Chapter 30 You’re Being Watched
You’re Being Watched
The wave of nausea was overpowering. The musty smell of the room was mixed with the unmistakable stench of blood and feces that stained the woman’s legs after she had lost control of her sphincters at the moment of death.
Nervously, Roberto checked the hovel, ready to flee at any moment. But the curtain that separated Elvira’s sleeping quarters from the rest of the room had been drawn back, and he could see that the place was deserted.
He peered outside. Whoever was responsible for this could be hiding in the darkness, observing him, waiting to jump him when he emerged. The thought was enough to make him slam the door shut and wedge one of the stools against it, panting nervously.
Sweat poured down his back. He confirmed, much to his relief, that the blood on the floor was dark brown and coagulated. It was far from fresh, so there was no reason to believe that the killer was still on the scene.
Somewhat reassured but with his heart in his mouth, he walked around the room. In the guttering candlelight, things did not appear to have been disturbed.
He couldn’t say if anything was missing in that jumble of possessions and pieces of junk, but it still appeared to be arranged according to a system that only the unfortunate Elvira had understood.
Unable to bear the sight of her body any longer, Roberto removed the cover from the bed and draped it over her as an improvised shroud.
Doing that made him feel slightly better.
This was the work of the same murderer who had killed Ricardo Docampo; there was no doubt about that.
The same primeval violence, the same modus operandi, the same mixture of savagery and precision in the ritual arrangement of the victim and, above all, the absence of the head.
The trophy. The proof of the killer’s triumph.
He analyzed the scene meticulously. The door had not been forced, which meant either that the killer had a key or that Elvira had let them in.
Either she already knew her murderer, or she didn’t think they were a threat.
Whatever the case, once inside, the killer couldn’t have found it difficult to overcome the old woman.
Inside. That’s it!
For the first time, Tangarano had made a mistake. Unlike the previous murder scene, this location was under cover, and the rain hadn’t washed away any prints. There might be some kind of a clue.
He began to systematically search the room but soon lost heart.
It was like looking for a needle in a haystack, particularly since he didn’t know what he was looking for. The place was a perfect mixture of a chronic hoarder’s sanctuary and the lair of a crazy old witch. It was impossible to say if anything was out of place.
“Come on, Elvira,” he muttered, glancing at the body outlined under the bedspread. “There must be something. Where is it?”
Deflated, he dropped into the chair that was pulled up to the table, on which sat a cold dish of untouched, grilled mackerel and boiled potatoes, the woman’s last supper, which she hadn’t even had time to eat, interrupted by her lethal visitor.
The fish stared at him with dead eyes, silent witness to whatever had happened there, as if it were laughing at him.
His feet encountered something beneath the table. Intrigued, he bent down and discovered the heavy wooden chest where the old woman kept the gifts she demanded of her visitors.
“This is it!” he exclaimed, unable to contain himself. “It has to be here!”
Let’s see what gift you brought to gain entry. I’ve got you, you bastard!
He opened the chest and looked inside. It was like the treasure trove of a mad antique dealer. At the top was his old fountain pen, the one he had given her a few days before in exchange for the cleansing ritual she had performed.
His hopes faded. He had been sure there would be something more, some object that unequivocally gave away the murderer, but like all expectations based on illusions, the answer wasn’t there.
Any gift that had followed his own visit should have been on top of the fountain pen, but everything else in the chest looked as if it had been there for a long time. Even so, he rummaged through the contents in the vain hope of coming across something.
His fingers closed around a hard, metallic object.
To his surprise, he extracted an old Walther P38 from the chest, identical to the one Antía had offered him at El Cucorno but in much worse condition.
Unlike the Freires’ one, this had rust spots all over, was missing part of its handle, and had an air of neglect.
It was impossible to know how long it had been in there, but it was clearly an offering either from a Freire or a Docampo.
He put it in his pocket. Did this gift mean that one of the two families was involved in the ritual deaths, or was there simply no connection? Things were becoming even more complicated.
Just then, he heard a distant noise over the storm. He wouldn’t have picked it out if it hadn’t been completely unlike all the other noises on the island. It was a sound he knew perfectly, but here it was completely out of place, and his blood froze.
It was the sound of an engine.
He rushed out of the house. No more than a quarter of a mile away, the headlights of an SUV bobbed along the track, making their way toward him through the pouring rain.
What the hell?
They’d found him. He had to get out of there right away.
He took one final, pitying glance at the woman’s body. Ultimately, not even her spells and incantations had saved her from a far more powerful curse than any of the imaginary ones she had feared throughout her life.
If he was sure of one thing, it was that this was not the work of a ghost or some folk demon but of a person made of flesh and blood.
Someone who was still out there, on the prowl, taking advantage of the chaos that had been unleashed on the island.
Perhaps even the someone who was at the wheel of the SUV.
Without bothering to close the door, he ran off in search of somewhere safe to hide and to watch from.
Immediately, he realized it hadn’t been the best idea. In the dark, he hadn’t calculated the distance accurately, and the SUV was much closer than he had imagined. He raised his hand instinctively to protect his eyes from being dazzled by the headlights.
“There he is!” roared a man’s voice. “It’s him! In front of the house!”
The SUV accelerated toward him, its wheels churning up mud. He only just managed to throw himself to one side of the path to avoid being run over. His clothes were caught in brambles, and he struggled to stand up as the vehicle came to a halt a few yards away and executed a three-point turn.
“Don’t let him get away!” the voice shouted again. “We’ve got him!”
“Luis!” shouted Roberto, as he staggered to his feet. “Luis Docampo! Have you all gone mad? What the hell are you doing here?”
The answer came in the form of a hail of shots that, fortunately for him, had been unleashed blindly. Roberto sensed the lead pellets whizzing past him and thunking harmlessly into the branches and leaves behind him.
“Turn the car around!” Luis shouted to the driver. “Point the lights at him!”
That was all Roberto needed to know. Not wasting another second, he rushed madly up the hill, pushing his way through the vegetation. The branches caught at his clothes and scratched his face, and he was soon bleeding from a thousand tiny cuts and scratches, but none of that mattered.
If he stayed there, he was a dead man.
The vehicle’s headlights were finally pointing in his direction, and for a moment he could see clearly what lay ahead: a sea of low vegetation and a few twisted trees. His shadow stretched out ahead of him, shaky and blurred by the rain.
Another shot, this time closer, clipped the branches to his right. Panicking, he understood that—out here on the hill, in the glare of the headlights—he was like a sitting duck at a fairground shooting booth, and it was only a matter of time before his pursuers hit their target.
“Don’t shoot!” he croaked. “I haven’t done anything to you!”
As if that were going to help. Run for your life, Lobeira. Run.
His feet caught on something hidden among the undergrowth, and he fell flat just as a well-aimed bullet whizzed over his head.
Hunched over, he scrambled the last few yards to the summit of the hill, shielded by the scrub.
His lungs were pumping like a blacksmith’s bellows, and his vision was blurry.
Suddenly, the earth beneath him gave way, and he rolled forward.
He had reached the top of the hill, and the path now began to slope downward.
Even more important, it put a protective screen between him and the shooters.
He scrambled to his feet and set off again, stumbling ahead at top speed. The terrifying possibility that he might be running headlong toward a precipice suddenly occurred to him, and he slowed down. The last thing he needed was to accidentally fall over a cliff in the middle of the night.
Just then, he felt some clear, level ground beneath his feet. He had hit another path. He looked in both directions, uncertain. From the other side of the hill came the muffled sound of the SUV engine revving. His pursuers hadn’t given up the chase.
He had to get off the track as soon as he could. The going might be easier, but using it also meant staying somewhere the vehicle could reach him. His only chance was to seek refuge among the bushes and pray that they didn’t find him.
One question echoed, unanswered, in his head: Why?
Why were they after him? Ramón Docampo had sworn that nothing would happen to him, since he was their guarantee of getting off the hook.
Perhaps they had discovered that the money was no longer in its hiding place, but who knew. These people were unpredictable.
That thought led to another, one far more worrying and more pressing.
How did they find me?
Nobody had known he was going to the old witch’s hovel. Even he hadn’t known until he’d taken the last-minute decision to flee.
And yet they had found him easily. There must be something he was missing . . . and that something could be the difference between life and death.
He had no way of knowing where he was. He tried to re-create a mental map of the island, but he was simply too tired.
All he knew was that if he went west, he’d reach the cliffs that looked out onto the open sea.
And if he followed the coast, he could work his way around the island until he came to the inhabited part. To El Cucorno.
Begging the Freires for protection was a long shot, but it was surely better than wandering around in the storm until somebody—a party of Docampos or the Tangarano—got to him.
He had no compass, but he could use something else: the noise of the waves breaking against the cliffs.
The sound was a little louder to his right, and so he decided to head in that direction.
That meant staying on the track for a little longer, but he felt it was worth the risk if it meant faster progress.
The Docampos might have the advantage of speed, but he would be able to see them long before they saw him.
He broke into a run. The sky had cleared slightly, just enough for a few faint shafts of moonlight to illuminate his way. Just enough to see where he was placing his feet.
After a while, he slowed down—his lungs were about to burst. He squatted down, his hands on his knees, and rested for a moment, his heart pounding.
The island was a runner’s nightmare, the constant ups and downs of the terrain aggravated by the treacherous surfaces of the tracks and paths.
A little farther ahead, the track divided, with one branch leading down to the coast. With some effort, he got going again until he came to the fork. A sign pointed toward the west, with the words Devil’s Hole burned into the wood.
Very fitting, said a voice in his head.
The name was familiar. He remembered Rosalía Freire’s mention of it: a huge shaft, more than forty yards deep, that connected to the sea. He had been warned of its dangers.
But here he was, walking toward it in the middle of the night as the sound of the waves grew ever more deafening. The irony of the situation would have made him smile in any other circumstances.
The path was narrower and traced a gentle curve down toward the cliff edge.
He could smell the sea, the waves atomizing as they crashed against the rocks, sending tiny particles of salt water floating into the air.
In the distance was the sinuous and constantly shifting line of the waves breaking at the base of the cliffs. He had reached the coast.
A faint click, almost inaudible, brought him to a halt, and his heart pounded. He peered into the darkness and then uttered a curse.
Oh shit!
This was bad.
He’d just discovered how they had managed to locate him so quickly at Elvira Couto’s place.
And, worse still, he knew that his pursuers would be here any minute.
He was cornered.