Chapter 35 So Near, and Yet So Far
So Near, and Yet So Far
He lay on the table, trying to put his thoughts in order. He had the final piece of the puzzle, yet there was nothing he could do to prevent what was imminent.
Nobody had the slightest inkling as to what was about to hit them.
Everyone trusted Varatorta, taken in by his peaceable bearing and polite manners.
With Storm Armand as cover, the lighthouse keeper felt at liberty to carry out whatever insane plans had been germinating inside his head, without worrying about the consequences.
He had entered a spiral from which there was no exit.
And he didn’t care. His only concern was to complete his grisly artwork.
Roberto had to escape, come what may. On the cassette player, Rocío Jurado had given way to Juan Gabriel, whose silky voice and mellifluous Mexican accent urged the listener to hug him tight, tighter than ever. Bound like a parcel, Roberto couldn’t help noting the bitter irony.
He counted to three and puffed up his chest once again to loosen the ropes.
The stabbing pain in his lungs was so intense that he cried out in agony.
Dejected, he realized that his efforts had made almost no difference.
At this rate, he’d never manage it. He’d have to find another way to free himself of his bonds.
As he writhed in frustration, the table let out another alarming creak . . . and an idea popped into his head.
He began to rock from side to side, gradually building up momentum. With each movement, the table creaked and groaned, louder and more ominous all the time, as it threatened to fall to pieces under the weight of the assault.
Suddenly, the table let out a rasping squeak that echoed off the walls of the cave, and, almost simultaneously, one of its legs gave way.
Roberto fell to the ground in the middle of a sea of broken, half-rotten boards.
The sudden, jarring impact on the stone brought forth another cry of pain.
This was no way to treat a set of broken ribs.
He lay on the floor for a few seconds, his face buried in what was left of the table, while he struggled to get his breath back. The rope had come undone, but the zip ties continued to dig into his wrists. His situation had improved but not by much.
Think! How the hell did he do it? You know the answer. Just try to remember!
His mind traveled far back in time, to a bomb-torn hotel in Kandahar, Afghanistan.
A guy from Blackwater, the US mercenary company, a red-faced, suntanned kid who was a mountain of muscles and tattoos, drunk as hell, had bet Roberto and some other war correspondents that he could easily free himself from an ensemble of zip ties exactly like these.
They had been unconvinced, of course, but in the end, the mercenary had won his free round of beers.
He shut his eyes tight and remembered the scene, striving to recall every last detail. Then, still lying on the ground, he tried to reproduce each of the mercenary’s movements.
Varatorta, so that he could lay him face up on the table, had made the mistake of tying his prisoner’s hands in front of him, and now Roberto could make use of that fact.
He started by untying the laces of his boots, although it wasn’t easy as his fingers were stiff from lack of circulation.
When he finally managed to undo the knots, he passed one of the laces through the central zip tie that joined the zip ties around his wrists, and then tied it to his other bootlace with the most secure knot he could manage.
He cast a critical eye over his handiwork.
His bootlaces were strong, and now he had a cord passing through the center of the zip ties.
Roberto lay on his back, straightened his legs as far as the laces allowed, until they were tense, and then began to move his legs as if he were pedaling a bicycle, faster and faster.
The laces made a rough hissing sound as they rubbed at the zip ties.
Each time he straightened his injured knee, an explosion of agonizing pain flooded his body, launching waves that reverberated through every fiber of his being.
His forehead was beaded with sweat as he struggled to ignore the pain and keep the zip tie as taut as possible.
Clack.
That was it. The zip tie had snapped from the accumulated tension and friction.
His hands were finally free.
He rubbed his aching wrists. Then he got to his feet, only to realize what a mistake that was. His knee made a stomach-churning crack, and he very nearly fainted from the pain. He fell back to the floor in agony, and it was a whole minute before he was ready to try again.
This time, he stood up very carefully. The zip ties were still wrapped around each of his wrists, cutting off his circulation. He looked around, and his eyes alighted on a stone shelf on which an array of tools and instruments was laid out.
He struggled over to it. Each time he placed weight on his wounded leg, his knee screamed, but he gritted his teeth and continued to inch his way forward. By the time he finally reached the shelf, he was bathed in sweat and his head was spinning.
He inspected the items on the shelf: various screwdrivers, some electrical components, a few other bits and pieces, and among them all, some pliers. He picked them up, but they immediately slipped out of his sweaty hands.
“Steady now,” he whispered to himself. Sweat had dripped into his eye, making it sting, but he ignored it. “Nearly there. Nearly . . . there.”
With one final effort, he got hold of the pliers again and managed to snip the zip ties. He was free.
He had to lean on the shelf as he recovered his strength.
From where he stood, he could see the full extent of the cave.
It was much smaller than he had imagined, no more than thirty feet deep, and lower at the back as the rocky roof tapered to meet the floor.
There at the back, he spotted a kitchen with a work surface, on which stood a 1980s cassette player.
He limped over and switched it off. The silence came as a relief.
Dragging his bad leg behind him, he inspected the rest of the cave, looking for something that might be of use to him.
Unconsciously, he moved in a wide circle, trying to stay as far as he could from the shelf bearing the heads of Elvira Couto and Ricardo Docampo, which observed him unseeingly, a rictus frozen on their faces for eternity.
Almost all the furniture looked like castoffs, just one step away from becoming firewood.
When he opened one of the drawers, he let out a sigh of relief.
This had to be Varatorta’s first-aid kit.
He rummaged around in its contents until he found some Valium.
Then, right at the back, he spotted a plastic canister.
Amphetamines. I wonder why that doesn’t surprise me.
Roberto hesitated for a moment before slipping a dextroamphetamine pill into his mouth. His body was almost at its limit, and he needed one last burst of energy, even if that pushed the needle into the danger zone.
The rest of his search was fruitless. There were no weapons apart from the silverware the lighthouse keeper had used to eat with. Wherever it was that Varatorta kept the knives and saws he used to carry out his crimes, it wasn’t here.
He’s got them with him. He needs them to finish his work.
There was no time to lose. Every minute counted.
He struggled into his wet parka, which he now viewed with grateful eyes, and limped toward the end of the cave.
A pile of huge boulders, evidence of the rockfall that had closed the shaft many centuries ago, barred his way, but he saw that, off to one side, a small path led upward.
A gentle draft of air, redolent of salt and moisture, caressed his face from above.
That’s where the exit is.
He was about to head for it when a sudden thought stopped him. He couldn’t just leave the place as it was.
He limped over to the gasoline drum that powered the beacon, and disconnected it.
The light went out, and the cave was plunged into gloom, illuminated only by the two propane lamps hanging on the wall.
Roberto shook the drum and heard liquid sloshing about inside it.
It was still half full, and it must still contain at least thirty gallons of fuel.
He tipped it over, and his sinuses were inundated with the smell of the gasoline that came gurgling out. The fuel spread across the stone floor, trickling under the furniture and the shelves, soaking every last corner.
He grabbed one of the propane lamps and hurled it to the ground.
The glass shattered, and the fuel caught.
The heat drove him back as the ball of fire spread throughout the cave, burning everything inside it.
Taking one last look before he made his exit, he saw the flames engulf the glass jars that contained the heads of Varatorta’s victims.
He left the hellish scene behind, relieved by his act of atonement. The monster was still on the loose, but his work had been reduced to smoke and ashes.
The opening was little more than a narrow crack that he could only enter on his stomach, but he crawled along the passage until he reached a homemade wooden ladder that ascended up into the darkness above. Gingerly, he placed his foot on the first rung.
It seemed solid.
He began to climb laboriously up, using only his uninjured leg.
In the meantime, the smoke from the flames below was searching for an exit and enveloped him like a shroud.
Soon, he was coughing and his eyes were watering.
If he lost his footing and fell, he’d end up being devoured by the fire that he himself had started.
Burning Varatorta’s lair had seemed like a great idea just a few minutes ago, an act of divine justice. Now he wasn’t so sure. Luckily, as he ascended, with the current of fresh air blowing downward, the sound of the waves breaking against the shore grew stronger. He was very close.
Finally, his head emerged into the cold night air that ruffled his hair.
Roberto gasped, seeking oxygen, as his fingers grasped the edge of the shaft.
He breathed deeply, once, twice, three times.
He’d never have imagined that a mouthful of air could both hurt so much and taste so sweet.
He wiped his eyes on his sleeves, and blinked a couple of times. And then he frowned.
He sensed something was wrong. He turned his head, trying to orient himself.
Then he let out an impotent groan.
Storm Armand was still blowing, but the rain had stopped and the wind had dropped slightly.
The clouds had disappeared, and above his head, the sky was full of stars, twinkling icily.
The full moon shed its white light on the whole scene, and Roberto could see almost as well as if it had been day.
Just across the water, a few hundred yards away, rose a huge black bulk, at the base of which he could make out a foamy line of waves beating against the shoreline.
There was nothing that size anywhere near Ons . . . apart from the island itself.
Roberto realized there was only one place from which such a view was possible: Onza, the islet just off the main island, a chunk of wild and deserted rock that was completely uninhabitable . . . and of course, cut off.
Varatorta had established his refuge on the only place where he could be sure he would never have unexpected visitors.
And Roberto had no way of escaping.