1
The Island
Isle of Ons. January, present day.
The dock emerged gradually into view.
It was a long, pitifully narrow concrete breakwater, battered by the waves, some of which would wash over the top and sweep across its entire surface.
Struggling toward the dock was a potbellied fishing vessel, rocking from side to side each time the waves lifted it up like a child’s toy, the paint flaking from its hull. ThePunta Suido, its name painted in red letters on a bronze plaque attached to the front of the cabin, had clearly seen better days.
Hunched in the bow, the sole passenger contemplated the rugged silhouette of the island, dominated by a hill with a towering white lighthouse perched on top. Just to the south of the main island lay the smaller, inaccessible islet of Onza, inhabited only by seabirds and surrounded by a tumult of roaring foam that broke against its cliffs.
Whenever a wave shook the boat, the man’s knuckles turned white as he gripped the gunwale.
Although Roberto Lobeira was hardly the type to flee danger, he loathed the sea with every fiber of his being. And yet here he was. Because he had to reach the island.
Roberto registered the intense concentration of the skipper—a sinewy man with a thin beard and a hard expression, wearing a yellow oilskin—as he maneuvered the boat, applying careful bursts of the throttle and pulling hard on the wheel. Upon leaving Bueu, Roberto had been told that in these conditions, there was no question of docking and that the best they could do was to bring the boat in close to the breakwater and for him to jump.
When they were just a few yards from the dock, he broke into a sweat. The tension was palpable as the crew slung tires over the edge of the boat. The conditions had grown markedly worse during the crossing, and the vessel reared and plunged like a wildly bucking horse.
“Everyone, get ready!” shouted the skipper, leaning out of the side of the cabin. “We only have one shot at this!”
The engine roared as a particularly strong wave buffeted the boat, and thePunta Suidocame within inches of striking the cracked concrete of the breakwater. One of the tires hanging over the side screeched as it scraped against the concrete, leaving a long scar of black rubber, which the water immediately swept clean.
“Now!” cried the skipper. “Jump onto the dock! Jump!”
Roberto eyed the gap. Those few feet might as well have been a million miles. A narrow strip of black water foamed furiously between the side of the fishing boat and the concrete, gaping like a hungry mouth. It shrank and expanded as each wave hit. If he fell in, he’d be crushed like a grape in a winepress.
“I’m not sure about this!” he shouted, turning his head. “I think we’re going to—”
“Stop messing around!” the skipper yelled, spittle flying. “Just fucking jump!”
Roberto didn’t wait to be told again. He tossed his baggage off the boat and leaped after it just as the tires along the hull jammed againstthe dock with a long, ominous creak. His feet hit the concrete as a wave crashed against the dock and transformed into a cascade of icy water.
Before he could wipe the salt water from his eyes, the fishing boat had pulled away with a powerful burst of its engines and was spinning around so that its bow was pointed toward the horizon.
“See you in a month’s time. Take care!” shouted the skipper from the stern, before adding something that puzzled Roberto. “And stay out of trouble!”
Another surge of seawater brought him back to the task at hand. A wave-battered dock was hardly the most sensible place to hang around. He dragged his bags to the end of the breakwater and paused to consider his next step.
He looked around. Behind him, the visitor reception booth—where in the summer there would have been a line of hundreds of tourists—was boarded up until next season.
Welcome to paradise,he thought to himself.
The Isle of Ons was part of a national park, and visits were strictly regulated. Even so, during the summer months, it was busy with day-trippers and vacationers who rented houses or flocked to a campsite on one of the few flat areas of land that the island had to offer. Ferries arrived every few hours, unloading hordes of travelers and then returning to gather them up at the end of the day, sunburned and revitalized by this rugged getaway just an hour from the mainland.
In the fall and winter, things were very different.
When October arrived, the flow of travelers came to a halt, and the island was left deserted and silent. The tourist ferries were laid up in port, waiting for the following summer, and the rocky, windblown den of Ons went into hibernation.
Hence having to hire a fishing boat to get here. Ons would be completely cut off until the good weather returned.
And completely cut off was precisely what Roberto needed to be.
Disconcerted, he looked around for some indication of where to go. To his right, a path led uphill to a cluster of houses, the nearest thing to a village to be found on the island.
With freezing hands, he took his permit from his pocket. Somebody should have been there to meet him, to check that everything was in order, and to give him the keys to his rental cottage. But there wasn’t a soul to be seen, and the only sounds were those of the breaking waves, the whistling wind, and the cry of seagulls overhead.
