Chapter 34 There Is a Monster Among Us #2
“And how did you do that?” Roberto inflated his lungs once again, enduring the pain of his broken ribs.
Just a bit more. Keep going.
“It’s a very long story.” Suddenly, Varatorta seemed embarrassed, almost ashamed. “I don’t know if you’ll want to hear the whole thing.”
“I wasn’t planning on going anywhere. In case you hadn’t realized. Please, continue.”
“Well, my friend, from a young age, I was a solitary and somewhat dreamy child.” Varatorta sipped his wine and settled into his chair.
“I didn’t have many friends. I mean, to be honest, I didn’t have any.
Nobody understood me, and Mother always said I was too good to mix with people who didn’t appreciate me. ”
“A lonely childhood, I imagine.”
“Worse than that.” Varatorta’s expression changed, as if the wine and the memories had a bitter taste. “The other kids always mocked me. Tubby Tony, Freaky Tony, Wacko Tony . . . It was like they came up with new nicknames daily.”
“I’m so sorry. Nobody should go through that.” Another breath, another fraction of an inch.
“It doesn’t matter.” He shrugged. “It’s ancient history now. When I turned sixteen, they stopped teasing me.”
“What happened?”
“There was a boy in my class. His name was Guille Juncal. I looked up to him. He was tall, handsome, a good athlete, witty . . . The girls were all crazy about him. He was everything I wanted to be.”
“Let me guess. He was the one who made up the nicknames?”
“Not at all. He never said an unkind word to me!”
“And?”
“I wanted to know how he did it. What he did that made everyone like him, how he always managed to be in such a good mood. I needed to know what I had to do to be like him.”
“And what did he think of the idea?”
Varatorta stared into the depths of the cave, far away, as he remembered.
“I went to his house one Sunday in the summer, one of those days when it’s so hot that nobody wants to go outside.
” He ran his hands through his hair, a gentle smile on his lips.
“His parents were away, and he invited me in. I told you he was very kind. He gave me a glass of water, we talked for a bit, and as soon as I had the opportunity, I did it.”
“I don’t understand . . .”
“I whacked him on the head.” He gave another of his weird smiles. “I killed him in the living room of his own house, and then opened him up to see what he was like inside. To find answers. To discover what made him tick. That was where it all began. That was when I discovered my gift.”
Roberto held his breath, shocked. The man was confessing to murder as if he were talking about the weather. There was no remorse in his voice, no sense of guilt. Nothing. A complete absence of empathy.
“Your . . . your gift,” he stuttered.
“That’s right—my gift!” Varatorta’s voice went up an octave.
“That day, I realized I could see things beneath the skin that others didn’t see.
Things that make us unique and special but are hidden from our comprehension.
You need the hand of a true artist, of someone like me, to bring them to light.
I’d found my path. After that day, everything changed.
I felt stronger. More confident. More . .
. myself. Guille saved me. He showed me the path. ”
“I can’t imagine his parents were too pleased that you’d killed their son.”
“Oh, they never found out.” Varatorta shrugged. “Mother took care of everything after I told her what I’d done. As far as I know, Guille is still buried in the same spot in our vegetable garden.”
“Your own mother . . .”
“She wasn’t at all happy.” He frowned. “She didn’t understand my art, but she loved me too much to let anything happen to me. She made me promise not to do it again. And I was a good boy; I did as she asked.” He shrugged again. “But then, when Mother died, well, I thought I could start again.”
“And nobody’s ever suspected?”
“Never.” Varatorta smiled triumphantly. “I’ve always been very careful.”
“It can’t have been easy.”
Keep him talking. Play for time.
“In that sense, this place is perfect for me. I realized as soon as I got here, three years ago. Isolated but close to the mainland, and quiet enough in the winter that nobody interferes in your business.”
“What about the summer?” The rope let out a groan, but the lighthouse keeper didn’t appear to have noticed.
“Oh, this place fills up with tourists, people wandering around, sticking their noses everywhere. I spend the summer on the mainland.” Varatorta’s smile widened. “I travel. I enjoy my freedom.”
Roberto’s gaze jumped to the glass jars. He suspected that this “freedom” concealed a whole world of horror.
“You know what most people have in common?” Varatorta leaned toward him with a conspiratorial air.
“They only see what they want to. They allow their prejudices and their beliefs to come between them and reality. They prefer what they know to what they don’t know when they’re trying to explain what surrounds them. ”
“Like myths,” Roberto guessed, feeling as if he were swallowing broken glass. “Like the Tangarano.”
“She was the one who put me onto that little disguise.” Varatorta nodded in the direction of Elvira Couto’s lifeless head.
“The rest was in the lighthouse library, as you well know. All I did was connect the dots, and suddenly I realized I’d discovered the perfect alter ego for the long winter months.
The perfect way to cover my trail, in case I slipped up. ”
“But you never ki—” Roberto corrected himself. “You never practiced on an islander until now.”
“That’s true.” Varatorta’s expression turned cunning. “Never mix business and pleasure. I couldn’t call attention to my hiding place. Practicing with animals helps to calm my nerves, and I improve my technique as part of the bargain. But it isn’t the same; I’m sure you understand . . .”
Roberto nodded, humoring him. He was dealing with a textbook psychopath, someone with no moral or ethical boundary whatsoever, and for whom his victims were mere fodder, not human beings. And who was also clever enough to have led this life for years without being caught.
“I only really give myself over to my art when the occasion arises.” Varatorta stood up and stretched. “When there’s a sign to say the moment is right. What I didn’t expect was that it would happen here, on the island, and so explicitly.”
“And what was the sign?”
“I wasn’t expecting you to ask that.” The man looked at him in surprise. “I thought it was obvious.”
“Sorry, I’m being a bit slow.”
“Isn’t it clear?” Varatorta seemed genuinely surprised. “You gave me the sign.”
Roberto gulped when he heard that. “I gave you the sign? How? When?”
“In the lighthouse, in the library.” Varatorta recited his words back at him. “‘Sometimes you have to take back control of your life.’ Those were your words, don’t you remember?”
“But I didn’t mean . . .”
“You told me we understood each other; you even squeezed my arm,” the lighthouse keeper insisted. “There was no room for misunderstanding! First you asked me about the Tangarano in the library, and then that. It was crystal clear that you’d seen what nobody else had. That you understood me.”
Roberto didn’t even blink; he was paralyzed by horror.
“When I saw you getting off the boat, I realized that another sensitive soul had finally arrived, another artist like me, someone who could really appreciate my work, someone with whom I could share a moment like this.” Varatorta’s voice vibrated, swollen with passion.
“I generally keep a souvenir of all my works, but that day, I decided to make an exception . . .”
“The rabbit’s head on my step,” Roberto guessed.
“That’s right!” he said, nodding with the enthusiasm of someone revealing a particularly good magic trick. “I assumed that as soon as you found it, you’d realize there was someone else like you on the island, someone with the sensitivity to create magic out of nothing.”
“So when I went to visit you at the lighthouse . . .”
“I knew you’d understood my message as soon as we exchanged our first glance.
” In Varatorta’s mind, the pieces fit perfectly in his twisted template.
“And when you said you understood me, that you’d guessed who I really was .
. . I almost told you on the spot! I hope my work hasn’t disappointed you.
I hope I’ve lived up to your expectations. ”
A bitter aftertaste filled Roberto’s mouth as he realized that he had unwittingly provoked this orgy of blood and gore on the island.
First by chancing upon the money, and now this.
His arrival on the island had detonated a thousand accumulated tensions all at once.
He and he alone was to blame. The weight of responsibility, however random and unfair, crushed him like a slab of stone.
“Now I’ve finally been set free.” Varatorta took his hand. His touch was soft and slightly damp, like a fish. “That’s why I want to thank you. For setting me free, for making me understand that I shouldn’t worry about the consequences. Now, finally, I can finish my work on this island.”
“Your work?”
“Yes, my work!” he shouted, excited. “A collection of different people, all distinct from one another, a variety of interiors exposed to the light, shining in their constellation of delicate differences. I’ve already got Elvira, an old woman who—without realizing it—gave me the thread of this magnum opus with her Tangarano and her dead man’s kiss. ”
Just then, Roberto remembered the plate of grilled fish, already cold, that he had seen on the woman’s table, in her hovel.
Searching for clues to the murder in the chest full of offerings, he had not realized he had one right in front of his eyes.
Varatorta, the lighthouse keeper. Varatorta, the friendly cook.
Who knew how many plates of food he had taken to the old woman while she recounted her old tales.
He had forged his macabre plan while the woman ate in front of him.
“I’ve already got one of the Docampos,” the man continued. “It was exciting, but I wasn’t very pleased with the results. It . . . lacks sparkle. I’m sure you understand.”
Roberto didn’t answer. He was concentrating on loosening the ropes a little more.
“Now I have an urge to work with my companions at the lighthouse,” he said, raising an eyebrow.
“I know they seem brutish and unrefined, but I’m convinced I can get excellent results, particularly with Ibaibarriaga.
It would be quite a challenge to open up that great big body of his; I’m sure of that. ”
“They don’t know who you really are . . .”
“They’ve never asked.” He shrugged. “But if they were observant, they’d have realized, as you did so perceptively in the library. I always do the cooking. I’m the one who repairs anything if it breaks. Always an artist’s hands, obviously. Always me. Me, me, me.”
“You dismantled the lighthouse radio transmitter.” He remembered the way the pieces had been laid out, almost obsessively, on the table. “You cut off our communications.”
“Of course it was me,” the man laughed. “I’ll put it back together later; that won’t be a problem. As soon as I’ve dealt with Ibaibarriaga and Pazos, obviously.”
“You won’t be able to. They’re stronger than you, and now they’ve been alerted—and they’re looking for the money.”
“Trust me.” Varatorta smiled. “I’m one of them. But before that, I have to do something else, something very special.”
Roberto looked at him, holding his breath. He didn’t want to know what he meant, but he had already guessed.
“I need a Freire for my work of art. One of the Freire women, rather. I think Antía Freire’s head would make the perfect contrast with the Docampo in that jar.” He pointed at the shelf. “Feminine delicacy and masculine strength. Intelligence and its absence. Isn’t it marvelous?”
“Stay away from her!” grunted Roberto, writhing on the table.
“Come now, let’s not get sentimental.” Varatorta waved his hand dismissively. “I’m fond of her, but you can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs. It’s just what has to happen.”
“If you lay a finger on her, I’ll kill you myself.” The threat sounded hollow, even to his own ears. “I promise you.”
“You see? That’s exactly why you have to wait for me here, in my lair, enjoying my hospitality, while I take care of things. Anyway, you’re forgetting something very important.”
“What?”
“I need you to complete my work.” He leaned over, until his lips were brushing Roberto’s left ear, in an almost erotic gesture.
“Because when I finish with them, it will be your turn, my friend. The culmination of my picture. The interior of an artist, of a creator, by moonlight. It will be a marvelous moment.”
Roberto turned pale. He struggled furiously on the table, which rocked with his movements as he unleashed a string of curses and insults.
“See you in a few hours, my friend.” Varatorta donned his oilskin. “I’ll be back in a while. In the meantime, make yourself at home!”
With a smile, the lighthouse keeper turned and disappeared into the far end of the cave. Roberto was all alone, his brain vibrating like a tuning fork, his spirits at rock bottom.
There was a monster loose on the island, on the hunt.
And the only person who knew the truth and could stop him was held prisoner in this cave.