The storm hadn’t just made the island inaccessible by sea and air; all communications were now impossible too.
He put the phone away—it was little more than an expensive paperweight now—and rubbed his eyes.
Think, Roberto. Think.
The chances were pathetically slim. Outside assistance was out of the question. It was up to him and him alone to save the situation. Unless the Freires could be convinced to lend him a hand.
But to achieve that, he needed some kind of winning card to play. Something that would leave them no choice but to come in with him, whatever it was that he decided to do.
As he rubbed his aching neck, his fingers caught in the little chain on which the church key hung. At that moment, a realization struck him with blinding clarity. He broke into a run as a plan took shape in his head. There were a thousand things that could go wrong and a thousand things beyond his control. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was better than just doing nothing.
Coming to some buildings, he moved along, hugging the walls, advancing from one pool of darkness to the next in the gloom of the night. He dared not turn on his flashlight for fear of alerting someone to his presence. Instead, he moved forward, stumbling and cursing, praying not to catch his foot and fall.
At last, he found smooth cement underfoot, and the walking became easier. Now it was just a question of heading down to the village, which shouldn’t be too hard. He only had to follow the slope down toward the shore.
Before he knew it, he was in the village, which in the summer would be so vibrant but now was as dark and silent as a tomb. Feeling his way along a wall, he mentally counted the steps and then ventured across the street, feeling absurdly exposed. He stumbled when his feet met the steps of the church.
He felt about on the door until he found the lock. He took the key from the chain around his neck and inserted it, entering the church and closing the door with some relief.
A dim light came from a few votive candles by the altar. A gentle stream of air coming in through a slightly open window shook the wicks, making everything quiver strangely, like in an old movie. As he’d expected, there wasn’t a soul inside.
He went around the altar, passing by some wood carvings adorning the walls and a pile of religious banners folded neatly in a corner.
And there, at the foot of the altar, were the two sturdy duffel bags.
Roberto undid the zippers. By candlelight, the wads of euros, dollars, and Swiss francs lay silently, oblivious to the madness raging outside. Benjamin Franklin looked out at him from one of the bills, with that ambiguous expression reminiscent of theMona Lisa’s, like a friend who’s in on a joke.
With a couple of tugs, he closed the zippers and slung a bag over each shoulder. They were extremely heavy, and he grunted as the straps dug into his shoulders. Haltingly, he went back down the aisle, opened the door, and peered cautiously outside.
There was nobody around, or at least he could see no lights moving in the vicinity.
Taking a deep breath, he went out and locked the door behind him. The first part of the plan had gone perfectly. Everything was going well ... for now.
Carrying the bags proved far more difficult than anticipated. He was soon panting under the extra weight, and every time one of his feet came to a treacherous puddle, he staggered and almost fell. He was also moving in complete darkness, and a couple of times, realizing he’d gone off course, he had to retrace his steps.
Only when he felt he’d gone a safe distance from the village did he turn on his cell phone flashlight.
He was able to move faster now that he could see a little, although he had to stop every now and then to catch his breath.
When he came to the sign for the old church, he breathed a sigh of relief. Making one final push, he negotiated the narrow, fern-choked path, until at last he was at the graveyard.
In other circumstances, he would have been genuinely scared at the thought of entering a lonely graveyard in the depths of night. But just then, it barely registered. He had more pressing problems.
Initially he had planned to hide the bags in one of the planters positioned along the top of the high graveyard walls, but he soon saw that wouldn’t work. The actual greenery in the planters was minimal, given that it was winter, and so the bags would be easy to spot.
The ongoing rain had also turned the channels along the edges of the planters into small rivers. The bags were waterproof, but he didn’t know if they would withstand prolonged immersion.
He dropped the bags to the ground, feeling his strength ebbing, and leaned against the wall. His eyes wandered across the graveyard, when suddenly he had an idea.
Setting off again, he moved forward between the tombs, looking for one with neither fresh flowers nor signs of having recently been tended. At the far end, by the back wall, he found just what he was looking for.
It was an old grave, moss covered and apparently untended. The lettering on the headstone, though faint, announced that one Erundina Quintáns lay there, having passed away at the age of ninety-five—something of a record in that graveyard. But the best part was the date: She had died in 1924.
It was perfect. He got down on his knees and dug his fingers into the earth, searching for the edge of the tombstone. It was not especially thick, chipped all over and missing one whole corner.
He stood up and looked around with the cell phone flashlight. He was delighted to find a broken branch, torn off in the wind, lying a short distance away. Ignoring splinters, he set about hastily yanking off leaves and twigs, until he was left with a fairly straight stake about six feet long. It was not the most sophisticated tool in the world, but it would have to do. With that improvised lever in his hands, he went back to Erundina’s grave, jammed one end under the corner of the tombstone, and brought his whole weight down on the other end.
The branch creaked alarmingly, and for a moment he thought it would snap, but the wood, still green, flexed a little. He brought his weight down again, and this time, with a creak, the stone slab lifted up an inch or two.
