Fortunately, the inhabitants of Ons knew how to keep a secret. Everyone stuck to the story: During Storm Armand, a boat of Colombian gunmen had appeared on the island, looking for a lost consignment of cocaine, which turned out to be in the possession of the lighthouse keepers. When they had refused to hand over the drugs, a gunfight had ensued. With the terrified islanders safe behind locked doors, after a night of shots and explosions all across the island, the Colombians had won out. Only to crash their speedboat in the stormy waters and drown.
As a story it had its fair share of holes, but there was physical evidence to back it up. The only dead bodies the police found were those of the three lighthouse keepers: A group of Freires and Docampos had collected those of Elvira Couto, Ricardo Docampo, and Víctor Pampín, and stashed them together in Erundina’s grave.
As far as Roberto knew, they were still there, resting in peace.
A few days later, the bodies of the Colombians had also washed up ... except for Osvaldo Salazar’s. Nobody knew where it was. That was a mystery that had caused Roberto more than a few sleepless nights.
While recovering in the hospital, and over the following, feverish months, Roberto had hammered away at his laptop, creating a fictionalized version of everything that had occurred on the Isle of Ons. The book had found an instant readership among a public enthralled by an episode of violence and chaos right on the doorstep of civilized Spain, and yet hidden to all.
Of course, the book omitted the feud between the Freires and Docampos, as well as any mention of Varatorta’s exploits. That was for another manuscript—for his eyes only. Some things were better left in the shadows.
Between signatures, Roberto looked up and saw Diego come into the store, an empty book of tickets in hand. The changes he had undergone since moving to the mainland were incredible. With the help of specialist teachers and, above all, surrounded by so many new stimuli, his adaptable mind had soaked up all sorts of new information. Hewould always be different, of course, but he was becoming more and more independent, and most important, he was happier than ever.
Roberto looked at him tenderly, unaware that in the boy’s heart he was already occupying the space of the father he had never known.
Diego had always known that Antía was his mother, even though everyone assumed he would never find out. They should have guessed, really, that his intensely curious nature would lead him to discover the truth. But Diego had quietly assimilated that secret, as he had so many other things.
And with Diego and his mother, Roberto shared another, even bigger secret.
They alone knew the whole truth of that stormy night ...
When Roberto, clinging to the oil drum, had drifted ashore, he had spotted the speedboat, and, taking care not to be seen by the skipper, he had gone to the Docampos’ wrecked store and grabbed two duffel bags identical to the ones containing the money, from the same pile from which the first two bags had come. He had then gone to the visitor booth and stuffed them full of hundreds of tourist brochures and maps of the island.
The most onerous part had been carrying the heavy bags. He had taken them and hidden them in the ditch by the SUV. The rest had been down to Diego.
While Roberto kept Ibaibarriaga busy, Diego had done something incredibly brave. He had slipped through the undergrowth, picked up the duffel bags containing the brochures and maps, crept over to the SUV and switched them out for the ones containing the money—first of all placing several handfuls of bills as a false top layer in both bags.
Osvaldo Salazar had sunk to his watery grave with a load of old brochures and maps, and a tiny percentage of the overall millions.
And that secret was known only to Antía, Diego, and Roberto himself.
Two days after Roberto was evacuated from the island with a leg splint and a neck brace, Antía and Diego had quietly boarded a boat moored at the jetty. Among their belongings were two duffel bags containing more than seventy million euros in various currencies.
That accursed money was now securely hidden away in a safe-deposit box.
It was all theirs.
Or almost all.
Using anonymous donations, they had invested some of it to help the islanders rebuild their homes. Antía had even insisted on paying for the reconstruction of Luis Docampo’s restaurant to help his widow, Amaia, who would continue with the business. The bank accounts of the Freire and Docampo families were well stocked for generations to come, which, with any luck, would make for less conflict in the future.
The Ibaibarriaga and Pazos families had also each received a tidy sum through an old friend of Roberto’s, who had acted as an intermediary. To his disappointment, much as he had tried, Roberto had been unable to locate any relatives of Víctor Pampín or Elvira Couto.
Helena and Tristán had gotten a house together in Bueu. They were a young couple, full of hopes and dreams, and like all such couples, they were forever arguing. Antía was sure they would be very happy. Roberto thought they wouldn’t last six months.
And then there were the three of them. Scarred, both inside and out, beaten, scratched, and exhausted, but alive. And happy.
The next reader in line stepped forward, and Roberto looked up.
Only for his heart to stop. Because the person before him, smiling and clutching a copy ofStormy Nightin his hands, was someone he knew all too well. Someone he would have preferred never to have seen again in his life.
Standing there in an expensive suit, Osvaldo Salazar looked back with his cold, reptilian eyes.
“Good afternoon.” The soft Colombian accent took on a threatening tone. “Nice to see you again, Mr. Lobeira.”
52
Happy Endings Are Only in the Movies
