“They shouldn’t be going that way,” Antía muttered. “They’re heading away from the channel. There are sandbanks there; it isn’t safe ...”
At that moment, with a burst of throttle, the speedboat tackled a particularly tall wave. As it reached the crest, the inexperienced skipper failed to cut the speed, letting it go hurtling down the far side, so that the nose was caught under the next oncoming wave.
Even from up on the hill they could guess what was going to happen next.
The rear of the boat flew up and over, and the vessel proceeded to turn a near-somersault. The crew were thrown violently overboard—dim human silhouettes could be glimpsed arcing through the air. The next wave slammed down, swallowing bodies and boat in a foaming whirl of gray surf. The capsized hull glistened briefly like a wounded sperm whale before disappearing into the depths.
In less than fifteen seconds there was nothing but floating scraps of plastic and fiberglass, and an oil stain in the water. It was as if the speedboat had never existed.
That’s an end to Osvaldo’s career. Probably for the best ...
Roberto looked up. In the distance, he could already hear the syncopated beating of rotor blades, and after a few moments, a helicopter came into view, in the white-and-green livery of the Guardia Civil, approaching at full speed.
He looked at it with satisfaction. And relief.
It was all over. They had weathered the storm.
And with that, he collapsed.
51
Stormy Night
One year later. Madrid.
The line stretched out the bookstore and into the mall in Plaza de Callao. On either side of the door stood six-foot posters of the book cover, announcing that Roberto Lobeira would be signing copies of his latest novel.
Inside the store, behind a book-covered table, Roberto sat smiling and writing dedications. The success ofStormy Nighthad put that ofThe Fleeting Glancein the shade, and Roberto’s life had been a nonstop whirl since publication day. The articles and interviews had been coming thick and fast, all feeding the insatiable monster of public interest.
Roberto suspected that the phrase printed on the cover,Based on a True Story, had a good deal to answer for.
After passing the latest signed copy across the table, and then having his photo taken with a female reader, he took a moment to sit back and rub his sore wrist. He had been signing flyleaves and penning dedications continuously for the last two hours, and he still had a lot more to do. The line, rather than diminishing, only kept growing longer.
Resting against the side of the table was the ivory-handled walking stick that had become his constant companion over the past year.Although he had undergone several surgeries, his injured knee had not returned to full functionality, and the doctors doubted that it ever would. His limp looked set to be a permanent reminder of the night he had fallen down the Devil’s Hole, the price he’d paid to make it off the island alive.
Every time he looked at the walking stick, Roberto said a quiet prayer of thanks. The toll could have been far higher.
“Are you all right?” Antía leaned over and rested a hand on his back. “Do you need a break?”
“I’m fine,” he said. “The doctors say I should be sitting down, and I am! I’m doing as I’m told.”
“That would be a first,” she teased, looking into his eyes.
They smiled at each other, in a secret conversation with neither beginning nor end—the best kind.
Neither of them could put a name to whatever it was that existed between them. It was a timid, fragile thing, and it had been doing its best to grow in two souls that were still healing. They both wanted to love, but the fear of being hurt meant they proceeded warily, with all the caution of a caged animal that suddenly finds itself released into the wild.
They still didn’t believe they could be so happy.
“Are there a lot of people outside?” he asked as the next book was placed in front of him.
“Quite a few, I’m afraid. I got Diego to hand out tickets, but you know what he’s like. I think he got excited and gave out at least twice as many as he should have.”
“Damn kid.” Roberto smiled. “Always making trouble for me.”
Roberto had never been so happy in his life. First, just that they were alive. His plan, which had been born out of desperation and had seemed almost certain to fail, had somehow come off. He was still amazed to think of it.
Within hours of the Guardia Civil arriving, the tragedy of Ons had hit the news. Broadcasters had shown up, the incident was all over the TV, and it filled column after column in the papers for weeks.
