“So what?” Luis said. “We’ll stick him in there and—”
Just then, a groan came from behind them. They both spun to face the counter, where Víctor Pampín’s body was trembling slightly.
“Jesus fucking Christ!” groaned Luis. “The bastard’s still alive!”
Roberto ignored him and leaned over the poacher. The man had opened his eyes, his expression blurry and disconcerted. His chest rose and fell almost imperceptibly, and he opened his mouth as if to speak. When he managed to focus on Roberto’s face, he gripped one of his hands, in a mute request for help.
A huge wave of relief overcame Roberto. The blow hadn’t killed Pampín; it had just knocked him out. He was disoriented and weak, but there was nothing that the right medical care couldn’t fix. No doubt he’d have a fractured skull, but that was nothing compared to the nightmare they’d been facing.
The situation was still an absolute mess, but at least it wasn’t murder. And Diego wasn’t a killer.
Everything might turn out all right in the end.
“Give me some room.” Luis Docampo appeared at his side. “Let me see.”
Pampín was now breathing more evenly, and Roberto stepped to one side, without releasing the man’s hand.
Then, without saying a word, Luis Docampo took the hammer from his belt and brought it crashing down on the poacher’s skull.
One, two, three times.
With the final blow, blood spurted out and splashed their faces.
Roberto staggered back. The whole place was spinning, and he could hardly breathe. He had just witnessed a display of pure, primal violence, but Luis Docampo’s face didn’t betray the least sign of emotion.
“Now he’s dead,” he muttered, as if it were completely natural.
Roberto was unable to utter a single syllable. He grabbed on to a display stand full of yellowing postcards to keep himself upright, and tried to process the horrific scene.
“What have you done?” he asked in a hoarse whisper. “The man was alive. He was alive, you maniac!”
Luis’s only response was to shrug and put the hammer, which had blood and hair sticking to it, back in his belt.
“You killed him!” Roberto pointed at him. “You murdered him in cold blood!”
Luis Docampo opened his eyes wide and affected a surprised expression.
“Me?” A twisted smile spread across his face. “You seem to be a bit confused, my friend. It wasn’t me.”
“What the hell do you mean? I saw you with my own eyes!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Luis wiped a spot of blood from his cheek. “The only thing I know is that the Freire freak attacked the poor guy with a hammer and killed him. You saw it too.”
“He was alive! He was still alive!” replied Roberto.
“No, he wasn’t. He was already good and dead. And a whole load of witnesses will say the same thing.”
“You won’t get away with this.” Roberto put his hand in his pocket and took out his phone. “I’m going to call the Guardia Civil right now and tell them what’s happened.”
“And what are you going to tell them?” Luis took a step toward him, and Roberto backed off, suddenly aware that they were alone and the door was a long way away. “That I killed him?”
“That’s right.”
“You know what I think?” He leaned on the counter, just inches away from the corpse, as if he were waiting to buy some bread. “From my point of view, you have three options. The first is to call the Guardia Civil and stick with the version that it was the Freire kid who killed this stupid busybody.”
“No way.”
“The second”—Luis raised two thick fingers—“is to confess that he was alive when we brought him here but that you killed him.”
