keepers huddled together and whispered to each other. Finally, they seemed to have reached an agreement.
“Looks like you’ve got it all worked out.” Ibaibarriaga nodded in approval. “You win. Let’s make that radio call.”
They exited the kitchen and walked down the high-ceilinged hallway. To Roberto’s surprise, they continued past the door to the room in which he and Ibaibarriaga had spoken before.
“Isn’t this it here?”
“That radio doesn’t have a big enough range,” the man explained. “We only use it to communicate with the patrol boats when they’re close to the island. And in this weather, nobody will be out. We need the shortwave transmitter. It’s in the other room.”
They continued down the hallway and through a large room that was like a museum, full of old kerosene lamps, marker buoys, and a table strewn with whale bones that had been washed up by the tide. On the far side of the room was a door.
“Visitors first,” Ibaibarriaga said.
As soon as he crossed the threshold, Roberto realized something was wrong. The room was completely empty, except for an old carpenter’s bench in the middle. The floor was covered with paint and oil stains, but there was no sign of a radio.
“I don’t get it.” He turned. “There’s no—”
He bent double as Ibaibarriaga punched him hard in the stomach. Panting, he tried to force air into his lungs and to avoid vomiting, all at the same time.
Pazos and Varatorta grabbed him by the shoulders and forced him to stand upright.
Ibaibarriaga brought his face right up close to Roberto’s. “And now you’re going to tell me where the money is,” he said. “No lies.”
“I don’t . . . I don’t . . .” Roberto panted. “I don’t understand. We have to do something or they’ll all kill each other.”
“I don’t give a shit about the Freires and the Docampos,” the man replied. “If they’re busy gouging each other’s eyes out, it’ll be easier for us to take the dough. And if you say there’s three million, that means there’s more, much more. Where is it?”
“I’m . . . not . . . telling . . . you.” The last word came out mixed with a spray of saliva.
Another punch, this time to the ribs. Roberto began to see little sparks of color dancing before his eyes as he gasped like a fish out of water.
“I’m going to ask you one more time. Where’s the money?”
Roberto shook his head and received another brutal blow. His legs buckled, and if the other two hadn’t had a firm grasp of him, he would have fallen.
“You’re going to force me to really hurt you.” Ibaibarriaga rubbed his knuckles. “Pazos, search this idiot; see what he’s carrying.”
The younger man frisked Roberto, extracting his phone, his notebook, the key to the cottage, a flashlight, and the length of fishing line that Elvira Couto had given him. Ibaibarriaga looked the items over, becoming increasingly irate.
“What’s this?” Pazos’s fingers plucked at the chain around Roberto’s neck, then pulled it clean off.
“Give me that.” Ibaibarriaga took it from him. “Where’s this key from?”
Roberto clenched his jaw and readied himself for the inevitable blow, but just then, Varatorta stepped forward and took the key in his chubby hands.
“I think I know,” he said smoothly. “It’s the key to the church.”
“Are you sure?” asked Ibaibarriaga.
“Absolutely.” Varatorta nodded so vehemently that his hair flapped over his bald patch. “It’s a Fichet security key. The locksmith who came to install it last summer borrowed a drill bit from me. There isn’t another one like it on the whole island.”
A satisfied smile lit up Ibaibarriaga’s face.
“The church, eh?” He slapped Roberto on the cheek a couple of times.
“If you’d told me that at the beginning, we could have saved ourselves all this unpleasantness.
All right, lads. I think we should go and say a few prayers for the souls of the deceased, past and future. What do you say?”
They let go of Roberto, and he sank to the floor, dazed.
“You can wait here for us,” said Ibaibarriaga from the doorway. “We’ll decide what to do with you when we come back with the cash. In the meantime, make yourself at home.”
He slammed the door shut, and Roberto heard the bolts slide on the other side. The men’s footsteps faded away, and a few moments later he watched from the window as they disappeared down the path. He wasn’t surprised to see that Ibaibarriaga had a shotgun over his shoulder.
Roberto hammered at the door with all his strength, but the effort was futile.
The heavy teak door was bolted shut. He’d never be able to force it.
And the window was sealed by iron bars. He could see the field behind the lighthouse, and the empty heliport, whipped by the wind and the rain.
He shook the bars, but they had been set into the stone walls.
Desperate, he looked around the room, but the only thing inside it was the carpenter’s bench, so heavy that he couldn’t even move it.
Roberto buried his face in his hands.
His plan, hatched in a hurry, had been full of potential pitfalls. He’d known that and, even so, for want of alternatives, had forged ahead.
Well, things had turned out badly. And he had fallen right into the trap.